Berry Pickers Extraordinaire

As kids on the farm we had to work. Weed the garden, hoe the corn, sucker the tobacco, feed the hogs and on and on in what seemed never ending tasks. All this without pay. The family was an economic unit.

Except during strawberry picking season. Daddy had a big strawberry patch. The short harvest period required many hands. Daddy hired local kids, paid them six or seven cents a box, depending on price he would get at the farmer's market. We got paid too. If one worked steadily payment at seven cents a box could easily reach $3.50 or $4.00 a say. A fortune.

Ivy and I were good berry pickers. Arville was less diligent-- easily distracted by bugs, birds and the taste of the berries. Diane and J.B. were another matter. At least when they began to pick. True they were young and should not have been allowed to pick. True Daddy gave them the chance-- on a seven cents a box day.

It was also true that they were clever and dishonest. Ivy, Arville and I filled box after box. Diane and J.B. filled their share until Daddy discovered why his youngest were so productive. They filled each box two thirds full of grass with one third berries on the top. Needless to say they did not get their seven cents a box. Nor did they pick any more berries that season.

Nearly Lost Memory

My younger brother (not so young anymore-as he will turn 70 in November) inadvertently, without his knowledge, elicited a nearly lost memory. My brother, a Vietnam veteran, planned to go with me to the D-Day Memorial in Bedford, Va. Learning of this my sister asked, "Why was Daddy never drafted? Do you know?"
It came back to be.  Vaguely and sketchy. It was when she was just a wee baby or maybe before she was born. I was just 6 or 7. I know it was before I was 8. That year we moved.

Here's the little I can recall. And that's all there can ever be since I at just months shy of 80 and the oldest of the remaining family.

It was a warm day-- time of year I do not remember. It was early morning. Daddy stood in the yard by Solomon, the big black work horse. Mommie stood beside him. She was crying and she gingerly kissed him. He rode off.
"Where's Daddy going?" I asked
"He's got to go to town."
"What for?"
"He's just got to go. Not stop bothering me." She snuffed as tears ran down her cheek.
"Why you crying, Mommie?"
"I ain't crying. Now I said quit bothering me."

Daddy was gone all day. Grandma Neely spent the afternoon with Mommie. I remember little of what I did that day except for the multiple times I tried to ask what was happening only to be shooed off each time.

Late in the day Mommie was drawing water from the cistern when Daddy rode up. She dropped her just filled water bucket. She ran to Daddy who slid down from Solomon's back. "I failed the physical."
She threw her arms around him and again tears flowed.

It was years later that I learned Daddy had reported to the draft office.