Every Person is a Story

Am I good enough?

My first known name by which all introductions were made was… “Hello, my name is Lewis Caboose.”

I first knew myself as the end of the line, the last child born of my parents, a very lovingly wanted child prodigy some fourteen years younger than my next older sibling. Yes, a “child prodigy” because I was to be a natural study at being a farmer.

I was country-sired, country-born, country-raised, and totally country-immersed child of my 38-year old mother and 51-year old father.

I knew my two older brothers and my sister as being of a different nest even though they were indeed my natural siblings. They had grown as young children in the big city of Washington, D.C., about 1300 miles due north of the farm in Alabama. They had been born before or during the Great Depression, and my Dad had worked construction work to provide for his new family.

At my birth, their ages were 14, 16, and 17 respectfully. Indeed, my sister at 17 held me on her lap at her high school graduation. I was just 18 months old. And my next older brother, Jimmy, tediously (for him) made peanut butter, butter and jelly sandwiches when I was only old enough to make a mess at the kitchen table.

An even more uncomfortable experience for Jimmy occurred once when he was asked by Mom to take me along on his date with the girl he eventually married. I was 5 when he was 19. Talk, talk, talk. Not at all helpful to his idea of a date. I am sure.

But even worse, for the sportsman that was Jimmy, was when he invited me to go hunting with him. I dared not talk on a hunt. I was mindful of others even at the age of six probably because of the pragmatism that naturally occurs for one who is often relating to older persons. But so serious was I in preventing the kill, I did the next best thing–broke every branch and rustled every bush so as to spook and chase away any deer or rabbit that could possibly be in the entire woods.

Jimmy married, joined the Navy and was hardly ever seen again. Oh, he had short visits home. But he married before even meeting my one request of him–that he send me a jackrabbit from his Naval tour of duty in Anchorage, Alaska.

By 1958, my sister and my eldest brother were also long-gone from the household as they too had married.

So, at ten, I was still the engineer in the final rail car. “Lewis caboose” indeed knew a great deal about maturity.

My real pleasure in life was my Mom’s good cooking. I ate so much that it was great pride for my Mother that I could order from the adult menu when going to a restaurant even as a small child.

Now, we were farmers and the only time my family ate in a restaurant was when we had out-of-town company who usually wanted to enjoy the specialties of local eateries. But the food at the farm left little to desire. With huge meals prepared to feed those who worked in the fields, I had more than enough at our table.

So, with all that food and my love of food and the reward that food represented, I was the largest kid for my age in more ways than one. In the first grade, we sat at tables. But by the second grade, the desks were way too small. And so I had to have a third or fourth grade desk to berth my body.

And how does size matter in the games children play? My first learned poetry was: “Though sticks and stones will break my bones, words will never hurt me.” I was teased and I could not run fast. So, I used my weight to create fear. Those who did not treat me nicely could always be caught by a fast-running friend and held fcr what I might do to them. Still, my nature was good. I was not with any mean bone in my body.

I would pretend that it did not matter that I was always selected last in every team ever chosen. I not only could not throw a baseball, but I could not catch one either. And fat boys do not run too fast… So, my image in sports was anything but good.

My Dad always wanted a baseball player in his three sons. Am I good enough? No. Not in my Father’s desire that I be the child who could play ball among the best as he had done prior to his injury received in World War I.

Then there was also the child prodigy–the one who would inherit his Dad’s farm that had indeed been inherited by his Dad from his Father, my paternal grandfather, whom I had never known.

From a walk in the fields, Dad knew from his fatherly conversations that my love did not extend to seeds, sprouts, weeding, irrigation, fertilizer, insecticides, and all that goes into raising and indeed harvesting a crop.

Perhaps as a truck driver, I would carry the harvest to those who ultimately buy it as either a raw or a refined commodity. But I did not have the heart of a farmer. And my Dad could see the writing on my heart.

He sold the farm, his invested love of thirty years, so that his last son and the son’s mom–his wife of thirty-three years–would not have the burden of a farm upon his death. When the farm sold, he was 59 and knowingly aware of severe heart problems.

For what were to be his last two years, we lived the vacation-style life of my father’s childhood dreams. Sportsfishing on Fish River. Yes, really, the river was “Fish River.” And its tides were known to move only just a little faster than the people who lived on its banks. (Actually, that translates into the people hardly moving at all.)

At 10 years of age, I had the keys to an 11-foot fiberglass boat with a 25-hp outboard engine, properly outfitted with steering wheel, remote gear-shift and battery for self-cranking. And early mornings found both my Dad and I out fishing on Fish River.

Am I good enough? As a fisherman? No. I was just along for the ride and the chance that I could offer a helpful hand to my Dad.

I did have my own rod and reel, and I learned how to cast my lure under low-lying branches so as to trick that (always imaginable) large, big-mouth bass into considering a free meal.

And I remember my first really big fish story. It was of my having caught two or three very large bass fish. Only when I could not stand my lie any longer, I did finally admit that the fish had been given to me by some fishermen who liked catching but not eating fish.

Am I good enough? Am I good enough to have caught fish even more grand than the best caught by my Dad? No.

My Dad died in the Winter of 1960-61. I had just turned 12. Mom was 50. To be continued.