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THE LIFE OF ME, AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

C >> Clarence Johnson >> THE LIFE OF ME, AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY



THE LIFE OF ME

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Clarence Edgar Johnson

Copyright 1978

Clarence Edgar Johnson
2538 Chestnut
San Angelo, Texas 76901




DEDICATION

To

Ima, my wife

Virgil Dennis, our first son

David Larry, our youngest son

and especially to our late daughter,
Anita Joyce.




CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter
1. Grandparents, Parents, And Our First Farm
2. Early Childhood At The Flint Farm
3. At The Exum Farm After I Was Five
4. Social Living, Loving, Listening, And Learning
5. Books, Folklore, Medicine, And Dreams
6. Prosperity, Animals, Growing Up
7. Dry Year On The Texas Plains, 1917
8. Moved To Jones County. Picked Cotton In Oklahoma
9. Back To Our Lamesa Farm In 1919. School At Ballard
10. Sold Farm, Moved To Hamlin
11. Road Work At Gorman, Texas
12. My Inventions And High School Days
13. My Travels To The Gulf, McCamey, And Denver
14. Haul Maize, Repair Trucks, Turn Trucks Over
15. Got Married, Drove Truck, Farmed, Cattle Drive
16. At Royston Until World War II
17. World War II Was On. We Went to California
18. Back At Royston. Worked At Gin And For Neighbors
19. Tour Pike's Peak, Moved To Arkansas, Went To College




PREFACE

This writing grew out of a request from my daughter, Anita, that
I write to her concerning me, my family, my parents and their
families; how we lived, how we grew up; our ideals, our customs,
and our social life.

The original writings were in the form of letters written to
Anita during the last few years. When my sons, Dennis and Larry,
learned of the letters, they also asked for copies.

As I began writing, I soon realized that I knew very little about
the details of the lives of my parents and grandparents.

So I set out to tell my children a few things about myself and to
leave unmentioned some things which I do not want them to know
about me. I also included some things about a few kinfolks and
neighbors who had a part in molding the character whom my
children now refer to as "Dad."

It was hoped that the letters would aid in their better
understanding of how certain teachings and ideals had been handed
down through generations, and that they might better understand
why they grew up under those rules and customs.

Others also may be interested in the way one family lived in the
Southwest around the turn of the century and later.

Clarence Edgar Johnson

(Drawing) The house where I was born

(Photo) Smokehouse at the Flint farm. Clarence, Earl, Joel,
Albert, and Susie.

(Photo) Our Exum home

(Photo) The lake by our front yard

(Photo) Sunday morning, going to church

(Photo) At the Exum farm. Joel, Clarence, Earl, Albert

(Photo) Our merry-go-round

(Photo) At our home on the plains. Mama, William Robert, Ollie
Mae, Clarence, Albert, Joel, Earl




CHAPTER 1

PARENTS, GRANDPARENTS, OUR FIRST FARM

My Johnson grandparents reared nine children. Andrew was the
oldest and was a half brother to the other eight. Joe was
Grandma's first born, second was my father, William Franklin.
All but one of them lived and thrived and raised children.
That's why I have dozens of cousins.

When my father was born, the family lived in Bosque County,
Texas, somewhere about Meridian. They were ranchers and owned a
bunch of cattle. Some 20 years later we find the family in
Concho County somewhere near Paint Rock or in between Paint Rock
and where the little town of Melvin now stands.

At least two of the boys, Joe and Will, worked for the Melvin
brothers on their ranch. I have heard Papa tell of breaking
saddle horses for the brothers as well as trail driving near San
Angelo.

In the meantime the weather turned dry, grass became scarce, and
the Johnsons drove their cattle to Indian Territory, (Oklahoma)
looking for grass in about the year of 1894--that is, all but
Joe. He stayed with his job in Texas.

About a year after the family moved to Oklahoma, Will Johnson got
a neighbor boy to go with him back to their place in Texas to
bring another wagon load of household goods. They were gone
about two weeks.

While the family was in Oklahoma, Will--who was about 20--taught
school two terms at Nubbin Ridge, somewhere near Duncan.
Simpson, being about 17 at the time, was not about to go to
school to a teacher who was his older brother, so he saddled his
horse and slipped away back to Melvin's ranch, to be with his
brother Joe. He said he got tired of riding but not nearly as
tired as his horse. The journey was about 300 miles. He was on
the trail three days and nights and had to stop at times to let
his horse rest. When he got to the ranch, Joe wrote to the
family saying that Simpson was with him and for them not to
worry. They had suspected where he had gone but were not sure.

My Gaddie grandparents reared five children, three boys and two
girls. Emma, my mother, was next to the youngest. Hugh was her
younger brother. When my mother was born the family lived in
Larue County, Kentucky, near Hodgensville. Their farm joined the
Lincoln farm. She and Abraham Lincoln drew water from the same
well but not at the same time. The Lincoln family had moved away
some years before the Gaddies moved there. The well was on the
fence row between the two farms.

When Emma was four years old her family moved to Dallas County,
Texas. Then they moved to Grayson County, where Emma started to
school at age seven. When she was nine they moved back to their
old home place in Kentucky. Again, when she was 13, they moved
to Dallas County, and at age 16 the family moved to a farm some
eight miles southeast of Duncan, Oklahoma.

About the same time the Gaddie family moved to their farm near
Duncan, we find the Johnson family leaving Texas where the
weather turned dry and the grass became scarce and the Johnsons
drove their cattle to Indian Territory looking for grass, and
they found that grass near Duncan, Oklahoma.

They stayed in Oklahoma about four years and during that time at
least two of the boys were busy at things other than sitting
around watching cattle grow. Andrew had married a girl named
Mary, and Will had met this pretty little freckle faced girl from
Kentucky.

So then, as you can see, here in farming and cattle country near
Duncan is where the Johnsons met up with the Gaddies. This is
where a schoolteaching cowboy named Will met a country farmer's
daughter named Emma Lee. This is where the falling in love took
place. And this is where Will married Emma in the fall of 1896.
She was 18, he was 22. They were my parents.

After living in Oklahoma that four years, Grandpa Johnson went
back to Texas looking for land to buy. He found what he wanted
and bought 1,000 acres of unimproved land in Jones County about
three miles southeast of Hamlin. Then he went back to Oklahoma
to get the family.

So by the time Grandpa Johnson was ready to start his journey
back to Texas with his family, the family had increased by two
daughters-in-law and two grandchildren. Will and Emma had a son,
Frank, six weeks old. Andrew and Mary had a daughter, Ruth, only
three weeks old. Some thought that Ruth was too young to make
the trip in the cold of winter. But they all came through in
wagons and drove their cattle. That was in January of 1898.

In later years Mama told me that she thought she would have
frozen to death if it had not been for Frank in her lap to help
keep her warm. The trip took two weeks in the dead of winter and
it rained every day of the trip.

Since there were no improvements on the Johnson land, they all
rented other farms for a year or two while they made
improvements. Papa and Mama rented and farmed one year in Fisher
County. Much of the well water in that county tastes so strongly
of gypsum that people have to haul their drinking water from the
better wells. So, the story is told that when they were driving
their covered wagon to Fisher County, they stopped and asked a
man, "How far is it to Fisher County?"

The man said, "You are still about ten miles away."

"How can we tell when we get there?"

"You will see farmers hauling water in barrels in wagons."

"Have they always had to haul water in Fisher County?"

"Yes, but during the World Flood they didn't have to haul it so
far. The flood water came within a half-mile of Roby."

I guess Grandpa farmed at least one year in Fisher County. They
tell me that Ed, one of the younger boys, went to school in that
county at White Pond one year.

Grandpa had bought the l,000 acres for all the family. Andrew
and Will were the first ones to buy their portions of 100 acres
each. The raw land had cost $3 an acre. Papa's farm cost him
$300.

Papa was fast becoming a good carpenter and he did his part in
helping build a two-story house on Grandpa's portion of the land.
The house is still in good shape and has a family living in it 77
years later.

Andrew first lived in a dugout on his 100 acres. They used the
dugout for a kitchen and storm cellar many years after they built
a house beside it.

Papa's land was in the southeast corner of the 1,000 acre tract.
He built his house about a quarter-mile south of Grandpa's house.
It is still standing also. Since that time some of the Johnson
boys and girls have bought and sold and swapped portions of the
land. But most of it is still in the hands of the Johnson boys
and girls or their sons and daughters.

After farming in Fisher County in the year of 1898, Papa moved to
a farm in Jones County, a mile northeast of Neinda, and farmed
there in 1899. And there, in a half-dugout, my sister, Susie,
was born.

Many years later as we would drive by the farm in our hack, on
our way to church at Neinda, our parents would point out the old
dugout and explain, "There is where we used to live." Year after
year as the old dugout deteriorated and began caving in, we still
went by it on our way to church and there was always something
fascinating about it to us kids as one or more of us would point
to the old dwelling and say, "There's where Mama and Papa used to
live."

During the two years my parents farmed away from their own farm,
they spent many days of hard work driving back and forth,
building a house, clearing some of the land, and building fences
on their land. And of course they had to have a well drilled and
put up a windmill and water tank.

At the end of that two years, they took their two children and
moved into their new house on the first farm they had ever owned.
And Papa, with the aid of an efficient helpmate, continued to
improve the farm. They built a big barn and shelters for cows,
hogs, horses, poultry, a hack, buggy, harness, and other things.
And the family continued to grow. George was born in 1900 and a
daughter in 1901. George lived 26 months and died with the
croup. The daughter lived only two weeks. Earl was born in 1902
and Joel in 1904. This was the state of the family in 1906, the
year Grandpa died in his home, and the year I was born. Aunts,
Uncles, and cousins lived on three sides of us, and Grandma lived
in the big house a quarter-mile north of us.

My parents were getting quite a collection of children by this
time. And it is not always easy to find family hand-me-down
names for that many kids. So by the time the seventh one arrived
they had to go outside the family for a name. I don't know how
far out they went but they came back with what I have always
thought was a "far out" name, Clarence Edgar, and they pinned it
on me. I was born January 11, 1906, in Jones County, West Texas,
in the middle of a large family. Frank was eight years old when
I was born, Susie was seven, Earl three, and Joel 16 months.
There were three others born later, Albert, Ollie Mae, and
William Robert. So, as you can see, my parents thrived and grew
rich--if you count children as wealth. There were ten of us,
eight of whom attained full size and strength.

Five years after I was born, we moved to another farm about a
half-mile east. Albert was born at the first place we lived and
William Robert was born at the second farm. I know Ollie Mae was
born sometime in between those two boys, but I don't know where
she was born. I'm sure it wasn't between the two farms.
Wherever it was, she became one of us and is still with us.

Mama told me that the $300 they paid Grandpa for the farm was the
hardest debt they ever had to pay off.

Money was hard to come by for a young couple just starting out.

Mama also told me all about how her family had moved from
Kentucky to Dallas County, Texas, then again to Grayson County,
then back to Kentucky, then again to Dallas County, and finally
to Oklahoma.

During all this time Mama's younger brother Hugh was trailing
along two years behind her. They were seven and nine years old
when they moved back to their old home in Kentucky. There were
200 acres in the farm, and these two kids had four years in which
to explore the meadows, the hills, the streams, and the
woodlands. There were three springs of water, acres and acres of
wild berries, wild nuts, cherries, peaches, apples, and papaws.
There were many kinds of birds as well as coons and skunks. And
for delicious food, there were swamp rabbits and opossums.

I was a young boy when Mama first told me that Hugh was her
favorite brother. It didn't mean much to me at that time. But
after I was a grown man, she told in detail how she and Hugh had
roamed together over the old farm during those four years, how
they had picked wild berries, and how they had carried them to
the store in Hodgensville and had sold them for ten cents a
gallon.

Emma's older sister and an older brother had long since married
and lived far away. Henry was still at home but he was older
than Emma and too busy at other things to be interested in that
kid stuff. No wonder Hugh was her favorite brother. They had
played together, explored together, and had grown up together.

When I was young I heard Mama tell that her brother Hugh was shot
to death one day while out on his horse. I didn't know whether
the Gaddies were living in Kentucky, Texas, or Oklahoma when he
got shot. When I heard how Hugh had died, I was old enough to
know about Kentucky moonshiners, Texas cattle rustlers, and
Oklahoma desperadoes. I wondered if any of them had played a
part in his death, but I didn't ask any questions .

Mama told me later that Hugh was a cowboy, had gotten his pay and
was riding home when a man shot him in the back and took his
money.

I was sorry I had ever wondered.

Mama told me that her brother Henry and the blacks around Duncan
were not very friendly toward each other. At least one time, the
blacks held hands and formed a human chain across the road to
keep Henry from coming by. But Henry whipped up his horses and
drove right through the crowd. After that he carried a long
blacksnake whip to use on them if they ever got close to his
wagon again.

Part of the tradition that was handed down to us from the Gaddies
and the Johnsons was that there were only three things to drink--
water, sweet milk, and buttermilk. You might include clabber if
you like. But then, clabber was more of an "eat" than a drink.
Soda pop was for the wealthy and foolhardy, and coffee was not
permitted for three reasons: it cost money, it was unnecessary
and it was not good for you. Money was for necessities. Any
drinks stronger than these mentioned were strictly forbidden.

Even the sound of the word "whiskey" carried with it an inkling
of sin and dishonor. Whiskey without drunkenness was improbable,
and drunkenness was about as low as a person could go.

Mama grew up to hate whiskey because of its effect on men and
because it tasted bad. However, there was always a jug of it
under her father's bed--for medical use only. Any symptom of
disease was treated immediately with whiskey. Mama hated the
taste of it.

Mama told us about a man--perhaps an uncle--who was sick in bed
and who was fond of whiskey. As he lay in bed, a few friends and
kinfolks stopped by to see him. And one by one he asked them to
mix him a little toddy. They did.

And wouldn't you know it, five or six toddies all in one man at
one time made the man forget he was sick on disease and it made
him fairly sick on whiskey which was what he had planned to be.

After I came into the Johnson family, Mama's people lived so far
away I didn't get to know much about them.

We didn't get around to visiting them much. But I remember we
did go to Duncan one time to visit some of them. It seems that
the trip was made in about the year of 1916. We went in our 1914
model Reo car.

I guess I was about ten years old. I don't remember much about
the people we went to see, but I remember the white rabbits and
prairie dogs they had for pets. They were running all over the
place. I suppose it was Uncle Henry's place and I believe the
pets were Leo's, Uncle Henry's son. Leo was perhaps four years
older than I was--maybe even more.

I think I met Mama's sister and her older brother, Will, a time
or two; I'm not sure. But Henry was the only one of them I ever
really knew.

Henry and his wife, I think her name was Emma also, came to
Hamlin to visit Mama and Papa a couple of times after I was
married. Then, when I was attending college in Arkansas, my
wife, Ima, and our youngest son, Larry, and I stopped by to visit
Uncle Henry two or three times.

During one of those visits, Uncle Henry went out into his garage
and took a book from the bottom of an old trunk. The book was
similar to a ledger, about seven inches wide and ten inches long,
with a flexible cover. In the book were 54 songs, handwritten
with pen and ink, most of them in my father's hand, a few written
by my mother.

It was my father's book which he had carried to parties and
singings while he lived in Oklahoma. When he heard a song he
liked, he would write the words in his book of songs. Other boys
and girls had their books of songs also, including Uncle Henry.

Uncle Henry also had a mother-in-law--or rather, I think it was
his mother-in-law-to-be--who gave him trouble at times. One time
she got mad at him for some reason and burned his book of songs.
So Papa loaned Henry his song book.

Then the Johnsons moved away to Texas before Henry returned the
book. When he was through with the book, Henry hesitated to make
a 400 mile round trip in a covered wagon just to return a
borrowed book. So he didn't return it right away. He put it
away for safekeeping. It was forgotten until Henry mentioned it
during a visit to Texas to see Mama and Papa 50 years later

Mama was about 80 years old when Uncle Henry took the book from
the old trunk and asked me to take it to her. Papa had died many
years before.

I have one copy of those songs and there is a copy of them filed
away at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville.

Neither the Johnsons nor the Gaddies had any part in the Oklahoma
land rush. That took place in 1889, a few years before either
family arrived in Oklahoma.

I never once saw my Grandma Gaddie. She passed away in Oklahoma
in 1912. She suffered a sunstroke and died two weeks later.

Some years after that, Grandpa Gaddie came to live with us in
Texas. I don't remember exactly when he came, but he passed away
while we were living on the Exum place, and we moved from there
in 1917. He seemed quite old, maybe old ahead of his time
because of hard work and the severity of life at that time in our
history.

Anyhow, he could do light odd jobs about the farm. There were
always outside chores to be done. We kids were glad to have him
help us do them. And he kept us kids company at times when there
was no work to be done.

But Grandpa was much more of a stranger to us than Grandma
Johnson was. She lived only a half-mile away; we grew up with
her. But I guess we hadn't seen Grandpa Gaddie more than once or
twice before he came to live with us.

Grandpa was never much of a bother in any way. He was never
bedfast and never had to be waited on. It didn't take much to
feed him. We raised almost everything we ate and he brought
plenty of clothing with him when he came. The entire family
didn't require much money, and we had plenty of other things in
life.

Grandpa was agreeable and compatible. He was never grouchy. He
had a room and a bed of his own in our home and he soon became
just one of the family and was accepted by all of us.

Then one morning Grandpa didn't come to breakfast. A knock on
his door brought no answer. Had he slipped out and gone for a
walk? No one had noticed him out anywhere. This was unusual for
Grandpa. He was usually there on time for meals so the rest of
us wouldn't have to wait for him. In our home no one ever
started helping his plate at meal time until all were seated and
the blessing was asked.

Papa knocked on Grandpa's door again, then he called to him, but
there was still no answer. As Mama and Papa opened the door to
his room, there he was, still in bed, still asleep--but he was
not breathing. It seemed that Grandpa just went to sleep and
didn't wake up.

Papa went to Hamlin that morning in a wagon and brought back a
casket. The women dressed Grandpa in his best suit. Some men
went to the graveyard and dug a grave. Others went to tell the
preacher, and found him plowing in his field. He stopped plowing
and went home to clean up and eat dinner.

Grandpa was placed in his casket and loaded into a wagon. Then
about three o'clock we drove him to the Neinda graveyard where
the preacher and other friends were gathered. And there, that
afternoon, we laid him away in his final resting place.

It's amazing sometimes, how a very little thing can stick in the
memory of a little boy, and that's the way it was this time, just
a simple little statement made by an older brother one morning--a
couple of mornings after we had buried Grandpa. Four of us boys
slept in the west room of our home, the room usually referred to
as "the boys room." We boys were getting out of bed and getting
dressed when Frank said, "Well, Grandpa's in heaven by now."
That was all he said. That was enough. After that, an air of
reverence filled the room. And as we finished dressing, we left
the room one by one, in complete silence. Frank had no way of
knowing how much I honored and respected him for that little
statement and the thought that went with it. I was too young and
timid to know how to tell him.

That's about all of my childhood memories concerning the Gaddies.
In later years I had a desire to learn more about my mother's
people. But as I began digging into census records, I soon found
that Grandma Gaddie had a first cousin by the name of Jesse
James-
-yes, that's right--"The" Jesse James. So my desire suddenly
changed to fear and I gave up digging into records.




CHAPTER 2

EARLY CHILDHOOD AT THE FLINT FARM

The first farm we owned, the one where I was born, is still
spoken of as the Flint place, because we sold it to a family
named Flint. So at times I may refer back to it as the Flint
place.

Since I was only five when we moved away from the Flint place, I
remember only a few things which took place while we lived there.

I remember we had old hens that laid eggs for us to go gather up
and take to the house in a bucket. Sometimes the bucket would
get so heavy I couldn't carry it. And sometimes we had to get
eggs out from under old setting hens that wouldn't get off their
nests. They would peck me to keep me away. I was too little to
get those eggs. Mama or some of the bigger kids would have to
get them.

But if the old setting hen was off the nest, I knew which eggs to
get and which ones to leave in the nest. The ones she was
setting on to hatch out little chickens were marked all over with
a lead pencil. The ones that didn't have marks on them were
fresh eggs that had been laid that day.

Some city folks are confused at times about some of the words we
farmers use. For instance, take the words sitting and setting.
The truth is, if an old hen is on an egg that she has just laid,
and if she is planning to go away in a minute or two, she is just
sitting on the egg. But if she is on the egg or eggs with the
intention of hatching out little chickens, then she is not
sitting, she is setting.

Even some people who are supposed to be smart don't know farm
words. In college English, the teacher had us making sentences
using certain double words like, "_Look up_ a word in the
dictionary." And "_Hand over_ your gun."

I made a sentence like, "The cow wouldn't _give down_ her milk."

The teacher gave me a zero on the sentence. And when I asked her
why, she said, "A cow can not _hold up_ her milk nor _give down_
her milk."

I told her, "Lady, you may know your English, but you sure don't
know milk cows."

Now back to the Flint farm.

I was so little that, when I would throw out corn and maize seed
to feed the chickens, I couldn't throw it far enough away from
me. Some of it would fall at my feet. So the big chickens would
crowd around my feet to pick up the grains and I was afraid of so
many big hens so close to me. And I really got scared when they
started pecking the feed out of my feed bucket. Sometimes I
would drop the bucket and run away.

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