Ben Richardson told me he was moving to Louisiana and asked if I might want to buy his farm—27 and a half acres, with a small old house on it. I sat with the idea for a while before bringing it up to Lucille. When I finally did, she listened quietly. The next morning, she looked at me and said, “You want to buy that farm, don’t you?”
I told her I did, but I was worried—about the cost, about her and the children going without. She put her arms around me and said, “I’m not afraid, Charley.”
So I made the deal. Paid $350 for it. The place was fenced with three-strand barbed wire, strong enough to keep livestock penned during the crop season. The house wasn’t much—just three rooms with wooden shutters—but Lucille never once complained.
From the moment we had land of our own, something changed in us. We still worked just as hard, maybe harder, but it didn’t feel like work anymore. We’d rise before the sun—Lucille made breakfast while I fetched water, milked the cow, fed the chickens. Then we worked the fields together, side by side.
Lucille could pack a lunch that made you forget how tired you were. Cold cornbread, butter, a jar of peas—tasted like heaven after a long morning of plowing.
She made soap from lye and grease. She scrubbed floors with ashes and used a mop I made from corn shucks and a plank. Our ironing board was just a slab across two benches. Still, Lucille made that old shack shine. Made it feel like home.
In town, I sold extra meat and vegetables. One day I surprised her with a pie safe—$12 at the hardware store. Glass doors, a drawer for linens, and screens to keep flies out. The first real piece of furniture I ever bought her, and I’ve never forgotten how her eyes lit up.
Later, I got us a buggy—not new, but sturdy. It helped with my rounds in town, and Lucille loved taking rides with one of the children beside her.
Those were good years. Around 1914. We didn’t have much, but we had everything that mattered.
