The mention of the small Tittle House that my folks rented plus the use of the term "shotgun house" has rekindled a lot of memories for me and others. Seems like everyone has a special place in their heart for the old homestead. I'm no different.  My biggest blessing or maybe problem is the fact that my family lived in several rental houses before buying our own.

The tittle house was warm and dry and did everything expected of it. The house was constructed mostly of pine with no exterior paint. The house always smelled like fresh lumber. We had a lot of flowers around the house which really brightened things up.

As mentioned earlier, the Tittle land bordered the Tucker land. The Tucker cotton field came right up to our yard. Old man Tucker planted about fifty five acres of cotton next to our house. Farther back he had about twenty acres of water and mush melons, more cotton and then some tobacco. I mention the cotton fields because at that time in farming history a lot of pesticides and other "nasty" items were arriving on the scene. Saving the cotton from the "Bowl Weevil"was paramount. Mr Tucker had a son named Hodge. Hodge weren't the brightest light on the tree when it came to some judgement matters. He went into town one day and come back with a load of one gallon brown bottles. The bottles were filled with a yellowish green powder. COTTON POISON, mean nasty stuff that killed small animals and made humans sick. Hodge got out in the cotton field with an old "broadcast" type dispenser and spread poison all over everything. It was so bad that my family had to go stay with my aunt Hattie for three days.  Thus began the "Silent Spring".

My uncle Bill had bought the house of my mothers father. Bill was my dads brother. The house was located on what had been a dairy farm. It was a big house with lots of porches and swings. Running water, something rare out in the country. Big yard with grass, something else that was sort of rare. I loved the place. My mother had grown up in that house and I could just feel something about it. Topping it all off was a big garden. Everyone knew it as the old Gann farm.

Bill wasn't a farmer at heart. His talent lay in other areas but he kept the place up to date and modern as possible. Had every modern trapping except indoor plumbing. I guess in today's lifestyle the notion of outdoor toilets is about as strange as life without the inter-net. Gotta remember that most old farm houses weren't even built with  indoor plumbing in mind. Putting running water into the house was no big deal but finding room for a full blown bath and rest room could be a problem.

Uncle Bill's approach was to build a wash house complete with hot water heater, shower and laundry space.. The water heater was a little wood fired cast iron stove that  had a water heating coil inside. The heated coil caused water circulation into the holding tank. It worked but alas the toilet still sat at end of a long path behind the house. 

As I said, I had a special feeling for this old house. It's gone now but all I need do is close my eye's and remember. I liked Uncle Bucks house but It was a totally different feeling.

Uncle Bill and aunt Verda had two boys, Boyd and Mitchell. These kids were about the same age as Lowell and me. My mom says that we four were much more like brothers than cousins. Because our fathers worked together we were likely to spend a lot of time with each other. Verda my mom were close so each time the men went out of town she would invite us to sleep over. The women had each others company and the kids could play together. 

One of our favorite places on the old farm was a piece of land we called the "Bottom". A name that kind of described the relationship of the "Bottom" to the rest of the farm. It was indeed the lowest point on the whole farm. There was a well worn cattle path that led the entire mile or so that separated the bottom area from the barn yard. There was a fine little stream that ran year round through the bottom. Lots of Willow and Cottonwoods for shade. The livestock ,when there was any, stayed down in the bottom except on real bad days.  The "Bottom" was like something from a post card showing the ideal location for peace and quite. Me and Lowell along with Mitch and Boyd got to know every tree and bush in that little valley. Even today our otherwise fading memories are sharp when we think back to those times.

One of the greatest things about uncle Bill was his trust in his kids and nephews. He would set us down and talk to us. He was good to let us learn and grow. We could work on anything we wanted. We could ask questions and if he didn't know the answer he'd find someone who did. One of my favorite times was when Bill would get one of us off to ourselves and just talk to us. I mean "man on man" and he actually paid attention to what we said. Very much the same treatment that I'd got from Al Hanson in California. Uncle Bill was a teacher and a guide. He was good at sending you in the right direction but always at your own pace. He never really tried to lead us. I think his intent was to teach us to lead by practice and not following without question the lead of others. None of this is to be taken as disrespect for the abilities of my father and my other uncles. Far from it. It was I suppose Bill's directness and one on one personality that endured him to me.

It was about this time that Bill decided to teach Boyd and me to drive.  First a little background. Aunt Verda had a new fifty one Chevy Deluxe four door complete with windshield visor and big fat whitewall tires. The car was a dark metallic green complete with lots of extra "Bolt on" chrome and last but not least was the every present windshield compass and the little prism device that let you see the area blocked out by the big windshield visor. All that topped of with a "Power Transmission" without a clutch. Oh the wonder of modern automotive engineering. Bought that little Jewell from a dealer in Carbon Hill named Baggett. The car and color were very popular my aunt Tootsie bought on just like it as did several other folks.

I mention all this because all of it sort of figures into how we became drivers and what we learned in doing so.
Our driving days had actually stated in a old Chevy with the standard three speed column shift. By the time we got to the more modern automatic transmission we were getting pretty good. However driving the new Chevy put a definite gleam in a fellers eye.

Uncle Bill felt that using the automatic transmission was the same as "cheating". His solution was to stick me and Boyd in the big Ford truck that he and my dad used to haul Bill Early's lumber . It was a big old truck that pulled a forty foot "flat bed" trailer. Fighting the clutch and shifting a dozen times was supposed to condition us to the real world of driving. No doubt about it, the Chevy was a better ride. I often wondered how people felt when they passed me and Boyd driving down highway seventy eight. We were so short that you'd have trouble seeing us setting in the truck cab. Bet we caused more than a few "double takes".

Then there was the "frog". The "Frog" a ugly old Cushman Motor scooter. Loud Ugly and dark green. Looked like it was "brush" painted. We rode that thing to death or so it seemed. Then one day it was gone. I think Boyd had wrecked one to many times and Bill decided to stop while he was ahead. As I think back it occurred to me that I don't remember ever seeing a bicycle at Boyd and Mitchell's house. I guess it was just one of those cases of not missing what you didn't really need anyhow.