Forever A Hillbilly: Conclusion: My Best Friend Tooter

Forever A Hillbilly: Conclusion: My Best Friend Tooter:       Tooter was not always perfect. Late one summer afternoon, Mom sent me to herd her young chickens into the coop for the night. Any c...

Conclusion: My Best Friend Tooter

      Tooter was not always perfect. Late one summer afternoon, Mom sent me to herd her young chickens into the coop for the night. Any chickens not locked up securely at night would probably become a meal for a coon, or maybe a mink. A mink might eat part of one, but kill all of them, just for fun. The chickens kept circling the coop in front of me. Round and round we went, with no apparent signs of progress. Finally, in exasperation, I called Tooter into action. He quickly developed a liking for this new game, and he was good at it. We soon had every chicken in the coop.

     Late the next afternoon, as I came in from the fields, what I saw beside the porch stopped me short. A dozen dead chickens were stacked in a row. Tooter, I soon found out, had so enjoyed the game that he continued it the next day. He had “herded” every chicken to death!

     I dreaded facing Dad. I knew what was coming. Chicken-killing dogs could not be tolerated on the farm. Finally, the inevitable could be avoided no longer. “Son,” Dad said slowly, “that many killings would get anyone a death sentence.” My dad was a hard man. He had to be, scratching a living out of this hill farm. Hard living requires hard decisions. Dad, however, more than anyone else, understood the bond between Tooter and me. Tooter was spared, and I promised to teach him never to kill the chickens again. I guess Tooter understood, because he never did.

     The summer of  1956 brought a new friend and companion to the farm. Mike Ford, my city-boy cousin, arrived from California one morning in June. Mike had never been out of the Los Angeles area before, and even the routine occurrences on our hill farm became new adventures to him.

     Soon after Mike's arrival, the raccoons attacked our corn patch, which was in the roasting ear stage, in force. We had to have that corn to get our cows through the winter, plus we ate cornbread about every day. Every coon in the bottoms seemed to show up at dark. Tooter, Mike, and I were assigned the task of protecting our patch. The stage was set.

      Early one warm summer night we headed for the patch. No sooner had we reached it than Tooter was on a hot trail. Mike and I ran down a corn row. We could hear Tooter running toward us, knocking down corn stalks as he ran. A silent, furry shadow flashed in front of me, barely visible in the dim moonlight. Close behind came Tooter. Reason and common sense left me, and I joined the chase, momentarily not noticing that I was doing as much damage to the corn as the coons were, tearing and scattering stalks as I ran. Suddenly, the game changed. The big coon turned to fight. Tooter, having better control of his senses than anyone else at the moment, jumped aside. I don't think I really made a decision to do what I did next, for I like to think my decision making process is a little better than this display. And I knew about coons. A coon like this can be a bundle of screaming and biting fury. They often whip a dog, and can kill them if they get on them in the water. I dived at the coon. I like to think I reconsidered in mid-air, but I don't really think I did. I sat on the coon, on my knees. I held the ringed tail tightly in both hands, while the masked face peered out from behind me. The coon was strangely quiet, giving me a moment to consider my situation. I asked myself, “How do I get off?” when no reasonable solution came to mind, I called, “Do something, Mike!” I don't remember exactly what he did, so I asked him when I visited him this past summer. He said he hit the coon on the head with a knife, and it just got mean. I’m sure glad I asked Mike about all this before writing this, because my thoughts are still all jumbled up about that moment, and I was not sure about mike’s role at that moment.

 So anyway, I acted. I  jumped up, holding the tail by the right hand, planning to slide my hunting knife out of it's scabbard, and hit it over the head. Now, my knife was not just any hunting knife, certainly not one a 12 year old should be carrying. It was a US Marines knife, designed for hand to hand combat. Perfect for my needs now. But by the time I had began my draw, my fingers had just touched the handle when the coon went crazy. It was wrapped tightly around my right arm, biting and squalling, and my arm was turning into sausage. I shook it loose, only to have it latch onto my right leg, slightly above the knee. I was struck with a momentary flash of good sense, and I turned it loose.   Tooter joined the chase then, for, still being a young dog, he liked it better when the coon was running from him. Myself, I was in the heat of battle now, and I stayed close behind. Again the coon turned to fight, raking Tooter with his claws. When I entered the fight this time, the knife was in my hand, and it was quickly over.

     We proudly carried the big coon back to the house, and I basked in the attention and glory as everyone examined my wounds. We did not think much about things such as Rabies in those days. Mike later confided, “I would sure like to have some scars like that to take back to California.” A few days later, Mike went down to run the traps we sat out at the corn patch, got too close to a squirrel or coon or some such animal, and got his own battle wounds. For days, he pulled the scabs from the wounds, to promote scarring, and he proudly wore his scars back to California.

     The summer was drawing to a close. Mike was ready to ride the train three days back to Los Angeles. When he arrived, he got a dog, named him Tooter. He bought traps, and sat out a trap line in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles. All he could catch were rats and ground squirrels, though. He told me this year that the summer in Arkansas influenced the course of his life. He later made many trips into the wilds of the west. He talked about me showing him how to spread a spider web across the hole in a hollow tree, to see if it was being used. I didn't remember any of that.

     I did not see Mike again until he returned from Vietnam as a demolitions expert, sporting a Teflon orbit around one eye. We visited Wing a couple of days and talked about old times. When he got back to California, he had a rude awakening. People there did not appreciate him and the other returning veterans. By the time he had completed college, he had had enough. He went to Australia, taught school a couple of years. Then he played basketball on a touring team of displaced American veterans awhile. When he returned to California, pushing thirty, he applied for a teaching job. Remembering his earlier treatment, he did not mention to the Superintendent interviewing him about his war experience. But when the man asked him why, at near thirty, he was just now applying for a job, he came clean. The man, a veteran himself it turns out, stood up, shook his hand, and hired him on the spot. It turned out to be a 30-year job.

    The time came for me to leave the farm. I was off to college. Tooter never did accept this well. He drooped around, his spirit gone, searching for me each day in all the old places. On the rare occasions when I got to hitchhike home for the weekend, Tooter always spotted me coming when I was still a speck in the distance. He would suddenly regain his “world class” speed, and a rough and joyous reunion resulted as we ran up the lane. One time, he jumped on me, our noses meeting none too gently. Mine was the one that was bloodied. Another time, a flying leap sent a tooth through my watch crystal. I still have that watch. That and memories of a happy time are his legacy. With long periods of depression and separation and short, joyous reunions, my freshman year passed. Then I was home for the summer, and all was well in our world.

     One summer morning, I was awakened at dawn by a loud commotion in our yard. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, the sight before me sent a chill through me. Two large wolves had Tooter, one on each end, stretching him out. When I yelled, they dropped Tooter and ran. Tooter chased one, caught him, and grasping him by the throat, began to squeeze the life from it. I grabbed Tooter, pulling him back. The wolf shook loose, and quickly melted into the woods.

     During the next few days, Tooter seemed to be slowly recovering. One morning as he leaped from a load of cattle feed in our truck, he yelped in pain. He moved slowly to the porch, lying down, and soon was unable to get up. I carried him to the cool cellar. He wouldn't eat. As I checked on him throughout the night, he became weaker. At daylight he was gone. That day I buried him in a grave under the Persimmon tree overlooking the valley and the mountains we had roamed together so many times. I spent the afternoon cutting his name in a large flat rock that I placed at the head of his grave. Tooter had come to me when we were both very young. He had seen me through my growing up years as my constant companion and best friend. His job was done. Now I am a man. I must go on alone.

Forever A Hillbilly: My Best Friend Tooter

Forever A Hillbilly: My Best Friend Tooter:  I got Tooter in the early 1950's.  He was an   eight   week old part German Shepherd pup. He had a black and white cross on his chest....

My Best Friend Tooter

 I got Tooter in the early 1950's.  He was an eight week old part German Shepherd pup. He had a black and white cross on his chest. I carried him, resting on my forearm, the two miles back to our farm. As Tooter grew, he learned quickly. He became my constant companion as we hunted, fished, and trapped – or just roamed the bottoms and mountains for the fun of it. He quickly learned to “stand,” “heel,” and “back up.” Once learned, he obeyed perfectly. If I needed help getting up a muddy creek bank after setting a trap, or looking for mink sign, I had only to say, “back up.” Tooter backed into position, waited until I grasped his tail, then pulled me up the slick bank. Tooter was a world class sprinter, by human standards. Using the “stand” command, I timed him at 7 seconds flat in the one hundred yard dash, breaking the world record by two seconds or so – for a man.

      Tooter saved me more than once. One hot summer day, walking barefoot down an overgrown lane to fish Lilly Pad Lake, Tooter was in the heel position. He suddenly stepped ahead of me, then jumped aside. Looking down, I saw a large water moccasin, coiled and fangs bared, lying where my next step would have taken me.

      Tooter became a good squirrel dog, though not in the normal sense of the term. He did not trail squirrels, but ran, crashing through the underbrush, scaring any self-respecting squirrel into movement. His sharp eyes caught the flash of fur, and another squirrel was treed. Once he had him in sight, he would follow him when he jumped from tree to tree. We worked well as a team. While I waited quietly on one side of the tree, Tooter crashed to the other side to turn the squirrel. They were an important source of meat for my family. The only meat we ate was either salt pork or an occasional chicken, which got old after awhile, or meat that I hunted or fished for.

      One balmy autumn day, when I was in the eighth grade, I packed my tow sack hammock, food, water, my .22 rifle, and Tooter and I set out to climb Main Mountain, the northern edge of my world, Fourche Valley. This was the tallest of all the mountains around, seven or so ridges over from our farm. We followed Stowe creek up Wing holler, avoiding most of the climbing until we reached the big one. It was a hard, tiring climb up the mountain. We reached the summit at sundown. The trees on top were mostly knotty, gnarled Oaks. Fox squirrels abounded here, but many trees were hollow. It was a real challenge, getting a mess of squirrels on top of Main Mountain. I set up camp, we shared the water and food, and I crawled into my tow sack hammock. Excited about our hunt tomorrow, I finally dozed off.

      I awoke with a start. The moon was up, and an ominous wind blew through the tree branches. An owl hooted in the distance. Although it seemed I had been asleep a long time, the moon told me it was not yet midnight. My major concern, however, was Tooter. I had never run onto anything in the woods that frightened Tooter. But here he was, whining, crying softly, pressing against me, staring into the darkness. A faint rustling in the leaves came from the direction of his attention. I picked up the .22, releasing the safety. The rustling, about one hundred  yards out, slowly circled us. With Tooter following every move with his nose, whining, we strained to see through the darkness. The circling continued, at intervals, throughout the long night. Tooter and I pressed closer and closer together. As a faint light appeared in the east, the rustling disappeared. We found no tracks in the freshly fallen leaves, never knowing what had stalked us throughout that long, fearful night.

      The hunting was good, and with the sun heading toward the horizon, we headed down the mountain with a full pack of fox squirrels and memories of a night that the passing decades have not erased.

The good hunting on Main Mountain set up yet another adventure to Wing Hollow. My buddy, Bob Rice, wanted to try his luck with those Main Mountain “foxies.” One Saturday we set out up the holler. After a long hunt, we had a few, and the sun was dipping low, so we turned toward home. Tooter thundered through the underbrush, in his customary manner, a hundred yards to the right. Suddenly, a large gray shadow flashed across the trail in front of us. Bob and I both glimpsed the animal, a large wolf or coyote. I glanced at Bob, noticed his chill bumps were as big as mine, and we picked up the pace.

     As we neared the last turn in the trail before Turner's Store came into view, I realized my hunting knife was missing. Remembering the last place we had used it was where we field dressed the squirrels, my concern for my marine combat knife overcame my concern for the wolf. As Bob stretched out on the trail soaking up the last rays of the late evening sun, I started back up the trail. Tooter and I quickly found the knife. On the way back down, a sinister plan began to form in the dark recesses of my mind. Perhaps Tooter and I could use the wolf episode to have some fun with Bob. Just before we came into sight of Bob, I gave Tooter the “stand” command. I went around the curve, saw Bob stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, chewing on a weed. I softly called Tooter, then began running, screaming, “Bob! The Wolf!” I saw Bob glance up, just as Tooter, alias the great gray wolf, burst from the timber.

      Under normal circumstances, there is a process to be followed in getting to one's feet from his position. I have never been able to explain or understand exactly what happened in this situation, although I have thought it through many times in the past fifty plus years. One moment Bob was glancing up, the next he was leaning into the wind, fairly flying down the trail to Turner's store. His feet seemed to scarcely touch the ground. A small cloud of dust marked his disappearance around the bend. When I reached the bend, there was no sign of Bob. Tooter and I set off down the creek toward home. Moments later, a car came speeding up the trail, a large dust cloud boiling up behind it. As it approached me, I made out a wide-eyed Bob, Buel Turner, and some old men who often hung around the store whittling and spitting tobacco. Guns bristled out the windows. I had some tall explaining to do.

CONTINUED IN ABOUT 5 DAYS. THANKS FOR YOUR TIME, AND YOUR ATTENTION.

Forever A Hillbilly: Stony Lonesome

Forever A Hillbilly: Stony Lonesome:      I just got back from yet another trip to Yell County.  I have been going up there pretty regularly lately.      The Gillum’s h...

Stony Lonesome

     I just got back from yet another trip to Yell County.  I have been going up there pretty regularly lately.

     The Gillum’s have had a presence in Yell County since 1898. With my brother’s death recently, that presence has been dwindling. Only my sweet sis-in-law, Louise, and my nephew, Big Dan, still remain. I decided some time back that I had to always keep some sort of permanent presence there, if only for part time. Thus my son Corey and I have been in the process of putting a cabin up there for some time now.

     My nine acres is a spaghetti shaped parcel that stretches across the highest part of the old family farm. I call that mountain (hill?) top Stony Lonesome. Actually, I borrowed that name from my favorite author when I was a child, Jim Kjelgaard. I read his book, Big Red, and his other books that spun off that. Over and over. Just recently I located a copy of Big Red in the library, and I enjoyed it just as much as I did 50 years ago. The story is about a boy and his dog, and many of his adventures played out atop and around Stony Lonesome. At the time, I had a big dog, Tooter, who was my best friend, (No offense, Sammy Turner) and many of our cherished adventures took place on and around our very own Stony Lonesome. As a child, that’s where the whippoorwills abounded, just like in the book. They’re still there.

     As a child, we grew many grapes up there. Tubfulls. That mountain top has long been regarded as the best garden spot on the farm. Deep topsoil, with deep red clay below.

     Somebody, eons ago, moved the rocks off the very top of Stony lonesome, and made a long rock fence along the edge. Any surface rock on top of Stony Lonesome is lonesome indeed. That must have happened when they discovered what a good garden spot that is.

     After my brother Harold sold me that plot, he put many days in hauling rocks and gravel onto the road up to the top of Stony Lonesome. So, the road is still passable, but actually, I think it may be the roughest driveway in Yell County, what with all the erosion that has happened on that steep hill. The soil is mostly gone, only rocks remain.

     The cabin itself is pretty close to being finished, but the bathroom, and the associated modern day conveniences, is still far off.

     Big Dan and I placed a 500 gallon water tank behind the cabin, and rain water is funneled off the roof to it. I was excited when the recent six-day rain filled it up, but that faded when I saw that the valve at the bottom dripped. A lot. Three drops per second. So, I had to siphon that tankful out, and start over. Now, I’m holding my breath waiting for the next big rain, to see how the new valve behaves. (Late note: no drips this time – it worked) In the meantime, water off the back roof is funneled into a big trash can for utility use, just like the water barrel we used when I was a kid in Wing, avoiding many long trips down the hill to the well.

     As I grew up, our toilet was a two-holer down the hill. For now, mine is a porta-potty out in the thicket and a five foot deep hole. No need to build a surround. And the stay is more pleasant with nice fresh air coming in from all directions. The thickets grow really, really thick on top of Stony Lonesome. Just carve out a trail and a small opening. But I do have one big advantage: real toilet paper. (double bagged in zip lock bags.) No Sears and Roebuck pages for this generation of Gillums! We’ve moved on up! My nephew told me the other day that he had heard a rumor that my outhouse had no house. Just an out. I had to admit that was true.

     My son, Corey, and 9 year old grandson Carson were with me this trip. Carson finally talked his dad into accompanying him to the “bathroom” in the middle of the night, but he stirred up a whole pack of coyotes in the thicket. I’ve not heart such a fuss in many years, that close. Both from the coyotes and my city-boy grandson. But Stony Lonesome is making a Fourche Valley hillbilly out of him pretty quickly.

     My last overnight stay there with Carson, it was raining pretty hard. All the time. Carson kept wanting to build a campfire. I tried to explain the physics involved with building a campfire in the rain to discourage him. He just would not buy into that. A little later, I glanced outside. He and his dad were sitting beside a campfire blazing brightly in the driving rain.

     I need to give you a little background info here. When Corey was about that age, he was constantly challenging me to build a fire under the most difficult of circumstances, using only what I could find out in the woods and one match. It was a good chance to impress my son, so I worked hard at it. I guess my most significant achievement was building a fire in a snowstorm, and early one morning on a camping trip after it had rained all night. Next we moved on to flint and steel. My oldest grandson, Christian, was so impressed by that, he worked and worked until he had mastered that art too.

     Back to our story. I was so impressed with Carson’s driving rain campfire, I just had to investigate. He had used a store-bought fire log to get it started. That’s not fair, is it?

Forever A Hillbilly: Half-Priced Houses

Forever A Hillbilly: Half-Priced Houses:      I had always thought in the deep recesses of my mind, someday I will build my own house. Mostly by myself. I decided, now was the ti...

Half-Priced Houses

     I had always thought in the deep recesses of my mind, someday I will build my own house. Mostly by myself. I decided, now was the time. We borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars in 1978, and I set in. I didn't know how to build a house, but I knew how to use a saw and hammer. Pretty well all of us raised in Wing learned to do that. The rest I learned along the way. If I got to a point where I was stumped, I went and looked at other houses under construction, and just did like the big boys did. When I first started and was doing the dirt work, a friend said, “I don't know how you ever make any progress. Every time I come by, you're leaning on your shovel.” Actually, I was very busy thinking. Trying to figure out what to do next. I did, however, dig the footing trench in one day. Lots of sand, no rocks.

      It was pretty well framed up, and my daughter Kinley, about four, was sitting in the front yard, playing in the sand. She had a spoon in her hand, and dug up a spoon full of sand just as we saw the mosquitoes were eating her up. We scooped her up, along with her spoon full of sand, and she quietly reached down and pulled a gold ring from the spoon. We figured that was a good omen for the house.

     I was working on the master bathroom when Barbara and Kinley came over with the news. Elvis Presley had just died.

      Some of the finish work I saved for the pros, like the cabinets, carpet, and brickwork. I knew I couldn't hide my lack of skill there. I found a little trick that worked well. After a contractor had been on the job one day, I went over his work until I found a flaw. Then I ragged him until he re-did it. His work quality now moved up a notch. Most contractors will only do their best work if they are pushed to it by picky people. It's all about speed with them. Many will go too fast if you let them.

     When it was finished, we turned three thousand dollars back to the bank. A one thousand, seven hundred and ten square foot, three bedroom brick house for twenty two thousand dollars. Including the lot. But, that was 1978. Prices have changed some since then. But the labor expense saved amounted to close to half the cost. It took ten months, after school, weekends, and a summer. I never, in my life, become as completely focused as when I start building a house. Barbara has a lot of trouble getting me away from it, for any reason other than my teaching job.


      I wound up building the next two houses we have lived in also. But not for that price. Thirty eight thousand dollars in 1983 out in the country, in the woods four miles from Arkadelphia. It was a two story frame house. Our new banker was very hesitant about lending money. He said most people who set in to build their own house were soon overwhelmed and quit. But, I had done it once already, so he finally relented. When the house was finished, and he came out for the final inspection, he told me I should build houses for a living. No thanks. Once the banker does his final inspection and declares it finished I take his word for it and just quit right there. I'm sick of it by then, and I have never finished up every little detail .Who am I to argue with a banker? Usually, it's part of the garage that is eternally unfinished.

     Water was a problem. We first dug a large bore well, thirty or so feet deep. Plenty of water, but the test came back bad. So, we dug a small bore well, 200 feet deep.  It tested bad also. The next sample was bad. The bank would not finalize our loan until we passed a water test. The third sample was accidentally dropped into the microwave for a minute or so. It tested perfect. Sometimes, one just does what one must do.

     After our kids grew up there, Barb wanted back in town with city water and cable TV. That third one, twenty years ago, cost sixty eight thousand, the one we still live in. But this time, the soreness in my body did not end after a few days. It was there, every day, for ten months. I was getting too old for this.

      A sheet rock hanger guy, in his mid-fifties, lived next door. He kept a close check on my progress awhile, then told me I was going to make it. A neighbor woman commented, “I’ve been wondering what’s going on over there. I never see but one man there, yet it just keeps going up.” The sheet rock hanger’s son told me one day, “I never want to be old. I want to die by fifty.” I asked why. He said, “I never want to hurt as much as my father does, every morning when he gets up.” A few months later, his father died suddenly, no one seemed to know why. But I did. Hanging sheet rock every day, for an old man, is a man killer. I had learned this on my first two houses, so this time I left the sheet rock hanging and finishing to the pros, the young guys. Three or four days as opposed to two months. The sheet rock hangers told me when they finished, it was the most square and plumb house they had ever worked on. A plus, I guess, for being so slow in framing it up.

                                                             

      The city inspector was the bane of my existence while I built that last house. Although it was legal to buy permits and build one's own house in Arkadelphia, plumbing, electrical and all, he was determined that you just can't build a house like that, alone.  He was there, nearly every day, finding things wrong.

I pulled a fast one on him once. I had the under-the-slab plumbing finished, uncovered in a four foot deep trench, and he was getting out of his truck, coming to inspect. I noticed a drain curve turned the wrong way. I knew he would say, "You can't do that! That will cause the drain to stop up every couple of weeks! Pull it out and redo it!" I threw a shovel full of dirt down on top of that joint as he walked up, gambling he was too lazy to get down in the ditch and check it. He didn't, and twenty years later, it has never stopped up.

     A couple of times, I had to bring him an engineering book to prove my point. He once decided that  two by six inch studs, two feet apart, would not hold a two story house. He told me to put another stud in between. I finally convinced him that two by sixes spaced that way could carry more weight than two by fours spaced sixteen inches apart. I let him read it right out of the engineering book. But the last time he came out, as I was finishing up, he was different. He smiled and said, “You know, a man should never have to do what you did on this house, alone like that, but once in a lifetime.” And I was doing it for city water and cable TV, for heaven's sake! I decided that day that he and I finally agreed on something. This was my last house.

    Then we started buying old, rundown rent houses, and I fixed them up. After the first one, our banker realized I would quickly fix it up, make it worth more. Sweat equity, he called it. I never had to make a down payment on another one. I even made a profit on a closing once, because rent was due. But like I say, that was then, and things have changed in banking. We made sure our credit rating stayed around eight hundred. And I have changed. I've got to renovate a trashed apartment next week, and what I really want to do is write. I wouldn't mind if I never saw another hammer and saw. Anyone want to buy sixteen old houses and apartments? Have I got a deal for you! (This story was written some time back. I now own only four rentals to work on. I’ve stopped climbing up on steep roofs, and squeezing under low houses, so my profit is much less. A product of being 69 years old. I don't do that kind of work anymore.)

    I still have 3 or 4 storage buildings around town where I keep materials I bought cheap, garage sales and all, for renovating houses. HSU renovated a huge old house on campus once, and Barbara asked me why my renovation jobs do not look as good as that one did once they finished. I patiently explained the difference between a two million dollar renovation, and a two hundred dollar renovation. She never mentioned that again.

Forever A Hillbilly: Goodbye, Fayetteville

Forever A Hillbilly: Goodbye, Fayetteville: Goodbye, Fayetteville       In 1973, my family and I lived at Fayetteville, Arkansas. I had been coaching basketball at Woodland Junio...

Goodbye, Fayetteville

      In 1973, my family and I lived at Fayetteville, Arkansas. I had been coaching basketball at Woodland Junior High for seven years.

      Dad was not doing well while we were at Fayetteville. He was still struggling to keep the farm going at Wing, Arkansas until my brother Harold retired from the Air Force and could take over the farm.  Dad had several bad spells, and my sisters and I swapped off a lot, being there to help them out. One really bad time, he got so weak he could not take care of himself, Mom was not strong enough to lift him, and my sister Jonnie and I had a hard decision to make. We checked him in at a nursing home at Ola. I’ll have to admit, Jonnie was the stronger one in making that decision we had to make. Personally, I spent a lot of time crying along about then. I had heard on the family grapevine that Aunt Lula was pretty high on me, but that ended when Dad went to that nursing home.

      As he began to get stronger, he worked hard on creative ways to take care of himself, including using his walking stick to help put his clothes on. We were finally able to take him home.

     Harold retired from the Air Force and he moved his family back to the farm, which was his plan all along. He got more than he bargained for. All the old Gillum’s around him started dying off quickly when Harold returned home.  With Dad relieved of the responsibility of the farm, Rhumatoid Arthritis became his master.

      He had a stroke, and went to the hospital at Ft. Smith. The preacher at the Rover Baptist Church was there visiting at the same time I was, once, and Dad introduced me as “My son, a teacher at Fayetteville."

      After Dad went home, every time I came down on the weekend to see them, the preacher kept trying to get me to preach at his church. I told him, "That's just not my thing." He looked puzzled by that, but he just kept on trying. I finally realized, Because of his stroke, Dad was not speaking clearly when he introduced me, and the preacher thought he was saying, "My son, a preacher at Fayetteville." Well, I didn't waste any time setting him straight about that, and the preacher finally left me alone.

      Aunt Lula, Dad’s sister, had held a grudge against Dad for decades. When Dad was in the hospital the last time, she got my cousin Juanita to take her there. "I've got to make things right with John." Dad was in a final coma state when she got there. She went in, Dad came out of the coma, and they talked a few minutes. Then Dad passed away. Aunt Lula settled her grudge with Dad in his last few moments. Dad was 78. I figured out later that at the moment Dad died, I was doing an interview with a radio station in Fort Smith about basketball stuff. My priorities were not in order. I should have been at the Danville hospital.

     By 1973, coaching was wearing thin. I had made some key enemies among the Fayetteville coaching staff, and that was not a pleasant time. I could tell you my side of it, but I'm sure they have a side of it too.

 

     I was never a good football coach. Having never seen a football game until I was grown, I never knew the game well enough. I judged myself a fair + basketball coach. I never had a losing season, but that alone does not constitute a great coach. I was a better teacher than coach. Some of the coaches I was around were good coaches, but I never knew one during my coaching career that I would judge to be a good, true man. When I read Tony Dunge's book last year, I finally realized that good, Christian coaches do actually exist, even at the highest level. But I never worked with one.

     One year, my weakest team lost seven straight games before Christmas, usually by two or three points. Some teams, and maybe some coaches, just don't have the stuff to finish an opponent off. The killer instinct.

 

     I sat down during the Christmas break, and tried to figure how we could possibly come out on top. I looked at the schedule, marked the games I thought we could possibly win, and those we couldn't. We came out 13-12, with every game going the way I had it marked.

      Coaching tends to suck you, all of you, into the game, and leaves time for little else. I now had two babies, and it was hard to be a good family man. At least, that's the effect it had on me. I wanted out.

 

      In August, Barb and I sold our trailer, loading everything in Dad's old pickup, packed the babies into our old car, and headed for Hannibal, Mo. to a physical science job without enough money to do that, at the time. We could really not afford to take that pay cut, because the new job was teaching only, no coaching. But in my heart, I knew I could not afford to stay in coaching. Barb knew I had to get out of Fayetteville, she supported me completely, and never complained. I've never forgotten that. Many years later, we moved to McCrory, Arkansas. Barbara was starting girl’s athletics under Title Nine, equal opportunity for girls. She did not coach like me. Her coaching was based on love, not fear. To my surprise, that worked much better.

      Eventually, she told me she wanted to get out of coaching and buy a failing photography studio in Arkadelphia. It would mean I had no job. But I just said, “OK.” What goes around comes around.

      When Mom found out we were moving, she said, “I want to go with you. I could cook and clean for you, and grow a garden.” I knew mom hated living alone. But we had very little time to get there and get set up before school started. I told her I would come back for her, when we got a house and got set up. I could see the disappointment in her eyes. Had I known what the future held, I would have done differently. I still have a lot of trouble about the decision I made that day. Sometime, a person just has no second chance to redo a bad decision. Mom died just before we bought a house.

Forever A Hillbilly: Bishop McCollip and wife, Philomena

Forever A Hillbilly: Bishop McCollip and wife, Philomena: *      We just got word a few days ago that our dear friend, Bishop McCollip, better known to us as Father Anthony, had just passed away. W...

Bishop McCollip and wife, Philomena

*
     We just got word a few days ago that our dear friend, Bishop McCollip, better known to us as Father Anthony, had just passed away. We mourn for this great man, and wish we could be there now to share the grief of his wonderful wife, Philomena. I am reprinting this story in honor of this great man, and our close friend.
*******************

     During our Australia adventure, Barbara an I stayed at a guest house in Sydney for several nights, as we explored Sydney, and I worked up my nerve to rent a car, one with the steering wheel on the wrong side, drive across that huge city on the wrong side of the road, and figure out how to negotiate multi-lane roundabouts, and head out up the coast to points north, toward the Great Barrier Reef.


     One night, at our dinner table, we met  a great couple, Father Anthony and Philomena. We seemed to hit it right off, and after we told him we were about to head north toward Brisbane as soon as I got up my nerve to do that, they told us to call them when we arrived there, they would come get us, and we could spend a night with them.


      A few days later, we did. They came to get us, and we soon arrived at their home.  A great meal followed, and while Barbara and Father Anthony washed and dried the dishes, Philomena and I poured over her road maps. We then spent a fun evening talking. He was royally insulted when Barbara told him they sounded British, informing us that Brits sounded like they “had a plum in their mouth, and were far more pompous.” I, in turn, was offended when he indicated American football players were somewhat less that manly,having to wear head gear and padding, while Australian Footballers used none. He had to admit, however, that many of their young men got an awful lot of concussions.

      He showed us a photo of him carrying the Olympic torch, and showed us their church. At that time, it was only a small building in their back yard. He said he was placing a photo of us over the alter, and they would pray for us daily.

Their church, he explained to us, was just like the Roman Catholic Church, except that the Priests were not celibate, an unnatural thing, and, since Jesus excluded no one, neither did they. Since that time, the church has grown very rapidly, with branches in many countries. There is an orphanage named after him in Africa, and he is now the Presiding Bishop. He was 65 at that time, she 70.  We still stay in touch regularly. It was nice to sleep in a real house that night, and we awoke to many strange and beautiful bird sounds.

      After breakfast, they drove us to the beach for a walk. They literally walked us both into the ground, several miles. They offered us the use of their beach house, half a day up the coast, but we had to decline, since we wanted to cover as much territory as possible during our stay. They led us out of town and got us started on the correct road, after giving us their official Catholic blessing.

      Since we have returned home, we have, as I said, stayed in regular contact with these friends. I told him once if they ever came to the US, we would come see them. Soon, he called, saying they were going to Hawaii for the official ceremony to make him a Bishop, wanted us to come. How does one explain to a Bishop that one can't keep his word? I had to start out by explaining how far Hawaii was from Arkansas. After he became Presiding Bishop, he once told Barbara that he was taking on the name of McCollip, in honor of a Saint. Then he said, “I personally believe, there are many living Saints in the world, today, like yourself.” Well, that bothered me some. Even though it was an off-hand remark, it was, after all, said by the Presiding Bishop of the Independent Catholic Church of Austraila. Just how official IS that? How does one live with a Saint? Can I still kiss her on the mouth? Can I sleep in the same bed? Must I always walk 5 steps behind? Just an awful lot I don't know about all that.

He once wrote to tell us their small dog, whom we knew, had got in a fight with a Cain Toad and died. How could a toad kill a dog? I looked it up. A Cain toad has a poisonous skin. Bite it, and die. Australia is full of deadly creatures.

Rest in peace, our dear friend. Though I know Jesus, in your casual conversation with him, refers to you as Bishop McCollip, you will always be Father Anthony to us. You enriched our six weeks in your wonderful country of Australia greatly.

Forever A Hillbilly: Nat Turner

Forever A Hillbilly: Nat Turner: I went through dozens upon dozens of books and documents in researching my book, Forever Cry. On occasion, I ran across a story I thought...

Nat Turner

I went through dozens upon dozens of books and documents in researching my book, Forever Cry.
On occasion, I ran across a story I thought might give one food for thought. Warning: very violent.



Nat Turner

     Nat was a precocious child. He so impressed those around him by his knowledge of things that happened before he was born, that many predicted he would be a prophet. Nat was taught to read by his parents. He was greatly influenced by his grandmother, who was very religious. He was taught that he was very unique, and that he had a great destiny. “My father and mother strengthened me……..saying, in my presence, I was intended for some great purpose.” Restless, inquisitive, and observant, Nat learned to read quickly, and was admitted to religious services in his master’s household. As a child, his ability to read impressed the slaves around him, so that if they planned any roguery, it was left for young Nat to plan it out. He was their leader, greatly looked up to.

     Nat strengthened his leadership over the slaves, as he grew into manhood, “by the austerity of my life and manners, which became the subject of remark by white and black-----Having soon discovered to be great, I must appear so, and therefore studiously avoided mixing in society, and wrapped myself in mystery, devoting my time to fasting and prayer.” Nat became convinced, through these activities, “That I was ordained for some great purpose in the hands of the Almighty.” Several things confirmed this. Upon reaching manhood, he recalled vividly that both Whites and Blacks during childhood had often said, “that I had too much sense to be raised, and if I was, I would never be of any use to anybody as a slave.” Apparently Nat’s discontent with slavery was inspired by his father, who had managed to escape.

     When Nat was placed under a new overseer, he too ran away, and remained in the woods for thirty days. The slaves around him were dismayed at his voluntary return, saying that  “if I had his sense I would not serve any master in the world.” Shortly afterward, Nat had a vision where he saw “white spirits and black spirits engaged in battle, and the sun was darkened----thunder rolled across the heavens, and blood flowed in streams----and I heard a voice saying,  ‘Such is your luck, such you are called to see. And let it come rough or smooth, you must surely bear it.’” Meditating on this and other revelations, seeking religious perfection,  Nat had decided in 1828 that he was destined to wreak the vengeance of the Lord on the planters. Choosing four trusted lieutenants, Nat communicated his desire for rebellion to them. It was finally decided to strike on July 4, 1831. But Nat had an anxiety attack, and the date was postponed.

     On August 20^th, along with two new conspirators, Will and Jack, they barbecued a pig and drank a bottle of brandy. Nat queried Will, who told him, “my life is worth no more than others, and my liberty as dear to me.” “Will you attain that liberty?” “I will, or lose my life.”

     Now confident of his men, Nat decided to strike first at the home of his master, Joseph Travis, who “was to me a kind master, and placed the utmost confidence in me. In fact, I have no cause to complain of his treatment of me.”

     Nat entered the house of his sleeping master, then opened the door for the other rebels. Armed with a dull light sword, Nat failed in his first attempt to kill his master, who was then dispatched by Will. Hoping to gather a huge black army from the surrounding plantations before the alarm could be raised, it was decided by the conspirators that until they had taken sufficient arms from the whites, “neither age nor sex was to be spared.” This was adhered to.

     Moving silently through the night, Nat led his army, leaving a trail of ransacked plantations, decapitated bodies, and battered heads across Southampton. At the Whitehead plantation, Nat caught Margaret Whitehead, and “after repeated blows with a sword, I killed her with a blow on the head with a fence rail.” By mid-morning the little band had grown to forty men, some of them mounted.  Determined to “carry terror and devastation” throughout the county, Nat led his army against plantations and prevented the escape of the whites.  Many white families had now been massacred and the rebels had increased to sixty men. Nat turned his army toward the little town of Jerusalem. By this time, however, the alarm had been spread, and the rebels were confronted by eighteen armed white men.

     Nat and his men immediately charged the small band of white men and chased them over a hill, where they were joined by a very large number of whites. Nat’s men panicked and ran. But Nat did not give up the struggle. Determined to raise additional forces, he was prevented  in doing this by the militia. Nat was sure his men would make it back to their old neighborhood, and raise more men. This did not happen. After hiding for two weeks, he was captured by a white man. Nat was lodged in jail. More than forty blacks were killed in the aftermath. Feeling no remorse for the fifty five whites killed, Nat calmly contemplated his execution. A white lawyer gave the best characterization of Nat when he wrote:

    "He is a complete fanatic, or plays his part most admirably.

……….The calm, deliberate composure with which he spoke of his late deeds and intentions, the expression of his fiend like face…..when excited by enthusiasm, still bearing the stain of blood of helpless innocence about him; clothed in rags and covered with chains; yet daring to raise his manacled hands to Heaven, with a spirit soaring above the attributes of man; I looked on him, and my blood curdled in my veins."

      Nat was executed.

     The black rebels “curdled” the blood of many Southern whites. Nat became the “bogey man” for young whites, “worrysome property” for many a master, and a hero in the quarters. Many a white master now slept behind tightly locked doors, gun under the pillow. Does his slave quarters hold another Nat Turner?                          

Much Material for this post came from – Plantation Life in the Antebellum South-- by John W. Blassingame      New york  Oxford  University Press   1972

Forever A Hillbilly: Conclusion - Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker...

Forever A Hillbilly: Conclusion - Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker...:      It landed on the snag. I was, I must admit, too awestruck to even think about my camera. It was huge. The description fit. It hit...

Conclusion - Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker

     It landed on the snag. I was, I must admit, too awestruck to even think about my camera. It was huge. The description fit. It hitched it's neck, and turned it, looking behind. I was later told by one expert on that bird that even an Ivory Billed Woodpecker probably could not do that. But then, he had never seen a living Ivory Billed Woodpecker, and this bird did that. As it walked out a limb, certain distinguishing markings were very clear to me. Unfortunately, my forgotten camera sat idle in my hands, and I just gawked.

     A piliated woodpecker has a white line running from it's head to it's wing, disappearing under its wing when the wings are folded, as this one was. The Ivory Billed Woodpecker's white line goes up onto the wing, and down the length of it.

     This bird had that white line, the full length of the wing.

     That marking was very clear to me. The first rays of the morning sun spotlighted the bird as he reached the end of the limb. My camera suddenly came awake, and I shot again and again. The bird flew.

      Afterwords, I went over what I saw and what I did not see in my mind carefully. The angle of my view was pretty steep.  I had no memory of seeing the white shield on the back. I felt, at some point, though, I could have seen that. But, it was not in my memory afterwords.

     I heard the "Bam, bam, bam, -- bam!" drumming sound, totally different from the Pileated wood Pecker, three more times that morning. Then it was time to go home. Deer season started up again the next day, and there would be hunters swarming  this area, so I stayed away a few days.

     I knew I would need all the help a great lab could give me with those pictures. From our professional days, I knew just the lab. I instructed them to "push" the film two stops. It was still very early in the morning for a film camera.  I had no digital camera at that time. It was at about the time, 2006, when digital was beginning to take over, film was about to become a thing of the past.

      It took several days, during which I knew I had the first modern day photo of an Ivory Billed Woodpecker. I was torn. Should I make it public, and risk an influx of people running the birds off?  Or should I keep their secret, hopefully allowing them to make some sort of comeback in that very isolated place?  The habitat was great. The Ouachita Mountains arose out of that river, with thousands of acres of pine timber. Down river about a mile, there was a very large plot of beetle killed pines, very attractive to large woodpeckers. They simply strip the dead bark off the tree, and eat the beetles underneath. Hundreds of acres.

     When the pictures arrived, I had the best books I could find in hand, showing all the markings. But, after studying the best photo, I knew it would not hold up. The bird had turned toward me, and the wing markings were indistinct. The best photo was not totally sharp.

     I was still torn. I knew what I knew, but I had no real evidence. I decided to contact the man who was, it seemed, considered to be the world's expert on that bird. I discussed my situation several times with him, and  I sent him my picture. After studying it, he said he needed a video. One questionable photo was not enough.

     While I knew I was lacking in proof, I did see that bird well, and there was not a bit of doubt in my mind. I bought a good video camera, and went to work. I set up several blinds, some with bait stations. About fifteen mornings that winter, I left home at  two AM, arriving in the river bottoms at daylight. But, to make a long story short, I never heard that particular drumming sound again, though I saw many Pileated Woodpeckers, and  never another sighting.

      I downloaded  the actual sounds of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker,  made over half a century ago, and amplified and broadcast them out. The Blue Jays went crazy. Their sound is similar. I videoed several birds responding to that call, but they all turned out to be a dead end. One particular bird that responded seemed to sound a little different. I only saw it through my video viewfinder, and my video only showed a few flaps of its wings before it disappeared over the tree tops. Since my only view was through the video view finder, I could tell little about the real size of the bird. I could not stop the action at a point where I could see markings that would tell me something. I  called the expert. I asked him, "If I send you a video I have, will you call me back and give me an opinion?"

      He replied, "I'd be glad to, Pat." I sent it. A few hours later, I managed to stop the video at a critical point. Markings showed. I knew it was not what I had hoped. I waited to see if he was a man of his word. He never replied. Since he was not a man of his word, even to give me a negative answer, that told me a lot about this expert. That was our last communication.

 What I saw, and heard, that one morning in November just seemed to be there no longer.

     The last morning I spent looking for the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, the Corps of Engineers did a control burn on my plot, and the fire ran me out. My blinds and bait stations were destroyed. I knew by now the Corps of Engineers were curious about what I was doing there so often, and a local farmer was also, seeing me drive by his house so often. He sent word to me, "If there are Ivory Billed Woodpeckers down there, I'll shoot every one of them." I sent word back, "If you can find one down there, you're a better man than I am." I decided it was time to drop this search, and let that totally isolated spot become isolated again.

     I knew I could never convience anybody else with my lack of evidence. But I know what I saw, that morning in November, 2006. And to my dying day, I will always remain convienced that the Ivory Bill Woodpecker was alive and well in the Fourche River bottoms in 2006. Their secret is safe. Maybe, that's as it should be. That was one difficult decision I didn't have to make. Making such a claim as I have made here, without proof, makes one seem to be somewhat of a kook, so I have since been hesitant to talk about this, and I have told few people. I felt they may have raised young that year in that hollow tree I saw the one in. But if so, they have moved on. I pray they are making some sort of a comeback in those thousands of acres of the Ouachita National forest near by. I won't bother them again. Six years have passed. I decided to tell it here.

 The world needs to know.

     Please do not ask for details about the location. I will not tell. That area is totally isolated, with no good reason for people to come in, except to deer hunt. It needs to stay that way.   THE END

Forever A Hillbilly: Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker

Forever A Hillbilly: Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker: My brother Harold and I fished a remote and totally deserted stretch of the Fourche La Fave River one summer. The river ran low that yea...

Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker

My brother Harold and I fished a remote and totally deserted stretch of the Fourche La Fave River one summer. The river ran low that year, and it was shallow there anyway. But I knew where the few deep holes were located. The  catfish just piled up in those holes during dry times.

      In August, I was walking out of our fishing area, and a very large woodpecker flew from a dead snag that had a large hole in it, near the top. I was struck by the bird's size, and its markings.

     The Ivory Billed Woodpecker had been considered extinct for 50+ years. It is similar in size and appearance to a Pileated Woodpecker. The Ivory Billed Woodpecker is slightly larger, it's back is solid white, while a Pileated is dark on top with white feathers below. When this bird flew from me, it looked white on top of it's back, and larger than any Pileated I had ever seen.

     Barbara and I flew out for six weeks of wandering aimlessly about Europe a day or so later, but I spent a lot of time, while there, thinking about that bird. This was just after an Ivory Billed Woodpecker had, in many people's mind, been spotted in eastern Arkansas. Positive ID never happened in eastern Arkansas, despite a long hard search by many scientists.

When we returned, there was a break between deer seasons that fall. I knew deer season was about the only time anyone else ever went into that area, and deer season was now closed, so I would be alone.

      I left home at 2 AM, and arrived in those woods just before daylight. Immediately upon exiting my truck, I heard a drumming sound I had listened to on old tapes of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. "Bam, bam, bam, -- bam!" This was one identifying characteristic of that bird. The sound seemed to come from the old snag I had seen before. It was immediately answered from the area of another large hollow snag I knew about.

     I waited until dawn broke, and, with my camera ready, I eased toward that first snag. I began to hear woodpeckers working toward me. Suddenly, a very large one flew into my vision. It was much faster than I had ever seen a woodpecker fly before, flying more like a duck. As it exited my vision, I could hear it's wing noises, also a characteristic of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" It was at least 150 feet from me, but the sounds were very distinct. It was still too early, and dark, for a flying picture.

     I quickly set up a blind at the large snag, and I waited, camera ready. A Pileated Woodpecker flew in, stayed awhile, then left. The sun was just beginning to peek over Fourche Mountain, which arose sharply out of the far side of the river.

     Then IT flew in, and changed my thinking forever.          Conclusion next post

Forever A Hillbilly: Don't Mess with these Women

Forever A Hillbilly: Don't Mess with these Women: Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell Many, many of us older people have trouble remembering what happened yesterday. Or this morning. Or, oft...

Don't Mess with these Women

Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell

Many, many of us older people have trouble remembering what happened yesterday. Or this morning. Or, often, five minutes ago. But many of us still have a pretty good long term memory. Take me for example. I have memories of several things that happened to me when I was two years old. And, I can sometimes remember what my thought processes were, long before I could talk a lick. Although I do have to admit, I couldn't talk a lick until I was nearly four.

      We pretty well like to tell our old stories, and when we run dry, we just start repeating. Again and again. Or maybe you noticed.

Most all of us have a few, or at least one, REALLY good story mixed in. If one just takes time to listen to a person who has lived a long time, sometimes you can come up with a real jewel. Such a person is my friend Dorothy Bell.

      Dorothy, as a young girl, lived near Gurdon. It was December of 1942. (Dorothy Bell, you see, has an amazing memory of dates, times, places.) She was living with her mama, Artie Mae, and her father. Things weren't going well between her parents along about then. She knew her Papa had just started having an affair with that big, red haired woman that lived out that way. Papa and Dorothy Bell were sitting at the kitchen table one day. Artie Mae, just recovering from a miscarriage, had gone out to the well to get a bucket of water. The well was right beside the kitchen door. When she walked back in, something just set papa off. Dorothy Bell didn't know what set him off at that moment, but both Dorothy's parents had pretty well been on a short fuse for some time, ever since his dallying about had come to light. Well, Papa just jumped up and hit Artie Mae really hard with his fist, breaking his little finger. He knocked her clear across the room and up against the wall, and she was unconscious for a time. Papa sat back down. Artie Mae finally came around, slowly picked up a piece of stove wood, and set in on Papa. As Dorothy Bell said, “she just totally beat him into a pulp.” They lived together three more years, but things were different after that. For one thing, Papa never hit Artie Mae again.

       After the divorce, Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell lived together for a long time. They move to Dallas, to a house with six apartments. They had a neighbor, Dewey, who came to see them from time to time. One day, he showed up with a sorta mean looking young feller, who they had never seen before. Seems his name was Malcomb Wayne. In the course of the conversation, A neighbor lady walked by, and Malcomb wayne made an off color remark to her. Artie Mae told him to leave her alone. Malcomb Wayne never came back with Dewey again. Time rocked on. On Halloween night of l957, Dorothy Bell had the Asian Flu, and they had both gone to bed early, both their beds being in the same bedroom. “I just heard a screen being cut,” Artie Mae said. Then, they listened hard. They both heard it. They quietly got up, Dorothy Bell was given a claw hammer. “If you get a shot at him, try to hit him real hard right in the head,” her mother told her.

     There was only one other weapon in the apartment for Artie Mae. Seems the last tenant had left a really big, long, custom made butcher knife. They tiptoed to the door of the room the sound was coming from. It was dark, but In the moonlight, they could see a figure climbing through the cut screen of the screened in back porch. He flipped out a switch blade knife. They started running for the front door, then headed down the stairs; they could hear him running behind them. They were nearly at the bottom of the stairs when he caught them. The switch blade flashed, and a long, deep gash was cut in Dorothy Bell's forearm. That scar is still visible today. Blood was spurting. Artie Mae took a swing at him with the big butcher knife, and cut off an ear, barely hanging on by a little skin. Blood was gushing from him too, even worse than Dorothy Mae's slice. As Artie Mae was taking another long stab at him, his fist hit her arm, and the knife went sliding across the floor in the dark. Dorothy Bell knew she just had to beat him to it, as she ran and slid across the floor. He turned his attention on Artie Mae, knocking her down, up against the wall, hitting her again and again with his fists. When Dorothy Bell found the knife, she headed into the fray. Her Mother was getting beaten into a pulp. Dorothy Mae swung hard, not stabbing, just whacking hard with the blade, right between the shoulder blades. Every time the blade landed, she said, “Let her loose.” She swung again. And again. When each one landed, she ordered “Turn her loose.” After about ten blows, he was losing a lot of blood, getting too weak to continue. The Police had been called by a neighbor who heard the fuss. The police arrived, accompanied by a long black hearse. The hearse doubled for an ambulance in those days. Artie Mae told Dorothy Bell later, “You really hit him hard. I could feel every lick you hit, jarring his body into mine!” From the ambulance lights, they could see him. It was Malcomb Wayne. He was put on a stretcher, none too gently, and slid into the hearse/Ambulance. Then Dorothy Bell was loaded into the front seat.

They were taken to Parkland Hospital, on Harry Hinds Blvd., the same hospital President Kennedy would later be taken to after he was shot.

Dorothy Bell waited outside a long time, while Malcomb Wayne was being attended to. Then they sewed her up too. Artie Mae, though beaten to a pulp, didn't get a ride in the hearse. Not enough blood on her, and the hearse was pretty well full.

      Later, in court, Dorothy Bell was filmed testifying. She got to see herself on TV that night, Pony tail and all. A very rare thing in those early days of TV and video cameras. The judge said to Malcomb Wayne, “If those two women had killed you, there's not a thing I could have done about it. You weren't supposed to be there.” Turns out, that was the extent of his punishment.

A few days later, Dorothy Bell and Artie Mae went to get the stitches out. As they sat in the waiting room, Malcomb Wayne came in, sat down right behind them. Dorothy Bell watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was pulling out his switchblade; he held it a few moments, looked at her awhile, then started cleaning his fingernails. But he never bothered those two ladies that day. They had a shock when they got home. The landlord told them to move out. The only time ever, Dorothy Bell says, they were evicted. In 1976, Dorothy bell moved to Denton. Her mother later moved up to join her in a large apartment complex. In 1980, they saw a new tenant move in one day. Artie May asked Dorothy Bell, “Did you see who that was?” Dorothy Bell shook her head. They both knew. Malcomb Wayne and his Mama. But he never got anywhere close to those two women again.

Dorothy Bell and her mother later moved to Arkadelphia. Artie Mae passed away a few years ago. Dorothy Bell now lives alone, quietly, in Arkadelphia

Forever A Hillbilly: Wondergirl: The Double Bullet Dodge

Forever A Hillbilly: Wondergirl: The Double Bullet Dodge: I heard the siren, three hundred yards away, over on the interstate highway. "Must be a wreck," I thought, then went back to...

Wondergirl: The Double Bullet Dodge

I heard the siren, three hundred yards away, over on the interstate highway. "Must be a wreck," I thought, then went back to work on my houseboat. Minutes later the phone rang. Barbara soon came running out to me with the phone. The police were calling. Corey and his family were involved in a wreck. Three in the car, one ejected. Come to the emergency room. Just the bare facts.

      We arrived at the emergency room well ahead of the ambulance. We were anxiously awaiting when the ambulance showed up. Caylie came out first, just a baby, strapped tightly to a board, and screaming her head off. She looked around, within her limited field of vision, and saw Barbara and me. She stopped screaming, and smiled at us. We have never seen a smile quite so beautiful. Christi came next. She was also strapped down, but seemed alert, responsive, and, everything considered, remarkably calm. Corey was not in the ambulance.

He arrived moments later in a car. When he got out, he was beyond emotional. Way beyond that. As best he could, he was telling us he was driving behind Christi, in his car. A wheel had came off a trailer they were about to pass, hit her car in front, and the car did end over end flips, at least 12 rolls, then another flip, landing upside down. He reached through the broken back window, cutting his arm, and got Caylie out, but could not get Christi out. He was too racked by emotion to tell us more. Well, I knew Corey was totally distraught, probably in shock, far too upset for me to buy into all that. Nobody could have survived what he had just described to us.

      It was determined that Caylie and Christi had only scratches and bruises, no broken bones, and as far as they could tell, no internal injuries, but Christi had a concussion, and both were cut up by flying objects in the car. Corey settled down enough that we began to get the whole story.

The family was driving home from church, driving both cars because Christi had early choir practice. They both stopped at Western Sizzlin', at mile marker seventy- three of I-30. Being Easter Sunday, it was closed, so they and their friends decided to drive on down to Wendy's, at exit seventy eight. Corey buckled Caylie into her infant seat, strapped in the middle of the back seat. Starting to his car, for some reason, he stopped, turned around, went back to Caylie, and tightened up all the straps really good. Corey followed Christi in his car.

      Approaching mile marker seventy-four, Christi started to pass a pickup pulling a horse trailer. A wheel came off the trailer, hit the front of the car. That broke the car's front axle, starting the series of end over end flips and rolls, ending upside down in the median, with one last end over end flip, right beside mile marker seventy four.

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      Corey pulled up behind. Later, a friend who happened to be nearby described the horrible sounds of anguish from Corey as he rushed to the car. Caylie was hanging upside down. The only way he could get to her was through the broken back window, which he did, cutting his arm. When Caylie emerged, he checked her over as quickly as he could, passed her off to a stranger standing beside him, saying, "Don't leave my sight with this baby," and rushed to Christi. As he tried to get her out, a fire started. A man from the interstate showed up with a fire extinguisher, and put it out. Christi was hanging upside down, and he could not get her out. About that time, the ambulance and police arrived. They had trouble getting her out, having to use the Jaws of Life.

Once Christi was out, and being strapped to a board, a paramedic tried to get Corey on a stretcher.

Corey was bleeding more than anyone there, and the paramedic would just not believe he had not been in the car, and ejected.

      Christi, not one to get unduly excited, later described her thought processes as the wreck progressed. "Well, that's one more flip, and I'm still alive!" The car was a mess. Completely flattened on top, except for the two places where a human could have possibly survived. They just happened to match the two places where Christi and Caylie were. The paramedics working the wreck said that upon arrival, they had no expectations of finding anybody alive, much less a four month old baby. They added that the car seat straps were so loose, one more roll and she would have flown. Good thing Corey had just tightened them up.

      I went to the site the next day. Car parts were strewn along the road. From the location of the first car part thrown off, to the final destination of the wrecked car, one hundred yards. Twelve rolls and three flips? You be the judge. Our family dodged two major bullets that day.  We are always being told, wear your seat belts, all the time, most accidents are within one mile of home. Well, my family has been in seven accidents, mostly minor, none fatal. How many within one mile of home, as the crow flies? Five. For your own safety, please do as I say, but in all honesty, not necessarily as I do. I hate being hypocritical.

      Caylie, early on, assumed the role of seat belt enforcer in our family. Nobody is perfect, but I sure haven't found any flaws in her yet. At eighteen, she just got her first car, right after returning from the mission fields of Jamaica. God, it seems, had his reasons for sparing this girl.

If you live near Arkadelphia, judge this story for yourselves. The car came to rest even with mile marker seventy-four. The first car part thrown off was even with the brown sign just south of it.

This story had been in my head nearly eighteen years. It automatically replays, in living color, every time I drive by those two signs. I now know the story very well. I needed no notes to write this.

      My son in law, Mickey, a paramedic, described a roll over wreck they worked. A man was dead, but no marks were found on his body. Finally, a mark that looked just like the top of a coke bottle top was found on his temple. Every loose, even modestly heavy object becomes a deadly missile in a rollover wreck.

Forever A Hillbilly: Sammy Turner Leads me into Trouble. Again and Agai...

Forever A Hillbilly: Sammy Turner Leads me into Trouble. Again and Agai...:    Sammy Turner was two years older than me.  We ran around together a lot in the 1950’s. We had a call. “Whoo, Whoo, Whooie e ooo!...

Sammy Turner Leads me into Trouble. Again and Again.

   Sammy Turner was two years older than me.  We ran around together a lot in the 1950’s. We had a call. “Whoo, Whoo, Whooie e ooo!” That call carried over the top of Stony Lonesome between our houses, and pretty soon we would be on a great adventure. He was a leader, I was a great follower, and somehow I got into a lot of trouble following Sammy.

     We decided to build a club house up on top of Stony Lonesome. The small pines, chopped down, made a great frame. We went to an old barn, barely standing, and salvaged lots of planks. One day we went back to the old barn, and it was flat on the ground. We must have removed a key plank the day before.  When the clubhouse was just about built, we made up the club rules, wrote them down, folded up the rule sheet and stuck them in a crack. The next day, when we took out our rule sheet, I saw Dad had been there. Another rule had been added.

     “Do not cut any more pines belonging to John Gillum.”

     Sometimes, after harvesting our peanuts, we would hang tow sacks (city people call them gunny sacks) full of peanuts up in the smokehouse. Sammy and Mack Carter, a cousin, finally got in the habit of coming by and manipulating me, two years younger, into sneaking into the smokehouse and getting them a good supply.  I made a tiny hole in the bottom of a bag. After this happened a few times, I guess Dad caught on, because one day I snuck in, and Dad was in there, sewing the hole up with a needle and thread. One good glare from Dad was all I needed, and I hauled out of there and never tried that again. Dad never cared how many I ate, because he knew how hard I worked and I deserved them. But furnishing the neighborhood boys, who he knew did not work as hard, went against his grain.

      As JR Turner once told me, “The Gillum’s were not like other people.”

     Once, Sammy decided we could catch perch in Stowe Creek by feeling under the rocks and grabbing them. That worked well, until we pulled out a big water moccasin! That was the end of that.

     Sammy had another good idea. We stuck needles in the end of our arrows, put on an extra shirt for armor, and shot them at each other. Fortunately, we were not very accurate.

     Another idea was to lay a .22 shell on the concrete, reach around the corner of their rock cellar, and hit it with a hammer. I nixed that one. Even I knew better than that.

     Sammy and I spent a lot of time looking for arrowheads. One of our favorite places to look was down close to the river. There were plowed fields there then, but now they are covered with tall pines. One Sunday, as we started out, Dad said, “Don't get out of our pasture.” Well, the good hunting was well past our pasture. When we got to the river, two miles out of our pasture, we decided to cross it and look on the other side. After we explored awhile, we tried to return to the Hale Ford, where we had crossed. Every time we reached the river, all we could find was wide and deep water. We could not cross. Well, we could have swam, but it was a little cold to relish that. We finally headed downriver and came out at Rover Bridge, a couple of miles downriver.

      About sundown, we drug in home. Dad said, “Sammy, maybe you need to stop coming over here so much.” I had cows to feed and, since Dad was waiting for me, I got right to it. Finally Dad said, “I was down in the pasture today, and I didn't see you there.”

     “We decided to hunt arrowheads in the woods,” I lied.

     “No wonder you didn't find any,” he knowingly said. I totally deserved a whipping that day, but he let me slide.

     A different trip to the river with Sammy, which Mom had nixed, earned me my only real whipping Mom ever gave me. Mom took me out under the persimmon tree. She had a big limb. I was taller than her then, and I just kinda looked at that small woman headed toward me with that limb, and I sorta smirked. She got hold of me with one arm, and we went round and round with her working on me with that big limb. You could hear my screams all over that hill. I never doubted her abilities after that.

     My older siblings filled me in early as to what Dad was capable of, so I never tested him much. A certain look over the top of his glasses and “putt, putt, putt!” was all I usually needed to keep me in line. I never could figure out what that meant exactly, and I never wanted to know. If anybody knows what “put, put, put” means, I would now really like to know.

     Sammy and I built two carts that we could sit on and steer. A piece of wood for a steering wheel with wires running to the front wheel area did the trick. We had trails made through the pines on the side of Stony Lonesome, and it was great fun. One day Sammy showed up with a car steering wheel for his cart. I was jealous. Well, I went home and started going through my brother Harold's stuff he had stored. He was a mechanic in the Air Force at that time. I found something that looked like half a car steering wheel, so I got that. It worked great. By the time I totaled my cart against a tree at the bottom of Stony Lonesome, this cart thing was getting old anyway, so I left it there.

     Some 50 years later, Ken Gillum, Harold's son, called me up and said, “You would never believe what I found up on the hill. I can't figure it out! A B-29 steering wheel! Did you ever hear of a B-29 crashing up on the hill?”

      I told him, “Ken, I think I can help you out on that one.”

      A year or two ago, one of Sammy's teachers at Fourche Valley School in the 1950’s told me, “Sammy was the smartest student I ever had. He was so far ahead of everybody else, he was bored. He spent his time thinking of troublesome things to do. He helped me out a lot in deciding teaching was not for me.”