His first universe was Plains, named for the Plains of Dura, the land near Babylon in the Book of Daniel where ancient Israelites refused to bow down to idols. The perfectly flat and circular town, a mere mile in diameter, had been founded only forty years earlier by enterprising merchants anxious to convert the cotton bales that lined the unpaved roads into an outcropping of low-slung buildings that might bring prosperity for themselves and local farmers.
Above all else, he looked forward to working alongside Daddy in his combination blacksmith and carpentry shop. He learned to use a sledgehammer, tongs, and anvil to shape and sharpen steel plow points; to shoe mules and horses; to build steel rims for wagons and buggies; and to repair almost any piece of broken equipment. Daddy taught him welding, cobbling, and cabinetry. His love of woodworking would endure throughout his life.
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The multiple skills required for committed work as a farmer and artisan would give him the confidence to set his mind to any task and qualify him for a simple adjective long out of fashion but once high praise: able.
One day Daddy asked Hot to come with him while he picked up a holiday turkey at a nearby farm owned by an attractive young widow. Hot thought this was strange; they had plenty of turkeys on their own farm. His father, who seemed to know the Webster County property well, directed him to the pen out back and told him to pick out a turkey while he went into the house. Hot followed his instructions and waited a long time. When his father and the dark-haired woman finally exited together, he suspected strongly that they had been doing more than discussing turkeys. His willingness to volunteer this story nearly seventy years later suggests that he never fully extinguished his resentment toward his father.
I\u2019ve been stunned in the last week by the outpouring of love toward Jimmy Carter and the extent of the new interest in him. It\u2019s nice that he and Rosalynn have lived to see it. When I set out in 2015 to write a biography of him (published in 2020), I hoped to help kick off a new appraisal of his presidency and his life, as David McCullough did for Harry Truman. But I had no idea that eight years later, I would be fielding calls from journalists all over the world, asking about details of his astonishing life, from risking being irradiated by running to the melted down core of a secret Canadian nuclear reactor, to going door to door for Jesus and trying to convert a madam, to somehow making peace between Israel and Egypt. He\u2019s a global icon now, and deserves the appreciation, even if the \u201Csaint\u201D stuff is a little over the top and doesn\u2019t fully capture the tough, driven engineer I got to know. I once asked his son Jeff to choose one word to describe his father. His spot-on answer was: \u201CIntense.\u201D
Like most great men, Carter had daddy issues. After going to the Naval Academy in the mid-1940s, he and Earl Carter, a prominent farmer and merchant in Sumter County, Georgia, grew estranged, in part because \u201CMr. Earl\u201D was a white supremacist who strongly objected to his son\u2019s integrationist views. On racial matters, Jimmy took after his mother, \u201CMiz Lillian,\u201D an eccentric nurse who took care of black sharecroppers for free. (She also delivered Rosalynn Smith and 95 years ago brought her toddler Jimmy over to see the new baby). Lillian Carter joined the Peace Corps at age 68 and was so funny that she was a regular on Johnny Carson during her son\u2019s presidency. But as a young mother, she was withdrawn and busy with her nursing, and Jimmy credited Rachel Clark, an illiterate black farmhand, with much of his faith in God and love of nature. It was Earl, though, who developed the discipline and work ethic in his son that took him to the presidency. So I thought I\u2019d excerpt my opening chapter to give you a sense of where Jimmy Carter came from.
When he was old and allowed himself a reverie, he remembered the soil and the way it felt as it caressed his bare feet. From early March until late October, he almost never wore shoes, even to school. The loam of southwest Georgia was made of dark sand and red clay that spread over his face and his clothes and his house \u2014 one day as powder, the next, he said, as pellets the size of grits.
The blue-eyed, freckle-faced boy enjoyed a carefree idyll in the early 1930s that was little different than it would have been in the 1830s or 1730s or even \u2014 he liked to say \u2014 two thousand years ago, when Jesus Christ walked the earth. Time was measured not by clocks or pocket watches but by the sun and the clanging of the cast-iron farm bell. Until he was eleven, his homestead had no running water, no electricity, no insulation, and no mechanized farm equipment; only slop jars and outhouses, hand-pumped wells, kerosene lamps, ancient mule-driven plows, and black laborers to work the land in a feudal system just one step removed from slavery.
In other ways, he experienced many of the technologies that were coursing through the twentieth century. His boyhood on the farm coincided almost exactly with the years of the Great Depression, when his family suffered along with the rest of the country. But they were well-to-do by local standards and boasted a telephone (on a shared \u201Cparty line\u201D with two other families and an operator, Miss Gladys, who knew everyone\u2019s business), automobiles (a Plymouth and later a pickup truck), and a large battery-powered radio, shaped like a cathedral, which everyone sat and stared at while the voices of Little Orphan Annie, Amos \u2019n\u2019 Andy, Jack Benny, Glenn Miller, and Franklin D. Roosevelt crackled across the small parlor. Atlanta was 160 miles north \u2014 as distant as Moscow or Peking, he wrote later, though dreams of the outside world were never far from his mind.
In summer, Plains lay inside \u201Cthe gnat belt.\u201D Locals learned from childhood the subtle gesture later known as \u201Cthe Georgia wave\u201D: flicking the annoying if harmless insects away from their faces or more often ignoring them altogether. In winter, it was surprisingly cold, and the boy\u2019s most unpleasant childhood memories were of shivering all night, even under blankets. Set on the western edge of Sumter County, Plains looked like a movie facade and consisted mostly of a one-sided Main Street \u2014 a mere one block in length \u2014 that local farmers would visit on weekends by horse and buggy or Model T, eager to get out of the fields to shop and converse. Fewer than half of the town\u2019s residents were white.
One of his earliest memories came when he was four years old and first visited the clapboard three-bedroom farmhouse that his family would move to in the country, nearly three miles up the road from Plains. The modest Arts and Crafts \u201Ckit house\u201D had been built by the previous owner from materials shipped in a boxcar from Sears, Roebuck, whose catalogue was often a family\u2019s only connection to the bounty of the wider world. That day, the front door was locked, but the small boy was able to slip through a window, then come around and open the door from the inside. Daddy\u2019s smiling approval of his first useful act remained vivid in his mind. It would not come often.
The house where he was raised lay a few hundred feet down a dirt road \u2014 also known as US Route 280\u2014 from a tiny dot on the map called Archery, Georgia, home to fewer than thirty farm families, most of them dependent on his father for work. All but the boy\u2019s and one other family were black, a circumstance of his early years that would give him genuine comfort with African Americans and, four decades later, ease his way when he spoke carelessly and needed their forgiveness. West of the family farmhouse, beyond his father\u2019s small commissary and the half dozen tenant farmer shacks he owned, was the home of the white foreman of a maintenance section of the Seaboard Air Line Railroad, plus shacks for the five black railroad workers. The center of the tiny town, if it could be called that, was an African Methodist Episcopal church, which stood across from a small store for black customers, its roof covered by flattened Prince Albert tobacco cans.
That was about it for Archery. Most of the rest was 350 acres of his family\u2019s property \u2014 not just land but proving ground. The boy took to the soil with an ardor that he would one day apply to every endeavor. He planted himself, early, in futile anticipation of the approval of the person who meant most to him. For the rest of his life, he would pressure himself to measure up to his father\u2019s expectations \u2014 and his own \u2014 and push harder on all fronts when he did not.
Like nearly every white man in the county, Daddy was comfortable upholding a system of rigid segregation and quiet repression that he and most of his family assumed was the natural order of the universe. Within that pernicious system, he prided himself on treating black people with what he, in his blinkered fashion, considered respect. When the boy grew up and became a liberal, he made no secret of his father\u2019s racism, but he sometimes sugarcoated the brutal realities of the time.
Daddy always wore a hat \u2014 gray felt fedora in winter, straw Panama in summer \u2014 and went nowhere without a Home Run or Picayune cigarette dangling from his lips. He was a merchant by background and never one to bend his back much working in the fields. But he refused to pay for skilled labor he could do himself and so became not just a farmer and forester but also a herdsman, blacksmith, carpenter, and shoemaker. One of the first places the slight, strawberry-blond boy could work alongside his father was in the small machine shop where he turned a hand crank on the forge blower as fast as he could to keep the fire going. 152ee80cbc
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