by Everett Reid
When I was just old enough to waddle around to follow my carpenter father who was always sticking his behind his ear and forgetting where he put it, I knew what woodworking tools were and how to use them in my clumsy, childish fashion. The first purchased toy I ever owned was a cast iron claw hammer.
My mother was a great reader. She always had a book under her nose. She taught me to read before I went to school and said that I was reading Grimms Brothers by the time I was four.
In school I was the joy of my reading teachers and the despair of my arithmetic teachers which was the opposite of Papa's desires.
"How can you lay out a rather if you don't know arithmetic? What good is all that story writing you do? You can't eat written words unless you're a goat."
"Why are you so against writing?" chimed in Mama. "You always seem to enjoy my reading Robert Services Poems to you."
"I like you cousin Terrance' poems better," snickered Papa.
"Hush up, George. You know little pitchers have big ears."
For a long time I had been trying to get Mama to explain what she meant by pitchers having big ears, but she never did explain it to my satisfaction until finally I just gave up trying to find out.
Once Papa said he wondered how a Scotch lad got an Irish name like Terrance and stated that he was mighty suspicious about the whole thing. Mama spat out another warning about "big ears" and I knew there was no use asking about Irish names.
Then I heard Mama report to Papa that at the last quilting bee, old Mrs. Morgan had asked Mrs. Kays how she came to name her boy Terrance and Mrs. Kays blushed something awful while all the rest of the ladies giggled.
"What's blushing, Mama?"
"Oh, hush up before I give you a blush on your bottom. Honestly, that boy will be the death of me yet." She was always saying that but she lived to be 90.
There was something funny about cousin Terrance. That was in the days when Uncle Jess was sheriff. Just about every Saturday night he put Cousin Terrance in jail for "drunk and disorderly" and every Sunday morning after church most of the congregation would find some excuse to visit Terrance, usually under the guise that he probably need chewing tobacco.
"That Terrance chews more tobacco than a jackass does thistles," noted Mr. Bishop.
In spite of what his name implied, Mr. Bishop wasn't a very holy man and as soon as he left the jail he found great pleasure in relating the latest news about Cousin Terrance to all the ladies still gathered in the church yard, much to their dismay.
Needless to say I was very curious about Cousin Terrance and asked a lot of questions of Papa but he just said, "When you're older you can see for yourself," and Mama would say, "If someone doesn't shoot the old devil first."
Eventually Buck Shram, whose Pa got thrown in jail a lot too, told my friend Wilson and me that Terrance wrote poetry on the walls of the jail in chalk and proceeded to recite some of it to us which didn't make much sense to us even when he tried to explain it.
Anyway, it didn't inspire me to ever want to be a poet who in my own imagination, lived in cold attics with only crusts of hard bread to eat.
Due to Mama, I spent many pleasant hours with Zane Grey and Tarzan.
Today, 75 years later, unable to see to read, I enjoy Karl Menninger and Alan Paton on talking books with as much joy as reading fairy tales used to bring.
Thank you, Mama.
Now, as to what I learned from my father, in the line of building. In my lifetime I have had four homes, each built by my own hands, none of which had any debt attached to them.
When I think of today's young couples starting married life with a mortgage debt of 30 years at a high rate of interest, I feel that I also owe thanks to Papa who gave me a life of safe harbors through his teaching.
Teaching and education cover many viewpoints. Years ago I met a foreign born man, speaking very poor English, who related with pride of how he and his wife had worked themselves to the bone so that their children could have a good education. When I asked him what he considered a good education, he answered, "Oh, to be able to read the newspaper to know what's happening in the world and to work where they don't have to get their hands dirty.
Mrs. Bowman, our neighbor who lived down the street, was very proud of herself for having gone to college and had very little regard for the mechanic who lived next door. His meager education was reflected in his poor use of the English language and because of the kind of work he did, he always appeared dirty. However, when Mrs. Bowman's car needed repair, she didn't hesitate to use his services as he was considered the best mechanic in town. Now I wonder, if the knowledge that enabled him to repair something as complicated as an automobile wouldn't have made him better educated than Mrs. Bowman.
I was also thinking about Cousin Terrance and the smutty poems that he used to write on the jail house walls. I'm convinced that he was just born 70 years too soon. Why, today a book editor would consider his works a best seller. If he had just known how to repair those automobiles that were then just coming into style, he'd have what is my idea of a perfect education, mechanics by which to make a living, and the humanities to teach him how to enjoy life.
Return to Main Page