My Grandpa James worked in a saw mill all his life. He had half of his right thumb missing (presumably from an accident at the mill) and used to tell me and the other grandkids that a cow bit it off. He could play the spoons quite well and could even thump out a beat with one hand on his leg, slapping it back and forth in rhythm. Grandma James had been a housewife her entire life, and was the best cook on the planet. She had an old cast iron skillet that she fried chicken in, and the world is not the same without it. She also made her own clothes, as well as everyone else’s as she raised her family. I recall a chest at the foot of their bed that was filled with Simplicity patterns.
The house in Sumiton they lived in was the same house all the children were born in. I can recall an old coal burning stove, and a huge pile of coal in the back yard, although they converted to propane gas heat in the sixties. Their garage was filled with old license plates, and I remember being fascinated at how old some of them were, dating back to the forties. Grandma and Grandpa James had a huge front yard, and right by the road there was a gigantic oak tree with a hump growing from the side of it so big that my cousins and I used to get on it and pretend we were riding a horse. I was told that tree used to be a hitching post for horses, causing the malformation. Recently, the ‘hitching tree’ has become an Alabama historical site. When I can get a picture of it, I’ll add it here. My mother told me once that every Sunday Grandpa James would go out, catch one of their chickens, chop its head off, and give it to Grandma James to cook. She said that during the Depression, hobos would come to their back door begging for food, and they were never turned away. My how times have changed.
Here’s a picture of Grandma and Grandpa James on their 50th wedding anniversary on January 6th, 1967. From left to right, their daughters were Aunt Louise, my mom, and Aunt Julia. Also from left to right, their sons were Uncle Charles, Uncle Nelson and Uncle Bill (named after Grandpa James).
My father was John Sam Harding, from Moline, Illinois. He was born in Newton, Iowa October 12th, 1926, to Jay and Marie, was the third of eight siblings, and was in the Navy in World War Two. He was in the radio business, and wore an assortment of hats in my lifetime such as announcer (disc jockey), sales manager and general manager. Here is a picture of Dad when he worked for WDDT in Greenville, Mississippi:
My father was also an avid fisherman. This next photo was taken in Pensacola, Florida when we lived there during the late sixties. He is the one on the far left with the glasses. I will go into more detail concerning both my parents as these memoirs journey through the decades, but would like to interject a fishing story he told me here. He said that Mom used to complain that she never went fishing with him and his friends, so one day he took her along. She caught more fish that day that all the men combined, and was never invited again.
Here’s a photo of Dad and his parents on the banks of the Mississippi:
I was actually named after my Grandfather Harding – Jay Thompson. He was a fascinating man who had worked in the newspaper business his entire life and had more energy that a man his age should have had. He was also very racist, I’m sad to say. Once while he and I were on his front porch in Moline, he saw a black man walking down the sidewalk on our side of the street, and before the man reached Grandpa Harding’s property, he stood up, shook his fist, called the man a N***** and told him to cross over to the other side of the street. He was always tossing out profanity as if it was candy, but as a child, it fascinated me much more than frightened me. He was the most defensive driver I’ve ever known, would go at least ten miles under the speed limit, and activated his blinker blocks before he turned. He told me once that if I could only have one food item on a deserted island, it should be peanut butter. Sometimes he would go to his scale just outside his bathroom, weigh himself, go into the bathroom, come out and weigh himself again, and say something like, “I’m fourteen ounces lighter”. Grandma Harding got on to Grandpa all the time about his language and perverted sense of humor, and it usually began an argument between them. To my recollection, they fussed at each other all the time, but were also affectionate with each other.
Dad had an older brother, Uncle George (who died at one year old), an older sister, Aunt June, and his other siblings were Uncle Bob, Uncle Bill, Uncle Cliff (who was an actor), Uncle Ed and Aunt Rosemarie. Somewhere there’s a picture of the Harding clan from back in the fifties, and hopefully I’ll be able to locate it, because it showed Dad and his brothers wearing fedoras and smoking cigars like gangsters. Dad told me once that whenever the Harding family had a reunion, the FBI was always notified. I assume he was joking, of course.
This is how my parents told me they met: Marty used to call the radio station where Dad worked and always had him dedicate "Sentimental Journey" to Betty. This eventually led to their meeting, and the rest is history (or soon will be once this memoir is completed).
As I have no direct recollection of the fifties, and have relayed the above via word of mouth and geneological records, it is prudent now to move on to the sixties, now that the foundation of my family has been laid.
