Growing Up under Southern Apartheid (Part 7)

Breaking Ground

Today I’m sharing a brief interlude in my childhood reflections. I remembered a poem I wrote several years ago recalling an early childhood event*. This one harks back to the time we lived in Wedowee, Ala. Dad always kept a vegetable garden, and our house in Wedowee had a large back yard that could accommodate a good-sized plot for tilling. Dad always had to hire someone to plow up the garden because he had no heavy farm equipment. He had a hoe, a rake, and a shovel with which he could plant and tend his garden once the ground was harrowed.

The first time he put a garden in and Mamma saw that red clay soil being turned up by the plow, she told Dad he would never grow anything in that poor dirt. Mamma grew up in south Alabama, Clarke Country, in the Black Belt Region – cotton country. She was used to seeing the rich black soil of South Alabama farms and she doubted the red clay of East Alabama.

Dad surprised her, though! His garden always flourished. He planted pole beans, squash, cucumber, butter peas and butter beans, and several prolific tomato vines. He could grow watermelon and cantaloupe, and he always had a few rows of corn and okra. Lord, could he grow okra. I’ll have to tell you about my okra experience sometime. Oh wait – you can read about it in my archives here.

On this particular occasion, he hired a Black man who had the most magnificent white mule I had ever seen. You can read the account in my poem which follows. It is a happy poem that also gives a brief glimpse into our life in the segregated South.

An Early Time

It was early morning.

There was a mist in the air

And dew on the ground.

The clover aroma of spring

Mingled with the scent of moist earth.

It was early morning

As I stepped out the back door

With sleepy eyes.

I was three years old.

At the edge of the yard

I saw a grand white mule

Standing in the springtime mist –

The largest animal I had ever seen.

Beside the mule

Was a dark-skinned man in denim overalls.

My father stood there with them

His laughter rippled the morning air.

I went running across the yard,

Shoes collecting dew,

Lungs sampling the damp air.

I had to see the great white beast.

He stood tall

Shoulders brimming with power,

Head proudly facing the day,

Subdued grunts and clouds of breath

Spewing from his large nostrils.

It was early morning

As I hastily made my way ahead.

Before I could reach the mythic beast

I heard a shout from behind.

“Stop!” cried my mother.

“That mule might kick you.”

I stopped.

Then I slowly edged forward.

How close would they let me get?

If only I could touch

That white behemoth.

It was early morning

And the rhythmic chore began.

A cadence of sound emerged

From leather straps, metal rings,

Wooden handles, steel plow,

Heavy grunts, and slow steady hoof-beats.

All moved together like a ship heading out of dock.

Cutting through the ground,

They left a red clay wake

As man and beast crossed the green clover field.

It was early morning

And an early time

When a three-year-old boy

Took more into his heart

Than he could realize.

He walked into a spring day

Humid with promise –

A powerful beast shrouded in mist,

The heavy earthy aromas,

A father laughing

And a mother warning of danger ahead.

< Part 6, Neighbors                               Part 8, School Days at the Rural Schoolhouse>

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* "An Early Time was first posted on my blog on April 13, 2010

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