The first clear memory of my father, Grant Taylor, happened when I was one. It was near the fall of the year and Mom and Dad was share-cropping with Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood. It was my job to babysit my sister, Earnestine, who was only a year younger than me. About noon, Mother called for me to bring the baby to her to suck. I got myself and the baby from the jeep and hurried in the direction I heard my mother's voice. But, the longer I tried to keep the baby saddled on my hip, the heavier she was becoming. Still, I tried to follow the sound of Mom's voice. Suddenly, as I strode between the rows of cotton, I became tired and decided to leave my baby sister at the end of a row of cotton and continue my journey.