The Adventures of Arkansas Annie #1
The Memoirs of Annie Crook La Shell, as transcribed and edited by her granddaughter Bethany S. LeBedz.
On July 23, 1913, in a home on the old Military Road in Jacksonville, Arkansas, a wee brown-haired, brown-skinned baby girl was born to James (Jim) Matthew Crook and Margaret (Maggie) Elvira Lamb Crook.
There is a discrepancy. According to my mother, the above is the way it is and all of my records are that way except for Social Security. My brother Tom, who is approximately ten years older than I am, took me to school on my first day and gave the above information, so of course all other records are the same. At that time, births were not required to be registered, and mine wasn’t. Come retirement time, no birth registered, a must-have for Social Security. Tom died several years previously and only my brother Sam, who is approximately eight years older than I am, remembers where and his memory is North Little Rock, Arkansas, and he refuses to sign unless I agree. He distinctly remembers pushing me around in my baby buggy, which I am sure is true. We moved there when I was about six months old and stayed ‘til I was maybe two or three.
This property was at the edge of property owned by great-grandparents and, at this time, my great Uncle Isaac Johnson and his wife Matilda (Uncle Ike and Aunt Tilly), both much-loved, as were their children who were all much older than myself. Most of their names I can’t remember, though I can remember how nice they were. Their son Hardy was killed in WWI. My first funeral. So traumatic. Why do we have to keep having these darn wars?
Uncle Plez (Pleasant Corbet), who was my step-grandmother’s brother, lived with us for quite a while. He and his wife were separated for quite a while. I don’t know why; they were both wonderful people and much loved by me. She was a very beautiful woman. Uncle Plez always said grace and would pray on and on, always thanking God not only for food, but for a reasonable portion of mind. He, as well as Papa, thought that I could do no wrong. Is it any wonder that I am still a bit of a rebel today?
I have a tax receipt showing eighty acres in Pulaski County. When I showed it to my brother Joe, who would have been about age sixteen at the time, he said, “That ain’t right. My Daddy owned one hundred sixty acres at the time.” Well, maybe he just forgot to declare the other eighty acres. Joe was furious. “My Daddy wasn’t no liar!” I am thinking that perhaps the other eighty acres was in Lonoke County, which joins Pulaski County in that area. Perhaps there was a Lonoke County receipt somewhere. Who knows and really, who cares?
Now back to the birthplace confusion. When I was six months old, Papa sold the farm and moved to North Little Rock, Arkansas, to open a grocery store. It was located near the railroad line, and business was great until and during the strike. The customers continued to shop, charge, but after the strike ended, most of them did not pay and the business went bankrupt. His theory had been, “They have been good customers and I owe them this in return.” His theory also—do what is right; you may get your head chopped off, but what does it matter if you do what’s right? So much for a good attitude in business, but that was always do what is right no matter what. After this episode, he said, “Never again will I own property. Next year, I am going back to Tennessee where I was born.” He never made it.
So, now we are back to Jacksonville and he rented a good-sized farm from Mr. and Mrs. Elias Wilson, about a mile south of Bayou Meto Bridge. I don’t think that I knew her until I started school. I remember stopping by on the way home and she would give me a cookie. He often let me ride on the tailgate of his wagon.
My twin sisters, Hattie and Minnie, were born there, though I have no memory of them during that time. Hattie was named for the daughter of Uncle Ike and Aunt Till. Minnie was named for the daughter of Mama’s sister, Aunt Emma Cullins, whose husband was Uncle Lee.
Living there was quite an experience for me. I learned early on that race was not important, the person was. I also learned that anyone who was willing to work deserved to eat. Aunt Liza Williams was a black woman who lived with us, and I learned that her word was law. Papa used to beg her to eat with us, and she always refused. “Law no, Mr. Crook, if them white folks wuz to come and find me eatin’ with you, you’d be in trouble wit them.” His reply: “The s.o.b.’s could go to hell.” This was his house and he would have whomever he wanted at his table. She never did, though she, Mamma and I always had morning coffee together.
I learned a lot of other things while living there and disobeyed a few rules. Aunt Liza’s daughter, son-in-law and their daughter, who was my age, lived on the farm down a little dirt road from our house. She was my dearest friend and we went back and forth between each other’s homes almost at will.
Down the road from our house, on the main road through the state, was Hobo camp, where I was not supposed to go—they might hurt me. So, I would go to my friend’s house, cut through the field to the Hobo camp where they shared the bit of food they had, if they had any. I also learned to make buddy burners, which came in handy when working with Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts. Papa always said that anyone who was willing to work had a right to eat and lived by his theory during this time. The hobos often knocked on our door asking for food. “Are you willing to work?” They always were. They would be given food and then assigned a chore. Most of the time they would leave after finishing the chore, though sometimes they would stay, sleeping in the barn and eating at a table in the back yard.
There was another disobedience from which I learned a lot and for which I might have been punished, though at that time no one was allowed to punish me. After five boys and no baby for six years, I was the apple of Papa’s eye and could do no wrong. Gypsies came through once a year and camped in the field just south of us. I was told that they would steal me and I would never be home again. So again, I would go to my friend’s, cut through the field and down to the gypsy camp where there was the traditional small fat grandma in the rocking chair who always took me in her lap. Also, a pot of delicious stew that they shared with me. Wow—what an awful kid, but in retrospect I am not sorry! I learned that people are basically good.
My mother’s uncle, Pleasant Corbett (Uncle Plez) lived with us at the time and was another spoiler. He gave me a beautiful ring and I was told to stay away from the well because I might lose it. Of course, that is exactly what I did and was heart broken.
Leave a Comment