June brings on something called July. And this July will be just like a lot of other Julys. Hot. Real hot. Makes me remember the July of 1943. When I was “stuck” down on Goat Ridge in Leflore County at my grandparents. And July 4 th was coming up. Not that anyone down there seemed to notice. In later years Gerald would compare Grandpa to the Jap general who commanded the slave labor in the movie about building the Bridge Over the River Kwai. We of course were the hapless prisoners of war. Slave labor if you will.

We did hard farm work down on grandpa J. T.’s farm. Everything from cutting sprouts, hoeing crops to digging potatoes. Grandpa and Grandma Ruby had a big garden, but I really had not noticed that he had also planted about a billion acres of potatoes in a separate large patch. Potatoes which had to be dealt with, plowed up and collected. He said he would do the plowing up. Used old Red, his mule, to pull his plow. That was his way of digging them up. We would gather them up in our large buckets and lug them over to one of the wagons. He had a two-wagon farm.

The number of spuds in that field were like the night stars in the sky. Infinite. I don’t remember how many days we spent lugging the buckets of these spuds to the wagons. When a wagon got full enough it was towed off by old Red and Mike (his other beast of burden) and we unloaded these spuds in various places, including the “tater house.” Some of these large and good potatoes had been sold to a grocer in Wister. I volunteered to ride along to see for myself where he was taking them, but my Grandpa Bullard knew me for what I was. A lazy 8-year-old who liked riding in the wagon better than picking up potatoes.

Many days later we got it all done. The night we finished, our clean up included a bath in a large metal tub on the back porch. Grandma poured a kettle of hot water in it (so it wouldn’t stop our hearts) and thanks to the hard work of Grandma and Aunt Inez, Gerald and I emerged clean and fresh. Supervising the event was 3-yearold Gail. She and Aunt Inez were there because the war had taken Uncle Tracy to duty and that was where the war had stranded her.

Come morning of July 4, 1943. The weather had turned off a little bit cooler and we found ourselves eating homemade ice-cream out on the front porch. The iceman had left off a block of ice making this treat possible. Imagine!

Then I noticed that there were buckets of white and grey paint on the porch as Grandpa J.T. casually announced that we were painting the porch today. “Gives us something to do,” he said. He meant Gerald and me. So, we worked out there while he rested, ate icecream, and watched us paint. I got Gerald aside and reminded him again of my being ready to go home. Back to Centrahoma. Back to my mother and freedom but he reminded me that we were sent down there on one way bus tickets, and he had no idea if we would ever get to go home again. When I learned of his concerns, that he too was worried about us ever seeing home again, I got more worried. In spite of the white paint, we were smearing on the porch posts, my mood was memorably dark and bleak. I was homesick.

It was then that I heard it. The distinctive rattle of our old car. It was coming down Goat Ridge Road. Our beloved black 1935 Ford V-8. It was Dad. He was there to collect us and take us back to Centrahoma. He also casually informed us that Mom had birthed a baby girl during our absence. Her name was Linda Kay. I pondered all this news as I quickly packed my “box” to go home. I had failed to notice Mom was with child. And no one had bothered to mention it and I never had been told how these miracles worked. But that was the way it was that summer of 1943.

I wasn’t at all sure, in that hot summer, how all this would work out for me but for the moment it meant my current war against unwanted sprouts, uncovered watermelon plants and un-dug potatoes was over. I was going home to my Mom. J. T. could take over the farm now. I needed to meet my new sister.

As we drove off a few minutes later I remember seeing Grandma, Inez and Gail waving and smiling at us while Grandpa was opening another can of paint and yes, later I found he had finished painting each post white and applied the battleship grey to the deck. It looked good too. But not as good as Centrahoma and my brand-new baby sister did that day, July 4, 1943.

Have a good summer and be sure and go to church Sunday. You never know what God has in store for you.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com