The Ballad of John... and Bailey

The following poem is about my father, John Ledford Neighbors, who was born in March, 1907 in Oklahoma (Indian territory at the time, not yet a state by a few months). It's also a bit about my Grandson, Bailey, at least to the extent that John and Bailey crossed paths....so to speak. John had a talent for telling stories that was not always appreciated by his youngest son and a memory like a colorfully illustrated history book. He had memories of people coming home from WWI. He had a favorite story about buying his first car, getting some quick instruction from a Ford mechanic and then, basically, learning how to drive on the way home. For many years I assumed that this story, like many others he told, was untrue or, at least, over embellished. Years after Dad’s death one of my older brothers told me that, sometime in the late 1920’s/ early 1930’s Dad had worked for Ford Motor company in Oklahoma City and that the story was true.


John had stories about playing country baseball as a youth. My last "conversation" with him (him talking, me and my son Michael, listening) was in October, 2001 and consisted of a detailed description of a long ago baseball game in some small Oklahoma town back in the 1920's. He remembered players' names, plays, pitches, hits, lots of detail, but, when he ended the story, he couldn't remember my name or Michael’s. He told stories about having to quit school after the 8th grade to help on the family farm, about carrying a favorite book everywhere he went, reading it over and over even when he was riding a horse or plowing a field. He told  about a trip in a horse drawn wagon that the family took when John was a young boy. I thought I had heard all his stories and had gotten into the habit of pretending to listen. Then, one day, my wife, Jeanie, decided she would start asking him questions about what life was like growing up in rural Oklahoma in the early part of the 20th century. To my great surprise he told new stories, things I hadn’t heard before about family Christmases, about his mother making butter and him talking it into town to sell to the local grocer. I started listening again and I heard stories about my Mother, about her death at a relatively young age and my Dad's attempts to deal with that for the rest of his long life. Stories about the family moves from Oklahoma to Colorado and on to California where I was born, the youngest of 7 and the only "prune picker" (Californian) in the family. There were obvious (in my mind) parallels with the John Steinbeck book "The Grapes of Wrath". Of course, Dad didn't like the book -- "makes the Okies look like they were stupid, we weren't stupid.


My Mother died in 1956 at the age of 50 in Selma, California. John married again in 1965. When my step-mother died, he married again  but, ultimately, outlived them all and gave up on marriage for good.  John lived the last  years of his life in the home of my Sister, Carol, in Vinton, Louisiana. As long as he was able, he had a garden. He planted a Grapefruit tree that, 20 plus years after his death, is still producing fruit and never fails to make me think of him and smile. . He died in Louisiana in December 2001.


My Grandson, Bailey, was six months old when I wrote this poem. At that time he would sit on my son, Michael's lap and seem to watch "Baseball Tonight" on ESPN. like father, like son, like grandfather, great-grandfather etc. John was a life-long baseball fan, a life-long Giants fan.   A favorite player was fellow Oklahoman and New York Giant legend, Carl Hubbell. Dad still followed the Giants after they moved to San Francisco.
One of the last people Dad met was my son Michael's wife, Nikki. She was carrying John's great grandson at the time. John died just days before Bailey was born. I like to think John and Bailey crossed paths at the threshold and that thought was the inspiration for this poem.




The Ballad of John … and Bailey




John was born a farmer's son
and learned to work the lands
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.


He learned to tell a story well
and those who listened know
of model A's, depression days
and silent picture shows ...


of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball ...
of thunderstorms and blackjack trees
and harvests in the fall ...


of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules,
he still remembered how.


As the oldest of eleven
what could the schoolboy do
but read his book behind a plow
and trust the rows were true.


John married young as some men do
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong,
with quiet dignity.


They moved to Colorado for,
he hoped, a better day,
to make a life without a crop,
to live another way...


then out to California
a blue Pacific dawn,
the war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.


They cut some grapes and pulled a mile
of cotton down a row,
they chased some water, pulled a plow
and danced with mister hoe.


They moved a thousand sprinkler lines
then moved them all again,
they moved the mighty cotton plant from
row, to sack, to gin.


John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another forty years
though half his heart had died.


And other loves and other crops
and other rows to hoe,
and other losses other moves
and other pain to know.


Alone at last, yet not alone,
Louisiana bound.
In southern hospitality
a final home he found.


A restful town, a peaceful life,
a garden there to tend,
with books to read and tales to tell,
a better way to end.


With honor and integrity,
with unrelenting pride,
with dignity John lived his life...
with dignity he died.


... and Bailey


Two Neighbors boys at Heaven's door
paused there to share a grin ...
then one stepped out to start a life
and one came home again.




~ Dean Neighbors ~