I Won’t Take No For An Answer
My newest book, Southern Grit: Stories from My Grandparents, is a marriage of memoir and life lessons from two of the most influential people in my life – my Mamaw and Papaw. I wanted to mine treasures from their lives and stories to show how they influenced and inspired me—and everyone around them—with their selfless, no-nonsense approach to both good times and hard ones. I tried to bottles up their humble wisdom, preserving their vivid stories to pass their legacy to the next generation.
Some of the stories will have you laughing, while some, like the one of my Papaw dying in 2001, will have you reaching for a box of tissues. I hope these stories inspire a new generation of people to see the impact they can have on their families and community by following Paul’s instructions to live “quiet and peaceable lives in all godliness and honesty.” (I Tim. 2:2)
This book is a perfect gift for anyone who loves a good story, grew up in the south, or wants to look at servant leadership in a new light. I’m happy to come speak at book clubs or writing groups about how to capture and write your own stories. Grab your copy here.
Here is a sneak peak at the book, with one of the stories that inspired it.
A streak of stubbornness runs thick in my family, leaving deep heel tracks etched in the dirt as evidence of digging in and holding ground in a variety of circumstances. If my Mamaw makes up her mind to do something, it is easier to help her clear the path to victory than to try to oppose her. She is a master at digging her heels into proverbial hills—ones of major and minuscule importance depending on what strikes her that day. Thankfully this stubbornness is not doled out in equal measure or the whole clan would be intolerable. (A marriage with equal doses of stubbornness between parties would be like a southern backyard on the Fourth of July—primed and ready for an impressive explosion.) While Mamaw possessed the lion’s share of stubbornness in their relationship, Papaw had his own well of stubbornness he could access when a fitting situation presented itself. If he set his mind on something, he would not take no for an answer.
In the early Fall of 1951, Papaw heard that the Lockheed factory in Atlanta, Georgia was hiring. He immediately turned in his hoe and shovel, borrowed a car, and drove the 200 miles through the thick pine forests of north Georgia to another bustling city where his younger brother Winstin and his wife Bertha had moved a few years before. He had barely dropped his bags in the house before he drove to the gate of the Lockheed factory in Marietta, in south Cobb County, on the northwest side of the Atlanta suburbs.
The sprawling 4.2 million square foot facility was built in 1941 and produced B-29 bombers for the US Military. While airplane production stopped after the war, the building was used for storage until airplanes were again in demand during the Korean War. Lockheed’s announcement in 1950 that they would be reopening the facility is what led to Papaw’s hearing of its massive hiring campaign a few months later.
He pulled up the gate as the sun peeked over the horizon, a fitting image for the anticipation building in his heart.
“I’m here to apply for a job.” His hands tensed against the steering wheel as the man in the guard shack waved him through. The wide, bellowing Chevy looked like a matchbox car as the narrow gate opened to the expansive lawn framing the enormous building which towered against the pink hues of the sunrise. He parked his car and filed in line behind ten other men all wearing some form of a white shirt and brown pants with black loafers. Papaw could feel the rough edges of the gravel through the well-worn soles of his shoes.
At 8:00 AM a heavy-set, balding man with thick-rimmed black glasses turned the lock and swung open the door. The line had swelled to over thirty men and they each took a clipboard and scratched their information into the boxes filling the paper. After methodically filling in each line of the form, Papaw approached the desk, his shoes squeaking against the tile floor.
“We will keep this on file and let you know when we have an opening,” the man’s eyes didn’t break from scanning the newspaper on his desk. Papaw deposited the paperwork onto the newspaper. The man’s eyes met his.
“I need this job. I’m a hard worker. I can do whatever job you ask me to do.”
“I said we would keep it on file. Next.”
This scene would repeat itself day after day, week after week. Each time he would fill out the paperwork only to be told it would be kept on file for a later date. He knew the potential of a company like Lockheed. He knew it was his way off the farm and onto a better life for himself and his family. And he certainly knew it was better than digging ditches.
On one particular occasion, the stubbornness indicative of our family showed its colors through my even-tempered, measured grandfather.
“I’m not leaving until you give me a job. I’m a hard worker. I won’t take no for an answer.”
He stared the man in the face, daring him to blink first. His calm, determined stance let his intentions be known. Wayne Taylor wasn’t leaving without a job.
That day, his persistence paid off. The hills of the Appalachian Mountains would be in his rear-view mirror from that day forward.
“All I can offer you is the night shift. You’ll start after the first of the year.”
After such persistence and groveling, you would have thought he would have graciously accepted whatever job they offered, even if it had been the janitor, but his pragmatic, level-headed response showed an unusual speed of delivery.
“I had to sell the car to buy our house, and the bus don’t run that time of night. I’ll work the day shift until I can save enough money to buy another car.”
Maybe Lockheed needed day shift workers as much as they needed night shift workers or maybe they were so intrigued with the persistence and boldness of this farm boy from North Carolina that they agreed.
Over the next two months, he bought a house in the suburbs and moved his family, which now included baby Martha, down from Tennessee. Burton, Mamaw’s little brother, made the four-hour drive in the middle seat of the moving truck. Coming from a family of fourteen, Burton doubted his presence would be missed at home. Helping your sister move may not have been exciting for some, but a chance at a road trip promised enough excitement to lure him along. A bus ticket back to Tennessee felt like a fair payment for a weekend of adventure in the big city of Atlanta.
With his family settled, Papaw went to work. He honored his word and switched to the night shift after he saved enough money to buy a car. He spent the next thirty-eight years working at one of the largest airplane manufacturing facilities in the country. He helped assemble the C-130, C-141, and the massive C-5 cargo planes for the US Air Force.
His ambitions were never self-serving. He didn’t dream of seeing his name on billboards or amassing a fortune, he simply had a drive to provide for his family. He didn’t consciously plan to achieve the American Dream. He didn’t leave the farm out of anger or pride; he just didn’t want to dig ditches or milk cows at 4:00 AM. He set his hand to the plow to find a job that would match his intellect and skill, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.