Peach Trees, Honey Bees & Faded Overalls: Stories Of A Southern Sharecropper's Son

By Bill L Holley

The 24 stories in this book are taken from the life of a sharecropper’s son in the 1940’s and early 1950’s. A fun history of early years on the farm and a way of life that has all but disappeared. The sharecropper’s life wasn’t easy. It made for sore backs, rough work-worn hands and plenty of calluses

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bucking Calf Books
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780989505338

Bill L Holley

Bill Holley was an only child, born to sharecropper parents in 1939. He spent his early years doing farm chores, exploring nature, and giving his imagination free rein to explore both the real and the imaginary. Today, he lives in Franklin, Tennessee with Beverly, his wife of 57 years. They have 2 adult daughters, and a cat named "Pusskits."

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Peach Trees, Honey Bees & Faded Overalls

© Copyright 2019 by Bill Holley

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author. Although Peach Trees, Honey Bees & Faded Overalls is non-fiction, some names and locations may have been changed for privacy.

Cover photo illustrations: © Sepia Tone Photos from the Holley Family Collection

© Color Photo of Peach Trees & Honey Bees, Beth Rudolph

Editing & Proof Reading: Sherry Hames

Beverly Holley

Lori Holley-Weeks

Debbie Holley

Book & Cover Design: Bill Kersey

Composed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-0-9895053-3-8

Paperback Printed and Distributed by: Ingram Spark

Bucking Calf Books

e-mail: [e-mail]

Phone: [phone]

This book is dedicated to my father,

William Clyde Holley.

He taught me the value of hard work, honesty

and a belief in fair dealing.

"When opportunity knocks, some people are in the backyard

looking for four-leaf clovers."

—Polish Proverb

Front cover photo, from the left: Harold Hargrove, Bill Holley

Acknowledgements

A very special thank you to: Beverly, Debbie, Stan, Lori, & Tracy…

My wonderful family.

To every one of you who helped me make this second book a reality, I thank you. Thank you to the numerous people who provided moral support, read stories, offered remarks, allowed me to utilize their comments, assisted in proofreading, design, editing and generally saw me through this book. 

To The Good Cup coffee shop where, once again, I found it easy to escape life’s daily chaos and write amidst the gentle hum of patrons’ voices. The atmosphere and the essence were inspiring.

To those of you who have traveled through life with me and shared some of my most wonderful life experiences, Thanks. Your words of encouragement gave me the fortitude to write this, the second book of continuing stories about a Southern Sharecropper’s Kid.

Look for Bill Holley’s first book:

Flour Sack Shirts & Homemade Jam

Available on Amazon

For autographed copies, contact Bill Holley

e-mail: [e-mail]

Contents

Acknowledgements

Contents

Introduction

Peach Orchards & Beehives

The Little Red Rocker

Pigeon

Naomi Ruth

Clyde, A Most Complicated Man

Moving Day

Catalpa Store

Bill & Phillip On Frozen Pond

Sewing Love

Sling Shots & Homdemade Toys

Cornbread & Buttermilk

Cutting Winter Wood

A Contrast Of Seasons In The South

The Rusty Lantern

The Blue Swimmin’ Hole

Old Ada The Lead Sheep

Jerry And The Magnificent Bicycle

The Blizzard Of ’51

My Little Transistor Radio

Cast-Iron Pots, Skillets & Wood-Burning Stoves

Christmas At Our Little White House On The Hill

Party Line

Now That’d Be A Foxhunt, Son

The Possum Hunters

About The Author

Introduction

The 24 stories that continue just ahead in this book are taken from my life as a sharecropper’s son in the 1940s and early 1950s. I wanted to document my early years on the farm and a way of life that has all but disappeared. The sharecropper’s life wasn’t easy. It made for sore backs, rough work-worn hands, sunburned skin, plenty of calluses, and a depth of exhaustion like nothing else. But, it also ingrained a work ethic; nurtured a respect for the land, reinforced a moral compass, developed a keenness and quickness in understanding the business of working the land.

Clyde and Naomi (Crabtree) Holley were my parents. Dad was industrious, inventive and virtually indefatigable. He was practical, straightforward, tough-minded and plainspoken. And from my standpoint, he was a strict, harsh disciplinarian with a handy razor strap. Mother was grit and grace with a heartbeat.

Peach Orchards & Beehives

Life with Ma & Pa

THE ORCHARD

Their needs were simple. They raised a big garden every year. A couple of black and white, Spotted Poland China fattening hogs, four dairy cows, and honey from beehives supplied most of their food. They had a small cash income from selling the extra milk from the cows, fruit from the orchard, and honey from the hives. Pa also tended a small tobacco patch every year to earn a few extra dollars. Ma canned vegetables and fruit all summer and into the fall. They dried apples for fried pies, and every autumn their root cellar was filled with apples, potatoes and onions. Somehow, they always managed to tithe ten percent of their meager income every year as a part of their strong Christian belief. They gave financial support to the little white Presbyterian Church they attended, down the road a mile or so from their home. Plus, they did what they could financially to help support the Presbyterian Children’s Orphanage in Nashville. Ma also gathered together jars of her canned goods to send along.

It was summer break, and as usual, I was spending the last few days of vacation with my grandparents. I loved spending time outdoors with Pa! He taught me how to dig sassafras root, hunt squirrels, fire a rifle and skin a possum. Ma did her turn at spoiling me, too! This morning she had made me a breakfast of Post Toasties with milk along with sugar and fresh sliced peaches, a treat that I seldom had at home. As usual, Pa had been up since 5 a.m. doing his daily farm chores.

After finishing breakfast, I was out of the kitchen, screen door slamming behind me. I ran down the narrow dirt path that ran through the side yard gate and on past the barn. There were patches of bull nettles (sticker weeds) along the way, and I made sure that I dodged them with my bare feet. I helped Pa finish up the chores, feeding his two old workhorses, plus the two fattening hogs that would become sausage, cured hams and shoulders the coming winter. I carried an old beat-up, rusty bucket full of chicken feed for the frying-size chickens in the brooder house. The last chore of the morning was driving the milk cows down the cow patty littered lane to the pasture. As we walked along, following the herd, Pa pointed out and identified a variety of plants, birds and trees. There was a huge old beech tree with a hollow trunk that had been home to a family of screech owls for a number of years. He pointed out an Oriole nest high in a maple tree alongside the lane. The little nest was gently swinging in the soft morning breeze.

The sun was up, but the soft fog of early morning was still lingering over the low-lying pasture and the open fields, giving everything a ghost-like quality. Dew dripped from the grass and weeds. The fog-hazed sun created sparkling jewels of droplets on the spider webs. Everywhere I looked, Pa was pointing out nature’s beauty.

With the morning’s chores completed, me and Pa could now focus our attention toward other important things. We were both dressed in our faded, worn and patched overalls. I was barefoot, and the powdery dust from the dry lane of another Southern summer squished up between my toes. Pa’s old work shoes had soles held to their uppers with hog rings, rings that were meant to be clamped into a pig’s nose to keep it from excessive rooting. Pa thought his shoes were perfectly fine, good enough, as long as another well-placed hog ring could repair any damage that might occur.

Pa may not have had the reputation of excelling as a farmer, as he preferred to spend a lot of his time lounging in the front porch swing (a ragged and worn pillow under his head) reading Farm and Ranch Magazine or the Christian Observer. I marveled at the fact that he could farm at all, seeing as how back then, most farming required two hands.

Pa had a withered left arm and hand, the result of some kind of permanent nerve damage from getting hit on the shoulder by a line drive when he was a teenager playing cow pasture baseball. The withered hand had the look and feel of rubber; the fingers just sort of flopped around, and he could bend them way back past his wrist. That always grossed me out, much to Pa’s enjoyment! These were the days of the mule and bull-tongue plow, and he actually got by very well. He plowed with one plow line wrapped around his good right hand and the plow handle. The other plow line was looped tight over his left shoulder.

Ed and Ruth Crabtree were my grandparents on my mother’s side of the family. All the grandkids: me, Patricia, Dixie, Buck and Larry (my Aunt Louise’s four), called them Pa and Ma. Pa was tall, slim and slightly stooped, and his hair was snow white. He usually sported at least a week’s growth of white beard stubble. He hated shaving and bathing. He would do neither more than once every couple of weeks, unless Ma’s grumbling got on his nerves. He considered it both a nuisance and an unnecessary use of his valuable time. And, as he groused, It was a waste of perfectly good water, water that he had to tote from a spring that was at the end of a packed dirt path at least 300 yards from their house. I made a lot of trips with Pa to that spring. He carried the white enamel water bucket (the bail hooked in the elbow crook of his withered arm), and I would carry a gallon syrup bucket. Ma didn’t agree with his water saving philosophy, and pestered him to shave and take a bath at least once a week.

By reputation, Pa wasn’t the most industrious of men but he managed to make a decent, though somewhat frugal living for Ma, their two daughters, Louise, Naomi, and himself. He worked the 95-acre farm where they lived from the day he and Ma got married. The old farm was red clay poor, growing mostly a healthy crop of saw briars, Virginia creeper and honeysuckle. Pa may not have excelled as a farmer, but he was known to coax decent crops of corn, hay and tobacco from the fields. That is, until the mid 50’s when the Federal Government came up with the Farm Soil Bank program that paid farmers NOT to grow crops. Pa loved that he got paid not to farm. Dad thought it was the stupidest thing that he had ever heard of!

Tuesday was washday at the Crabtree’s. By 7:30 a.m. in the morning, Ma was already in the side yard. She was busily stoking the wood fire blazing under the old, black cast-iron wash pot in preparation for the weekly wash. Soon as the water was boiling (hot enough to suit her), she would add dirty cloths and her homemade lye soap. This witches brew was stirred with a big wooden paddle that Pa had hand-hewn for the purpose.

Are we going to work in the orchard today, Pa? Well now Billy, I was sort of aim’n to, but we’re going to have to work around yer Ma and her clothes-washing. He spoke around the old burned-out crooked-stem pipe he clenched in his teeth. Pa’s old false teeth had a few important teeth missing, but the missing parts made it real handy for holding that pipe stem.

Pa knew from past history that if he stayed in the vicinity of that infernal wash pot, Ma would have him stirring the boiling cauldron of clothes, lifting them from the pot with the paddle, then wringing the water out of them by hand. Finally, Ma would expect him to help her clothespin everything to the clothesline that was stretched between two posts in the back yard. Of course, it was obvious that Pa was never too keen on helping out with the wash’n (as back then it was considered woman’s work). Suddenly, he remembered that we had work that was sorely in need of tending to in the orchard this morning. He had been neglecting it a bit lately, as he’d been wait’n for a good farm hand such as me to come along and help out. Ma gave him that sideways glance of her’s that spoke volumes. Pa had a real serious look on his face, but he winked at me when he caught Ma not looking.

Edgar Glenn Crabtree! I suppose you’ll do most anything to get out of work, even if it’s other work. Well, y’all go on and tend to the orchard. I suppose I can handle the washin’, seeing as how I’ve been doing it for quite a while now.

We’ll be back to the house right around dinner time for some of them chicken and dumplins’ left over from supper last night. That sound good to you, Billy? We were through the yard gate and on the path to the orchard before Ma could reply.

Ma was a short, slightly round lady with grey hair, having wisps that were forever escaping from the bun at the nape of her neck. The wrinkles in her round, pleasant face outlined a life of hard farm work and putting up with Pa. The only time she didn’t wear one of her homemade aprons was when she went to town or church. That apron was an important part of her uniform. Her wire frame glasses were perched low on her nose, and there were only a few remaining teeth in her dental plates. As afore mentioned, Pa was also missing most of the teeth in his dental plates, too, and I never figured out why they didn’t have new ones made. I suppose it was the cost. Ma was the good-natured but strong-willed boss of the Crabtree household. Her primary job seemed to be keeping Pa in line, and she did keep him on his toes.

Pa’s story was quite different when it came to tending his orchard and taking good care of his bees. He seemed to have an almost uncanny gift with both. In his community, most folks had a few fruit trees and one or two beehives, but no one could equal his success.

His orchard was located behind the old stock barn, and it covered no more than 5 acres of land. It lay on a gently, sloping hillside, that in summer caught the first rays of morning sun. He spent much of his work time taking care of the trees in his orchard. There were cherry, peach, apple and pear trees all carefully pruned, grafted and otherwise cared for. No weeds were allowed to grow in Pa’s orchard, and if they made any attempt, he would pull them with a vengeance, muttering cuss words under his breath. Pa didn’t cuss much at all, except when he pulled weeds out of his beloved orchard. He worked constantly to improve his orchard, and was a devoted student of well-known horticulturist, Luther Burbank. He had several cherished, hard-cover volumes of information on orchard management and bee-tending. He would spend time in the old porch swing, reading and educating himself in the art of caring for fruit trees and honeybees.

It was summer, peach season, and all the trees were loaded with big, ripening Elberta peaches. Almost as big as softballs and full of juice, their skins were turning yellow with a slight blush of red. Tree limbs were bending almost to the ground under the weight of the fruit, and they needed to be propped up to keep from breaking. Pa had cut long poles with a fork at the business end, and these were placed under the limbs to help hold the weight. But even after propping up the limbs, Pa said some of the heaviest loaded limbs could break down anyway, and we should come back in the cool of the evening to pick some of the peaches to lighten the load. The real picking would come later on in the week. For now, we were looking to pick a couple just right for eating.

After I helped Pa prop up all the limbs, we selected two of the plumpest, ripest peaches. He carefully picked them, passing them along for me to hold. Reaching in the pocket of his overalls for his bone-handled pocketknife, he took a peach from me. Holding it somehow with his withered hand, he commenced to peeling, never breaking the spiraling peel until the job was complete. Hold this peeled one, Billy and hand me that other one. Handing the peeled, juice-dripping peach to me and taking the other one, he peeled it for himself with the same practiced precision. Pa always kept his pocketknife sharp as a razor, and he would sharpen it until (as a test), he could shave the hair off his forearm.

Gently kicking a few of the bee-covered and rotting windfall peaches aside, we both plopped down on the grass, careful not to come in contact with the little critters. By then, bees were buzzing all around us, so we were real careful as we leaned back against the trunk of the peach tree. Pa and me shared the simple joy of eating the bright yellow fruit, fresh from the tree and warmed by the morning sun. The sweet, sticky juice dripped from our fingers and chins. Honey bees from Pa’s hives continued to buzz around us and take advantage of the fruit that littered the ground under the tree. According to Pa, the juice that the bees collected would make some really tasty honey later on.

Next week, I‘d be back at my house doing chores. Pa would be working in the orchard propping up weak limbs. He’d be picking the ripe peaches for Ma to "put up" in her glass Ball Mason jars for eating enjoyment during the coming winter. Ma would be slicing some of the peaches to spread on clean muslin that Pa had placed on the almost flat tin roof of the garage. The sliced fruit would dry in the sun to later become the main ingredient in Ma’s wonderful fried peach pies. Then, he’d fill the wooden bushel fruit baskets with firm, ripe peaches and load them in his old A-model car for the trip into town. He’d pull his old car up close to the tiny park in the center of town on Saturday mornings. He did that just about every Saturday morning as long as the peach season lasted. Pa sure loved selling those wonderful peaches to the town folks.

But for NOW at this special moment in time, Pa and me were just a couple of kids, one six and one almost sixty, sitting under a peach tree, enjoying a perfect summer morning in the orchard.

The old orchard has long since disappeared. The trees have rotted and turned to dust except for one or two ghostly gray snags that remain to watch over what once flourished on this small slope, bathed in the morning sun. Gone now, except for the fond memories, and those will be with me forever. I reckon one could wonder what sort of permanent effect, (childhood moments such as these), could have on shaping a person’s life.

BEEHIVES & HONEY

To those of you who keep bees and are practiced in the art of harvesting honey, please forgive me if my memories of watching my Pa take honey from the hives leave out something that is really important to the process.

Just west of Pa and Ma’s backyard was their big vegetable garden. Further west was a couple of acres of open space surrounded on three sides by oak, persimmon and mulberry trees. In that grassy space, Pa had placed 20 beehives. The bees were steady visitors to Pa’s orchard during fruit season and to the fields of red clover before it was cut for hay in mid-summer. Pa loved fooling with those bees almost as much as he loved tending his orchard. He went to great pains to try to teach me the fine art of beekeeping. I never really got the hang of robbing the hive, and the thought of getting stung didn’t make matters any better, but I did become an expert at watching Pa.

Now Ed, you know Billy shouldn’t be around close to those bee hives when you’re robbing them. You’re going to get that child stung. I’ve made him an outfit Ma, just his size…hat, mask and all. He’s going to be fine.

First off, Billy, we need to take us a good bath and put on some clean clothes. That was one of the few times that I ever saw Pa volunteer to take a bath. Bees hate the smell of sweat and deodorant, and will try to sting your armpits. Now we’re going to put on this cloth armor I made for us. We need to be completely covered and taped, so no skin is exposed. You definitely don’t want them bees to find an opening in you armor. Next, come our wide-brimmed hats with a mask of screen mesh all around to protect our faces and necks. We’ll take a tool to pry the top off the hives. The bees seal the hive lid with wax. We’ll take a clean 5 gallon bucket with us to collect the honey-filled trays.

Here Billy, you can carry the bee smoker; we need that to pump smoke into the bee entry opening at the bottom front of the hive. We’ll take these old crumpled newspapers in the bucket, and create smoke by burning them in the smoker and pumping the smoker’s bellows. The bees will smell the smoke and think their hive is on fire, and they will quickly eat all the honey they can hold. The full tummies make the bees sleepy and sluggish. Let’s be real quiet and don’t make any sudden moves. Pa, I didn’t know it, but them bees are really smart. I suppose they are, Billy, never thought much about it, though.

Pa carefully pried off the top to the hive and lifted out a dripping honey-filled tray; then he removed two more. In each hive there were six trays in all, and we left three for the bees. Always leave plenty of food for the bees, and they’ll usually stay with the hive, Pa said, as he placed the collected trays in the 5 gallon bucket for the trip back to the house. Replacing the collected honey-filled trays with the new empty ones that we had brought along, Pa carefully and quietly replaced the top of the hive.

Finished with the robbing, we headed for the house. A few bees followed us, circling around our heads. They sounded angry, but we didn’t get a single sting. They left us before we reached the screen door to the kitchen. We left enough honey-filled trays to feed the bees until they could replace the honey we took. The honeycomb cells in the trays we brought to the house were filled with honey, then capped by the bees.

I’ll get one of Ma’s butcher knives and slice off the caps. The honey along with pieces of honeycomb can be poured into Ma’s glass Mason jars. Now that’s a real pretty sight—a clear glass Mason jar of fresh honey and honeycomb with sunlight shining through. I was more excited about not getting stung than I was about the honey.

I came running through the house shouting…

Ma, Ma, me and Pa didn’t even get one sting!

END

The Little Red Rocker

My little red rocker has very little monetary value, but to me it’s priceless. It links me to memories of my early childhood and back to when my own children were small. Repainted with red enamel paint many times over during the past seventy five years, the little rocker is still the bright red that it was originally. Nothing seems unusual about the rocker. I would argue, however, that there is actually a bit of magic in that small rocker. It has the power to transport my memories back through time.

To