Forever A Hillbilly: Sammy Charles Turner Trouble

Forever A Hillbilly: Sammy Charles Turner Trouble: Sammy Turner leads me into Trouble. Again and Again    Sammy Turner was two years older than me.  We ran around together a lo...

Sammy Charles Turner Trouble

Sammy Turner leads me into Trouble. Again and Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: The Burning Cross

Forever A Hillbilly: The Burning Cross:      When Barbara and I sold our photography business in 1998, we invested much of our profit in two large, older rent houses, both in sm...

The Burning Cross

     When Barbara and I sold our photography business in 1998, we invested much of our profit in two large, older rent houses, both in small towns a good ways from Arkadelphia. I spent several months cleaning them up and remodeling them, then put them on the market. Buying one of those turned out to be a mistake. It didn't rent well. Took a long time. Then, when it did rent, I found out it's hard to keep a good eye on whats going on there. It finally rented to a couple of women. After a couple of months, they just stopped paying rent. We started the process of eviction. Turns out, that had been their MO for some time. Pay rent a couple of months, then live free for six months, while the eviction process winds at a snail's pace through the court system, month after month.

     In Arkadelphia, that process moves fairly quickly along. But in the county where this house was, it was painfully slow. It all depends on how quickly the law serves notices, how hard it is to find the proper person to serve it to, how far apart court dates are, etc. It also depends on how well the renter understands how to work the system, stretching it out. And, these two were pros. Plead innocent the first time before the judge, to get a later date set maybe a month or two down the line. When the final court date did arrive, after six months, and they were finally before a judge with all the facts on the table,  the judge gave them twenty four hours to get gone. But that back rent money is hard or impossible to recover, if they don't have a steady job, or a known bank account that is not moved regularly. Or, If you just don't have a clue about were they disappeared to. I never saw a dime of that rent.

     Another renter, a year or so later, wanted to “Rent to own.” I was ready to sell, so we worked out a deal. With a down payment, the renter takes over upkeep expenses, pays the property taxes, insurance, and keeps paying about the same amount each month as they paid in  rent until it's paid off. Then it belongs to the renter. 

     This buyer was a single mother, with mixed race small children. She worked at McDonald's. Things went along well, for a short time.

     This town, it seems, has, for the most part, all white people. One night, a cross burned in her front yard. Then guys harassed her most of the night with fireworks thrown up against the house.

      But this was a gutsy little woman. The next morning, she called the FBI. A hate crimes investigation was soon under way. One of the guys came by the next day. He apologized to her, begged her to call off the FBI. Her answer: “I don't want to hear it. Tell it to the FBI.”.

     After another day or so, fearing for her children, she told me she wanted out of the deal. She was moving. Knowing this was not her fault, that she was a victim here, I agreed to give her every penny of her down payment back, and I did. Though legally, the down payment was mine to keep. She moved in with her mother. She started moving her things, and I took the house back over.  

     About three days after the cross burning, I was fishing on Lake DeGray early one morning. My property manager called me there. The house was burning down. Nobody was living in the house, but much of the renter's stuff was still there. I immediately started getting the names of the fishermen around me, with their contact info. I wanted to be sure I could prove where I was when this happened.

     When Barbara and I arrived at the house at about nine AM, it was a total loss, nothing much left to burn.  A few volunteer firemen were mopping up. A large team from the FBI were just moving in to investigate. I talked to the FBI awhile, told them what I knew.

     The cross burning was easily solved. One of them had been identified. So, the dominoes began to fall. While some local people had quickly told the investigators it was just “Children, playing tricks,” some of the “children” charged were over forty. Pretty old children.

     The house burning was a different matter. Those charged with the cross burning maintained they knew nothing about the house burning. A popular idea being spread around  town was that the victim of the cross burning, herself, burned the house. Though anything is possible, I had trouble with that theory. She had nothing to gain. I had already given all her money back to her, for which she was very grateful. Nobody was ever charged in the house burning, to this day.

As the date for the trials for the cross burning moved to a court date, she said she was being harassed by people who came in where she worked, and calling where she now lived. She moved into another of my rent houses, farther away, and she, and we, kept her location very secret.

     Having rental property can have its ups and downs. 

I once rented an apartment out to a framing crew from Mexico. Barbara and I left soon after to travel for a year. A couple of the guys got into a fight over a woman, I understand. The fight spilled out into the back yard. One man picked up a concrete block, and busted the other guy's head open. I never heard how that case came out. Son- in- law Mickey, a paramedic, was the first on the scene. When we got back eight months later, the murder weapon was still lying in the back yard. At least, I assume it was. That concrete block had some strange dark stains on it.

Forever A Hillbilly: Scrabble Wars

Forever A Hillbilly: Scrabble Wars: Scrabble Wars and Doctor Deadlift      Early in our married life, Barbara and I were already playing Scrabble. I had played longer, all t...

Scrabble Wars

Scrabble Wars and Doctor Deadlift

     Early in our married life, Barbara and I were already playing Scrabble. I had played longer, all the way through College, and I had the edge. We realized quickly, we were both very competitive about it. Once I beat her pretty good, and she stormed out of the house, announced she was leaving, got in the car, and sprayed gravel all over that house.. Well, I knew Barbara didn't even know how to get out of town yet, much less drive home to Mama. She drove a few laps around town, settled down some, and came home.
    A marriage counselor would not have recommended it, I'm sure, but we both loved the game and just continued on playing. Pretty soon, Barbara was winning her share.
    A year or two later, we had moved to Fayetteville, Arkansas. Late in March, we got a very unusual 17 inch snow fall. We had nothing else to do, so we played Scrabble. She beat me like a rented mule, and I stormed out, into the real storm. I plowed through that snow until I had a pretty good trail around and around that house, just gave out, then I, too, returned home. I'm sure people driving by wondered why I had a trail around the house in that deep snow, while my car would remain snowed in for days. I should have used all that energy to dig the car out, but Scrabble anger is not a sensible anger.
    Jump ahead with me 40 years or so. Barbara, always a word freak and crossword guru, had taken command. After I had lost a very long string of games, the final loss galled me so, I lost it. I was now an old man, and that kind of rage is just not good for an old man. I grabbed the board, flung it far across the room. We didn't play for awhile, because I was digging tiles out of the far corners of that room for some time.
    When I finally found a full set of tiles, old habits were hard to break, and we continued on. I finally accepted the fact that I was going to be the majority loser, and learned to relish my occasional victory. Barbara had learned so many new words, it was hard, but we played so often, I slowly began to learn them too, at a terrible price.
    Finally, one glorious day, the Scrabble Gods just started smiling at me, frowning at Barbara, and I won 7 games in a row. This juicy little tidbit has never been told before,  It is just not a safe thing to talk about. Well, after that 7th loss, Barbara jumped up from the couch, grabbed the board, and just slammed in down, upside down, on the couch. Well, I knew it would take a long time to find all those tiles, and I was fine to rest on my laurels for some time,  and just generally enjoy this current status. But Barbara would have nothing to do with that, dug them all out quickly, and stated she was ready to play. You just don't beat Barbara like a rented mule and walk away from it.
    When Barbara got her magic phone, with internet-GPS-everything, she sought the best players she could find on the internet, and keeps a few games going all the time on Words with Friends.
    When we went to bed, she would kiss me goodnight, I went to sleep, and she would play awhile with a couple of guys/girls until she went to sleep.
    I've never been a jealous type husband, mainly because she never gave me any reason to be.
    Things change Once she put her picture out on the internet to her personal friends, made a mistake somehow, and it went to the whole internet. As anyone can plainly see, Barbara always looks good in a picture. She is an expert poser, from her photography years, and always applies all her skill to her own pictures. Soon, Dr. Deadlift responded. Wanted to play some Scrabble. Said she looked like someone who could give him a good game. I wondered about that. He could tell all that from a picture? By way of introducing himself, he referred her to Facebook to explain his name. Barb called me up to look at it. At 56 or so, he was a world champion weight lifter, and worked in Homeland Security. Well, all that was too much for me. She was taking that picture off anyway, and she cut off Dr. Deadlift when she saw how much it bothered me. I soon came to realize, I was being silly. He never talked about anything except the game, always a perfect gentleman, and he WAS a top tier scrabble player. You either trust someone or you don't, and one of the things we had both always been happy about in our marriage was the fact that we never gave each other that kind of grief. I told her to put him back on, but don't be playing Dr. Deadlift, in the bedroom, after I go to sleep. I never play Barbara any more. With all her internet scrabble, she has left me behind. And Scrabble is just something I cannot tolerate always losing at. The Scrabble Gods just no longer have a role in it. Word to the wise: Don't challenge Barbara unless you are in the top tier. You remember what I told you about that rented mule?

Scrabble Wars and Dr. Deadlift

Scrabble Wars and Doctor Deadlift

     Early in our married life, Barbara and I were already playing Scrabble. I had played longer, all the way through College, and I had the edge. We realized quickly, we were both very competitive about it. Once I beat her pretty good, and she stormed out of the house, announced she was leaving, got in the car, and sprayed gravel all over that house.. Well, I knew Barbara didn't even know how to get out of town yet, much less drive home to Mama. She drove a few laps around town, settled down some, and came home.
    A marriage counselor would not have recommended it, I'm sure, but we both loved the game and just continued on playing. Pretty soon, Barbara was winning her share.
    A year or two later, we had moved to Fayetteville, Arkansas. Late in March, we got a very unusual 17 inch snow fall. We had nothing else to do, so we played Scrabble. She beat me like a rented mule, and I stormed out, into the real storm. I plowed through that snow until I had a pretty good trail around and around that house, just gave out, then I, too, returned home. I'm sure people driving by wondered why I had a trail around the house in that deep snow, while my car would remain snowed in for days. I should have used all that energy to dig the car out, but Scrabble anger is not a sensible anger.
    Jump ahead with me 40 years or so. Barbara, always a word freak and crossword guru, had taken command. After I had lost a very long string of games, the final loss galled me so, I lost it. I was now an old man, and that kind of rage is just not good for an old man. I grabbed the board, flung it far across the room. We didn't play for awhile, because I was digging tiles out of the far corners of that room for some time.
    When I finally found a full set of tiles, old habits were hard to break, and we continued on. I finally accepted the fact that I was going to be the majority loser, and learned to relish my occasional victory. Barbara had learned so many new words, it was hard, but we played so often, I slowly began to learn them too, at a terrible price.
    Finally, one glorious day, the Scrabble Gods just started smiling at me, frowning at Barbara, and I won 7 games in a row. This juicy little tidbit has never been told before,  It is just not a safe thing to talk about. Well, after that 7th loss, Barbara jumped up from the couch, grabbed the board, and just slammed in down, upside down, on the couch. Well, I knew it would take a long time to find all those tiles, and I was fine to rest on my laurels for some time,  and just generally enjoy this current status. But Barbara would have nothing to do with that, dug them all out quickly, and stated she was ready to play. You just don't beat Barbara like a rented mule and walk away from it.
    When Barbara got her magic phone, with internet-GPS-everything, she sought the best players she could find on the internet, and keeps a few games going all the time on Words with Friends.
    When we went to bed, she would kiss me goodnight, I went to sleep, and she would play awhile with a couple of guys/girls until she went to sleep.
    I've never been a jealous type husband, mainly because she never gave me any reason to be.
    Things change Once she put her picture out on the internet to her personal friends, made a mistake somehow, and it went to the whole internet. As anyone can plainly see, Barbara always looks good in a picture. She is an expert poser, from her photography years, and always applies all her skill to her own pictures. Soon, Dr. Deadlift responded. Wanted to play some Scrabble. Said she looked like someone who could give him a good game. I wondered about that. He could tell all that from a picture? By way of introducing himself, he referred her to Facebook to explain his name. Barb called me up to look at it. At 56 or so, he was a world champion weight lifter, and worked in Homeland Security. Well, all that was too much for me. She was taking that picture off anyway, and she cut off Dr. Deadlift when she saw how much it bothered me. I soon came to realize, I was being silly. He never talked about anything except the game, always a perfect gentleman, and he WAS a top tier scrabble player. You either trust someone or you don't, and one of the things we had both always been happy about in our marriage was the fact that we never gave each other that kind of grief. I told her to put him back on, but don't be playing Dr. Deadlift, in the bedroom, after I go to sleep. I never play Barbara any more. With all her internet scrabble, she has left me behind. And Scrabble is just something I cannot tolerate always losing at. The Scrabble Gods just no longer have a role in it. Word to the wise: Don't challenge Barbara unless you are in the top tier. You remember what I told you about that rented mule?

Forever A Hillbilly: Mount Ida Adventure

Forever A Hillbilly: Mount Ida Adventure:      Some time back, a couple of my preachers, Neal and Scott, let me tag along on their spring fishing/turkey hunting trip. My friend Skee...

Mount Ida Adventure

     Some time back, a couple of my preachers, Neal and Scott, let me tag along on their spring fishing/turkey hunting trip. My friend Skeet was with us. "Skeet" is short for "Skeeter," which is short for "Mosquito," I guess.   

     The last time I tagged along, we were floating the last 17 miles of the Buffalo River. My partner and I didn't actually turn our boat over, we just took so much water in over the front in a rapids that it just sank part way. But we never abandoned ship, we were still paddling for the bank when we were chest deep in water. Neal, watching from above, shouted, "Hey! They made it!" then later, "But they sure look awfully short!" Using the term rapids sounds better, but with two preachers witnessing, I have to admit, it was more of a big riffle. A really big, wild riffle. I was glad to get to go along. I needed to redeem myself.

     This trip, Neal had gotten a really good deal on a very nice cabin on a branch of the upper Ouachita River near Mt. Ida.

     Skeet is a really old man, two full months older than me. Skeet and I got there early in the afternoon and fished and sat around, catching lots of sunfish, while we watched  what we felt like were three turkeys playing around up river. We had trouble conviencing Neal of that though, since he felt like finding three turkeys that easily was just too simple. We also saw a lot of deer. Neal and Scott got there in the middle of the night, because Neal felt he should help wife Teresa get the kids to bed at home first.

     When they arrived, with two canoes in tow, we got to figuring out who was going to sleep where. Neal and Scott had bunk beds in their room, and the other room had a double bed. Trying to be helpful, I said, "I don't have any problem at all sleeping with Skeet. Sounds good!" As a kid growing up in Wing, we kids often slept three to a bed. But Skeet, an only child, eyed me hard when I said that, and, deciding I was too agreeable, finally grabbed a couple of quilts, and headed for the couch. So, I had a big bed and a room to myself. Those things just seem to work themselves out better if one is agreeable enough.

     Sometime in the middled of the night, I had to go to the bathroom. Quick. Standard fare for us old men. Once stood up, the two minute warning sounds. I like to think that being old was not totally responsible for what happened next, because sometimes, my sleeping pill can make me a little crazy in the middle of the night.

     I totally have my path to the bathroom at home memorized, right down to the last detail, and no light is needed. Can't wake Barbara up. This night, I seemed to think I was still at home. I knew right where the bathroom door was, and it was just where I remembered it, except the bathroom had shrunk, and clothes were hanging everywhere. Well, I didn't have time to move all those clothes, so I headed  to the door into the rest of the house. Right where I remembered it. But now, someone had removed the doorknob, it seemed, and it was now shaped more like a window. I was beginning to get in a rush, and I ran back to my light stand to turn on my light. But, I felt all up and down that light, and the switch was gone! Time to move now, and I ran back to the first door, determined to search through all those clothes until I found that commode. Had to be here somewhere! No luck. As I headed back to that door that felt more like a window, The two minutes were up. Time for the last resort. I screamed for Barbara, maybe she could get her light on. No answer. Then, a tiny light of reality started to flicker on, and I found my light switch to my lamp way down on the cord. By then it was really getting ugly, so I will spare you the rest of the details, except to say that I had to convience Skeet the next morning  why I already had clothes washed, and hanging out to dry, at daylight. "Just forgot to bring extra underwear," I said.

     While Neal and Scott scouted for turkeys the next morning, Skeet and I fished some and sat a lot. We had to rest up for the big float trip. When the guys got back at lunch, they cooked up a meal. I had already eaten my meal, a peanut butter sandwich and three or four packages of  peanut butter and crackers. I like to keep it simple, out in the woods.

    We left Skeet's little red truck (Skeet only drives red automobiles, he has three or four of them. Red is the natural color of a truck, he says) at a bridge on the main Ouachita River. Neal led us to a spot upriver that would make for a four mile float, Neal says, and we launched our canoes. Neal and Scott, with pretty little seats (with a comfortable backrest) in their canoe, paddled a little, and fished a lot. Skeet and I, old men with no backrests in our canoe, (We forgot to bring them) fished a little and paddled a lot, so we were soon far ahead. Let's get this four miles in before our old backs give out, we decided, and we paddled on, fishing occasionally. Catching Smallmouth bass was the main goal, and we did finally catch one, along with a largemouth bass and lots of perch and goggle eyes. We paddled past a dead Smallmouth bass floating in the water, and I closed my fingers on it's tail momentarily. We had now caught two Smallmouth. Two Smallmouths sounded a lot better that one, which could be considered and accident. We just kept paddling on, and after we had gone six miles, Skeet and I figured, no truck showed, and our old backs were worn out. Then we put our rods away, and paddled on, now just trying to survive this thing with a little dignity, and strained our eyes to see that pretty little red truck.

     Helping a couple of other fishermen who had swamped their boat gather up their gear took our minds off our backs awhile, and we finally spotted our little red truck.

     We cooked up a mess of steaks, and our tired backs were forgotten by the time that meal was over. Neal said he sure got hot in his top bunk last night, and I told him he was welcome to share my double bed, but he didn't think that over very long, since I feel sure he had heard all the screaming for Barbara I had done the night before, and wished to not risk being mistaken for Barbara in the middle of the night. He allowed as to how he would just stick with his hot top bunk.

     The hunters were long gone the next morning when Skeet and I got up. When they got back, no turkeys were in hand this time. As we ate lunch, I thought it was a shame I didn't bring a gun. I could probably have picked off one of those turkeys up river from my lawn chair.

    As I headed home, just as I was coming into Caddo Valley, a big turkey gobbler flew right over my car. If I had only had my bow and arrow, I could probably have jumped out and bagged him right there. Next time, I'll have to bring it along, and help those young turkey hunters out a little. It never hurts to have a couple of woods wise old men along, passing a bit of our vast storehouse of wilderness lore on down to the next generation. It's just the natural way with things.

Forever A Hillbilly: A Bath in God's Love

Forever A Hillbilly: A Bath in God's Love: By Pat Gillum The word Kairos refers to a type of time. There is chronological time, as what our clock keeps, and there is Kairos time. ...

A Bath in God's Love

By Pat Gillum

The word Kairos refers to a type of time. There is chronological time, as what our clock keeps, and there is Kairos time. If the doctor tells a woman that the baby is due to be born on February 23, that’s Chronological time. If, however, severe and regular pains begin on February 15 at midnight, this might prompt her to wake up the husband, tell him it is time. He may tell her, “No. it’s not due yet. Eight more days. Go back to sleep.” He’s dealing in Chronological time. Yet she knows better. She is dealing with Kairos time. God’s perfect time.

     Kairos is also a prison ministry. It was started in the early 1940’s. For a time, it moved very slowly. Two priests requested the opportunity to spend the last day and night with a condemned man who was to be executed the next morning. The prisoner agreed. “Sure. Why not.” The men talked for a long time that day, yet the prisoner was unmoved. The talks continued into the night.

     After midnight, things changed. The man cried. He became more and more emotional, as his time was growing near.   Eventually, he asked the priests what he could do to help right all the wrong he had done in his sordid life. This discussion continued for some time. Toward daylight, one priest approached the condemned man. “You are going to be seeing Jesus this morning. Will you ask him to bless our Kairos mission?”

     The condemned man agreed. Kairos soon grew quickly.

     From it’s humble beginning, Kairos has now grown into a world wide organization, with more than 18,000 volunteers having only a handful of paid staff. Today, Kairos operates in eight countries.

     I joined the Kairos group operating at Pine Bluff Prison five years ago. We go into prison for four days, twice each year. While it is difficult to recruit new Kairos men, almost all who stay the course for a year never seem to quit. They stay the course, and will die a Kairos man. My Kairos is made up of men from many different Christian denominations, and they come from all over Arkansas.

     A man is allowed to lead a Kairos Weekend only once in a lifetime. Lest he become prideful. Many of the men in my Kairos have already led. Last spring, nobody stepped forward to lead our August weekend, and it was cancelled.

     I am not a leader. I’m a great follower, always have been.  The Kairos leader should be a skilled computer person, which I am not. And, it requires a major commitment in time. I was not ready to step forward. But God decided otherwise, and I agreed to lead Weekend 43 in February 2016.

     Recruiting the team came first. The experienced men were easy to recruit. Since we had missed one weekend, everyone was ready. But, for Kairos to continue, we also needed new blood. My goal was seven new men. Initially, I though it would happen. I had at least seven really good prospects. But, as the training commenced, that number dropped, for one reason or another. When we walked into Pine Bluff Prison six months later, only two new men remained, with 28 experienced men.

     The training came next. For five Saturdays leading up to the event, we met at my church, Fellowship Church of Arkadelphia. Training is not the best word here, for I had little to teach these men that they did not know. Conditioning ourselves to become one tight unit, leaving denominational differences at the prison door and, maybe, training up a leader, may be more applicable. We worked toward leaving all our denominational  differences at the door, and worked toward common ground, our love for Jesus Christ. We worked toward becoming humble, vulnerable. Toward allowing us to let God use our bodies to model unconditional love and total forgiveness which is available only through God, and reflect God’s love on the Men in White. We worked toward making the entire weekend a bath in the love of Jesus Christ for our 24 men in white.

    Two weeks out, I went to Pine Bluff for a job I was not looking forward to. Picking 24 participants from the hundreds of applications. There are many reasons to want to be involved other than spiritual. Really good food, all the cookies anybody would ever want to eat, three days off work. Following prison guidelines, I did not meet the men before choosing, I simply looked at their records. Keeping a racial balance. Old men and young men. Their rating, from 1A, trusted men, to 4C, the other end of the scale. Represent each dorm equally. Then, a lot of praying. In the end, there were twice as many 4C’s as 1A’s picked. Three Muslims. We do not look for the easy men to work with, but the leaders. Good and bad. Men who, once turned, could influence a lot of others during their stay.   On the way home, I had to cry. I had just given 24 men a great boost toward a more spiritual, and much better, life with Jesus in a very dark place, while rejecting dozens of others. Without even meeting them, or really knowing them. But I prayed to God about them, and God knows them well.

     One week out, I went to Pine Bluff Prison again, to meet with the selected 24, along with 16 alternates. Telling the alternates they were on our list, and would receive a certificate, but they were not invited to the party was not easy. However, knowing they would be first on our list six months later for Weekend 44 helped. The 24 who were picked were elated. To the best of my ability, I started thinking in terms of their bath in God’s love that day. And, I again had to cry for the alternates on the way home.

      Our last training day ended with a ceremony to officially make us Kairos Priests for the duration of The Weekend, and the Foot Washing Ceremony. More often, we simply wash hands. But I was the leader, and feet were what I wanted. We were ready. We could hardly wait.

     We use a Church in Pine Bluff for our home base. Our first job was to bag up 1000 bags of cookies. Every Kairos man brings 50 dozen cookies, mostly donated by our Outside Team, church members and others who furnish agape and prayer for the duration. Every person inside those walls would receive 2 bags of cookies, delivered by Kairos men to their bunks; Cookie Runs. Each man with a laundry hamper filled with bagged cookies. New men seem to always be involved in the Cookie Runs. If God has not removed every last shred of fear from these men, this is where it will show up. But I’ve never seen it happen. A Kairos man cannot function with fear in his eyes. He can never reach these men. He might as well go home.

     Thursday afternoon we went in. The Bath in God’s Love was about to start. My job was now distilled down to making speeches. Speeches until my throat was sore. Yet, joyful speeches.

     I wish I could tell you more. Take you along every step of the way. But I can’t. I cannot risk spoiling the surprises for hundreds of other Men in White at Pine Bluff Prison who may yet experience a wonderful Kairos Weekend. Wonderful for the Men in White, and wonderful for free world Kairos men as well.

     Last week, on Sunday morning, I was back in my usual place in Fellowship church, on or near the back row. The pastor was giving a great sermon. At one point, the word Muslim was mentioned, and a thought hit me hard. I sat there sobbing. I had just, at that moment, been struck by a realization. Though every one of our 24 men had hugged me and the other Kairos men long and hard at the end of our closing ceremony, I had no idea who the Muslims, the A1’s, or the C4’s were. At that point, they were all just 24 men who badly needed someone, or something more in their life, and many had found it. They had just experienced a Bath in God’s Love.  

Forever A Hillbilly: The Summer of 1956

Forever A Hillbilly: The Summer of 1956:         By Pat Gillum  The summer of '56 brought a new friend and companion to the farm. Mike Ford, my city boy cousin, arrived fro...

The Summer of 1956

       By Pat Gillum

 The summer of '56 brought a new friend and companion to the farm. Mike Ford, my city boy cousin, arrived from California one morning in June. We were twelve years old. Mike had never been out of the Los Angeles area before, and even the routine occurrences on our hill farm became new adventures to him.

>     Soon after Mike's arrival, the raccoons attacked our corn patch, which was in the roasting ear stage, in force. Every coon in the bottoms seemed to show up at dark. My dog Tooter, Mike, and I were assigned the task of protecting our patch. The stage was set for one of our greatest adventures.

> Early one warm summer night we headed for the patch. No sooner had we reached it than Tooter was on a hot trail. Mike and I ran down a corn 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?” when no reasonable solution came to mind, I called, “Do something, Mike!” I don't remember exactly what he did, so I asked him when I visited him this past

summer. He said he hit the coon on the head with a knife, and it just got mean. So I acted. I jumped up, planning to hold the tail by the right hand, slide my hunting knife out of its scabbard, and hit it over the head. But by the time I had began my draw, my fingers had just touched the handle when the coon went crazy. It was wrapped tightly around my right arm, biting and squalling, and my

arm was turning into sausage. I shook it loose,only to have it latch onto my right leg, slightly above the knee. I was struck with a momentary flash of good sense, and I shook him loose. Tooter joined the chase then, for, still being a young dog, he liked it better when the coon was running from him. Myself, I was in the heat of battle now, and I stayed close behind. Again the coon turned to

fight, raking Tooter with his claws. When I entered the fray this time, the knife was in my hand, and it was quickly over.

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

California.

> As the corn matured the crows moved in. Life on our farm was a constant battle with assorted animals for our crops. Hundreds of crows. Our

focus turned to them. One who has never experienced the crow as an enemy cannot possibly appreciate the cunning and intellect of a wild crow. Without a gun, we could get close, like the tame golf course variety of today. But with a gun in our hand, they knew what that meant, and we could get almost in range before they abandoned the ear of corn and flew, laughing and calling to the others, or

maybe at us, as they flew.

> Mike and I built a blind in the patch. As we entered, one guard crow watched from the tree line. Even if we sat for hours in the blind, not a crow

showed. When we finally gave up in disgust, heading for the house, the crows would always flog in and cover the patch when we got out of range.

> One day we finally discovered a chink in their armor. A crow does not count well. We both entered the blind, one of us would leave, and the crows

would flog in on top of the remaining shooter, discovering their error in math too late.

> These crows also provided a source of spending money. The county had a fifty cent bounty on crow heads, simply show them to the county clerk and

collect the reward. However, the first time we proudly sat a fruit jar full of aging crow heads on his desk, he suddenly decided he could trust us, as he fled the desk, holding his nose. From now on, we would only have to come in and tell him how many we had.

> Ticks and chiggers were also new to Mike. Me, I had gotten used to them over the years, just scratch it off when you got one. They also served as a good source of entertainment each night before I went to sleep, scratching all my bites good. For Mike, it was different. The first time he saw hundreds of seed ticks crawling up his leg, I thought he was going to throw a runaway.

> The summer was drawing to a close. Mike was ready to ride the train three days back to Los Angeles. When he arrived, he got a dog, named him Tooter. He

bought traps, and sat out a trap line in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles. 

All he could catch were cats and ground squirrels, though. He told me this year that the summer in Arkansas influenced the course of his life. He later made many trips into the wilds of the west.

> I did not see Mike again until he returned from Viet Nam as a demolitions expert, sporting a  Teflon orbit around one eye. We visited Wing a couple of days and talked about the old times. When he got back to California, he had a rude awakening. People there did not appreciate him and the other returning veterans. By the time he had completed college, he had had enough. He went to Australia, taught school a couple of years. Then he played Basketball on a touring team of displaced American veterans awhile. When he returned to California, pushing thirty, he applied for a teaching job. Remembering his earlier treatment, he did not mention to the Superintendent interviewing him

about his war experience. But when the man asked him why, at near thirty, he was just now applying for a job, he came clean. The man, a veteran himself it turns out, stood up, shook his hand, and hired him on the spot. It turned out to be a

30 year job.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Yell County Free Fair

Forever A Hillbilly: The Yell County Free Fair:         by Pat Gillum      From my earliest years, all my sisters and I were very excited when we saw the huge searchlight movi...

The Yell County Free Fair

        by Pat Gillum

     From my earliest years, all my sisters and I were very excited when we saw the huge searchlight moving back and forth across the night sky each September. We knew that meant the Yell County Free Fair time had arrived, and we could hardly contain our excitement.

     On School day, Dad would give us 30 cents each, or maybe fifty cents on a good year, and we would board the school bus to cross the mountain to Danville, thirteen miles away. The big parade, the only one I ever saw as a boy, was exciting. One year, I entered 10 ears of corn from my own acre in competition, and won first place! A blue ribbon, and even more importantly, some cash! The next year, I was really pumped. I went through the whole corn crib, ear by ear. I worked for days to find the very best ten ears on the farm. I didn't even place.

     The Scramble, on Danville's football field, was a really exciting night. I had watched it every year since I was a small boy. Someday, I wanted to do that.

     The girls were in the Chicken Scramble. One girl from each school. Chickens were released on the field. The girls chased them with abandon. If they caught one, It had money attached. The younger boys chased greased pigs. Catch it, and carry it off the field, and it was yours.

     When I was in the 12^th grade, my time finally arrived. I was entered in the Calf Scramble. I had watched these for years, and I realized this was hard. I had watched many boys, larger and stronger than I, try to out-muscle their calf they had their hands on, and just totally wore themselves out. They were never able to get their short lead rope they carried on it, eventually losing it.

     I stripped down to my genes and track shoes at one end of the field, along with the other six boys. Two calves were released at the other end. The gun went off. I quickly shot out to a lead. When I neared the calves, I noticed one was small, as usual. The other was a nearly grown heifer. Figuring bigger is better, I grabbed the tail of the large one with both hands. I knew immediately I had made a mistake. This one looked almost like a grown cow, and I was a very skinny kid. I reasoned quickly that brute force would never work. I was very short on strength, longer on endurance. I figured that if I just held on, let the calf do most of the work, it would eventually wear itself out. So, around and around the football field we went. On about the third lap, the calf made a quick turn, and down I went. Now it was dragging me. I was determined to hold on, no matter what. This was a high dollar calf. As the calf finished one lap of dragging, I began to realize with horror; my genes were slipping down. Farther and farther. Soon, they would pass the point of no return. The crowd, seems like everyone in Yell County, began to realize the drama that was being played out before them, and the noise level picked up. The moment came when I had to make a terrible decision between my modesty and my calf. In 50 years or so, most of these people would be dead, and most of the others will have forgotten. I gritted my teeth as I made my decision. Whatever happened here to me tonight, I was taking this calf home. Most of these people didn't even know me. I could just go home and pretend I was very sick, stay home from school awhile. Maybe my school mates would forget.

     Right as the critical moment arrived, the calf hesitated. Just for a second or two. Just long enough for me to regain my feet, and pull up my pants. The crowd let out a disappointed “ ooooooooooh!” Then we were off again, leaving the football field far behind as we ran through back yards, eventually reaching a big field. Right in the very middle of that field, the calf could go no more. When I, at long last, led MY calf back to the football field and over to our truck, the lights were off, and the crowd had gone home. My dad told me later that he had heard a spectator say, just at the peak of the action, “That skinny kid will never hold that calf!”

     The man next to him shook his head, and said, “That kid is a Gillum, and a Gillum would give up his life before he would give up a hundred dollar calf!” Those guys knew my Dad. Guess I’m just a chip off the old block.

Forever A Hillbilly: Uncle Franz

Forever A Hillbilly: Uncle Franz: I was born when my dad was 52, my mom 40. The youngest of the Gillum Wing generation. My cousins were grown and gone, all my siblings w...

Uncle Franz

I was born when my dad was 52, my mom 40. The youngest of the Gillum Wing generation. My cousins were grown and gone, all my siblings were gone by the time I was 12. So, I pretty well grew up with all the old folks. The Gillum’s mostly lived side by side, or about as close to side by side as we got in Wing. A mile apart.

     Most of my uncles and my dad were pretty serious, no nonsense, hard men. At least, they were by the time I came along. I never knew any of them when young blood flowed through their veins.

     But Uncle Franz was different. He still laughed a lot, and he found things in life to enjoy. He was very, very, smart. He spent much of his working life teaching, as an administrator, or as a Civilian Conservation Corps director after the depression. He had retired by the time my memories of him began. He came back to Wing, built a house, a big fishing pond, got land and cattle. His girls were still finishing up school, so Aunt Grace hung out at Conway until they were grown. He was so sick of dressing up every day, he came back living and dressing like a sure enough hillbilly.

     He taught at Fountain Hill awhile. He told me once they lived in a pretty rough part of town, and when they came back to Wing for a visit, (Everybody from Wing comes back as often as they can. Wing is just about the perfect place to be. Just about. The one thing missing is a lot of options about what to do for a living. So he, like me, had to scramble around in other, lesser parts of the world to make a living and raise a family.) He was a little worried about his house and his stuff while he was gone. So, he found the biggest, roughest, meanest man in the neighborhood, took him his house key, and asked him to watch his stuff while he was gone. That worked perfectly. Nobody ever messed with his stuff. I told you he was smart. It was a hard day's drive from Southeast Arkansas in those days, what with all the mud holes to get through.

     Uncle Franz seemed to go to bed about the time the chickens went to roost. But he was up by the middle of the night, and a whole lot of that time, he was pounding on his old, beat up typewriter. I saw him doing that many times, but never knew what he was doing in those days. It was not until recently, when I began to see some of his work, that I realized he was a world-class poet. But his work seems to be pretty much lost to the world. The copies of his poems that I have been able to get my hands on are pretty dim, probably copies of copies of copies from an old typewriter not much good to begin with. But I'm going to do the best I can to figure out some of them, and share them with you. Hope you like them too.

Three Shots Rang Out

                                        

A man was riding on parade                                                                                                        

A great good man who fervently prayed

For peace and freedom the wide world O'er

When three shots rang out and he's no more.

A man so young and sincere too

Ambition spurred to drive him through

A fearless man with wisdom's store

But three shots rang out and he's no more.

A speechless world rose quick and fast

To honor him whose soul had passed

From life through death to live once more

For in hearts those shots closed not the door.

A mortal form lies lifeless now

No wicked worry to fret his brow

Yet he's greater now than e'er before

Since three shots rang out and he's no more.

                 **

No Sparkles Show

Sometimes the dew on blades of grass

That crowd in over the padded path

And hide the footprints in the dirt

Goes by unnoticed as I work.

No sparkling diamond hue I see

Because my eyes are so busy

Searching for another sight

A little spot of red and white.

It's hidden somewhere in the grass

I must not miss it as I pass

Of course it probably would be

As well that I did not see.

Yet something inside me tells me “no”

And that’s the reason no sparkles show

On blades of grass when wet with dew

At early day when morn is new.

Dew sparkling grass is just as wet

And sparkles just as bright, still yet

It bothers me not as much by half

When looking for a newborn calf.

                       **

Oh 'my gosh what was that

That weird sound out yonder?

Sounds just like a squalling cat

followed then by rolling thunder.

Curiosity got the best of me

Out the window I looked to see.

Then quick as lightening's flash

I rushed over to the window

Pulling up the bottom sash

I saw kids on the biggest bender

No, not drunk, I didn't say

Just a frolicking group at prankster's play.

On they came so thick and fast

Noisy costumed witches leading.

Followed behind by lad and lass

Street decorum knew no heeding.

Turned the corner down my street

And at the door yelled “trick or treat!”

Treat. The choice was made post haste.

What was left for me to do?

I knew I had no time to waste

When I viewed closely this weird crew

Dressed so spooky from head to feet

Playing innocently “trick or treat.”

                    **

     Uncle Franz drove his Farmall Cub tractor by our house just about every morning. I knew he was going to check his cows. But I also knew that before lunch, he would be down at the lake or the river, fishing. If I was able to get loose, I grabbed my pole and headed down that way. Sitting on the river bank with Uncle Franz, catching one bream after another, was always time very well spent. I always rode out on the back of his tractor.

     In his later days, a doctor discovered he had an anurism in his stomach. He was told that if it burst, he would die before he could get to a hospital. Uncle Franz said, “That sounds like a good way to go.” He had no operation. A while later, he did go. Just that way.

Forever A Hillbilly: Wondergirl and the Superman Clan

Forever A Hillbilly: Wondergirl and the Superman Clan: Wondergirl and the Supermen Clan      My wonderful granddaughter Caylie got married. Let me back up and explain to you that I do not ...

Wondergirl and the Superman Clan

     My wonderful granddaughter Caylie got married. Let me back up and explain to you that I do not use the word wonderful lightly. Read on.

     Caylie has never been your average girl. At four months old, she, along with her mother Christi, survived the unsurvivable; a major car wreck involving multiple rolls and flips, with only scratches and bruises. I measured just how far that car flipped and rolled. One hundred yards.

     God, I think, already had big plans for this baby. And, as a young teen, she was already in the mission fields; she began, early on, paying back God’s investment in her during that one hundred yards straight from Hell event so many years ago. Ever since, she has always been a stern and demanding seat belt enforcer in our family.

     At six, she always got up on her own, fixed her own hair, brushed her teeth, and dressed herself, usually allowing time to read her books before heading off to school. Her parents declared that she only needed adults around in her life to drive her to school and provide a little money. There was just no time in her early years to hold down a full time job, what with Kindergarten and all, but that does not mean she was not capable of it. She always had everything else pretty well under control all by herself. The turbulent teen years just passed her by. They just never happened. Her high standards she always set for herself were etched in stone early on.

     But wait. That’s not all. I’ve been saving the best for last.

     I do not remember ever seeing Caylie angry. I’m sure I must have, common sense would tell you I have. But it’s not in my memory pool. Of course, my memory pool is a bit shallow on both ends.

     Her bubbly, bright, smiling, and loving personality just makes all around her love her.

Caylie was in no big hurry to start driving. When she finally did, she was always very slow, always very careful. We all call her our “Granny Driver.” When her papa Corey was training her, one could often hear him saying, “Caylie, you need to speed up just a little.” But when her younger brother Christian was being trained, one could hear a touch of panic edging into Corey’s voice.  “Slow this thing down! You just clipped a sign back there!”

      Caylie and Tim have been hanging around together for a long time. After they had been together for a year or so, Tim had a question for his friend, who would later become his best man.  “Do you think it would be too forward of me to hold her hand?”

     When Caylie, one year older than Tim, was about to graduate from high school and go off to college, she decided it was time for her and Tim to have a talk. Tim should be free to fully enjoy his senior year. The prom, dating, and all that goes with it. Somewhere in the translation, it didn’t come out just like she had envisioned. Tim did not want to date anybody else. But he accepted her decision.

     “If you’re going to break up with me, Caylie, we should at least wait until after the prom.” On the big night, it was difficult to determine who was breaking up with whom. Tim was heartbroken, but he took it like a man. Caylie was the one who cried all night. When Caylie got home afterwards, flowers were awaiting her in her room. As Tim later said, “I wanted to let her know I still wanted her, and I was not angry.”

      A few days later, Caylie graduated. As I walked through the parking lot afterwards, I saw a large bouquet of flowers on Caylie’s car. I had to smile. The battle was enjoined; Tim’s struggle to win her back had begun.

     Long before she left for college, Caylie was having major second thoughts.  Once she got to Ouachita Baptist University, she soon realized the boys around her did not measure up to Tim. Soon, she tentatively inquired how Tim felt about the two of them getting back together. She feared she had messed up; Tim may have found somebody else.

     Tim thought about this for a long time, then replied, “I will need to pray about this for three days.”

     This was a long three days for Caylie, especially the third day. Walking to her dorm from classes, her head down, she got a call from Tim. “Where are you, Tim?”

    “ In a parking lot somewhere on campus. I don’t really know where I’m at.”

     When she finally found him, he was by his car. He had a large bouquet of flowers, her favorite candy, and her favorite gum. He had one question. “Will you be my girlfriend again?” He handed her a card after she answered yes. Written on the card was one word; always.

    

     Tim is a swimmer. Six years ago, he was a big time swimmer. He swam every day, five hours per day, with an elite swim team full of olympic hopefuls. He had the second fastest time in the country in the mile, somewhere around fifteen minutes. (A fifteen minute mile is a pretty fast walking pace, in case you haven’t tried that.) Also on Tim’s elite swim team were two little girls, ages eight and nine. They were already, at their tender ages, showing great promise for the future, and have continued that grueling training pace to the present. I feel certain that six years ago, Tim was their hero.

     The Olympic trials were looming. But as bad luck would have it, Tim had a serious allergic reaction to chlorine in swimming pool water, and had to drop out. Tim manages to stay in good shape, and swims when he can in lake competitions, but the world class level at which he had been swimming had to go by the wayside.

     Last summer, Tim and Caylie borrowed my fourteen foot aluminum boat. They floated from Lake DeGray to the Ouachita River Bridge near Arkadelphia, Arkansas. That’s a pretty solid half day float.  I drove down to pick them up, and when I was crossing the bridge, I could see they had missed the take-out ramp. They floated by on the far side of the river, and when they saw it, they were already well past.

     The lakes were releasing a lot of water due to heavy spring rains, and the river was flowing swiftly. They were both paddling as hard as they could, but were steadily losing ground. I hollered for them to paddle to the bank, where Tim could walk along in shallower water and pull the boat up. They did, but immediately saw a large water moccasin on a limb, grinning at them, daring them to get just a little bit closer. They quickly headed back to deep water. Paddling was not the way to go, so Tim jumped into the river, put the rope around his shoulder, and started swimming. Now, for a normal person, considering Caylie was still in the boat, that would have been impossible. But Tim is not a normal man. He started gaining ground. It still took him a long time, but he got it done.

     This past Saturday was a big day for me. For the first time, I was about to see Tim in action, swimming against strong competition. Hundreds of great swimmers from all over were competing at Degray Lake. Tim was entered in the one mile swim. Swimming in the women’s division of that race were two teen age girls. Initially, this really didn’t mean anything to me, I did not know them. But Tim did. They were the same two little girls from his old swim team of six years ago. He knew they had been swimming five or six hours daily all these years since Tim had to quit. He also knew they would be in top condition, and his chances against them would be slim. Not being in the know, I was concerned with the whole herd of musclemen Tim would be swimming against, and I paid little attention to the girls.

     Halfway or so into the race, his shoulders began to give him great pain, but they soon went numb. Other than having to throw up a couple of times, everything was going smoothly. But Tim had been right. The two little girls, no longer little, fourteen and fifteen, were first out of the water. Tim was next out, winning the men’s division, at around twenty four minutes. The musclemen I had been worried about were still specks far out in the lake.

                                                        **

     Tim’s father Joe is 55 years old. He owns a landscaping business, and he normally gets up very early, riding his bike totally unreasonably long distances.  A one hundred mile ride is standard fare for Joe. He then works all day in his landscaping business. Then he goes out after work for a little exercise. Joe is a regular in Iron Man competitions.

     Joe was once present at a one hundred mile run event in the mountains. He was not participating in this, so he had not been training for it. A friend who was entered knew Joe always stays in great shape, so he asked Joe to pace him during the last part of the race.  Joe agreed. He paced him the last forty miles. That put both of them in the medical tent.

     Joe hires several young men, twenty some-odd years old, in his business. Occasionally, they all gang up on Joe and attempt to pin him in wrestling, but have never yet been successful. Joe said recently, “I gotta stop doing that. I hurt one last time.”

     In the one mile swim – twenty five mile bike ride event at Lake Degray, Joe placed second. The one man who beat him in his age group also won first overall, and he is number four in the country in that event. Swimming was Joe’s weakest area, but he made up for that once on the bike.

Joe’s father David, Tim’s grandfather, started his physical training early. At two, he was so active he was having trouble walking. The doctor determined he was too musclebound to walk properly. Later, his father Ray hitched David up to the plow to work the garden, instead of using a horse. He went on to become captain of the football team at The Citadel. The University of South Caroline was a major football power at that time, but David’s team managed to beat them, the only time that has ever happened.

     David was in the Korean War. He was a forward observer, maybe the most dangerous job in the army. Their job was to move into enemy territory, locate enemy forces, and call in artillery fire.

     This was during a time of change and experimentation in the US army. Up to that point, the early 1950’s, black soldiers were normally not highly trained in fighting, being usually assigned more domestic duties. That was changing. David was given a team of thirty men, mostly blacks, and he trained them up to a very high fighting level.

     Also along about that time, the Chinese were flooding into North Korea to fight for North Korea against the South Koreans and Americans. They came in very large numbers. They fought with guns, pitchforks, hoes, etc. The Large hoards of men more than made up for any shortage in equipment or training.

     David’s team, as forward observers, were spotted by one of these very large groups. The machine guns David’s team was equipped with had two barrels. While one was firing, the other would be cooling off. Facing this vast hoard of Chinese, cooling the barrel was a luxury they could not afford. They had to keep both barrels firing constantly. Over time, both barrels melted.

     Both groups were running out of ammunition.

     Now, it was man to man, hand to hand. David realized they were about to be overrun, so he called in artillery fire right on top of the entire battlefield. That way, the enemy would be taken out also.

     Officers, such as David, carried a pistol. They were trained to shoot themselves rather than be captured. David pulled his pistol, ready to do his duty. But he just could not bring himself to pull the trigger. The only other option was to fight to the end. David dimly remembers he and men around him beating each other with fists, and heads being slammed against the ground. After what seemed like forever, all was quiet on the field. There was no one left to fight. Only David and two of his men survived.

                                                           **

     David’s father Ray, Tim’s great-grandfather, became a professional heavyweight boxer at an early age. He married at fourteen. He and his wife had eight children. His wife finally persuaded Ray to retire from boxing. He always regretted that decision.

     Ray went on to become the ski jumping champion of West Virginia. At 55, he was the national skeet shooting champion. Even his bird dogs were national champions.

     Ray became a state senator in West Virginia. When the presidential elections rolled around, he played a major role in helping John F. Kennedy get the presidential nomination. West Virginia became a key state in the election, and Ray campaigned tirelessly. Who woulda’ guessed?

     When West Virginia compiled a list of the one hundred greatest athletes in the last hundred years, both Ray and David were on that list.

Hopefully, Tim and Caylie will produce the next generation of supermen for the Barnett family. Who knows? Maybe a little of that super manhood will spill over into the Gillum clan.

      Just look at me. As you can easily see, we need a little dab of that.