Billy Albertson: 03/31/32 to 08/14/21
He was two and a half pounds of “tow-maders” weighed heavy, because he knew one day he’d, “stand before his maker,” and he wasn’t about to short a single customer.
He was baby goats, pregnant nannies, ball bands, and “lemme teach you how to milk.”
He was the last farmer in Roswell, Georgia.
He was pink-eyed-purple hulls and zipper peas.
He was Truckers fav-oh-right and corn smut.
He was okra, pods, cut and carried out of the red-clay field in five-gallon buckets.
He was string beans, and renegade cotton stalks.
He was the permission we ALL need to live a slower life.
He was straw hats, fried bologna sandwiches, a bowed-head-blessing, and tears splattered on the inside of his spectacles.
He was collected-rain water, hauled to a thirsty garden in five-gallon buckets and a little red wagon.
He was a Mason, of the highest respect. A deacon, a servant of the most-high God.
He was a thin cotton shirt, draped across my shoulders because, “Zippy, that old Georgia sun is hot enough to fry an egg.”
He was a warm house, heated with split-wood come wintertime.
He was dopes in a bottle and moon pies (just don’t tell the daughters).
He was, “Zippy, try this here fig. It’s so good and sweet, it’ll make you wanna slap your Granny.”
He was baby chicks and fretful hens sitting on a clutch of eggs.
He was sandwiches from “The Chicken House,” and fried shrimp at Captain D’s.
He was barefoot, and thrice-patched cotton pants dashing out to catch an escaped goat by the horns.
He was a magnolia tree with thick branches that hung so low, you could take a nap in the shade.
He was the founder of the Best Friends’ Club.
He was homemade wine and head-knocker pears.
He was an old white truck, and a Farmall tractor that required a prayer to God before it’d crank.
He was corn shelling and fodder tying.
He was a box fan circulating air and, “Here’s a towel to dry those tow-maders.”
He was a sharpened chainsaw and, “Let’s drop that limb.”
He was bent nails, hammered straight and re-used.
He was a teacher to everyone, age one to one-hundred, who visited his “little strip of country because Zippy, folks ’round here don’t know how to grow food.”
He was a seed saving, share cropper’s son, with roots so deep he could hold all your secrets and bear your burdens.
He was the inspiration for my first book (and my second). He was a way for me to deal with being so far from home, and later, he was my shoulder when my mother passed.
He was radio interviews, newspaper articles, and book signings. His was the most-important autograph in the book. Not mine, never mine.
He introduced me as his “third daughter.”
He was pure of heart and kind. There was meekness in his soul. He wanted you to know our Jesus.
He was my friend, and, if you had the opportunity to meet him, even for one fleeting moment, he was your friend as well.
God Speed, my friend. Hug everyone for me in heaven.
Go rest high on that mountain, my friend.
Renea Winchester 