BY ZELPHA WILLIAMS-SMITH
The men always ate at the table first. Women and children came last. This is the way it was in my family. Back then, in the 1930s, it sometimes seemed like no one in Alabama ever had enough to eat. My papa owned lots of land in Eclectic and grew wide rows of white cotton, but he barely scratched out a living. I was the 8th child out of ten. My oldest sister was already 24 when I was born. I remember thinking of her as my other mother.
The house where I grew up was built out of wood. There were three rooms and a kitchen. There was no central heat, just fireplaces where we would burn wood in the winter to keep warm. The tin roof that covered the house made it seem cozy especially when we were listening to the rain drumming down. My mother made all of our quilted covers from pieces of fabric she found or clothes that were so torn they weren’t wearable any longer. Three of us children slept in each bed so there wasn’t much room for tossing and turning. Our mattresses were stuffed with corn shucks—the crinkly outer cover of the corncob. Of course, the corncobs were put to good use in the outhouse.
There were always chores to do before dawn so it was a good thing that we went to bed as soon as it got dark outside. We bathed before bedtime in a washtub in the center of the room. Mama would draw water from the well in the backyard and heat it up on the iron stove in the kitchen. She would then pour the water into the washtub and we would take turns scrubbing ourselves off. Needless to say, it was always best to be the first to bathe. The last one to wash got out as quickly as they could because by then the water was uncomfortably cold.
In the morning, we would scurry to get dressed before starting the long walk to school. Mama would make buttermilk biscuits and we would eat them in between searching the barn for eggs the hens had laid the night before.
Often as I left for school, I would run down the road to my grandmother’s house to say good-bye. Unlike anyone else in our family, my grandma, Talitha Boswell, had hair the color of fresh carrots. It fanned out over her back in an orange-red cascade. She was a healer and I loved to listen to her as she laid her hands on someone sick and prayed. She knew herbs and spices and handed down remedies for helping people feel better.
Until my mama became a lunchroom worker, we walked to our one room schoolhouse five miles away. When she started coming along we could take turns riding with her in the mule-drawn wagon. Whatever work needed to be finished at home always came first, though. When the cotton was ready to be picked and placed into big bags, we all stayed home to help. Working the plants wasn’t always easy. There were thorny protrusions all around the thick clumps of cotton and often our fingers were bleeding by the end of the day.
We got one new pair of shoes every year. During the winter months when holes started allowing the wet to come through to the bottom of my feet, I would start lining my shoes with pieces of paper to try to keep the cold out. Of course, as soon as the weather got warm we walked barefooted over the dirt roads and through the back woods and fields.
I loved the springtime. It was then that all of the blackberries, huckleberries and honeysuckle began hanging heavily from the vines. I would eat them until my fingertips were stained and sticky.
Our entire yard was composed of sandy soil. In the summertime, my sisters and brothers and I would make “frog tents” out of the sand by packing the moist rich soil around our feet. When we would slowly draw one foot out of the dirt and then the other, the resulting mound of molded sand would still be standing upright with a small hole in the middle.
During the year, we would sweep the sand in our front yard to keep it free from debris. Mama made brooms from long pieces of straw that she bundled and tied together.
On hot days, she would wear a bonnet to keep the sun from burning her face as she worked out in the garden. Papa always wore his hat whenever he went out anywhere. It was considered to be the most respectable thing that a man might do.
My mama always cooked with lard. The lard was made from the fat from their hogs. She added lard to nearly everything, even green beans and black-eyed peas. Corn bread was served at every meal. One of our favorite treats was taking a big glass of buttermilk and adding cornbread to it. We would eat the cornbread and milk mixture with a spoon.
One day, someone came running down the road to tell my mama that something was really wrong with my beloved Grandma Boswell. We all went down to her house but there was nothing we could do and she died. In the south, people would have wakes whenever someone passed on and it was this way before my grandmother was buried. Her body was laid out in the bedroom and visitors came from wide and far to say their final farewells.
To me, nothing was the same after that. When I was sixteen I moved out and went to work in the cotton mill. I still continued my education in order to finish high school. Getting my diploma was a hard-earned honor. Some of my siblings never even finished junior high.
The Depression had an effect on every part of my life. For this reason, I will always be grateful for what God has given me. I know what it is like to live a life without some of the most basic necessities.
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