Front Porch Love: From the House That Built Me

By Claretta Humphrey

Through all of life's trials and tribulation, how do we hold things together instead of drowning in our tears? We go to the place that taught us to fear less and forbear. The place where comfort came from prayer and taking leaps of faith were encouraged. Front Porch Love reminds me that the home I grew up in was a place to relent and always find mama and God. As my life spins out of control, I give the reigns to God. When we let Him lead the way, He guides us through the chaos and back to our happiness. He is always within our reach. He is the maker of everything. He is listing to each one of us and hears all of our prayers. Things may not happen when and how you like them to, but He is always supple making things. I found that as I began to get closer to God, I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. As I dealt with marriage, divorce, illness and death, even different careers on this journey of life; oh! I have never forgotten the place I came from, or who's I am. Being close to Jesus made it possible to look to the future and have a life full of joy and love. Because I went back to the Front Porch Love of the house that built me often in person and in my heart, I feel victorious with life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642140637

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Front Porch Love

From the House That Built Me

Claretta Humphrey

Copyright © 2018 Claretta Humphrey

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2018

ISBN 978-1-64214-062-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64214-063-7 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

chapter 1

Just a Baby

I was born the sixth child to a family of eleven children, in the Deep South, in the city of Uriah, in the great state of Alabama, on September 14, 1943. George W. Smith Sr. and Rosie Lee Frye Smith, my parent, were good. Southern Baptists who believed in Spare the rod, spoil the child. They believed that every time the church doors opened, you should be in attendance. They tell me I was always making them late by refusing to get out of bed. At the age of three, what child wants to rise before daybreak? Daddy was a deacon in the church. He was also a lead singer in a male quartet that sang every Sunday. We had to be on time. We lived in a white house, one my daddy built—with his own two hands, as he liked to say. Our home had two porches, one on the back and one across the front. The front porch is where we learned all the facts of life, thing that good girls should and should not do if you were to be respectful young ladies. All teaching took place as other chores were in progress, like hair combing, shoe-shining for school the next day. Homework had to be completed by dinnertime as well.

Daddy was an only child born to Alonzo Smith, affectionately known as Papa Smith, and Essie May Grimes Smith. His father was the son of a former slave woman. Papa Smith would often tell us his life story—how he ran for freedom when he was only thirteen years of age. It was hard for me to believe the conditions from which he overcame, as I looked around his farm. He planted peanuts, cotton, and watermelons on his land. We had to help with the work whenever we went for our visits, but the hired hands did the real fieldwork. My vacation time with him was very enjoyable. The land was green and plush. Sunflowers dotted the fields, looking up toward heaven as if they were a family of small children with smiling faces. The peach tree branches so full with fruit they some timed touched the ground. The cotton field looked as if it were one continuous white blanket stretched out as far as I could see. From the fields, I could always see the wood-framed house, with its wooden shutters swung open for fresh air to penetrate the rooms. It seemed the summer air always had a fruity smell to it. Those hot summer days will forever be imprinted in my mind. My favorite time was lunch. We’d ride up to the house on the back of the wagon and wash up at the pump to make ready to eat.

After lunch, we’d sit under the old oak tree in his yard, and Papa Smith would tell us stories about his life. He wasn’t sure of his age. He had no birth record, but he always started out, I was about thirteen. He was one of two sons born into slavery. We never met his mother. Papa spoke kindly of her at all times. I could tell he missed her wholeheartedly.

Front Parch

where Claretta grew up.

Clarette’s Birth Home or grew up here!

Fairhope, ALA

The House that Pop built, the address has changed from 671 South Section Street when I was a girl. Address is now 19206 Bell Road, Fairhope, Alabama

I reckon I was about that, thirteen years old, he would say. He continued, The last time I saw my mother was in the fields pickin’ cotton, one hot summer day, much like these days we’ve been having lately. The big oak gave plenty of shade, and the grass was thick and cool underneath its far-reaching branches. We’d sit on the ground, looking up at his weather-beaten face, eagerly awaiting the next phrase. Yes, times had been hard for the Smiths, and then Papa would continue talking. The overseer was whipping her, my momma, with a stick across her back because she was unable to pick the amount of cotton he thought she should pick. I took up for my mother, pulled that old overseer from his horse, and then began to beat him with my hoe. I beat him bad! Blood was everywhere! I don’t know if I killed him or not. Mother was screaming for me to run. She said, Run son and don’t ever look back. He did what she told him to do. He ran and never looked back. My journey has been hard, but when I look at you’ll, my own grandchillins, it’s been worth it all.

He did not know if his mother and brother were still alive or dead. Sometimes he would cry when he told his life story to us. Then he would say, I tell you this, this is so you’d never forget, we are to be somebody! Always stay free and independent! It ain’t no harm pickin’ grains with chickens, long as you free. You can always do better for yourselves. Papa never called his momma’s name. Even though I wanted to ask him her name, I would just slide closer to him and keep quiet.

Grandpa was a sweet and gentle soul. He was always baking cakes for us kids and giving to other people. He’d say, They less fortunate than us somehow, for whatever reason. My grandma, his wife, was away from home a lot. She did missionary work with the church. Although grandma could not read, she was eloquent. Mildred, my sister, would read her speech out loud to her just once, and she would take it from there. She made a speech at the White House concerning the plight of the blacks in the South.

Their only child, my daddy George, he was spoiled to the core. Daddy had everything his heart desired as a single man we later learned. Our grandmother made sure of that. After marriage, he had to go to work, and work hard he did.

In the family, the children were born very close together. George Jr. was born shortly after Jimmy, the eldest brother. The next child born was Sister, because Jimmy could not pronounce Lisa. He would just call her my sister, and it stuck with her until this day. In private, we still call her Sister. Jimmy didn’t speak very well due to a stuttering problem. The nicknames of some of his siblings are the direct result of his speech impediment. Jimmy may have been the firstborn, but it wasn’t long before we began pushing him out of the way. George Jr., the second child, and was called that boy, which was shortened to Boy, and this became his nickname. He remains Boy among the family members, and he is occasionally called by his nickname in public. The fourth child was Mildred. At an early age, Mildred went to stay with our grandparents, the Smith family. There was a stillborn baby between Mildred and myself. I was born a scraggly, ugly, but happy bundle of joy, and my name is Claretta. In the family, I was known as Sister Clo. Following me was Candy, Alonzo, Melvin, John Eddie, and last but not least was Helen Marie, a fine baby girl.

The oldest, Jimmy, got married and moved up north. There he had joined the US Navy and married a girl by the name of Helen. He was very much in love with his wife, and he wrote and asked Momma to name the child after his wife that is if it was a girl. This is the reason I refer to my baby sister as Miss Helen. Of course, if it had been a boy, who knows what his name might have been. However, it was a girl. She was given the name Helen after Jimmy’s love. Momma always had her heart set to please her firstborn at all times, and at any cost. She would bake whole cakes and pies for him, while the rest of the family had to share one between all of us. Jimmy had kind ways about him, always kind to others and looking out for the smaller children, especially the girls. Maybe that’s the reason he gets special treatment, that’s what I would tell myself.

Boy was quite different from Jimmy. Boy always thought he was somebody’s daddy, going around cursing and fussing. Momma couldn’t do one thing with him. It was just You wait until your daddy gets home was her way out where Boy was concerned. Daddy worked away from home until weekends. While away from home, Daddy lived with Granddaddy and Grandma Frye and was in the process of starting up his own construction company, Smiths Construction.

Chapter 2

My First Job

Momma and we kids were left at home to run the farm. I turned five years old and became the water person for the ones working the fields. We all started out with nicknames, and because I prayed a lot, I became Sister Clo. All my siblings would say, If she’s not crying, she can be found some place praying. Momma would say, Now Sister Clo, you have that water here by noon. You hear me or this time you’re going to get a switching for sure.

As hard as I tried, it rarely happened that I was on time with the water or had enough left in the buckets for everyone to get a drink. The water would spill out as I climbed over the fence. The problem was not me; the problem was the obstacles I had to endure. We had cows in the pasture and a horse named Max. That darn Max would chase me when he saw me coming. To get to the cotton fields, I had to pass through a gate, which was closed and latched at all times. I was unable to unlatch the gate, and there was never anyone to unlatch the gate for me. Therefore, I had to climb over the gate with the two buckets of water. Boy, my brother, had said, If, you let the cows out. I’m going to beat your ass with one of these here cotton stalks. The cotton leaves had green crawling worms all over them. I was afraid of both Boy and worms. Every time I climbed the gate, half of the water would spill out. Of course, this would mean there wasn’t enough water to go around to all the cotton pickers and field hands. Boy, true to his word, would try to whip me just as he’d said. Sometimes Momma would stop him; sometimes she wouldn’t.

The sun appeared as if it were boiling in the sky. It was always so hot; the heat would burn my skin and turn me very dark. Then my flesh felt hard and rough to touch. I did not like that, no way at all. When I’d look across the field, all I could see was heat and cotton. A worker stationed at the end of the cotton rows with a wagon. On the open end of the wagon was a weighing scale attached for weighing the sacks of cotton. When a picker packed the sack full or could no longer pull its weight, they went to where the wagon was parked and weighed in. After days of wasted water and getting whipping, I said to Sister, Looks to me like we could cut a hole in the fence, just big enough for the water buckets, and I could put them inside, then climb over. That way, they’d have enough water, and I wouldn’t get beat all the time. She didn’t think that was a good idea at all. She said, That fence cost good money, and we’d both get a-killing for cutting holes in it. I cried every day when it was time to carry water to the field. Sister had to keep the babies, cook the meals, and keep the house clean. Therefore, she wasn’t able to carry the water. Momma had to make sure the crops were in on time. She had to be in the fields every day.

Daddy only came home on weekends. Friday-night dinners were our time for venting. Each kid took his or her turn telling what had gone on in his or her life during the week while he was away. He listened patiently to each one of us. We all had something of interest to say, whether it made sense or not. We enjoyed the time spent with our dad. I’d wait patiently until it was my turn to speak, then I made sure all my scars could be seen. After I was finished with what I had to say, Dad turned to face Momma. With facial grimaces of anger, he excitedly asked, Rosie, have you lost your mind? Momma told him, That gal can’t carry water to us out in the field without spilling it all. Boy whipped her, I didn’t.

Daddy asked, Boy, how many children you got? Of course, his answer was none. Daddy said sternly to Boy, You go take off your clothes and bring me my strap. I’m going to put the same thing on your behind, and don’t ever put your hands on her again! Boy got a good whipping that night.

He was jumping, what seemed to me, as high as the ceiling, and I was happy. Now he knew just how it felt, being unable to defend yourself. When Daddy left us Sunday night, going back to Granddad’s, I got another beating from Boy. It seemed as if he was trying to kill me.

It never stopped me from telling on him, whenever he’d lay a hand on me. On Sunday in church, I prayed, God, I know you love all little children. Please love me too. Let us soon move away from this farm. I hate it here. Momma didn’t seem to care how badly I got beat up by my brother whenever my daddy’s not around. I decided every time I prayed it’ll be the same prayer. For days I prayed, day and night, the same prayer. Soon after that, whenever I’d reach the field, Jimmy started to meet me at the fence. He would take the water over the gate for me. He would stutter I… I… I know you are scared of Boy, b-b-but I ain’t go-go-going to let him hurt you, OK? All things went well for a while; still I kept on praying.

Chapter 3

Older

Harvest time had rolled around again, and it was said that I had reached the age to take my turn harvesting the crops. This year, I’ll have to pick cotton with the rest of them. The very thought of those green worms, hot sun, and hard work, well, it just plain made me sick. Sometimes, they’d come home at the end of the day from the fields, telling their stories. Things like, Today we killed a snake. Yeah, child, a big un rat at the foot of my row. Oh, Boy stepped on it. Mr. Challie chapped his head off wit’ the ho’. Momma would say, His name is Charley, and the words are chopped his head off with the hoe. Whatever you say, please try and speak with the correct English. Just because we are poor don’t mean we can’t speak correctly. She was always trying to get us to speak the King’s English and not country slang. The pickers would continue after Momma’s interruption, Yes, he did. Thank God for his being there, or my child might be dead. Thinking at the time, the snake should have bitten him. He’s just as mean as a snake. I kept on praying that we would move real soon, anyplace away from this farm. Please, God, if you are not too busy to hear me. Help us to find a new place to live. Where there is no farm work. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I would ask to be excused from the table and leave the room.

Daddy came home on a weekday this time. I was about to take the water into the field. Sister had fixed it for me as always. She’d put two rags around the handles of each bucket. That way, it wouldn’t hurt my hands to carry the pails. Daddy spoke up, This is a hard job for a little girl like you. Let Daddy help you. We started out, side by side, going to the field, with him carrying