From Carolina Chain Gangs to Earl of Alaska

THE LITTLE THIEF

I was born on November 11, 1926 in Exeter Township, Berks County, PA. My mother’s name was Mary Davis. The identity of my father is a secret she took with her to the grave.

Until I was two and a half we lived with my grandparents, Esther and Jess Davis. My mother’s brother and two sisters also lived at home. Then in 1928 my mother married John McCulley and we moved to a farm about twelve miles away. My name became Earl McCulley. My first memories are of this farm—the gray stone house set so far back on the tree-lined lot that you couldn''t even see the road; the tall, swarthy hired hand who once gave me a banana; and the constant arguments between John and my mother. They fought a lot and usually I ignored it, but one night in the spring of 1929 as I lay in my crib, my little tummy was knotted up with some nameless fear. When my mother’s face finally appeared over the bars of the bed it was tearstained and there was a bruise on her cheek. Within half an hour, she’d bundled me into the old Model T. We were still more than an hour away from Aunt Ada’s when I felt the first drop of rain plop on my temple and run down my cheek like a cold, out-of-place tear. I remember thinking that the sky was crying for us.

That was the end of John McCulley. As with many people and places in my early childhood, he simply faded from our lives. We stayed with my Aunt Ada for a while and then moved on. I don’t know how it came about, but during the summer of 1930 my mother and I moved in with the Rock family. I was four, and it was my first memorable summer. The Rocks had five children, one a boy of about my age. John Rock, Sr. sold poultry and eggs for a living, and Jack Jr. and I would watch in fascination as he killed and dressed the chickens.

One day we got the idea to help out. Jack climbed up and got the knife. Then, just as we had seen his father do, we caught a chicken and slit its throat. We did this again and again, and when we had about a dozen dead birds, I handed them up to Jack, who stood on a chair so he could reach and pinned them on the rack. We were covered with blood. Mr. Rock was not pleased. He sent us to bed without dinner.

Another time we decided to count how many ducks were on the farm. The problem was the ducks all looked pretty much alike and, since they refused to stay still, we would lose our count. Jack came up with what we thought was a great idea. There was a large cooler with no ice in it, and we figured that if we put the ducks into it as we counted them, we wouldn’t count the same ones twice. We had about ten ducks in custody when Jack’s dad came home. As he walked to the house and heard the quack-quack coming from the cooler, he stopped in his tracks. The look on his face was one we recognized as not good. He opened the door and brought his hands to his face as the frantic ducks came flying out. Again we went to bed without dinner, but it was worth it. We laughed ourselves to sleep talking about how the ducks almost knocked Jack’s dad off of his feet. It was a great summer for a four-year-old.

By fall, though, we had once again packed up and moved. My granddad lost his job at the Birdsboro Foundry, and through some sort of arrangement, my grandparents, along with my Aunt Mae and Uncle Vernon moved to a farm in Amityville owned by a man named George Frey, who also owned the Amity Hotel. My mother and I joined them and that farm became home for the next three years. My mother and Aunt Mae worked at a clothing factory in Amityville, while my grandparents ran the farm.

I started school in 1932 and completed the first grade. I remember literally nothing of that first year of school, not what the classroom looked like, not the name of my teacher, or what kids I played with at recess. When I think about that time, it is another, more important first that comes to mind.

Every Friday afternoon George Frey held a livestock auction. On the side, he also sold farm and household items. I went with my grandfather, and it was the high point of my week. What most fascinated me was all the money. Back in those days, people paid cash, and for most of the small items, that meant coins. There was a room in the back where a man laid out the pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, fifty-cent pieces and occasionally silver dollars on a big table. I can’t remember who the man was, but he let me watch as he sorted the money and put it into paper rolls. Every so often another man would come in from the front and dump another bag of coins on the table. One day as the man who counted the money was talking to the man who brought it to him, I grabbed a nickel. I believe that filched nickel was the first money I ever had, and as soon as we got home, I went and hid it in the barn. The next time my granddad took me to the sale, I was able to steal a dime, which I also hid in the barn.