Childhood with Daddy and Mama and my four older sisters was good – even when it wasn’t. I don’t know if my parents shielded me from the problems or if it was my parents’ faith in God that carried us through and above the tough times – probably some of both.  

When I was in the first grade, there were lay-offs in the textile industry and for the first time in his adult life, Daddy didn’t have a job. Somewhere in the fading memories of that bleak winter was a conversation I overheard about why my dad – with a wife and five children to support and a history of an impeccable work ethic – was one of the men that was laid off. It seems the bosses that made the decisions about who would stay and who would go concluded that since he already had a farm, in the long run it would be more profitable for him to expand this endeavor than to continue working at the mill. Mother thought they should have asked Daddy what he preferred. Although he was, in a sense, land-rich, there was little cash to provide daily needs and invest in the farm.  What followed would be one of the most dramatic changes that ever took place in our family: Mama found a job in a hosiery mill while Daddy focused on developing the farm as a means of support. Until then, farming had been a part-time job. He raised cows and pigs and always planted an extraordinary garden, but mostly the farm products were for our use. We had never gone hungry. He did have a small income from raising chickens, but now, farming would become his livelihood.  It was awkward at first, having Daddy help us get ready for school; but he became proficient at removing the bobby pins from our pin curls and tying the sashes on our homemade dresses that Mama lovingly sewed on the week-ends. As I look back, it makes me sad that a woman with such incredible talents as a seamstress was destined to spend most of her waking hours doing “piece-work” in a hot, oily-smelling mill. Mama didn’t seem to mind too much. At least by then we were all in school. I think she enjoyed some of the aspects, such as taking classes to learn new techniques that were on the horizon and making new friends. I know she enjoyed getting those paychecks. Every Friday after work, she would take her hard-earned money and go grocery shopping. Usually, she arrived home from work soon after the school bus dropped us off.  On Friday, it would be an hour later, but often she would have a wonderful surprise – a whole five cent candy bar which she would proceed to divide into five equal pieces – one for each of her daughters.

Daddy left behind his forty hours a week job at the mill to embark on a seven-day-a-week, as many-hours-as-it-takes to get it done career as an independent poultry farmer that he would continue for the next thirty years. The days off were few and far between, made possible only when the chickens were ready to be sent to the processing plant. 

Therefore, family vacations were few and far between. I remember two before I was in the fourth grade. The first was a day-trip to the mountains along the Blue-Ridge Parkway.  All seven of us loaded into our 1954 black Ford; I was in the front seat between Daddy and Mama.  I had never seen mountains; I wasn’t even sure what they looked like. In my mind’s eye I imagined something like an upside down party hat; just one big pointed mound of dirt we could walk around. I was pleasantly surprised. There were so many of them! It was summer, so all the trees were green and there were pretty plants and colorful flowering bushes scattered about. We pulled off along the parkway to admire the view. Mother retrieved her Kodak Brownie box camera out and snapped a picture of me holding on to Daddy as I stood on a wooden fence overlooking a scenic valley. The photo gives the appearance of an immediate drop-off, but it wasn’t. Still, it was sort of scary and I was glad to have Daddy there to protect me. I always felt safe when he was nearby.

Mother had packed a picnic lunch, which was waiting for us in the trunk of the car.  The oatmeal from breakfast was a distant memory and our stomachs were beginning to growl. Alas, the bologna and mayonnaise sandwiches, which Mama had packed in brown paper bags, had spoiled.  Daddy had enough change in his pocket to buy us all a pack of peanut butter crackers from a vending machine at one of the visitor centers. I was thrilled! A treat from a vending machine was a new experience for me. We continued our sightseeing and made it home in time for super before any of us starved. How good, were the old, simple days of childhood!

Our second vacation was to the quaint town of Hertford, which is located in North Carolina’s Inner Banks region. Two of my older sisters were now attending our church boarding school in Kernersville, about an hour’s drive from our home.* They had become friends with a classmate and her family invited us to the coast to spend a few days with them. This was the first time I had ever spent a night away from home. I remember swimming in the Perquimans River one day and the Atlantic Ocean the next. What a thrill to jump up and down in the surf and sit on the sandy beach and let the waves roll over me. On the way home we visited the Wright Brothers’ (no relation) Memorial and stopped by the site of The Lost Colony outdoor drama and looked around; we couldn’t afford tickets to attend the actual performance, but I was enthralled by the surroundings. On Sunday we attended church with our hosts and returned to their home for a scrumptious Sunday lunch before packing up our belongings in the black Ford and returning home. I thought I had become a world traveler. 

Though infrequent, vacations were special. In fact, I remember my entire childhood as being special. Simply special. From the myriad of memories pressed between the pages of my mind, there are some that stand out more than others. 

*You may ask how my dad, a farmer, could afford to send his daughters to a boarding school. Investing in a Christian education for his daughters was very important to him.  When the need arose, he sold some land; a few acres here, a few there, to pay for each of us to attend our church school. Not only did selling parcels of land finance our Christian education, but each sale of property brought new neighbors to our “out in the sticks” dirt road. We began to envision the day the state would pour some asphalt on the two-mile stretch of rough, rutted road.