Although he died five years ago, Daddy talked to me for hours tonight. My dad was a blogger before blogging was invented. Working third shift most of his life, he never quite got the hang of staying awake during the day and sleeping at night, even after retirement. He struggled with insomnia, so many nights he recorded Bible studies and devotions on his little black cassette recorder. He used up tape recorders like a basketball player does shoes. He made literally hundreds of tape recordings, carefully packaging them and mailing them to friends and family, far and wide. I have tapes of my kids (now grown with children of their own) singing hymns from the Baptist hymnal and reading storybooks with "Poppy".
Daddy had a terrific memory, and although he thought his life was quite ordinary, it was most extraordinary. Most children don't really appreciate their parents' history until they are no longer around to tell the stories. We are fortunate that in 1996 Daddy recorded many remembrances of his early years. My brother converted the tapes to mp3 files. Tonight was the first time in five years I have been brave enough to listen.
Tears sprang up during the first few lines of dialogue, as I knew they would. Just hearing his voice again brought so many emotions. It was as if he was sitting in the room talking with me again. I wanted to ask questions when I felt crucial information was left out of the story...but that's impossible now. Hearing his chuckle when recalling something funny made me smile. Many of the stories he told were of happy memories, but just as many were heart wrenching accounts of the hardship and cruelty he endured. At almost eighty, his voice could not disguise deeply buried emotions, resurfacing in the retelling.
After tonight, I better understand how the relationships and events of his life shaped his personality. Forced to leave his childhood behind too soon, as a parent he was overly protective of my brothers and me. After experiencing hunger as a child, later in life he would almost panic if the food supply at home ran low. He could be stubborn as a bulldog at times; most likely the result of the toughness required to survive the Great Depression. In the classic novel, "Jane Eyre", the heroine survived eight years in the dreaded Lowood School, to which Mr. Rochester said, "You must be tenacious of life!" The same should be said of my Daddy's generation.
According to my dad, Grandpa was a "rolling stone", moving from place to place in search of a better job and a better life. Daddy said one time they moved twice in the same week. They moved from Murphy, NC, then lived in numerous houses in Cramerton, Kannapolis, Clover, McAdenville, Cherryville, Charlotte, and Gastonia, moving from cotton mill to cotton mill. Grandpa was a weaver when he was stricken with osteomyelitis and had to have his leg amputated. Grandma became the primary breadwinner to support a family of seven. She was working at the Loray Mill In 1929. At that time, men at Loray made about $17 per week for over 55 hours of work; women made even less.
My grandmother and others were easily seduced with union organizers' promises of better pay and working conditions. When convinced to strike in early April 1929, they couldn't have realized the series of events to follow. Daddy came home from school one day to find his family's belongings piled on the street. They were evicted by mill representatives as punishment for participating in the strike. He was only eleven years old when they were forced to live in a tent village. One night violence broke out, and vigilantes opposing the union plunged a bayonet into his family's tent. He was terrorized when his father was dragged away, charged with a crime he didn't commit.
Children should not have to live in fear, feel the pangs of hunger, know the insecurity of homelessness, or experience exploitation and brutality at the hands of adults they should be able to trust. But it still happens every day...all over the world. Make a difference in the life of a child.
History doesn't have to repeat itself, if we learn from it. The polarizing events of Loray Mill 1929 were deeply hidden in the closets of Gastonia families for decades; mine included. It's a story the participants cannot tell from the grave...except for one.
Daddy made sure we retained our childhood innocence and gave us the roots and stability he didn't have as a boy. I hope I was able to do the same for my boys. I've taken up the mantle as the family blogger, historian, and devotion writer. I'm sorry, Daddy, but some stories need to be retold.
Copyright 2011 Charlotte Laney
Daddy had a terrific memory, and although he thought his life was quite ordinary, it was most extraordinary. Most children don't really appreciate their parents' history until they are no longer around to tell the stories. We are fortunate that in 1996 Daddy recorded many remembrances of his early years. My brother converted the tapes to mp3 files. Tonight was the first time in five years I have been brave enough to listen.
Tears sprang up during the first few lines of dialogue, as I knew they would. Just hearing his voice again brought so many emotions. It was as if he was sitting in the room talking with me again. I wanted to ask questions when I felt crucial information was left out of the story...but that's impossible now. Hearing his chuckle when recalling something funny made me smile. Many of the stories he told were of happy memories, but just as many were heart wrenching accounts of the hardship and cruelty he endured. At almost eighty, his voice could not disguise deeply buried emotions, resurfacing in the retelling.
After tonight, I better understand how the relationships and events of his life shaped his personality. Forced to leave his childhood behind too soon, as a parent he was overly protective of my brothers and me. After experiencing hunger as a child, later in life he would almost panic if the food supply at home ran low. He could be stubborn as a bulldog at times; most likely the result of the toughness required to survive the Great Depression. In the classic novel, "Jane Eyre", the heroine survived eight years in the dreaded Lowood School, to which Mr. Rochester said, "You must be tenacious of life!" The same should be said of my Daddy's generation.
According to my dad, Grandpa was a "rolling stone", moving from place to place in search of a better job and a better life. Daddy said one time they moved twice in the same week. They moved from Murphy, NC, then lived in numerous houses in Cramerton, Kannapolis, Clover, McAdenville, Cherryville, Charlotte, and Gastonia, moving from cotton mill to cotton mill. Grandpa was a weaver when he was stricken with osteomyelitis and had to have his leg amputated. Grandma became the primary breadwinner to support a family of seven. She was working at the Loray Mill In 1929. At that time, men at Loray made about $17 per week for over 55 hours of work; women made even less.
My grandmother and others were easily seduced with union organizers' promises of better pay and working conditions. When convinced to strike in early April 1929, they couldn't have realized the series of events to follow. Daddy came home from school one day to find his family's belongings piled on the street. They were evicted by mill representatives as punishment for participating in the strike. He was only eleven years old when they were forced to live in a tent village. One night violence broke out, and vigilantes opposing the union plunged a bayonet into his family's tent. He was terrorized when his father was dragged away, charged with a crime he didn't commit.
Children should not have to live in fear, feel the pangs of hunger, know the insecurity of homelessness, or experience exploitation and brutality at the hands of adults they should be able to trust. But it still happens every day...all over the world. Make a difference in the life of a child.
History doesn't have to repeat itself, if we learn from it. The polarizing events of Loray Mill 1929 were deeply hidden in the closets of Gastonia families for decades; mine included. It's a story the participants cannot tell from the grave...except for one.
Daddy made sure we retained our childhood innocence and gave us the roots and stability he didn't have as a boy. I hope I was able to do the same for my boys. I've taken up the mantle as the family blogger, historian, and devotion writer. I'm sorry, Daddy, but some stories need to be retold.
Copyright 2011 Charlotte Laney
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