The Whitworths Poem by Curtis Johnson

THE WHITWORTHS
By Curtis Johnson

It was both a complicated and a simpler place and time
A very noisy and sometimes uncivil place, but very little crime
A place though legally dry, yet filled with moonshine and wine
Where peace and freedom were purchased by everyone staying in line
A place where ‘the few’ ruled and the masses got further and further behind

Corn, cotton, hay, and soybeans ruled the day from rising to setting sun
People here believed in the Bible, but also cherished their rights of owning a gun
For us kids, the crickets and lightning bugs on dark nights were great sources of fun

Except for a few bad apples, the people I knew were good and decent people
The women were strong, kids well mannered, and the men hard working and worn
The southern social order of the region was well established long before I was born

As I was growing up in the 50’s and 60’s, my life moved at such slow pace
In this separate and unequal society, I knew several families in the white race
There was one custom required by all those of us who were blessed with a black face
This Jim Crow custom required that we enter by the back door for any care, cause, or case

10As if put in place by God to ease the plight or the pain, there was a most memorable home
to which I must refer. These dear ones were as white as all the rest, but they were different
in both their demeanor and their deeds. When in my middle teens, I was hired to mow their lawn once a week. It’s not that they did not have a door in both front and back, but I well
remember mostly being encouraged to enter through the front door of their home.

I left home after high school and never saw them again, but till now I have the most pleasant
memory of them. I remember their chickens, hen house, and eggs. I remember their gentleness
which even now gives me watery eyes, because they were nice to me in a way that was not popular at the time. I knew them 50 years ago, a man and his wife, both elderly at the time. They were the Whitworths.

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