Chapter 4 Harold Brown Memoir – 1948

Babe Ruth died and I didn’t even know who he was, but I knew that my brother Garvis was the man of the house. Never confuse what you think with fact! I don’t know when we got electricity, I just remember the electric wire that hung down from the ceiling. It had a string that when pulled would make the glass ball glow taking away the dark. That light was never left on during the day and certainly turned off when the last person departed the room.

Garvis dug the two foot deep quarter mile long ditch that brought running water to our back porch. We had water to drink and bath all under one tap. When the pan was full or the water was dirty you simply threw it in the back yard and started over again. The dipper was there for family and guests to use, just drink and replace. Could anyone ask for more than running water and electricity! As we raised our expectations our achievements became greater.

The garden in the back yard wasn’t for looks. It was a matter of survival. We had squash two times a day when squash was in season. I loved it, hated it, then loved it again years later. Same with turnip greens. I never remember seeing watermelons in mother’s garden. Nature Boy was a popular song that year. Could they have been talking about me? How far apart can our lives be from our dreams?

4 thoughts on “Chapter 4 Harold Brown Memoir – 1948

  1. “Never confuse what you think with fact!”
    Yes Mr. Brown. Perception isn’t reality is isn’t. Like gravity in space isn’t true gravity. It does the trick. But we know its a trick. How many times I’ve been content with the trick…only to want what is truly real at the end of the trip.
    Owen, your Father’s memoirs are so rich with perspective and stark light. Thank you so much for sharing his life after death. Legacy!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s