An Hour By Sun

Childhood memories      

   Daddy strode to the barn, mopping sweat from his forehead as he glanced back toward the fields.

   Marching close behind him, I saw that familiar look of pleasure as he surveyed neat rows of corn, erect and healthy in the late afternoon sun. I knew what would come next.

   The field hands were still bending over their work, urging mules forward with their burden of machinery that turned over loam as black as Mama’s chocolate cake batter.

    He called out to them, “It’s an hour by sun. Time to take care of the animals and go home to supper.”

   Every workday ended this way. It had been a ritual I saw throughout my childhood as I worked beside him. The tasks I performed were small, but in farm families, each member of the family had a job to do and it was crucial to the whole.

   I filled the wood box or we shivered on cold mornings. I chopped cotton with the hoe, getting rid of excessive cotton plants, important in improving the quality of our cotton crop.

   Even though I had no taste for farming, the rhythm of this life somehow comforted me. And it interested me. As I grudgingly spent my after-school hours picking tobacco or carrying water to the hands, I noticed things. Like Daddy’s finale to a day of hard work: “It’s an hour by sun. Time to take care of the animals.”

   With the turning of years into manhood and old age, those words took on new meaning, but as a 10-year-old, I once grumbled about the demands of the animals. “Those old mules! Why do they get to eat first?”

   Daddy had a quick retort: “They make this farm work, the crops grow, and that’s how we’re all fed.”

   It was a sizeable farm. On about 1,000 acres in South Georgia, we grew corn, tobacco, cotton and a host of other vegetables with the help of six families of farm hands who lived on the property.

   Although our family was prosperous, no one ever said so. There was never any talk of being rich, only of being responsible. This was illustrated by the concern for our farm hands, who were all black. Our family had a considerable reputation for kindness to these families who worked the farm.

   Daddy loved everything about farming. Even on those days when a dry spell had damaged the crops, he never seemed to worry about it. And when times were good, the same look of quiet pleasure crept over his face at day’s end; and always the same words brought a halt to the day’s struggle. “It’s a hour by sun” was a benediction on our efforts.

   Because Daddy always had that air of calm, I often marveled at the story I’d heard about the night of my birth and the argument that accompanied it.

   It was 1928 and most people in rural areas used midwives. But when Mother went into labor, my father sent for Doctor Elarbee, a good friend of the family. He came quickly, inspected the patient and announced that my appearance was a few hours away.

   He and Daddy then settled down by the fireplace and began discussing the presidential candidates who were vying for the office that very day. There were some spirited exchanges about Herbert Hoover, Daddy’s choice, and Al Smith, favored by the doctor. The two men finally reached the decision that this baby should be named after the winning candidate. Daddy even waived his right to name a boy Cliff, after himself.

  I made an uneventful entrance into the world, a squalling, red and wrinkled creature, and Daddy announced his name would be Hoover. Mother, who was well aware of the political chatter that had gone on while she labored, was mightily offended that politics had been the center of their attention. She registered strong objections to the name choice and Daddy was forced to back down. But to thi