Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - A Differentt Kind of Child

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - A Differentt Kind of Child:      In kindergarten, he quickly became a leader and protector of the weak. One large boy stomped on the foot of a small girl, injured an...

Part Two - A Different Kind of Child

     In kindergarten, he quickly became a leader and protector of the weak. One large boy stomped on the foot of a small girl, injured and unable to wear a shoe. Our subject filed it away. Days later, he saw the boy with his shoe off. He stomped it, grinding it as much as his small body would allow. “You don't hurt little girls,” he said, and walked away.

     Summertime came. We all knew that swimming lessons were a requirement, again because of his nature. He really needed to be able to swim. His mother took him to his swimming teacher the first day. He was unable to swim a lick. He looked the situation over for a moment, grinned, then ran to the deep end of the pool, did a cannon ball, sank like a rock. The shocked teacher dove in behind him. As she was dragging him out, she was shaking her head. “He was grinning, all the way down, all the way back up!” she said.

     A neighbor gave him an old bicycle, when he turned six. Never rode a real one before. He ran to it, jumped on, and rode it off. Pushing it to the top of the highest drive in the neighborhood, he jumped on and flew down the drive, rounding a sharp curve at the bottom. After that, if he went out the door, he had a headgear on.

     Razorback football came around. At one game, a redneck man, sitting up behind his family, spent the entire game shouting at the umpire, the other team's coach, the other team, often with profanity. Finally, our subject stood up, turned around, pointed his finger at him. “Sir! Oh sir!” When he finally got the man's attention, said, “When I am a man, I won't talk like that!”

    The shocked man turned red, then laughed. “Well, sonny, that would probably be a pretty good decision on your part!”

     Soccer season came around. We had been waiting for the day, because of his natural ability. We just knew he would be great. That held true in the first game. He scored four goals, driving in and scoring at will. We were really excited, starting his second game.   He just was not in the mood. When the game started, he bored quickly, would sometimes be wrestling a teammate to the ground while the other team scored on the other end. After a while, he walked over to a nearby field, lay down, chewing on a weed. The coach called him, no luck. Finally, the coach just went over and pulled him up.

     Flag football was a mixed bag, also. He often thought it was just as much fun to pull his teammate's flag as an opponent's. About that time it hit me, remembering the sleeper caper.

     It had to be his interest, his idea. Not his parent's, not mine.

     He and his older brother both decided they would like to wrestle. His brother proved to be a coach’s dream – listening to the coach, filled with effort and drive. His coach, a four time national wrestling champion in college, said the brother had more “heart” than any kid he had ever seen.

     Our subject, however, was not a coach’s dream.  Often as not, when the coach instructed, he needed to go to the bathroom, or was at the back of the pack, in his own world. After a few months, the State Wrestling Championship rolled around. Our subject became transformed, working his way up to the finals. He was seven, his opponent was ten. A much taller boy. The 90 pound division. He quickly pulled a very complex move the coach had been teaching all week, and pinned him. At seven, the state champ! The coach just walked away, shaking his head. “Now, where the heck did that come from? While I was teaching that, he was at the back, singing a song!”

     Our subject has a very large heart for the homeless. Singlehandedly, he collected fifty some-odd coats for the school “coats for the homeless.”

    What kind of man will he become? One thing I know, it will be his decision. His area of interest. I just hope I'm around to see it.

Forever A Hillbilly: A Different Kind of Child

Forever A Hillbilly: A Different Kind of Child: He's not like anyone you have ever met. Like nobody anyone has ever met. The first sign that something was amiss came with the fi...

A Different Kind of Child

He's not like anyone you have ever met. Like nobody anyone has ever met. The first sign that something was amiss came with the first ultrasound. He was grinning! His mischievous grin, I now know. The same one I have seen dozens of times, right before he does something little kids just do not do, and I go into panic mode, once again. Just biding his time. Just waiting to pop out and shock the world.

     The day of his birth rolled around. A c-section. As soon as he was pulled out, he raised his head and looked around at the doctor and nurses, individually, as if in greeting. They were dumbfounded.

     I watched him on my living room floor, when he was entering that stage were babies lie on their stomach and wiggle around. He put his hands on the floor and tried to push up, again and again.

Finally, he raised his upper body off the floor, held, his arms started to quiver, then  collapse. Nothing abnormal here. But he did it again, held a little longer, arms shook more, tears started to flow. Collapse. Up again – tears – a little longer – Collapse. This was repeated, again, again, and again. Tears, hard sweat now. Finally, total exhaustion. Temporarily delayed, never defeated. A healthy respect started to grow within me. How could his tiny body contain so much determination?

     Winter came. It was cold in that house. His family lives like North Pole people. He was put into a sleeper, zipped up. The next morning, he was naked in his crib. Though he was far too small to leave that crib, little signs of mystery began to show up here and there. He had wandered at will about that house, naked.

     I put a couple of rounds of duct tape around his chest, to keep that sleeper on. No luck. Next, a safety pin was fastened to the inside of the zipper, near the top. The next morning he was naked in his crib, punching holes in the mattress with the open safety pin.

     I went shopping. In the fishing department, I found a giant snap swivel, so strong I could barely open it. I substituted it for the safety pin the next night. The next morning, the sleeper was still on, but he must have found a tiny hole in the toe, worked it, worked it, and worked it until one whole leg was out, which he proudly displayed.

     His father, worn out by this struggle, was beginning to fathom the depth of his determination. He just asked, “Which sleeper do YOU want to wear?”

     He pointed one out. End of the great sleeper struggle.

     For a time, his parents kept him in his crib with an elaborate, tent like structure over the top. Then, they just had to give up. He wandered the house at will at night, still too small to get out of that crib, supposedly.

     They had chocolate cake for supper, just as he was beginning to talk. He loved it. He asked for seconds.

     “No, save it for tomorrow”

     Our subject calmly stated, “Mom, while you are asleep, I will come in and get a second piece.” Well, he was less than two years old now, small for his age. But mom placed it on top of the fridge, just in case. The next morning, the cake was on the kitchen floor, intact, except for a piece missing, and a chocolate trail leading to his crib. After the scolding, they just had to ask; “How did you do that?”

     He brought out a two step ladder with a circle bar on top for a handle. “I stood on top,” he explained, pointing to the handle.

    They were on vacation in a condo. He slept on the folded up hide-a-bed. When morning came, he was just gone. Could not be found. After a time, he crawled out of the bowels of the folded up hide-a-bed. He always liked tight places, loved the challenge of going where it seemed impossible for him to go.

     I took him for a walk in an athletic field. I always try to keep him in large, open spaces, out of trouble. We came to metal bleachers by the tennis court. He started climbing half way up, going to the end, jumping off, rolling out of it. He never hurts himself when he falls. I was distracted for a moment, a very bad thing. When I looked around, he was at the top level, about to jump. My scream caused him to slip, and he fell down through the framework. He hit a bar that cartwheeled him. Hit another bar, another cartwheel. Finally, he hit the ground with a splat. I ran to him. The breath was knocked out of him. When he recovered from it somewhat, he said, “I need to sit down for a minute.” No tears. We have an understanding in our family. If a hurt brings tears, call 911. At the end of that minute, almost exactly, that grin started to spread across his face as he jumped up. “I'm going to do that again!”

     “No, you're not,” I said. “We're going home.” column

                                                      

 My wife's family reunion rolled around. Later, we all visited the old farm home site. It was surrounded by hundreds of acres of plowed ground. The kids all romped and played. This one child, different than the rest, now two, started walking away. Farther and farther he went. Finally, a concerned adult asked, “When will he turn around?”

    “He won't,” I replied. “I will have to go get him eventually.”

    To make my point, I just watched. I decided I would just let him go, as long as he was in no danger. He became a speck in the distance. Finally, I started moving fast to catch up, before he had time to get to a road. He and I walked back, as the families watched. He tripped, falling face first in the dirt. A collective “oooooooooh!” arose from the onlookers. I paid no attention. He arose, wiped the dirt off his face, so he could see, and quickly caught up. He never hurts himself with his falls.

     He was approaching three now, watching his brother's basketball practice. The coach was a hard case, ran his team with an iron hand. His teams almost never lost. Parents were afraid of him. When practice was over, our subject walked onto the court, shook the coach's pants leg, and said something.

     The coach could not hear. The coach got down on a knee, face to face, and said, “What did you say, buddy?”

     “I said, that was not nice of you, telling my brother to get his butt back on the court!”   Everyone fell silent. The coach raised up, red faced. One or two of the coach's buddies laughed quietly momentarily, but they were quickly silenced by a red-faced glare.

     At the next practice, the coach stated to a group of parents, “Well, I've never been dressed down like that by anyone that small! Then he laughed.

    Then, everybody laughed.

    Our subject was approaching five now. I have a two story tree house in my yard, for the children around me. To keep the small children below, and safe, a knotted rope must be climbed to reach the second floor. Well, it didn't work out right. The older children could not do it. Guess who did? You guessed it. Right to the top. When I arrived on the scene, he was on the second floor roof, singing a song to celebrate his accomplishment.

     Time for the church fish fry. Our friends host this at their farm. Some of my wife's family were there, along with our subject. My wife has a large family, lots of kids, from 5 to 12.  A couple of the girls, 12 years old, ran the show. The older boys, 10 and 11, ran from these girls. For good reason.

     Well, one of the older girls climbed up on a tractor. Our subject started up. She gently put her foot against his face, pushed him back. He needed to know his place. A major mistake. He came back, tiny fists flying. All night he pursued her. When he found her, he always attacked, fists flying. He finally graduated to a stick. When a rescuing parent was finally brought to the scene, she was back peddling, “Get away from me, you little kid!”

     On the way home, he was counseled wisely by his older brother. “You just can't do that,” he said, “to older kids. They will beat you up!”

     “They may beat me up,” he replied, “But I will hurt them while they do!”

     He's at the top of the kid pecking order now. When older kids see trouble with him on the horizon, they run tell us. They want no part of having to fight a small bundle of fury again, again, and again.

     When kindergarten rolled around, his mother took him to preschool visitation. It was at the school his parent's badly wanted him to go to, as his older brother was there. But, the kindergarten classes were about filled up, and his chances were slim. We had all stressed to him about respecting and obeying the Principal. We had no idea what might happen in a school situation, because of his nature. When they signed in, he asked, “Is the Principal here?”

     “Yes, she's over there.”

     “I would like to meet her.”

     When the secretary called her over, his mother told her, “I have a young man here who wants to meet you.” And, she added, privately, “So, run with it!”

     The principal, a very large, tall, stern lady, bent over to get her face next to his. Looked him right in the eye sternly, and said, “If you come here, and act like God and your mama want you to, you will have no trouble. But if you come here and cause problems, you will have lots of trouble!”

     He looked her in the eye awhile, then that grin appeared. “Nah, you won't have any trouble from me. I can count to 20! wanta' hear it?”

     She burst out laughing, losing all her bluster. “I would LOVE to hear you count to 20!” Privately, she said to his mama, “I will see to it PERSONALLY that he goes to school here!” Somehow, he managed to snag the very last kindergarten slot.

     True to his word, she had no trouble with him. Nor did his teacher. However, he was not good at obeying teachers whose class he was not in. Unquestioning obedience to an adult, just because they are bigger than him (almost everyone is) is just not a part of his makeup. But a logical, calm approach by his mother, about the “right thing to do” did the trick.

     Millions for logic, not one single penny for intimidation.

CONTINUED

Forever A Hillbilly: Forever A Hillbilly: Decoration Day

Forever A Hillbilly: Forever A Hillbilly: Decoration Day: Forever A Hillbilly: Decoration Day : I always go to  Decoration Day at the Rover Cemetery. My son Corey and my grandson Carson went with me...

Hillbilly 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. After all that, 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. Later, a woman doctor invented a variation of that which can be done at home, and it always works for Barbara. Sorry, I don't know the name of that procedure - Google, maybe?

     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. 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.

          

     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 person 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.

Pat Gillum’s books,Spreading Wing and Forever Cry  can be found on Amazon. Both Spreading Wing and Forever Cry can be found at The Yell County Record office, at Gypsy JUNKtion in Plainview,  and at Hardman Interiors in Arkadelphia.

The Truest Friend – The legend of Tooter -  will be out soon, along with Dead-Eye Samantha.

Forever A Hillbilly: Decoration Day

Forever A Hillbilly: Decoration Day: I always go to  Decoration Day at the Rover Cemetery. My son Corey and my grandson Carson went with me this year. They were short on time...

Forever A Hillbilly: Decoration Day

Forever A Hillbilly: Decoration Day: I always go to  Decoration Day at the Rover Cemetery. My son Corey and my grandson Carson went with me this year. They were short on time...

Decoration Day

I always go to  Decoration Day at the Rover Cemetery. My son Corey and my grandson Carson went with me this year. They were short on time, so I took them around and reminded them where all the Gillum and  Lazenby graves were. As I started telling stories of some of those people, Corey could finish up many of them, because he had heard them before. My daughter Kinley had planned to come, like she always does, but she was waylaid by a stomach bug, and didn’t make it this year. As I started putting out the flowers, they had to go on home, so I worked alone.

     About the first time I bent over to place a flower, I heard the seat of my pants start to rip. Seems each time I placed a flower, they ripped a little farther. I never had realized before just how hard it was to keep everyone else in the cemetery on Decoration Day in front of me each time I bent over. By the time I had the last flower placed, the seat was completely gone.

     I had to go to a big church social immediately when I got home, but I managed to get Barbara to bring me a new pair of pants to Caddo Valley and meet me at a gas station on the way to it, and I was able to change pants.  I had planned to tie an extra shirt around my waist and just tell everyone I brought it along in case it got cold. As usual, Barbara again saved the day.

     Decoration Day was a very big thing when I was a kid. We spent the whole day there, ate dinner on the grounds, and had a big singing. Then, the rest of the day, us kids spent the rest of the day playing in the cemetery. I realize now that was a part of our training, so that hopefully, we would continue to come to Decoration Day at Rover when we became adults, and train our kids to do likewise, so that the old Gillums and Lazenbys  would not be totally forgotten for a long, long time.

     In the spring of 1997, my brother Harry who had cancer called me up in late April, and asked me if I would be at Decoration Day. That was the spring that our F5 tornado that wiped out a good bit of Arkadelphia. I told him no, I had a job to do that day, and would not be able to come. Our photography business was shut down then from the damage, and I was taking work anytime I could, to try to keep it afloat. Harry said, “You’ve got something else more important to do that day, do you?” Ten days later, right after Decoration Day, Harry was buried in that cemetery.

     Well, I haven’t missed a Decoration Day at Rover since. Although, we did hit a deer on the way one year, tearing up our car, and were a week late.

     Some months back, I got a letter from Ms. Perry Whitlow. She is one of my readers of my column in the Yell County Record. She also grew up in Wing, and told me a lot about my Gillum relatives from the old days that I did not know. She finished up by telling me she would like to meet me, but I best hurry because she was about to turn 94. A week or so later, I was up that way, so I decided to look her up. All I knew was that she lived at Ola. I managed to find a nice lady that knew her, and gave me directions. It was several miles back out the Kingston road. When I finally found what I thought was her house, nobody was at home. We’ve been letter writing buddies since then, and I planned to make another attempt to find her.

     Well, as I walked through the cemetery yesterday, a nice young lady approached me, asking me if I was Pat Gillum. I told her I was. She pointed to another lady a ways back, and said, “She’s Perry Whitlow.” Well, I was really glad to finally meet her, gave her a big hug, and we talked a long time. That made the whole trip up to the Valley worthwhile, I told her. She clued me in about the fact that her house was the next one down the road from the one I found. She is every bit as wonderful as I pictured her being. I managed to keep the seat of my pants turned away from her the whole time we were talking.

I always make sure I locate every Gillum and Lazenby grave, and I think about each person a little, whatever I remember, good or bad. If my kids are along, I tell them a little about that person. There is one man in that cemetery who is not a Gillum or Lazenby at all, but he still commands so much respect in me that I always give him two flowers. RL Whitten. Back during WW II, he was a very close friend of Elbert Lazenby, my cousin. Elbert was a radio man on a bomber, his plane was shot down, and he became a casualty. RL continued to almost be a part of the family. Elbert’s sister, Delphia, was born with severe disabilities, and seemed to me to be bitter about her lot in life. This was back when cousins still kept a close associations with cousins. RL and Delphia soon married, and RL made her his princess, caring for her all their lives, very attentive and very tolerant of her mood swings. And, he single handedly raised her life up far above reasonable expectations. As a boy, I was around them a lot. I never knew what was in his heart, only what I saw. He was one of my best examples of what a good man should be.

*******

     I just finished reading a biography of Daniel Boone, most of which took place in the late 1700’s. At one point, they outlined how those pioneer women washed clothes in those days. I was a little surprised  to find out it was exactly how my mother did it when I was a small boy, black pot, rub board, lye soap made from hog fat, and all.  

     Daniel Boone’s mother was a Morgan. Any relation, Elaine H.?

Forever A Hillbilly: Beyond FOREVER CRY

Forever A Hillbilly: Beyond FOREVER CRY: Martha Jane Tenny Tucker Gillum, the star of Forever Cry, Died in Wing, Arkansas in 1941, shortly after her eighty-second birthday Party....

Beyond FOREVER CRY

Martha Jane Tenny Tucker Gillum, the star of Forever Cry, Died in Wing, Arkansas in 1941, shortly after her eighty-second birthday Party. I was born in that same house in 1944, three years later. As I look at the group photo from that birthday party, I see twenty-four mostly familiar faces, from infants to adults. These were the people who surrounded me, and loved me, as I grew to adulthood. As I approach my seventy-first birthday, only four of these people survive today. Enjoy those around you who love you. Life is short.

     Forever Cry is a historical fiction book, inspired by my grandmother’s colorful life. She was born as the Civil War was about to start, and most of the book took place during The Reconstruction.

     Sarah, Tenny’s mother, was a strong mountain woman who held her family together as the war wound down. Her children gave her much joy, and much shame, during a time of violent upheaval in Arkansas

     My best first-hand information about Grandma Tenny came from my older siblings. My brother Harold, as a small, rowdy boy, remembers her as a very old lady, his worst nightmare. Once, she told him to do something. He replied, “Just a minute.” She laced her fingers in his hair, and swung him around a couple of times.

     My sister Jonnie, as a frail and sickly little girl, remembers her as the one who held her in her arms and rocked her all day long. Every day. When she grew too large for Grandma to hold, she sat beside her in her rocking chair. And rocked. All day long.

     I remember my dad’s comments about Grandma Tenny as a very old lady, when a man came up missing. “The Law wanted to come question her, but was afraid to.” I never understood that. Why would they fear a very fragile old lady, nearing death?

     In researching for Forever Cry, I noticed a little side note on a family researcher’s paper. “Her family hung a man early one morning.” That’s all it said. What??

     Other bare comments. “Grandma and her sister were hidden in a cave once. For two years.”

     “A big wild hog ran in and got the Baby.”

     “Men were killed in her behalf.” Needless to say, all this stimulated more research.  What a life this woman lived!

     This comment, written in by my editor, stated, “This could never happen.” Actually, I could not change it, because it did happen. Truth, at times can be stranger than fiction.

     My two great grandfathers also make their appearance in Forever Cry.  LaFayette WAS held as a POW in the Civil War. He DID survive by eating white oak acorns. He WAS the first constable of Atkins, Arkansas.

     James, my other great grandpa, DID haul in his year’s cotton crop, got drunk, and threw all the money away in the road ditch. He DID marry his daughter’s husband’s baby sister, LaFayette’s youngest daughter, at age 78 and produce two children.

     All the actual events in Forever Cry, woven into the fabric of the story with lots of undocumented happenings I strongly suspect are true but can’t prove, along with pure fiction, at times, make for a story I think you will like.

     My real-life uncle by marriage, Harry Poynter, DID face the sheriff, Deputy sheriff, and county clerk in the streets of Dover in a gunfight, killing one man, and sent the other two racing for Russellville. He DID face down a thirty man posse in downtown Dover, sent to arrest him, with the words “I will give up my guns with my life, and I will make the man who takes it pay a heavy price.” They, also, chose to go home instead, without Harry.

     Several early readers have already finished. Comments: “That girl just completely destroyed the whole family’s reputation.” I dread telling her: “That girl never existed.”

     “I just kept being drawn back to it until I finished.”

     “That first major event was just horrible. So bad, it could not have actually happened.” But it did.

     I did a lot of research about the wars and politics of that time, doing my best to keep that factual. I hope you enjoy it. Either way, my contact info is at the end of Forever Cry. I hope you contact me when you finish. We need to talk. I will laugh with you, or apologize to you, depending upon which seems appropriate.

Forever Cry Excerpt

          Leading Bob’s two horses, James rode up to the Dudley cabin about noon the next day. He could see four other cabins nearby, and there were probably more. One of the children had run into the cabin yelling, “Pawpaw, there’s a man ridin’ in – from the outside!”

          Mr. Dudley was soon on the porch. Again with his scattergun. His wife was right behind, and two or three armed men were walking over. “Ya never stop surprisin’ me, Thacker! We bin told by the Alabama constable about Bob gettin’ shot. And since ya have Bob’s hosses, you musta’ been there. Whatta ‘ye say about that, Thacker?”

          James had survived the first thirty seconds. If he could survive the next thirty, he might live. He must pick his words carefully now.

          “Mr. Dudley, let me tell you first of all, I didn’t shoot your grandson. I notified th’ law, and they did. Bob was holdin’ a knife at my daughter Tenny's throat. I am not that gooda shot.  I wanta express my condolences for your loss. I brought Bob’s personal things for Mrs. Dudley. And, I felt it was right to bring your horses to ya’.”

          The old man spat a long brown stream at James’ feet and just stared at him for a long time. “Jest how would ya know to go to Talladega?”

          Before James could answer, Mrs. Dudley stepped up beside her husband, her head held high, a determined look on her wrinkled face. “I tol’ him.”

          With a surprised look on his angry face, her husband whirled to face her. She held his gaze.

          Mr. Dudley was in shock. “By damn! Why in hell would you do that, woman?”

          The younger men around just stared, and listened. “Clint, jest hear me out, an listen good. Do you remember why, forty-two long years ago, we brought our young children up here away from that sinful and murderous mess of Dudleys in Alabama?”

          The old man didn’t say a word, but his shoulders drooped a bit as he looked at his wife.

          Mrs. Dudley spoke, more forcefully now. “Well, if you don’t, let me remind ya, and I want my sons around us to hear me too. We decided we wanted no part of the scum our awful families were wallowin’ in. We knew our babies would turn out the same. But we couldn’t get my firstborn, Alfred, to come up here with us. It was too late for him. He’d already been tainted by that mess.

          And he raised Bob jest the same way. Jest what we were tryin’ ta get our babies away from. But then Bob came up here with us; he was already too far gone. He started spreadin’ his infection around up here, talkin’ how us Dudley’s never let nobody cross us. Then, our sons began to act the same way. That’s why I tol’ him. An let me say this. If any of my boys around us think this man standin’ before us did wrong when Bob stole his daughter, an hauled her off to hell to become like those no good folks, then jest get away from me. I don’t wanta see ya ever again!”

          Having had her say, she rose to her full height, as if the weight of the world was now lifted from her weary shoulders. She turned, and walked back into the house.

          Nobody moved or spoke for a long while. Then James turned to the big black and pulled a bag from his saddlebags. He walked over and handed it to the old man who reached out and took it. He looked James in the eye, and said, loudly enough for all to hear…..

          “It’s over, James.”

          Mr. Dudley turned, and as he too walked into the house, looked at each of his sons in silent support of his wife.

          James mounted the big black and rode away.

***

          Sarah walked again to the front door. She had been watching that trail for two hours now. Then Sarah saw the big black, loping up the trail. She was out the door and running.

          James pulled the big black up and stepped off to meet her. Sarah threw her arms around him, and kissed him long and deeply.

          “Oh James, I’ve been worried sick! I thought I might lose you! And I’ve got somethin’ ta’ tell you.

          You’re right. Goin’ to Arkansas will be hard on us for a while, but we’ve got to make that sacrifice for our kids so they kin have a future. And besides, what an adventure it will be for us all!”

          James hugged her. “Well, if that’s not some turnaround since last night! Mighty glad ta’ hear it. Now, let me tell you a little ‘bout my day.” As they walked up the trail arm in arm, James leading the black, told her the whole story.

          Now it was time to start making travel plans. Everything they would do from now until the day they headed for Napoleon, Arkansas would be geared toward that moment. April was not that far away. Of course, Tenny was totally excited out of her gourd!

  Forever Cry can be found at amazon.com. Locally, it is available at Hardman Interiors.

     If you like this, please share. Thanks for reading!

Forever A Hillbilly: The Summer of 1956

Forever A Hillbilly: The Summer of 1956:      Mike Ford, my city boy cousin, arrived at our farm from California one morning in June, 1956.  Life on our Arkansas farm was a const...

The Summer of 1956

     Mike Ford, my city boy cousin, arrived at our farm from California one morning in June, 1956.  Life on our Arkansas farm was a constant battle with assorted animals for our crops. Mike had never been out of the Los Angeles area before. The stage was set.

     Soon after Mike's arrival, the raccoons attacked the 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. I was excited to have someone with me, but a little apprehensive about how my city boy cousin would do. But it wouldn't take long for him to figure it out.

     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 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 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 sensible solution came to mind, I called, “Do something, Mike!”

     He hit the coon on the head with the 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 (actually, a U.S. Marines combat knife) out of it's scabbard, and hit it on the head. But by the time I 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 by a momentary flash of good sense, and I shook it loose. Tooter joined the chase then, because he was still a young dog, and 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 big 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 that 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. Later that night as we lay in our sleeping bags on the hardwood floor in my room, scratching at the chigger bites on our legs, Mike confided, “I would sure like to have some scars like that to take back to California.” I felt a surge of pride swell up in my heart.

     A few days later, Mike went down to run the traps we had sat out in our corn patch, got too close to a squirrel or a coon or some such animal, and got his own battle wounds. For days, he pulled the scabs from those wounds, so that the scars would be visible when he wore them back to California.

     As the corn matured, the crows moved in. 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 our patch. As we entered, one guard crow watched from the tree line. We waited hours; 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 Mike 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. Yell county had a fifty cent bounty on crow heads, simply show them to the county clerk (Fay Mathis, I believe it was) 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 his desk, holding his nose. From now on, we would only have to come in and tell him how many we had.

     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 trapline in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles. All he could catch were cats and ground squirrels, though.

     Just this last summer we met up again. We talked about the old farm. He told me that summer in Arkansas over 50 years earlier had influenced the course of his life. And as he talked about the many trips he made into the wilds of the west, I thought about that summer in 1956, and how my city cousin had turned country boy and friend. And I realized it had also influenced the course of mine.


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

Forever A Hillbilly: Hangups and Strange Quirks

Forever A Hillbilly: Hangups and Strange Quirks:      Somewhere around 1947 or so, an enterprising businessman from Plainview, ten miles from Wing, came up with a good idea. Build a chic...

Hangups and Strange Quirks

     Somewhere around 1947 or so, an enterprising businessman from Plainview, ten miles from Wing, came up with a good idea. Build a chicken hatchery at Plainview. He was a good salesman, and he sold a passel of farmers in Wing and the surrounding area on the idea of producing the eggs. Always searching for ways to bring in a little bit more money, Dad went into the egg business. This was along about the time cotton was on its way out in the valley as a money crop. That overworked land was playing out.

     Dad built a long chicken house. It was up on the hill, just to the right of our house. Down under the hill, a couple of hundred yards away, was the huge barn that was built to house the Gillum/Compton/Turner super mule breeding project of the nineteen teens or so. The barn, by the way, was so large, it cost twice as much to build as the house we lived in, $1000. That business did well before the depression, but that business played out also, when tractors came into common use, also along about the time I was born. Old Murt, the only super mule alive when my memories began, successfully sidestepped the glue factory until the late forties. I rode him bareback a lot, and an old, skinny mule without a saddle can be a hard ride. Ida' bout' as soon walk.

     My brother took a picture of our house, at the end of the lane by the barn in 1949 or so, after the chicken house was stocked and producing. I was just getting old enough to work the chickens. I was in that picture, close to the camera, with hundreds of chickens spread out between me and the house. (my wall page)  Actually, I was placed in that pic later, though the time frame was about right. Looking at that picture, one fails to see a trusting, relaxed, laid back, self-confident soul in that face. I'll come back to that later.

     That year, Dad needed a second generation of chickens coming on, to replace the six hundred some odd laying hens, along with a cranky, mean bunch of roosters. The hens in the house were playing out, and getting just too tired to produce an egg a day reliably. And the roosters, each with a very large flock of ladies to attend to, ensuring those eggs were fertile, were playing out too. So the next generation was housed in the barn. These young chickens were producing some eggs, but the eggs were too small for market value. Thus we ate a lot of eggs. During the day, they were turned loose to forage for themselves, cut down on the feed bill. I can count about two hundred in the picture, but there were six hundred or so out there somewhere.

     I would like to tell you it was my job, every afternoon before dark, herding each of those six hundred chicken back into the barn to lock them up and protect them from the coyotes, coons, mink, foxes, etc. at night. Or, it might be an even better story if I told you I just started playing my little flute made out of a piece of fishing cane, marched down the lane to the barn, and they all just lined up and followed me in, a little trick I learned from the pied piper story. I just love to impress people.

    Actually, though, I can't say either of those things, because this is a true story. And, it's awfully hard for a Gillum to just outright tell a bald faced lie, because of the Gillum Do Right Mechanism we're all infected with. So the actual truth is, we kept them shut up in the barn awhile until it became home. They came back in on their own at night.  

      My main job in the chicken house was gathering those eggs in a big, wire basket. Now, those chickens had big plans for those eggs. They planned to lay up about all the eggs they could sit on and keep warm, and eventually hatch out their own batch of baby chicks. Once they began to get the mindset to become a “settin' hen,” they became protective of their eggs. I had to steal many of those eggs out from under that mad hen. She would flog, squawk, and peck me. Then I went on down the line to the next nest. Those cranky roosters didn't like me one bit, either. I was invading their territory, and messin' with their women folk. I never knew when one of those cranky old roosters would be on my back, scratching, biting, and floggin'. And, it was not unheard of for me to approach a nest, only to find it occupied by a really big black snake, containing several egg-sized lumps in his belly.

Carrying that heavy basket full of eggs to the house, I had to walk through the territory already staked out by Old Jersey, our mean-natured old milk cow. Every day, it seemed, she saw me going into the hen house with my empty basket, and when I came out, she was waiting. You ever tried to outrun a cranky ole’ milk cow while carrying a basket full of eggs? Every day, again and again? But still yet, she never caught me, though my load of eggs sometimes were the worse for wear.

     Is it any wonder I developed that angry but timid, distrustful look reflected in that face at a very early age? Do you understand why I much preferred wandering the bottoms and the mountains alone?

     The egg business played out in a few years. The scuttlebutt going around was, the main business was really selling a lot of chicken feed to the farmers. Lots and lots of chicken feed. The hatchery sorta took second fiddle. A plus was, all that chicken feed came in pretty cloth sacks, all decorated up to make shirts and dresses from. Mom and my sisters spent a lot of time on the old singer sewing machine. It was not uncommon for Mom to give Dad a few scrap pieces of feed sack material for him to try and match when he headed to Plainview for yet another load of chicken feed. And, during that time, we ate lots and lots of eggs and chickens, enabling us to ease up on the salt pork awhile.  Also, later in high school, I taught myself to pole vault with a well-seasoned pine pole I stole from the chicken roost. In addition, I learned to run fast at an early age. So, it would seem all's well that ends well.
     Dad dispensed with the chickens. It seemed some of that chicken feed had gone bad, and we sometimes had to haul a tractor and wagon load of dead chickens off into the woods to feed all the hungry coyotes around. And that, along with the fact that the money making aspect of that enterprise was not too great to begin with for the farmer, did the chicken business in for Dad.

     Uncle Franz, who was richer than us because he was a school teacher, once bought up a bunch of registered and double registered Polled Hereford cattle, and brought them up to us for Dad to raise and sell on the halves. That business enterprise did better, and Dad stuck with that business the rest of his life. He was growing up a pretty good herd of registered Polled Hereford cattle, concentrating on high quality young herd bulls for sale. And me, I began my stage in life as a cowboy without a horse. But I didn't fare a lot better than I did with the chickens. We had some mean cows there, too. And those big bulls just dared me to step into THEIR pasture. Once, one of those big bulls tried to get romantic with one of Aunt Lula’s cows, through the barbed wire fence, and lost all his value as a herd bull. Another time, two of those big bulls got together and were fighting all over the pasture. Dad had gone to town, so I ran down and shot our double barrel shotgun, both barrels at once, over their heads, to try to scare them apart. It didn’t impress them much, but it knocked me flat down. When Dad got home, one had a broken leg.

 Those young bulls coming on were just beginning to strut their stuff, and they badly needed someone small enough to intimidate. I was the natural choice. A really good counselor could have had a field day, helping me get past all my hang ups and strange quirks I developed before I got big enough to look out for myself. But then, Wing didn't have any of those kind of people. I don't doubt that maybe a few of those strange quirks are still hanging around in my psyche today. Or maybe you have already noticed. 

PS - If you like this story, please share!        

Forever A Hillbilly: The Ivory Billed Woodpecker

Forever A Hillbilly: The Ivory Billed Woodpecker: In August of 2006, I was walking out from fishing my favorite hole on the Fourche River, and a very large woodpecker flew from a dead snag ...

The Ivory Billed Woodpecker

In August of 2006, I was walking out from fishing my favorite hole on the Fourche River, and a very large woodpecker flew from a dead snag that had a large hole in it, near the top. I was struck by the bird's size, and its markings.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Then IT flew in, and changed my thinking forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 The world needs to know.

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Bud

Forever A Hillbilly: Bud: In 1998, Barbara and I sold our photography business, bought an RV, leased our house out for a year (we took down our pics and personal s...

Forever A Hillbilly: Bud

Forever A Hillbilly: Bud: In 1998, Barbara and I sold our photography business, bought an RV, leased our house out for a year (we took down our pics and personal s...

Forever A Hillbilly: Bud

Forever A Hillbilly: Bud: In 1998, Barbara and I sold our photography business, bought an RV, leased our house out for a year (we took down our pics and personal s...

Bud

In 1998, Barbara and I sold our photography business, bought an RV, leased our house out for a year (we took down our pics and personal stuff, locked it up, leased the house furnished as is, and walked out.)

We had bought several rental properties while working, so I looked for a property manager to look after them while we were on the road.

Bud Reeder had a large realty business in town, and managed hundreds of rental units also, so he seemed to be the logical choice.

I had managed them myself up to that point, and I never really enjoyed that job. Seems every time I had listened to a hard luck story from a renter, and responded with a kind heart, I eventually go burned. Every single time.  One of my last acts as my own property manager was to rent an apartment to a  foreign framing crew which would be working in town a few months. A month or two down the road in our travels, we got an early morning call on our emergency phone. It was from our son in law, Mickey, who was then a paramedic. Seems he was the first responder to that rented apartment. A couple of the guys had gotten into a fight over a woman, it spilling out into the back yard. One picked up a concrete block and bashed the other man’s head in. Like I said. I never enjoyed managing rental property.

When we returned at the end of that year of travel, we decided to leave them all in Bud’s hands. Let him deal with all those problems. He was doing a good job. If it ain’t broken, don’ try to fix it. Besides, Barbara and I still had a lot of world out there to see.

Bud’s grandfather, Lon Reeder, brought his family to Arkadelphia from Colorado in the 1800’s and built a farming and ranching operation where Turtle Point golf course is today. It later expanded out toward Old Military Road and farther.

Bud’s father, Frank W, became a rodeo cowboy, participating in roping and bull dogging competitions in such places as Madison Square Garden in New York City, and at the World’s Fair in Chicago. Many old western antiques still on display at the Burger Barn and Western Sizzlin’ in Arkadelphia belongs to the Reeder family.

Bud’s mother passed away when he was five, and he and his siblings were mostly raised by his grandmother. His means of transportation as he grew up was a Mexican burro.

Lon built a small, one room slaughter and packing house In 1930. In 1934, Brucellosis was rampant in Arkansas cattle. To help control it, the government helped Frank W. build a much larger slaughter house on Country Club Road. Herds of cattle were brought in, and each animal was tested. Those showing no signs of the disease were run through a dipping vat, to control parasites, and taken back back to their farm. Many cattle were slaughtered and buried. This was the beginning of the major push to rid our country of brucellosis, which took 76 years to do. It is still common in some other countries. Handling infected animals can cause Undulant fever in humans, though not after it’s cooked. In 1934, the percentage of tested cattle affected was 11.5%. As of December 31 of 2000, no cattle herd in the United States, for the first time, was found to be affected.  It was a long hard struggle, and the Reeder family were some of the pioneers.

The hides were salted, rolled up, and put in 55 gallon drums for a while, then spread out to dry flat. They were then sold to make leather.

Before refrigeration, animals were slaughtered on demand and hauled to stores.

John Wesley Davis raised his family nearby, in a house with plank walls covered with newspapers. John Wesley worked at the plant for many years, then gradually trained his family of large, strong boys, Dooster, Gyp, Man, and Sonny as butchers.

Man was employed at the plant throughout his working life. At 22, he married Gloria Smith, 20. They had a son, Randy, and a daughter, Teresa.

Man was once busy butchering a beef when a government inspector came in. The inspector soon came into the office, telling Bud, “These men can’t touch that meat with bare hands. They have to wear gloves.” Bud said, “You go tell them that.” The inspector went out into the plant, then soon returned, headed out the door in a hurry, saying, “That man can do whatever he wants.” Bud later asked Man what happened. “Well,” Man Replied, “He came back there, right behind my shoulder, telling me I had to put on gloves. I just turned around and looked at him, forgetting that the bloody knife was still in my hand. I told him gloves slowed me down too much, I was being paid by the number of beeves I butchered. The next thing I knew, he left in a hurry.” Sadly, Man died in a motorcycle accident at 32. Barbara hired Gloria to work for her a few years later.  We all soon realized she was about the hardest working, most dependable and honest ladies we have ever known. 20+ years later, we still see a lot of “Glo,”, and she is now one of our dearest friends.

Bud started working in the plant when he was still in high school on a half day basis. Later, he married Ella Ruth, a very classy lady. She became the plant bookkeeper, and they ran that plant as a team for many years. They have currently been married for 59 years. They have two son, John and Wes. Ten years later, they adopted Carol, 5 days old, in Dallas.

Bud once had a major shortage of bulls. He called his supplier in Paris, Texas, who told him he had plenty, but due to a major truck driver strike, he had no way to get them to Arkansas. Bud jumped in his truck, drove to Paris. When he arrived, he was surrounded by angry truckers. One bold man pulled his cab door open, only to find himself staring into the business end of Bud’s double barrel shotgun lying across his lap, both hammers pulled back. The man backed up a few steps, now in a position where he would be impossible to miss. Bud introduced himself. “This is a Reeder truck, those are Reeder bulls in there, I’m Bud Reeder, and those bulls are going to Arkansas.” With no more trouble from the truckers, he hauled his bulls to Arkansas.

Bud got in the real estate business more or less by accident, when somebody asked him to sell his houses. He got his papers in 1973.  In 1980, son Wes designed a building for his business, and Harold Nix built it. Bud soon began managing properties, again by accident, when somebody asked him to look out for their three mobile homes. That business grew to around 400 units.

When I first got to know Bud, he always carried a sawed off shotgun around, displayed in the window of his automobile.  If the local police ever felt they needed a little extra firepower, they dropped by and borrowed that sawed off shotgun.  That was during a time when many loud and rowdy parties were held in his rental properties. Bud was called out late at night, maybe a couple of times a week, when the tenants got too wild. While the police could be held at bay if the tenants demanded a search warrant, the property manager can legally enter at any time, so they often called in Bud. Bud seems to be just enough of a cowboy that he relishes those occasions. While he’s never had to fire a gun to protect himself or others, nobody ever doubted that he would, or could, if necessary. His current weapon of choice is a custom made, .410 gauge shotgun pistol, revolver type. The first chambers are loaded with bird shot.

At 79, Bud was still  on the job, and does not discourage his tough guy image, knowing that that next wild party may bust loose at any time. But actually, those of us who are around him a lot know the real Bud. He always looks after the needs of his owner’s properties, on call 24 hours a day. If a renter is going to get mad at someone, Bud wants it to be at him, not the owner. Good cop, bad cop. He negotiates good prices with repair men, and passes that savings on. Bud is very civic minded, and willing to help all those around him at any time. I would guess that nobody in Arkadelphia has gone to more funerals than Bud Reeder, whether he really knows the family or not. He’s always there to show respect. I read something on facebook today that made me immediately think of Bud Reeder. I think it speaks of Bud better than anyone I know.

     “ On a cold April night three years ago, my father died a quiet death from cancer. His funeral was on a Wednesday, middle of the work week. I had been numb for days when, for some reason, during the funeral, I turned and looked back at the folks in the church. The memory of it still takes my breath away. The most human, powerful and humbling thing I’ve ever seen was a church at 3:00 on a Wednesday full of inconvenienced people who believe in going to the funeral.”    – by Dierdre Sullivan

Bud never travels, fishes, or does anything else much except playing with his tractors and dozers. He’s in that business, ready to go, any morning at 6:30. When I started gathering info for this story, I went down to his office at 6:30 AM on Labor Day. I didn’t call ahead. I knew he would be there.

Ever the loyal wife, Ella Ruth Is there pretty well every day too. Just in case Bud forgets something.  Ella Ruth just loves hearing about our travels.  Some time back she won a free vacation. I know she would have loved to go. But Bud’s not about to leave that business, and she’s not about to leave Bud alone. It went to waste, as far as she was concerned.

A few years ago, Bud and Ella Ruth threw a big New Year’s party. Barbara and I went, and, since they are leading citizens, I expected to see the elite crowd there. But no. Most people invited was a widow or a widower, or otherwise alone in life.

If our government ever decides to throw a big war, fought only by old men over 70, I guess I’ll go if I’m drafted. (Come to think of it, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. We’ve got a lot less to lose.)  But I really won’t feel very good about it, unless, maybe, Bud’s the man I follow into battle.