LORAN SMITH: Remembrances of great Americans

DONOVAN — A little more than a mile from this rural community stands a white church, a steeped roof it’s only distinguishing feature. Travel the back roads of our state and you see many such churches which are silent sentries to the passing of time.

There is a mix of hardwoods, mostly oak, and pine surrounding the church property in this Northeast section of Johnson Country. Across the road from the Beulah Baptist Church sanctuary is a cemetery where many of my relatives, including my mother and father, have been laid to rest.

Recently, on a chilly but sunny and pleasant day, I drove down to visit the gravesites of my parents, a trip I had planned to make for some time — but there was a reluctance to follow through on making the drive. Knowing what the emotions would be, I found reasons for not making the journey. It was something I was moved to do, however.

Growing up, the centerpiece of the family’s social life was this lonely country church. My dad’s faith never wavered. It helped him, a Great Depression alumnus, soldier through hard times. Those times were not hardscrabble, but they were certainly not a bed of roses. He gloried in the work ethic, believing in the Biblical preachment that a “man shall earn his daily bread by the sweat of his brow.”

As I stood at their markers, I was overcome with a sense of guilt. Why have I been the beneficiary of such a good life? My thoughts rambled through tears. My parents would be considered “salt of the earth.” They had a simple goal: To teach their children to do right and act right and to enjoy a better life than they had experienced.

Milestone events were things taken for granted those days. There was the day my mother got a washing machine. In addition to being a housewife and mother, she worked alongside my father in the fields. That washing machine was literally a lifesaver.

Then the day came when an electric stove was installed. My brother and I gloried in that as well. It meant we no longer had to split stove wood for the kitchen stove. It was not a burdensome chore, but required energy and effort and was replete with relentless boredom. One of the happiest days of my life was to see my mother enjoy a dishwasher and air conditioning. Those came along in her sundown years.

It was a signature day when my father paid off the loan for a two row John Deere tractor. That old John Deere made life easier for him, if that were possible. My parents gardened into their late eighties. They loved living off the land. A freezer had become their best friend. When they grocery shopped, they scrutinized the prices intently. If one brand of peanut butter costs 39 cents and another 38 cents, they saved the penny.

They never visited the capitals of Europe. They never walked the streets of Manhattan. Rome. Paris. London. They never saw the sun set at Key West. They never saw the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. They never visited Red Square or the Forbidden City. They never flew over the Grand Canyon in a twin engine plane. They never attended a World Series, a Super Bowl or Wimbledon. They never dined at the Ritz, they never were feted with a meal at a posh country club.

They were frugal, hardworking and were forever good neighbors. Monday through noon Saturday was their work week. Sunday, as ordained by the Good Book, was a day of rest.

My father knew that even a high school diploma would have made a difference in our lives so he was always underscoring the value of education. He had to quit school in the 7th grade to work on the farm to help support his family.

He never complained about the hand dealt him. He moved forward, making the best of things. He lived to pay off the debt on his farm, a day of thanksgiving and gratitude.

My parents were great Americans.

Loran Smith is co-host of “The Tailgate Show” and is also a freelance writer and columnist.