I've been doing some book signings lately, and this brand is on the skirt of my display tablecloth. It seems to trigger unusual questions, so I thought it might be a good idea to explain it.
I spent many happy hours at the Williams farm south of Chandler, Arizona, from the time I was a little girl in the 50s to an almost teenager. The farm is long gone now, dozed over and developed into thousands of homes. My dad, his brother, and his sisters grew up and worked on that farm. And when they married and had children, we cousins were blessed enough to spend many summer days at that farm together. My grandparents raised mostly cotton on that farm, and at different times, they had milk cows, chickens, pigs, and I'll never forget when Papa decided to raise turkeys for the holidays. They were everywhere, like a swarm of gobbling wattles and feathers surging into every nook and corner of the barnyard.
There was always a vegetable patch beckoning our willing hands to pick enough for supper. I spent time snapping string beans or shelling peas with Mama in the front yard while she told stories about when she was young. Her fried okra was so good, unlike any I've eaten since. She taught me how to sew on her old treadle machine, how to pluck a chicken, and how to hang out the clothes that she handed over after running them through the wringer of her washer. She once caught me before I put a hot iron to my doll's plastic pants. Whew! A lesson on how and what to iron ensued.
Papa always had a ripe watermelon cooling in the well house, which he brought out just when we thought we would perish from the heat. There were plenty of pie pans to go around to receive the big chunks of melon that Papa served up to each of his grandchildren. We sat down at the picnic table in the yard while we discussed if salt was necessary or whether a knife or a fork was the proper utensil for eating cold melon. I always picked no salt and a spoon, but I think salt and a knife were favored. Afterwards, we played Red Light Green Light until it was too dark to see. There was always something fun to do.
Sometimes, when all the cousins went back to their homes nearby, I stayed behind until my parents could drive down from up north to pick me up. I didn't mind because I could swing high in the homemade swing in the yard, singing my favorite song at the time, Que sera, sera, until I'm sure the chickens and Mama were sick of it. When someone appeared at the East Gate of the yard, I'd run for Papa.
They usually needed his help, and he always helped. He'd fill their gas tank or drive them to the grocery store. He never handed out money, but he helped with what was needed. My Papa was crippled as a young boy and walked with a distinct limp, but we never gave it a thought. I know he was in pain every day of his life, but he always had a smile, a lap to sit on, a slice of 'store-bought' cake from Basha's, or a soda pop from the ancient cooler at the gas station down the road. He drove his old Studebaker like it was a race car, dust billowing up behind. We adored him. Everyone did. At his funeral in 1965, people gathered outside and looked in through the windows because there was no more room inside, not even standing room. Everyone loved Archie Williams.
At the farm, we kids were outside all the time, even in 90-100 degree heat. The boys played the marauding Indians, while we girls were homesteaders, 'living' in the unused one-room milkhouse that had an iron bedstead, a wood-burning stove, and even a chair or two. Mama sometimes lit a fire in the stove, and we cooked our lunch. Even in the summer heat! I don't remember what we cooked, but most of the time, the stove was cold, so we picked up castor beans and pretended to cook them. We didn't eat them, of course!
After a long, fun day of imagining, building quilt forts over the picnic table, or climbing up hay bales, we ran into the house and jockeyed for space in front of the wall air conditioner. Later, after supper, homemade quilt pallets were laid out on the floor in the living room, where we spread out while Mama told stories from the Bible. She had a special gift for telling stories about little girls and boys, and how these kids from Bible times learned, grew, and became people we wanted to emulate.
On holidays or birthdays when the adults were there, too, Mama played her banjo, and sometimes my uncle joined in on the piano. We laughed and sang, and my little brother danced a jig. I have countless memories that I cherish every day.
I hope you understand why I want to remember the Williams Farm, not as a working farm exactly, but as a place in my heart that brims with the love of family, storytelling, joy, and imagination. Those are elements in my books. They are part of my upbringing, a legacy I am forever grateful for.
Williams Farm Books. I could tell you stories.....