"Then Till Now—Autobiography of a Nobody"

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

The believers in reincarnation think we keep returning after death until we get life right. I'm not a believer in that philosophy, but if true, I'm on my last trip. We all have our ups and downs, but I always try to learn from both. I owe everything I am, or ever will be, to God, country, family, and friends. No matter how many chances I get, I couldn't have a better life than the one I'm now living.

Many events took place in 1937, but to me, my birth on December 13th was the most important. I hope that was a special day for my parents as well, but I don't know if my older brother would agree. Until I was born, he thought he was the most handsome boy in the family.

I was born in a house my parents shared with one of dad's younger sisters and her family in Kankakee, Illinois. My brother Glen was born five years before me. He had already established sibling rights before I came along

Since my parents waited five years for me, I can either believe I was something special or maybe an afterthought. At the time, I was only the second redhead to grace the Smith family, but I was told the milkman also had red hair.

Of course, everyone was just kidding, I think.

Chapter Two

This was my first home after leaving Kankakee. I was about two years old. My dad was a farmer and did some other things, but he became ill at a very young age. I never got to know him as a young father, because he was about 28 years old when he had severe sunstroke. I'm told he was never the same and was unable to do the things fathers commonly do with their sons. We were poor dirt farmers, or as dad would say, "We didn't have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of."

When I was just a toddler, I fell into a tub of boiling hot water that mom had prepared to soak dirty laundry. We didn't own any of the modern things like a washer or dryer, so mom did the laundry on a washboard. Today it is more commonly used as a musical instrument.

The tub was on the kitchen floor, about ten feet from the cooking stove. Mom was at the stove baking and I was behind her, begging for one of her freshly baked cookies.

"I'll give you a cookie," she said, "if you take it outside and stop pestering me." She also warned me about the hot water, but I was so overjoyed about the cookie I started dancing backward and fell into the tub.

Mom quickly fished me out and administered some sort of first aid. I'm sure she used an old country remedy of some sort, since that was the only medicine we had on the farm and most of it worked. Doctors were so far away that I don't know if one was involved in this incident. As dad used to say, "There are only horse doctors out here."

I recall mom carrying me into the living room and laying me on the couch, or "davenport" as we called them back then. I also remember looking up at the ceiling and seeing hundreds of people staring down at me. I guess I was pretty near death when mom said, "The ceiling people are God's angels protecting you."

I have no reason to doubt her. I am a firm believer in the Divine Power from Heaven.

Dad owned a gray mare named Happy. He openly bragged she was the fastest horse in the county. Hearing this, one of his friends challenged him to a horse race.

There was a long stretch of pasture just east of our barn and they agreed it would be a good location for the race. The race was set for a half-mile or so, which Happy won quite easily. Being a little bit of a sore loser and not willing to admit dad had a faster horse, Clarence accused dad of cheating. Dad wasn't above such a thing but he said, "Happy didn't have to cheat to beat that nag."

We'll never know, but no farmer would willingly concede that another farmer had a better or faster horse.

When dad decided to breed Happy, he promised me her foal and what a beauty he was. I was having trouble naming him, so mom came up with "Ponto." She knew the Lone Ranger was one of my cowboy heroes. Mom said "Ponto" was named for "Tonto," the Lone Ranger's Indian sidekick.

I was the happiest little boy in the world. I now owned my very own horse and started dreaming about the things we would do together. Ponto followed me around the barnyard and it was very easy to see we had developed a very strong bond.

Ponto was two years old when dad told mom he was going to break him himself. I remember when dad explained his nonsensical quest to mom.

"Allen, are you sure you want to try that?" she asked. "You never broke a horse before."

One thing about dad, he was game for anything and believed there was nothing he couldn't do. He never allowed his bad health to interfere with trying. I don't know how old I was at this time, but my brother tells me I wasn't school age yet.

Dad saddled Ponto outside the barn and, as I recall, he didn't have any problems with him at first. But when dad mounted him, the rodeo started. Instead of bucking, Ponto took off at a dead run. He headed straight for the fence that separated the barn lot from the backyard of the house. All the time, dad was hanging on for dear life and vigorously yelling, "Whoa! Whoa!"

When Ponto reached the fence, he made a beautiful leap into the backyard and ran under mom's clotheslines. One of the lines caught dad just under the chin and shot him backward like Robin Hood's arrow. Of course, Ponto continued on his merry way after dumping dad.

Shamefully, I was not as worried about dad's condition as I was proud of the beautiful leap over the fence. Luckily, except for some bruises, anger, embarrassment, and damaged pride, dad was uninjured. When he got up from the ground, he was shaken and wanted to get his hands on Ponto. It took a while to catch the horse, but by the time he did, dad had apparently forgotten his anger or didn't want to show it with me standing nearby.

After many more attempts, Ponto was broken to saddle but not by dad. It took my cousin's husband, James Auten, to saddle break him.

Our family car was a red convertible. Dad always backed it up the hill in our backyard. I believe it was a Model A Ford and not very old, but it rarely started by using the conventional method. We had to push it down the hill and pop start it. Dad pushed from the driver's side, and when the car started going fast enough he leapt behind the wheel, placed the car in first gear, and popped the clutch.

Since I was about two years old I wasn't much help, but you couldn't have told me that then. Glen was about nine, so he and dad did all the work.

The hill was steep, so it didn't take much to get it rolling. Sometimes it would start, other times it wouldn't. When it did start, it ran well until the next time we needed it. Seemed like that old car had a mind all its own.

When it wasn't available for whatever reason, dad hitched our team of horses to the wagon. Most of the places we wanted to go, like the church and to shop, were within wagon reach. We didn't mind riding in the wagon and it was very common back then. Our shopping consisted of food we couldn't raise and feed for our animals.

Most farm wives used the feed sacks to make clothing for their family, like shirts, dresses, and such. I vividly remember a shirt mom made for me. It was covered with yellow baby ducks. The women even used the material to make some of their own dresses.

Most of the kids today couldn't survive...