At the End of the Cotton Rows

By Annie Way Kirby

Annie is the author of four published books of poetry, Butterflies and Bumblebees, Apron Full O Apples, Frog Houses and The Sandpiper. Her writing is extremely poignant and emotional. She stresses good times and bad. Her words bring laughter and tears.
At The End Of The Cotton Rows, is different in the fact that it is not poetic, instead, her words simply paint a picture of life as she knew it, so clearly you can feel the sweat drops on your brow and feel the pull of the pick sack on your shoulder. Your eyes will dim and burn at the brightness of the sun beaming down in the middle of the afternoon while you are surrounded by cotton stalks almost as tall as the little girl and her brother as they run up the rows to catch up with their family as together they move over one cotton row at a time.
She writes a story of family closeness that tied one family together for a lifetime with memories, good and bad, that each brother and sister still draw from. The advice given by loving parents still ring true as they are passed down generation after generation.
Annie has never forgotten the main source of advice from her parents, No matter where you go, never forget where you came from. Her honest, humble beginning is the one thing she is most thankful for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984542816

Annie Way Kirby

Annies down home roots are set in rural Danville Alabama and a real tug of war occurs when the Crimson Tide Rolls and the Dawgs bark. Thats when you get your answer to the question, Where you from? Annie is the mother of three sons, Scott, Todd, and Corey Kirby. She attributes a lot of her writing and poetic insights to the miracle of their birth. She is Nonny to Courtney, Marlee, Kaylee, Valerie, Victoria, Brandon, Harlee, Johnny Kirby and Taylor Hart. Each grandchild is a beautiful poem with a new verse written each day. Annie is a medical Secretary and enjoys life and the people she comes in contact with on a daily basis. If there is one gift shed like to give to the world it is the absolute beauty she sees in an early morning sunrise and the wonderful hues of an autumn sunset suspended between heaven and earth.

Book preview

HARRY BRUCE WAY—THE MAN

Our father was born in Lawrence County Alabama in 1902 in the middle of an extremely cold winter. Wind blew in cold that long ago January 2nd day as his Mother, Annie Mayfield Way, labored to give him birth. He was born at home with no doctor to assist his arrival. He was given the name of Harry Bruce Way. He didn’t like the name Harry, and for the life of me, I have never been able to understand how he and his brothers and sisters all ended up being called by something other than the name they were given, but they were. He became known as Buck to his family and friends. Even though I don’t know how this name came into play, it seemed to fit our Father to a tee. As a small child I was a bit confused as he signed his name H. B. Way in a flair that looked much like the scribble of a child just recently introduced to cursive writing. Too young to be too concerned about his name I just figured the B in H. B. was for Buck. I did not know him as Harry Bruce.

Later I was made aware that my Dad had only gone to school for two years. Now, second grade today teaches quite a bit, but remember, when he said he went to school two years that meant on the days that he was allowed to go. His days in school were occasional. This is truly one of those, I had to walk two miles to school and back, that people often teasingly boast about. On rainy or cold days Grandma Annie was not about to let her children walk that far in bad weather. Sure, she dressed them warmly, complete with heavy coat, hat, and gloves, but still, the thought of them getting too chilled and coming down with a cold laid heavy on her heart. Besides, in those days being able to raise a large family of children to adulthood without losing one of them to whooping cough, diphtheria, or any other disease was hard. She was not about to let anything happen to one of her children if she had the power to prevent it. I’m told that when the children were quite small their Mother did not just send them out to school but instead made that long walk with them twice daily. How many trips she must have made to that little one room school house out in the middle of nowhere. How barren and dreary the surroundings must have looked in the winter after the trees had shed their leaves and the green grasses had lost their luster by turning a dirty, lifeless brown.

When there was work to be done, this too small for his age, youngster was in the fields working like a man. By the time he got back to school he had forgotten what they had already taught him.

This was not all bad. In the fields he was learning farming and a work ethic that carried him through all of the days of his life. Don’t get me wrong, Dad was one of the smartest men I have ever known. Back in those days, though book learning was very important, a man was expected to also learn how to make an honest living with his hands. You had to learn early to, live by your wits, so to speak, and this included becoming good at a skill. Most men back in the early 1900’s were pretty good at hunting game and fishing. Though I can’t picture Daddy as a Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett, he assured me that as a boy and young adult he enjoyed these sports and it was a way of bringing food to the table that occasionally might have been minus the meat. Even so, I can truly say that my memory does not hold a picture of Dad hunting or fishing. I’m told by my brothers that immediately following a rain our Dad would take the old single shot, shotgun down from it’s resting place on the wall and scramble through a drawer retrieving a few shells and head into the woods. He would walk out of the woods with several squirrels that the boys would skin and clean. Mama would cook a pot of squirrel dumplings or fry them up for dinner. I think of Daddy, even today, as I notice how the squirrels with their bushy tails raised sweeping in the air, back and forth swooshing like a Japanese fan and the other small creatures like to scamper around, full throttle, after a refreshing rain or a downpour.

When thinking of my Father I get a mental picture of an honest to goodness, wonderful man. He was a bit timid at times. Though he often didn’t join in a lot of conversation you could almost see the wheels turn as he listened. His voice was never loud or boastful. Buck Way was never one to call attention to himself.

He was truly, a live and let live, sort of man.

Buck Way is pictured wearing his bib overalls purchased, most often, at E. R. Roberts Dry Goods Store in Hartselle Alabama.

Hartselle being the closest little one horse town near us. It had one main street through the middle with small stores and businesses on both sides. Mr. Roberts Dry Goods Store was on the left going in from the West side. Although Dads overall’s were often a bit faded, they were clean and as he often said with pride, I have just now made them comfortable. He was not allowed to wear any overalls with holes in the knees as the boys often did. In our youth holes in the britches were a necessity because they had to be worn out before the purchase of new ones. Today, they are manufactured that way. Dad always had a new pair in case of an emergency or if he felt the need to look a bit nicer.

Daddy’s favorite brand of overalls was Liberty. His overalls had a small watch pocket beside the bib on front of them and it held an old white gold, Swiss movement Elgin watch while the bib across the front held his sack of Country Gentleman smoking tobacco. He could whip out a thin rolling paper, crease it, and with his index finger tap out a small amount of tobacco. After rolling it up neatly, with a flick of his tongue he had a hand rolled cigarette that would make a ready roll Camel look rather pale in comparison. Chesterfield and Lucky Strikes had nothing on the cigarette my Daddy rolled. After getting the cigarette rolled just the way he liked it, he would then pull a small wooden match stick out of his pocket, flip his thumbnail across the tiny red tip and get an instant flame. After lighting his cigarette he would take a long drag, inhaling deeply, and clearly savoring the burning taste that immediately erupted in his mouth like a miniature volcano. This ritual amazed me when the smoke finally escaped into the air. If he knew one of us kids were watching he would lean his head back a bit and blow smoke rings, showing off a little. Those smoke rings were pretty cool. I dare say anyone ever enjoyed his Country Gentleman tobacco more than our Father.

When Daddy went into town on those necessary but rare occasions he enjoyed eating at a restaurant near Mr. Roberts store. I have forgotten the name of the restaurant but I have not and and never shall, forget the red and white and blue and white checkered tablecloths and the straight back chairs placed around the tables, nor shall I forget the feeling of excitement that I felt sitting across from Daddy as we each enjoyed a bowl of beef stew and crackers on the few times I was allowed to go into town with him. I felt so important because I was having dinner out with just me and my Daddy. As he bragged about how good the beef stew and crackers were I was thinking, Not nearly as good as Mama’s vegetable soup and corn bread.

Daddy’s ability for farming was remarkable. His word was his bond and he truly believed if you did not keep your word you didn’t amount to much. Promises he made were promises kept.

As children we were taught, early on, to stand up and tell the truth. Regardless of the consequences or how hard it was to stand there and look our Father in the eye, each one of us knew that to own whatever wrong we may have done would be much better than to lie to our Father. A hand shake and a pat on the back is how he sealed his deals and he owed no one when he left this world.

One might argue that Dad didn’t have much on his passing but they would be wrong. He was rich in the knowledge that as a Father he had successfully raised and provided for his eight children in times and circumstances so hard it seemed almost impossible to do so. Each of his children loved and respected him in his Father role to all of us. At his death Daddy still had his loving wife of forty two years by his side, and a chest full of pride when you spoke of his children and grandchildren.

Daddy’s views on the political policies and government workings was to be admired. Though his views may have been quite different than views we hear today, they were truly his own. There was not so much outside interference with the television blaring while four or five different people talked rudely over each other shouting down everything the other one said until you became so confused you no longer knew what you believed and what someone else just forced into your mind.

My Dad was a one hundred percent true Democrat. Even so, when we had a Republican president he gave them the same respect as he did the candidate that he had voted for. If he was living today he would be ashamed of his party as well as the Republicans. He was never one to like conflict such as the likes of which we are subjected to on a daily basis when we turn on the television in our own living rooms.

I very vividly remember how upset Dad became when our beloved President, John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963. I guess everyone that is old enough to remember that mournful day still remembers where they were when getting the dreadful news. Daddy was stunned along with the rest of the world. He adamantly believed Lyndon B. Johnson was, in some way, responsible for the death of our President. When asked why this was his deep seated belief his response was a simple, because Johnson had the most to gain. No argument there.

Daddy’s reasoning about the assassination of our President may have been a simple calculation in today’s society but it was well thought out from all angles in his mind.

Aside from the fact that the President of the United States had just been assassinated, we were living in simpler times. Dad did not rush to judgments. He listened to the opinion of those around him with an open mind. He sat on the edge of his chair looking as though he was about to lose his balance and fall off of the chair as he placed his ear to the radio trying to make sense of the words he was hearing through all of the static picked up by the radio. I’m not convinced that Dad was wrong about the Kennedy Assassination.

The point has never really been questioned to any extent by those that could make a difference. Dads words made me stop and think. I’m also not sure if anyone else thought this possibility about our President Johnson or not, but Daddy planted that thought in my mind and as it grew it has festered becoming permanently lodged there.

Daddy lived a rather secluded life in Lawrence and Morgan counties, and though we had no television he kept up with the news back when news was real news. He was always very aware of what went on in our world and was a man of great intelligence.

I was told that Daddy was never out of the state of Alabama but once in his lifetime. Seems his first born son, Carlton, decided to leave home and work with the fair without a whisper of this to his parents. He was a young teenager and this upset our parents terribly. Carlton didn’t even have time to enjoy the sawdust on the ground or the smell of candy apples and peanuts that seem to be the smells of the fair. So quickly, Dad hailed a bus and went to bring him home as soon as he could find out which state the fair moved to that Sunday when it left the fairgrounds in Moulton Alabama.

I’m not at all sure about the attraction to become part of the County fair other than just to travel and see the country but a few years later another brother, Alton, left to work with the fair. Although he was still a very young man, Dad gave his permission.

His advice to his young son was, Son, no matter where you go, at all times keep enough money in your pocket to buy a bus ticket home. He stressed, You will always need to get back to the one’s that love you. Alton has never forgotten that bit of advice and regardless of where his travels have taken him throughout his lifetime he has always made that a practice. When money got low he still kept enough put aside to get home on. To Mama’s relief Alton returned home a short time after leaving with the fair.

Buck Way tried hard to teach his children about politics, and the responsibility and importance of casting our vote as we approached voting age. On the other hand, I guess one could say he wanted us to follow his lead when he asked each of us never to vote Republican. In today’s modern world it has become difficult to distinguish one party from the other. This leaves me standing well on the balance beam of indecision of what Daddy wanted. I’m afraid to take that step to the left, and just as afraid to step to the right.

Both political parties appear to be much the same with neither being too concerned when the flag is burned, and God and prayer have been ripped out of our schools and government. I shudder his disgust if he was here when the Ten Commandments was removed from his beloved Alabama’s State Capital in Montgomery Alabama. Buck Way would just roll over in his grave at the very thought of women marrying women and men marrying men. He would be completely distraught that the pledge of allegiance and prayer is no longer the first call to order after the first school bell rings. Buck Way would be devastated with the rudeness our American children display for teachers, police and anyone else in authority. He would be intolerant, to a fault, at the riots going on across college campuses.

America’s innocence seems to have disappeared in a whirlwind of disrespect for ourselves and our fellow man. It is no longer neighbor helping neighbor as it was in what Daddy would call the good old days. What has happened in our world since we left the end of the cotton rows? Oh, my!

Just for your information, a fairly young granite employee from Elberton Georgia, is the person that drove to the Capital in Montgomery Alabama, and removed the Ten Commandments. For obvious reasons, I won’t mention his name, but later the gentleman stated that he regretted doing that job more than any job he had ever done. He was a hard working young man and needed the money. Regardless of who removed it, an order for the removal of the Ten Commandments had already been made and handed down with the absolute knowledge that the monument was coming down.

It was no longer a matter of if but when and who. He stated that he felt tremendous guilt over his part in this heartbreaking process. He made the statement that he would gladly give the money back if he could just reverse his decision about doing that job.

I was present during a conversation between this gentleman and Ronald Outzs when out of the blue, I heard Ronald say, Now, you know a little of the guilt Judas Iscariot felt over his betrayal of Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. Ouch! I saw the pained look on the young mans face. Of course, Ronald did not mean to hurt him by those words as he was only needling him and clearly the young man knew they were spoken in a joking manner, but one could see the off handed remark had hit a nerve. You could hear it in the small attempt to laugh slightly to cover his true feelings. Sad to say the young man passed away quite suddenly, a short time later.

WHEN YOUR PLOW IS A PENCIL

We were our Fathers first priority. Providing for and raising his children with Mama by his side was his promise and greatest ambition. He knew his only means to accomplish this was through farming cotton and corn crops each year.

Farming was the only thing our Daddy knew how to do. The cotton fields were, most certainly, a daily routine for our family. I am reminded of a phrase that I heard our long ago President Dwight D. Eisenhower quote. He said, Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil and you are a thousand miles away from a corn field. How true that was for those who sit in an office job and buy their food from the nearest country store, but for the Way family it was painted with a different brush. The work was back breaking hard, and daily it seemed, your eyes would feel the sting as sweat dripped down your face even on a cold day. Even today when I think of my Father I see him through the eyes of a small child as my brother and I carried him water across the newly plowed earth. Our Dad, standing brave and strong, in the field as he removed his sweat brimmed hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. I still feel the pain of sadness that his life was so hard, but I feel comfort in his words, I would not trade my county life to live in a rich man’s world. I get it now but just could not understand it then. We were kept humble by our meager living week by week and never even realized we were poor.

Our absolute life depended on getting the ground ready for planting, raising, and harvesting an abundant bumper crop of cotton. It took a lot of bales to feed and clothe eight children and our Daddy’s true grit and determination was going to make that happen. There was no need to complain about how his back hurt after his injury. He just put on the heavy back brace and did the best he could regardless of it sometimes rubbing his chest raw or about the heat rash caused by the ever present sweat drops. He would remove the brace at night and so many times Mama would sooth the hurt by gently placing a cool, damp clothe over the redness until he fell asleep. He sported the calluses on his hands with the pride shown when you have won an award for a job well done. When he could no longer bend down to pick the cotton he put on knee pads and walked on his knees from sun up to sun down. As he used to say, It’s all in a days work down on the farm.

THEM OL’ COTTON FIELDS

Every morning each little sleepy head would clamber out of bed early, take our seat at the table and eat the big breakfast that our Mom had been up even earlier preparing. Daddy and the older ones would discuss what we would do and what was expected of us for the day. Such as, which field we would be working in and how much he felt we would or should get done that day. Someone would quickly carry the, filled to the brim, slop bucket that was kept by the kitchen door and walk across the yard to slop the hogs while another brother would milk the cows. Mom would feed the foul later, after we had gone into the fields. We would then grab our hats and bonnets, throw a hoe or a pick sack over our shoulders and off to the fields we would go.

One thing that still sticks in my mind is walking into those fields happy and chatting. We may each have dreaded the day of work or the hot sun beaming down overhead and the sore muscles or aching shoulders waiting for us at the end of the day either from chopping cotton or pulling a pick sack, but you never heard complaints. As our Father pointed out, Complaints are a waste of energy and breath since you know what has to be done. We were taught if you feel proud at the end a the day it was a job well done.

As young children we were pretty happy to go to school because it gave us an escape from the fields for a few hours. We knew when the school bus dropped us off at home we were not supposed to tarry and waste time, but hurry into the fields. Mama had a rule that as soon as we came in from school we had to change in to play clothes. When we jumped off the bus we headed for the house with some of the brothers doing a little scuffling or shoving each other as brothers like to do. It seemed each one of us was in a hurry to excitedly talk about our school day or the something special that may have taken place so we talked in loud voices, each one trying to be heard first.

The older brothers spoke of coming home from school and Mama always having a platter of homemade biscuits covered with a cloth in the kitchen and a large pan of baked sweet potatoes on the wood cook stove. After enjoying a quick snack of this with a glass of milk they would head to the fields to work until sundown. Now, several years passed before it was Donald and my turn. It was much the same. We would jump from the bus, change clothes, grab peanut butter