The field on the other side of our house, the North side, had scattered trees of various sizes, some hardwood and some pine. Beyond our fence line was forest with large mature trees, including sixty to seventy foot tall yellow pines, and one summer the owner sold some of the timber. The logger was a tall black man who worked by himself. He wore overalls with no shirt, showing muscles like I had never seen, and the sun on his sweaty arms and shoulders made his skin shine. He had an old logging truck and a pair of huge mules that were much larger than our horses. They were paired with a big leather harness. He cut down those tall pines by hand with a long logging saw (chain saws hadn’t come along at that time}. After dropping a tree he would cut it into shorter lengths of maybe twenty feet, then attach a chain to the logs and connect it to the harness of the mules. They would then drag the log to the truck, lining it up with the side of the bed. His communication with those mules was fascinating! Simple one word commands moved them simultaneously with exactness. Detaching the chain from the log, he would attach another chain with hooks to each end of the log and, moving the mules to the opposite side of the truck, connect that chain to their harness, and they would then pull the log up onto the truck bed. It was such an amazing process to watch. Those mules were so powerful, and seemed to accomplish it almost effortlessly. At the end of the day, he would drive out with his logs and leave the mules in the woods overnight in a simple rope corral, with tubs of feed and water.

I visited the location for several days to watch tree after tree removed from the forest. During all of the time that I spent there, watching from a distance, neither he nor I ever spoke to one another. He knew I was there, but he never even made eye contact with me. I was quite young and very shy around people, and sadly, in those days, “colored people” didn’t usually start conversations with “white folk”. The old adage of “speak when you’re spoken to” was the rule for children and black people. At that age, I think that the only black person with whom I had ever enter-acted was a hired man where Daddy had his shop.

In fact, the town of Vidor, and the surrounding area had no population of color, and that was intentional. It was well known that black people were not allowed to live in Vidor, and it would be many, many years before that could change. The town lay across the Neches River from Beaumont, and had originally been populated mostly by hired laborers from the steel works, shipyards, and factories in the city. Many were poorly educated and carried racist tenets from decades before them. It doesn’t seem that long ago, but I so well remember the “colored” and “white” drinking fountains, restrooms, and even separate waiting rooms with individual entrances at clinics and doctors’ offices. It would turn out that my first actual relationships with people of color would be in the military!

Across the road from us, the forest extended for better than a mile to the East before the next road. As a young child my imagination conjured up all sorts of wild things that probably inhabited those woods! In that part of the state the forests contained lots of low areas that collected water and made good wallows for feral pigs that roamed throughout. There were a good number of these hogs that we would see routinely, in the ditches along the road and in the edge of the woods. We referred to them as “razor-backs” because some them had very large tusks. On occasion, they could be aggressive, so we always kept our distance when they were around.

There was a time when I happened onto several in our North pasture. I believe they were as startled as I was, but they weren’t as afraid I was! A fairly large boar started to trot in my direction and I immediately searched out a small pine tree with branches low enough for me to reach, and began frantically climbing. When I was well off the ground I stood on a branch hugging the tree trunk while “the hair on my neck stood out.” The whole bunch of them rooted around the area for what seemed like hours before they meandered out of sight. I dropped down from my perch and ran as fast as I could back to the house, all the time envisioning them right on my heels!! Times of fright such as that would make my ears feel strange, like they were pulling forward!

I never liked cold weather, so it’s not surprising that I especially loved summertime; no shirt, no shoes, no school! Getting hot and sweaty was no issue for me. Holding a water hose over my head or standing by a lawn sprinkler only added to the pleasure of being outside on long sunny days. I even enjoyed splashing through puddles on warm rainy days. The drainage ditches and road shoulders were an extension of our front lawn, so I wold spend hours wading in the water that collected in the ditch. It was a great place to search for and catch “crawdads”. Pieces of wood made boats for my “army men” to float around as I played war.

Most years Daddy would order a dump truck load of sand for filling holes and leveling areas of the lawns and planting shrubs. For a few weeks, until it was all used, it made a favorite play spot for making roads for my little plastic cars that came in boxes of cereal, or digging caves and building forts for my toy soldiers. Small sticks made great barricades and fence posts, and little boughs from trees or shrubs could be used as trees. I liked to set up up all my soldiers in foxholes, behind barricades, or behind mounds, and throw small clumps of sand at them like artillery shells. Using a set number of clumps to throw, I would see how many men I could knock over to determine whether or not I had won the battle! My imagination was the only limit to the hours of enjoyment that I spent on those piles of sand.

I learned from my brother, George, how to throw a tennis ball up onto the roof of the house and catch it when it rolled back off. One late afternoon, when I was six years old, I was playing this game when I threw one ball too hard, causing it to go over the ridge of the roof to the opposite side of the house. I quickly ran around the house to find it, and as I was walking through the lawn, surveying the shrub beds, I suddenly felt an extreme pain on the inside of my right foot. I jerked my foot up as I looked down, astonishment turning to panic as I saw a Ground Rattler coiled to strike again. I don’t know how high are how far I leaped, but I’m sure that I could have qualified for a college track team! Motivated by fear and adrenaline, I was able to hop, on one leg, around to the front of the house while holding my other foot in my hands, crying and screaming “snake, snake!!” I’m certain that God was orchestrating events because as I rounded the corner of the house, Daddy was pulling into the driveway, coming home from work. The whole family was alerted to the sound of my screams. Daddy jumped from the car, ran over and picked me up, looked at my foot, and carried me inside as he told Kurt to go look for the snake. He took me straight to the bathroom and set me on the edge of the bathtub. He grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a fresh razor blade from the medicine cabinet, knelt down and took a swig of peroxide, swishing it around in his mouth, then spitting it on the floor. After pouring more peroxide on my foot, he made two “X” cuts across the fang marks on my foot. He then proceeded to chew and suck on my foot, spitting dark red blood on the floor. He continued until the cuts were bleeding bright red. Iodine and a bandage came next, causing additional pain that was probably worse than the bite! Kurt had come in to verify that he had found and killed a small Ground Rattler. I was placed in bed while Daddy called the local doctor, who affirmed the actions taken and prescribed rest and lots of fluids. If there was a good side to the experience, it was Daddy bringing home six-packs of “Grapette” soda for me. It took about two weeks for the swelling in my foot and ankle to subside, and I understood why Butch swelled so much after a bite. It was a profound experience for me, as my fear of snakes grew exponentially. I had held Garter snakes that George would catch on occasion, but I wanted nothing to do with any kind after that! Actually, my disdain for snakes continues to this day!

Another group of creatures that caused me fear were spiders; any type, any size, but the larger they were, the greater the chills down my spine. Grass spiders were bad enough, but the large yellow garden spiders would really make me cringe. So many times, as I made my way through the woods, I would suddenly find myself face to face with one of these huge spiders with it’s web stretched from the tree branches! I never got used to it.

One morning, as I was pulling up my jeans, a large grass spider that had spent the night inside them came running up the front of my t-shirt! I was immediately slapping at it, screaming and dancing a jig. Mother came running in from the kitchen, afraid that I had caught on fire from the gas heater, and she scolded me good for scaring her so badly. I wasn’t very sympathetic with her after the terror I had just experienced, but I was still alive, and I knew to keep my mouth shut!

Did I mention my “care-free” life around the farm?

By the time I was born, my sister, Eleanor Mae, was thirteen years old, my oldest brother, Kurt Rudolph Jr., was eleven, and my second brother, George Stanford, was six. So, being the youngest by far, and there being no other children within a mile of us, my pre-school years were spent at home alone with Mother. She was involved in an auto accident, along with Eleanor when she was a baby, which frightened her to the point that she decided not to drive any more. So, we didn’t leave home to go anywhere. At the time, I didn’t know anything else and I couldn’t have cared less. I spent my days enjoying my toys, our animals, and the care-free life around the farm.

We had a Rat Terrior dog named Butch; white with scattered black spots and a black “saddle” in her mid-back, a cropped tail, very intelligent, and always playful. She would follow me everywhere that I went, always on guard, and a terror with snakes! Occasionally, during the warm months, she would have a swollen jaw or side of her muzzle from a snakebite. Aside from the usual Garter snake, which loved all the shrubs around our house, and various harmless snakes, we always had Copperheads, Ground Rattlers, and an occasional Coral snake to watch out for. Butch was fierce with all of them. She was not afraid of anything, including gun shots, except for lightning, and although she was strictly an outdoor dog, when we had severe thunderstorms we would let her inside the house, where she would cuddle at our legs and shake!

One of my favorite adventures was to go out to the barn at night with Kurt and George and, of course, Butch. We would quietly enter the big milking room, then one of them would turn on a spotlight and shine it at the ridge of the barn roof where rats would often be hanging out. The other would use our 22 rifle with rat-shot shells to shoot them down. As soon as the rat hit the ground Butch was on it, shaking it fiercely from side to side. It was so funny to watch her and hear her growling as she finished it off.

She would chase armadillos to their holes in the ground, and sometimes try to dig them out. It was comical to see her butt in the air with dirt flying between her hind legs! When Mother and I went berry picking Butch was constantly in and out of the briar patch, which helped us not have to worry so much about snakes.

As I recall, she was with us for close to twenty years. She developed heart worms and passed away on the night of March 5,1953, the same day as Joseph Stalin. Mother and Daddy were out somewhere that evening and when they returned home, George told them that two dogs had died that day, one very bad and one very good.

Of course, we had multiple cats, and I have always been an avid cat lover. I spent many hours watching and playing with them in boxes and buckets. My favorite times were when we had a litter of kittens. They were usually born under the house and would hang out in the shrubs along the sides of the house, and were, of course, wild at first. I would sit very still on the door step with my legs straight out on the walkway and wait for them to wander out of hiding. After a while they would start chasing each other around and over my legs. It was difficult for me to not break out in laughter and scare them away. Eventually they would get used to me and begin to become tame.

We had two riding horses named Buster and Snips. Snips was younger and a bit flighty and liked to run. Buster was an exceptionally well trained and gentle horse which would tolerate all ages. As soon as I was old enough to keep myself in the saddle I would ride him at a walk around and around our driveway. Mother would actually leave me alone with him as I rode.

There was a day when George and I were riding out in the field next to Papa and Mama’s place when George decided to let Snips run. He rode bareback while I had to have a saddle so that I could hold onto the pommel horn since my feet didn’t reach the stirrups. As soon as George galloped away Buster took off at a run following them and I was panicked! I screamed at George to stop, to no avail. I just couldn’t handle the jolting of Buster’s body at that speed and I would start to slide off one side of the saddle, pull myself back up, then slide to the opposite side, back and forth, until I finally slipped completely off and hit the ground. Buster was so well trained that as soon as my weight left his back he came to an immediate halt. His rear hoof hit me in the lip, but that was the extent of my injuries. I was so mad at George that I screamed my curses at him through my tears!

That was not my only mishap riding. When I was around six or seven, I was riding Buster around the driveway when we passed too close to my tricycle. The handlebar caught in a saddle stirrup which spooked him, causing him to jolt and run until the tricycle came loose and he came to that sudden stop. Unfortunately, I didn’t stop with him and went sailing to the ground! Broken arm number one! I put my arms out break my fall and snapped one of the bones in my left forearm. Mother broke her driving ban to take me to the local clinic in Vidor, where I had my first X-ray. The doctor used a cloth of ether to put me to sleep. It would take some time to become accustomed to having a cast from my elbow to my hand. Probably the most aggravating part of the situation was not being able to scratch my arm or hand when they became itchy!

Our two milk cows were similar to the horses in nature. Beauty, a Jersey, was very docile and gentle, while the Guernsey, named Sissy, had a cantankerous side to her and could be pretty ornery when she had a mind to. While Beauty’s horns grew, typically, straight out from her skull, Sissy had horns that arced forward and back toward the center. That fact was significant in that one day I was in the barn while Kurt was preparing to milk them when Sissy decided to act up, by backing me up against the wall and sticking her horns into my ribs, one on each side. Fortunately, I had yelled at her and Kurt saw what was happening just in time to give her a heavy shove before she did major damage. She turned toward him, shaking her head antagonizingly, until he grabbed a piece of 2×4 and smacked her in the side of the head! I ended up with a couple of significant scrapes and some very sore ribs, but I learned to make certain that I had something to defend myself when Sissy was in the barn.

A nasty cow wasn’t my only nemesis. Along with the chickens, there was a time when we had two large White Leghorn roosters that thought they ruled the barnyard. They would often approach us with their wings spread and their heads erect, cackling and acting intimidating. They were very apt to peck us if we weren’t watching. Once again, when I was in the barn with Kurt one of them decided to show me who “ruled the roost” by stalking me back against the wall, then spreading his wings and jumping up to peck me on the chin. Astonished, I yelled out as he did the same thing again. Then, as though out of nowhere, Kurt flashed into view and landed a swift kick to that rooster, launching it all the way against an adjacent wall, leaving a trail of feathers. I don’t recall if the bird survived, but Kurt, it seemed, was my guardian angel when I was very young.