Synopsis
What kind of floors do you live on; Carpet, Hardwood, or Dirt? Does it affect quality of life?
The poignant story of one boy growing up in the foothills of eastern Oklahoma, the first of eight children, loved and cared for by hard working, but uneducated parents. From the beginning of the Great Depression of 1929 to the end of World War Two in 1945, you will share the day-to-day hardships and occasional disaster, as well as the daily joy of just being themselves, as the author shares his worst and finest memories of childhood.
Intermingled are the nightmares and stories related by a superstitious Grandmother who lived with the family for some time.
The family survived as the 'Hired Hands' on several dirt farms until the advent of World War Two changed the very essence of their way of life.
Excerpt
I woke up one morning in the early fall of that year to the bleating of Billy. Hurrying to get up and look outside I was shocked to see what was going on. Daddy had Billy hung up by the back feet to a limb of the big oak tree beside our tent. He was just picking up the butcher knife when I realized what was happening. As I ran screaming at him, trying to stop the terrible thing I knew was going to happen, he deftly drew the knife across Billy’s throat. As the blood gushed, so did my tears of anger and frustration. I hated my Dad with as much fury as a three year old could muster. It was the first real trauma of my young life. Momma tried to console me for a while, then Daddy tried in vain to explain that this was what Billy was born to be; food for the family.
“Winter is coming on, we have to eat,” Daddy explained, “ and we sure couldn’t buy feed for him after the grass is gone. Don’t you see? It wouldn’t make sense to let him starve this winter, this is actually the easiest way out for him.”
I would not be consoled; Daddy had killed my best friend and pet. I hate you! How could you? And worst of all, they had not even talked to me about it. Finally, they both gave up trying to placate me, leaving me to my own sorrows as they butchered and cut up the meat. Momma had to cook it all that same day because we had no way to prevent it from spoiling.
No, it did not leave any permanent scars on my psyche; I finally accepted the fact that it was a necessary thing. But, at the time, I was so furious with my Dad, and devastated by the loss of my pet, that it was the next day before I could be coaxed to eat any of the meat. Then by the next day or two, it was delicious. Ah, the resilience of youth.