Praise the Lord!: Discovering the Missing Link

By Leland "Pop" Hamilton

Americans who came of age during the Great Depression and went on to fight in the Second World War have been called the greatest generation. From his early years in the cotton patches of West Texas to a battleship in the Pacific Theatre, Leland Hamiltons lucid storytelling offers amazing insight into these seminal moments in the nations history. Vivid recollections of his nine-decade spiritual journey provide readers with an intimate glimpse into one mans hardships and triumphs in his Christian faith. Hamiltons life is one that has defined his generation as the greatest. Those whove read his remarkable story will understand why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490892566

Leland "Pop" Hamilton

Praise the Lord! is Leland Hamilton’s first book. At ninety years old, Hamilton continues to be an active member of his church, participates in Kairos Prison Ministry, and is the “official number-one fan” of the Andrews High School Mustangs. In 2015, he and his wife, Joyce, were named the recipients of the Pioneer Award, the highest honor given to citizens of Andrews, Texas.

Book preview

The Missing Button

W est Texas felt the weight of the Great Depression as much as the cities turned slums of the North. Above the vast stretches of red dirt prairie, the heavens turned to rust as Dust Bowl winds kicked earth into the sky. For a farming family living on this hardscrabble land, it was a constant struggle to put food on the table. Leland Hamilton was an eight-year-old boy growing up in Loraine, Texas, during this difficult period in the nation’s history. He didn’t know he was living in the Great Depression or that times were particularly rough for his family and others around him. He was just a child; climbing trees in the spring, skinning his knees every summer.

When autumn came in 1933, Leland put on his newest shirt, squeezed his feet into a pair of hand-me-down shoes, and began the long hike to school with his three brothers. The difference in age between Leland and his oldest brother, Harris, was three years. Students of all ages across the county attended the same three-room country school. Leland was happy to be sitting amongst his classmates (especially one particularly good-looking gal named Mona), watching the teacher scribble math problems on the chalkboard. He knew this peaceful time wouldn’t last long.

Only a few weeks after the school year began, there was a long six-week stint where no classes were held. This was no vacation time; it was a necessary break to allow the students to help their parents make some income. As for Leland and the rest of his family, that meant waking before the sun to get an early start at picking cotton from the fields. It was hard work, and it quickly turned the hands of a boy into the rough, calloused paws of a man.

At the end of weeks of hard labor, the cotton fields were stripped of every bit of white fluff. The cold fingers of winter began to grip the land. Shivering through the night under a mound of quilts with his three brothers, Leland anticipated returning to the country school for picture day. He woke that morning to his mother making breakfast in the only other room of their tiny house. After bringing in fresh milk from the dairy cow, Leland slipped on his most prized possession: a red wool sweater.

As he began to button it, he noticed one of the large wooden circles was missing. His smile sank. Leland was heartbroken. He tugged at his mother’s dress.

Momma, my button’s missing and today is picture day! Please, do something.

Leland’s mother didn’t look down at her pleading son. She kept her gaze focused on the potatoes frying in the pan in front of her. A tear streaked down her sun-bit cheek as she explained to her son that she had no buttons in the house to replace it. He would have to take his picture with one missing. Leland sniffed and wiped away tears as he trudged two miles to school.

The students lined up to be photographed. A man wearing a bowler hat and sporting a thick, bristling mustache called out Next! It was finally Leland’s turn to sit before the camera. The boy took one more glance down at his missing button, then sat on the photographer’s stool.

Smile! the man yelled, as a hot, white flash of light came from the camera.

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Today, a black-and-white photograph of my granddad, Leland Hamilton, rests in a frame on my dresser. He is eight-years old at the time and wearing a wool sweater – one of the buttons is missing. In his eyes, there is the hurt and pain of a child growing up in an extraordinarily difficult time, but there is also something in his set jaw and steady gaze that is even more striking than his sorrow. Defiance. In fact, it looks as if he’s saying to the mustachioed cameraman, to the cotton fields, and to all creation: Yeah, the world might have me licked, but it ain’t gonna beat me. It’s not going to be like this some day. I’ll have my buttons, every single one of ’em.

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At ninety years old, Granddad has all of his buttons and a whole lot more. He survived the Great Depression, fought in World War II, married that pretty gal named Mona, had four children, owned his own TV repair shop, sold Chevrolets, beat prostate cancer, graciously coped with the loss of his first love to leukemia, remarried at seventy-one, and is now a limitless fountain of wisdom, humor, and a certain pureness rarely found in any era. On almost any given day, you can bet Granddad is sporting suspenders as he walks around town, usually over two miles. He can recall dates, people, and events better than I can remember yesterday’s meal. Praise the Lord is his greeting to anyone who happens to cross his path, be it a stranger or old friend. I was fortunate enough to grow up listening to stories from his life, fascinated by tales of war, travel, love, and a world before space travel, colored TV, or microwave dinners.

When Granddad speaks of his childhood, it is never with any regret for living under such austere circumstances. It almost seems as if he is grateful for knowing such poverty. The hardships and missing buttons that he endured helped shape him into the man of grace, patience, and profound simplicity that he still is today. The man I strive to be is largely an attempt to duplicate these characteristics I so greatly admire.

Granddad taught me how to shoot a slingshot, hit a baseball, to appreciate the smell of baking cornbread. I learned from him to enjoy the rhythm of a floating bobber, to take life in stride, that it is possible to love unconditionally, and that there is never a bad time for peanut butter, Ritz crackers, and a Coke. I also like to think some of his resilience has been instilled within me too. After all, I have been told, You sure have your Granddad’s smile.

Leland had no way of knowing how much one missing button would mean to a grandson almost seven decades after the picture was snapped. Most mornings as I slide on my boots and get ready for the day, the boy in the photograph reminds me not to count my blessings, but to count my buttons; and, even when there isn’t a single extra button in the house, set your jaw and give the camera a smile.

Written by Christian H. Wallace

Discovering the Missing Link

Chapter 1

Childhood Days

I was born in September of 1924 in a small two-room shack on a cotton farm north of Loraine in West Texas. My dad and mother and my two older brothers and I all lived together in this little shanty we called home. My mother told me years later that I would often go missing as a baby. I would look across the road and see your little cotton head bouncing along just above the cotton stalks, Mother said. I was on my way to grandmother’s house, approximately a quarter-mile from our home. We lived in this house until I was sixteen months old, when we moved to a larger house on another farm.

My earliest memory is from when I was twenty-nine months old. My two older brothers, Harris, Lynn and I were walking with our uncle to his house. Clutching my uncle’s hand, the dust rose from the road beneath us. Why are we going to Uncle Ham’s? I asked trying to keep up. Harris said, Mother’s going to have a baby. Sure enough, my youngest brother, Darwin, was born (he was later nicknamed Gunny because of the gunny-sack that he used to put cotton bolls in while picking cotton while he was very young). I don’t recall anything else until I was almost four years old. Harris, Lynn, and I were playing on one of Dad’s old plows out in front of the house. Harris was working the levers, moving the blade to and from the dirt, when my hand was caught in the parts, smashing my thumb. I screamed as the blood ran from my right thumb onto the levers of the plow. My mother and grandmother came running from the house and grabbed me. She took me inside to wash the blood off. The pain was terrible, and I cried and cried. To this day, my right thumb nail remains split down the middle, a reminder of childhood.

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I remember when I had turned five years old. We went to a Christmas-tree program at the church which was one-mile east of our house. On the wintry trip back home, in our wagon, us brothers discussed who we thought was playing Santa Claus—it was one of our uncles. But that Christmas while we were sleeping, the real Santa came and brought me a red rubber ball and a little red wagon. I remember how proud I was of that shiny, new wagon and red ball. The red ball was my favorite. I would play with it inside the house and out in the yard. I would throw it and our dog would chase after it, and I’d run after her to get it back.

On New Year’s Day, we moved to another farm twelve miles south of Loraine. My dad and uncle loaded our furniture and all our belongings onto the wagons, pulled by our horses and mules, and went ahead of the rest of us. Mother packed me and my brothers into our Ford Model T and drove the sixteen miles to our new home. A few days after we arrived, my mother and dad papered each of the three rooms of the house. Papering was the process of nailing cheesecloth over the one-by-twelve boards which made up the walls to keep the wind and dirt outside, at least some of it. As they were working on our bedroom, Gunny and I were playing in the front room. We had a fire burning in the wood-burning stove, and Gunny put my prized ball on top of the hot metal. The ball melted into a sad mush of red rubber. I remember crying hard and loud. Mother came running to see what the trouble was. Gunny got a spanking, but that was the end of my little red ball.

There was a rocky mountain on our new farmland. It was only a small rocky hill looking back on it now, but to us it may as well have been Mt. Everest. We’d run and play on that rocky mountain, well aware of the rattlesnakes that nested there. Harris would lead the way as we charged to the mountaintop. Snake! he would holler, and jump over the irritated reptile. The rest of us would detour and go around. The Lord was surely taking care of us; we were always playing around some kind of snake and never once got bitten. One night as I was about to crawl under the blankets, I heard a blood-chilling rattle under the bed. I called my