Notes from Dr. Sam

Good Day,

I hope this note finds you well.

Springtime in the White River Delta in East Arkansas holds a special place in my memory. 

Winter was never that harsh, but it always seemed long. Each year, we had two to three spells of cold weather, often with snow; usually four to six inches that stuck around for a few days. Most of us had sleds we’d haul out of the storeroom and then spend a few school-free days maneuvering down the two or three modest hills in our town.

When we had a winter rain, my father (a sharecropper rice farmer for the Conner Company) would stand in the door to his shop and whistle. The old gumbo mud in that part of the country held water, and the more it rained in the winter the less he had to water his rice in the summer.

Near the end of February or early March, we would have a few days of less cold weather, longer days of sunshine, and the promise of springtime. We were in the middle of the Mississippi Flyway for the migrating geese and ducks beginning to make their way back north.

By the middle of March, the yellow and white daffodils began to bloom. Springtime was no longer a promise, it was here. Soon the honeysuckle flowers would make their appearance. 

For the first half of my childhood, we lived on the rice farm, and our lives were dictated by the rise and fall of the sun. We didn’t have TV, and when the sun went down it was time to begin preparing to go to bed. Early morning began well before the sun came up. The alarm signaling the new day was my dad’s coffee pot on the stove.

I have never been a big coffee drinker, but the sense memory of his coffee percolating and the rich smell of Folgers coffee are still with me from over 75 years ago. The joke in the family was that Dad’s coffee was so strong that instead of drinking it, you could roll it up in little balls and eat it. 

In those days we kept a milk cow, a few pigs, and a flock of chickens. The animals were my mother’s responsibility. My mother was a city girl, and though I never knew for sure, I don’t think she was especially happy about that. 

Springtime was a real time of renewal on a rice farm. It was a time of hope and promise. As the weather improved, Dad spent long hours getting the equipment ready for putting in a crop. 

When the threat of frost was gone, it was time to get serious. I think my father and mother loved their life. There are worse ways of spending your life than being a rice farmer in the Delta. 

Have a good journey,

Sam

 Dr. Sam Taggart is a retired doctor/writer/marathon runner who practiced in Benton for 45 years. He recently released For Every Family, A Family Doctor: a history of the modern Family Medicine Movement in Arkansas. His other books include Country Doctors of Arkansas, The Public’s Health, With a Heavy Heart and We All Hear Voices.