When I was twelve years old, I lived in a small town in eastern South Carolina. My parents worked in a cotton mill; one of the two largest employers for the town, and we lived on the Mill Village adjacent to the mill where almost all the other Village residents also worked. In 1952, I was in the sixth grade at Thornwell Public School, about six blocks away from my home. I was also in love with a beautiful classmate, Shirley Trader. For a very shy twelve year-old, being "in love" meant that I alone knew that was what was wrong with me, and I tried hard to keep the secret of my constant blushing from my classmates.
Shirley had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and joined our class about a month after classes started again after the summer break; something unusual because our population was rather stable and new classmates were rare. Rare and very strikingly beautiful, in this case. She was taller than the other girls and very slim, with long, unruly light brown hair that made her even more interesting to me. After all, I was tall and slim also, so she was a natural attraction.
On the second or third day, I discovered that she walked home after school along the same general route I took, although she did not take the usual shortcuts. The next day, I followed her closely enough to see where she lived, and it was on the other side of the square Mill Village; five streets east and five streets south. The next day, I made certain to leave when she did and offered to show her a shortcut through the edge of the campus of the girls' college, and along a seldom used railroad track. She agreed to let me show her, and, after a few days, we slowly became friends. We talked and both made efforts to overcome our shyness.
The walking home routine continued for a few weeks, and we had become friends! We never walked to school together because my Mom insisted I walk with my younger brother and that we get to school with time to spare every day. After school, he was on his own and usually stopped at the baseball field to play ball with his friends.Shirley got erratic starts to her day and was never around the railroad track shortcut when we were, so we made our separate ways in the mornings.
My family never had visitors who were not family, so the presence of a stranger was an event of major curiosity for me. The first Sunday afternoon when the stranger came to visit my Dad was an historic event for me because of its uniqueness. He brought his guitar and he and Dad sat on the front porch, playing and singing. Dad had done that alone on many occasions, playing his flat-top Martin guitar, and I loved hearing him play and sing in his smooth, soft voice. He and the visitor sang and played songs I had heard on the radio, and songs I had never heard.
They repeated those sessions frequently that late summer and fall and I sat on my bed with the window open, listening to the two troubadours on the porch just ten feet away.
On the third or fourth visit, I learned that he was Shirley's father! I had not known since my parents just referred to him as “Bill.” Now, he was Mr. Trader, to me.
Dad worked in the Mill, was self-taught on the guitar, and had played with The Palmetto Playboys on weekends in dance clubs and anywhere else that would pay the gas money to get there. All worked in the cotton mill, and the Playboys earned as much making music on Saturday night – as little as it was - as they made from a week's work in the mill. Dad (Malcolm), his brother, Harvey, along with Harrison Hutchinson, Angish Hawkins, and my mother's half brother, Boyd Hammonds, loved making music together. My Mom would listen to the latest songs on the only radio station in town and write the lyrics down for them to have the latest tunes on weekends. Before I was born, The Palmetto Playboys had been given a weekly, live radio show on AM radio station WOLS, in Florence, SC, in 1935, and it had lasted until mid-1938.
That may or may not have had anything to do with Dad knowing Mr. Trader, but I was too young to be interested in the adult conversations and may well have missed that part, although I do remember that Mr. Trader did not work in the Mill, and that made their "living on the Village" very unusual. He and Dad played well together, and Dad's voice imprinted the sound and spirit of Woody Guthrie and early American Country music in my background memories of growing up.
I continued walking Shirley home after school as far as her front porch. Duty done, I retraced the blocks home. I don't remember Shirley's mom, and I'm not sure one was around, but I always thought Shirley could have used a mother's touch.
Shirley and I were like the other children. We all were surrounded by poor children because we were all poor. Wearing the same clothes for days in a row and having unkempt hair was commonplace and we paid no attention to others' dress. In any case, there was no such thing as "fashion" to us then because none of the parents could afford frivolous things. All that mattered was that Shirley remained a tall, breathtaking beauty to me then, and lives as that in my memory even now.
At some point near the end of the fall, Shirley and I actually began to hold hands – my right, her left - as we walked home. We never mentioned it, but we always did. Hers was so soft just touching it made me feel wonderful. They were almost the size of mine, with long fingers and nails that had not yet been manicured.
That was the first time I had ever held a girl's hand, and it was with the most beautiful girl ever produced by the human race! At least to me, and that was enough to make my lose my appetite.
"You're not eating your dinner, Will. Are you okay"
"Yes'um. I'm just not hungry."
"Eat your dinner, Willy," my dad said, with the unsaid 'You're going to be sorry if you don't' lingering in the air.
"But.." I began.
"Eat anyway," Dad commanded. So I ate anyway.
I don’t remember that Shirley ever spoke of anything really personal, but I do remember that there was something sad about my most wonderfully beautiful feminine friend. I don’t remember her ever laughing, and sometimes I thought she wanted to cry but was ashamed to. I was too shy to intrude at times like that, so we just walked and held hands.
Another of my shyness-inspired traits was that I thought Shirley was so beyond description beautiful, I don’t remember actually looking at her face, except from the side when she was not looking at me. Oh, she was unquestionably pretty; far too pretty for me to look at without blushing.
"Daddy sold his song and Hank Snow is going to sing it! Daddy said we are going to be rich!" she told everyone who would listen. She was mobbed by the other girls in the class, even though most of them had never spoken to her because she was tall and beautiful.
I knew who Hank Snow was because I had heard him sing Country songs on the radio. I knew Mr. Trader could write songs. I didn't know anyone who was rich, and I don't remember even thinking about being rich.
"Daddy said he was going to buy me new clothes and anything I wanted," she told me with excitement when I finally got to talk with her during recess.
We did walk home together after school, but she was in a hurry and we didn't talk much. We didn't hold hands... because of the excitement, I think.
The next day, Shirley had a written excuse and left school at lunch time.
The following morning, Friday, Shirley caused a stir because her hair had been cut and she was dressed nicely and was suddenly even more attractive and exotic than ever to my twelve year-old self. She suddenly looked like one of the college girls I saw every day as I passed the nearby Coker College campus!
That afternoon before class ended, Mr. Trader came to our classroom and Mrs. Tindall, our teacher, introduced him as Shirley's father. Shirley joined him at the front of the classroom and Mr. Bill Trader played his guitar and sang his to-become-popular song while facing Shirley as she stood facing him. A Fool Such as I was the song I had heard him and Dad sing on our porch! I had heard it several times, but I didn't know Mr. Trader had written it or how special it was. It had been just another song to me.
Shirley left with her father as the school day ended. That was on a Friday. I remember that because Shirley was not in class on Monday, and Mrs.Tindall told us that afternoon that Shirley had moved away and would not be in our class any longer. After school, I walked to her house and found it empty.
Not many weeks after that, I heard Hank Snow singing A Fool Such as I on our hometown WHSC radio station.
Over and over it was played.
Every time I heard it, I wished I could have told Shirley goodbye. I thought of her almost constantly, of her tall, lithe beauty; of her long, wild hair that I loved, and of how grown up she looked the last time I saw her.
And about how she laughed and smiled and looked the happiest I had ever seen her.
I never heard of them again, but - odds aside - I hope they got very rich.
finis
