Forever A Hillbilly: Forever A Hillbilly: Wing Life - Bits and Pieces

Forever A Hillbilly: Forever A Hillbilly: Wing Life - Bits and Pieces: Forever A Hillbilly: Wing Life - Bits and Pieces : By Pat Gillum      I was born in Wing, Arkansas in 1944. All of my best memories ...

The Pork and Beans Trips

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

      “No, actually, I haven't,” Barbara replied, still smiling. Her brow tightly knitted together, the lady just said, “Well, maybe you should!” and shaking her head, walked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

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

     Not spending much money was rule number one. I cooked every meal, I never ate out. I  cooked only the least expensive foods, so pork and beans was a major staple, along with potatoes and spam, if I really wanted to live high. I could pull over to a park picnic table, whip out my little burner and skillet, and have a meal ready in five minutes. Barbara and I adopted, early on, a little but very effective rule to live our lives by: Always live below our means. That rule has been good to us, and enabled us to do many things that pore' people like us usually never get to do. I camped only in the least expensive places, usually National Forest Campgrounds, or maybe Walmart's parking lot.

     After our children were grown and gone, I planned my first real Pork and Beans trip. Barbara's sister planned a car trip to New England, six days, and they wanted Barbara to go along. This situation was perfect. I slept as late as possible the day I left, ten AM. I headed out for Rocky Mountain National Park. Actually, I just wanted to get as close to it as I could that day, never intending to drive the whole way, but that's the way it turned out. Those Kansas plains just offered few camping spots while thunderstorms rolled through. Driving through a small town in Oklahoma late that afternoon, I pulled over to study my map. I noticed in my rear view mirror that a truck pulled up behind, and an angry looking man got out, walked up to my window. “Somebody driving a truck just like yours just shot out my front window,” he said, looking me and my truck contents over good.

     “Now look,” I said, “Don't you think if I had just shot out your window, I would already have my getaway planned out? Do you see what I'm doing? I'm reading a map! And, do you see a gun in here? I'm shooting with these cameras.” He looked my gear over good, but I guess my words settled him down a little, because he turned and left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Actually, I saved us a lot of money with my trips. I never spent as much as I would have had I went along on that cruise, nor did I gain as much weight. And, I was happy, in the wilderness, plus Barbara was always happy to see me when I got back, and likewise. A win-win situation. I finally decided, I had photographed, in some fashion, about every Animal I was likely to find in America. But if one of those long, super strong digital lenses ever falls into my lap, I think I will start them all over again, if Barbara is agreeable to that. My limited lens at that time limited my photos, And, after all, I have always been only a “pretend photographer.” I'm not like Barbara or Jane Dunn. But, I was out there, doing what I love to do, in the wilderness. My Pork and Beans Photo Album still lies on our coffee table. But, actually, I'm about the only one to ever look at it. But every picture, even the bad ones, bring about memories of a very special time in my life. I did sell one, a picture of the white squirrel. So, I guess actually, I am a professional Wildlife Photographer. That title and a dollar will buy me a burger at McDonald's. But of course, I never ate at a McDonald's on these trips. No fancy high-class eating for me - just finish off that can of Pork and beans.

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing Life - Bits and Pieces

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing Life - Bits and Pieces: By Pat Gillum      I was born in Wing, Arkansas in 1944. All of my best memories as a child took place in Yell County. In 1947, w...

Wing Life - Bits and Pieces

By Pat Gillum

     I was born in Wing, Arkansas in 1944. All of my best memories as a child took place in Yell County.

In 1947, we bought a brand new, one ton cattle truck. The first automobile we had owned since the depression. Sometimes we all loaded into the cab and went to Danville, although we were a little crowded. Headed up that first very steep, muddy hill on the Fourche Valley side of the mountain, Dad had that truck in granny low by the time we were half way up, and I always pushed forward on the dash, hoping I could give it a little boost and we could make it to the top. Once, when Dad took a curve a little too fast in Danville, the right side door swung open. Sister Barbara, pressed against it, rode that door all the way out, all the way back in. Coming back home was very scary if the dirt road was wet.  Once, during a very muddy time, Dad had us get out at the foot of the mountain and push. When he got going, he spun up as far up as he could. When it stopped, we ran along and put a chunk behind the back wheel. We pushed again, chunked it again, and repeated this until we got up the mountain. That road is paved now and not nearly as much fun – or as scary!

      A diet of salt pork, corn bread, lima beans, poke salit' and the like all one's life can super-enhance one's appreciation for the finer things in life that we take for granted today. I went with Dad and some of the family to Conway to pick Sis and her things up at the end of the term at ASTC. Being the youngest, I was just naturally the one pushed out of the cab on the way home, with all her stuff, in back. I opened a box, and staring me right in the face was most of a jar of mayonaise. (probably called salad dressing in those days.) Well, we just never bought real groceries at our house. I had never seen anything like this.                                                                        I opened the lid, tasted it. My taste buds went, absolutely, into shock! I quickly finished that jar off, right there on the spot. By the time we pulled into Wing, I had licked it clean.

     Uncle Arthur, the doctor, lived at Belleville. He was always there when we needed him. On a very cold day, Dad chopped a finger off chopping stove wood. It was barely hanging on by a little skin. Dad jumped in the truck and drove to Uncle Arthur's house, and he sewed it back on. We were all surprised when it grew back.

      We were about to have a big extended family dinner. I knew we would have fried chicken, pies, and all the other goodies Mom could cook at that dinner. Barbara Lou had the measles, and Uncle Arthur came over. The big dinner was only a day or two away, and I didn't want to miss that, so I hid from him. Finally, when I came out, Uncle Arthur was still waiting for me. He took one look in my mouth, and declared that I was coming down with the measles. I was banished to bed with Barbara, and when the big day arrived, I lay there with my mouth watering while everyone else feasted. I never did get the measles. After thinking this over many times, I now believe Uncle Arthur may have fudged on me. Knowing I had been around Barbara, who had the measles, he may have decided to quarantine me, just in case, so that I could not possibly pass measles around the dinner table with the food, and only looked in my mouth to pacify me. Could that be?

     Once a rustler stole some of Uncle Arthur's cattle. The rustlers were arrested, and I went with Dad to the jail at Danville. I remember when one of the rustlers was introduced to Dad, I expected Dad to kill him. Instead, they shook hands. I never did understand the ways of grownups!

     Uncle Arthur's death brought about my first funeral. When we came in, I noticed two signs in the church. One side for "friends," one side said “relatives.” I could not understand why we sat on the "relatives" side. I assumed that “relatives” must mean “enemies.” After the funeral, I followed Dad around for the final viewing. A big red wasp sat on Uncle Arthur's face. Dad brushed it off with his hat.

     When I went to Danville, I always did all I could do to avoid people. I would normally cross the street to avoid meeting someone on the sidewalk. Once, however, I saw a crowd, very large, gathered around a store window. I just had to see what they were looking at. When I finally worked my way up to the front of the group, I saw a box with fuzzy, squiggly lines moving around on it. Every now and then I could see a figure of a person on it! Some of the other people called it a television. My world was changing, and fast.

     I spent a lot of time chasing down grasshoppers for fish bait. I soon learned that if I rode with Dad when he came to Danville for a load of cattle feed, I could sneak into the back door of the chicken processing plant and pick up a batch of rejected chicken livers off the belt bringing the remains into that room before someone found me there and ran me out. They were going to be thrown away anyhow, so I didn't feel bad about that. But I never let Dad know about it. I knew I would have heck to pay if he ever found out. Those livers caught catfish even better than grasshoppers.

Forever A Hillbilly: Diamond James Archer

Forever A Hillbilly: Diamond James Archer: Diamond James Archer      The Crater of Diamonds State Park in Murfreesboro, Arkansas is the only known diamond crater in North Americ...

Diamond James Archer

Diamond James Archer

     The Crater of Diamonds State Park in Murfreesboro, Arkansas is the only known diamond crater in North America. It’s the only place in the world one can go in, pay a small fee, and keep what you find.

     Back during my diamond mining days in the late 1970’s, I was fortunate enough to buddy up with, and work alongside the most famous Arkansas diamond hunter of all time. A lot of what I learned by watching James Archer enabled me to find my first two diamonds during that first three day trip, the first being my largest find ever, a beautiful 1.00 carat canary diamond. During those three days, I was determined to learn as much as possible from this legendary diamond hunter, and be just like James Archer. Alas, I failed miserably.

     James Archer made his first trip to the Crater of Diamonds by horse and wagon, seventy some odd years ago.  Later on in life, he and his wife came there again, determined to find a diamond. He failed, but his wife did find one. This galvanized his determination to find a diamond. He surface hunted for two years, off and on, and never found one, gently being teased about that by his wife the whole time. When he changed to digging deep holes, and washing the mud through screens, He quickly became successful, finding his first two, a 1.7 carat and a 1.71 carat brown diamond, all in the same day. In the early 1970’s, he worked at a sawmill, unloading railroad ties by hand, then going to the diamond mine to dig after work. At one point, he was not at the mine for two days. When he returned, his arm was in a sling. His hand had almost been severed at the saw mill. He should have been at home recuperating, but the hard working James was not the type to ever sit still. He could not stay away from the crater.

     When he returned to the sawmill, they told him they no longer had a job for him. This was a turning point in his life. He decided to become a diamond hunter, six days a week, every week. The number of diamonds found varies from one report to another, but the best estimate given by park officials was 5,000.

      As I said, I met James and worked alongside him for three days in 1979. The characteristics I noticed about James that were not present in anyone else seemed to be that he worked very hard, very fast, all day long, every day. For thirty years. I did meet one other man who compared to James in most of these categories, except that he always kept a full time job otherwise, and he’s still raising a family, so he does not get to go every day.  Henry Emison and his wife Lori were digging away when I met them. They were beginners at that time, but they quickly changed all that. Henry soon was recognized by all other diamond hunters on the field as a digging machine, a true man among men. He could work all day at his job landscaping, then drive to the mine and do as much work as we fully human diggers could do in a day. Of course, he quickly found a lot of diamonds. At one time, they moved to my rental house at Gurdon, Arkansas, partially because they loved that 130 year old, six bedroom brick house. But mostly because it was close to the diamonds.

      What is it about rare, driven men like James and Henry that makes supermen out of them when they step onto that diamond field? I wish I knew. I would buy up a few gallons of it and enhance my own diamond collection a bit. Henry moved to the other side of Arkansas, because that was where his job was, a few years ago. But I know he’s still not out of range of that diamond mine, so we still don’t know how his lifetime collection will look.

     James told me the story of finding a very nice diamond on his screen just as two rough looking and talking men walked up. James, a black man, had been treated badly by such men in the past. Afraid they might try to take it away from him, he simply dropped it in the bucket of fine sand he would be taking home to look over closely that night. He was never able to find it again.

     In 1994 James unearthed a very nice 5.25 carat diamond. This was, officially, his largest find. But, when a story came out about him in the National Enquirer, it was said he had found a 7.9 carat diamond. When asked about that later, he stated, “Well, they did get things sorta messed up in that story, all right. About my age and stuff. But I did find that 7.9 carat diamond.” When pressed about this, James related this story.

     “One morning several years back,   I was out here in the parking lot getting ready to go in one morning when it opened. A man started talking to me, telling me he was here to find the largest diamond he could, and buy it for his girlfriend for her engagement ring.”

      “I told him I didn’t have any diamonds on me now, but maybe we’ll find one today.” James went on to say, “A lot of folks talk big like that. But when it comes down to it, they don’t have the money to back up their talk. James continued his story.

“So the park opened it’s doors, and we both went in and bought our ticket, and went into the mine. When we got to the search area, he turned left and I turned right. I only went a couple of hundred feet before I saw something shining at me.  I went over and picked it up. It was a big, canary diamond, sitting right on top of the ground. I shouted, “Hey, mister! I got a big ‘un for ya.”

     The man came over, said he wanted to buy it as soon as he saw it. He asked, “How much ya’ want for it?”

     James said, “I didn’t even know how much it weighed, and I usually set my price on that. So I just said, $7000. Then that fella reached in his pocket, and pulled out a huge roll of money. He counted out 70 100 dollar bills into my hand. When he was finished, that man’s roll looked as big as it did when he started peeling bills off’a there.  I said to myself, “I shoulda’ said $10,000. But I didn’t know he really had the money. The man took the diamond and never registered it at the park office. I heard from him later, and he’d had it cut and set in that ring. He said the jeweler weighed it before it was cut and it was 7.9 carats.”

     A lot of people have been wondering for a long time about just how well James has done. Tourists have been trying to pry that out of him six days a week for 30 years. Most people don’t like having people trying to get information about their business, and James was no different. We do know he never lived in a mansion, or bought a new truck.

      When tourists ask, “Is it true all your children graduated from college?”  James just said, “That’s what they say.” When asked later how many children he had, he said, “seven.” Is it true they all graduated college? “Yep. And my wife will graduate college this year.” Seems James did not invest his money in himself, but invested in his family’s future.

      On Wednesday, January 8, 2003, James Archer went into the Crater of Diamonds State Park as he had for thirty years.  And, at the age of 77, he died there doing what he loved, digging for diamonds.  The Crater will probably never see a more diligent, consistent, determined prospector than Diamond James Archer. And I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to work alongside James, and learn much about diamond hunting, and about life, if only for three days.

     Rest well, James. Your accomplishments at the Crater of Diamonds State Park will never be equaled. Nor will I ever find a nicer guy on that diamond field.

*Some info about James Archer for this story came from­­­ -  “A thorough and accurate History of Diamond Mining in Arkansas”  written by Glen W. Worthington. Published by Mid America Prosprecting,  Murfreesboro, Ar. 71958

Forever A Hillbilly: A Visit Back to Wing

Forever A Hillbilly: A Visit Back to Wing: I went back to Wing awhile ago. I walked out and looked over the old farm some. Seems like, now that I have written a book about it, an...

A Visit Back to Wing

I went back to Wing awhile ago. I walked out and looked over the old farm some. Seems like, now that I have written a book about it, and blog about it a lot, I now know all those old places better than I ever did when I was a kid, 60 years ago. As I just stood, looking at that old farm, a large part if my childhood passed through my mind.

     Right in front of me was where the huge barn had stood. Grandpa John Wesley Gillum used that barn to breed super mules. He bought a giant mammoth black male donkey to breed to everyone's mares. He paid a thousand dollars for King Leo, at the turn of the century. King Leo won first place at the Arkansas State Fair. Mares were brought from far and wide to King Leo.

     Right over there, under that giant oak, my great grandpa, James LaFayette Gillum, built his blacksmith shop. That ground was just covered with iron scraps when I was a kid. I'll bet I could bring a metal detector up and dig up a ton of old horseshoes and other old Gillum treasures.

     Right up on the hill, right there, the old home place stood, now long gone. It was a genuine kit house, ordered from Sears and Roebuck in the 1920's by my school teacher aunt, Hallie. She must not have ordered the entire kit, because it retailed at around $2300 dollars as a turnkey job in the 1920 catalog, and this one cost between $500 and $800, depending on who was telling it. But she ran out of lumber, and lumber was taken off the old Gillum home place to finish it up. My aunt Lula Bell had come over and thrown a royal fit when she found out, but the salvaging continued. By the time Hallie's house was built, the old house was not fit to live in, so the whole family made the 20 foot move in with Hallie. Aunt Hallie never lived in her new house alone, dying early, in 1941. I was born in that house in 1944.

     Fifty yards away is The Bluff, where ninety years of Gillum’s threw ninety years of trash that wouldn't burn. The thick trees below now hide all those glorious piles of Gillum history. A thousand years from now, an archaeologist will dig into that spot, and be filled with wonder. Gillum’s always produced spectacular trash.

     On out, between the bluff and Stowe Creek, is the field of stinging nettle. Sister Barbara Lou and I always had to walk through it to get to the swimming hole. That's the only place I've ever seen that particular species. Touch it, and you itched for hours. Years later, I remembered this plant, and transplanted one to my biology class room, along with a big sign, DO NOT TOUCH THIS PLANT. But seems like most of my kids eventually just eased by and rubbed against it, just to spite me when I wasn't looking. But it never went unnoticed by me in the long run. The guilty party always scratched until the bell rang, then walked out scratching. Every kid needs to experience stinging nettle, once.

    On the other side of the road is the Big Hill. My nine acres. As a kid, it had huge pines on it. It was cut over after I left Wing. Forty two years ago, I bought it. Thirty four years ago, son Corey and I planted those pines back. They're pretty big now, but nothing like they were when I was a kid. My brother Harold was a forester at the time. He kept on at me to thin them out, cut out the hardwoods. Maybe I could make some money off them someday.

     But he never understood. I didn't want the money, I just wanted to see those pines like they were when Sammy Turner and I rode those carts we had made, with abandon, down that hill, dodging each big tree. Mine had a genuine B-29 steering wheel on it, and wheels off my little red wagon, removed when it was too tired to go any more. I hope I see those huge pines again before I die. Whip-poor-will hill sits atop my nine acres, where large groups of that bird gather each spring, just as they did when I was a child. My cabin now sits atop that hill, where I sit out for hours listening to them each spring. Now, packs of yipping coyotes have joined them. That always gets the domesticated dogs to start howling. That particular howl seems to have carried down through the eons when the coyotes yip, back to a time when they, too, were truly wild.

     Looking off the bridge over the little creek by Uncle Homer's house, I saw the little hole of water where I fished, using grasshoppers or wasp larvae for bait, as a boy. I could always count on catching four or five big perch or goggle eyes, string them up on a forked stick, and head for home to clean them for supper.

      As I stood there and looked, two perfectly round black balls, the size of a basketball, each consisting of hundreds of tiny black animals, swam by. They were packed tightly together, and they swam perfectly together, like synchronized swimmers, here and there. I had seen this before, once, as an 8 year old boy, not 100 yards from this very spot. My biology professor walking buddy just had no idea what I was talking about when I described them to him. Even tiny critters in Wing are just a little bit different.

     The deer are back now. I had seen them today. They were totally absent during my childhood. Killed and eaten, in season or out. A couple of years ago, the bridge on Stowe creek, right beside my 9 acres, was replaced. But this new bridge had no sides. Later, Harold noticed it had been caved off on one side,
with the imprint of a pickup truck, lying on its side,  mashed into the mud in the creek bottom. That mud had a bunch of shotgun shells, 12 gauge buckshot, lying in the water. One of those midnight spot lighters had a little problem here, it seems. Good enough for him. He had no business messing with my deer.

     As I gazed over the old farm, I remembered back. 60 years ago. Dad had me totally believing that the whole farm would go totally to Hell, if he was absent from it, even for a day. And he almost never left. Yet here it is, nearly 40 years after Dad had left it forever, looking much the same. New owners now, but they are keeping it up well. The woods have not reclaimed the fields where the cattle contentedly graze, as Dad had always feared. He pushed me to mow every square inch if it every summer. Even in 1954, when those fields were nothing much but dust and a few weeds. Then he always sent me out with a chopping ax, to walk the patches of persimmon sprouts, to make sure not a single one survived.
     I went to see Elois Hunnicutt, now 94. Her sons Grady and Wayne were my good buddies as we grew up. They, Sammy Turner, Jack Larry Gillum and I often skinny dipped in that very cold, very deep hole in the creek down in our pasture. Some of the guys felt proud to walk the bank most of the time. I always called them the “Bank Walkers.” Personally, I tried to stay in the water nearly all the time.

     Elois Hunnicutt and her husband Alja were always the hardest working people I ever knew. They did the same kind of work most everybody in Wing did, only they did twice as much, twice as fast. I worked for him one summer during college. I got to ride 40 miles in the back of his pickup to Dover and 40 miles back, every day. I totally wore out two good pair of work boots that summer, just trying to keep him in sight in those hard mountains.  We lost him several years ago. A big loss to us all, and a very good man.

     Elois still lives alone on their farm, still has a big garden. Some time back, she fell out there and broke a bone or two. Over several hours, she managed to crawl to her back door, but that's as far as she could get, alone. She had to lay out a good part of a day and night. Cell phones don't work well in Wing. But she's as lively as ever now, and gets around pretty good with her cane. I know I would be hard pressed to keep up with her now, much less when I'm 94.

     I got to meet the Gillilands, the new store owners. There has been only one store in Wing, in my lifetime. I got to tell them about sitting, cluelessly, reading the funnies, throughout the great robbery of that store, 56 years ago. That is the only sure-enough crime I ever remember happening in Wing. Effie Turner figured out she had been cleaned out when she came back from her supply room, called ahead, and they were caught before they could get out of the valley. The robbers got a year and a day. Effie was an older lady at that time, and she died at 100, in 1979.. During her lifetime, she rode in a covered wagon pulled by oxen, and saw men walk on the moon.

     I told Mr. Gilliland I would like to place some of the copies of my book, Spreading Wing, there in November when it came out, as I wanted books available where it all happened.  He said, “Sure, be glad to. And it won't cost you a thing.” I told him I just never worked that way, he WOULD get a commission. He said I was sounding like my brother Harold, who had come in for a three minute repair job on his car, and just insisted on paying him. I told him Harold and I had the same Daddy and Mama, who gave us both that same “Do Right Mechanism.” A Gillum always pays his own way in this world.
     I went by and looked at the old church next door, where the Memorial Service for JR Turner, Effie's son, had just been held. JR died recently at 102. JR fired a wanderlust in me, as a child, telling me stories of his world travels, and showing me gold he had found “1000 miles off the pavement.” Without him, all of my tales of our world travels might never have happened at all.

     Scientists just really need to do a study in Wing, see why so many people live so long, far away from a major hospital. But actually, in my heart I already know. Folks in Little Rock would be amazed, living there in the hustle and bustle, and the rush, of big city life, at the lifestyle we at Wing lived, and how much longer many lived, just two hours away.

      As I drove out of the hills of Wing, I knew, as I always know in my heart as I leave Wing, that, though I left those hills 50 years ago, and have never lived there again, I am forever a hillbilly,
And proud to say it.

By Pat Gillum

Forever A Hillbilly: Big Dan

Forever A Hillbilly: Big Dan: I lost my nephew, Big Dan Gillum, just a few days back. When Dan was about 13, and I was a grown man, Dan challenged me to an arm w...

Big Dan

I lost my nephew, Big Dan Gillum, just a few days 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. 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. The rest of the day he spent hooked up to an oxygen tank.

He 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 bushogging 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 will tell this story to the men at Pine Bluff Prison soon. Possibly, Big Dan’s work for his Lord on this earth is not yet over.

Forever A Hillbilly: Spreading Wing Excerpts

Forever A Hillbilly: Spreading Wing Excerpts: ********************* Spreading Wing  by Pat Gillum  -   Buy on amazon.com -  True Stories Thirty five excerpts from throughout Spr...

Spreading Wing Excerpts

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

Spreading Wing by Pat Gillum -  Buy on amazon.com -  True Stories

Thirty five excerpts from throughout Spreading Wing. Read this for a good representative idea of what Spreading Wing is all about!

The first Gillum house at Wing, after they arrived in 1898, 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 much reverted back to timberland, again, as the overworked soil played out and row crops diminished and virtually disappeared. The river, two miles away, flows lazily along the base of the south mountains, Fourche mountain arising steeply from the river bank. The south mountains curve into a dip, 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 sight I awoke to every morning, for the first seventeen years of my life, out my bedroom window. One might think it would become routine. But 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 eyes as he gazed out over that valley, I don't think it ever became routine to him, either. Dad moved four more times in his life, but he was always within short hollering distance of that hill.

*

Dad was once engaged, but his future wife died. Dad had built a house in the meadow for her. Grandma, Hallie, and all loved her. When Dad and Mom, Cornelia Irene Lazenby, later married, they did not live in the house in the meadow at first, but on the hill with Grandma and Hallie, Dad's unmarried sister, 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 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. Then 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.

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?” JR would reply, “I need to save just a little more money.” This went on and on. He probably did need more money, 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,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. Barbara has seen 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 looks great. He gets around well. But his short term memory recycles 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.

*

When I went to town as a small boy, I always did all I could do to avoid people. I would normally cross the street to avoid meeting someone on the sidewalk. Once, however, I saw a crowd, very large, gathered around a store window. I just had to see what they were looking at. When I finally worked my way up to the front of the group, I saw a box with fuzzy, squiggly lines moving around on it. Every now and then I could see a figure of a person on it! Some of the other people called it a television. My world was changing, and fast.

At about ten years old, I was all into Indians. I decided to make myself an Indian costume. I had a belt around me, with a flap hanging down in front and back. That's all. Not another stitch. I threw in a feather in my hair for effect. I had a tomahawk. Once, the girls were all on the porch, so I decided to show off my costume. I ran the length of the porch, jumped off real high, and gave a war whoop. It changed into a scream when I realized my costume had a flaw. Both flaps flew up. It seemed like I was in the air forever, then when I hit the ground, I could not get gone quickly enough. The girls were rolling with laughter, and I still have to endure that story at every family reunion.

*

When I was five or so, I picked up a big piece of metal at the shop, and a big blacksnake ran out from under it toward me. I screamed loudly, and I saw Dad running across the pasture to me. I was so amazed to see Dad running, I forgot about the snake. I had never seen Dad run before. And never did again.

*

Snippy was a short haired, black, chunky feist. He was a dandy squirrel dog without a hunter. Harold, my older brother, his hunting partner, had gone off to college. Snippy spent his days, lying in the warm sun, dreaming of days gone by. On cold winter nights, he would jump up through the open crib door into the barn, work his way into the hayloft, and burrow in for the night. One very cold winter morning, with the temperature hovering near the single digits, I approached the barn. Then I saw him. Snippy lay, curled up in the snow, frozen solid. Above him was a closed, and latched, crib door.

*

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 a 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....

*

Early one warm summer night we headed for the corn patch. No sooner had we reached it than Tooter was on a hot trail. Mike and I ran down a corn middle. 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?”

*

Years later, a month or so after Dad's death, I drove to the farm. When the farm came into sight, I guess I was surprised to see that it looked just the way it always had. I realized I had really begun to buy into the idea that the farm would totally go to hell if Dad was not there to watch over it. The land was exactly the same, the house had not changed, the cows were all grazing contentedly – nothing, nothing at all, had changed. Dad was gone, but everything there was the same as it had always been. I just sat there and looked for a long time. And I cried.

*

Toward the end of my student teaching, I drove down to the Delta Dip, the local hamburger hotspot one night. And my life changed forever. Little did I know, as I drove to the Delta dip that night, that the love of my life awaited me there. And I had forgotten to bring my great white stallion.

*

I had this problem. In high school, I never dated much. Not totally my idea, but it just never really happened. I was totally insecure and silent around any girl I liked. So, I headed out to college, determined to start a new dating life with a clean slate. Well, I did get to where I could carry on a sensible conversation with a girl, and dated quite a bit, as long as I didn't really like her. If I did, I just froze up. If I REALLY wanted to date a girl, and after finally getting up the nerve, I would call her up and say something really good like, “Hey, you wouldn't want to go out with me, would you?” and then, if she hesitated, even for a moment, I would throw in the clincher. “That's OK. I don't blame you. I wouldn't either if I were you. Bye.”

*

I was nearly out of transportation, having problems with my old Chevy. The fuel pump shut down on me on University Avenue in Little Rock one day, and a cop showed up and helped me get it towed back to a station. Fortunately, my brother Harold, who I had bought the car from for several cows, had saved an old fuel pump in the trunk. Said it would work in a tight. Well, I was in a tight. I had it put on, and Harold was right. It did work in a tight. Long enough for me to get back to the spot where the first one quit, and it quit too.

*

Frank Broyles, the Arkansas Razorbacks head football coach, flung a major insult at me that year, though we had never met. After a particularly bad razorback practice, he was so mad he told the press, “We looked like St. Paul out there today.” Well, I was the only coach St. Paul had, and as I looked around to see if maybe he was insulting someone else, I didn't see anyone but me.

*

Such is the family I married into, in 1966. Though I was never a Dunnahoe, they all soon made me feel like one. At family reunions, I immediately had the uncanny ability to sit down in the very middle of that large gathering, and fall asleep instantly. This had the effect of Barbara constantly being asked, "Don't you feel just a little nervous, when he's driving?" When questioned about that ability, my reply was always the same. "I just feel so comfortable, so at ease around the Dunnahoes, that it just happens." And the strangest thing of all is, It is the total truth.

*

We were shooting a wedding in Little Rock. Our Hasselblad went down on us while finishing up the pre-wedding shots. That sort of trouble just never happened with that type camera, the most reliable of its day. That was the model taken to the moon, the one they knew they could count on. We had gotten a little too sure of it, and didn't take a really good backup. We never made that mistake again on any job we couldn't re-shoot. I ran to our bag for the backup camera, a 35MM I used for wildlife photos, covered with camo tape. I ripped the tape off, then discovered a small device needed to hook up the flash was missing. I told Barb, again with panic in my voice, “Get in place for the coming down the aisle shot. I'll go buy a part.” I drove madly to Camera Mart. Fortunately, It was open on Saturday morning. Fortunately again, they had it. When I got back to the wedding, the bride was about to start down the aisle. I walked briskly past her to Barbara, who was standing in position, smiling confidently with an unusable camera. I slipped her the part, she hooked it up, and got a great shot. Again, nobody ever knew.

*

I pushed with reckless abandon against that gate with every pound of my considerable weight, and every ounce of my inconsequential muscle, sweat running off me and fear running through me. My mind was a blur. This could just not be happening to me! This sort of thing does not happen any more, not since the 1800's! But then, I had not been in this remote corner of the world before. No telling how many angry Quechua Indians outside pushed back, screaming at me, trying to force their way in---

*

I arrived home with different feelings. Something unexplainable. We were headed out for a short vacation with Barbara's sister's family, upon my arrival home. As we toured around, I began to put my finger on it. I was feeling like I was a true chick magnet! I felt like every pretty woman we were around had eyes only for me. I even felt sorry for the young, muscular, handsome men they were with, because I knew their women was thinking only of me. This was a total and complete, one hundred eighty degree change in my thinking. Barbara was so lucky to have me, and I was sure all the other women around were green with envy. How could I ever go back to Arkadelphia, and work on my rental properties in shorts, as I did before? I knew the young women would just never leave me alone, and let me work

*

Anyway, I wound up riding in “wild child's” car. I went to sleep in the back seat, and woke up to the sound of our windshield breaking, "wild child" screaming, and screeching tires. When I opened my eyes, we were lodged under a sixteen wheeler, crossways, right in front of the back tires, and being dragged down the road at seventy MPH.

*

The dressing room, in the middle of the building, looked like the best place. Just as I started in, the wind really picked up. "Aw, man, my awning is blowing away." Then a house trailer, or what was left of it, mostly the frame, came through the front picture window. The back windows of the building were sucked in, the suspended ceiling around me was sucked down to the floor, and the two swinging doors behind me slammed with a loud bang. I went in the dressing room, lay the camera on the floor, and covered it with my body. My thought processes ran something like, "We've got to have something left to make a living with when this is all over." I heard the most awful groaning sound I have ever heard, as my front brick wall, three bricks thick, moved forward a few inches at the top.

*

The lights were on, cameras ready to roll, and Fredrica Whitfield was sitting there in our living room, smiling, her notebook in hand. Now, me, I'm not always a good spontaneous speaker. Never, I would guess, with a national audience. I could not think of a single intelligent thing to say, the best being a few "uhs" and maybe "duh." I just knew I was about to become a major fool, on national TV.

*

We checked in at the Villa Backpacker's Motel, billed as the nicest one in New Zealand. Hundreds of young people. Once again, no other old people. Many of the European women walked around with almost nothing on. So, I had to apply what one of my pastor's had told me years ago. “If you look at immodest women, you risk going blind. So, if you must look, cover one eye. Only risk one.”

*

We were in Ireland. We went to the poor house the next day. Now, don't be alarmed. Not to live, but for a visit. Dad had strongly instilled in all us Gillums a fear of the "pore' house," but I had never seen one. It looked like a prison, was established in the mid 1800's when people were starving in droves from the Great Potato Famine. It was designed to be so bad, that only starving people would go there. Hard work, no family contact, a bowl of thin soup daily. A lady at a B&B we stayed at told us about her father. He broke his leg, badly, but he refused to go to a doctor, fearing the poor house would be his next stop. He lived out his life with his leg broken instead.

*

As we walked through the red light district, prostitutes displayed themselves like merchandise in little windows. Barbara mentioned, "Did you see how pretty that last one was?" Naturally, I had to walk back for a second look. She smiled, started opening the door to welcome me in, and I quickly fled back to Barbara.

*

When he got to Iraq, he assumed his Arabic identity. Those same buddies arrested him one night, and he smiled and said, "It's me, guys." They wouldn't believe him, and he had to show them his US Air Force pants, on under his robe, before they would let him go.

Currently, he said, he makes regular trips to the eastern US near Washington, D.C. The CIA was never mentioned, but we understood..

The next morning, he walked us out to our car. He had a small lecture for Barbara. "You travel far too lightly about the world. People will entrap you. You should never have let me in your car yesterday." "We had you outnumbered." Barbara replied. He laughed. "I wasn't worried." He waved Barbara's camera away. No pictures, no address, no e-mail address. "But I will e-mail you." We're still waiting.

*

When we got to Pisa, we decided it didn't look so big. Surely we could just drive around and locate a big, leaning tower. But no, we finally had to board a bus to get there. Barbara has a problem with straight and crooked, something we worked hard with tripods and cropping to keep secret while we were in the photography business. She snapped her first photo of the leaning tower, and in the photo it was standing straight up! She quickly deleted it, knowing I would make a lot of mileage out of that jewel.

*

We caught our train back toward our house and our car, smooth as silk. We're world travelers now, and we know how to act the part. When it got to the border, it stopped. An announcement that we couldn't understand was made, and people were starting to get off. There was no train change on the way in, so we sat tight. After a few minutes, we began to realize we were the only people left. That's a bad sign, and just as that was sinking in, the train started back toward Monaco.

When we got there, we ran back to the ticket agent, who spoke a little English. "You should have changed trains at the border." "Any more trains out today?" "One is leaving right now. You might catch it if you run. That's the last one."

We ran. I quickly outdistanced Barbara. I was nearly there now. The train started to move. I was even with the engineer, and I waved frantically. The train slowed, and a door opened. Barbara was just now coming into sight, a long way back, huffing and puffing. I put one foot on the train, and kept one on the ground, and held my position. If they shut that door now, they would have to squeeze me in it. Once we got on, we found a British couple, who were going past our village, and stuck with them like glue. So much for being big world travelers.

As we realized we must be nearing our village, Barbara asked, "Now, what is the name of our village?" I didn't have a clue. It was beginning to get dark now. We moved close to the door, and strained to see something familiar. As the train slowed for a village, Barbara screamed, "There's our car!" She bolted for the door, ahead of me, and started pushing it open as soon as the train stopped. But she was on the wrong side, and she was about to step out onto a live track! Those trains run silently, are very fast, and are about a foot apart. Stepping out on the wrong side could mean instant, silent death. Several people tackled her, and pulled her back. We were sure glad to see our cute little red car. We almost hugged and kissed it.

*

Children screamed and ran when they saw us. We were the only white faces on the street and in the church. Mothers apologized as their children screamed and ran, saying, "My children have never seen a white person before.”

Barbara was determined to win over a particularly frightened little girl. The little girl screamed at the sight of Barbara, burying her face in her mother's shoulder. Barbara approached her, smiling, and finally the little girl accepted that without crying. Finally, Barbara was allowed to touch her hand. After awhile, Barbara was allowed to walk two fingers up her arm, softly saying, "Here's a little man, walking up your arm!" Finally, a sweet little smile appeared on her face, and she stretched her arms out to Barbara. The surrounding crowd laughed. When we got inside the all concrete church, (can't be burned) and they all started singing, "What a mighty God we serve," We knew we would be all right.

*

We drove up to the entrance. Yeen Lan told us to remove all jewelry, carry no camera. People had died for taking pictures inside Kibera.

She told the soldiers at the entrance what we were doing, when we should be out. We walked in. There were no toilets in sight. Flying toilets were the thing. Use a plastic bag, throw it up on the roof. Or out on the walkway.

A single, small, plastic water pipe led to the interior, where water was sold by the gallon. The store consisted of a couple of butchered goats hanging, and a couple of sacks containing beans and lentils, by the handful.

At intervals there were towering mountains of garbage, roamed by dogs and rats. We saw people high from sniffing glue. It was one way to escape one's surroundings, at least for a little while.

A sweet little girl, in rags, ran out into our path, a sweet smile on her beautiful face. "Hello," she called out to us. "How are you?" Her smile broke our hearts. Barbara and I both just wanted to take her hand, and take her home with us, away from this place.

*

Many large animals could be seen scattered throughout the plain. After we had gotten a good close up look at a lot of animals, and were miles from camp, a major storm blew up just before dark. Wesley got out rain gear for us all in that open jeep, but it did little good in this storm. The plain was flooded, and we got stuck, again and again, each time finally managing to get out. After dark, I kept my face covered to try to keep out some of the rain. I once looked out, just as a big lion jumped out from in front of the jeep, and stared at us hard. I covered my face back up. I really did not want to know what was waiting outside our jeep.

*

When we got to the border, things were just as congested as before. Barbara picked the visa line she wanted, because it was manned by a guy who seemed relatively friendly, and occasionally smiled. When we got up to his desk, Barbara poured it on. Smiling, laughing, telling all about us being missionaries, and on and on. She passed the visa over to him. He was totally won over, and stamped our old visa, not valid now, and smiling, said, "You have a great day." We thanked him, and got gone quickly. Barbara just has a gift for having her way with any man. But fortunately, she only uses it when I am at her side. At least, I think so - - -hmmmmm - -? (Just kidding, really.)

*

We came to Nairobi just after the President agreed to sign a power sharing agreement with the opposition. Thus the fighting tapered off. While we were preparing to leave, the opposition seemed to be beginning to think he didn't really mean it. Thoughts of more fighting returned. Perhaps we chose a wise time to come, and perhaps we are choosing an even wiser time to go home. Africa has a way of getting into one's heart, making one always want to return. Most likely, we will never see our wonderful kids again. Then again, maybe we will. Either way, they will be in our hearts forever.

*

As we flew out, we knew we would never see Europe again. We don't backtrack. There's far too much of this world left to see. When we got home, we found we were right on budget, thanks to so many creative stays, and eating out of so many grocery stores and peanut butter jars.

These wonderful people must be the most honest, trusting, truly civilized people in the world.

Goodbye, Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. You have been good and kind to us in every possible way, except, maybe, at the cash register.

*

Not all my memorable experiences at Wargo were life threatening. Once Sport and I were asleep in our tent with only a very small hole in our almost-zipped-up doorway. The thing about small holes, though, is - it sorta negates being enclosed in a tent in the first place. In the middle of the night, Sport roused me from my dreams with an elbow to the ribs. "Pat," he said, " We are not alone." I switched on my light. The prettiest, most bushy tailed skunk I had ever seen was sitting on Sport's sleeping bag! We quietly enlarged that hole, and slid outside in our whitey-tighties, and waited, shivering. Fifteen minutes later, the skunk strolled out and off, never having left his calling card.

*

If you slide a fourteen foot flat bottom boat into the gentle waves of the river at daybreak, maybe a family of beaver will be swimming around, slapping their tails. Maybe an otter will be floating on his back, his food on his chest. You may see a pair of wood ducks take flight through the mist rising off the river. Perhaps a big cottonmouth will swim by, floating like a long balloon on top of the water. You might, hopefully, hear a big bullfrog roar, like his namesake, in the distance. Possibly, a doe and a newborn fawn will come down for a drink.

Paddle along quietly for awhile, then just drift. And look. And listen. Then, you will know why I love the river.

*

I returned home after that first trip, washed all my fine gravel out well, and lay them out in the greenhouse to dry. Son Corey happened to walk by that drying gravel that afternoon, and said, "What 's this piece of glass doing in here?" He started to pitch it out in the yard. Before he could throw it out, I grabbed his hand. A beautiful, yellow, one carat diamond. I had reached my goal, the rest was just gravy.

*

One day, hopefully in the far distant future, Barbara and I may one day find ourselves spreading wing, yet realizing: The air beneath our wing is no longer sufficient to carry us to distant lands, or finding out that my back can no longer carry "half of what we own" about the world. Yet our grand adventure will continue, as long as we have each other.