Forever A Hillbilly: A Town the World Forgot - Part Three

Forever A Hillbilly: A Town the World Forgot - Part Three:       Like I said, it just seems that Wing is a town the world forgot. Wing was first named Mineral Springs, due to the large amount of f...

A Town the World Forgot - Part Three

      Like I said, it just seems that Wing is a town the world forgot. Wing was first named Mineral Springs, due to the large amount of fresh spring water produced right behind the old church. Wing was a thriving town around 1898, when the Gillum's first arrived. At that time, there were said to be seventeen houses up Wing hollow, right behind the old church, with every cleared spot as large as a wagon sheet growing cotton. There were none in my days at Wing, just old home sites. In 1898, the rich bottom land carved out by the river was dotted with small farmers rapidly clearing more land, more cotton and other row crops appearing. A cotton gin, a sawmill, and a grist mill sat at the mouth of Wing hollow, with the very large spring producing a large amount of cold water year around for steam power.

     Wing and the surrounding area was then an educational mecca. In 1915, fifteen school teachers lived around Wing. The old school room above the church was only an overflow classroom. Mineral Springs Academy took in boarding students from many miles around, advertising, “Room and board with a nice local family for two dollars a month.” Thousands of acres of prime, virgin forests covered the mountainsides. The walls of many of those old houses were made from 1x20 pine boards from that virgin timber. The mountains were free range land, with large numbers of cattle ranged out into those hills. My dad often had to ride horseback for many, many miles to locate his cattle. A bell cow, wearing a cowbell around its neck, was with each herd to help in locating the herd.

     But all this was not to last. By the time I came along in 1944, many changes had taken place in the valley. The thin rich topsoil was rapidly getting tired, and cotton and other row crops were becoming less productive. Cotton gins disappeared. Nimrod lake was built, taking much of the richest bottom land. Hundreds of acres of cropland were reclaimed by the forests. Most of the small landowners lived by grubbing out a living from the soil, and had to put the wagon sheet back on the wagon and move on.

 

     The word was out. The delta land of southeast Arkansas was now a mecca for farmers, and the exodus from Yell County to the delta was in full swing. I met the love of my life at the Delta Dip in Dumas, home of the Ding Dong Daddy. I also learned while I hung around nearby Watson, trying to win her heart, that many, many farmers in that area came to the delta from Fourche Valley during that time period.

     The larger landowners, including the Gillums, began to depend more and more upon cattle as a money source. The virgin timber was gone. In the 1920's, a rail line was built up the South Fourche River Valley, to reach that virgin harvest. This brought about temporary prosperity. Saw mill towns sprang up, large bustling towns. Once the virgin timber was harvested, these towns disappeared, and were reclaimed by nature. The only signs remaining to show they ever existed is a rusting piece of metal or concrete lying here and there on the forest floor. In 1927, the harvesting was winding down in the south mountains. The flood of 1927 destroyed the rail line, wrapping rails around trees. Two of the large train engines were trapped at line's end. One was moved onto the railroad bridge during the height of the flood, to help keep it from washing out. Afterwards, the rail line had to be rebuilt to get the engines out, taking up the track behind the engines as they were moved out.

     The government bought up much of this timberland for as little as fifty cents an acre during and after the Depression, which became part of the Ouachita National Forest. The free range mountains were no more. Without that free range land, many of the cattle farmers had to move on. Hundreds of old, deserted home sites dotted the valley.

      But this is not the end of my story.    CONCLUSION NEXT WEEKEND.

Forever A Hillbilly: A Town the World Forgot - Part Two

Forever A Hillbilly: A Town the World Forgot - Part Two:      Well, to make a long story short, (too late) those valley and mountain people of Yell County just seem to always support their own, ...

A Town the World Forgot - Part Two

     Well, to make a long story short, (too late) those valley and mountain people of Yell County just seem to always support their own, even those fifty years removed, and when launching day arrived, they just kept coming. Sometimes, I had a stack of books half a dozen high waiting to be signed, and still they came. I've always dreamed about how great it would be, with a line of people coming to me to get my signature! But I didn't have time to fully enjoy it. Even so, it was one of my best days ever. I didn't even get a bite of that mountain of salt pork and biscuits. We sold seventy books that day.

      Equally as important, they ate up every last scrap of that salt pork. Even more importantly, I had a chance to renew a lot of very old, wonderful  relationships. Edith Turner was there. She was ninety, but not anywhere near the oldest person in Wing. My children, Corey and Kinley, found out she was a friend of my mothers. My mother passed away when they were at or near infancy, and they are now at or near forty years old. They just could not seem to let her go, just hung with her every word, until long after the big event was over. She told them story after story of my mother. Kinley said, “Holding her hand was like finally getting to hold the hand of my grandmother.”

    Corey and three others, at great risk to life and limb, climbed up to the old classroom above. The stairs were long gone. I started up the ladder, but at the top was a three foot wall, to keep people from climbing up, I guess. Well, I'm sixty eight years old, so I headed back down. But Cindy Turner Buford, whom I knew was at least eight years older than me, (maybe more, but who's counting) just upper middle aged by Wing standards, scrambled up and over that wall. When they were all about to come down, Corey came first, and I saw him standing under that ladder, panic in his eyes, already holding his arms out as if to catch someone. He told me, “There's a lady in her seventies about to come over that wall!” I didn't worry too much about that. Those normal age limitations don't always apply to Wing people.

      I grew up with Cindy, just a tall ridge over. We often communicated with a loud holler, that went something like this: “Whoooo, Whoooo, Whoooo weeee ouhooooo! Of course, that was back at a time when I could still holler that loud. I well knew Cindy could have climbed that tallest mountain behind Wing again, if she set her mind to it. That hill up to her house was about as steep as any mountain around.

      Anyway, in the old classroom, they found the name of my aunt, Leta Lazenby, who left Wing forever in 1930. It was on the chalkboard, still just like it had been written yesterday.  It was just like it was when I saw it in 1950. That chalkboard was made, it appears, by painting or spraying something on those very wide, virgin pine boards. It also had a lot of newer names. Seems climbing up there has become a “rite of passage” for Wing children.  Nephew Ken Gillum said, “It was just like stepping back in time.” The old classroom had not been used in at least eighty years, maybe much longer. Nobody living knows for sure.

     Effie Turner, an icon of Wing, ran the store next door all during my child hood. She died in 1979, at one hundred years of age. During her lifetime she rode to Wing in an oxcart, and saw men walking on the moon. Her son, JR, passed away last year at one hundred two.

     Elois Hunnicutt, just across the road and down the lane, ninety four, still grows a large garden. But she fell, out in that garden last year, and broke some bones. She managed to crawl to her back door, but could not get in. She had to lay out most of a day and a night. Remember, cell phones don't work well in Wing. But she's back now, as lively as ever. I know I'd have a hard time keeping up with her now, doing the kind of day's work she does.

     My sister Jonnie taught Sunday school classes in Fourche Valley for many years. Once I visited her class. The best I remember, her youngest class member was in his ninety's. CONTINUED NEXT WEEKEND

Forever A Hillbilly: A Town the World Forgot

Forever A Hillbilly: A Town the World Forgot: Some time back I told you about the beautiful old church at Wing, Arkansas. It was built in 1880, totally from virgin pine. I told you a...

A Town the World Forgot

Some time back I told you about the beautiful old church at Wing, Arkansas. It was built in 1880, totally from virgin pine. I told you all I knew, at the time. But then I got to wondering, How can it still be so solid, and so beautiful, after 133 years? Are there no termites in Wing? I did a little more research about that. Seems the answer was right there, under my nose, the whole time, right in the back of my brother Harold's mind. Harold is 82, does not get around much. He's told me a lot about Wing, in my research for my book, Spreading Wing. But Harold's a private person. Some of his revelations were followed by, “But you can't put that in a book!” Anyway, I stopped in to say hi a couple of days ago, and Harold told me he had come up with one more memory. Well, I was due in Russellville in a short time, but he said, “Sit down, and listen to this story!” I sat. And I listened.

Seems in the 1940s, Arthur Walden, reputed to be the best carpenter around,  noticed the floor of the old church was infested with termites. He told the church, “I know of a certain type of oil that would handle that problem.” Well, the church and the community listened. But the church operated on pennies in those days. The pastor was paid in produce from the gardens, and chickens. That oil was expensive. It seemed the church building was doomed.

      Right about there was where Buford Compton, the legendary sheriff of Yell County for sixteen years, and a resident of Wing, stepped in, Bought the oil, and put it on the floor. The termites just could not stomach that stuff. I remember my mother always told us, “If you're going to pray, don't kneel. Stand up.” That seemed strange to me at the time. But Apparently, she well knew what that black oil would do to our Sunday best. We stood. Actually, the most likely reason for me to be on the floor was that I was wrestling around with Sammy Charles Turner when I should have been sitting up and listening. I was two years younger, and I was usually the one on the bottom. But it sounds better when I put it in terms of how I was praying. During the winter, We usually only occupied a small area of that floor, right around that huge pot bellied wood stove.

     Many years later, a new floor was put down, right on top of that black floor. Kneeling was not only allowed now, but encouraged. Seems that old church would never have made it to the sixty's, when the Turners took over and completely renovated it, without Arthur Walden and Buford Compton's black oil.

My good friend Skeet, (Short for Skeeter) decided to go to Wing recently, since I was always talking about it. But he came to me with a big handful of maps, said he had been going over all his maps with a magnifying glass, couldn't find it. I told him, “It's not on most maps anymore. Just go to Rover, turn west, drive two miles, only church on the right.” He still headed out grumbling, to Walmart, to get another map. Skeet just leaves nothing to chance.

      If you want to go see Wing, just remember those directions. When you get into Yell County, you start to notice cars you meet will usually have a smiling face behind the wheel. And, they will wave at you. But about the time you leave Rover and head up the valley, put away your cell phones and your GPS. You are now entering a 45 mile dead zone. But I have found there is one place at Wing where you can get a signal. Go two miles south of Wing, wade out to the middle of the Fourche La Fave River, and it will work wonderfully. Though one is often unable to hear, this time of year, what with all the teeth chattering going on.

      When you are arriving, You have to look closely for that tiny sign announcing Wing. Just remember, That old church is right in the geographical center of Wing. Just like it was the activity center of everything when I was a child.

Well, last fall, after three long years, I finished my book, Spreading Wing. I put it on Amazon, but Amazon seemed sorta hit or miss. One day right off, my friends and relatives, I guess, bought seven books, and I looked to see where I stood in the top 100. I was sitting right on number 69,000^th. The next day I looked, nobody bought, and I was right around 230,000^th. After another day of bad sales, I had dropped to around 400,000^th. I decided I had to step in, Amazon needed some help. This was no way to sell a book. Nobody seemed to know me, or Spreading Wing, at Amazon, once we got past friends and relatives.

     I had always wanted to have my Book Launching at Wing, in that old church of my childhood. I knew that was a big risk, since I had been gone from Wing 50 years. We cooked up six packages of salt pork and a ton of biscuits, since that was a staple at our house in the 1940's, when I was a child. I knew I was running the risk of having to eat salt pork and biscuit sandwiches for the next few months, and I had way more than my share of that as a child.

      I went to the Yell County Record at Danville, expecting to spend an arm an a leg on advertising. Since my mother was the Wing correspondent for the Record in the 1950's, telling who all went to town and who visited who, I hoped for a discount. Well, David Fisher, the next generation of Fishers there, (his dad ran the Record when I was at Wing) said he would do two or three feature articles on my launching. For free. What!? “For free” had not existed in my world for fifty years. That seems to correspond with how long I've been gone from Yell County.

CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY     Thanks for your time, and your attention

Forever A Hillbilly: The Point of no Tomorrow - Sport Dunnahoe

Forever A Hillbilly: The Point of no Tomorrow - Sport Dunnahoe: Sport protected his girls from the ugly things in life. But his only son, J.D., was right in the middle of everything with him. And, J.D...

The Point of no Tomorrow - Sport Dunnahoe

Sport protected his girls from the ugly things in life. But his only son, J.D., was right in the middle of everything with him. And, J.D. carries his genes. He's a lot like him. Once, Sport had loaned Albert, his nephew, his shotgun to hunt with. He handed Sport his gun back just as a Game Warden pulled into the yard behind him. He started ragging Sport pretty good about loaning his gun to that kid. Sport had enough. “Did he hurt anybody with it? Did he damage anyone's property with it?” “No, but - “ “Then get in your truck and get off my property.” The shotgun, still in Sport's hands, added emphasis. He left. Barbara, as a little girl, witnessed this exchange, a rare event. She was scared they were just going to come and arrest the lot of them.

     Sport would just not allow any man to take anything from him. Or push him. If you pushed Sport, there would only be a small number of possible outcomes. Sport would get hurt, you would get hurt, or he would stop you. And Sport always handled that option in such a way that it never happened again. The humiliation prevented that..That is best illustrated by this little example----

     Once, a very cranky old neighbor had two large dogs. They were very bad at chasing and killing livestock. They struck Sport's livestock, and Sport went to visit the man. “That has to stop.” The old man said, “You mess with my dogs, and there will be some killing going on.”

     A few days later, they struck again. Sport had J.D. bring the gun. Sport gave the word as the dog ran by, chasing a calf. J.D., a dead shot like his father, took him out. Soon the other was dead too. Sport loaded them up, and they went to visit the neighbor. Sport threw both the dogs up on the porch, and pounded on the porch with his shotgun. When the old man emerged, saying, “What's going on here?” Sport said, “You told me, if I messed with your dogs, there would be some killin'.  I'm here to start it.” Well, the old man wilted. “Now, don't you worry none about those dogs!” They left. J.D. was puzzled. “Why did we not just take the dogs down and throw them in the Bayou? He would never have found them.” Sport answered, “ If we had done that, that old man would have been bad mouthing us all over the country. This way, there will never be another word said about it.” And there wasn't.

     One of Sport's cows wandered off into a neighbor's pasture. He sent J.D., a young boy, to get it. The neighbor man told J.D., “It's in my pasture now. It's mine.” When J.D. told Sport, Sport said, “Let's go get it.” Sport started up toward the man's house. J.D. said, “We could cut the fence in the back and get it out.” Sport shook his head. “I'll get it.”. He walked up by his front door, into the pasture, got behind it, and drove it through the man's front yard. Nothing was ever said.

     The road grader man started making his turn through Sport's bean field, taking out more and more of Sport's beans. Sport stopped the man, told him to stop doing that. Well, before long, he did it again. Sport ran him off, this time with a shotgun. A short while later, the County Judge found the road grader man a new place to turn around.

     A rich, big landowner bought up some land next to Sport. Told Sport, “The old survey is wrong. You'll have to move your fence back 50 feet.” Sport replied,  “That fence has been there since 1927.

It stays there.”

     Well, a while later a couple of surveyors showed up, started setting up their equipment. Sport and J.D. walked down. Sport: “Nothing is going to be changed down here..” The surveyor started explaining, “We're doing the job we were hired to do, check these old lines.” Sport said, “I've got a shotgun here that says you're not going to survey anything here.” The younger man wanted to get bad, but JD stopped him. “You just really don't understand the situation. If that old man says you don't, you don't. For your own sake, you best go home.” The older man toned the younger one down, and they went home. They never came back.

     The girls, for the most part, never knew about any of this. Their sweet Daddy could just never have said any of those words. And that fits right in with my daughter Kinley's memories of sitting in his lap, putting rollers in his hair, and painting his fingernails. But in the “wild west” of the early Delta country, a man had to stand his ground or just move. Sport never moved. I fully believe all of this for two very good reasons. First, J.D. is just like him. Second, I've seen those strong genes of Sport's in every one of those girls, cropping up from time to time. They call it “Dunnahoe Nerve.” They are all very strong women, always ready to stand up to whatever life throws at them. All us in-laws were very fortunate to find a member of this family to scoop up and marry.  Sport just had that unique ability to be a fun loving, lovable person, always loved dearly by all those around him. But he had rather die than allow himself to be pushed. If Sport Dunnahoe had been my father, I could never have loved or respected  him more. When I fished with Sport's grandsons, and great grandsons, I came to realize, some of them only know Sport Dunnahoe by his name. I hope, in writing this, they will come to realize what a great man he was. On my “Great men I have known” list, Sport Dunnahoe stands right up there with the best of em'. An ancestor to be proud of.

     Later in life, Sport was diagnosed with dementia, but he never lost his sense of humor. A doctor was interviewing him in his office to determine the extent. “Mr. Dunnahoe, what is today's date?” “Thursday, August 4.” Very good, Mr. Dunnahoe. How did you do that so easily?” With a little grin on his lips, Sport replied. “Its on the calendar, right behind you.” Another time, he was in another doctor's office with a daughter. The doctor came in. She immediately started giving instructions to the daughter, ignoring him. She was saying, “Take one tablet, four times a day, and-” Sport was pulling on the daughter's sleeve, with that little grin.. “What is it, Mr. Dunnahoe?” “Well, that just looks like it would be sorta hard – taking the same pill, 4 times a day.” “Point well taken, Mr. Dunnahoe. The next time I will talk to YOU about your medicine.” Barbara was taking Sport home from the Hospital. At the door, she instructed, “Stay right here while I go get the car. Don't move.” Sport was getting around pretty slow by now, and said, “I could start right now and not get outta' sight by the time you get back.”

     Sport left us all with a vast array of  “Sport-isms.”. My favorite is, “Being right won't help yore' old haid' none.”

      After Verla Mae died, Sport just couldn't go on without her. He gently explained to all his girls, “I just can't live without her.” Just a few months later, Phyllis found him dead in his bed one morning. The paramedics said it must have been a heart attack, there was a blue spot on his chest. But we all knew. A broken heart is just one kind of heart attack. Verla Mae's death had pushed Sport to the point of no tomorrow.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Point of no Tomorrow - Part one

Forever A Hillbilly: The Point of no Tomorrow - Part one:     During our early married years at Fayetteville, and later, we spent a lot of time at Watson. Mostly, we just loved to be there, but ...

The Point of no Tomorrow - Part one

    During our early married years at Fayetteville, and later, we spent a lot of time at Watson. Mostly, we just loved to be there, but also, Verla Mae, Barbara's mother, just had some mysterious hold on her large family. She seldom spoke, but when she did, they listened. Right up until the day she died. When she called our house, if I answered, all I ever heard was “Barbara there?” Then when she got Barbara on, she said her say, a few words, then just disappeared from the air waves. Never “bye” or “so long.” just disappeared. If one of the things she said in that phone call was, “Ya”ll coming for Thanksgiving?” we went. We all did. She always prepared about twice as much food as we needed, and we ate it. By the time that food had just began the digestive process properly, she was at the living room door. “Supper.” Then she was off to somewhere to eat hers alone.

    Us prospective and actual in-laws never really knew where we stood with Verla Mae. She just never talked to us much. The only hint of where I stood with her occurred one day when the jock (Barbara's college boyfriend) came home with Barbara to meet the family. (His idea, Barbara says.) She got Barbara alone, said, “Where's Pat?” A short time later, I was back in the fold, he was out. I've always had a warm place in my heart for Verla Mae about that.

    I have never seen a large family so close. They pretty well all wound up living close together, but if some of us did venture off for a time to another state, Sport and Verla May just got in that old truck and came to us, regularly. Verla Mae worked very hard, and she was always very fast. If she was chopping cotton, and Sport dared to suggest she slow down a little, as she was chopping too many cotton plants, She didn't say a thing. Just threw the hoe down, went to the house. Sport seldom did that, by the time I came around. Throughout our married life, as we worked together, if Barbara or I got a little too bossy, we had only to say, “I'm gonna throw my hoe down.”

    If one of her children wanted/needed some new clothes, shoes, etc. badly, they never discussed it. Verla Mae just found a way to make it happen, it just showed up on their bed one day. There was never any family discussion about whether they could afford it or not, it just showed up. Never a word said later. But they always got by, money wise. Verla Mae just saw to that. Sometimes, after the girls got older, Verla Mae would buy them new shoes and she would wear their old ones. She made sure her children and grandchildren never missed celebrating a holiday.    One rainy easter, she hid a dishpan full of easter eggs in the house. Took hours to find them all. She was a firecracker fanatic. I think she liked them more than the kids did.

    Verla Mae loved to drive around, find an old house place, dig up some plants to put in her yard. When she got behind the wheel, she started humming church songs, then got to tapping her gas pedal foot to the beat of the music. That could be a hard ride. Phyllis said, they bobbed their heads long before head bobbing became the thing to do.

    Verla Mae instilled an extremely strong sense of right and wrong in her children, similar to the old Gillum “ Do Right Mechanism” I have already talked about. But somehow, she just brought it about, with no screaming at them, no constant reminding, no watching them with eagle eyes. However, they did get THE LOOK if they messed up. She expected it, therefore they did it. Maybe a “Stop messin' and gommin'” thrown in occasionally. Just generally speaking, some sort of magic.

    A little word about THE LOOK. Barbara inherited THE LOOK. During the years Barbara was substitute teaching, she was always the first sub called to handle a difficult situation. Even in boy's PE, shop, whatever. They quickly learned, that soft spoken young lady could just put a rowdy kid on the floor with THE LOOK. Kinley was always especially vulnerable to it, and would do anything she could to avoid it. Oh, all right! I'll admit it. I was, and am, vulnerable to it too. I have changed more than one segment in my blog, when Barbara, while proofreading, gave me THE LOOK.
CONTINUED IN ONE WEEK

Forever A Hillbilly: The Pork and Beans Trips - Conclusion

Forever A Hillbilly: The Pork and Beans Trips - Conclusion:      My next trip was toward Okefenokee Swamp on the Georgia-Florida border. It is simply a spot where the Swanee River spreads out very...

The Pork and Beans Trips - Conclusion

     My next trip was toward Okefenokee Swamp on the Georgia-Florida border. It is simply a spot where the Swanee River spreads out very, very wide, fifty miles or so, and is still one of the true remaining wild places in the United States. It was not successfully crossed by the white man until up in the 1930's. Alligators abound, by the thousand, and it takes three days or so to paddle across in a canoe. Raised platforms have been placed about a day's travel apart, to avoid having to sleep right down in among the gators. I had always wanted to paddle across it, but never could find anyone to go with me, and one can't do it alone. Against the rules.

     I headed out, again in my little red truck. I got to Tallahassee the first day, It was raining hard, and that little bit of mud to put a tent up on was only $10 less than a cheap room, so I violated one of my rules that night. I arrived at Mark Twain State Park, on a peninsula well out in the swamp. Tons of wildlife to photograph. I rented a canoe the next day and paddled far out into the swamp and got some really good gator shots. If I knew then what I've since learned, I would not have gotten quite so close. I have heard they can outrun a horse for 30 feet, but I really didn't believe it until I saw one do it, going after a bird, at Aransas, on the Texas Gulf Coast. They can really come up on those toes and fly! I got one pic of a big mama gator sitting on her nest, and as I snapped the shot, I saw movement above her. When I got the pic back, there was a baby gator crawling over her head. I've been back to Okefenokee several times since, and I always see lots of wildlife, and called up lots of foxes.

     On the way back, I found a pure white squirrel, totally beautiful. I dropped down to the Florida gulf coast to camp, and while I was cooking supper, sun still up, the raccoons were already coming in for supper. I sat up a photo session after dark, heated some leftover soup up in a skillet, and they flogged me. I got eight of them in one photo. One particular coon constantly kept stalking me, coming real close. Not sure exactly what his intentions were, but I finally got up off the ground, and ran him off.

     For my next trip, I decided to drive totally around the border of Texas, with Big Bend National Park my main goal. I spent the first night, again, at the Witchita Mountains, then drove down the western edge of Texas the next day. My old trucks never seem to keep the A/C working, and this one was no exception. I about burned up. West Texas is different. I passed the opening gate to a ranch, with a dim trail going off across desert out of sight. The sign said, “so and so ranch, 38 miles.” Distances are very great in west Texas. Telephone poles were about head high, consisting of little scraps of limbs. Just work with what you've got. I topped off my gasoline every time I passed a rare station. Distances were the same in Big bend, 20 miles plus from the entrance to the Visitor's Center. When I started in the building, a big roadrunner was leaning up against the building, in a small bit of shade, tongue hanging out. It WAS hot that day. I started to go back for my camera, then I thought, I'll see lots more. I never saw another that close. There is a campground on the far south side of Big Bend, right along the Rio Grande, but it was deserted, and it didn't have a good feel about it, right on the border. The major campground is up in the mountains, so I chose it. Lots of desert wildlife around up in those mountains.

     Javelinas, or Collared Peccarys, were plentiful. Stalking a large group, I came upon a large male, very close, and It made him mad. His hair went straight up, and I snapped a photo, not totally sharp, as I was getting out of there. Texans tell me, they will even attack a man on a horse, as well as on foot, and those sharp tusks can cut a man or a dog up real good.

     Heading east along the Mexican border, I got to a large State Park just after they had closed down for the day, and I left early the next morning, so I never saw another human. The Jackrabbits were plentiful, though, and I got my best close up Jackrabbit photos at sundown.

     If anyone ever asks you, how far it is around the Border of Texas, it's about 2200 miles, including a few side trips.

     I did several other other Pork and Beans trips, mostly in the 1990' s. I always scheduled  these when Barbara was otherwise entertained, in some fashion. The most recent of these involved her going with her sisters Sugar and Frances, along with France's husband, Bill. They went on a cruise to Hawaii and on to Fanning Island, during which Barbara completely lost half her birthday. The ship anchored offshore on her birthday, the launch to the island carried her across the International Date line into another day, then came back to what was left of her birthday that night. I went on a  trip into the Grand Teton Range, and spent several days mostly just looking at my favorite view in America. As always, in my cute little red truck.

     When the cruising crew returned, the sisters told me right off, “Bill slept on top of Barbara every night while we were at sea.” That caused a momentary wrinkling of my brow, until Bill said, “I prefer to say, I slept ABOVE Barbara. Bill had the top bunk.

     Actually, I saved us a lot of money with my trips. I never spent as much as I would have had I went along on that cruise, nor did I gain as much weight. And, I was happy, in the wilderness, plus Barbara was always happy to see me when I got back, and likewise. A win-win situation. I finally decided, I had photographed, in some fashion, about every Animal I was likely to find in America. But if one of those long, super strong digital lenses ever falls into my lap, I think I will start them all over again, if Barbara is agreeable to that.. My limited lens at that time limited my photos, And, after all, I have always been only a “pretend photographer.” I'm not like Barbara or Jane Dunn. But, I was out there, doing what I love to do, in the wilderness. My Pork and Beans Photo Album still lies on our coffee table. But, actually, I'm about the only one to ever look at it. But every picture, even the bad ones, bring about memories of a very special time in my life. I did sell one, a picture of the white squirrel. So, I guess actually, I am a professional Wildlife Photographer. That title and a dollar will buy me a burger at McDonald's.

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - The Pork and Beans Trips

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - The Pork and Beans Trips:      After our children were grown and gone, I planned my first real Pork and Beans trip. Barbara's sister planned a car trip ...

Part Two - The Pork and Beans Trips

     After our children were grown and gone, I planned my first real Pork and Beans trip. Barbara's sister planned a car trip to New England, six days, and they wanted Barbara to go along. This situation was perfect. I slept as late as possible the day I left, ten AM. I headed out for Rocky Mountain National Park. Actually, I just wanted to get as close to it as I could that day, never intending to drive the whole way, but that's the way it turned out. Those Kansas plains just offered few camping spots while thunderstorms rolled through. Driving through a small town in Oklahoma late that afternoon, I pulled over to study my map. I noticed in my rear view mirror that a truck pulled up behind, and an angry looking man got out, walked up to my window. “Somebody driving a truck just like yours just shot out my front window,” he said, looking me and my truck contents over good. “Now look,” I said, “Don't you think if I had just shot out your window, I would already have my getaway planned out? Do you see what I'm doing? I'm reading a map! And, do you see a gun in here? I'm shooting with these cameras.” He looked my gear over good, but I guess my words settled him down a little, because he turned and left. 

     I went on up through Kansas to I70, did a hard left, and began the long haul up toward Denver. Approaching a long grade near daylight, the lights of Denver began to appear. As I dropped into Denver, my need for sleep began to overtake me. I dozed off twice momentarily passing through Denver, but soon I was in the Rocky Mountains, and my excitement pushed the sleep urge back. I realize now, a sleepy driver can be as dangerous as a drunk driver, and I don't push my limits like that any more. No more 24 hour drives for me. Well, maybe one. A couple of years later.

     I headed north, fully enjoying the early morning views of the Rocky mountains, no big rush now. I arrived at the west gate of Rocky Mountain National Park around 10 AM, a twenty four hour drive. I arrived at a campground, set up my tent. I was much too excited just to be there to sleep now, so I walked through a creek bottom, looking for wildlife. I got a good picture of an elk calf suckling, and saw lots of other Elk. I drove slowly back toward the entrance and back, and saw a large wolf and a Moose with two calves wading in a pond. When I got back to camp, I was at 8000 feet or so. I decided to drive on up to the Continental Divide, at about 12,000 feet. Climbing on up in my little red truck, I was beginning to feel the effects of altitude sickness, climbing so high in my exhausted state. I turned around. By the time I got back to the campground, It was hitting me hard. I crawled into my sleeping bag, really not caring whether I lived or died, at the moment, and was soon asleep.

     I awoke at dusk, and could hear some sort of program starting up at the pavilion, but I really didn't care. I went back to sleep, and slept the night through. When dawn broke, I awoke, feeling a little better, but I still had a major headache, and my eyes were totally red from the long drive with my windows down. Looking out, an elk was right beside my tent. That brought me fully awake, and I soon was headed back up to the Continental Divide.

     Exiting my truck standing right on the Continental Divide, I looked up to the tall peaks around me. The divide was at about 12,000 feet, and the peaks went up to around 14,000. I could see tiny white spots near the top, probably mountain goats. Could I climb that high? I decided to find out. The altitude was hitting me hard. I walked 30 steps, rested, and did 30 more. Finally, I knew I had to be nearing where I had seen the goats, but no sign of them now. Then I looked up, and they were lined up on a ledge above me, all staring at me, 60 feet away. I got several good photos.

     Traveling a little farther in my truck, I saw a narrow foot trail winding up the mountain. I decided to take it. Half way up, I met a huge bull elk, his beautiful rack in full velvet, heading down. He was used to tourists, did not fear me, and saw no reason to yield the trail to me. He kept coming, and I was about to take my chances down the steep slope, when he took the lead role and headed straight up the mountain. I did get several good photos.

     Heading home, I decided to make a halfway stop at Witchita Mountains National Wildlife Refuge near Lawton, Oklahoma, and have used that as a good place to spend the first night out since then, several times. It was set up as a place to start somewhat of a comeback for the Buffalo, right after millions upon millions had been killed for their hides. It still has large herds of Buffalo roaming free, as well as many deer, elk, and smaller animals. It has a couple of good campgrounds, and it is a good spot for wildlife photography.

     My next trip would be to the Okefenokee Swamp on the Georgia - Florida  border.

CONTINUED NEXT POST

Forever A Hillbilly: The Pork and Beans Trips

Forever A Hillbilly: The Pork and Beans Trips: “What in the world are you THINKING,?” she was saying to Barbara. “Haven't you read The Bridges of Madison County?"      “...

The Pork and Beans Trips

“What in the world are you THINKING,?” she was saying to Barbara. “Haven't you read The Bridges of Madison County?"

     “No, actually, I haven't,” Barbara replied, still smiling.

     Her brow tightly knitted together, the lady just said, “Well, maybe you should!” and shaking her head, walked away.

     Many years ago, in the early days of our marriage, when Barbara was still yet a teen, Barbara readily accompanied me on my “Roughing it in the wilds” adventures, for a time. Two particular trips brought that to an end.

     Once, when we still lived at Fayetteville, we drove over to War Eagle Mills. We opened the farmer's gate and drove down to that beautiful river, which the farmer allowed at that time. This was before the days of the  big festival now held there. We found a beautiful spot, we fished, built a fire, cooked, ate, and just generally had a great day. That night, we rolled out our sleeping bags, and since Barbara was not really a “sleep out under the stars” type of person, as I was, I made the concession of stretching a tarp over us. I slept well, as I always do at such a place. As dawn broke, Barbara was awakened by a big, slobbery kiss – right on the lips. No, not by me, this is not that kind of story. A big old hound dog.

     “We need a tent,”  Barbara stated firmly, “If we're going to keep doing this!” I went to Walmart, right behind our house, the next day. I found a perfect one. But I didn't buy it. A purchase that major, in those days, was something for us both to discuss long and hard. We were pore' folks.

     Tommy Beard was one of my best friends and fishing buddy. He was a student majoring in business, and he was destined to become a financial wizard, managing and investing money for several large companies. But to me, then, he was just another kid, newly married to his wife Pat, and he loved to go along with me in search of the catfish. While Barbara and I were still agonizing over that tent purchase,  Tommy said to me one day, after taking me aside, “You need to scrape together every penny you can. A company up the road is about to make their first stock offering. This is a once in a life time opportunity. This company is going to really, really go places.”

     "Tommy,” I said, “ We live in a trailer park. We don't have money!” He didn't say any more. Just walked away, shaking his head.

     Barbara and I made our decision that night. We would buy that tent. The next day, I walked into Walmart, one of only a small handful in the world at that time, and bought a six million dollar tent.

     Twenty years later, I was reading the Sunday paper one day. I saw an article about a large company from Arkansas, detailing what the initial stock offering for that company was now worth. The $36 dollars I paid for that tent translated into six million dollars at that time. The company? Walmart. 

     Several years later, When he knew I had decided to leave coaching, and was looking for a teaching job, Tommy again advised me. “Walmart has just started a new program, training up store managers. No telling how much you could wind up making, if you get in that program on the front end.”

     I chose teaching. Story of my life. A pore' boy, destined to die a pore' boy.

     Anyway, let me get back to my story. Shortly after we bought that tent, we went back to the War Eagle River, camping once more. The river bank was pretty well grown up in bushes, but I did find one clear place. Kinda in a swag, but the sky was clear, no rain tonight. We now also had air mattresses;  I had to make Barbara as comfortable as possible, to keep her roughing it with me.

     About midnight, dark clouds rolled in. It came a “Toad Strangler.” (That's hillbilly for “A major rain.) I slept through it. I always sleep my best, out in the wild. Until Barbara elbowed me sharply in the ribs. “My air mattress is floating around!”

     By daylight, Barbara had had all she wanted of “roughing it in the wild places,” and she has never weakened or wavered from that position in 45 years. The next day she declared, “If you are going to keep doing this, you'll have to go alone!”

     Well, that set the stage. Barbara knew I have to return to the wild places periodically, to recharge my batteries. It's as necessary for me as breathing. I grew up a loner, and I am far more at ease and at home in the wilderness. It would be many years before “roughing it” was not the only option for such trips.

     We worked out a deal. I would do my thing, in the wilds, while she would do her thing. That often turned out to mean, she would visit her family, go on car trips with her sister's family, or, later, her and one of our kids or sisters went on a cruise.

   

     The Pork and Beans trips were born. I planned my trips very carefully. Wildlife photography was my main goal. Hunting and fishing lost it's attraction before these trips began. Barbara didn't like wild meat, but the clincher was, she didn't want to cook it either. If we were not going to eat it, I didn't want to kill it.

     Not spending much money was rule number one. I cooked every meal, I never ate out. I  cooked only the least expensive foods, so pork and beans was a major staple, along with potatoes and

spam, if I really wanted to live high. I could pull over to a park picnic table, whip out my little burner and skillet, and have a meal ready in five minutes. Barbara and I adopted, early on, a little but very effective rule to live our lives by: Always live below our means. That rule has been good to us, and enabled us to do many things that pore' people like us usually never get to do. I camped only in the least expensive places, usually National Forest Campgrounds, or maybe Walmart's parking lot.

Continued in a week or so. Thanks for reading!

Forever A Hillbilly: A Different Kind of Child - Conclusion

Forever A Hillbilly: A Different Kind of Child - Conclusion:      Our subject was approaching five now. I have a two story tree house in my yard, for the children around me. To keep the small chi...

A Different Kind of Child - Conclusion

     Our subject was approaching five now. I have a two story tree house in my yard, for the children around me. To keep the small children below, and safe, a knotted rope must be climbed to reach the second floor. Well, it didn't work out right. The older children could not do it. Guess who did? You guessed it. Right to the top. When I arrived on the scene, he was on the second floor roof, singing a song to celebrate his accomplishment.

     Time for the church fish fry. Our friends host this at their farm. Some of my wife's family were there, along with our subject. My wife has a large family, lots of kids, from 5 to 12.  A couple of the girls, 12 years old, ran the show. The older boys, 10 and 11, ran from these girls. For good reason.

     Well, one of the older girls climbed up on a tractor. Our subject started up. She gently put her foot against his face, pushed him back. He needed to know his place. A major mistake. He came back, tiny fists flying. All night he pursued her. When he found her, he always attacked, fists flying. He finally graduated to a stick. When a rescuing parent was finally brought to the scene, she was back peddling, “Get away from me, you little kid!”

     On the way home, he was counseled wisely by his older brother. “You just can't do that,” he said, “to older kids. They will beat you up!”

     “They may beat me up,” he replied, “But I will hurt them while they do!”

     He's at the top of the kid pecking order now. When older kids see trouble with him on the horizon, they run tell us. They want no part of having to fight a small bundle of fury again, again, and again.

     When kindergarten rolled around, his mother took him to preschool visitation. It was at the school his parent's badly wanted him to go to, as his older brother was there. But, the kindergarten classes were about filled up, and his chances were slim. We had all stressed to him about respecting and obeying the Principal. We had no idea what might happen in a school situation, because of his nature. When they signed in, he asked, “Is the Principal here?”

     “Yes, she's over there.”

     “I would like to meet her.”

     When the secretary called her over, his mother told her, “I have a young man here who wants to meet you.” And, she added, privately, “So, run with it!”

     The principal, a very large, tall, stern lady, bent over to get her face next to his. Looked him right in the eye sternly, and said, “If you come here, and act like God and your mama want you to, you will have no trouble. But if you come here and cause problems, you will have lots of trouble!”

     He looked her in the eye awhile, then that grin appeared. “Nah, you won't have any trouble from me. I can count to 20! wanta' hear it?”

     She burst out laughing, losing all her bluster. “I would LOVE to hear you count to 20!” Privately, she said to his mama, “I will see to it PERSONALLY that he goes to school here!” Somehow, he managed to snag the very last kindergarten slot.

     True to his word, she had no trouble with him. Nor did his teacher. However, he was not good at obeying teachers whose class he was not in. Unquestioning obedience to an adult, just because they are bigger than him (almost everyone is) is just not a part of his makeup. But a logical, calm approach by his mother, about the “right thing to do” did the trick.

     Millions for logic, not one single penny for intimidation.

     In kindergarten, he quickly became a leader and protector of the weak. One large boy stomped on the foot of a small girl, injured and unable to wear a shoe. Our subject filed it away. Days later, he saw the boy with his shoe off. He stomped it, grinding it as much as his small body would allow. “You don't hurt little girls,” he said, and walked away.

     Summertime came. We all knew that swimming lessons were a requirement, again because of his nature. He really needed to be able to swim. His mother took him to his swimming teacher the first day. He was unable to swim a lick. He looked the situation over for a moment, grinned, then ran to the deep end of the pool, did a cannon ball, sank like a rock. The shocked teacher dove in behind him. As she was dragging him out, she was shaking her head. “He was grinning, all the way down, all the way back up!” she said.

     A neighbor gave him an old bicycle, when he turned six. Never rode a real one before. He ran to it, jumped on, and rode it off. Pushing it to the top of the highest drive in the neighborhood, he jumped on and flew down the drive, rounding a sharp curve at the bottom. After that, if he went out the door, he had a headgear on.

     Razorback football came around. At one game, a redneck man, sitting up behind his family, spent the entire game shouting at the umpire, the other team's coach, the other team, often with profanity. Finally, our subject stood up, turned around, pointed his finger at him. “Sir! Oh sir!” When he finally got the man's attention, said, “When I am a man, I won't talk like that!”

    The shocked man turned red, then laughed. “Well, sonny, that would probably be a pretty good decision on your part!”

     Soccer season came around. We had been waiting for the day, because of his natural ability. We just knew he would be great. That held true in the first game. He scored four goals, driving in and scoring at will. We were really excited, starting his second game.   He just was not in the mood. When the game started, he bored quickly, would sometimes be wrestling a teammate to the ground while the other team scored on the other end. After a while, he walked over to a nearby field, lay down, chewing on a weed. The coach called him, no luck. Finally, the coach just went over and pulled him up.

     Flag football was a mixed bag, also. He often thought it was just as much fun to pull his teammate's flag as an opponent's. About that time it hit me, remembering the sleeper caper.

     It had to be his interest, his idea. Not his parent's, not mine.

     He and his older brother both decided they would like to wrestle. His brother proved to be a coach’s dream – listening to the coach, filled with effort and drive. His coach, a four time national wrestling champion in college, said the brother had more “heart” than any kid he had ever seen.

     Our subject, however, was not a coach’s dream.  Often as not, when the coach instructed, he needed to go to the bathroom, or was at the back of the pack, in his own world. After a few months, the State Wrestling Championship rolled around. Our subject became transformed, working his way up to the finals. He was seven, his opponent was ten. A much taller boy. The 90 pound division. He quickly pulled a very complex move the coach had been teaching all week, and pinned him. At seven, the state champ! The coach just walked away, shaking his head. “Now, where the heck did that come from? While I was teaching that, he was at the back, singing a song!”

     Our subject has a very large heart for the homeless. Singlehandedly, he collected fifty some-odd coats for the school “coats for the homeless.”

    What kind of man will he become? One thing I know, it will be his decision. His area of interest. I just hope I'm around to see it.

     Jerrel Patrick is not my real name. You see, I have other grandchildren........

Forever A Hillbilly: Catch a clue from History

Forever A Hillbilly: Catch a clue from History: I seldom comment on politics, but occasionally I just have to comment on current events. I will post the second half of Baby X on Monday. Th...

Catch a clue from History

I seldom comment on politics, but occasionally I just have to comment on current events. I will post the second half of Baby X on Monday. Thanks for your time, and your attention. Pat   barbandpat66@suddenlink.net
**********

     I thought it very ironic that Gary Stubblefield R-Branch is already fighting Jonathan Dismang R-Searcy for the position of president pro tempore of the Senate, only eighteen months after Dismang was elected unanimously to that position.

     Perhaps the Republicans should step back, take a deep breath, and look back at history.

     The Republican Party has been in trouble in Arkansas for 140 years. In the 1872 governor’s race, the Democrats entered no candidate, preferring instead to step back and give the Republicans enough rope to hang themselves, which they proceeded to do in splendid fashion. The feuding Republican candidates, Elisha Baxter and Joseph Brooks, eventually caused the Brooks-Baxter War in Little Rock, which grew into the largest civil conflict during the Reconstruction. Thousands of armed men faced off around the Statehouse and Anthony House, just across the street. The Baxter forces even dug an old cannon out of the river, cleaned out the mud and, naming it “The Lady Anthony,” pointed it at the Statehouse.

     A stray shot triggered five minutes of sporadic firing at each other. However, the results showed little signs of accuracy, with only one old man, watching from an upstairs window being killed. A few in the conflict were wounded. A woman was injured jumping from an upstairs window, and an old man hurt when jumping through a glass door. However, a good number of men were later killed before the President put an end to the conflict, naming Baxter the winner and awarding Brooks the position of postmaster.

     This scrapping became a blow that the Arkansas Republican Party has never recovered from……until this year.

     Today, the Republicans are finally, after 140 long years, back in power. But, only days after the election, they’re back to their old scrapping and feuding ways…….. among themselves once more.

     Good grief! With a perfect historical example staring them  square in the face, will they ever learn?

Forever A Hillbilly: Baby X - A Different Kind of Child

Forever A Hillbilly: Baby X - A Different Kind of Child: BABY X - A Different kind of Child  He's not like anyone you have ever met. Like nobody anyone has ...

Baby X - A Different Kind of Child

BABY X     

A Different kind of Child

By Jerrel Patrick

He's not like anyone you have ever met. Like nobody anyone has ever met. The first sign that something was amiss came with the first ultrasound. He was grinning! His mischievous grin, I now know. The same one I have seen dozens of times, right before he does something little kids just do not do, and I go into panic mode, once again. Just biding his time. Just waiting to pop out and shock the world.

     The day of his birth rolled around. A C-Section. As soon as he was pulled out, he raised his head and looked around at the doctor and nurses, individually, as if in greeting. They were dumbfounded.

     I watched him on my living room floor, when he was entering that stage were babies lie on their stomach and wiggle around. He put his hands on the floor and tried to push up, again and again.

Finally, he raised his upper body off the floor, held, his arms started to quiver, then he collapsed. Nothing abnormal here. But he did it again, held a little longer, arms shook more, tears started to flow. Collapse. Up again – tears – a little longer – Collapse. This was repeated, again, again, and again. Tears, hard sweat now. Finally, total exhaustion. Temporarily delayed, never defeated. A healthy respect started to grow within me. How could his tiny body contain so much determination?

     Winter came. It was cold in that house. His family lives like Eskimos. He was put into a sleeper, zipped up. The next morning, he was naked in his crib. Though he was far too small to leave that crib, little signs of mystery began to show up here and there. He had wandered at will about that house, naked.

     I put a couple of rounds of duct tape around his chest, to keep that sleeper on. No luck. Next, a safety pin was fastened to the inside of the zipper, near the top. The next morning he was naked in his crib, punching holes in the mattress with the open safety pin.

     I went shopping. In the fishing department, I found a giant snap swivel, so strong I could barely open it. I substituted it for the safety pin the next night. The next morning, the sleeper was still on, but he must have found a tiny hole in the toe, worked it, worked it, and worked it until one whole leg was out, which he proudly displayed.

     His father, worn out by this struggle, was beginning to fathom the depth of his determination. He just asked, “Which sleeper do YOU want to wear?”

     He pointed one out. “That one.” End of the great sleeper struggle.

     For a time, his parents kept him in his crib with an elaborate, tent like structure over the top. Then, they just had to give up. He wandered the house at will at night, still too small to get out of that crib, supposedly.

     They had chocolate cake for supper, just as he was beginning to talk. He loved it. He asked for seconds.

     “No, save it for tomorrow”

     Our subject calmly stated, “Mom, while you are asleep, I will come in and get a second piece.” Well, he was less than two years old now, small for his age. But mom placed it on top of the fridge, just in case. The next morning, the cake was on the kitchen floor, intact, except for a piece missing, and a chocolate trail leading to his crib. After the scolding, they just had to ask; “How did you do that?”

     He brought out a two step ladder with a circle bar on top for a handle. “I stood on top,” he explained, pointing to the handle.

    They were on vacation in a condo. He slept on the folded up hide-a-bed. When morning came, he was just gone. Could not be found. After a time, he crawled out of the bowels of the folded up hide-a-bed. He always liked tight places, loved the challenge of going where it seemed impossible for him to go.

     I took him for a walk in an athletic field. I always try to keep him in large, open spaces, out of trouble. We came to metal bleachers by the tennis court. He started climbing half way up, going to the end, jumping off, rolling out of it. He never hurts himself when he falls. I was distracted for a moment, a very bad thing. When I looked around, he was at the top level, about to jump. My scream caused him to slip, and he fell down through the framework. He hit a bar that cartwheeled him. Hit another bar, another cartwheel. Finally, he hit the ground with a splat. I ran to him. The breath was knocked out of him. When he recovered from it somewhat, he said, “I need to sit down for a minute.” No tears. We have an understanding in our family. If a hurt brings tears, call 911. At the end of that minute, almost exactly, that grin started to spread across his face as he jumped up. “I'm going to do that again!”

     “No, you're not,” I said. “We're going home.” 

     My wife's family reunion rolled around. Later, we all visited the old farm home site. It was surrounded by hundreds of acres of plowed ground. The kids all romped and played. This one child, different than the rest, now two, started walking away. Farther and farther he went. Finally, a concerned adult asked, “When will he turn around?”

    “He won't,” I replied. “I will have to go get him eventually.”

    To make my point, I just watched. I decided I would just let him go, as long as he was in no danger. He became a speck in the distance. Finally, I started moving fast to catch up, before he had time to get to a road. He and I walked back, as the families watched. He tripped, falling face first in the dirt. A collective “oooooooooh!” arose from the onlookers. I paid no attention. He arose, wiped the dirt off his face, so he could see, and quickly caught up. He never hurts himself with his falls.

     He was approaching three now, watching his brother's basketball practice. The coach was a hard case, ran his team with an iron hand. His teams almost never lost. Parents were afraid of him. When practice was over, our subject walked onto the court, shook the coach's pants leg, and said something.

     The coach could not hear. The coach got down on a knee, face to face, and said, “What did you say, buddy?”

     “I said, that was not nice of you, telling my brother to get his butt back on the court!”   Everyone fell silent. The coach raised up, red faced. One or two of the coache's buddies laughed quietly momentarily, but they were quickly silenced by a red-faced glare.

     At the next practice, the coach stated to a group of parents, “Well, I've never been dressed down like that by anyone that small! Then he laughed.

    Then, everybody laughed.

**************

CONTINUED NEXT MONDAY.   Thanks for reading!

Forever A Hillbilly: A Dad From the old School

Forever A Hillbilly: A Dad From the old School: If you read my last story, Guardian of the Dead, you will appreciate this. We had college students out to our house last night. Afterwards, ...

A Dad From the old School

If you read my last story, Guardian of the Dead, you will appreciate this. We had college students out to our house last night. Afterwards, we had a campfire. Most all of them had read the story, and a couple of the guys, to impress the girls, I guess, volunteered to go up into the tree house. The rest of us stayed by the fire. As they entered the first floor, one of the guys saw his name written on the wall, and that unnerved him a bit. Actually, he had the same name as my grandson, who had written his name there long ago, so that was an accidental effect. Then I cut a 20 pound test monofilament line out at the campfire, dropping a 10 pound window weight in the second floor. Those screams were music to my ears! Just what I had designed the story for in the  first place! I still can't believe it! After two years, It really, actually, WORKED! I have been smiling all day!
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     On March 1, 1997, at 2:20 PM, an F4 tornado ravaged much of my home town of Arkadelphia, Arkansas.

 The tornado sirens started at 2:10, and word was spreading that a large tornado was on the way. I went outside our photography studio in downtown Arkadelphia, with our best camera. If we were about to be hit, I wanted a photo. A very dark, ominous cloud was moving in from the west. The sirens stopped. At 2:15, they started again, and the downtown electricity went off. A man from next door was beside me.

     A roar was coming from the west. “Sounds like a train,” he said.

     “No tracks over there,” I answered. He went inside. I readied my camera. Suddenly, a strange thing happened. Clouds from all over the sky began rushing toward one central point, the point of the roar. I realized this thing might be about to form up right over me. I snapped a shot of the clouds, and went inside. It was my last picture for weeks. I could never justify taking pictures when so many people needed help.

      I was playing chicken with an F4, and I blinked.

     The dressing room, right in the middle of our building, a very old two story brick, looked like the best place. As I started inside it, the wind picked up. I looked toward the front. “Aw dang, my awnings are blowing away,” I thought. Then a large trailer house, or what was left of it, mostly the frame, came through our front picture window. I totally forgot about the awnings. The back windows collapsed inward, the suspended ceiling around me was sucked down to the floor, and double swinging doors right behind me slammed shut with a bang. I went in the dressing room, shut the door, lay our best camera on the floor, and covered it with my body. My thought processes ran something like, “We’ve got to have something left to make a living with when this is all over.” I heard the most awful groaning sound I had ever heard as our front wall, three bricks thick, was pushed outward several inches at the top.

     I could write for days about the aftermath during the next weeks, but right now I want to pick out one  small part of it, one little story out of an entire storybook, and tell you about it. I still think of it often.

     A very old rental property, two blocks away, was right on the edge of the tornado. It was my worst looking rent house. Insurance adjusters took one look at it after the tornado, and brought me a check for the total loss of the house. But actually, It really didn’t look that bad, compared to the neighborhood. It had been transformed from being the worst looking house in the neighborhood to being one of the best, in only seconds.  All houses right across the street were flattened to the ground. I decided to repair it myself, which included putting on about six squares of shingles, replace 17 windows, getting a bunch of little trees off the top, and replacing the electrical service.

     One day as I sat working on top of that house, I looked across at the neighbors. A young man, two young children and his wife had totally lost their house. His father also owned two small houses next to it, and they were totally flattened also.

     The young man told me, “This was to be my inheritance.”

      As I watched, they started pulling out each plank, pulling the nails, and stacking them neatly. Even the young children worked hard, long hours. Day after day they worked. His dad came to town, and I could see they planned to rebuild that house totally by themselves. After a week or so had passed, as I watched them all labor from daylight to dark, even the young children, I was filled with admiration for that family. After a few more days, my house was finished and rented, and I went over to see the Dad. I asked if I could help them.

     The dad, whom I could tell was of the old school, was nor unfriendly, but he said, “As sure as shootin,’ if I start letting people help, they’ll get hurt, and the next thing you know, they’ll be suing me. Thanks, but we can handle it.”

     I continued to watch them struggle for several more days. I could follow their progress from our business window. They had the walls up, ready to put the roof on, but no plywood was to be had in Arkadelphia. It was all used up. They were in a tight, and heavy rains were forecast soon. I again walked over to the old dad. “Hey, I’ve got quite a bit of plywood stored in one of my storage buildings. Tell you what. If you will let me help put it on, I’ll give you that plywood.”

     The Dad looked at me, thinking. Then he frowned. “I appreciate the offer, but I just can’t risk having someone outside the family gettin’ up there, falling and hurtin’ themselves, then I’ll be sued."

     “Look”, I said. I’ve built three houses by myself, almost. I’ve been workin’ on these 18 rent houses for years and never been hurt. I wouldn’t get hurt here, and if I did, I sure wouldn’t sue you.”

     The Dad was in a tight. He thought about it for a long time. Finally, he grudgingly agreed, turned around, and walked away muttering about “gettin’ my pants sued off.”

     We hauled the plywood in from my storage building 3 blocks away, I took a sheet up on top, drove one nail, and my foot slipped, only about 3 inches down to a lower 2x4, but my sometimes trick knee picked a bad time to give way, and when all my weight came down on the toes of one foot, something really bad went wrong with my foot. I tried to fake it for a while, knowing the dad was keeping an eagle eye on me, but I couldn’t go on. I climbed slowly down the ladder, told the dad I had to go run an errand.

     He was frowning at me, and I knew he was not buying what I was saying, me limping like I was. I knew full well he thought I was headed for my lawyer’s office.

     I went to the emergency room. The verdict was, my big toe was dislocated. The doc came in. Now, I’ve got to tell you. I had been wearing these work tennis shoes for days now. And they, my socks, and my feet smelled really ripe. He gave me a shot in the toe, said that will numb it in five minutes. Then, I guess he just could not stand that smell any more, because he grabbed my big toe, and jerked it as hard as he could. I thought about screaming.

     I drove back out to the job site. I had to go fess up to the dad, who was really looking at me hard by now. I knew I would not be able to climb a ladder for a long time.

     I watched them continue to labor long and hard. When they were working on the inside part, I guess the dad was softening a little, having dodged one lawsuit bullet, because a whole team of Mennonite volunteers moved in from up north to help Arkadelphia, and he allowed them in to help finish up. Just as they drove the last nail, and the house was complete, the city decided to take that land and build the new city hall building, so it was immediately torn down again.

     But when the city takes land, I hear they pay for it by the square foot, which means through the nose, so I guess the hard working family came out all right, money wise. I never did know their names, or what happened to them. But I often think of that family, and their hard- case dad, (who reminded me of my own dad) with a smile and a lot of respect.

Guardian of the Dead - Conclusion

 My grandchildren loved it. For a year or so. I had made it so that the second floor could be reached only by climbing a knotted rope, to keep the small children from getting up to the second floor, maybe falling and getting hurt. Actually, it pretty well turned out that my older grandchildren couldn’t reach that second floor, either. That upstairs room has sat, empty and deserted, for many years now.

     Over time, I started noticing that strange things started happening, seemingly in that upstairs room of the tree house. Our bedroom in our house is on the end close to that room. One night, I heard a woman moaning way up there in that tree house. It was one of those cases where I snapped suddenly awake, terrified, and was absolutely sure I heard it. Yet later, I reasoned I must have dreamed that, because it just could not have actually happened.  Another time, I was awakened in much the same way, by the sound of someone tapping, very sharply, five times on our bedroom window. Occasionally I heard terrifying, high pitched screams emanating, it seemed, from that upper room at night, or was it just another nightmare? Occasionally, a small light could be seen, flashing on and off, in that upper room. Several times, I have heard the sound of a board falling up there, late at night, even though I left no loose lumber up there. These last two events I was absolutely sure of.  I was wide awake long before they happened.

     Barbara and I have an open door policy for any college student in our church. If their visiting friends or their parents need a place to stay overnight, they are always welcome.

     It occurred to me one day, it seemed that the only time those strange noises occurred was when an OBU or HSU student was in our house. I started keeping track of it, and sure enough, strange things often happened up there only when a college student was staying with us.

     We often have a group of mostly college students over on Sunday nights, and once, when I built a campfire outside after our meeting, they started talking about that tree house, only 50 feet away. Not wanting to scare them, I didn't mention its history.

     One boy wanted to climb up there. I tried to talk him out of it. I told him it had been deserted for years, that no lights were in it now, and I don’t really know how solid it still is. He insisted, would not listen to me. He snatched my headlight out of my hand and headed for the tree house. The girls begged him not to go. He negotiated the 2x10 plank up to the first level, then we could hear him entering. Soon, I could hear him ascending the rope. With much trepidation, I began to realize, he was one of those rare young men with enough shoulder strength to actually get up there.  I held my breath, terrified as I thought what may be about to happen.  Suddenly, we all heard an ear splitting scream, the most highly pitched scream any of us had ever heard.  It was followed by a loud thud, as if someone, or something, had fallen. We saw him sliding, jumping, and falling back down that plank. He came to the campfire, sat down in a chair, and never spoke. Just stared into the flames. He was white as a sheet, had a bleeding wound on his head, and my headlight was smashed. Nobody said a word.

     We all sat there quietly for a long time. Finally, a girl spoke. “Why did you scream? And how, with your deep voice, could you scream like that?”

     He got up and started heading down the hill toward his car. He stopped, turned and looked at us with a wild look in his eyes, and finally spoke in his very deep voice.

     “That was not MY scream.”

     That’s all he said. Not another word.

     We miss him. Word got back to me that he left town that night. And has never been back.

      I know I need to just tear that old tree house down. But to take down a tree house, one has to start at the top, or risk having it fall on you.

      And, I’m not about to go up there.

Forever A Hillbilly: Guardian of the Dead - Part Two

Forever A Hillbilly: Guardian of the Dead - Part Two: `Part Two of a Three Part Story       This all happened years before my family moved to Arkadelphia, and I’m not really sure what happe...

Guardian of the Dead - Part Two

`Part Two of a Three Part Story

      This all happened years before my family moved to Arkadelphia, and I’m not really sure what happened to the guys who caused all this. I did not hear the first part of this story until many years later.

     My wife Barbara and I have two children, Corey and Kinley. Our son Corey was starting into the eighth grade, and our daughter Kinley would start into the fourth grade. We moved to Arkadelphia.

     We knew this might be our last move, if things worked out with the business we had just bought, a photography studio.

     Barbara ran the business, and I found a job teaching at Arkadelphia High School.

     We finally found just the spot, and bought five wooded acres out west of town to build a house on. It was heavily wooded, and I cleared out just enough trees to build the house on the front end.  At the back of the property was a very old cemetery, and just across the fence from it, on our land, was a very old shack. Strangely, it had a rail around the top, broken in one place.

     Corey and Kinley were young children when we built our house. They were curious about that old shack. We could never figure out why anyone would build it there. I went down with them through the woods to check it out. They wanted to use it for a playhouse. I decided that was all right if they would stay off those stairs and off the top. Some of those boards were getting very old, and it might be dangerous. They spent a lot of time playing in that old shack with their friends when they were young.

     Our children grew up in that house in the country. A few years later, Corey chose OBU. A few years after that, Kinley preferred HSU. Right after Corey started to OBU, he brought a couple of his buddies out for the weekend. All being adventurous, the boys wanted to camp in that old shack by the back fence.

     They were back home by midnight. A plank had fallen from the ceiling, seemingly for no reason at all, and raised a large knot on Corey’s buddy’s head. They all swore they heard a woman moaning in agony right outside, then they swore they could hear a woman screaming, a very high pitched scream, way out in the woods.

    That made up their mind. They headed up the trail toward our house. One of the boys just seemed sure he saw blinking lights inside the shack when he looked back, but you know how young guys are. Get a little scare and the imagination begins to work overtime.

     Both our children and their friends seemed to shy away from that old shack after that, and I didn’t discourage it. It had to be getting a little dangerous by now, being so old and partly rotten. I think by now the kids and their friends were building on that “haunted house” thing. Both of them began to tell stories of someone moving around upstairs in OUR house, while they were home alone. On top of that, Corey and his buddy claimed they once accidentally stepped on a grave when crossing that graveyard, and in the distance, they could hear a woman’s high pitched scream. Way off in the woods.

     My wife Barbara was getting tired of being a country girl. That dirt road kept her car dirty, and she was wanting back in town with cable TV and city water. The kids, well, they were about grown now, but were anxious to get away from that place. So, I put in ten months at hard labor, building our third house I have built. Right before we moved, I tore down that old shack at the back. Some of that lumber was still solid, and I might need it to build the grandkids a playhouse, someday, so I carried a couple of loads of it to our new house in town, stacked it in the edge of our woods, covered it up to save it.

     The years were flying by, and Barbara and I found ourselves with five grandchildren! Four boys and a girl. I still had not gotten around to building that playhouse.

 Kinley and her husband, Mickey, bought our studio in Arkadelphia, then moved to Little Rock and bought a Sports Photography franchise, which they continue to this day. Corey, also, followed in Barbara’s footsteps and became a photographer in Little Rock. I always thought kids usually followed in the father’s footsteps, but no, it was not to be. Corey soon decided to build his own studio in West Little Rock, and I helped supervise his contractors, living on site in my camper for several months. When finished, he had a lot of scrap lumber left over and gave it to me in payment for my time.  He said I could use it working on our rent houses.

     In the end, I decided to use it to build that playhouse for my grandchildren. I went one step farther, and built a tree house in the edge of our woods. When I was finishing up, I decided to check through that very old lumber, stacked in our woods for many years, and maybe there was enough of it still sound enough to use. There was. I decided to build an addition to the top. I wound up building a second story, mostly from that very old lumber from out by the cemetery.

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continued in one week

Forever A Hillbilly: Guardian of the Dead

Forever A Hillbilly: Guardian of the Dead: This is a three part story. The next installment will be put up in one week. Thanks for reading. First of all, let me give you a little ...

Guardian of the Dead

This is a three part story. The next installment will be put up in one week. Thanks for reading.

First of all, let me give you a little background for this story. This took place many years ago in Arkadelphia, Arkansas. Henderson State University was still Henderson College. On the bordering property was a small cemetery. It was very old, with many more ancient graves than recent ones.

     As Henderson expanded, the small cemetery was in the way. It was near where the girl’s softball field is today. Henderson needed that land, so it was decided that the land would be taken, public domain and all that, and the graveyard moved.

     Almost nobody was still around to make an issue of that.

     Except for one older woman, whose whole family was in that cemetary.

     She protested to anyone who would listen, but in the end, the land was taken. She apparently had no money to hire a lawyer. The graves were moved out to a larger older cemetery, some miles out west of Arkadelphia. It has been told that she sat in her beat up old truck right beside that cemetery as her family was dug up and moved, never speaking to anybody, and glaring at anyone who came close.

      Nobody saw much of her for a long time.

      Then one day, it was noticed that she was hauling lumber in her old truck, stacking it right beside that cemetery fence, where her loved ones now rested.  After a large stack was finished, she could often be seen hauling it, plank by plank, into the woods on the west side of the cemetery. Everybody who knew her said she was a very strong and determined woman, and were not surprised when a small shack appeared, just outside that fence.  She built a little rail around on top, and could sometimes be seen up on top of her shack, in her rocking chair. As far as could be determined, she now lived in that shack.

     Stories were going around that she had just gone off the deep end when her whole family was dug up and moved. She seemed to dedicate her life to watching over her loved ones, every day. I suppose she was guarding them, making sure they were not disturbed again.

     She didn’t own that land, but it occupied just a very small part of a very large wooded tract of land there. Everyone felt sorry for that poor woman, and the owners just left her alone.

     Time went by. Unfortunately, she was not always left undisturbed. Stories circulated about the crazy old woman out by the cemetery. When one drove down that dirt road beside the cemetery at night, she could often be spotlighted in the headlights as one made the turn, just sitting on top that shack, just rocking.

     Seems a group of young men about college age eventually decided to have a little fun with her. They started out by hollering at her, taunting her, until eventually she would disappear into her shack.

     Unfortunately, other young people got in on the fun by walking out into the cemetery, hollering at her that they were going to dig up her family again. Lots of people had heard her story by now. When they did this, she usually would start screaming. It was the most highly pitched scream anyone had ever heard and she would still be screaming when they tired of the game and left. The few people remaining in Arkadelphia who knew her said she had developed a very unnaturally strong hatred for anyone around college age, starting when her family was dug up to allow HSU’s expansion. Nobody seemed to know if any of the young people harassing her were students or not, but to her it didn’t matter. She just grouped all young people together, and hated them all.

      One Halloween, a group of particularly mean young guys decided to go scare her. They parked their car a good ways back, walked very quietly up to the shack. On signal they started pounding on the walls and hollering at her. She was dozing off up on top in her chair, and when the ruckus started, she got up quickly. She was screaming that particularly high-pitched scream and ran for the roof access hole.  She fell against that railing and broke through a section of it. In falling to the ground her neck was broken. She was buried right beside her family.

      But this is not the end of our story.

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Continued next Friday