June 1, Oh Happy Day!
(In the life of this mill village boy)
By Bill Shepard
Barefoot days were here. The open fields, woods, and pasturelands were beckoning! Wild plums and blackberries would soon be in the offering. The waters in Swift Creek were already warming and the village wash hole would soon be a place of activity. I could hardly wait!
Mama always set a date for her boys to begin barefoot time. It was the last day of May. I think it was sort of a reward for making our grades at school. Making our grades meant being promoted to the next grade level.
Bill Shepard
Tests were given twice each year by the teacher to determine if a child was ready to move to a higher-grade level. Tests were given in mid January and again during the last week of May. (The process was much different than it is now!) On the last day of May, the tests being over, decision had been made, and children would be given their report cards. On the back of each card the words, Promoted or Retained were written. It was a happy and sad day for the children. For as long as I attended school, I was among the glad on that final day of the school year.
Three full months of pure delight lay ahead for this mill village boy. The thought of fishing and swimming in the waters of Swift Creek danced in my head. The long and hot summer days that lay ahead would be made bearable by splashing in the cool, clear, often muddy waters of the little creek. It was indeed the village Recreation Center, unmatched by any I have ever known.
Arriving home on that last day of school I would cheerfully present my report card to my mama, and she would smile. Outside, on the back porch, I would free my feet from the prison they were locked in. It would feel so good to touch the bare earth with my bare feet. I would dig my toes into that cool earth and then chase around the yard a few times. Ah, blessed springtime, and summer that lay just ahead.
It was time to examine last year’s fishing equipment. I would need to put a new line on my cane fishing pole. I might consider if I would need a new pole; if so, a trip to town and the Old Barn on N. Main would be necessary. That could come later. Right now, there were other things that needed attention.
The vegetable garden that was started on Good Friday was up and growing, and so was the grass. I would need to hoe the grass and pull the weeds, then rake them from between the rows. I was acquainted with that process. I had done it each year until I was old enough and big enough. The tomatoes, squash, and corn were already showing signs of maturity. The butter bean vines would soon need trellising, and then the June bugs would arrive. I would have fun by tying a string to their legs and watching them fly. I would pretend they were airplanes. It would be July before the beans were ready to pick.
One of my daily chores was to pull weeds from the surrounding fields to be given to the pigs that were growing in a pen near the house. Every year, since I could remember, Dad had purchased two small piglets from a nearby farmer and brought them home. I liked to watch them play in their pen, and listen to them squeal when I would throw feed to them. By Thanksgiving and Christmas they would have grown to be fat hogs. That was still a long ways off.
The green plums and blackberries would soon begin to ripen and I knew just where to go to pick them. They would be so good and tasty, and Mama would use them to make jelly and jam. Mama would bake a layer cake and spread blackberry jam between the layers. It would be so good. Everything that Mama cooked was good!
July was the target day for watermelons to arrive on the village. Nearby farmers would load their wagons with the precious fruit of the vine and bring them to the village to sell. I always looked forward for that day to arrive!
The long summer vacation from school afforded time for the village children to work in the fields and earn their own spending money. As soon as the tobacco fields were ready for harvest, I would find work at a nearby farm. There was much work to be done in the harvesting of tobacco. The farmers were glad to hire the children of the village to help. I could earn as much as ten cents an hour for my work. That was considered good wages in those days.
Following the work in the tobacco fields, cotton would begin to open, and would need picking. I always looked forward to cotton-picking time. Then there were the cornfields where we would pull fodder to be used for dry feed for the farmer’s livestock.
All of this was barefoot time for this village boy. Of course, as mentioned earlier, here would be time for fishing and swimming in the waters of Swift Creek.
Mr. Shepard is a native of Darlington, S.C., and a current resident of Piedmont, S.C. He is the author of “Mill Town Boy” and “Bruised”. He has been sharing his tales of growing up in Darlington for decades, and we are delighted to share them each week.
His mailing address for cards and letters is: Bill Shepard 324 Sunny Lane, Piedmont, S.C., 29673.