When Cotton Was King

                About fifty years ago, almost every farmer in the Big Bend grew cotton.  At that time, most of the work was done by hand from hoeing the weeds that sprang up among  the young plants and  "blocking"(thinning) the young plants to increase productivity to pulling the heavy, canvas sacks to collect the mature cotton that was “picked” in the late fall.

                Edmund Gates, Jr., my father, raised a few acres when I was a child. Always a practical man, Dad used the new Dodge Ram car to pull a trailer loaded with harvested cotton out of the field! My mother voiced opposition to its use  - unsuccessfully.

                Once the cotton was harvested, it was taken to Ralston to the cotton gin owned and operated by Gilbert Morris aka Junior. He began its operation when he moved his family from the Big Bend into Ralston in 1957. Farmers hauled in cotton from miles around to the gin in Ralston.

My father, Edmund Gates, Jr., posing in front of cotton bales. The photograph was
taken in 1963 by a couple from Colorado who were traveling through Oklahoma.

Gilbert "Junior" Morris with his trademark smile.
(Junior's younger daughter, Pam, was in Mrs.
Akers' 3rd grade group when I was in 2nd.)

The Morris family had lived on the place now owned by my mother, Bernyce Smith Gates. The Morris family lived in a four-room house that is now a storage building on Mother's farm. My parents purchased the farm from Gilbert “Gib” Morris, Junior’s father in 1959.

My father and LaRene Bernet Akers at my parents'
               60th wedding anniversary celebration in March of
               2008. Photograph by Catherine Marie Gates Leforce.

LaRene Bernet Akers taught a combined classroom of second and third graders.  A combined classroom was one financial strategy used by rural schools to stretch the educational dollar. Much to my delight, I studied in her classroom for both second and third grades. She began each morning with singing and musical movement activities. Those few minutes of music set a positive tone that carried me, as a little music lover, through the rest of the day.

Mrs. Akers planned a field trip to the cotton gin owned by Junior Morris. What a fun, educational opportunity she created for us! Junior Morris seemed pleased to answer patiently our questions. He had a genuine interest that we learn as much about cotton and the gin as our little minds could comprehend. He had known most of our parents longer than we had! The welfare of each child in the community mattered to him.

                In small communities, the residents realized their interdependence on one another. When a siren sounded, the town’s citizens began asking, “Who? Where? and Why?” At some time, each resident relied on someone else in the area for one reason or another.

                A few years after Dad sold his cotton to Junior at the cotton gin, the two of them began “pounding nails” together. For many years they combined their creative talents to custom-build homes.

Junior Morris and my father preparing to deliver
Christmas baskets in 1992.

                John Donne wrote in the early 1600s, “No man is an island.” A small community understood this philosophy. If a person harmed his neighbor, he harmed himself. When someone helped another resident, she built up the entire town. A strong community almost innately recognized a lifestyle of caring and giving benefited the whole population. Although many years have passed since cotton was king in this part of Oklahoma, people living today who retain and follow a similar attitude of Junior Morris, LaRene Akers, and my father will experience a satisfaction and peace with neighbors and friends and more importantly, an inner satisfaction and peace within themselves.

Thanksgiving in the 1970s

                 My sister, Angie Gates Bradley, and I were blessed as children to celebrate many holidays with both sides of our family. My maternal grandparents lived with us. My father's parents lived west of our farm just a few miles.

                 We enjoyed Thanksgiving and Christmas lunches usually with my paternal grandparents who lived only a few miles from our farm home. Their tiny house bulged with my extended Gates family members. Before my family arrived for lunch, the hunters in the Gates family had already been out for many hours. Often cousins matched up against each other for a fun game of football or outdoor activity to work off all the turkey, dressing, and outrageously high-caloric desserts. Professional football games blared from Grandma’s small television with over a half-dozen pairs of eyes trained on the tiny screen. The family storytelling appealed to me most. After several hours of mesmerized listening to stories I’d heard many times, sprinkled with frequent chuckles, my family said our good-byes and traveled east a few miles to Aunt Daisy’s home.

Daisy Rainey Rice with Wanda Rice Nix, her
oldest granddaughter.

Great-aunt Daisy Rainey Rice was the oldest sister of my grandma. We enjoyed the evening meal at Aunt Daisy’s home with my maternal grandparents.Since my mother was an only child, her parents celebrated the entire day with Aunt Daisy’s family. 

Many of Aunt Daisy’s children, her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were there. The farmhouse shook with the spirited conversation and cheerful laughter.

Bernadean Gates, Ruby Martin Rice, Vickie Rice
Cabell, and Dean Rice Littlestar

Aunt Daisy’s son, Elmer Rice, and my grandfather, Calvin, instigated a lively discussion of politics whether it was an election year or not. As one can imagine, the two of them agreed on most issues.

Wanda Rice Nix, Calvin Callcayah Smith, my maternal grandfather, Virgil Rice,
the youngest son of Daisy Rainey Rice, and Edmund Gates, Jr., my father.

Recently, a relative reminded me that she received a warning that my grandma, Gladys, was coming. Grandma engaged a person in a religious discussion; actually, she required an accounting of how the person’s relationship with Jesus was. As a result, relatives sometimes “dodged” her. Only later after having entered into a vibrant relationship with the Lord, the same relatives were some of Grandma’s biggest fans.

Maxine Hines Rice, Gladys Rainey Smith, my 
maternal grandma, and Helen Foust Rice.

I never recall sitting at a proper table at either of these family celebrations. I dined at the kids’ table for many years. As I aged, I ended up sitting occasionally at a TV tray. Neither home had Thanksgiving-themed stoneware or china, sterling silver serving trays, or beautifully cut crystal glassware. I never remember coordinated cloth tablecloths and napkins.  The aroma ambiance of these older farmhouses derived not from the latest potpourri or candles, but mouth-watering baking scents wafting through the rooms of both homes. 

Hazel Rice Goad Guthrie, Yvonne Goad Kelly, and
Robert "Bob" Rice.

The Thanksgiving celebrations centered on intangibles such as collective thankfulness for a strong family held together by an unbreakable bond forged by common ancestry and resilient love. They knew a family could never allow the peripheral – food, tableware, activities, or even conversation topics– to interfere with the solid relationships unique only to that particular family.  

Tom Cabell recalled meeting "Grandma Rice."
Her granddaughter, Vickie, introduced them and
Daisy asked Tom if he worked. He responded,
"Yes, I do." She then asked, "Do you farm?" to
which he answered, "No." Her reply was, "You
don't work." It takes a tough skin to get into
some families!

God has richly blessed the Gates, Rainey, and Rice families. May we make deliberate choices to interact daily with love for our families on earth and so mirror the love in the family of God.  The Apostle Peter instructed in I Peter 4:8 from The Message:

  Most of all, love each other as if your life depended on it. Love makes up for practically anything.

Aunts and Nieces

Parallel Friendships

Mary Elizabeth Gates Roberts - My Mother
recalled Mary's generosity to allow my father
to repeatedly use her new car when he was
dating her. Mary's car easily outclassed the
older pickup truck that he had.

                November 17 marks the 99^th birthday of Mary Elizabeth Gates Roberts. Aunt Mary was the second daughter born to my paternal grandparents. She was three years older than my father, Edmund Gates, Jr. She completed grade school at Woodland, the country school in the Big Bend community. Many girls, especially living in a rural area in that era, concluded their formal schooling; however, my grandfather, a strong proponent of education, brokered a deal with A. C. Hightower for Mary to live with his family in Fairfax, Oklahoma, and attend high school at Fairfax High School. The men agreed upon an amount for her room and board with her assisting Mrs. Hightower with household chores.

Mary in the car that
she couldn't back up!

                Mary formed a friendship with the Hightowers’ older daughter, Margaret Jane, known to her family and friends as “Janie.” Janie’s outgoing personality meshed with Mary who was quiet and reserved. Mary graduated from FHS in 1934 with Janie receiving her diploma in 1935.

                The two friends went their separate ways with Mary training as a beautician and working in that profession until her marriage to Marion Roberts in 1942. My father told of Mary driving from Arizona where her husband was based in World War II without being able to drive in reverse! He recorded this account in the retelling of his experiences as a B-17 crewman in the book, Okie Over Europe published by his nephew and namesake, Daniel Edmund Newland.

                Janie attended Hills Business College and then was employed in various positions in Fairfax, including working for her father in his grocery store. She moved to Washington, D.C. and worked for the F.B. I. in its identification department from 1941 until 1946. She married Albert Phillippe in 1946.

Margaret Jane Hightower Phillippe

                Aunt Mary and her husband lived abroad in many countries, including the Phillipines and Tripoli, Libya, because of his career in the United States Air Force. Janie never lived outside the United States, but she and her husband traveled extensively in Europe, Asia, and South America.

Both Mary and Janie loved music. Mary enjoyed playing the organ in her home, often accompanied by her husband on his harmonica. Janie continued taking piano lessons well into her seventies.

The similarity in these two friends continued in their love of painting. Mary’s granddaughters have cherished paintings, representative of their grandmother’s talent and artistic ability. Janie’s art classes and painting with her friends remained a high priority even as she advanced in years.

                Janie’s niece, Debbie Sue Hightower Ballinger, and I don’t remember not knowing each other. We began a strong friendship in first grade that lasted into high school. Even though we parted ways for our collegiate careers, we "had a blast" living next door to each other in West Bennett Hall for one semester at Oklahoma State University.

Debbie asked me to be her maid of honor at her wedding to Christopher Ballinger in 1980. Our friendship remains stronger than ever. We share prayer requests and keep in touch even though we live in two different states.

Debbie and I on her wedding day.

Debbie and I during one of those hilarious
study sessions.

                My dad would often say when Debbie came to “study” at my house during our high school years, “You girls are sure having a lot of fun. You laugh all the time.” We did and we still do. Almost any time we get to visit, we have several moments when we share hearty laughter together. 

         The scripture says, “A merry heart does good like a medicine.” Countless studies and articles promote this same line of thought. Hopefully, each reader has an enduring friendship like Aunt Mary and Janie Hightower Phillippe and one full of laughter as Debbie and I do. 

The Broken Limb of the Tomato Plant

Support the Weak

                Hubert Hutchens gave me four tomato plants that he raised from seeds. Four plants were about my limit for gardening this year. Dad’s care took priority over all other usual chores and activities on the farm.

                With consistent watering, the tomato plants began to thrive. I battled tomato worms, but the plants soon were blooming and producing tiny green tomatoes.

                I don’t remember how or why. I only remember the morning I went out to feed the cats and discovered the broken limb. I was heartsick, but purposed to try to intervene in this gardening catastrophe.

                I tried to bolster the limb the best I could with a tomato cage. Soon I glimpsed tiny green tomatoes on the broken limb. At that moment, I determined to do all I could to bring those little immature, green tomatoes to maturity. My eyes fell on the heavy weight for the cellar door. What a perfect support for these tiny tomatoes! (A more seasoned gardener would never have resorted to such a measure.)

                Then just this week I picked the first ripened tomato sustained by the cellar door weight instead of its broken limb. My! It tasted delicious.

 

                Frequently, I encounter broken people. In reality, we are all broken in one way or another. Of course, Jesus said he came to heal the brokenhearted when He read from Isaiah 61:1-2 in His first public appearance in the synagogue(worship place) in his hometown. Paul gave us the example of himself. He used the phrase, “Support the weak” in Acts 20:35.

                Isn’t that what we should do? Just like the cellar door weight, we who have more maturity in following Jesus have a great responsibility to uplift and support the weaker or less mature person. A couple of reminders are needed. The weight of the cellar door was required for an extended period. Supporting someone is an ongoing project. A consistent bearing up of the broken limb was needed. Spasmodic interest in strengthening a weaker individual results in ineffectiveness and leads to more disappointment in the person’s life. Just as the cellar door weight served as a constant, consistent support for the broken limb’s tomatoes, a mentor provides ongoing, reliable guidance insuring growth and maturity to bring the jeopardized person to a beautiful realization of goals and dreams. This results in a peaceful, contented life for both individuals.

                If God has brought into your life a person needing your support, begin by faithfully praying for that person each day and asking Him to give you wisdom in how He wants you to provide support. Patience and commitment to the person is required. Unlike the cellar door weight, change will occur in you, too.

All Veterans Are Worthy of Honor

Recently, I began delving into my paternal grandmother's ancestry. I discovered a Civil War veteran. Military records sometimes reveal something different than we may anticipate.
Remembering Horace Baron Tripp

Horace Baron Tripp was born on November 13, 1830 (or 1831, depending on which record one consults) in Newry, Maine to Alvan Baron Tripp and Almira Carter Tripp. Newry is located in Oxford County in Southern Maine, within 20 miles of the New Hampshire boundary.

Horace married Elizabeth Wood. Their first little son, Rufus Tripp, was born on April 6, 1858, in Illinois. Rufus was my maternal grandmother’s father. To view a photograph of him, see the blog posting entitled One of the Hardest Things for a Little Girl to Do that appeared on September 8, 2013.

In 1863, James Preston Tripp was born to Horace and Elizabeth. His tombstone can be seen on this link: http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=pv&GRid=83441188

My great-great grandfather, Horace Baron Tripp, served in the Union army during the later days of the Civil War. According to his military records, he was a farmer living  in Lima, Illinois. On March 3, 1865, this 34-year-old brown-headed, hazel-eyed father of two signed up at Quincy, Illinois, for one year of military service with the Illinois Infantry. My father was the shortest of the Gates brothers who lived to adulthood. Yet at 5’8, he would have towered over Horace, his maternal great grandfather, whose height is listed as 5’3 at the time of his induction!

The final entry in his military record is – Died August 13, 1865 at Little Rock, Arkansas of disease. This young husband and father left his family to serve in the Union Army for one year. Yet Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox, Virginia, a little over one month after Private Horace Baron Tripp mustered into the Illinois infantry.

In the days when the snail mail of today was the quickest method of communication, it is unlikely that Elizabeth or Little Rufus knew that he was lying deathly ill in a Union Army camp in the Confederate state of Arkansas. Baby James was too young to know. The thought of leaving his little family behind in a vulnerable situation must have plagued his thoughts as his weakened body battled disease in the heat of summer.

Then in my mind, I transition to the turn of the century, late October of 1900, as Little Rufus all grown up with a wife, Nettie, and three little girls of his own, lay dying of kidney failure. Thirty-five years earlier, he was the only child old enough to comprehend that his father’s death meant he would never come back. What a painful irony that his oldest daughter, my grandmother, Mamie Irene, was the only one of his daughters who could understand the permanent impact of his fatal illness. Perhaps since he was unable to tell his own father good-bye, he called Grandma to his bedside for that very purpose. Heartsick, he realized his precious little Mamie would have to grow up without a father just as he had, but at least, the two of them could have a parting moment full of love for one another – a parting that my grandmother would remember into her nineties.

One may infer that Horace never fought in a battle or saw much action as a soldier: nevertheless, although his service was ended abruptly by disease and not as a result of combat, he had the heart of a soldier and deserves to be honored.  As we begin November, anticipating the observance of Veterans Day, let us remember all veterans who served honorably--no matter the role they played or their length of service. 

The entry to the Little Rock National Cemetery where Horace Baron Tripp is buried
in Section 1, Site 637. (Note - His death is incorrectly listed as October 27, 1865,
on the findagrave.com site.)