Forever A Hillbilly: Spreading Wing Excerpts

Forever A Hillbilly: Spreading Wing Excerpts: The following posts will be excerpts from my books, Spreading Wing, Forever Cry, Dead-Eye Samantha, and The Truest Friend: The Legend of To...

Spreading Wing Excerpts

The following posts will be excerpts from my books, Spreading Wing, Forever Cry, Dead-Eye Samantha, and The Truest Friend: The Legend of Tooter.

My first book, Spreading Wing, consists of 442 pages of true stories of the Gillum Clan, such as those below can be found at amazon.com. 2,200 copies are now in circulation. For a personalized copy, contact me at barbandpat66@suddenlink.net.

   

The first Gillum home to be built in the Ouachita Mountains ascended at Wing, Arkansas. The large family arrived in 1898 by oxcart. The home was built atop the first ridge as the Ouachita Mountains arise from the north side of the Fourche La Fave River Valley. Two miles of flat, fertile bottom land stretches out below, cut by the meanderings of Stowe creek, the primary watering source of the livestock. It is surrounded by hundreds, or thousands, of acres of hardwood forests and fertile fields. Many more fields appeared as more and more crops were planted, but most reverted back to timberland, again, as the overworked soil played out and row crops diminished and virtually disappeared.

    

    The river, two miles away, drifts lazily along the base of the south mountains, Fourche Mountain arising steeply from the south river bank. The south mountains arc into a concavity, not unlike the cleavage of a modest, beautiful woman, to allow Barnhart Creek to rush from the south mountains to meet the river. This is the spectacle I awoke to every morning, for the first seventeen years of my life, from my bedroom window. One might think it would become routine. It never did.

     My Dad arrived at that hill a young boy of five. He was destined to live out his life, on and around that hill. From the look in his eye as he contemplated that valley, I don't think it ever became humdrum to him, either. Dad moved four more times in his life, but he was always within short shouting distance of that hill.

*

     Dad was once engaged, but his future wife died. Dad had built a home in the meadow for her. Grandma, Hallie, (Dad’s         unmarried sister,) and all the remainder of the family loved her.   When Dad and Mom, Cornelia Irene Lazenby, later married, they did not live in the house in the meadow initially, but on the hill with Grandma and Hallie, who was a Peabody College trained teacher. There was no electricity in the meadow house.

      Even though Mom was very hard working, kind, gentle, and loving, Grandma, and even Hallie, on occasion, were harsh in judging her. Her life was miserable.

     Sarah Turner once said, “The first woman, who died, is put up on a pedestal. No wrong can she ever do.” I think that was at work here. After three children - Harry, Harold, and Jonnie, Mom wanted out of that house. They moved to the house in the meadow, with no electricity. Jan was born there.

     Later, they moved to a third house, the “Other House.” (The Marion Turner house.) It was bought by Dad along with twenty seven acres after it was repossessed. It was larger than the meadow house, and the family was growing. Barbara was born there.

      After Hallie and Grandma died in 1941, the move back up on the hill closed out the moving triangle, all within “hollering” distance of each other. I was born there, the youngest of my generation.

     Now that you have somewhat of an idea what Mom faced, moving in with all those dominant Gillums, I have a very fitting little story that I love. After Dad and Mom married, a picture of Dad's dead sweetheart continued to hang on the wall. After a time, a picture of Searce Pickens, Mom's old sweetheart, showed up on the wall also. Stirring up the situation somewhat was the fact that Searce Pickens was now working for Dad. After a time, both pictures came down. Mom had beaten the Gillums at their own game. A very rare occurrence.

I can find no other source that gives anything other than the highest praise to Hallie. She was obviously a wonderful influence in the lives of all her students, and was dearly loved by all others who speak of her. But my brother Harry related to me why life became so unbearable for my mother in that house. He was there, in that house, and he was old enough to see. And hear.

*

 

  JR Turner was sweet on Ruby, Mom's younger sister. The romance dragged on. Grandpa Lazenby was not big on long romances without a wedding ring. His oldest daughter had gotten into trouble like that. He asked, “When are you getting married?”

    “I need to save just a little more money.” This went on and on. He probably did need more money, for this was at least close to the time of The Great Depression. But JR also had a wanderlust. He could not settle down to one place easily, and I suspect responsibility for a wife at that time sat heavily on his shoulders. The California sisters sent money, and Ruby was headed for California. She entered into a romance with Homer Greear. Marriage was looming. But before that happened, she went back to Wing for a visit. The old romance started to heat up. Grandpa Lazenby met JR at the front door one night, to again discuss his intentions. JR still was not quite ready to settle down. Grandpa called Homer Greear and warned him. Homer jumped in his car, drove straight through to Wing, scooped up Ruby, fled to California, and married her.

JR continued his wandering ways. He would be here, then gone. Be here, then gone. For many years. I always loved talking to him. He would show me gold and other treasures, found in Mexico “a thousand miles off the blacktop.” Such stories fueled that wanderlust desire in me.

     But when my time came, and I had to make my decision after college to “Scoop Barbara Sue up and marry her,” or see the world, I saw at least three other guys looming on the horizon who wanted to marry her, also. I wanted her more. We raised a great family, Corey and Kinley. They produced wonderful grandchildren for us, Caylie, Christian, Jordan, Jackson, Carson, Cati Beth, and Jett, who was, sadly, stillborn. We retired. I was pleased to discover Barbara loved to roam the world every bit as much as I do. So, after our early retirement, we found ourselves spreading wing and seeing the world. We have visited all fifty states, and we have seen every continent except Asia and Antarctica.

     By the way, you don't happen to know anybody who would like to lease our house for a year, do you? It's on the market. We have done this before, and if it happens again, we'll be outta here!

For many years, when JR saw a member of my family, he always asks about Ruby. At one hundred, he still did. He looked great. He moved around well. But his short term memory recycled very fast. When we have to tell him, again, that Ruby has been dead many decades, he begins the mourning process all over again. But it does not last long.

The last time I talked to JR, His memories were essentially gone. He made no mention of Ruby. He had, at last, been released from his lifelong agony of loving, and losing, Ruby. JR passed away in 2012 at the age of one hundred two.

Forever A Hillbilly: Big Dan

Forever A Hillbilly: Big Dan: I chose this post for Christmas, because it is my most-read post ever - over 1200 readers from dozens of countries. I lost my nep...

Big Dan

I chose this post for Christmas, because it is my most-read post ever - over 1200 readers from dozens of countries.

I lost my nephew, Big Dan Gillum, just a short time back.

When Dan was about 13, and I was a grown man, Dan challenged me to an arm wrestling contest. I knew Dan well, and I could see nothing to be gained except a lot of embarrassment by accepting that challenge, so I declined.

     My dad talked a lot about Uncle Will, who was several generations back in my family. He told me a number of times that Uncle Will could wrap his big hand around the horn of a one hundred pound anvil, and hold it straight out. Uncle Will bought a sawmill one day that the bank had taken away from another man. This man shot him in the back one day as Uncle Will rode his horse away from that sawmill. Uncle Will’s genes seem to have been strong also, because in each subsequent generation, that great strength seemed to be passed on to one or two lucky men. Big Dan had that strength.

     I was completely passed by. But I did have one strength when I was young. I could run a long way. I never had speed, but I discovered fear could add wings to my feet when trouble loomed. So, I made it through my younger years OK.

     Years later, I was working on a gas well in Oklahoma. Big Dan roared up on his Harley one day, wanted a job. He was quickly hired.

     One day a young, very small, very strong roughneck bragged that he could climb up a thirty foot drill pipe leaning up against the well. Nobody believed him, so he did. When he reached the top, he looked down to see how amazed we all were. He saw that Big Dan, who probably weighed 280 in those days, was right behind him. That took some of the shine off that roughneck’s accomplishment.

     Big Dan lived a hard life. Lots of trouble. Drug problems sent him to prison a couple of times. He ran with the Hell’s

Angels for a time.  

     But just a few years ago, he changed. No more trouble. But he was having lots of health problems. He would get up very early, drain a couple of coffee pots, and disappear, working about half a day. Often he delivered groceries to people in need. Sometimes he just helped people who needed it. The rest of the day he spent hooked up to an oxygen tank.

     He had found a Church, several miles away. Most of us knew few people in that church. But we all knew Dan was there every time the church doors were opened.

     A couple of years ago, I spent the night at Dan’s house. We talked late into the night. Dan was excited to tell me about his new-found life with The Lord. Finally I headed to bed. But I stopped, turned, caught Dan’s eye, and said – “I’m proud of you, Dan. You’re a good man.”

     “Thanks, Uncle Pat. You’ve always been a good man.”

     I slept well that night.

     Dan Died at fifty eight. Partially because of his hard early life.

     Dan’s Church wanted to do his memorial service. Our family agreed. The service was amazing to all in our family. I don’t use that word lightly. I wanted to know more about how Dan’s relationship with this Church came about. The pastor, a really top notch man, was glad to tell me.

     Dan showed up there one day, and they welcomed him. Soon he was actively involved. Dan never tried to hide his past life, but was eager to tell them all about how the Lord had turned his life around. His great strength seemed to be that he was determined to be a better man with the Lord, and he never went back. His heart was set on becoming a better man, and spend the rest of his life working for the Lord. Dan prayed each morning that God would put someone in his path that day that he could help. And the Lord did. A lot.

     The service was at 2:00 Sunday afternoon. Many people from the Church fed my family a wonderful meal at 12:00. It seemed most all of the church members came back for the service.

     The service just totally blew away all us Gillums. The pastor gave a great talk, a stage full of wonderful singers sang beautiful songs. The pastor asked if maybe one or two of the church members wished to speak. One man related to us that he heard a tractor in his field early one morning. When he investigated, Big Dan was bush hogging his field. Dan just said, “I thought you might need some help.”  Several other people stood up and related similar stories. When it was over, all the church, it seemed, came by, crying, expressing great love for Big Dan.

     Afterwards, I told the pastor,  “Well, I don’t have an exact date yet, but I want to reserve a spot. I want a service like that!” My family all agreed. Everyone wanted a true Celebration of Life Service like Big Dan’s.

     All of us who are saved know we will find a wonderful life in Heaven someday. Big Dan has that life right now. But Dan showed us all: we do not have to die to find that wonderful life. Dan found his right here on earth in Arkansas.

     I related this story to the men at Pine Bluff Prison. They really seemed to take it to heart. Possibly, Big Dan’s work for his Lord on this earth is not yet over.

Forever A Hillbilly: Blonde, Beauty, and Brains

Forever A Hillbilly: Blonde, Beauty, and Brains: MARVALENE McKINNON WAS BURIED not long ago. Pretty well all my memories of Marvalene go back to more than fifty years ago, as I grew up...

Blonde, Beauty, and Brains

MARVALENE McKINNON WAS BURIED not long ago. Pretty well all my memories of Marvalene go back to more than fifty years ago, as I grew up in Wing. I know she has had some hard health issues in recent years. I have only met her son Johnny recently.  But I do know he must be like the son we all hope we will have someday, when the hard times hit. He has stayed by her side, and helped her navigate those troubled waters.

     All my memories of Marvalene are memories of a young woman. A really nice, fun young woman. Blonde. Beautiful. With a personality as big as all outdoors. If Wing ever had its own Marilyn Monroe, it would have to be Marvalene McKinnon.

     Her son, Don, I only knew as a very small boy, beginning school, just starting to ride my school bus as I was finishing up at Fourche Valley School. Or, maybe, as Fourche Valley School was finishing up with me. I forget the exact wording on my diploma. I remember it ended in “don’t come back.”  Right before I was spreading wing and moving on to the rest of my life. I did, sadly, hear when he passed away some time back, way too early.

     The Mckinnons were my next door neighbors in Wing. In fact, everyone in this story was my next door neighbor. Every single one. In Wing, if you can walk as the crow flies from my house to one of those neighbor's houses, never having to walk across another house, they were next door neighbors. Even if you have to walk a mile or two.

     Marvalene had twin girls. Blonde. They were just babes when I left Wing. I did hear progress reports as they grew up. I'd heard they are smart. Very smart. I only recently met them as adults. Turns out they are beautiful, also. Just like Marvalene. 

     I was visiting brother Harold in the hospital at Danville. Seems Marvalene was in there at the same time. One of the twins, Jane, came in to see Harold. I got to quizzing her about her work. I knew she was a heart surgeon. But, it seems she now does heart surgery from next door, by means of a robot! Good grief! I remember my Mom washing our clothes in a big black pot down by the creek, using lye soap made from hog fat, and a rub board. Now something like this comes along. I must be getting really, really old. All I remember about surgery deals with when Dad hauled all us kids over to Russellville in our 1947 cattle truck, and got all our tonsils taken out at one time. Mom and Dad were about sick of tonsillitis.

     I had my first proof of my book, Spreading Wing, with me that day. I had brought it up for family to glance at, only, because I wanted to keep the content pretty well secret, until Book Launching Day at Wing. But, I saw no problem with letting Jane just glance at it. A few minutes later, Jane handed it back. Said I was a good writer, she liked the content, which she discussed in detail, and wanted one when it came out. She asked me how many countries Barbara and I traveled through, in our world travels. I proudly answered nineteen. I asked her if she had traveled much. She said through thirty some odd countries, many on a bicycle. I shut up talking about OUR world travels. Anyway, I was shocked. She knew all that about my book, from a five minute glance. I had to quiz her about that. “I'm a speed reader. I read a pretty good bit of your book.” Good grief! My nephew Big Dan got a little miffed at me today, when he found out Jane had read a good part of it, and he hasn't even got a peek. Big Dan is not someone I want to have miffed at me. But, I'm preparing myself regarding miffed people. I know everybody is always excited about being written up in a book. I hope that excitement does not cool when they find out it's a true book, as best I can remember. But, I'm sixty eight years old. What have I got to lose? A few months, or years, at most.:) Let's just all keep a good sense of humor. Please. Most of my fun-poking is aimed right at me.

     I met the other half of that matching pair, June, after the short part of the service, at graveside. And she matched Jane well, right down to the brains. Seems she's an attorney. Not just any attorney, but a really good one, I've been told.

     Blonde Flossy Wheeler and brunette Mary Wheeler, sisters, married brothers, Sam and  “Tuck” Hull. Guess which sister became Marvalene's mother? They also were my next door neighbors. Tuck Hull taught me how to catch catfish, big time, and often brought my family many messes of fish he had caught. We greatly appreciated being able to get off salt pork for a day. He was also the best hunter around. Bob Campbell, the local Game Warden, shadowed Tuck for years. Tuck was just way too successful at hunting and fishing, to Bob's way of thinking, and he suspected something had to be amiss. I'm not really sure how Bob and Tuck's relationship played out, in the long run. That was all still playing out when I left Wing.

     Mary and Flossie were both big leaders in the church at Wing. Flossie played the piano, and led the singing. Once she decided the church youth should take over those jobs for awhile. Well, we only had  two youths at that time. Annette Person had just begun playing, so I grabbed  the song book. Flossie was a good sport, and let us stay in that position a long time. Seemed like forever to us all. It never happened again.

     I know that young version of Marvalene McKinnon  is just really  perking things up in heaven tonight. That larger-than-life personality would just tend to do that. Just like she perked up everyone's life in Wing, when I was a small child.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Intellectual Pest

Forever A Hillbilly: The Intellectual Pest:      I went to Wing to see my older brother Harold a while back. Harold is 82. He is getting around pretty slow, as he has for some tim...

The Intellectual Pest

     I went to Wing to see my older brother Harold a while back. Harold is 82. He is getting around pretty slow, as he has for some time. He survived a ruptured aneurysm in his brain a lot of years ago while fighting the Yellowstone Fire, but survive it he did, partly because he was so big and strong, the doc said. It was an eight hour operation, and he had to be cooled down to stone cold, stop his heart to empty that blood vessel. Then a lady surgeon had to reach those tiny, slim fingers into the brain stem and clamp that now empty blood vessel. Then his heart was started again. When he woke up, I shook his hand, which was still stone cold, and headed to Arkansas. I was not needed. His wife Lou was there.. Lou was watching over him, and nobody is better when a family member is at death's door. That started slowing him some, but fortunately, his brain is as sharp as it ever was. Harold has said for the last 25 years or so that he would love to meet someone who is also a survivor of that same kind of operation, so he could compare notes. But so far, he hasn't found anyone.

     Harold always kept a project going, and he thinks through each step very carefully. This time, the project was to get rid of a very intellectual pest.

     Harold's house has a small room off the porch where the cat's sleep. But it had been invaded by some sort of mysterious animal, which continues to eat up all their cat food. He expelled the cats for the duration of this project, and comes up with one idea after another for catching this unwelcome visitor. The room has access to the house underneath area, but closed off from the outside.

     The first idea was to put out his homemade armadillo box trap, with lots of cat food as bait.  The next morning, the bait was all gone, but the trap was not thrown.

     Seeing this was not going to work, Harold got a wire box trap from Walmart. The next morning, all the bait was gone, the trap was thrown, but no animal inside. There had been enough cat food inside these traps to feed an army, and every bit of it was always gone.

    This is where I came into the picture. We discussed this problem in great detail, for a good part of the day.

     Since the animal had already defeated the two traps designed for relatively large animals, such as a stray cat, coon, or possum, we determined it must be smaller. And since it carried off tons of food, we decided it was carrying it off and hiding it. We put our heads together and came up with the logical solution, a pack rat! Once we agreed on this, we spent the rest of the day on strategy.

     We got a rat trap, just a glorified wood and wire mouse trap, but much larger. We discussed bait. I recommended a chunk of cheese, as it would be harder to get it off the trap without throwing it. Harold wanted to stick some pieces of cat food around on the cheese, as this animal had already shown it was partial to cat food. I tried to convince Harold that everybody and everything just loves cheese, and a good round chunk of it, alone, would be sufficient. He finally gave in. We set the trap right beside the two useless traps already there, topped by a really nice chunk of ripe cheese.

     Harold suggested we had to tie that trap down, because that animal might get a leg or something caught, and drag his only rat trap off.  I said the trap didn't need that, because once a rat was securely in it, it was going nowhere anyway. We debated this for a good part of the afternoon, and by sundown, Harold had won out. It was his trap, and his house.

     Big Dan, Harold's youngest son, was there, temporarily recovering from some medical issues, and he was not to be left out of this discussion. Dan allowed as how, in case it didn't get caught, it might circle the trap a time or two, to inspect the cheese, and we should sprinkle flour on the floor in the whole area, and that way, we might at least see a track or two, and get some idea about what we were up against. We discussed the merits and shortcomings of this idea, we each had our say, but in the end, nobody came up with a good reason why we should not do that, so we did.    

     As bed time approached, we were all anxious to see what the morning would bring. I wanted to peek in on the situation at bed time, but Harold said leave it alone. This animal never stirred before midnight, he said.

     Now, I didn't really understand how Harold knew that, as he is always asleep by eight o'clock. But, I didn't mention that, because I knew it would only trigger a new round of discussions on that point, and we were all pretty well worn out from debating all day, as it was.

     Big Dan has had a wild and adventure filled life. But Big Dan has now found the Lord, and was anxious to talk about it. He and I probably talked more that night at Harold's than we had ever talked before in our lives.

      I lived for a time with Big Dan, in the Gas Fields of Western Oklahoma. I was working one summer on a large gas well, and Big Dan roared up one day on his Harley, and easily got a job there, when the boss saw how big and strong he was. He made my life there a lot easier. The other Roughnecks stopped throwing large chunks of iron off the tower at me, just to see how well I could dodge, once Big Dan was on the scene. And life was sure a lot simpler in that roughneck town, also, hanging out with Big Dan. He was just a skinny kid then, about 270 pounds or so. Nobody messed with Big Dan.

     When I headed for bed that night at Harold's, I turned and held Dan's eye for a moment across the room. “I'm proud of you, Dan. You're a good man.” Dan flashed a smile. “Thanks, Uncle Pat. You've ALWAY'S been a good man.” That was a good exchange to end that visit on. I slept well.

     When I got up the next morning, Dan had already been up for a long time, and drained the coffee pot totally dry, maybe for the second or third time, because you can never tell about Big Dan. He was now long gone, off to see his girlfriends and boyfriends.

Harold was up too, waiting at his spot at the table while Lou cooked breakfast.  He said, “Just go look for yourself, and see if you can pick a track out of that mess”. Well, that told me we must not have been successful, but I rushed out there anyway. The bait was gone, the trap was thrown, and the trap was pulled to the end of the wire. There was a lot of claw and scratch marks where this animal pulled the trap around, but the flour was pretty much a mess, and using all my skills built up from my woodsman experiences, about all I could read from that was, he sure had some sharp claws.

     Well, I sure did want to hang around until the end game of this mystery played out, but Barbara was expecting me home this morning, and looks like I would miss it. My last bit of advice to Harold was to remove all the cat food, sprinkle moth balls around in the room and under the house, leave the outside entrance open tonight to leave it room to get out, then close it back up tomorrow. Most pests I had experienced have no tolerance for moth balls. But I knew in my heart that Harold would not go with it, because by now, he just really had to get a look at this smart animal.

     I wanted to grab that last piece of lemon pie, but there was just a tiny sliver left. Mom always frowned at us when we grabbed the very last bit. I always let Lou know when I'm coming, and I usually arrive at about meal time, and she has my favorite waiting. Coconut pie. This time she surprised me, and it was lemon pie. I now think my favorite kind of pie is lemon pie.

 As I walked out the door, I could tell Harold was starting to plot his next move in his mind. I would like to tell you more, but another night has now passed, and I'm just dying to go call Harold. I can't wait to hear what happened last night.

     Well, it's now a few hours later, and I have talked to Harold. He's had a change of heart. He feels sad and respectful toward this very worthy opponent, and he has decided to take all the cat food out of that room, open the outside opening to the underside of the house, and hopes, maybe when it has eaten up all the cat food it has stashed  away, that it will move out and seek another life. Away from Harold’s house. He wishes it well. We all would have liked to have gotten a look at this brilliant creature, though. Several have mentioned getting a motion activated camera to help get a look at him, and everyone agreed it was a good idea, but no one stepped forward and offered to foot the bill. Goodbye, Einstein of the wild animal kingdom! We all wish you well. Sore nose and all. 

     Late news flash! Harold changed his mind, and did manage to catch the critter, using lady's nylons and peanut butter. I'm not real sure about how all that played out. It was, indeed, a packrat! Now, why didn't I think of that! How simple it all seems now, ladies nylons and peanut butter. However, at last reports, the cat food still seems to be getting gone.

     Some time later, I got the word. The creatures had made a move that would inevitably spell their doom. They chewed the coverings off the electrical wiring of my sweet sis-in-law’s car. That put that look in Harold’s eye that I haven’t seen since I used and lost all of his steel traps while he was in the Air Force.

Now, it was all-out war, and many would not be returning from this final battle. I think I will just stay home and ask no more questions. This battle was about to get really ugly.

    My brother Harold and his sons, like Big Dan for example, were both blessed with great strength. Those strength genes just passed my side of the family by, but I did have one strength when I was young. I could run a long way.

  But fortunately, I never really needed strength to get by in this world. Even as a young man, just out of high school. I had and still have a well-thought-out self-defense plan, consisting of these 6 steps.

 1. Never become a regular at Honkey-tonks, where most of the problems arise. My Dad never let me get accustomed to such as that when I lived in his house, and I just never got the urge to change that. However, I heard somewhere that it’s a felony to hit a man my age, so I’m tempted, armed with this new layer of protection, to investigate some of those Dens of Iniquity. If not now, when? If somebody would just tell me where they are…

 2. Be humble, which I have always been, especially when I’m in a dangerous situation. Some call that fear, but I prefer to think of myself as possessing great humbleness and humility. Just sounds better, somehow.

  3. My fake big man status. I say fake because I weighed 160 pounds, 6'2” right out of high school. No fat. That's the size I still am underneath the fat, but somehow, I now have trouble stretching myself out to six feet tall. I eventually got up to 260 pounds fat and all, now trimmed down to 220 pounds. So I'm a fake big man, because the fat really does not figure in on the positive side where self-defense is concerned. Just slows you down, and makes you hit the ground harder when you do go down. Though I guess that fat would help some, protect these now brittle old bones.

    But fortunately, this is the first time I ever confessed all this, and most possible trouble makers don't really know I'm not an honest-to-goodness big man.

 4. Bluff. That goes back to step three. Though I did try this a time or two during recess at Fourche Valley School, and it never worked a single time. But I didn’t have the protection of step three in those days. I was just a scrawny kid, and everybody could easily see that.

 5. Don't be too proud to run – far. Which I was able to do as a young man. And fear will help out with the lack of speed problem that always plagued me. Though I have trouble getting out of a slow jog now, and this one may be a little outdated and I may have to rework that. 

6. Don't be too proud to lie flat on the ground and beg for mercy, if none of these other steps work. I have no pride. Actually, bragging about a lack of pride is a form of pride in itself. But I always take great pride in my lack of pride.

So far, thank goodness, I've never had to go past step 5.  But it could happen, and when it does, I'll be ready. Remember this general rule to live your life by:

A MAN WHO CAN RUN FAST AND FAR, AND IS NOT TOO PROUD TO DO IT, DOES NOT NEED TO BE A FIGHTER.

     Of course, this rule will only work with a young man. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I should just stay away from those honkey-tonks.

Forever A Hillbilly: Life Lessons

Forever A Hillbilly: Life Lessons: I ALMOST ALWAYS go to the Fourche Valley School Reunion. I always run on to a lot of old friends, and that gets memories going through ...

Life Lessons

I ALMOST ALWAYS go to the Fourche Valley School Reunion. I always run on to a lot of old friends, and that gets memories going through my head that I thought I had forgotten.

     I saw Jim Roberson. He had such a strong handshake, it made me feel a little better about what happened to me forty seven years ago.

     I was in the sixth grade, tallest boy in grade school, I could run longer, if not faster, than anyone else, Just generally, one of the big boys.

     A couple of the younger, shorter guys, Jim happened to be one of them, got in a tussle at recess one day. I just sorta felt it was my obligation, as a big boy, to straighten these little guys out. I started pulling them apart. Well, Jim already had his adrenalin flowing, and he turned all his attention on me. It didn't take long to realize I should have minded my own business. Jim got me in some sort of hold that was just squeezing all the air out of me, and as a crowd gathered around us, he said, "Are you going to leave me alone?" I didn't want anyone else to hear, and my wind was gone anyway, so I whispered, in his ear. "Yes." He let me up. The next day, he brought a bunch of his friends around, pointed to me, and said, "There. That’s the guy I whipped yesterday." I told them I didn't remember that at all.

     Life lesson # 1: Being older, and taller, does not necessarily mean you won't get your butt whupped. And being able to run farther is no help at all. Although it might help you put some distance between you and him, minimize the damage, and put some distance between you and all those kids laughing at you. 

     A funny thing about memory. I didn't remember a thing about that whippin’ the next day, only to have it crop back up, 47 years later, when that strong hand started squeezing me again.

     A really young kid got really mad at me one day, I don't even remember why, but he just waded in on me with both fists flying, hitting me about the waist. He just kept on, wouldn't quit. Well, again a crowd was gathering, and I was not about to be seen hitting a really little kid. I was getting real embarrassed. Finally, Monty Dishongh said, "Pat, just get him in a wrestling hold." I did, and I had to hold him until recess was over.

     Life lesson # two: Looking at the size of the kid tells you nothing about the size of his heart. And he may come after you tomorrow. And the next day.

     I had a friend that was dirt pore', wore ragged, old patched clothes, the kind of guy a lot of kids shied away from. Lived over at Scrougeout. I went home with him one night. His mom was tickled, saying no one had ever done that before. She wrung the neck of her best hen, and we ate it for supper. All their beds were filled with hay, but they gave me the best one.

     In the middle of the night, car lights hit the house. The whole family ran to the front window, yelling, "Company! company!" Seemed to me like they had never had company before. Car was just turning around.

      Life lesson #three: Buddy up with the down and out kid. Sometimes, they will just give you the best they've got.

     That kid had needed glasses for a long, long time. One day he came to school with a brand new pair. We were wrestling, as kids do, at recess. I threw him down. As he got up, he reached in his pocket and pulled out his new, now broken, glasses. He just turned, put his head down, and headed back to the classroom.

     When I went in, after the bell rang, he was at his desk, head down, looking at those broken glasses. His glasses were soaked with his tears.

     After I got home, and off to myself, I shed some, too.

     Life lesson #four: Go easy with the pore kid with glasses. The will have to last him a long, long time.

      Me and my buddies were playing ball one day at recess. The biggest, meanest kid in grade school grabbed our ball and threw it across the fence into a briar patch. He just laughed and walked away, and not a one of us said anything. A little later, that same recess, his ball rolled over our way. Without thinking it through, I just grabbed his ball and sent it sailing into the same briar patch. I immediately regretted that decision. He walked toward me, rolling up his sleeves. His arms looked like tree trunks, and his fists looked bigger than a softball.

     We stood there, eye to eye. A crowd gathered. Rosemary Gilmore, trying to help me out of my pickle, stepped up right into his face and said, “Why don’t you just leave him alone? I don’t know about Pat, but I know Jack Larry can whip you.” I was hoping Jack Larry would step up, but when I looked around, I couldn’t see him anymore….

     I remembered that one time Butch Garner had gotten the best of this big guy one day, by just making the first move and popping him right in the left eye, and that guy had walked off crying. I tried that. Didn’t work. I now had knots all over my head. I tried the right eye. That didn’t work either. Now I got more knots in between that first batch of knots.

Life lesson number five:  Take a few more seconds, and think a little more before acting. And, just because it worked for Butch, didn’t mean it will work for me. Plus, take advantage of the fact that Rosemary had him distracted, and put wings to the feet.

     I hope I can pass one or two of these lessons along to my grandchildren someday. Maybe, just maybe, you can too.

     This year’s reunion is coming up, And, no matter how many guys Jim Roberson gets into a tussle with, I will totally be minding my own business.

Forever A Hillbilly: Learning while Teaching

Forever A Hillbilly: Learning while Teaching:      The job started in the middle of the year. I had just graduated from college in January, and I felt very lucky to find a teaching job ...

Learning while Teaching

     The job started in the middle of the year. I had just graduated from college in January, and I felt very lucky to find a teaching job at that time of year. It was at Saint Paul, Arkansas, deep in the Ozark Mountains near Fayetteville.  It wasn't until later that I realized it was because they had already lost so many teachers that year.

     It paid two thousand dollars for the semester, big money to me. It was sort of a bits and pieces job, just fill in where a teacher had been destroyed and quit, where a senior sponsor had been run off, where another just couldn't take it anymore and walked. It didn't seem to matter that the subject didn't match my degree, my area of expertise. But really, at that point I had no area of expertise, although I was pretty well conveinced I knew it all. I did get one physical education class, in my field, and that actually turned out to be my salvation at St. Paul.

     I knew the coach, Billy Max, an old Arkansas A&M grad like me. He invited me to share his trailer. I went along with him to lots of his games. His senior boys basketball team was very short, no good, and would pass up a layup any day for the glory of gunning a thirty foot shot. Just quite naturally, they won no games that year.

     Teaching went pretty well, everything considered. I had a hard core group of senior hillbilly boys in my PE class, but I was a hard core hillbilly too. These guys, I   knew, were at the forefront in running off teachers, so I put in a little segment on distance running right off. Since I had just came from being a college distance runner, I led them out on a 3 mile route. They were determined to not let a teacher outdo them in anything physical, and they kept up until they just, one by one, collapsed. They respected physical things much more than teaching ability, fortunately, and we got along pretty good. One of my boys collapsed to the point that I had to load him up in my car and take him to the doctor in Huntsville, twenty miles away. We were late getting back, he was still pretty much out of it, so I drove him home and milked his goats for him.

     Time for the senior play was coming up, and, as the senior sponsor had already been run off, I was the man. When we started having practice at night, I soon realized I had my hands full. Sometimes, some of them would just not show up. Those that did had not been studying their lines. I knew a disaster was in the works, and I was right. When the big night came, I posted lots of prompters around behind the curtains. It really was not a matter of prompting, often they just had to read the whole line. And sometimes, the wrong actor grabbed onto a line and just ran with it. Halfway through, a very loud alarm clock that some junior had hidden in the couch on stage went off. I still have that clock. You just can't believe how loud that clock was.

     Oh well, all's well that ends well. When it was over, they called me out on the stage, told me how much they appreciated my hard work, and presented me with a brand new fly rod.

I was returning from seeing my girl one Sunday night, well after dark. I cut through the mountains. When I passed a new Ozark National Forest sign, I saw it was on fire. I grabbed an old rag and was trying to put the fire out, when an old, beat up station wagon drove slowly by. I got the fire out and went on to St. Paul. The next day, a kid brought me a message from his grandpa. Grandpa said, “Don’t be messing in my business again.” This was along about when the Forest Service stopped allowing locals to run their cows up in the mountains. I guess grandpa had a grudge about that.

     The end of the school year rolled around. Time for the senior trip. I was again the man, with a lady out of the community agreeing to go along to watch after the girls. She really didn't do much of anything, I think she was just on vacation. I drove the bus to Little Rock and booked us into a big hotel. These mountain kids were totally awestruck. I began to realize most of them had never been to a city before.  Many of them just wanted to ride the elevator, up and down, as long as I would let them. Some of them were older than me, and a few of the girls were pretty and flirty.  A twenty-one year old guy just really should not be responsible for them, that long. But my do right mechanism was turned on and kept me in good stead.

     We went on to Hot Springs. We went for a ride on a party barge. I had never driven one before, but I was again the man. As I came into a dock, I tried gracefully to shift into reverse. It would not go. I tried again, desperate this time. No luck. I yelled to the kid up front. “Hold it off, Max! Don't let it hit!” Well, I was giving an impossible assignment to that little boy on that great big barge. BOOM! Everyone came running out of cabins, and from everywhere. I had to cough up several bucks to get out of that.

                                                                                                                                                              

       I had made another big mistake. I passed out everyone's meal money for the whole trip the first day. Max, and some others, were big spenders – for about a day. Then they begged and starved the rest of the trip.

     Coach Billy Max resigned, and they offered me the coaching job for the next year. I took it.

The most noteworthy thing about my coaching time at Saint Paul was getting a personalized insult from Frank Broyles himself. After a particularly bad practice by the Arkansas Razorbacks he told newsmen, “We looked like Saint Paul out there today.” Well, I was the only coach Saint Paul had, and we didn’t even have a football team. As I looked around to see if maybe he aimed that insult at somebody else, I didn’t see anyone but me. Ironically, a couple of years later, I was coaching at Fayetteville, and two of his sons were on my football team. What goes around comes around.

     I was good at not wasting money when I started to college. Can't waste what you don't have. College had honed that ability even more. I had three hundred ten dollars monthly take-home during that teaching semester, lived, made new car payments, and still saved eight hundred dollars.

     Soon after, I brought my new bride to St. Paul. It had taken me a year, almost to the day, to persuade her I was the man, even though I had known it the first time I saw her. I took her around, showing her the housing possibilities up there. The first was a small box, right in the middle of town. She said that just would NOT do. So, I took her way up in the mountains, five miles off the blacktop, to show her the second possibility, up close to the Orval Faubus birthplace. The only neighbors were in the graveyard next door. She quickly decided that box in town was not SO bad, after all.

     When I first arrived at Saint Paul it was midwinter.

Those hardwood forests were drab and dreary. Now, spring had brought to me bright green leaves and a brand new bride, completely changing my world. We found a new, beautiful spot in those mountains to picnic almost every day. A wonderful start to our fifty years together.

Forever A Hillbilly: The King of Fayetteville

Forever A Hillbilly: The King of Fayetteville:      The year was 1968 and I had just turned 24. I was flipping through the paper one day when I stopped on a picture of an old man with wh...

The King of Fayetteville

     The year was 1968 and I had just turned 24. I was flipping through the paper one day when I stopped on a picture of an old man with what looked to me like, at the time, an unbelievable large string of catfish. The caption under the picture was, "Dick Dyer does It Again!" Seems Dick Dyer was about the best cat fisherman around Fayetteville, Arkansas. I wished I could do that, but it seemed out of my reach.

     When I was a kid, growing up in Wing, Arkansas I caught lots of catfish, and we needed them. They sure tasted good, after a diet of salt pork. But they weren't real big. In the early days of Fayetteville, I had access to larger rivers, and I thought more and more about cat fishing.

     Well, as it happened, shortly after seeing that newspaper article, my wife Barbara and I  moved  over to Anderson Place. Would you care to guess who my neighbor, right across the street was? You guessed it. Dick Dyer. I befriended him, I cultivated him, I quizzed him. After a while, Dick's MO began to emerge. I studied his techniques. He even let me go fishing with him, once. Well, he began to see that I could be a competitor somewhere down the line, and Dick dearly relished being the best river catfish catcher around. Maintaining that status consumed his whole life. He pretty well cut me off from any more information.

     But I knew enough. I began to catch more and more fish, emulating his methods. Dick was OK with that, he was catching more, and bigger fish. We went along there, him doing a bit better, for several years. Then I slowly began to catch as many fish as he did, and probably about the same in total weight.  He still had the largest fish, 16 pounds. Every time he saw me, he told me about that 16 pound catfish.. He never let me forget about that 16 pound catfish..

     Barb and I were coming into our last months at Fayetteville. One really deep hole I fished a time or two that spring, with my limb lines probably tied to limbs I know now were too solid, with very little give, just kept breaking. The lines were 120 pound test or so, and I couldn't understand it at the time.

     Barbara and I were walking along the river bank, one day in June, on a picnic. I saw two old watermelon rinds lying on the bank, and they were just covered with hundreds of june bugs. I had never heard of anyone using June bugs to catch catfish, but I knew that in the late summer, they often fed by just skimming along the surface, picking up floating bugs and whatever they could find.  I had seen them doing that at night. After Barbara had walked on toward the car, I went back, pitched the rinds in the river, and the june bugs all floated up. I just scooped them all up, put them in a paper bag, and stuck them in the car. When we got home, I wrapped them up real tight in a freezer bag, and stuck them way back in the back of the freezer, out of sight. Barbara put no stock in mixing fish bait and food in the freezer. Late in the summer, I was watching TV one day, and I heard Barbara scream. I ran to the kitchen. There she was, the bag in one hand, a handful of june bugs in the other. Seems she had been going through freezer bags to find something to cook, stuck her hand in, and pulled out the june bugs. I caught it pretty good over that. As Barbara settled down some, a little later, I said, “ I've just got time for one more fishin' trip before we move, and no telling when I'll get to fish again. I'll get every one of those june bugs outta' here then.”  She agreed. Catch Barbara when she's not screaming with a handful of june bugs, and she's a great gal.

      Next week rolled around. I asked John Philpott if he wanted to go with me. Said he guess so, nothing better to do. We went back to that hole, where the White River and the West fork of the White River join, where my lines had been broken last spring. This time, I had a new idea. We were fishing with cane poles, very limber, and we stuck them way, way back in that mud bank. I floated each hook right on top of the water, with a june bug on it. We ran the lines at midnight, and had a couple of ten pounders and a whole passel of smaller catfish. But, right where the two rivers join, that pole was going absolutely crazy! Ever tried to get a lively 25 pound catfish into a small landing net? We finally did. The next morning, we had a couple more ten pounders and another bunch of smaller catfish.. Then, we approached that last pole, right where the two rivers join. The pole was completely pulled out of the bank,  but it was still laying there, mostly out of the water. Lying in the water, either just too worn out for one more flip of the tail, or having learned from his struggles that was as far as he could go, was the brother to the last big one. He was also 25 pounds. Well, when I got home, the first thing I did was take them over to Dick Dyer. Dick came out, I held them up as well as I could. Didn't say a thing, I didn't have to. He never said a word to me. Just turned sorta sick looking, turned around, dropped his head, and walked back  into the house. We moved to Hannibal, Missouri a couple of days later.

     I never saw Dick again.

     About two weeks after we got to Hannibal, a letter chock-full of pictures arrived. A 40 pound catfish, and a whole bunch in the 20 pound range. The letter just verified the weights,  And in the picture an old man was smiling. Smiling right straight out at me. Thats all. Not another word. The return name on the envelope was Dick Dyer.

     I knew Dick didn't have my address. But he managed to find it. And I knew he had found my Glory Hole. All I could figure out was, he must have ragged John Philpott into telling him. I was pretty put out by this whole thing for awhile, then after I settled down some, I began to think about it a little differently. I had used Dick's methods, developed through his many years of experience. He used me to locate the Glory hole. Fair's fair.

     I've never been back to that Glory Hole, but someday I will. Over the years, I think I've figured it out. There's a dam on the White River, a quarter mile upstream. Catfish naturally swim upstream. Until they're stopped by a dam. The small fish stay there, in that shallow hole at the dam. The big fish must have deep water, and they go back downriver, only as far as they need to, the first very deep hole. Right where the two rivers join. In the Glory Hole. And there they still lie. Year after year, just getting bigger and bigger. Just waiting for me to come back and challenge them again. But Dick Dyer passed away many years ago, and when he died, he was still the King of the Catfish Catchers in Fayetteville---and it just wouldn't be the same. Who else in the world could care as much about the size of the catfish I might catch there as Dick Dyer did? Nobody, thats who.

      For all you fishermen out there, I know you can find my Glory hole from what I've told you here. But where will you be able to find a whole bag full of june bugs?

If you like this story, please share!  Thanks for your time, and your attention.

Forever A Hillbilly: Impressing the Grandboys

Forever A Hillbilly: Impressing the Grandboys:      I just seem to have this burning need, deep down in my soul, for my grand boys to remember me as being outstanding in some physical ...

Impressing the Grandboys

     I just seem to have this burning need, deep down in my soul, for my grand boys to remember me as being outstanding in some physical way, because boys are all about physical strengths. The problem is, I never did have many physical strengths to begin with, and what I did have are pretty well all gone. So I'm going to tell you my story about my search to implant this respect in my grand boys, over the years. Before it’s too late.

     Caylie is my oldest granddaughter. She's a married gal now. But Caylie is a lady, rarely impressed by an old man, trying to put on a show with his physical exploits. So, I just never felt the need try to impress her in that area.  And, she runs half marithons, and is a skydiver.   What could I do physically to impress a half marithoner, and a skydiver? Nothing, that’s what. And Cati-Beth, the youngest of them all, is still too young to care one way or another.

     The grand boys are totally different. All four of them. Christian is the oldest, weighing in at 230 with no fat, six feet tall, so I know better than to try to impress him with most physical things nowadays. Afraid he might impress me with his own physical things. But years ago when he was much younger, I did impress him with my ability to start a fire out in the woods under any weather conditions whether it be rain, sleet, or snow, using only one match and natural things available out in the woods. That impressed him. I also showed him how to start a campfire with flint and steel, and he just grabbed onto that one and worked and worked at it until he had mastered that too. When he was much younger, he and I were sitting around a campfire one night. Now, sitting around a campfire just calls for a chew of tobacco. But I was still trying to conceal that from him. I didn't think he would be greatly impressed by that fact, and he never has been. Anyway, as we were sitting there spitting into the fire, as everyone worth their salt does in that situation, Christian just had to know. “Papaw, how come when I spit, it's clear. But you can spit brown. Now, why is that?” Well, I wasn't ready yet to tell him that whole story, he would find out soon enough. “Son, you have to reach way down into your lungs and bring it up from real deep to get to the brown stuff.” Christian started working at it. He just went deeper and deeper, just wore himself out. Couldn't do it. But he continued working on that for some time. He soon figured that whole thing out on his own.

      Jordan and Jackson are brothers and both are rough and tumble boys. They get a lot of experience at it, fighting like cats and dogs. All day. Every day. After coming home from two hours of wrestling practice.

      I just feel like my grandsons should carry memories of me around when they are older, and I 'm pushing up daisies, as a strong, fast, or tough old man. But it's too late. I can't impress them with my speed, I can barely get out of a good fast jog. On a good day. Strength, I never did have much of that. That just leaves tough.

     We were sitting in their house one night, several years ago. I told them I would give them one shot each at pulling on the long hair on my forearm, as hard as they wanted to. I've got a lot of it. My “kids” at our orphanage we worked at in Africa often said, “Uncle Pat is like Esau.”

    They both pulled as hard as they could. Though I was screaming inside, I just sat there and took it, never changed my expression. After that, they often said, “Papaw is the strongest man in the world. He's even stronger than Daddy.” Well, their father Mickey is about the strongest man I know. He could easily snap me like a twig, so I just wallowed in their admiration.

     Lately, the youngest boy, Carson, got his shot at my forearm hair. But he somehow had it figured out. He didn't pull straight out, as the older ones did. He just grabbed a good handful of hair, leveraged his fist some way against my arm to get an unfair advantage of me, and pulled out a whole handful of hair. I've decided it’s about time to retire that one. But I kept a straight face the whole time. I'm proud about that.

     Two or three years ago, they all got into a big gunfight with those air soft rifles (they shoot plastic BB's, unlike the metal kind) at my house, wearing goggles. I watched closely. Those plastic pellets went a long way, but you could follow the path of the pellet all the way out, so I knew they didn't pack a big punch. So I took advantage of that opportunity to impress. I put on goggles, and gave each of them five free shots at my face at about fifteen feet. When the pellet hit, I never blinked or moved. Only one, right on the ear, stung a long time, but they were all impressed. I worked very hard at never moving or blinking. That's the key to the whole thing.

     Barbara and I looked after Jordan and Jackson this week, and our main job was to keep them from killing each other. They now had a new, up to date, and obviously, I soon found out, much improved model of the air soft gun, a pistol. Jordan was ragging Jackson about crying when he got shot in the back with it a few days ago and that impressed me because our family motto for a long time had been, If Jackson cries call 911. For good reason. He just almost never cries from pain.

     Well, I saw a new way to impress the grand boys. I watched them shoot it a couple of times, and though I could never follow the pellet when they shot it, I just assumed it was because it would soon be dark. I backed off ten feet or so, turned my back, raised my shirt, told them to each shoot me in the back. Well, this turned out to be a whole different gun. Jack shot me, and the blood started flowing, I screamed and cried, but managed to keep it all inside. They were impressed.

     Well, I still had one more shot I just had to take, and there was just no way I was going to destroy that image of being the world's toughest papaw that I had spent years building up in my grandsons. I turned around, told Jordan to take his best shot. He did, and it felt like it hit even harder, but at least no blood. Just a big bruise. I never reacted outwardly to either shot, though inwardly I was bawling like a baby. That's was enough of that for that day. My reputation was now reinforced in blood.

     The boys went upstairs, and I went to the kitchen for a long, sharp knife. I called Jackson down, handed him the knife. Told him that bullet could still be in my back, possibly, and I couldn't reach my back to dig it out. I told him I was going to lie down, and, since he's the one who pulled the trigger, stick that knife in that hole about half an inch and dig that bullet out. Tough as he was, Jackson turned white as a sheet. While he was still in the white state, I took back the knife, told him I would let him off, as I could see he was a little nervous about doing that. I would just tough it out with that bullet in me. I told him that bullet would eventually work it’s own way out, most likely. All those other bullets I’ve had in me did.

     When we all go to the State Fair together, I let the boys pick out the badest ride on the place, then ride that with one of them. That's all I ride. Always with a big smile on my face, flaunting the “no hands” thing. When I get off, I always get out of their sight as quickly as possible. In case I have to throw up. Where carnival rides are concerned, Carson, takes the cake. He's still very small, yet he begs to ride all of them. He managed to get on one this year that he should not have been on in the first place, and the bar did not fit tight enough to hold him. He got slung all over that cage.

     So, all you Grandpa's out there, remember if you're weak and can't run, like me, you can still impress the grand boys in physical things. The key is to show absolutely no reaction to pain, then you can go in the bathroom. And have a good cry.

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - Trapped - At the Winding Stairs

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - Trapped - At the Winding Stairs:      The next morning, I cooked eggs and bacon for the group, explaining to them I had seen only one baby chick in all those dozens of eggs...

Part Two - Trapped - At the Winding Stairs

     The next morning, I cooked eggs and bacon for the group, explaining to them I had seen only one baby chick in all those dozens of eggs I cracked, so they probably would not notice it at all, as I had fished it out of the skillet. I'll have to admit that, in the interest of being interesting, I may have fudged on truthful boundaries on that a little. Funny thing, though, most all the food we had left was eaten, except for the eggs. I got to eat all the eggs I wanted, with plenty left over. Even after I announced I had just been kidding, they would just never touch those eggs.

     I knew these mountains had been Johnny Barksdale's home territory all his life, and if anyone could find them, it would be Johnny. Unless, possibly, I could find Greg Latsha, who grew into possibly the finest woodsman I know. However, I could not figure out how to go about finding Greg Latsha.    

     Greg is at times a duck hunting guide in season, calling those ducks in for the city guys flawlessly. At other times, He is a salt water fishing guide in Florida, and he had also been a professional wildlife film maker for the Game and Fish Department. In between, he often mows lawns for his brother in Hot Springs. But where in the world would he be in March?

     Always very athletic, Greg was a very small, but fast pass receiver, with great hands, on his eighth grade football team. In the tenth grade, he was in my biology class, though he already knew more than I could teach him, when it came to wildlife and the wilderness. Once he brought me a photo he had taken, somewhere around Arkadelphia, of a black panther, as best we could tell. Although such an animal does not exist in Arkansas, Greg not only found, but photographed one. It was not unusual for him to leave a large covered bucket on my front porch. I came to realize the contents were going to be alive, wild, and very angry by now. It might contain the largest black snake I had ever seen, or some other exotic wild animal that always amazed me. I began to get really cautious about taking the cover off one of Greg's buckets. On our wildlife club trips, he never failed to set a very wild and uncontrolled example for the other, less woods-savvy guys. But he knew exactly how far he could push me, how far he could go before I kicked him out of the club in frustration. Actually, though I never allowed him to know, I could never have done that. He absolutely MADE the club, and, well, I just loved Greg Latsha. Headache though he sometimes could be.

     Greg started growing. He grew into a tall, very muscular man, hitting home runs farther for the HSU baseball team than anybody ever had. His small waist gave way to huge biceps and shoulders. I had been told that he always mowed lawns for his brother Roger's landscaping business without a shirt. I had also been told that ladies just fought to get him to mow their yards, and always peeked out from behind their drapes to watch him, fanning themselves as their house just seemed to be getting warmer and warmer. But there just seemed to be no way to find Greg Latsha in March. But I knew if this turned into a night search, we would need him, as well as Johnny, badly.

                                              

    Very excited about their camping trip, their first father-son adventure of this type, Micky and Jordan attempted to reach the parking area downriver from the Winding Stairs. However, landowners had fenced it off. They could not enter by the traditional route from below. Crossing to the far side of the river, they found another place to park. Mickey knew that a river crossing was required from this side, but Jordan was a tough boy who could handle it. They didn't let that dampen their spirits much, on this cold march day. They soon had to cross a rushing creek. Jordan slipped down, and got totally soaked, but climbing two mountains soon dried him out some, and warmed him back up. However, they now faced a river crossing, and It was much deeper than they expected. Jordan once told me when helping me dig for diamonds, “Papaw, nothing that's fun is ever this hard.” He may have been thinking that now, but he kept quiet about it if he did. When they finally reached the Winding Stairs, they just stood and looked for a very long time – well worth getting wet for.

     They gathered up a lot of firewood. The night promised to be cold, and the situation was not helped much when Jordan got wet again, crossing a creek with a load of firewood. But the roaring fire soon fixed that problem. They set up the tent, and got a good nights sleep.

     The next day was great. They hiked, climbing a high mountain. A ledge near the top proved to be the winter home of thousands of lady bugs. I had seen that before, at the old fire tower. They found bats in a cave. They finished out the day fishing. A great day. Seems Mickey had always planned on two nights, but didn't explain that to Kinley very well.

     The rains moved in that night. It rained, and rained, and rained some more. Fortunately, Mickey picked a good spot on high ground, so they were not affected by the rapidly rising river. But the high winds somewhat blew down their tent. By the time that was fixed, Jordan's bag was wet. He finished the night out by sharing Mickey's sleeping bag.

     By morning, the situation looked bad. The roaring river was very high now, rising quickly, hemmed in between two very steep mountains. Mickey knew trying to cross it to get to the car was out of the question. They would have to find another way out.

     They headed down river, but soon came to a feeder creek that was a trickle yesterday, but was today a roaring  torrent. They stopped, managed to build a fire with the wet wood, and made coffee. Mickey knew these mountain streams usually came up very fast, but once they passed the crest, they should also go down fast. Finally, though, Mickey came to realize that if anything, it was still rising. It had to be crossed, if they were to get out of here. The water edged up toward waist deep on Mickey. Jordan, with his pack, held on to mickey in the swift current He slipped, losing his grip on Mickey, and his pack. He was about to be swept down toward the roaring river. By the time Mickey chased him down and they recovered the pack, they were both soaked. It was getting colder by the hour. Jordan was proving to be a tough guy, though. He was hanging in there.

     They ran into a very wet hiker. He said he had almost been swept away trying to cross the river, and he had decided to try to get out by going up river, to Albert Pike. Mickey knew that going in that direction would only take them farther and farther away from their car, and he worried about being trapped between the cliffs and the still-rising river.

     They headed on down river. The water had overflowed much of the trail, however, pushing  up against steep mountains. It was tough going. After many cold, hard hours, they reached the fenced off area where they had first planned to park the car. They knew they were still miles away from the highway, and many miles more from their car. They could probably get a phone signal now, but their cell phone was dead. Finally, they reached a dirt road. After they had walked down it a long time, they heard a noise. A car! Moments later, Johnny Barksdale pulled up.

     Kinley's next call reached me on the highway. “They're out!” she shouted.

     “Call the Pike County Sheriff's office right now.” I said.  She quickly called me right back.

     “They were very glad they are out of there. They were about to call in many more searchers from surrounding counties. It's going to be a very cold night. Too cold for wet campers.”

     Christian and I headed back to the levee. Christian is my oldest grandson, and the only grandchild who inherited Grandma Martha Jane's red hair. He now seems to be getting a lot of mileage out of it. The girls at school just seem to love their “ginger,” judging from the pics I see on Facebook. He's a great fishing buddy, and now, at fifteen, he's showing signs that he could become the tallest Gillum in decades. He may well become one of the smartest Gillum’s in decades, also, if he makes maximum use of the tools he was born with. The jury is still out on that.  Caylie, my oldest grandchild, was the first driver that son Corey trained. She's very cautious. She was constantly told by Corey that she “must drive faster.” Now he's training Christian, and he now yells, with fear edging into his voice, “Christian, slow this thing down! You just clipped that sign back there!”

     We still had time to catch a lot of catfish. And we did. We headed home two days later, with sixty pounds of catfish fillets. (There is no legal limit on catfish inside the main levees of the Mississippi River) And Mickey and Jordan headed home, still wet, but now for the first time all day, warm and no longer hungry. And, they have a great story to tell.

Forever A Hillbilly: Trapped - At the Winding Stairs

Forever A Hillbilly: Trapped - At the Winding Stairs: MY DAUGHTER KINLEY’S FIRST CALL came in at about nine o'clock Friday morning. She was worried. “Mickey and Jordan are not bac...

Trapped - At the Winding Stairs

MY DAUGHTER KINLEY’S FIRST CALL came in at about nine o'clock Friday morning. She was worried. “Mickey and Jordan are not back yet, and I expected them yesterday afternoon!” We talked awhile. Her husband and son, my grandson, had left for a hiking and camping trip on Wednesday, planning to walk up the Little Missouri River three miles or so to the Winding Stairs, a very scenic, remote, and rugged stretch of the river, located  three miles or so down river from the Albert Pike campground. One could walk down river to the site from Albert Pike, or walk upriver from a commonly known parking site below, hiking up a trail along the river. They chose to approach from down river, Kinley said, and she did not think they were familiar with the Albert Pike approach, or possibly didn't know about it.

     As we talked, I began to detect a bit of uncertainty on her part about how many nights they planned to stay, one night or two. “If you are not absolutely sure about how long they planned to stay, let’s give them time to hike out to a point where their cell phone can reach today before we get too excited. Call me back at 11 AM,” I said. She reluctantly agreed.

     I was headed to southeast Arkansas with another of my grandsons, Christian, for a few nights of catfishing with JD Dunnahoe, my brother in law. I knew the trail up river well. It was pretty well cut and dried. Just park the car and hike upriver along the trail. Although I knew heavy rains had fallen in that area Thursday night, the trail does not cross the river. Hard to get lost there, just follow the trail. What I did not know was that landowners had fenced off the lower approach, so they would not be able to drive the car into the parking area. And, It would be two months yet before the unspeakable tragedy occurred at Albert Pike, where the suddenly rising river drowned twenty campers, and I did not know the horrible potential of the Little Missouri River to rise very rapidly in those mountains, pushing the water far up against very steep cliffs, completely cutting off that trail out.

     At 11 AM sharp, another call. “OK,” I said. “Call the ranger headquarters at Glenwood.” She called right back.

     “All the rangers are at an in-service meeting today. Nobody is available to investigate.

     “Call the Pike County Sheriff's office,” I said. We were now at JD Dunnahoe's house. His farm is beside the levee in far southeast Arkansas, near the confluence of the Arkansas and Mississippi rivers. There was only a couple of places on that farm where a cell phone could reach, and I waited at one of them for her calls.

     Another call  came in. “They have sent deputies in to investigate.” Another call - “He found their car downriver. No sign of them. They are sending several men into the mountains to look for them.” JD, his two grown sons Kevin and Mark, and Christian and I began to prepare for a dash to Pike county, and possibly a very long night. We were five hours away, and darkness would be closing in on that cold March night before we could possibly get there.

      Another call from the Sheriff's office to Kinley – “We cannot reach Winding Stairs because of high flood waters. We've found no sign of them yet, but we have many men looking.”

     Kinley was losing it. “Send boats down from Albert Pike,” she said.

     “Ma'am, we cannot put a boat in that river unless it's life or death.”  She totally lost it.

     “My ten year old son is out there, and it is life or death! Put boats on that river!”

     Kinley called me, so distraught she was hard to understand. I told her, “Call Johnny Barksdale,”

     Johnny is Mickey's brother. He lives at Amity, only an hour away. He is an expert woodsman, is close, and knows that area like the back of his hand. He would be a major asset to the hunt. As we prepared to leave south Arkansas, I searched my mind for the best help possible, close enough to get there before dark. I got to thinking back to many years ago.

                                      

     The year was 1985. I sat beside the campfire, looking at ten young faces in the firelight. This was a winter camping trip of the Arkadelphia High School Wildlife Club, which I sponsored. We were camped deep in the mountains ten miles or so behind Albert Pike. Johnny Barksdale and Greg Latsha were my stars. They were already expert woodsmen, even in high school. I knew they were destined to spend most of their lives in areas such as this. Greg could imitate the call of almost any bird or animal in these mountains. Sitting beside the fire, he gave a loud, long wolf call. Almost immediately, he was answered by a frightening call right across the creek. Everyone grew quiet, looking at each other with wide eyes. The fast thinkers, I could see, were counting heads, verifying that we were all here, at the fire, making sure one of us was not out in the woods, playing a trick. When the count reached ten, they bolted for the van. The others were right behind, including Greg Freeman, who had earlier just walked up to and kicked a skunk, to see how it would react. He found out, and he became pretty much a loner for the rest of that trip.

CONTINUED