GRANNY KILGORE'S BEDROOM by Johnny Kilgore

Photograph of Granny Kilgore

Granny Kilgore lived a simple life up to her death in 1963.  During those last years of her life, she only lived in a small portion of her wood-framed farmhouse.  She resided in one room and prepared meals in another smaller, adjoining room. The reminder of the house was virtually closed off and not used in any way. We are fortunate to have the Kilgore Old Home Place still standing, and hopefully, it can be made livable again someday.

Front Porch Outside Window
off of Granny Kilgore's Bedroom

Granny’s home was built by her dear husband, Virge, our grandfather, and the patriarch of the Kilgore family.  He died on Christmas Day in 1949. There was always children and grandchildren who stayed with Granny upon Papa Kilgore’s death because she was fearful to stay by herself at night.  She lived in the house much like people live in efficiency apartments today.  The bedroom was the primary site of her existence. It was used for a living room during the day, a bedroom by night, and a restroom during the darkest night hours  by pulling out the chamber pot (also called  a “pee pot”) located under her bed. In other words, the space was Granny’s living and sleeping quarters, all in one.  The dimensions of the bedroom was approximately 16 feet by 14 feet (a guess on my part).  My objective in writing  this piece is to describe that living space.

Chamber Pot

Sketch of Granny Kilgore's Bedroom

From the hallway, when standing over the bedroom threshold, the first thing one notices is a large fireplace on the opposite side of the room.  It is so large that it takes up about one-third of the room’s outside wall.  It is made out of large sandstone blocks that Papa Kilgore collected and cemented together to form the  house chimney. When originally built, the fireplace was kept open, and used for both heating the room and cooking the family meals. A simple, extremely wide and long plank, painted dark brown, is used for the mantel.  It shelves an old Victorian style mechanical winding pendulum clock.  The clock sits on a long piece of white scarf cloth much like a runner, and hangs down from the mantel.  The fireplace opening is closed up to accommodate a vent hole for the cast iron wood burning stove that provides heat for the room.  The stove jets out into the room beyond the hearth.  There is a large window on each side of the imposing fireplace.

Old Singer Sewing Machine

Stepping over the threshold through the entrance of Granny’s bedroom, we see immediately to the right and left, two cast iron, whole beds against each wall against both front corners of the room.  One is against the outside wall of the house, and the other is against the wall next to the kitchen. They take up a majority of the room’s space while creating a walking path directly from the door through the middle of the room.  The bed to the left against the outside front wall is Granny Kilgore’s bed.  The bed to the right, next to the kitchen, is for anyone who spends the night with Granny. The grandchildren are the ones who mainly use this bed through the years.

Many times there would be two grandchildren staying the same night at Granny’s house. That one bed  is where both slept.  During their age of innocence, it made little difference if boy cousins and girl cousins shared the same bed for a night’s rest.  There was no such thing as a private personal room for a child during those years.  I remember sleeping in that same bed with my girl cousins’, Joan Spain and Carolyn McKeever.  I also slept in that bed with my brother, Mike many times, which was the same arrangement we had at home.   One of the main reasons the Kilgore Old Home Place means so much to us,  the grandchildren of Papa and Granny Kilgore, may be found in the fact that every cousin who lived in the Nauvoo area  stayed overnight in the same room with Granny Kilgore at some point and time. 

Getting back to our tour, we now stand in the center path of the room, parallel to the foot of both beds while facing the fireplace stove.  We  see a Singer Sewing Machine to our left.  It is located on the same wall as Granny’s bed, but in the opposite corner near the fireplace.  Also, closer to the heater and in front of the sewing machine is a large high-back rocker, dark brown in color, with big arm rests. The seat and the center back is made of leather-like material.  This makes it a comfortable and enjoyable chair for Granny to use as she reads her Bible, sings from her special hymn book, and spends hours watching television. Behind that rocker  and next to the sewing machine is a vanity (not drawn in the room sketch). The black and white, Emerson television is located across the room and to the right of a door that goes into the kitchen.  The T.V. sits on a special table which rotates in order to change the viewing angle of the screen while resting in bed. In the corner, under the window to the right of the fireplace, a low table holds a table radio where Granny tuned in to listen to Joe Rumore's program. 

The walls, floor, and ceiling of the bedroom are of wood.  The  wall’s wide planks are painted an off-white and have small cracks where the planks join. The outside front wall (front porch adjoining) has two long windows covered with lace curtains and shades. The windows on either side of the fireplace also have the same window treatments.  On the bedroom/kitchen wall, beyond the foot of the guest bed, is a door providing access to the small, but modern kitchen (sheet-rock walls, enamel sink, running water, refrigerator, & electric stove). This door has the television on one side of it and the guest bed on the other.  Because the bedroom is divided up by doors and windows, there is very little on the walls, with the exception of a calendar, and maybe, a picture of Uncle Johnny who died at a young age from a motorcycle accident. The floor, painted a dark brown, is made to withstand heavy traffic. To help protect the floor, a large linoleum area rug in floral pattern covers a large portion of the wood surface.  There is a protective metal heat shield base underneath the stove and placed on top of the linoleum to protect it from hot coals and ashes.  The ceiling is ten feet tall, uses tongue and groove planks, and is painted the same color as the walls.  Hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room is a long, electrical chord that ends with a single light socket holding one single exposed fluorescent light bulb having no shade. 

My descriptive tour of that simple small room is complete.  There have been very little changes in that room through the years.  Granny’s bedroom has provided a place for many “precious memories.”  It has provided a place of warmth…love......nurturing….rest….fun….work.  It has provided a place for family and friends.  May it continue to serve as reminder of our heritage.  Much came forth from that one small room.

Kilgore Old Home Place

   

  

YOUTHFUL MEMORIES OF SARAH NOLES KILGORE

November 24, 2013

Youthful Memories of

SARAH NOLES KILGORE

Feb 1883 - Feb 1963

By Ron McKeever  

 On this cold morning, I flipped the light switch for instant light, walked into the hallway to increase the thermostat for instant heat, and headed to the bathroom for instant hot water.  After washing my face, I headed to the kitchen where coffee was instantly brewing and breakfast was being prepared.  Granny Kilgore never enjoyed any of the “instant things” in the first 60 years of her life.  

Grandpa would rise first and build a wood-burning fire in the open fireplace.  He would then light his lantern and make his way to the barn to feed the livestock in preparation for the day's activities.  Granny would build the fire in the wood-burning cookstove to heat water, make the coffee, and prepare the breakfast.  Electricity did not come to the farm until the early 1950’s.  Appliances would come later.  

Since there was no refrigeration, care was taken with the fresh food. Fresh eggs were used soon after being gathered.  The meat preserved in the smokehouse was cut the night before a morning breakfast. Oftentimes, the pork was ground into sausages and canned.  It would be reheated at breakfast time.  Any excess milk was kept cool by lowering it into the well, or occasionally, it was placed in an icebox, if one was owned, after a block of ice was purchased from a peddler passing by.  Another option for keeping milk a couple of days was placing it in a tub full of sawdust.  Chickens were killed the day they were to be eaten.  If the preacher was coming to dinner, guess who got the choice part?  I have scars on my hands to this day from helping Granny and Mom clean chickens.  

  

When washday came around, several tubs of water would have to be drawn by hand from a drilled well. The wash pot had to be scrubbed and filled with water.  Then a fire was built under the pot.  The work clothes were boiled in the wash pot. Other clothing was hand-cleaned on a rub board.  The water in the clothing was wrung out by hand.  The clothes were  either hung on a line or draped over fences and bushes to dry.  

Soap? Now, that's another story.  Occasionally, washing powder would be available, but soap was homemade.  The ashes from the wood-burning fireplace would be collected and water would be allowed to drip through the ashes to produce a lye.  The lye was mixed with older lard that had passed the useful stage and this mixture would be hardened and cut into squares to be used as soap.  This soap not only removed the dirt, it could also remove skin if the mixture was not exactly right.  

Any clothing that needed starch got special treatment.  Starch was made by mixing flour and water.  It might have had another secret ingredient but it was not known to the kids.  

When ironing clothes, a heavy, solid cast-iron metal iron was heated on the fireplace.  To determine if the iron was hot enough, Granny wet her finger and stuck it to the iron.  Some clothes would iron better if they were damp.  A spray bottle consisting of a coke bottle with holes punched into the cap did the job.  

Almost nothing was thrown away.   Clothes were patched and patched again until they finally disintegrated.  Granny Kilgore would make work shirts and under clothing with fertilizer bags that had been washed and rewashed and rewashed to remove the Royster name and number.  Some of the cousins would joke about all our names being Royster and we were 8-8-8 or 4-10-7 or one of the other numbers that designated the strength of the fertilizer.  

Because of the lack of hot water, baths were a luxury, especially in the winter time.  Usually, a wash tub was placed in front of the fireplace, and water was heated on the stove or in the water closet in the cookstove. One bath per week was usually it, and that was on Saturday night.  

On Sunday, everyone went to church, getting there by walking or riding in a mule-drawn wagon. The closest church to Granny and Grandpa’s home was New Oak Grove Freewill Church, also known as Possum Trot.    I have forgotten  if they ever told me if both names applied.  

Granny was afraid of crossing bridges.  Often the mule pulling the wagon would hesitate to cross a one-lane bridge and that made Granny afraid that he would dump the wagon load into the creek.  She usually got off, waited until the wagon crossed, and then got back on.  In 195l, I went with her to spend a week with the Spains in Guntersville.  To those who know that area, the Arab causeway crosses the lake there for about two miles.  She  wanted me to ask the bus driver to let us walk across the causeway rather than ride the bus.  I explained that if he did, we would be left alone on the other side.  

After Grandpa passed on (December 25, 1949), Granny was never left alone at night.  When she got an Emerson television, she had all kinds of volunteers to stay.  Of course, she was in bed 15 minutes after dark, but we could watch through the snow on the round screen and enjoyed every minute of it.  As the years accumulated, she would spend time with her scattered family but always wanted to be at home at bedtime.  She passed away on February 2, 1963 while at Mom's (Lois) house.  Both Mom and Pop died in the same room where Granny left us.  Almost daily, I thank God for the grand heritage of some of the greatest people this old world will ever know. 

YOUTH MEMORIES OF JOHN WESLEY "VIRGE" KILGORE Feb 1880---Dec 1949

by a Grandson of John Wesley "Virge" Kilgore,

Ron McKeever

The McKeever family moved from Nauvoo, where I was born, to the house at the location where the present house now stands in 1936  (the original house burned in 1954).  My first memory of Grandpa was about 1939 when my brother, Glen and I discovered that Grandpa had built a store attached to his house.  He sold the items people couldn't grow on the farm..sugar, salt, baking powder, several kinds of dry goods and candy.  I was 4 and Glen was 3 and Grandpa traded us a piece of candy for each egg we brought him.  We discovered where his hens laid their eggs so we were kept in candy.  Mom told us later that he knew what we were doing but it suited him fine.  

I remember stumbling through the fields to carry Grandpa water when I was 6 years old.  I recall feeding the ears of corn into the sheller so he could go to Iver Prestridge’s mill to have the corn ground into meal.  In 194l, Pop began to work regularly at the coal mines near Nauvoo, and he had to walk 5 miles from the farm , work 8 or 10 hours, and walk back to the farm.  For that reason,  we moved to the No. 2 Brookside-Pratt mines.  Because Grandpa grew more than was needed on the farm, he sold veggies and fruit to the coal miners.  He would come by our house, load up Glen and me, and away we would go.  Grandpa drove the mule and wagon and our job was to go from house to house, selling anything he had on the wagon.  Oftentimes, he would have milk, butter and maybe, a couple of roosters.  Two or three years later, he traded up to a pickup truck,  so now we traveled in style.  We would work the coal mines and then go to Nauvoo and sell any excess.  The only drawback was that Grandpa chewed tobacco and we were teenagers before we found out the spots on us weren't freckles.  

On weekends during the summer, we often walked the 5 miles back to the farmhouse to spend the week with Grandpa and Granny and all the cousins that would pile in.  The Chadwicks  (Ruby Kilgore Chadwick, 4th child of Papa Virge & married to  Johnny Chadwick) lived in the old place a couple of years, and then the Spains (Ruth Kilgore Spain, 7th child of Papa Virge & married to Ted Spain)  lived there for several years, so we always had loads of cousins to visit with.  It seemed that every Sunday was a reunion with other family members coming to visit.  Grandpa was a hard worker.  He coal-mined, drilled wells, farmed, did blacksmith work, and anything else he could do to support his family.  He traded, bought cattle and sold them, and even did a little real estate.  Mom told how he was plowing in the field one day in the early '40's and someone came by wanting to sell 40 acres of land. Grandpa gave the man a double-eagle ($20) gold coin in payment for the 40 acres. It was 2 or 3 weeks later before they ever recorded the transaction.  

The mines at Nauvoo closed in 1947 and Pop (Carl McKeever) found work in Affinity, West Virginia.  That meant moving.  We came home on vacations in 1948 and 1949.  Mom (Lois Kilgore McKeever) told us after Grandpa passed that he hated to lose his 'boys' because we were of some help to him.  The last memory I have of him is his reading his Bible by a kerosene lamp, sitting in a rocker by the fireplace.  Living so far away, Mom was the only one able to come home for his funeral.  Almost every snapshot I have of him, he was at Possum Trot Church (present-day New Oak Grove).  Mom told us that there tons of flowers at his funeral because everyone knew and respected him.  What a legacy ! 

THE SUN SETS ON THE KILGORE OLD PLACE ONLY TO RISE AGAIN

Life is very busy for those raised on a farm. Whether tending a large amount of acreage. or a small track of land, there are always things that cry out for constant devotion and attention.  It becomes a ritual following the demands of the land--a covenant between man and the soil he cultivates, nurtures, and oversees. Early morning awakenings....a big breakfast on the table...chores carried out...a long, long day of work.   Each day repeated.

In early spring the soil is prepared for planting.  By mid-summer the crops are pointing upwards to the sky, drawn by the warmth of the sunlight.  Life is good.  Work continues.  Hoeing the crops is a necessary activity in order to weed out any unnecessary plants, allowing the crops to grow tall and produce as they should.  Harvesting the produce and properly storing it for future us are both carried out with special care and attention.  Various crops are ready for picking at different times of the year.  Peas, butter beans, okra, potatoes (both sweet and Irish), onions, cucumbers, and squash have their time, as well as peanuts and watermelons.  Apples are ripe on the trees.  Picking apples, cutting apples, and preparing apples for consumption encompasses the whole family.  The pigs are fed the scraps--apple cores and apple peelings.

There is early corn and late corn.  There is corn for human consumption, and another for animal feed.  The crops and animals are dependent on each other, and the family’s existence is supported by both. There is always activity.  Yet, more important is the faith required and acknowledged.  It is vital to this way of life.

Though, there is  little time for recreation and entertainment,  when Sunday comes there is a needed break in the weekly routine.  Time is set aside for going to church.  But even on the Lord’s Day, there are chores carried out before leaving home. Allowing time for duties to be performed, the church service purposely begins at 11:00 A.M.    Animals are fed.  Eggs are gathered.  Cows milked.  Then everyone gets ready for the journey ahead.  Everyone wears their “Sunday best.”   

It is recognized that Sunday is a day of rest just like the Good Book admonishes.  It is part of life’s cycle--work during the week and rest on Sunday.  Sunday’s rest is certainly a change of routine, but it is not totally restful.  Nor does  Sunday’s rest  indicate any type of laziness.  Meals are needed.  There are mouths to be fed.  Guest are invited for a Sunday meal.  Maybe even the preacher!  The stove is heated up,  ready to cook a wonderful spread.  There is always food on the table.

After a big Sunday meal, children play in the yard.

 Life is simple, but  hard.  Life is rewarding, yet a struggle.  Life’s duties start with the rising of the sun.  Rest comes with the setting of the sun.  So is life on the Kilgore farm--a place establishing memories of family-- sweat and tears-- planting and sowing-- working and rest--joys and grief--life and death.  There is a time and a season for it all.

“There is an occasion for everything, and a time for every activity under heaven;

a time to give birth and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to tear down and a time to build;

a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance;

a time to throw stones and a time to gather stones; 

a time to embrace and a time to avoid embracing;

a time to search and a time to count as lost; 

a time to keep and a time to throw away;

a time to tear and a time to sew; a time to be silent and a time to speak;

a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace.”

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

“THE SUN RISES  AND THE SUN SETS; PANTING, IT RETURNS TO ITS PLACE WHERE IT RISES.” Ecclesiastes 1:5

      

REFLECTION ON MY RETIREMENT, 2011

Two years ago, on August 31, 2011, I retired. I know many of my first cousins have also retired, and I’m sure there are stories that accompany all those retirements.  I would like to take this time to share a little about my work and retirement.  This site was established with a purpose of presenting stories that focus on the family (cousins, aunts, uncles, and parents). But I’m running out of ideas, and therefore I came up with the idea to write something about me. I hope you don’t mind. 

I had served Ridgecrest Baptist Church in the Birmingham, Alabama area for 30 years when I retired.  I almost wrote 30 “long” years, but in truth, it was 30 short years.  Whether viewed as short or long, during that duration, I saw many changes occur in the church and in our family.

My job title changed over time.  My initial title was Minister of Music.  I was both ordained and licensed into the Gospel Ministry by the First Baptist Church of Wetumpka, Alabama, the church I served for almost nine years, prior to coming to Birmingham.  When I came to Ridgecrest in  August of 1981, I cherished that title of Minister of Music even more because it did not have attached to it the words, “and Youth”. At Wetumpka First Baptist, I had served these dual positions, Though I enjoyed working with young people and saw many wonderful things happen in their lives under my ministry,  music was my first love and my calling.

My responsibilities at this much larger city church involved leading or overseeing multiple choirs from preschool- age through senior adult- age,  planning and leading the music in the three worship services each week, and ministerial duties such as hospital visiting and personal home visits. We had a choir for each school grade in the children’s division.  Our youth choir approached 100 participants at one point, and our adult choir sang from 80 to 90 people.  Over time as Minister of Music, I saw the children’s choirs move to combining some grades into a younger children’s choir with first through third graders, and an older children’s choir with fourth through sixth graders .  Our youth choir divided eventually into Junior High Choir and Senior High Choir.  My title also eventually changed to “Associate Pastor” to reflect the responsibilities the church expected of me.  

 The “Associate Pastor” title remained during the rest of my tenure at Ridgecrest, but additional descriptions were added, such as “Associate Pastor of Family Ministries in Music,”  and my last designation being  “Associate Pastor of Music and Senior Adults.”   During all these title changes, I worked beside four different pastors, two interim pastors, and I even acquired another title for a short time-- “co-interim pastor” during one phase of our church’s life.

In viewing my long tenure at one church, I easily am reminded of many people who have already gone home to be with the Lord.  Many were active and contributed a major part in the life of the church and in my personal life during those earlier years.  Lists are dangerous. Someone may be overlooked unintentionally.  But I would like  to mention some special people at this point who contributed much to Ridgecrest in those earlier years--names who many present members would not know or remember, and certainly the readers of the blog would not know. But in honor of all these did in support of their church, and in support of the things I tried to do, I fondly remember:   

Dot and James Bailey, Leila Banks,  Ollie Mae Blackwood, Elvy and Clestelle Brakefield, Maude and Hershel Bryan,  Johnny and Mary Burfield, Louis and Corky Camp, Zelda Carson, Patty Cooper, Virginia and James Davidson, Madge Fisher, John Franks, Grady and Kitty Gallops,  Everett and Lalia Grizzle,  Ruth Halbrooks, Franklin and Roberta Jones, Carlo and Olivia Martin, David McBrayer, Sarah Moon, Harold and Mildred Moore, Al and Billie Pearce, Curtis and Mozelle McPherson, Manuel and Willie Murray, Jim and Lazetta Nuss, Mr. W. A. Parker,  Beth Ramsey, Billy and Thelma Reid, Joyce Reynolds, Clyde Lee and Huey Sewell, Jane and J. L. Sivley, Margaret Sorrell,  Imogene and H. D. Storie, Pruda Tanner, Bill and Dot Thrasher, Billie Tucker,  Bob and Dean Tucker,  Glenice and Melvin Van Dyke, Katie and Julius Waites, Vertice Wood, Edith and Julian Yarborough,  and the list could go on, and on, and on...........

I must take this time to mention one pastor with whom I worked for more than 16 years, and that is Dr. James M. Castleberry, better know as Brother Mickey.  I worked with Mickey at First Baptist of Wetumpka for almost nine years. When he was called to Ridgecrest in Birmingham, I soon followed.  Those were very active and productive years. Our children grew up together. We became as much friends as we were co-workers in our church. Mickey passed away at too early an age.

But getting back to the changes. My children grew up and left home to go to college and then on out into the world, people left the community to move to the neighboring counties,  and the church transitioned from being a large church to being a mid-size congregation. With the changes in the make-up of the church, decisions had to be made which were both painful and difficult.   Relocation meant moving from a large facility, with a 2000-seat auditorium,  located in the Huffman area of the city, to a small transitional facility on 3rd Street in the Center Point area.  Then the permanent move was made to a converted warehouse on Highway 11 in Trussville, Alabama, where the church presently meets. The move has allowed the church to reach a new area of people, and there is growth in the church again.

Sanctuary Photograph of the church facility
which was sold to a up and coming congregation

In looking back at the journey, I must say that God’s hand was upon my family and me, and also upon our church.  There were joys mixed with tragedies, celebrations mixed with the daily grind, and hope always overshadowing despair.  

Since retirement, time has moved even faster.  I have devoted my time to writing this blog, keeping up with the Kilgore Cousins group Facebook site, overseeing different projects for my mother’s home, overseeing as well as doing much of the work in the remodeling of the kitchen in our home, leading the music in different churches around the state when asked to supply, and then since January of this year, serving as interim Minister of Music at a small area church, Central Baptist Church, in Argo.  Also since January of this year, I have resumed something I have always loved, reading mystery novels, and in so doing, I have discovered some authors unknown to me.  Of course, there is always yard work, which I’m very poor in doing, and other small tasks to perform around the house.

I share all this to say this.  As we get older, and life brings changes, our attitude and flexibility in response to those changes are so very important.  I have a full and happy life. “For I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.” (Philippians 4:ll)  I wish the same for all my kin. 

        

Family photograph at my
retirement reception held August 27, 2011 at
Ridgecrest Baptist Church
in Trussville, AL
(from left to right: John Mac, Johnny, Pat, and Lee Beth)

My reception cake made by Dee Dodd.
She is an unbelievable cake decorator.
There were hundreds at the reception
forming a long line out the door.

FIRST GRADE EXPERIENCES OF JOHNNIE KILGORE

PREFACE

I wish to thank my wife, Pat Colvin Kilgore for assisting me in this article with her editing skills.  I  typed down my thoughts as they came to me, resulting in a  somewhat rambling storyline.  With my wife’s input, you, the reader, reap the benefit of a more coherent treatise.  I trust that this story will bring to mind other stories from those of you who also attended Poplar Springs Grammar School.  Those were the days!

THE BEGINNING 

May, 1952

WeekThirty-Five--Last Day of School 

Riding the School Bus to School

    I had begun my school years at Poplar Springs Grammar School...a rural two-room school housed in a white building, eight miles south of Double Springs and less than a mile off Alabama highway 195, near the Prestridge grocery store. Now I had come to the end of my very first year of school.  How special and wonderfully exciting the last day of school was for me.  I was a happy child because  of my promotion to the second grade for the next school year. But for  the immediate time, I was elated about the end-of-year school picnic.  

     The picnic was an  off- campus outdoor event in and around some tall bluffs on private land in the woods near Clear Creek. I had never been there before, but it made little difference to me. I knew that it was a grand place by the description given by my first grade teacher, Mrs. Johnson.  It sounded like a magical place one only experienced through the imagination of make-believe books and in those books, sometimes illustrated to aid a child’s imagination. 

     Riding the school bus from my home to Poplar Springs Grammar School was especially exciting on this last day of my first grade year because my mother permitted me to wear my new dungaree overalls, which she had recently purchased.  This permission was granted  with the stipulation that I should not get them dirty.  Daddy backed up the request with the promise of spanking me if they did get all messed up.  I was so happy that my parents had agreed to my wearing my new clothes that I did not understand the seriousness of the responsibility I was assuming.  However,  I was soon to find out.  

     But this final day of my first year of school was a  grand day for me, riding along on the bus, anticipating the joy and fun of  the picnic, imagining what the place would look like, and really thinking back over the  year and remembering all the new experiences that had become part of my young life.

          * * * * *

  

Mid-August, 1951

Week One--First Day of School

First Grade Enrollment

     On the first day of my first grade experience, I did not ride a school bus.  Because I needed the security and assurance of my parents,  I entered that little school room  accompanied by my mother.  She held my hand as we stood near the entrance of the room with other parents and their children.  The teacher, Mrs. Johnson, met each parent and child individually. Then she assigned each child their place around a table on the far side of the room, while parents filled out the necessary information for enrollment. Mother and I were the last ones to meet the teacher.  When Mrs. Johnson pointed to my assigned place at the table, I didn’t want to leave my mother’s side.  My diffidence was magnified by the unknown and the uncertainty of it all.  

      After some prodding from my mother,  I went with the teacher to the rectangular table where all the other first graders, all strangers to me, were seated.  As I sat down, I saw that the other students were printing their names.  After insistence from the teacher, I acquiesced to taking out my pencil and school tablet.  As I was watching what those around me were doing, and then trying to do the same,  my mother slowly left the room.

     I did not notice her absence at first, but it wasn’t long before I realized she was not around.  I felt alone and trapped. Then a sense of self-conscious failure enveloped me because I could not print my name.  I looked at the papers of the children sitting next to me, which did not  help at all.  I did not know how to spell J O H N N I E.  I felt inadequate and certainly unprepared for first grade.  

     As a diversion,  my eyes wandered around the room itself.  On the opposite end  from where I sat, there was a long  and tall blackboard across the entire wall overlooking “Little House on the Prairie” -style desks. The single school desks were for the second and third grade students, since three different grades met in that one single room.    Everything in the room appeared to be dark, both in color and in atmosphere.  The ceiling was unusually high, and the front exterior wall was interrupted with high glass windows. The floor--dark brown wood,  oily and soiled-- converged with the natural wood walls. The room was filled with children, none of whom I knew except for my first cousins who attended the school. It was certainly evident that I was beginning a new, and on that day an intimidating,  journey  called “school.”

          * * * * *

August, 1951- May, 1952

Week One  thru Week Thirty-Five Overview

First Grade Experience

     Mr. Johnson was the principal of the school and taught the older children in grades 4, 5, and 6.  These older grades met in a room on one end of the facility, which was divided by a center entrance foyer that had big double doors at the front main entrance way.  Mr. Johnson was called “Red” Johnson because he had red hair.  Though that may not be true, it was the reason I thought he was called “Red”.  He was tall and slender, and was definitely the man in charge---a strict disciplinarian with a stern and expressionless face. 

                                                                                                                          

 

     His wife was my teacher. Some students called her “Pug Nose” Johnson behind her back 

because her appearance had that kind of unfortunate facial look, much like a bulldog. Her 
appearance looked as if her face, with it’s rather flat nose, may have been a result of some medical issues that had resulted in nose cartilage removal.  Children know little of those things, and I was only six when I first met Mrs. Johnson.  

     In contrast to her appearance, she was kind and caring.  At the same time, she had a major task  teaching grades 1, 2, and 3 at the same time.  We all required much more individual attention than the older students who met across the hall.  The way Mrs. Johnson handled the different levels was by assigning practice problems to two grades, much like homework,  while the remaining grade received instruction.  Also, many times, Mrs. Johnson encouraged and selected a fast learning student to help those children who had difficulty learning a particular lesson.

     I soon acclimated myself to the first grade, and all the things first graders did at the Poplar Springs Grammar School--learning the letters of the alphabet, learning the meaning and use of simple numbers, and reading from the beginner “Dick and Jane” books.  I was one who required assistance from both the teacher and the faster learning student.  One such student helper was my classmate, Deloria Pope,  who sat next to me and assisted me when I needed help. Deloria was a very close school friend for all my twelve years of grade school.

     For the most part, my months in the first grade were uneventful.  It was the daily grind of getting up early, riding the bus to school, learning  the required lessons,  enjoying recess, eating my sack lunch, resting and napping in the afternoon, doing homework, and then riding the school bus back home. After a long, monotonous day, the school bus ride home was a time of letting loose.  I would always sit in the back of the bus with my cousins.  Being older than I, they would put me up to doing things that usually resulted in my getting into trouble. My name was called  by the bus driver, Mr. Wilson,  many times, which resulted in my having to move to the front of the bus to sit in the seat immediately behind the bus driver.

          * * * * *

October, 1951

Week Nine-- A Special Evening at School

First Grade Highlight--The Box Supper 

     

     I acclimatized socially to the school routine and expectations very quickly,  and by the time the first few months of school had passed, I had a special girlfriend who had caught my eye, as well as my heart.  Her name was Pat Young. To me, she was the most beautiful girl in the world, especially in my world--big brown eyes, long black hair, a fair complexion, and an infectious smile.  She was one grade ahead of me because her birthday fell before the cutoff day, while my December birthday fell after the date.  This girl who had  stolen my heart also liked me  in a very special way.  This was a strange new experience for me as a young boy, but one I experienced thereafter, many times.  Our mutual attraction and “puppy love” relationship was demonstrated especially at the school’s annual Fall Festival. 

    The Fall Festival was held at night for the entire community.  It’s  purpose was to raise money to aid in the financial needs of the school, as well as raising community morale and pride for the school.  It was a festival in every sense of the word, with different fun-filled activities -- cake walk, bingo, bobbing for apples, fishing booth, musical chairs, and more.  The little two- room school was buzzing with activity. The festival was well attended by both parents and children. The selling of tickets for each activity also made it a very  successful event financially  for the school.  

     The evening was topped off with a box supper, the main money raiser.   Much thought and work went into the box supper.  Boxes, decorated in all kinds of fancy paper and ribbon, would be on display and given a number. Everyone would have time to look the boxes over and choose the one that caught the eye most. At the appointed time in the evening, all in attendance would bid for the box they wanted.  This was done without knowing who brought the box and made the food which the box held.  All boxes were prepared by the parents of girl students, and contained a full home -cooked meal inside. There would be a bidding war among the parents of the boy students for the  box they wished to purchase,  usually based on the appearance of the box.  The boy whose parent won the bid, got to eat with the girl who held the corresponding number to the box.

     With great excitement,  I enjoyed the entire box supper experience--the beauty of the boxes, the excitement and zeal when bidding on the boxes, and the anticipation of winning the bid on  a specific desirable box. The whole procedure was done with great speed. 

     The auctioneer began with a suggested bid after describing and promoting each box in flowery detail.  

     “Let’s start the bid on this beautiful red and white box--box number one. Let’s say a dollar to start the bid.” 

     From the floor, “One dollar.”

     “ Do I hear two dollars?”  

.  “I have two, can I hear three?”

     Everyone was tightly squeezed into this one small room-- standing room only-- while one gentleman said, “Three dollars!!”

     “How ‘bout five dollars?”

     The bidding continued.

     “Six dollars!”

     ”Eight dollars!”

     “Do I hear nine dollars?” No one responded. 

     “Going once, going twice, sold for eight dollars.”

     Then the person who won box number one came up to the front of the room and paid out the eight dollars, got the box, and at the same time, found out who prepared the box. In numerical order each box would come up for bid as parents from all around the room  raised the bid until the final bid purchased the box. As each box was sold, the two students, one a girl and one a boy, would sit down together in the room next door designated for eating the boxed meal, with the boy opening the box to feast on the food he shared with the girl whose box he had won. Oh, so much fun all away around!  But what I loved most was getting to be with my girlfriend, Pat Young. 

     Although I wasn’t supposed to know, my girlfriend would always tell me which box was hers before the bidding, and I in turn  would tell my daddy.  Daddy would always win the bid.   Pat’s mother was an excellent cook. The box usually contained fried chicken along with other offerings like potato salad and chocolate cake.   I truly felt like I was on top of the world --a winner in every way. There was something special about my daddy putting out more money than anyone else in that crowded room in order for me to have a meal with my girlfriend.  In my child’s mind, I thought it was just for me, but as I got older,  I realized that it was for the school as well. But for me, the box supper made lasting memories of my first special girlfriend.

          * * * * *

Mid-May, 1952

Week Thirty-Five--Last Day of School 

End-of-Year Picnic Disaster

     

      As I rode the bus this last day of my first year of school,  remembrances of the  year resulted in a personal childlike appreciation and satisfaction for having passed the first grade.  It had been difficult at times, but I had made it through. I had experienced difficulties in the long nine months of school, but I also had some new friends, and I had learned to spell and print my name. These were big things for me on that final day of the school year.   No more daily grind.  No more books.  Just report cards.  And today, just  fun.  I was so proud to be wearing my new deep blue overalls for the first time at  the school’s end-of-year picnic.  The only concern I had was trying to  keep them from getting dirty.  

     Once the bus had delivered us to the school, we had to wait for an hour or so for some of the parents to come  to transport us to the location for the picnic.  The parents also served as our chaperones, as well as providing and cooking the food as planned by our teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.   

     When we arrived at our picnic destination, the setting was just as I pictured it would be, but even more so in its beauty.  The bluffs were enormous and did seem to be magical -- tall overhanging rocks, acting as an umbrella over the  space underneath where active children could run and climb and jump about.  It was an open cave-like shelter surrounded by trees of oak, fir, hickory, and cowcumber,  as well as huckleberry bushes and clinging vines. The black, moist dirt floor had little growth because of the lack of sunlight, but held passageways, carpeted with ferns, mosses, and decaying logs covered with  greenish-gray lichens and brownish white mushrooms. There were  boulders scattered around in various sizes, and a small trickling stream of water.  The water divided the space somewhat down the middle, paralleling the large rock formation overhang, running in the center of the open cavern at its lowest point, and creating a muddy and slippery area to cross.  On the front upper end where forest and bluff meet, an area had been set aside for a campfire and food preparation-- a wiener roast with all the trimmings. 

     While the food was being prepared, we all had free rein to roam about, climb up the 

boulders, and play hide and seek.  At the same time, I was mindful that I had to keep my new overalls clean.  I was diligent in trying to doing so.  Eventually, we heard the school bell ring, indicating it was time to eat.  Everyone stopped what they were doing, and ran like ants from all corners up the hill towards the food.  I didn’t want to be last, so I followed suit, and ran as fast as I could.  Not paying attention to my steps, as I got to the small stream, I lost my footing,  slipped, and fell.   

     The worst that could happen did happen.  There was mud all over my face, hands, and feet.  But worst of all,  my brand new overalls were covered from top to bottom with mud.  I was in tears.  And those tears were amplified by the fear of what awaited me when I get home. I was going to get exactly what was promised me. 

     Some adult chaperones came to my aid, and cleaned me up as best they could.  There was no way they could get all that mud out of my overalls. The mud dried in my hair, and on my clothes. The rest of the day, I was in misery.  When the school bus came to pick us up to carry us home, the bus driver asked me what happened to me. I was embarrassed to tell him. Some of the older students made fun of me.  I just clammed up and sat down  in a seat all by myself.  I was deeply upset, my head looking down toward the floor.  My stomach was all in knots.  One of my girl cousins came up to me, sat down beside me, and attempted to comfort me.  I withdrew into my emotional shell. Although the ride home was only a few miles away, it was as if time had stood still, and eternity had begun  with me in my own personal hell.  All in one day, I went from elation to despair, from joy to pain, from peace to inner turmoil, from self-consciousness to fear, and from laughter to reticence. Resolution awaited me.  

     When I got home, it wasn’t as bad as I imagined it would be. Not at all. My parents were wonderfully understanding, cleaned me up, and took my brand new overalls off me to be washed.  Mother’s pleasing and reasurring voice calmed me down. There was no spanking, just love. What a day to remember, to be etched in my mind forever--an emotional roller coaster.  So went the final day of my year in first grade at Poplar Springs Grammar School.

     I was greatly influenced and guided in that first year by new friends, older cousins, my teacher,  and by circumstances and lessons learned.  But most of all, I was especially influenced by the wisdom of my parents, who supported me on that first day of school and who loved and forgave me on that last day.  I was enriched by the experiences I’ve share with you, and they helped me, as a sensitive seven year old boy, to be astute to the growing pains of childhood.  And the first grade was only the beginning.

EPILOGUE

     
     In the first grade, I spelled my given name with an "I - E", hence, the reason for the spelling in the title of this post.  I changed the spelling to J - O - H - N - N - Y sometime after attending Double Springs Elementary School, and officially changed the spelling on my birth certificate when I applied for my driver's permit at 15 years old.
     The Poplar Springs' school building is presently privately owned, and is in better condition right now than it has ever been.  In the 50's the school grounds served as our playground--dirt and gravel as the surface.  There was no indoor restroom.  Instead, we walked around a circular path to an outhouse. Also, I failed to mention that in each room there was a pot belly stove for heating.  As I stated in the Preface, "those were the days."
     Because of my slow start in school and the setting in which I found myself, I was just an average student.  It wasn't until the fourth grade, with the motivation and insight of Mrs. Blake of Double Springs Elementary School, did I begin to excel as a student.   

A STRANGER PASSED BY by Johnny W. Kilgore

                                                                                       Preface

The following story is based on actual happenings. Little Johnie is yours truly, whose name is now spelled  J  - O  - H -  N -  N -  Y. The dialogue is presented to move the story forward. But in no way do I remember everything  as presented in the story. Also, many things are presented as a little child would view them, and may, or may not, be the way things were in reality.  This is part of my personal historical memory when I was very young. 

I appreciate those days as a child, and the special people who were a part of my life.  My life was made rich because of the loved ones mentioned in this blog post, as well as from those in my larger, extended family who are not mentioned here.     

In a recent reading of the mystery book entitled, Citizen Vince, written by Jess Walter, and published by Harper Collins, Regan Books, there is a quote found on page 91 which I noted on a scratch pad because it resonated with me.  It reads, “Being able to remember--that is what makes a people.”  It is my desire that this short story will help to “make a people” as we journey together through the memories and emotions of a sensitive, young boy.

                                              

Time: Second Week of September, 1951

Place: Granny Kilgore’s House

Fearful Sighting of a Stranger 

       It was one of those early September days when the sky is blue, the sun brilliant, and visibility nearly perfect. In the early morning, a 6 year old boy, three months shy of being 7 years old, sat perched on his grandmother’s front porch. 

     His grandmother was a tall lady who was fearful of many things-- being by herself,  living alone, hearing and experiencing storms with thunder and lightning, crossing bridges, and seeing snakes. She was a woman with conservative views of what a good Christian lady should look like in her appearance--- no makeup, long hair concealed styled into a bun on top of the head,  and plain dresses which covered the arms and extended to the ankles.  The legs were usually protected by heavy, brown nylon stockings.  She was a farmer’s wife, and she looked the part. She was also a “stay at home” granny. 

     Granny’s home had been a house filled with children since the early days of the 1920’s and 30’s.  Granny had reared nine living children in that small framed farmhouse, constructed from heart pine--plain and rustic.  It was built by her husband, John Wesley Kilgore, better known as Virge.  The day of his death was Christmas day, 1949. Granny had not been left alone at night since then.  Some of her children lived with her, or came and stayed overnight with her during the grieving period. The support she had was ever present in order for her not to be alone.  Her grandchildren were also involved in keeping Granny company.  

     Johnie was one of her grandchildren, among many grandchildren, a small boy with big brown eyes and dark brown hair, who stood on her porch, looking down a curvy country road.  Normally, he would be attending school which began the middle of August.  Although the school year had commenced a short two weeks earlier, it was already time for the annual fall break.  A school break of two weeks was set aside in Winston County each fall so that children might help with the harvesting of the cotton on the farms. For children who did not live on farms, or who did not have family or friends to help with the cotton, this was a little vacation each fall.  During this break time, Johnie was visiting with his grandmother who lived across the hollow from his parents, and whose ancestral home sat beside the main road--the road where his eyes were now keenly fixed. 

     During this particular early morning visit, something, or someone, caught little Johnie’s eye, as he stared down the dirt road covered with red rock. The road connects the communities of Poplar Springs and Nauvoo in rural, northwest Alabama-- the only artery to anywhere in that area. There was a sense of uneasiness that captured his thoughts because of what, or who, Johnie saw coming his way, trekking on the edge of the road.  It was possibly an insidious culprit approaching the porch where he stood.  But who could it be?  There was definitely someone walking toward Granny’s place. Someone he didn’t know. A stranger.  

     Johnie was not alone in wondering who was coming his way.  There was also his younger brother, Mike, and his cousins, Carolyn and Charlie, on their grandmother’s front porch that day, collectively taking notice, and wondering who it might be walking toward them. There was only  five years age difference between Carolyn, the oldest,  and Mike, the youngest, with Johnie and Charlie in between. Their squirmishness was likely due to their ages, and maybe, more so, due to what the four saw with eagle eye-- an unknown man walking on the edge of the road, coming closer and closer by the minute.  Soundlessly, the stranger was walking toward them, heightening their fear. They didn’t know who he might be, and what he might do. 

     Johnie and Charlie stood on the edge of the highly elevated porch while Mike opened the screen door to go back into the house, frightened by the thought of a bogey man coming to get him. However, Granny sent little Mike back out to play with his brother and cousins.  Although there was a sense of fear that overtook the children, Charlie knew there was safety in numbers, and displayed an air of toughness often common to his demeanor.  

     Defensively, the children decided to ignore the man approaching them, as they continued their play time.  The large swing seemed to swallow little Mike, as he pulled and crawled up into it.  He waited for someone to propel him back and forth because his legs were too short to push off unassisted.  
     Since no one stepped forward, Mike began begging repeatedly in his childish voice, “Help me swing. Someone help me swing. I need someone to push me off.” 
     Carolyn, being the only girl, as well as the oldest in the group, responds as a mother would to Mike’s plea.  “I’ll swing you.  Stop your whining now.  Besides, I don’t have anything better to do.” 

     The swing was located near one end of the porch, and Carolyn stood behind it, anticipating the return of the swing as she pushed it in rhythm back and forth.The activity aided in easing some of the discomfort because of the stranger’s suspicious approach. Charlie and Johnie continued to stare down the road as they speculated on who it might be. The stranger was just a speck when they had first noticed him, but as he drew near, ever so near, they saw a weathered old man, hat on his head, and cane in his hand.  Could it be Claude Green?  All the children-- Mike in the swing, Carolyn behind the swing, and Charlie and Johnie on the porch’s edge--were looking askance. It might be Claude Green! That possibility bothered them greatly, and an emotional fear swells within them all.  

                                                                      *   *   *

Time: Week prior, First Week of September, 1951

Place: Rural Nauvoo Community 

Murder of Mrs. Boshell

                                                         

     A fear had swept the entire community since Saturday, September 8,1951, a week before the children were gathered on the porch.  Mrs. Ada Boshell, age 77 years old, had been brutally murdered in the early morning hours.  Her bloody, tortured body was found lying on the floor near the front door of her home, a mile up the road from Granny Kilgore’s house.  Claude Green, alias Cotton Green, a known alcoholic, was the culprit who had been seen in the vicinity during the time of the hideous crime.  He was at large now, hiding in the woods where no one in the area could find him.  

     The murder of Mrs. Boshell overshadowed the community like a dark, heavy lingering summer storm.  Unlike a storm though, the murdering effect was not going to “pass over” or “play out.”   Instead, it was fresh in the hearts and conversations of the citizenry.  The horrendous crime was more like a tornado passing through.  Because of all the nefarious events which surrounded the tragedy, a communal sense of security and safety had been replaced with a sense of fear, resulting in a haunting silence.  The world of crime and evil had invaded the community of religiously good folks who lived there. 

     For the most part, the children were left in the dark concerning the mysterious death of Mrs. Boshell.  All they knew was one basis fact according to the consensus of the community-- Claude Green did it.  In such a short time, his name had become the designated name given to the bogeyman when parents wished to entice their children to behave. (*See postscript)

                                                                        *   *   *

                                                                          

Time: Two Years Prior--Late Fall, 1949

Place: Cecil Kilgore Home

Meeting Mrs. Boshell

     Mrs. Boshell was a neighbor of the Kilgore family--Cecil and Beatrice, and children, Johnie, the oldest,  Mike, the middle child, and Becky, the baby.  Although Mrs. Boshell lived nearby, less than a mile away, Johnie remembers only meeting her on one occasion.  The encounter occurred two years prior when he was around 5 years old.  Except for that one occasion, Johnie’s world and Mrs. Boshell’s did not intersect. His knowledge of Mrs. Boshell before that encounter was in context of adult conversations he had overheard.  In those conversations, she was portrayed as an eccentric old lady, both strange  and mysterious-- different from others.   

     Little Johnie’s singular meeting with Mrs. Boshell  seemed to vividly support what he had overheard. It was a cold, late fall evening, normal in every way, when he heard a knock at the backdoor of their small four room house, located off the beaten path for anyone--especially someone visiting at night.  His younger brother, Mike, was in the front room playing, and his baby sister, Becky, was asleep. It was unusual for someone  to knock at the backdoor, and not the front.  Even more so, it was unusual for someone to knock on any door after dark. It was usually a sign for concern. 

     Johnie’s father entered the small kitchen, where the source of heat-- a wood burning, pot belly stove, was located. The backdoor, where the knock came from, was the entrance to an enclosed tiny back porch. It was of minuscule size and dimensions--barely enough room for one person to move around in. Besides being an entrance way, there was  an enclosed well, the family’s source of water, in the floor of the enclosed porch.  A well bucket, a long slender, cylinder connected to a metal chain used for drawing the water, stood nearby, hanging on a nail from the wall.  The two spaces-- porch and kitchen, were so small, they were as one.

     Johnie called out, “Mother! Daddy!  There is someone at the backdoor.”  

     Hesitantly, Johnie’s mother answered the door, and there stood Mrs. Boshell, in the cold, damp wintery night on the backdoor steps.  By that time, Johnie’s father, Cecil, came into the room. 

     Mrs. Boshell begged in a shivering voice, “Can I come in and warm up a bit?  I’ve been on foot all day, and I’m rather chilled to the bone. I thought I could make it home before dark, but as you see, I was wrong.”  

     Johnie’s father, recognizing the need,  said, “Sure, Mrs. Boshell.  Come on in and warm yourself.”As Mrs. Boshell slowly entered the kitchen, Johnie's mother quickly asked Mrs. Boshell why she was out so late. 
     She replied, “Walked too far today selling stuff. Night came upon me sooner than I expected.  Since you were close by, I reckoned you might let me warm up a bit. Anyway, I was wondering if you would be interested in buying something from me to help me out.”   She stood next to the stove with her hands so close to the stove top that her damp gloves were steaming from the heat.   

     Cecil said with a firm voice, “ I don’t think so, Mrs. Boshell, but you’re welcome  to warm yourself up.  Johnie, go outside and fetch more wood to fire up the stove. It’s a clear night, and the moon should provide enough light to see.”  

     Johnie looked at the old leathery, skinned lady with her hair loosely pinned up....stringy, coarse hair, with mixed colors of gray, white, and yellow.  In his eyes, the lady with a wry smile, standing before him, looked like a witch as depicted in fairy tale books.  Johnie went outside to the wood pile as his daddy commanded. Lazily, he gathered all the wood he could hold in his arms.  He started back into the house, only to see an animal grazing nearby.  He was frightened by the unexpected sight of the animal, prompting him to scurry into the house with only part of the stove wood he had gathered, while the remaining wood fell to the ground. 

     Mrs. Boshell, a peddler who walked about from house to house selling her wares, appeared to be even more strange and mysterious than little Johnie first thought. Now he knew that she walked on foot during the night, and had a donkey as a traveling companion. She also had a stick that was leaning against the wall near the stove. To Johnie, it looked like something he imagined a witch might carry.  He felt very uncomfortable in her presence.   After warming up a bit, Mrs. Boshell thanked the Kilgore family, headed out the backdoor,  took the reins of her donkey,  and headed up the moonlit dirt road towards home. After her leaving, Johnie felt at ease and was happy she was on her way.  That evening was his one remembrance of Mrs. Ada Boshell.

                                                                 *   *   * 

Time: Return to Same Day, Second Week of September, 1951

Place: Granny Kilgore’s House

Meeting the Stranger

     The stranger walking on the edge of the curvy dirt road, could it be Claude Green? It had only been a few days since Mrs. Boshell was murdered.  Everyone was fearful, cautious, and uneasy because of  the brutal act of murder that had invaded a safe place.  The community was held captive by a climate of worry and stress because the murderer had not been found.  And on this very day, a stranger was passing by. Claude Green, the suspected murderer, was on the run from the law. Granny was keeping Johnie, Mike, Carolyn and Charlie. “Aunt Timmie”, who was the sister of Granny’s deceased husband, Virge. was also there, staying the week with Granny.  While the children entertained themselves on the front porch, Granny and Aunt Timmie were in the house, working in the kitchen, and afterward, getting off their feet by resting a spell, talking about old times, but mostly, talking about Mrs. Boshell.

     The children noticed that the adult figure moved rather quickly on foot. Soon the suspicious stranger was very close to the yard.  Could it be Claude Green? It was difficult to determine his age, but in the eyes of the children, he was old. Johnie hoped he would pass on by, ignoring everyone on the front porch.  Pretending to not see him, the children’s  plan was to not look up. While standing on the edge of the road directly in the front yard, the stranger stopped abruptly.  He looked up at the front porch where the children were.  He stepped into the yard and moved closer to the porch, near the steep steps that ascended to the front door. There he stood, looking directly at the children.

     Johnie, Charlie, Carolyn, and Mike all froze as they heard the man say, “Hello, kids!  Beautiful day, isn’t it?”  
     Then he looked up into the sunny blue sky, and turned to look around in the yard. The children were speechless as their ears perked up in response to the stranger’s voice. “Is anyone else at home? Are your parents here?”  

     Carolyn answered, “Our grandma is inside.”  
     In a pleasant tone, he said, “Well, I know you don’t know me, but don’t worry. I’m just passing through. I mean no harm. I want to give one of you children a gift, but you will have to earn it.  I’ll give a knife to the one who  will give me a kiss.  Who will be brave enough to kiss a stranger?  A kiss on the cheek, and I’ll be on my way.”
     The stranger with an aquiline appearance, placed his hand in the side pocket of his overalls, and pulled out a small case knife, bone yellow in color with accents of brown.  It was beautiful 

     The knife did not impress Charlie as he immediately shouted, “No way!  No Way!” 

     Johnie thought to himself, “A kiss, huh?” Then he began reflecting on the kisses given and received when attending the special birthday occasions of Grandpa Buttram, his Grandmother Manasco’s father, and his mother’s grandfather, who lived in the town of Nauvoo. 

     Grandpa Buttram was a distinguished looking, affable older man, handsome in appearance, snow white hair, an olive complexion, and a distinctive pattern of speech.  He always loved children, and was demonstrative in showing it. Johnie had ridden on Grandpa Buttram’s knee many times, playing children’s games,  bouncing back and forth.  Grandpa Buttram also showed affection with a kiss. People kissed him--both men and women, boys and girls, and he kissed the little ones in return. Little reticent Johnie was not comfortable with an older man giving him a kiss,  but accepted it because he was too small to do otherwise.  He viewed Grandpa Buttram as someone who was from a different world--an old world , European style of talk and of doing, and of Scottish and Irish descent.   

     Although this stranger did not look like Grandpa Buttram, Johnie wanted that knife, and he knew he would have to earn it with a kiss.  He had never owned a knife before. What a treasure.  It wouldn’t hurt to give the man a kiss if it meant getting the knife. Besides, he had kissed an older man before. Though he did not like the idea, but if it is the only way, he thought, “Why not?” 

     Johnie spoke up loudly, “I’ll give you a kiss!”  
      Overcoming his diffidence, little Johnie descended the porch steps, as he cautiously approached the stranger.  Suddenly, the stranger gracefully knelt close to the ground at the child’s eye level. Johnie  kissed the stranger on the cheek.  The stranger thanked little Johnie, and rewarded the boy with the special gift he had promised--a beautiful pocket knife. The others on the porch were incredulous to what just happened. 

     The stranger wished the children a good day,  and continued his journey up the road toward Poplar Springs, leaving a happy child behind who placed the most  wonderful and deserving gift into the front pocket of his  denim blue jeans.

                                                                     *   *   *  

Time: Present Day, July, 2013

Place:  Johnie’s Home

Summary Lesson--Entertaining Strangers   

     1951 had been a taciturn year--one of silence and fear.  In the midst of that time, A STRANGER PASSED BY.  A knife was given.  A kiss was received.  Obviously, rewarded by a knife, the difficulty of kissing a stranger was lessened by the promise given.  But what good is a promise unless it is acted upon and claimed.  Also, there is a question to be asked.  Who was the giver and who was the receiver?  Both participants were recipients. It was a time remembered with a lesson taught and learned, all in the midst of a season of fear, suspicion, silence, and anxiety, all won over by the resounding request of a stranger.

     Johnie is now grown.  He is  a designated senior adult, age 68 years olds. Although  this story occurred  more than 61 years ago, he continues to be a recipient of that moment frozen in time, when as a  young child of almost 7, a stranger passed by bearing a gift.  This is the lesson he learned from that encounter long ago: There are always strangers coming and going who cross a person's path. He, likewise, may be a stranger to others as he walks down the road of life.  There is a scripture, Hebrews 13:2, that says it all. “Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it! (New Living Bible Translation, 2007)

*Postscript:

     The story above occurred just after the murder of Mrs. Boshell, but prior to the arrest of Claude Green.  Immediately after Mrs. Boshell’s murder, many men of the community became part of a search party to find Claude Green who was hiding out in the woods.  Some in the search party had threatened to lynch him if he were to be discovered, while others in the party went searching to prevent such a thing from happening.  At any rate, Claude Green, in fear of his life, surrendered to the law, was arrested, and was tried for the murder.  He denied he was the culprit, and strangely enough, a stick had something to do with the focus of the case. Claude Green was tried by a jury of his peers, resulting in a sentence of life without parole.  After serving some time, his case was appealed.  That story is for another time and another place.