The Way It Was in the Forties
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I wasn't planning to write a book. I would just write a short story for my sister, Hazel. We were at the annual Bowman Christmas Dinner where I often told Christmas stories. Hazel asked me to write my favorite Christmas story for her. I wrote for her my favorite, "Radio Flyer." "Radio Flyer" was a big hit with family and friends and I was encouraged to write more stories about growing up on a rural farm in Virginia in the forties. The memories of this way of life would be lost if they were not recorded. I continued to write stories that I remembered as "The Way It Was in the Forties." I now ha...
I wasn't planning to write a book. I would just write a short story for my sister, Hazel. We were at the annual Bowman Christmas Dinner where I often told Christmas stories. Hazel asked me to write my favorite Christmas story for her. I wrote for her my favorite, "Radio Flyer." "Radio Flyer" was a big hit with family and friends and I was encouraged to write more stories about growing up on a rural farm in Virginia in the forties. The memories of this way of life would be lost if they were not recorded. I continued to write stories that I remembered as "The Way It Was in the Forties." I now have enough stories to produce a book, thanks to my family and friends. My goal was to capture the mind of the reader and take him back to those days. I wanted the reader to feel the summer heat, the winter cold and the cool visits to the spring. The reader would feel the aching muscles, the tired body after a long hard day on the farm. When we visited the "Molasses Makers" the clanky noise of the metal gears on the press echoed in my ears as I watched the dark sorghum juice flow from the press to the cooking pan. I saw large bowls of food on the side porch, so I stayed on the porch and ate with the blacks. My Father said grace for the table inside and one of the black men prayed at my table. He talked to God as if He were present with us. He gave thanks for His Son, Jesus; for blessings and food. The other men began to chant "Amen, brother', now yore talking" and an echo of "Amen's." The air permeated with the stench of their sweaty bodies mixed with the great smell of all that food. It was impossible to describe how hard my Mother and Father worked to survive and rear eleven children. That way of life has disappeared from the American scene. You would have enjoyed growing up with the nine Bowman boys and two girls. Clyde just couldn't stay out of trouble. By the time he was out of one mess, he was off to more mischief. Raising tobacco was extremely hard work and my family raised lots of it. Every product raised was labor intensive and carrying water from the spring was no small matter, either.
