Being a native of Henderson County, Tennessee, the author of I Was A Sharecropper’s Son graduated from Lexington High School in 1964 at age sixteen. Immediately following graduation, he began his career at Lexington Electric System digging pole holes and clearing right-of-way. Twenty-three years later, as General Manager, he resigned his position and joined the outside sales team of Stuart C. Irby Company where he remained until his retirement thirty years later on his seventieth birthday in 2017. Lewis and his wife, Kay, still reside on Oak Grove Road in Lexington, Tennessee.

Following is Foreword to the author’s autobiography, I Was A Sharecropper’s Son, published in 2023 and which became the flagship publication to all his previous writing. The book, along with numerous other literary works of the author, are the heart of Golden Bowl Publications.

One of the more prominent memories I have of childhood is listening to stories told by my father (Daddy) and mother (Mama) relating to specific incidents in their lives when they were children. In retrospect, we probably had more spare time than the “average” neighborhood kids. Until the late 1950s, we had no television, very little radio, and no vehicle in which to travel for visiting other families or events. For whatever reasons, many of those stories stuck in my mind and remain there even today. Some would spawn sadness, often to the point of tears; some would bring hope; some were just downright funny. Each would issue its own emotion which would record in the mind of a young man who, I believe, the Lord knew would one day enjoy relating to his own children, and that they would subsequently relish hearing and storing in their own memory, then possibly choose to pass on to posterity.
Many have been the times when my own son and I would reflect, as we strolled in or passed by a cemetery, how so many interesting stories were there buried, untold and forever gone. Yet, had those experiences been somehow recorded or relayed to some relative or friend before being muted forever, they could have taught some valuable lessons or afforded lots of hours of entertainment as they were passed on to others.

On various occasions which began several years ago, as I would mention incidents in my own past, Kay and both our children would suggest that I undertake a writing such as this. The challenge would interest me for a while; maybe I would record an incident or two, but soon I would allow myself to be drawn back into the race of life, after which long periods would often pass without any attention at all. Though I am now sure that my choice to complete these accounts has been what I had need to do, I acknowledge that, even as I near completion, this continues to require more time and work than I first envisioned.

No part of my life has caused a quake that spawned tremors which endured for very long or were felt very far away. In fact, the whole of its geographic expanse has been comparatively small. With few exceptions, the entirety has occurred in the counties of Henderson and Decatur in Tennessee. Yet, when one sets to the task of recording even a small part of what he has stored in deepest memory, he may discover that the expanse of his memory bank is greater than he may have imagined. It has been so with this project and me.

Many things, I wish that I could have recalled in more detail. Others I had just as soon forget. This I have learned with such an undertaking. Though recording of the accounts which follow began several years ago, even now, I continue to recall situations and people and times which I would have thought had been long since forgotten. Yet time and research resurrect many events of life which, at once, one might think to have been mundane, yet they now generate interest and curiosity. Even so, time has a way of burying memories into a bank that is progressively more difficult to mine. Though at some point in the not-so-distant future, the mine of my memory will close, never to be opened by mortals again, I pray that the heart to finish this project does not cease before the one that beats within my chest goes to rest forever.

As I approached last throes of determining whether to undertake writing what follows, I was continuing to be plagued with thoughts that not many people would take interest in reading about the life of a common, not highly educated, seventy-five-year-old working man – especially one who spent most of his life as a hired hand after the lowly beginning as the son of a Tennessee sharecropper. Maybe they will; maybe they will not. In either instance, such distracting thoughts have often delayed my pursuit and continue to periodically haunt my mind. Even so, during the winter months of early 2022, a simple train of thought started to develop that has been invaluable as I tried to generate courage to continue.

During that period, I began to reason that life for all mortals is filled with trials, some of which are especially intense. And, regardless of what his name may be or where life has situated him, he is often stressed by knowing whatever may be the choices, the outcome will likely shape the remainder of his life. Mine has been no different.

The thought has served often as a wellspring of reassurance, and it continues to fuel my desire to see this project through. Though each of us possesses our own uniqueness, it is without shame that I consider myself very much a “common” or “average” person, having lived life in a manner which corresponds with what I considered myself to be. Yet, each day in the life of a commoner like myself is filled with occurrences and situations that spawn much the same emotions and excitement as experienced by those who are considered by others, or often by themselves alone, to be among the elite.

Like others who may never record life as it was for them, my name has not been posted in headlines of newscasts, magazines, marquees, or special editions of newspapers. Neither is it usually associated with notables such as politicians, preachers, sports stars or other potentates. I lay no claim to being either a scholar or theologian, nor do I present myself or my family on social media, as is commonly done, in a manner that suggests material affluence, glamorous lifestyle, physical attractiveness, or intellectual prowess as being especially noteworthy. From such vanity, I purposely refrain.

Yet again, like many who may look upon lives such as my own as having been mostly common and mundane, to me, life has truly been challenging and exciting. So, with exemplary descriptions of its excitement and tedium alike, this is my life, though time and this space will prevent the far greater part from ever being told.
As we begin retracing my journey, expect to cross my share of hills and valleys; traverse some roads that were rough and some that were well-paved as you see the caution and stop signs that I often disregarded; yet note those to which I thankfully took heed. Several of the paths I am happy to have chosen; some were chosen for me, and some I now shudder to describe or even to recall, much less recount to you.

Even so, I have made a good faith attempt to touch on them all – family and careers, spiritual and carnal, failure and success, friends and foes, opportunities seized, and opportunities lost – all alike. Yet withal, the trip has been much shorter than I would have expected not so long ago. Likewise, will your own journey be. Ever bear in mind that each is afforded but one pass.
So, here it is. For whatever worth it may hold, I dedicate it to my wife, Kay; to our two children, Cindy Lee and John David; and to our nine grandchildren Donald Travis Bryson, Nathan Lee, Preston Andrew, and Patrick Dayton Lewis, along with their sister and our granddaughter Melanie Grace Lewis Russell and her husband Matthew; also, to our adopted grandchildren Walker, Paul, Zeb and Kaylee Bryson, along with our two great-grandchildren, Dagny and Ainsley Bryson. They cause us to move when little else will.