Chapter 3 Harold Brown Memoir – 1947

My first remembered home was an old shot-gun house. The planks were rough sawed timber that shrunk as they cured. The shrinking boards left a gap that could be seen through when the newspaper that was used as wall paper began to tear away from the wall.

The floor wasn’t much better. In fact I’m sure it must have been worse. My sister tells of seeing a chicken come in and roost under the house in the late afternoon. She was inside the house looking down through the floor! Hey, in the words of some commercial I remember seeing on television,“It doesn’t get any better than this”. I think it does!

After one overnight trip we came home to find those same birds roosting inside the house. I don’t know who left the door open and I can’t tell you who cleaned up, but I can tell you that my sister and brother never forgot how dirty it was.

Jackie Robinson was the first negro baseball player to play in the major leagues. Was his housing as bad as ours? The real challenge comes from within for all of us. Some paths are just more difficult than others. Heads or tails, it’s still the same coin.

My brother was always giving me helpful instructions. One frosty morning on his way to catch the school bus he gave me some valuable advice. I know he had to get up early and split fire wood for the pot belly stove that we had in the tiny living room. Maybe that was part of his reason for being so helpful that morning. He was probably tired before he ever got to school.

For some reason that escapes me, I wanted to catch a bird. The first flying saucer sighting was documented this year. Do you think there is any connection? Every child thinks they need a pet. Something to love and be loved in return. Sounds like the words to a song doesn’t it. Big brother says to me, “what ya doing” and I informed him that I wanted to catch a bird, but they would not stay still long enough for me to grab one. He says, “pour salt on its tail”. How stupid of me. Everyone in the world probably knew how to catch a bird but me. Why hadn’t I asked my brother before. He knew every- thing.

Mother was more than happy to share her salt with me. She never asked what I wanted with it and I didn’t tell her until I came in hours later. Mother could tell that her baby boy was very unhappy about the days events. “What’s the matter Little Harold Boy?” she asked. That’s when I learned that it wasn’t a physical problem but a mental one. It was a lesson well learned and I was well on my way to an education worth bragging about.

Earl Tupper probably had the same problem when he tried to catch birds. That is most likely why he invented Tupperware and started having Tupperware party’s. He took his life in his own hands and made our lives better with his special touch. The drive-in theater was becoming the business of choice. What a year! Our lives will be measured by how we treated those that could do us absolutely no good.

Henry Ford died and didn’t leave us one cent of his six hundred million dollar fortune.

One thought on “Chapter 3 Harold Brown Memoir – 1947

  1. Jerry Pack says:

    Your dad’s drrry sense of humor is all over this. I miss our times together and our crazy carpool! Hope you had a wonderful Christmas.

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