I will always be a country boy
No matter what I’ve achieved in life, or how much education I have, I will always be a country boy. My roots are country. There are times my words may seem like another language to some. But these stories share some of the highs and lows of my life. I’m not ashamed now, nor will I ever be, of where I come from. In addition, the stories recognize people and events that shaped me into who I am. For better or worse.
Springtime means gardening. My family gardened as far back as I can remember. Much of what we ate, was grown by my parents and grandparents. The process didn’t end when the crops came in. There was canning to do. Many wintertime meals came from food which was canned in the summer. Watching my grandparents can vegetables is a memory I cherish. They would spend hours at the stove in the mid-summer heat. They didn’t do it for fun. It was necessary to make sure there was always food on the table. By the grace of God, I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t plenty.
It’s important to store canned goods in a cool place. Granny and Granddaddy Collett kept theirs in the basement. The most interesting of storage places was owned by my great-grandparents, then later my Granny and Granddaddy Free. They had a “root cellar.” It was an underground room with a dirt floor. The room had shelves for storing the mason jars full of canned food. The date they were canned was written on the jar’s lids. Their root cellar was under a large oak tree on the edge of their property. It doubled as a storm shelter in tornado season. The cellar is no longer there. Neither is the giant oak. But both live on in my memories.
Spring also brings back memories of my family drying our washed clothes on a clothesline. Each piece would be hung with wooden clothes pins. When blue jeans came off the line, they were stiff as a board. They would almost stand up by themselves. But they were clean.
There is something about the smell and feel of clothes dried on a clothesline you just can’t get from clothes dried in a dryer. Many would find a clothesline an eyesore in their neighborhoods today. During my childhood, they were a way of life.
Times seemed tougher back then. People worked hard for what they had. Everyone in my family wore hand-me-down clothes at some point in their lives. We weren’t too proud to wear them. My family shopped at the various “bargain stores” in our community. It’s where you could find clothes at a much cheaper price than the name brands in the big stores. They may have had imperfections. But they were good enough to wear for the lives we led. Most importantly, they were paid for with hard-earned cash. Racking up a credit card bill for designer clothing was unheard of.
Many people back then would make their own clothes. It was a skill which probably isn’t as prevalent as it was fifty years ago. It wasn’t uncommon for a gift to be something someone had crocheted, quilted, or carved in some cases. I still have handmade blankets passed down to me from my grands. Five decades later, though we didn’t know it then, those gifts would be the ones which would mean the most. If you have something which was handmade by a family member, you have a treasure. Knowing the gift was made by their hands, makes whatever the gift, priceless.
There’s an old saying, “You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.” We all know folks who have tried hard, and continue trying, to forget where they came from. Always living above their means. Never finding what they are looking for. Which is some kind of social acceptance. I used to hear people like that referred to as “Ten Cent Millionaires.”
When I was made to, I helped in the garden. I’ve eaten a lot of food grown by my family. Much of it was canned. I’ve helped Mama get the clothes off the clothesline before a sudden summer storm. There have been times I’ve worn hand-me-down clothes. I’ve worn clothes from a bargain store. And I’ve received gifts which were hand-made from my grandparents and great-grandparents. I’m not ashamed of my simple country raising. I’m thankful for it.
Looking back on my family’s humble beginnings, I now realize we were rich. Not in material things. In things which matter. We were an imperfect family in an imperfect home. Yet we had joy, which only comes from a perfect God who loved us despite our imperfections. Because of his continuing love, our joy will be eternal.