Forever A Hillbilly: Gobi

Forever A Hillbilly: Gobi:       Gobi was an international student at Henderson State University, majoring in Business Administration.       Barbara and I had just ...

Gobi

      Gobi was an international student at Henderson State University, majoring in Business Administration.

      Barbara and I had just returned home after traveling a year, and had begun attending a small, new church in Arkadelphia, which is today Fellowship Church. Gobi was from another country, and he was not raised a Christian. He became friends with an instructor who was a leader in our church, and along the way he began reading the Bible.

      One day, Gobi just showed up at our church. He became a regular. He told us, "When I was reading the Bible, I just could not get past the cross." Gobi was the first person baptized in our young church. Gobi had a full head of curly black hair, and was a very friendly and personable young man, liked by everyone.

      He was only weeks away from receiving his Master's degree. He became ill, was having trouble breathing. He was soon diagnosed with cancer. A very large tumor was found in his chest. The doctor told Gobi he needed regular chemotherapy treatments at Hot Springs, 35 miles away, for a long time. Gobi was alone in America, had no car. He had a job he had been walking to, but he became too weak to do that. Kinley, our daughter, set up a schedule for our church members to drive Gobi to Hot Springs. Kinley's family soon moved to Little Rock, and Barbara took over the scheduling, and much of the driving. Many of the treatments lasted six hours, so it was a half day commitment to do that.

      His beautiful hair soon became thin and ragged, and he and Barbara visited a barber, got it all cut off. We never saw Gobi with hair again. He became very weak at times, and during those hard times, he stayed with us. Sometimes, he became so weak from a treatment,  that Barbara had to help him get dressed so that he could go to yet another treatment. Barbara took over his laundry.

      When the scheduled chemotherapy treatments ended, tests showed the tumor had shrunk, but not enough. The doctor told him he needed to go to M. D. Anderson Hospital in Houston to continue treatments. It was not clear what further treatments involved, possibly surgery, or radiation, or maybe both. Gobi did not want to go. We asked why, with his life hanging in the balance, he would not go. "I do not want to face surgery, and risk dying alone, so far from home," he replied. Barbara and I assured him, if surgery came up, he would not be alone.

      Barbara stood up in our tiny church that Sunday, and said, "Gobi needs to go to Houston, and I need $2000 by Friday." On Friday, she had $2000. And a plane ticket. And motel reservations.

      When Gobi got to Houston, surgery was soon ruled out. He began an intensive treatment with radiation. Someone from church had booked him a nice motel. Gobi changed that to a bare bones hotel, so as not to waste other people's money, living better than he felt necessary.

      When we talked to Gobi, he said he was doing fine, eating out of Target next door. "Target?" Barbara said. "Who eats out of Target?" Barb and I left for Houston. Turned out, that Target had a very large grocery, and a deli.

Gobi finished his treatments, and he returned to Arkadelphia. HSU allowed him to live in the International House, for free, while he recovered. HSU friends gathered around him and helped.

      Gobi's brother-in-law, Raj, the head of Gobi's family, flew to Arkadelphia to see about him, and ask about the possibilities of taking him home. Gobi emphasized to us, never speak to Raj about religion. He would wait for the right moment.

We had Gobi and Raj over for dinner, and took them on an outing to Hot Springs. Raj had a big laugh about the size of drinks at Wendy's. The doctor emphasized to Raj, It would be very risky for Gobi to leave his doctors, and travel home, now.

      Raj prepared to return home. The last night, he lay awake in his bed, a long time. He said to Gobi, "Where does this kind of love come from? These strangers treat you like family. I have never seen this kind of love." Gobi's "right moment" had arrived, and he made the most of it.

      Money for Gobi to live on was raised, by means of a few letters written to key people. He was pronounced free of cancer, and he finished up his degree.

      Gobi was ready to return home. The scene at the airport was heartbreaking. He and Barbara hugged, cried, and Gobi started for the plane. He came back, they hugged and cried some more. Finally, he was on his way home.

      Gobi left behind a pretty hefty bill at M. D. Anderson that his insurance did not pay for. He could have easily skipped out on that bill, leaving the country and all. But he insisted that the bills be forwarded to him. Out of his small income at the time, he paid every cent of that bill. He told Barbara, "How do you not pay people who saved your life?" That’s just Gobi for you.

      Gobi is now a professor in Malaysia. He has a beautiful wife, Poova, and a wonderful child, Hiranya.

      A few days ago, daughter Kinley made a nice little post on face book about her parent's love. A comment immediately popped up from a world away. "I know all about that love. It saved my life."

     Barbara and I had a good cry.

Gobi

A Glance at Horror……

We arrived at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp on Polish soil. I took good notes of our tour, hard as that was, re-wrote most of it, ready to place it on my blog. Before posting, I decided to google it, see if I was bringing anything new to the table. As you might have guessed, I was not. Pretty well everything I had written was right there, easily available to the world, as it has been for a long time. I had second thoughts. Why put myself, and my readers, through all this again?

     I will just give you a few of my impressions, then move on down the road. I'm sick at my stomach from my morning's reading on Google, as it is.

     Our guide through the camp was a very nice young woman. She told us all the horrible details, didn't leave much out. I wondered, how could she stand to do that, all day every day? She never once smiled all the way through. I had about decided her job had rendered her incapable of smiling or being happy, and I could see how that could happen. Might have done the same thing to me.

     After the tour was finished, and we were outside that gate, I walked up to her, told her what a good job she did, and guess what. A broad, beautiful smile spread across her face. I began to realize, she had just blocked her life inside that gate off from the rest of her life. I guess that would be necessary, for a nice person like her to be able to do that job day after day, year in and year out. Someone has to do it. It needs to be told. The proof needs to be seen. And it's all right there.

     Right behind the gas chambers stood a very old, yet very nice house. It was blocked off from the hoards of tourists. It was obviously currently lived in, well kept up. I asked about that house. Seems it was taken over by the Nazis when the camp was constructed. It was used as the home of the camp commandant during the time the camp was in operation. After the war, it was reclaimed by the owners, and the family currently lives there. I didn't understand how they could do that, right here in the middle of such horror. But, I guess the family home is the family home, wherever it now happens to be located. The small town there, once out of sight of that camp, could have been any small town, anywhere in the world. Business as usual. Some tough people now live in that small town.

     There is one Polish man whose story must be told, before I move on. Witold Pilecki was the only person ever to volunteer to be sent to Auschwitz during that horrible time. He survived there 945 days, managing to get out evidence of the genocide going on, through the Polish resistance organization. The message was sent out to the British in 1940. It was dismissed by the Allies as being exaggerated. Other messages were sent, but he was not taken seriously. Even after he managed to escape in 1943, his personal testimony was not believed.  Eventually, the word came from so many who had somehow escaped that it could not be ignored. There was much discussion and disagreement about what was possible, and what should have been done. Bombing the camp would kill all the prisoners, and for some reason, bombing the railroad line bringing prisoners in from many different locations in Eastern Europe was not considered doable. That discussion and argument continues to this day.

     Goodbye, Auschwitz. I've done my duty as a free man on my 69th birthday. I visited that horrible monument to what a few men, with unlimited power, are fully capable of doing to mankind. I won't be back, and I hope and pray that some day, I can stop thinking and having nightmares about that place. But I doubt it.

Gobi

A Glance at Horror……

We arrived at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp on Polish soil. I took good notes of our tour, hard as that was, re-wrote most of it, ready to place it on my blog. Before posting, I decided to google it, see if I was bringing anything new to the table. As you might have guessed, I was not. Pretty well everything I had written was right there, easily available to the world, as it has been for a long time. I had second thoughts. Why put myself, and my readers, through all this again?

     I will just give you a few of my impressions, then move on down the road. I'm sick at my stomach from my morning's reading on Google, as it is.

     Our guide through the camp was a very nice young woman. She told us all the horrible details, didn't leave much out. I wondered, how could she stand to do that, all day every day? She never once smiled all the way through. I had about decided her job had rendered her incapable of smiling or being happy, and I could see how that could happen. Might have done the same thing to me.

     After the tour was finished, and we were outside that gate, I walked up to her, told her what a good job she did, and guess what. A broad, beautiful smile spread across her face. I began to realize, she had just blocked her life inside that gate off from the rest of her life. I guess that would be necessary, for a nice person like her to be able to do that job day after day, year in and year out. Someone has to do it. It needs to be told. The proof needs to be seen. And it's all right there.

     Right behind the gas chambers stood a very old, yet very nice house. It was blocked off from the hoards of tourists. It was obviously currently lived in, well kept up. I asked about that house. Seems it was taken over by the Nazis when the camp was constructed. It was used as the home of the camp commandant during the time the camp was in operation. After the war, it was reclaimed by the owners, and the family currently lives there. I didn't understand how they could do that, right here in the middle of such horror. But, I guess the family home is the family home, wherever it now happens to be located. The small town there, once out of sight of that camp, could have been any small town, anywhere in the world. Business as usual. Some tough people now live in that small town.

     There is one Polish man whose story must be told, before I move on. Witold Pilecki was the only person ever to volunteer to be sent to Auschwitz during that horrible time. He survived there 945 days, managing to get out evidence of the genocide going on, through the Polish resistance organization. The message was sent out to the British in 1940. It was dismissed by the Allies as being exaggerated. Other messages were sent, but he was not taken seriously. Even after he managed to escape in 1943, his personal testimony was not believed.  Eventually, the word came from so many who had somehow escaped that it could not be ignored. There was much discussion and disagreement about what was possible, and what should have been done. Bombing the camp would kill all the prisoners, and for some reason, bombing the railroad line bringing prisoners in from many different locations in Eastern Europe was not considered doable. That discussion and argument continues to this day.

     Goodbye, Auschwitz. I've done my duty as a free man on my 69th birthday. I visited that horrible monument to what a few men, with unlimited power, are fully capable of doing to mankind. I won't be back, and I hope and pray that some day, I can stop thinking and having nightmares about that place. But I doubt it.

Forever A Hillbilly: A Glance at Horror.........

Forever A Hillbilly: A Glance at Horror.........: We arrived at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp on Polish soil. I took good notes of our tour, hard as that was, re-wrote most of it, re...

A Glance at Horror.........

We arrived at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp on Polish soil. I took good notes of our tour, hard as that was, re-wrote most of it, ready to place it on my blog. Before posting, I decided to google it, see if I was bringing anything new to the table. As you might have guessed, I was not. Pretty well everything I had written was right there, easily available to the world, as it has been for a long time. I had second thoughts. Why put myself, and my readers, through all this again?

     I will just give you a few of my impressions, then move on down the road. I'm sick at my stomach from my morning's reading on Google, as it is.

     Our guide through the camp was a very nice young woman. She told us all the horrible details, didn't leave much out. I wondered, how could she stand to do that, all day every day? She never once smiled all the way through. I had about decided her job had rendered her incapable of smiling or being happy, and I could see how that could happen. Might have done the same thing to me.

     After the tour was finished, and we were outside that gate, I walked up to her, told her what a good job she did, and guess what. A broad, beautiful smile spread across her face. I began to realize, she had just blocked her life inside that gate off from the rest of her life. I guess that would be necessary, for a nice person like her to be able to do that job day after day, year in and year out. Someone has to do it. It needs to be told. The proof needs to be seen. And it's all right there.

     Right behind the gas chambers stood a very old, yet very nice house. It was blocked off from the hoards of tourists. It was obviously currently lived in, well kept up. I asked about that house. Seems it was taken over by the Nazis when the camp was constructed. It was used as the home of the camp commandant during the time the camp was in operation. After the war, it was reclaimed by the owners, and the family currently lives there. I didn't understand how they could do that, right here in the middle of such horror. But, I guess the family home is the family home, wherever it now happens to be located. The small town there, once out of sight of that camp, could have been any small town, anywhere in the world. Business as usual. Some tough people now live in that small town.

     There is one Polish man whose story must be told, before I move on. Witold Pilecki was the only person ever to volunteer to be sent to Auschwitz during that horrible time. He survived there 945 days, managing to get out evidence of the genocide going on, through the Polish resistance organization. The message was sent out to the British in 1940. It was dismissed by the Allies as being exaggerated. Other messages were sent, but he was not taken seriously. Even after he managed to escape in 1943, his personal testimony was not believed.  Eventually, the word came from so many who had somehow escaped that it could not be ignored. There was much discussion and disagreement about what was possible, and what should have been done. Bombing the camp would kill all the prisoners, and for some reason, bombing the railroad line bringing prisoners in from many different locations in Eastern Europe was not considered doable. That discussion and argument continues to this day.

     Goodbye, Auschwitz. I've done my duty as a free man on my 69th birthday. I visited that horrible monument to what a few men, with unlimited power, are fully capable of doing to mankind. I won't be back, and I hope and pray that some day, I can stop thinking and having nightmares about that place. But I doubt it.

Forever A Hillbilly: Guardian of the Dead

Forever A Hillbilly: Guardian of the Dead: Ok. Time for my Halloween Story.  First of all, let me give you a little background for this story. This took place many years ago in...

Guardian of the Dead

Ok. Time for my Halloween Story. 

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

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

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

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

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

      Nobody saw much of her for a long time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      But this is not the end of our story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “That was not MY scream.”

     That’s all he said. Not another word.

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: That's just Barbara

Forever A Hillbilly: That's just Barbara: Barbara has a problem with straight and crooked, something we worked very hard to control while we were in the photography business, with...

That's just Barbara

Barbara has a problem with straight and crooked, something we worked very hard to control while we were in the photography business, with lots of cropping and tripods. When we were in Italy, and finally found the Leaning Tower of Piza, Barbara took a picture. In the photo, it was standing straight up! She quickly deleted it, knowing I would get a lot of mileage out of that little jewel.

      When we checked into a little villa in Austria, we could not communicate with the owner, who only spoke German. The only other guest there quickly started interpreting, speaking perfect, even southern, English, as well as perfect German. Barbara just had to know what was going on, and soon found out he could speak pretty well any language, and also regional dialects. Barbara made friends with him and quizzed him mercilessly. He offered to buy us dinner, and we accepted. We never pass up free food. After he had several beers, he finally decided we were harmless, and told us his story.

      He was a citizen of the world, he said, claiming no country as his home. He was a free-lance spy. His specialty was, he could become anybody from anywhere. Starting with the first Gulf War, the United States has been the highest bidder, since he looked Arabic, and spoke it perfectly. He told of making a number of military friends while training in Colorado Springs. His scariest night ever, he said, was when he and his friends accidentally wound up on the wrong side of the tracks in Colorado Springs. Seems we had heard many stories similar from visitors to the US, from countries all over the world. The good old USA was a great place to visit, the stories went, until you went to the wrong part of town. And they often did not know where those places were. Some said they had traveled all over the world, but would never dare go to the USA for that reason.

      When he went to work in Iraq, he was in his Arabic dress. His friends arrested him one night. He told them, “It’s me, guys.” They would not believe him, and he had to show his USAF pants on underneath his Arabic dress before they accepted his story.

     He walked us out to our car as we were leaving the next morning. He had a small lecture for Barbara. “You travel far too lightly about the world. People will entrap you. You should have never have let me in your car yesterday. “

       Barbara looked at him a moment, then said, “We had you out numbered.”

       He laughed. “I wasn’t worried.”  He waved Barbara’s camera away, would give us no phone number, no address, no e-mail address. He said he would e-mail us. We’re still waiting.

       While visiting Kenya, we decided to ride a bus to Tanzania one weekend. Upon getting ready to return to Kenya, we were told our visa was a one-way thing. We would have to buy a new one, $200, to get back into Kenya. They would only take US dollars, and we didn’t have enough. I was in the early stages of another panic attack, but Barbara said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

     When we got to the border, she watched each of a dozen or so border agents carefully. She finally chose an agent who seemed to be friendly, and sometimes smiled. She chose his line. When we got up to the front, she started flirting with him shamelessly. Told him all about us being missionaries, laughed and joked. She passed the old visa, not valid now, over to him with a friendly smile. He was totally won over, and he stamped it, and smiling, said, “You have a good day.”

     We got gone quickly. Barbara just seems to have the ability to have her way with any man. Of course, she never uses that ability unless I am at her side. At least, I think so……….just kidding, really!

     Arriving in Denmark in the middle of the night, we looked for a rental car we would need for 30 days. Turned out the insurance on the car would be over 1200 dollars. We thought our credit card company might help us out on that, because they did in Ireland, but it was 1 AM.  Barbara pulled that company's phone number out of her head, called our son-in-law in Arkansas, he called the company. He soon called back, said they would cover all the insurance. At 2 AM, we had our car and headed out.

     When we arrived in Australia, Barbara searched for a way to call home affordably. She found a way, if one did not mind having to dial 30 numbers, to call home all we wanted to, that was cheaper than in-country.

     Standing in a very long line at a toilet at a festival in Sweden, absolutely nobody spoke a word. Barbara, of course, did. “You Swedish people are an awfully quiet bunch.”

      An old man, way up the line, replied, “Yes, we have always been a very stoic people.” That broke the ice, and by the time our turn came, Barbara knew each of them personally, and left  dozens of new, smiling friends behind when we left that toilet.

     Returning by train from Monaco to our car and motel in one of dozens of little towns on the Italian Raviera, we knew we must be about there, and Barbara asked, “Now, what was the name of our village?” I didn’t have a clue, and it was now getting dark. We strained to see something familiar as the train slowed for a village. “There’s our car!” Barbara screamed, and we bolted for the door. She was well ahead of me, and she had the door open before the train stopped. But she was on the wrong side, and she was about to step out onto a live track. Those trains are totally silent, very fast, and they run about a foot apart. Stepping out could quickly bring about an instant, silent death. The way Barbara remembers it, she instantly realized her mistake, and quickly shut the door. The way I remember it, half a dozen people grabbed her and dragged her back.  Funny how each person has their own way of remembering things!

Driving through Australia, we noticed a nice clubhouse with a beautiful green lawn surrounding it. Dozens of old men, all dressed up fancy with broad-brimmed hats, were rolling black balls around on the lawn. We had never seen anything like this. Barbara said, “Park the car. I’ll go see what’s going on.” I stayed in the car, pretty well knowing what was about to happen. Barbara walked onto the lawn, and started asking questions. Every game stopped, and every man gathered around Barbara, all anxious to explain the game to her, many wanting to hold her hand to insure that she rolled the ball properly.  Barbara quickly learned a little about lawn bowling, and a lot about old men.

     If one just has to travel the world, Barbara is the kind of woman to travel with. Were it not for her, I would probably still be stranded in Italy, begging for pizza scraps to stay alive. Or in Australia, marking lambs for a living.      

Forever A Hillbilly: A Family of Supermen

Forever A Hillbilly: A Family of Supermen:      My wonderful granddaughter Caylie got married recently. She and Tim have been hanging around together for a long time. They are both...

A Family of Supermen

     My wonderful granddaughter Caylie got married recently. She and Tim have been hanging around together for a long time. They are both still in college, and that can be a problem financially, but they are both very hard workers and they are having a grand time.

     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 mule. 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 on the entire battlefield.

                                                           **

     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.

     Look at me. As you can clearly see, we need a little dab of that.       

Forever A Hillbilly: A hillbilly's Medical Advice

Forever A Hillbilly: A hillbilly's Medical Advice:      As you know, if you read my column, sometimes I just have to take out from my storytelling and tell you what's rattling ar...

A hillbilly's Medical Advice

     As you know, if you read my column, sometimes I just have to take out from my storytelling and tell you what's rattling around in my head that day. But you're crossing over the line this time, you say? So, take this column with a grain of salt. You're probably right. But, having said that, there still could be a little something here one of you might be able to take away from this, and put to use someday.

     Nearly two years ago, something started feeling not quite right in my chest one day. Not really hurting, but I always knew, all day every day, something was different. Since the focal point was right where my heart should be, (never seen it, but I assume I have one) I went to a heart doctor. He put me through the paces. Wearing a monitor for a day, stress test, the whole ball of wax. Starting the same day this started, my heart started doing that little thing where it seems to skip a beat regularly. Not really skipping a beat, but off time a little, so the pulse feels like skipping a beat. I had experienced this before, many years ago. He put me on a pill to stop that. A beta blocker was best, he said, but I asked for something else. I already had heard beta blockers have certain side effects I didn't want. He agreed that was sometimes true. The pill he gave me did the trick, though I had to take 5 other pills every day, to counteract the side effects of it. It did the job, on the skipping thing. But the "different" thing was still there. Dr. Jansen sent me to a stomach man. He stuck his little camera down my throat, and had a look around in the stomach. I told him when it went into the stomach, be sure and turn it around and look at the entrance. My oldest brother died of cancer because a doctor failed to do that the first time. When he did, the second time, it was too late.

     My doctor found nothing. I had another test, this time for gall bladder problems. Nothing. I was beginning to look and feel like a hypochondriac. By now, this thing had moved down a little, became a stomach problem, as well as a chest thing. Gas was trapped and building up, getting very uncomfortable an hour or so after I ate.

     So, I went back to the stomach man. Gluten problem, maybe. He took me off gluten and dairy for five weeks, and gave me probiotics. Well, something he did this time helped. It was easing off, about gone. After five weeks, it was gone completely, and it was time to test. Barbara and I went out and ate a really big, greasy, pizza, just dripping in gluten. Still no problem. So, I tested getting back on dairy. No problem. Seems I can eat everything now, and after a year and a half of troubles, my problem never came back. I had began to think I had just reached that steep part of the slide. Seems probiotics fixed it.

     What with all the bad bacteria we kill out with antibiotics, seems we kill off the good bacteria too. We need those good ones. I now eat a billion good bacteria, probiotics, a day. And they and I get along fine. (That’s not really as hard as it sounds. One pill.)

     I asked the heart doc, "Since my heart 'skipping' started the same day this other thing did, can I get off that pill too?"  "Might as well try it. Doubt it will work.“

     It worked too.

     So, 2 years ago I was on 7 or so pills a day. Now I take one. Now, that's going in the right direction!

     Barbara got to having dizzy spells. "Positional Vertigo," the doc said. "But that's an easy fix. Joe Wall can fix it quick."  Joe wall is not a doctor, he's a physical therapist. But he specializes in this. Well, Joe just twisted her head around for a few minutes, the "Epley Maneuver." Told her to be real still for a day. I walked out thinking we had just been to a witch doctor. But it worked! Who woulda' thought it!? Don't try this at home. Google says it can cause stroke symptoms, if done wrong.

     Most of us are allergic to poison ivy. But do you know, a pretty little plant that grows right beside it can take it away? Called Jewel Weed. When the seed pod on Jewel Weed starts to grow, and you touch it, it will throw that seed several feet. But that's off the subject. Anyway, gather that plant up, boil the juice out of it, freeze it in an ice cube tray. Just rub it on poison ivy when you get it. I had a coach friend that was desperate, so I made him up a batch. When I was about to move a few years later, he asked me to make him up a gallon of it before I left.

     I did.

     When I was teaching in Arkadelphia, I found a patch of Jewel Weed out Red Hill Road. Later I needed some, and I asked one of my students who lived nearby to gather up a bag full of it the next day. He was my biology student, and I knew he would recognize it. At class the next day, he was absent. Toward the end of the period, him and his Mama walk in. He had the bag of Jewel Weed, and he also had a cast on his arm. He had a bicycle wreck going down the hill to get it, but he still got that bagful of Jewel Weed for me. I just felt the need to go out to his house after school that day and spend a little time with him. A very special kid. That's what I liked about teaching. So many special kids!

     One of my renters decided to clean up his back yard in the spring. Turns out it was covered with poison ivy. He cut it, threw it in a pile with other brush, and burned it. The smoke put his neighbor in the hospital. When that juice evaporates, and you breathe it in, it becomes much more than a distraction real quick. Never do that!

     I knew a really nice lady who had a surgical procedure. A one night stay in the hospital was needed, the doc said. She died that night. Nurses are wonderful, but they can't be in every room at once. Nothing like a family member, standing over you, watching everything that happens the first night after surgery. I've never had a surgery, except when I was six, Dad and Mom just loaded all us kids up in our 1948 cattle truck, hauled us to the hospital, and had our tonsils all taken out at one whack. But anyway, like I was saying, if I have surgery major enough for a night stay in the hospital, I want someone who really loves me there, watching me, all night long. Someone bold enough to get out in that hall and scream, louldy, when they think there's a need. If you don't have that special person, and you live close enough, call me. I'll sit up with you. And I can get loud quick! Just ask Barbara. I would do about anything to keep from losing one of my readers.

     Another little thing I will do, say, if I'm going to have a leg operated on. I'm going to take a permanent marker, and write on that leg, "This one, Doc!" while I'm still in control of my senses and can do it.

     Dads were not allowed in the delivery room when our children were born. I've always regretted that. Now we can, and that's a good thing. I was talking to a retired nurse friend of mine one day, and she just had some things she wanted to get off her chest, I guess, about her career. She told me nurses were not allowed to deliver a baby where she worked. That doesn't sound so bad, on the surface, but what if the doc has a car wreck in his rush to the hospital? She went on to say that she had, on more than one occasion, pushed the baby back into the birth canal because the doc was not there yet. Since then, I have heard of  two occasions where the doc was late, and the baby was brain damaged for life, because it stayed in too long. Now, I know that's just something most people don't like to talk about, but it seems to me we all should be talking about that.

     LOUDLY!

     Isn't it written somewhere, "FIRST AND FOREMOST, DO NO HARM." or something like that? Knowing what I now know, If I were the daddy, and I was in that room, I would be flinging folks right and left to get that baby out.

     I've read a lot of books about pioneer times, about how hard childbirth was, and it was horrible. (From what I hear, it still is.) A lot of babies and mothers did not survive it. But I've never read a passage about those uneducated folks pushing the baby back in. I doubt if any midwife ever did that either. Why do we allow that?

      Just askin'.

     You hear lots of people say, "I don't want to live to be 100." But I've never yet heard a 99 year old man say that. I suspect if I ever live to be 99, I will be clawing and scratching for every breath I can continue to draw. I still have a lot of stories yet to write.

Forever A Hillbilly: On being Classy.............

Forever A Hillbilly: On being Classy.............

Forever A Hillbilly: On being Classy.............:         Some time ago, I wrote a story about a friend of mine. When describing his wife, the first description that came to mind was very...

On being Classy.............

  

     Some time ago, I wrote a story about a friend of mine. When describing his wife, the first description that came to mind was very classy. Later, at his funeral, the pastor’s first descriptive words about his wife was, A very classy lady.

     What is it about some people that just seems to bring the word “classy” to mind? What is it about some people that lets us know they have it? That experience seems to have gotten that question rolling around in my head a good bit, while I’m thinking. I’m very good at thinking, especially when you just consider the sheer volume of it. Not necessarily quality thinking, not necessarily very productive thinking. Just thinking.

     Are there descriptive words out there that are so anti-classy, that, if they truly apply to the person in question, rule out any possibility of being classy? To me, some of those words would be snobby, gossipy, unkind, rude, selfish, prideful, boastful, vengeful, vulgar, intentionally too loud, (physical limitations, such as not hearing well, dosen’t count here.)  and shallow. Like I say, this is just my list. Yours may be very different, yet better. Or worse.

     Are there single, descriptive words out there that, if accurately applied, would prove that classy fits? I seem to have a problem with this question. Perfect will not work, because none of us are perfect, yet some are classy. Flawless? That implies perfect. So it would follow that we may have a few minor flaws, yet still be classy. What type of flaws would be allowed? Could it be that only minor flaws that do no harm to others would work? I tend to think so. There seems to be so many factors out there that go into making up a classy person, that no single word or short description can work, alone.

     Physical traits: While physical traits may be our first indicators, such as how we carry ourselves, how friendly we are, our posture, how we choose our clothes, how neat we are, how clean we are, etc. may get us tentatively in the right group initially, the core of it must come from within. We can’t keep that hidden forever.   And, our station in life we are born into can limit these outside appearances. When we were in the middle of the second largest and worst slum in the world  (Kibera, in Kenya) a little girl who I remember as being around ten years old ran out into our path. She smiled, and said “Hi! How are you?” Her clothes were rags, just hanging on her body, but class stood out all over that girl. Barbara and I both wanted to just take her hand and take her home with us, away from that place.

     Can one learn to be classy? Some people say no. You have to be born with it.  Many of us are so far away from being classy, it’s hard to imagine ever climbing up that far, and we may try and try and never succeed. On the other hand, I’m repulsed by the idea that any of us can be born into a situation, so deep in any hole, that we cannot ever climb out of it, no matter how hard we work. I tend to think yes. With hard work, we can learn to be classy.

I think regional dialects have no place here. We learn to talk like people we live among. Many people tend to look down upon others who do not talk like they talk. I, for example, know a ton of classy hillbillies. Those who look down upon hillbilly slang are shallow people, to my way of thinking. Other shallow people may judge by body build, weight or height. I tend to think physical characteristics of the body one is born with is not a limiting factor.

     A classy person, generally, just “has it together.” We know they are not about to just lose it in the middle of a conversation, and say something stupid.

     A classy person is a good listener. Never quick to interrupt, or talk over another person. This whole statement smacks me right in the face. I’m too busy thinking of my reply, or my next statement, to fully listen to another. I need to work on this one. The more I write on this subject, the more I begin to realize where I fit in. So, can thinking too much rule me out? Maybe so, If I can’t climb out of that hole. And I’m an old man. Don’t have a lot of time to waste.

 The “smirk” is a habit that we should be very careful with, especially for a smart person. It can easily convey the message, “I’m smarter than you.”

 I have a friend who is very smart. He pretty well always has the correct answer. But he usually starts his correction with, “Well, it COULD be that - -“

     When he does that, I just automatically know he’s about to tell me a truth I can count on, take to the bank. A humble preface to a truth conveyed by a very intelligent, classy person. Some people, however, do not respond well to his gentle approach. He and I were once in a van traveling from New Orleans. The driver seemed to think his sense of direction was superior to others. When the driver passed the proper exit, my friend softly stated, “It could be we should have taken that exit.” The driver paid no attention. We passed another exit. “We may very well have missed our turnoff.” No response. Approaching the next exit, “Turn this thing around!! You missed the road!” This time, the driver responded properly. He had just not had it explained to him in those terms before.
      Some people enter a room, and everything about them says, “I’m here! Look at me!” While other people enter a room and everything about them says, “Hello. How are you?” Guess who fits where.

 So what have I accomplished with this column? In the end, very little. Food for thought, and that’s about it. I have never worried about being classy, myself, possibly because I normally do not occupied a position up at the top, looking down; I seem to spend a lot of time at the bottom, looking up. But I’m me, and I just love me, even if it turns out that, in the end, I’m in a small minority.

 A classy person would be very hesitant to put others into a judgmental position in any conversation. So, if we meet on the street, and you ask, “What about me? Am I classy?” Chances are, I would just look at you, smirk, and answer, “I’m far too classy to answer that.” Then you’ll know.

Forever A Hillbilly: On Looking For a Mate....

Forever A Hillbilly: On Looking For a Mate....: On looking for a Mate - -      My wife Barbara is a photographer. After she did hundreds of weddings alone, and pretty well ruined her el...

On Looking For a Mate....

     My wife Barbara is a photographer. After she did hundreds of weddings alone, and pretty well ruined her elbows by carrying that heavy suitcase around so much, we became a team. Though I was only a pretend photographer, having not a single creative bone in my body, I did have the mechanics of the camera down pretty well by then, so I took the pics, Barbara posed everyone and hob knobbed with everbody. We wound up doing hundreds of weddings together.  (We once did four weddings in 24 hours) So, after being around so many people about to take that plunge, we both began to recognize traits each posessed that would make or break the marriage. Thought I’d pass some of them on to you.

     A guy who has never had a thought about hitting a woman just never speaks of it. If he has ever told you he would never hit you, he has that thought in his head, or he has done it before.

If he tells you that regular-like, plan on being a human punching bag after the wedding. Bust outta there!

     Don't marry for looks; looks will fade. (Barbara's the exception!) Character is what lasts forever.

     Watching how he/she treats the family gives you a good idea how you will be treated.

     If you have gone over the top, helping him/her, and been shown little appreciation, he/she has just gotten into the habit of expecting that of you. He/she is taking you for granted already. It will get much worse, but never gets better.

     If the wild, bad boy/girl is the only one who attracts you, your life will be one long, living nightmare.

     A woman can never change a bad boy. It just gets worse.

     If she expects her parents to go into debt, or steal from their retirement fund, to finance her big fancy wedding, she's selfish and self centered. Get away from her. She'll break you, too, and then you'll be history, anyway.

     If he/she cheats on you before the wedding, it will increase tenfold after the wedding, when the hot passion with you settles down some. Forgiving can, at best, only buy you an insecure future. First, express your appreciation for having given you this little warning sign, then turn and run. Before its too late.

     If you know he/she loves you more than you love him/her, you won't be doing any favors by settling for that. You WILL be doing everyone a big favor by easing out of it now. If the spark is not there now, it never will be. A gentle letdown is in order.

     The dominant person will set the pace, and by now you know where you fit in. If the dominant one is not good with money, and goes through it like slicing hot butter, and If you're not that dominant one, get out fast. Hell on earth is headed your way. Best if both are good with money, but that might be a little too much to ask.

     When all your friends and family say no, you'd do well to go - - fast! Remember, they're the ones who love you the most.

     Watch out for the "Hollywood Syndrome." If he/she requires constant adoration, you won't be able to hold up to those standards very long. And they'll be looking for someone else, who will.

     Beware of the control freak. If he/she tells you  they are the only one who loves you, and are always trying to get you away from family and friends, break the door down if you have to. But get away.

     In our wedding photography career, Barbara and I saw a few little tell-tale signs that always prompted us to put a rush order on the pics!

     If  the bride gripes a lot at her bridesmaids on the wedding day, just remember. She picked them, like she picked you. Don't expect to fare any better after the wedding. You might want to consider sneaking out the back door.

     If the bride's Mama is a good Mama who has worked hard to bring this thing together, and the bride gripes at HER on that day, she's selfish and self-centered. These people don't stay married. Cut your losses and get outta there, however you can.  

      If you see, on the wedding day, that the wedding itself takes priority over the groom, plan on always playing second fiddle, at best. Start running, and never look back.

     If your new husband and your father get into a fist fight at the reception, and yes, Gillum photographers have seen that, It's too late. But you might wish to check about an annulment.

Forever A Hillbilly: My Sweet Mother

Forever A Hillbilly: My Sweet Mother: Considering that my mother was about the sweetest, nicest woman who ever lived, I really have not written a lot of material about her sid...

My Sweet Mother

Considering that my mother was about the sweetest, nicest woman who ever lived, I really have not written a lot of material about her side of the family.       She was quiet, and seldom told me stories of her family. Most of her sisters moved to the bright lights of California before I was born, and the others followed soon after, except for Mom. The few times I have carried on a conversation with her sisters, for the most part, was when I was very young. Her brother, Euriel, lived nearby, but he and most of his sons died early of heart problems. Mom’s other brother died as a child. I never met Mom’s parents. So there ya’ are. My knowledge of Mom’s family, for the most part, distills down to what transpired between my mother and I. She did tell me lots of stories, but most were funny, fictional and entertaining. They weren’t about her family.

     After Dad came back from the WWI he went to the oilfields of Oklahoma. When his father died in 1922, he was called back to Wing to run the farm. He first became engaged to a Humphreys girl, (I was never told the first name.) She died soon after. From what everyone has told me, The Gillum family just loved that girl, totally had their heart set on her being Dad’s wife. Dad had even built a house in the meadow for her. I’m not sure how much time elapsed after that happened before Dad and Mom married, but Dad was 33, Mom 21. Since there was no electricity in the Meadow House, Dad and Mom first lived with Grandma Gillum.  Hallie, Dad’s school teacher sister lived there too. For a time, a picture of Dad’s dead sweetheart continued to hang on the wall. After a while, a picture of mom’s former sweetheart, Searce Pickens, appeared on the wall also. Well, Searce Pickens was now working for Dad, and both pictures soon came down.

     My oldest brother Harry, the first born, told me that Grandma Gillum, and also Hallie, on occasion, did not treat Mom well.  I don’t know why, because my mother, when I knew her, was wonderful. Very kind, loving, and hard working. From what I have heard, my best guess is that Mom came from a family that was very different from the stern Gillums, and they were harsh in judging her. After three children were born, Mom wanted out of that house. They moved to the meadow house, even though there was no electricity, and Dad had to do without a radio. Jan was born there. Later, Dad bought the Marion Turner house, which was larger, and they moved there, where Barbara Lou was born. Both of these houses were within hollering distance of the house on the hill. After Grandma Gillum and Hallie both died in 1941, Dad and Mom moved their family back up on the hill. I was born there in 1944.

     Mom was a very hard worker. Since the Gillums were determined to put up enough food for two or three years, just in case the dry years returned, she sometimes canned as many as 800 Quarts each summer over that hot wood stove. They were stored in the concrete cellar, dug underneath the potato house and smoke house. The concrete floor was not very thick, and water often began to seep into that cellar in wet times. It had to get 3 feet deep or so before it reached the canned food, and before that happened,  We often all worked most of a day, carrying it out bucket by bucket. Later, Dad figured out how to siphon it out, and he and I would do that.

     Mom worked full time, while raising six children. Setting a bedpost on a dress tail of a toddler made a good baby sitter while Mom worked. Later, as the girls got old enough, they handled that.

     This is a typical day for Mom on a summer day with no other major projects scheduled.  She arose early, and had a full breakfast of hot biscuits, (made from scratch) sausages, oatmeal, coffee, etc. ready at daylight. After the kids were up and dressed, the entire house was swept. Our dogs entered our house only at great peril from Mom’s broom. Mom might then work in the garden awhile, then it was time to start dinner. Always a full meal, always hot. After the dishes were washed, the dogs were fed the scraps, (dogs were only fed scraps. If there were none, it was their responsibility to go catch a rabbit, or whatever, though Mom normally made a little extra cornbread for the dogs. So they seldom went hungry.) Dishes and pots, skillets, etc. were washed and put away.

     Afterwards, Mom might have 30 minutes of down time, then she might head for the truck patch, a quarter of a mile or so down in the pasture. Most of the food growing took place there, a couple of acres or so. She would hoe weeds, or do whatever needed to be done, then she would head to the house, carrying with her a good part of what would become supper. 
     Time to milk both the cows. Mom always milked them alone, and they were so used to only her milking them, the cows would allow nobody else to touch them. Some of us could have helped, but I guess Mom figured it was just easier to do it all herself than to try to get the cows to tolerate us.         Time to cook another hot meal, do the dishes, then maybe a little down time before bed time. Of course, as we grew older, we helped in all this. I helped Mom for several years before I graduated to helping Dad in the fields. Then, I was one of the MEN.
      The girls, Barbara Lou, Jan, and Jonnie, worked very hard helping Mom, also. If it was a very busy time in the fields, one of the girls brought dinner to the men there.

     This daily schedule varied, of course. One day per week, Mom would wash all the dirty clothes in the big black pots down by the creek, 200 yards down the hill, using a rub board, lye soap, and bluing, whatever that is.  The clothes were hung out on the fence or clothes line, and hauled in at night.           On another day, all the clothes that needed it were ironed with flatirons heated on the stove. That always made the house very hot. Mom even ironed the sheets.  The milk had to be hand churned to make butter and cottage cheese.

The winter time schedule varied from this, of course. There were clothes to be made, (mostly from chicken feed sacks) quilts to be made, etc.   Mom was an expert at wringing a chicken’s neck. I’ve seen four headless, bleeding chickens flopping about the yard at one time. Then they were scalded, feathers picked off, then dressed and cooked.

     Winter time baths were a major undertaking. Water was hauled up the hill, 100 yards or so, bucket by bucket. Then it was heated on the wood cook stove. When the round bath tub was filled, we took turns. Being the smallest, I was last. I was nearly grown before realizing; bath water was not supposed to be brown.

     After we went into the egg business full time, of course that became a large part of the daily schedule. We kids knew nothing of allowances, pay for work, etc. It didn’t exist on our farm.

     In spite of all her hard work, Mom always found time for each of us, every day, though I don’t know how. If Mom ever got a few dollars ahead, it was never spent on herself. She would tell me, “Well, I’ll buy this for you now, then when you are grown and well off, you can buy for me.” Unfortunately, Mom died at 68, and that time never came.

     Mom always found time for her neighbors. Edith Turner told me this year of Mom bringing them loads of vegetables when they moved into Wing. 
     We children never worked on Sunday, and officially Mom did not, either, but somehow, some way, all those great Sunday meals magically appeared. Maybe it was a God thing, but I don’t think so. We were always in Church on Sunday, Mom saw to it. We had a very large children’s picture book, filled with bible stories. Mom saw to it we read every one, again and again. I fear I learned far more about the bible under Mom’s watch, that at any other time in my life.

     Mom always loved having flowers in the yard. It was about the only extravagance Mom allowed herself. During dry times, we always found a way, somehow, to find enough time to haul water up from the creek and keep them alive.

     One year, My oldest brother Harry came up with enough money for Mom to go to California and spend her birthday with her sisters. The  well oiled machine that was the Gillum farm went totally to Hades while Mom was gone. Dad trained me as the dishwasher. “Son,” he said,  “The open hand makes a great dish cloth.” 
     Barbara Lou and Jan took over the milking. The cows wanted no part of that. Early morning screams emanating from the cow barn became a regular thing. What with all the kicking going on with the cows, more milk dripped from the ceiling than wound up in the milk bucket. After a couple of weeks, mom returned, and we all realized that in spite of the hard work by all the rest of us, Mom was the glue that held that well-oiled machine together.

     Everybody in Wing and Rover just loved my mom. A very small handful of Mom’s dear lady friends are still alive. My children were only babes when Mom died.  When they discover one of them, such as meeting Edith Turner at my book launching at Wing, they just cannot seem to ever let her go. They are hearing, from a third party, just how wonderful my mother truly was; they are realizing, it’s not just me saying those things. It’s the total truth. Kinley, my daughter, said "Holding her hand was like finally getting to hold my grandmother's hand."

     After I graduated college and Barbara Sue and I lived at St. Paul, Ar. or Fayetteville, I would slip by and see Mom when I could, surprise her. After I did that several times, she finally told me, “Pat, please let me know when you’re coming by. Otherwise, I find myself sitting on the porch, looking down the road for you, every day.”

     Dad Passed away, at 78, while Barbara and I lived at Fayetteville. When we decided to move to Hannibal, Mo. suddenly to a teaching job, Mom begged, “Let me go with you. I can cook and clean, and grow a garden.” I knew Mom was not doing well, living alone. But we were moving with only a few days left until school started, and we didn’t even have a place to live yet, and very little money. I told her, “When we get up there, get set up, and get a house, I’ll come back for you.” I could see the disappointment in her eyes. I have wished for many years that I had that decision to make over. But life does not work that way.

     We had only been in Hannibal a short time when we got word that Mom was not doing well, Barbara Lou had taken her to Memphis to live with her, and she was now in the hospital. I rushed down. When I arrived, she was already in a coma. As I sat by her bed, I realized. I had never told her I loved her. Open expressions of love were just not normally said in our house as I grew up, or maybe that was just me. I started telling her over and over that I loved her, but in her coma state, I did not know if she heard me or not. She was moved to ICU, and I lived there in that waiting room for days.  A couple of us could go in and see her every few hours.

    The chairs in the ICU were very sleep resistant, unless one had one of the few recliners. One night, I did have one. About midnight, two young women and their mother came in. The older lady was in very bad shape. Her husband was in the ICU. I gave my recliner to the older lady, and moved over and answered the phone the rest of the night. The next day, I noticed that one of those three were always in that recliner. About 8 o’clock that night, one of the daughters called me over. She said, “You gave this recliner to my mother last night when she was in very bad shape. We’ve been saving it for you all day. You need to sleep tonight.”

     My brother Harry arrived from California. I took Harry in, and told Mom, “Harry’s here.” She stirred noticeably. I now knew she had heard me when I  told her I loved her. But way too little, way too late, for a mother like God blessed me with. I should have told her I loved her every day I lived with her, and I knew it.

     Mom died shortly afterwards. I made a vow, then and there, that there would never again be a shortage of open expressions of love in my family. And I have kept that vow.

     I did not set out to write a sad story. But, in writing of the older generations, it just seems to work out that way. We can’t change that. But we are given the opportunity many times during our lives to help improve the quality of life leading up to that ending. Once written, it can never be rewritten or erased.

We just have to live with that.