Ben Richardson told me he was moving to Louisiana and asked if I might be interested in buying his farm—27 and a half acres with a small, old house on it. I thought about it for a while before mentioning it to Lucille. When I did, she listened quietly. The next morning, she looked at me and said, “You want to buy that farm, don’t you?”
I admitted I did, but I was worried—about the cost, and about her and the children going without. She put her arms around me and said, “I’m not afraid, Charley.”
So I made the deal, paying $350 for it. The place was fenced with three strands of barbed wire, strong enough to keep livestock in during the crop season. The house was simple—just three rooms with wooden shutters—but Lucille never once complained.
From the moment we had land of our own, something changed in us. We still worked just as hard, maybe harder, but it didn’t feel like work anymore. We’d rise before the sun—Lucille made breakfast while I fetched water, milked the cow, and fed the chickens. Then we worked the fields together, side by side.
Lucille could pack a lunch that made you forget your tiredness. Cold cornbread, butter, a jar of peas—tasted like heaven after a long morning of plowing.
She made soap from lye and grease. She scrubbed floors with ashes and used a mop I made from corn shucks and a plank. Our ironing board was just a slab laid across two benches. Still, Lucille made that old shack shine. She made it feel like home.
In town, I sold extra meat and vegetables. One day, I surprised her with a pie safe—a $12 find at the hardware store. Glass doors, a drawer for linens, and screens to keep flies out. The first real piece of furniture I ever bought her, and I’ve never forgotten the way her eyes lit up.
Later, I got us a buggy—not new, but sturdy. It helped me with my rounds in town, and Lucille loved taking rides with one of the children beside her.
Those were good years—around 1914. We didn’t have much, but we had everything that truly mattered.