These are my people. While I don’t know any of the men that grace the above photo, I do feel I know them well. I grew up with men just like the ones in the photo. Hard working, hard living people who went to church every sunday and who went to work everyday after that, to repeat the procedure until they went to the great beyond. This was their life. A hardscrabble, dirty life that made a 40 year old man appear to be 60 years of age. They believed in family, in discipline, in education (because they had no or little formal schooling), in fairness, in America.While the midwest had it’s dustbowl era, followed by the “Oakie” trek to California, so the southeastern US had it’s “mountain to mill slide” where hill folks, whose land and product had become so devalued as to be almost worthless, “slid” down the mountains to the nearest mill that was hiring at the time. Most had fought in a world war and had the scars to prove it. They had come from a world as diverse as the ethnic makeup of the mills - the second or third generation scotch and irish and english immigrants, come to this country carrying a box full of dreams and seeking a fresh start. They passed the dream on to their children, who carried this hope into a new century and through two world wars and a great depression. And their children then passed on this hope to their children, who became our parents.
Most were sober individuals who followed the teachings of the good book. There were also alcoholics whom we called “drunks” simply because we didn’t know the backstory of their alcoholism…hell, we didn’t even know there was such a thing as alcoholism. We assumed that these people got drunk because they were on the fringe of society and it was their only escape. Most times, though, we didn’t try to dissect their reasons for getting drunk every Saturday. We accepted, with typical 9 year-old wisdom, that they were as much a normal part of our world as summer baseball and fall colors had been a part of it.
From the “Voices of Thread” website:
“When I was young, I didn’t worry about money because we didn’t have any.”- Lloyd “Slick” McGaha
“We were all very poor but we didn’t know we were because everybody was.”- Jesse Campbell
The depression had been their playground, the bloody fields of Europe, sands of Africa and the hot, deadly islands of the Pacific had been their education. They proudly fought for their country, knowing that they could not only grab some glory away from the “hun” or “nazi” scourge, but could also assure him or herself three squares a day and a job with a cot. An added advantage would be to take some burden of upkeep off their parents while at the same time sending money home.
They were grateful for the opportunity to better themselves or their children. These people of the soil, of a land so poor that they would uproot themselves from everything they knew and move their entire lives to a new unknown, finding a steady, if insufficient livelihood for their familes.
Imagine -working in a hot, dusty, noisy mill for 12 hour stretches at $10 a day was better than the life they had escaped!
From the Glencoe Mills Textile Heritage Museum:
“In 1889 the average Glencoe mill hand worked six 11-hour days, or 66 hours per week. Men earned from one to two dollars per day; women earned from 50 cents to a dollar; children earned 40 cents per day. In 1905 the average worker worked six 10.5-hour days, or 63 hours per week. Men earned from 75 cents to $2.75 per day; women earned between 60 cents and one dollar; children still earned 40 cents per day. By 1924 Glencoe employees were working 55-hour weeks, with men earning between $2.10 and $6.60 per day and women between $2.10 and $2.38″.
This brings me to my father. Charles Hazel “Pete” Reid. Born October 1924 - died March 1981.
Pete, as he was called, was a man of relatively short stature who loomed over your entire being, making him to appear as a giant. He had a quiet, commanding presence, one where words were chosen carefully and a certain look from him would send shivers down your spine. Yet he was a sweet, gentle man who loved children and could make you feel as if he understood exactly what it meant to be a kid. Most of my cousins called him they’re ‘favorite uncle’. Even on his modest textile mill salary he managed to make time and money every year for a two-week vacation for the family. Most years we had a cousin or two in tow because they knew my dad was a pretty laid back guy. But let a cousin sass or get out of line, dad would beat his ass just as swift as he would our little hides! He commanded our respect and was a well liked and well respected man in his community.
Pete had a drinking problem as a younger man. We have an old photograph, circa 1940s, of an old 30-something model Olds that he totaled while driving under the influence. It seems that he mistook a parked tractor trailer rig for a railroad underpass. The entire roof of the car was peeled off. They say that he wouldn’t have survived the accident sober. I say that sober he wouldn’t have had the accident in the first place. But he did, and he survived it. He, along with one of my uncles, loved going up to the corner tavern for a “beer or 6″. Our mom, so I’ve been told, would head up to the tavern to fetch my father and naggingly remind him that he was now a husband and father and should be home with the family. He would acquiesce and get in the car with her and head home, usually falling asleep in her arms. The story goes that, when I came along, she offered him an ultimatum…the tavern or the family…he choose wisely, putting the bottle down for as long as we were kids.Dad was born with polio, as were lots poor kids of the south in that era. He limped through childhood, strangley enough, becoming an ace baseball player (pitcher) in spite of his disability. He had one leg shorter than the other, which really reared it’s ugly head in his late thirties. He had survived the depression as a child who had lost his father when he was only 4 years old. When he was old enough (9 or 10 years old), he was pulled from school and put to work to help support the family. Such was the custom of the time. The depression had hit as reconstruction was waning so it was indeed a double whammy for the region. South Carolina being the birthplace and the deathbed of the old confederacy, was raped and pillaged pretty severely by the carpetbaggers and those who would profit from another’s misfortune. Fitting, since slavery did that very same thing! Problem was, the majority of the south was rural poor who couldn’t own a slave even if they had wanted to, and somehow those coastal and upstate plantation owners still found a way to rise above the fray after their war and lead a relatively comfortable existence, despite the surrounding madness.
African-Americans were still slaves in their own right, having to eke out a living from what their former masters would give them, or sell to them for their souls. My dad’s family grew up poor sharecropper mountain folk who ’slid’ down to the jobs of the mills and tried their best to work their way up within that limited work structure. This is why education was so important to our dad, and so many of our friend’s parents. They knew that right here-right now, the cycle of poverty could be broken, and they would see their grandkids in a happier, less-hard life. All of our parents instilled in us, through church, through discipline and by example, how to be a good person. Fairness was key above all - the golden rule and all that. Even the neighbor’s parents would beat your ass if you deserved it. Respect your elders was an unspoken rule in our hood and enforcement was strict!So where does all this end? Where does all the hard times they experienced lead us today? They survived and so did we. We learned from their sweat, their toils, their tears and joy. And as we get older and can fully appreciate what they all did for us, we quietly salute and raise a glass to this “greatest generation” and to those who raised them. We know that without the guidance of these “poor lintheads”, whose education was sparse but whose knowledge was boundless, we would be woefully worse off than we are. And we thank them for this.
Most were sober individuals who followed the teachings of the good book. There were also alcoholics whom we called “drunks” simply because we didn’t know the backstory of their alcoholism…hell, we didn’t even know there was such a thing as alcoholism. We assumed that these people got drunk because they were on the fringe of society and it was their only escape. Most times, though, we didn’t try to dissect their reasons for getting drunk every Saturday. We accepted, with typical 9 year-old wisdom, that they were as much a normal part of our world as summer baseball and fall colors had been a part of it.
From the “Voices of Thread” website:
“When I was young, I didn’t worry about money because we didn’t have any.”- Lloyd “Slick” McGaha
“We were all very poor but we didn’t know we were because everybody was.”- Jesse Campbell
The depression had been their playground, the bloody fields of Europe, sands of Africa and the hot, deadly islands of the Pacific had been their education. They proudly fought for their country, knowing that they could not only grab some glory away from the “hun” or “nazi” scourge, but could also assure him or herself three squares a day and a job with a cot. An added advantage would be to take some burden of upkeep off their parents while at the same time sending money home.
They were grateful for the opportunity to better themselves or their children. These people of the soil, of a land so poor that they would uproot themselves from everything they knew and move their entire lives to a new unknown, finding a steady, if insufficient livelihood for their familes.
Imagine -working in a hot, dusty, noisy mill for 12 hour stretches at $10 a day was better than the life they had escaped!
From the Glencoe Mills Textile Heritage Museum:
“In 1889 the average Glencoe mill hand worked six 11-hour days, or 66 hours per week. Men earned from one to two dollars per day; women earned from 50 cents to a dollar; children earned 40 cents per day. In 1905 the average worker worked six 10.5-hour days, or 63 hours per week. Men earned from 75 cents to $2.75 per day; women earned between 60 cents and one dollar; children still earned 40 cents per day. By 1924 Glencoe employees were working 55-hour weeks, with men earning between $2.10 and $6.60 per day and women between $2.10 and $2.38″.
This brings me to my father. Charles Hazel “Pete” Reid. Born October 1924 - died March 1981.
Pete, as he was called, was a man of relatively short stature who loomed over your entire being, making him to appear as a giant. He had a quiet, commanding presence, one where words were chosen carefully and a certain look from him would send shivers down your spine. Yet he was a sweet, gentle man who loved children and could make you feel as if he understood exactly what it meant to be a kid. Most of my cousins called him they’re ‘favorite uncle’. Even on his modest textile mill salary he managed to make time and money every year for a two-week vacation for the family. Most years we had a cousin or two in tow because they knew my dad was a pretty laid back guy. But let a cousin sass or get out of line, dad would beat his ass just as swift as he would our little hides! He commanded our respect and was a well liked and well respected man in his community.
Pete had a drinking problem as a younger man. We have an old photograph, circa 1940s, of an old 30-something model Olds that he totaled while driving under the influence. It seems that he mistook a parked tractor trailer rig for a railroad underpass. The entire roof of the car was peeled off. They say that he wouldn’t have survived the accident sober. I say that sober he wouldn’t have had the accident in the first place. But he did, and he survived it. He, along with one of my uncles, loved going up to the corner tavern for a “beer or 6″. Our mom, so I’ve been told, would head up to the tavern to fetch my father and naggingly remind him that he was now a husband and father and should be home with the family. He would acquiesce and get in the car with her and head home, usually falling asleep in her arms. The story goes that, when I came along, she offered him an ultimatum…the tavern or the family…he choose wisely, putting the bottle down for as long as we were kids.Dad was born with polio, as were lots poor kids of the south in that era. He limped through childhood, strangley enough, becoming an ace baseball player (pitcher) in spite of his disability. He had one leg shorter than the other, which really reared it’s ugly head in his late thirties. He had survived the depression as a child who had lost his father when he was only 4 years old. When he was old enough (9 or 10 years old), he was pulled from school and put to work to help support the family. Such was the custom of the time. The depression had hit as reconstruction was waning so it was indeed a double whammy for the region. South Carolina being the birthplace and the deathbed of the old confederacy, was raped and pillaged pretty severely by the carpetbaggers and those who would profit from another’s misfortune. Fitting, since slavery did that very same thing! Problem was, the majority of the south was rural poor who couldn’t own a slave even if they had wanted to, and somehow those coastal and upstate plantation owners still found a way to rise above the fray after their war and lead a relatively comfortable existence, despite the surrounding madness.
African-Americans were still slaves in their own right, having to eke out a living from what their former masters would give them, or sell to them for their souls. My dad’s family grew up poor sharecropper mountain folk who ’slid’ down to the jobs of the mills and tried their best to work their way up within that limited work structure. This is why education was so important to our dad, and so many of our friend’s parents. They knew that right here-right now, the cycle of poverty could be broken, and they would see their grandkids in a happier, less-hard life. All of our parents instilled in us, through church, through discipline and by example, how to be a good person. Fairness was key above all - the golden rule and all that. Even the neighbor’s parents would beat your ass if you deserved it. Respect your elders was an unspoken rule in our hood and enforcement was strict!So where does all this end? Where does all the hard times they experienced lead us today? They survived and so did we. We learned from their sweat, their toils, their tears and joy. And as we get older and can fully appreciate what they all did for us, we quietly salute and raise a glass to this “greatest generation” and to those who raised them. We know that without the guidance of these “poor lintheads”, whose education was sparse but whose knowledge was boundless, we would be woefully worse off than we are. And we thank them for this.
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