Forever A Hillbilly: Learning While Teaching

Forever A Hillbilly: Learning While Teaching:  THE JOB STARTED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SCHOOL YEAR . I had just graduated from college in January, and I felt very lucky to find a teac...

Forever A Hillbilly: Forever A Hillbilly:

Forever A Hillbilly: Forever A Hillbilly::  Learning While Teaching      The job started in the middle of the year. I had just graduated from college in January, and I felt ver...

Learning While Teaching

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                                                                                               

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

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

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

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

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

     When I first arrived at Saint Paul it was midwinter.

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

Forever A Hillbilly:

 Learning While Teaching

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                                                                                               

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

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

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

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

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

     When I first arrived at Saint Paul it was midwinter.

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

Announcing The Winners!

THE WINNERS OF THE SIXTY YEAR PROMISE BEST FAMILY STORIES CONTEST ARE - 

First Place - Linda Hatcher - The Dog Days of Summer

Second Place - Jonnie Sue Willis - Polio Hits

Third Place - Cindy Buford - My Story

Fourth Place - Jackie Leffingwell - A Love Story

Fifth Place - Dorothy Starnes - Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell

The winners were determined by the number of reads each had in three days on Foreverahillbilly.
All were well written and very interesting. Thank you for entering! You guys are just really good!

     

Forever A Hillbilly: Moving on South

Forever A Hillbilly: Moving on South:       At Andersonville, we spent some time at the Civil War POW Camp. That was a nightmare place. Not enough food, bad water, little cover...

Moving on South

      At Andersonville, we spent some time at the Civil War POW Camp. That was a nightmare place. Not enough food, bad water, little cover from the elements. Actually, It was just a big field with a palisade wall around it, teen age guards all around, trained to shoot to kill if anyone got within 10 feet of the wall. A creek running through it was the only source of water, and It was quickly contaminated with human waste. Thousands from the north died there.

     Our next stop was one of our inexpensive-type stops. My nephew Stan and Missy Arrington's  driveway. Stan had always been an outdoor, woodsy type guy. He was now a forester, and a dutch oven cooking expert. They had a fenced back yard, except at the back, which was bordering a bayou. They had a big, pretty white rabbit that had the run of the place. One day, Missy was at the kitchen window, and a large gator came up out of the bayou and gobbled the pretty white rabbit up. They have two children, Mandy and Thomas. Mandy was always all about horses, growing up, and she is now about to get a Masters degree in horse knowledge. I'm just not sure what that degree would be called. When we woke up the next morning, at daylight, Thomas, a small boy then, walked by our RV and disappeared from our vision. When we came out of the RV, later, he was just sitting up in top of a tall tree, just looking. Thomas went on to achieve, in college, membership in that group of nearly naked, painted young men that you might see at Mississippi State football games. He now seems to have matured, however, because he's about to travel to the Philippines and spend a good bit of time traveling up remote rivers, seeking unreached people for Christ. I would say he's being promoted, how about you? Missy is a big wig at Mississippi State.

     We toured Savanna, with its Forest Gump bench, where he sat with his box of chocolates on Chippewa  Square. But we forgot to bring our chocolates.

     Our next stop was at Mark Twain State Park, well out into the Okefenokee Swamp. The swamp was formed when the Swanee River spread out over a wide area, 50 miles across. It is a wild area that man was unable to successfully cross until well up into the 1900's. I had been here before, on one of my Pork and Beans Trips. Barbara had not. I wanted to give Barbara a real taste of the swamp, but before heading out in a small boat, I gave her the gator lecture. I told her it was wintertime here, the gators were cold, and would not try to come in our boat. But, we will be very close to many. If you come close to one, and jump up and run, you will swamp the boat, then we'll be right down in amongst' um'. Stay still. A ranger told of getting a report of a boat being swamped, people in the water. When they got there, they were still hanging onto the boat, surrounded by 40 gators. Just looking. I called up several foxes to a photo session with my predator call. Then it was time to head on down the road.

     We went down the west coast of Florida, and saw so many different birds and other animals at reserves along the way, I wouldn't even try to tell you about all of them. Sea Cows stood out. Very large swimming mammals, about the size of a walrus, but they had a habit of swimming just under the surface, and many got cut up by outboards.

     We left our RV at Miami, then drove on down to the south most point of the USA at Key West. The sunset was one of a kind, and everyone turned out for a big party at sunset. We spent the night in a B&B, then back to Miami.

     We toured the Everglades. A foreign guy was taking a little trail ahead of us, and he ran back, pointing, saying, “chicken! Chicken!” It turned out to be one of those big footed little birds, that walks around on lily pads. I didn't know the name of it either, so I really don't know what the purpose of that little story was. Certainly not educational.

      Barbara and a large gator were looking at each other. Barbara asked a ranger what was keeping him from just coming and getting her. He said, “He's sizing you up. If  he decides he's bigger than you, he will.” Well, they were a pretty good match, and she didn't give him time to make his decision. She broke for the car. Barbara just has something that makes big animals make a run at her, tame or wild. Not the least of which was a small grizzly bear.  I have heard that a Gator can outrun a horse for 20 feet, and I never believed those slow-seeming animals could really do that, until I saw one make a run for a bird once. They can come up on their toes and just fly for a short distance.

     We had seen both of Florida's coasts before, so we decided to head back up the middle. We drove through endless acres of Sugar Cane to Lake Okeechobee. We camped very near the lake on the south end. It is Florida's largest lake, though shallow. I have heard of fishermen out in the middle of the lake, seeing almost no land, swamping the boat, then going into a panic, until they realize they can stand up.

     That south end must sorta be like an elementary school for small gators, since they abound, and will crawl right up to the RV at night. One woman wanted to show Barbara how a gator would go right for her fishing lure. It did, she jerked it hard, and the lure flew back and slapped Barbara smack in the face. Barbara got away from that woman.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Sixty Year Promise Best Family story contest

Forever A Hillbilly: The Sixty Year Promise Best Family story contest: The deadline  is approaching! the Best family story contest ends Sept. 1.  The leader, based on the most reads in three days, along with t...

The Sixty Year Promise Best Family story contest

The deadline  is approaching! the Best family story contest ends Sept. 1.  The leader, based on the most reads in three days, along with the honerable mention stories are listed below. If you still wish to enter, I must recieve it at least three days before the deadline.

The leader - The Dog Days of Summer by Linda hatcher, 334 reads.  Honorable mention - Polio, by Jonnie Willis - 236;  My Story, by Cindy Buford - 184;  A Love Story, by Jackie Leffingwell, 149; Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell, 143. All of these stories were wonderful! You guys are so good!

     

Forever A Hillbilly: Multiple Troubles

Forever A Hillbilly: Multiple Troubles:      We drove through Maryland. The leaves were not quite at their peak yet, but we saw it a couple of years later, backtracking I must ...

Multiple Troubles

     We drove through Maryland. The leaves were not quite at their peak yet, but we saw it a couple of years later, backtracking I must admit, which we try to avoid. The second time around, Maryland was as glorious as New England was now. Moving into West Virginia, it was a hard trip. Even on this great interstate now through these mountains. Its hard to imagine the hardships of the pioneers, traveling here. We camped at Broken Wheel Campground, and the name seemed appropriate. West Virginia is a poor state, very rich in natural beauty – and coal.

     The old grist mill on a rushing brook at Babcock State Park, which of course we pictured, is a great photo attraction. We have seen photos of it, all over the country. The New River Gorge is actually very old, and the world's longest single arch steel bridge spans it, 867 feet above the river below. The coal seam is about three quarters of the way to the top, and it's easy to mine. Just drop the coal to the valley below, haul it off. Many sky divers gather at the New River Gorge bridge one day each year, to risk killing themselves. I just don't have that urge.

     This was a backward, isolated area for so long, before this high tech corridor we came down. Travel was hard for these friendly people, who speak so much like the Arkansas hill people of my youth. The slang is so similar, it is amazing. I know they never visited back and forth much, over these mountains. The New River is also a top white water river.

 Kentucky Troubles

      The RV would not start after a stop at Hawk‘s Nest, the first of a string of automobile troubles. It had to be towed 40 miles to have a new ignition switch put in. Thanks for the tow, Good Sam!

     Arriving at Beaver Dam, Kentucky, we were having battery problems. We spent the night. A large party seemed to be scheduled for tonight, so we went downtown. We were walking down the street, surrounded by hundreds of people. The music started to kick in. Every single person there, and I mean every one, stopped and started tapping a foot. Everybody except us. Now if that's not a bit weird. Then, the music really kicked in, and again, every single person, except us, just literally danced onto the street! Not together, really, just dancing. We looked around for the movie cameras. Surely we were on a movie set.  

     When we got back to the RV park, a track with small race cars roared to life. Naturally, we had to go look. These were kids driving these cars. But they were very loud and very fast! I knew these kids didn't even have a driver's license yet.

     On down the road a ways the next day, what we thought was battery problems turned bad. Alternator problems. It was Saturday, and new one was hard to find, but we did, and I was determined to do it myself. We pulled into a truck stop, and I got my tools out. I discovered a guy in the truck stop that used to be a mechanic, but now he was just working there at odd jobs. He started supervising me, and kept coming out at intervals to keep me on the right track, for a good part of the afternoon. He would not take pay, but we left some for him anyway, when we pulled out the next day. We have stayed in touch with him over the years. A good man.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Tall Ship Cory

Forever A Hillbilly: The Tall Ship Cory:      At St. Andrews, close to the Maine border, we booked a whale watching trip on the tall sailing ship Cory. We only saw two whales. Jus...

The Tall Ship Cory

     At St. Andrews, close to the Maine border, we booked a whale watching trip on the tall sailing ship Cory. We only saw two whales. Just as it happened, son Corey was in Seattle at the time, to speak at a Photographer's Convention, and looked out to sea and saw a whale. Now, how would I say this: We saw a whale on the east coast from the Cory, while Corey saw a whale on the west coast. Did you follow me on that?

     As it turned out, the crew of the Cory was as interesting as the whales. The deck hand was a tall, slim woman. Barefooted, she climbed like a cat to the top of the mast and handled those sails and ropes like the professional she is. She climbed all the way to the top, carrying our camera, just to take our picture. Her face was very weather beaten, the effects of hundreds of voyages. She is an illustrator in the winter, and in summer, she makes three trips a day, seven days a week, May-September. The Captain built the ship himself in New Zealand, and sailed it around the world in six years. But those two don't even come close to being the most interesting of the crew. “Bear” Ledger is an Acadian folklorist, a story teller, and a musician. He tells his folklore in poem and in song. He plays the accordion, bagpipes, and fiddle on ship, and plays eight other instruments. He just starts doing his thing, on deck, whether anyone is around or not. But we are all soon there, listening. His dream is to travel to Louisiana, to visit his cousins, the Cajuns, and compare his folklore to theirs.

We went through Passamaguoddy Bay, through the Bay of Fundy. We passed Rosevelt's cottage, where he used to take his mistress, or so we were told.  A small rocky island appeared to have a snow covering. But it was bird waste, from the thousands of birds who made it home. The Bay of Fundy is a major natural reserve of life. 

     Barbara was recruited as Captain, for a time, and got to sail the ship. She asked about the life jackets. The captain told her, “This is the North Sea. If you fall overboard, you'll be dead in three minutes. You don't need a life jacket.”  I was recruited to haul in the jib sails at the end of the trip. Now, where's the fairness in that? Barbara's steering the ship, I'm wadding up sails. But, the Captain seemed to enjoy her company more that mine. Can't say I blame him. Barbara's a fun girl.

     A friend of mine from McCrory, where we lived for a time, was a saturation diver in the North Sea for an oil company. A French company nearby averaged losing a diver a day, for a time. A dangerous job, but it pays well. He was all about danger. He came to McCrory and began piloting a helicopter spraying crops. He clipped the tail rotor off once on a power line. Without a tail rotor, a helicopter just goes round and round in the direction the blade is turning until it crashes. He broke his leg. The upside was, I could always beat him at tennis while he wore a boot.

     The Bay of Fundy was one of the great natural wonders we experienced. If you ever go to Maine, go up just a little farther and book a trip on the tall sailing ship Cory. It's a great experience. We explored New York for a few days, but you have all done that, so I’ll just jump on past to the Amish Country.

   

     At Starlight camp, we were on top of a mountain overlooking the Amish country. Farms seem to have 20 or 30 acres. Dozens of giant hot air balloons were taking off at daylight. They make good use of their land. We went to an Amish Farmer's Market the next day. Shoofly Pie, fresh squeezed apple juice. Barbara was about to take a picture of two Amish men, playing checkers. They waved it off, no pictures. They were making a living off the tourists, and I thought that was a little odd. We overate chocolate at Hershey. Horse and buggy rigs were just everywhere. The simple life has it's attraction, taking life directly from the land. Many of their harvesting devices were familiar, from Wing, many years ago.

     We moved to Gettysburg, and toured the battle site. So much pain and death on these fields. The last man to fall on Pickett's charge fell right here, by these bushes. We left out on a dreary morning, somehow appropriate. Past a statue of an officer on his horse at the crest of a hill, past thousands of crosses standing in straight rows. We don't want to glorify war, but we must pay tribute to these brave men. We were glad we saw it, even more glad when we left.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Tidal Bore

Forever A Hillbilly: The Tidal Bore: THE TIDAL BORE WAS A REALLY NEAT THING. The Bay of Fundy lies between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and has a funnel shape. We were near ...

The Tidal Bore

THE TIDAL BORE WAS A REALLY NEAT THING. The Bay of Fundy lies between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and has a funnel shape. We were near the apex of the funnel. Partially because of the shape of the bay, and partially because of the timing of the tides, the difference between high tide and low tide is the greatest in the world. Up the two rivers that run in at the apex of the bay, the effect is magnified even more. We were on one of those rivers. When the tide came in, it was so fast a wall of water two feet high was out in front. Many people paddled canoes far down the river, and rode the tidal bore back up. That was really something special to see. At harbors along the bay, fishing boats had to go and come at high tide, or they would find themselves on the sea floor. They had to change the departure and return time each day, with the changing of the tides. It was not unusual to see a wharf, 50 feet  above a boat lying on the bare sea floor.

     Leaving Nova Scotia behind, we traveled along the bay to St. Johns, New Brunswick. We went to a mall that had lifelike sculptures of ordinary people, clustered about in different positions. Barbara just loved to station herself in a position among them, then move and speak when somebody came by. It sometimes scared the wits out of folks. But that's just Barbara. Get her out where she will never see anybody she knows, and she can be a totally different woman. St. Johns was where many Tories moved to after the Revolutionary war. It has a reversing waterfall, where the rising tide quickly overcomes a tall waterfall when it rolls in.

     I loved to walk out on the sea floor at low tide, with scattered pools around, just full of  sea life. Any rock turned over hides starfish, urchins, and numerous other sea animals I didn't recognize. One has to pay close attention to the tide, however. If one gets far out and the tide comes in, it can quickly surround you and cut off escape. Once, I walked a quarter of a mile or so out. When I started back, the tide was starting to come in. It chased me all the way back, full speed, which, I must admit, was not all that fast.

Forever A Hillbilly: Prince Edward Island

Forever A Hillbilly: Prince Edward Island:       The Confederation Bridge into Prince Edward Island was the longest marine bridge in the world at that time. It was very ...

Prince Edward Island

   

 The Confederation Bridge into Prince Edward Island was the longest marine bridge in the world at that time. It was very high, also, and you already know how that affects me.

     We camped near the middle area of the island. The full-time RV'ers there called us “babes” in full timer lingo. When I started to whine and tell one of them about our motor problems, he waved it off. “Just fix it, and move on down the road. Don't worry about it, it will mess up your trip.” I told that to myself many times, later, going on down the road.

     We unloaded the car, and set in to see the north half of the island. We soon passed something like a Forestry Festival, although I couldn't figure out how their very short gnarled trees up on that end of the island could be a big thing to them. I guess, If that's just all you've got, you learn to appreciate them.  Climbers with spikes on were running up very tall poles to the top, to try to ring their bell first. I don't know where they could have found poles that tall, amid their short, stumpy, forests of trees.

     We stopped at an Irish Moss Interpretive Center. Irish Moss is used as a thickening agent in many foods. When a Nor' Wester‘ blows that moss in toward shore, they hitch their horses to a rake, and horse and man wade that freezing surf, raking  that moss ashore, carrying it off by the truckloads. Tough horses, tough men. They also trap lobsters, and grow potatoes. Their specialty, Seaweed Pie, is not real good, not real bad.

     Traveling along the very windy north coast, Elephant Rock was advertised ahead. A man and two women manned the tiny booth where they charged a small fee for the attraction. The man was taking my money, and I could tell he was very embarrassed. He told me, ”I want to apologize for my appearance. I broke my dentures.”

     I just took mine out, handed them out the window, and told him, “Here, use mine until I get back.” The women died with laughter, and he loosened up some. He didn't take my dentures, thank goodness. Elephant rock was out in the sea, and it looked the part, somewhat. The trees were down to about head high on this coast, and it was extremely windy.

     At the far north east corner of the island, something very neat was happening. Two seas met, rolling in to meet each other along a tiny strip of land, that extended far out. That little strip was just filled with hundreds of strange little birds. Occasionally, they flew, but always returned to that narrow strip. I guess they were feeding there. Many different kinds of wind driven devices were being tested there.

     These were hardy, hard working people along this north coast. Beautiful in summer, but we could just imagine what a horrible place it must be in the winter.

     We moved down to Charlottetown, in the middle of the southern half of the island. We saw a high wire act with a man juggling running chain saws. I told you they were tough. I didn’t get a chance to see if there was really a chain on that saw.  If so, that would have really gotten my respect. I cut my leg once with one, and I’ve never felt anything quite like it, except later when a pit bull grabbed my leg.

     The southern part was more touristy, very beautiful. Taller but still short trees allowed one to see vast areas. Every view was like a post card. We saw Ann's house, of  “Ann of Green Gables.” Along the coast, lots of lobster traps, light houses. Many, many potato farms. Summertime in the south of Prince Edward Island was literally like living in a post card. As I said that day,  “If farmers have a special Farmer's Heaven, This is what it would look like. Maybe more like Farmer's Hell in a few months.”

Goodbye, Prince Edward Island.

     Prince Edward Island didn't go quietly, or easily. We got lost on the way to the ferry, got on a bad, tiny road, meeting one large load of dirt after another in dense fog. We entered the belly of the huge ferry with minutes to spare.

     Our last glimpse of Prince Edward Island came as the ferry pulled out and the fog rolled in. Prince Edward Island, I want to see you again. But I probably won't. There's far too much world ahead yet to see to ever backtrack.

Forever A Hillbilly: Quebec City

Forever A Hillbilly: Quebec City:    Quebec City is a walled city, from times past. The people seem to look different from others we have seen, but a lot like each ot...

Quebec City

   Quebec City is a walled city, from times past. The people seem to look different from others we have seen, but a lot like each other. I've noticed this before in isolated places. Those French speakers would not speak English to another Canadian, and were very standoffish until we told them we were Americans, then they warmed up and spoke English well.

     Barbara started reading the Bible through that day, and finished it on the trip. Gives you some idea how long that trip was.

     We discovered Expo Quebec was going on, something like our Arkansas State Fair, but very different. I found a parking spot in a man's yard nearby for a small fee. Then, the man said we had to leave our car keys with him, in case he had to move cars around. Now, that was not something I was accustomed to doing at our state fair, so finally, I just took everything of value out of the car, put it in a big backpack, and carried it around all day. When we got back at the end of the day, he was still standing right beside our car, guarding it. I felt bad, and I could tell his feelings were hurt, but he was nice about it.

     We saw a lot of new stuff at that Expo. Cheese sculptures, sand sculpture, all very intricate, chickens with feathers down to the end of their toes, milk cows with giant udders, and a woman diving from a 40 foot tower into a play pool of water six feet deep.

     When we got back to the RV park, and were loading up, Barbara drove the car up the ramps onto the car dolly. Those french women screamed with amazement, then they all came over and hugged her! You would have thought she had just dived off a 40 foot tower or something! Trying to drive out of the park backwards, because I couldn't read the sign, I got hung up between two trees. All those people turned out and started directing me, in French.

     Moving on out the St. Lawrence Seaway, we blew a tire on our car dolly at Bic. The man at the only station had only one tire that would fit, and there were no other possibilities anywhere around. But he still gave me a cut-rate deal. I'm not really sure if he just liked me, or he was helping me to get on out of there, but we always got very fair treatment at the hands of French-Canadians. Little did we know, they were about to save our necks in a major way, a little bit farther down the road.

     Farther along, we left the Seaway and headed inland, across the mountains to the Acadian Coast of New Brunswick. The Acadians were kinfolks of the Louisiana Cajuns.

Big Trouble

      Traveling across the mountains, I started hearing a strange noise in my RV motor. It got worse. As we moved out of the mountains, it would barely run. Finally, it shut down, but we were still rolling down an incline out of the mountains. We were out on a peninsula, and it appeared to me we were about as far from help as we could get in North America, without going polar. We entered Caroquet, a very isolated little town out on the far end of that peninsula. We rolled to a stop, literally, right in front of the only truck repair place we had seen in many days. I went in to talk, and they could barely speak a little English. Finally, they figured out I was having motor troubles. They came out. The motor access was right beside the driver's seat. They took their shoes off, spread out a cloth around the whole area so as not to make a mess, and opened it up. The diagnosis was a thrown rod, and I knew that would cost a couple of thousand at home. He suggested they could tie that rod up, and we could limp on home one cylinder short. “Can you fix it?” I asked. Yes, they could. It would take all day tomorrow, and they would have to bring in extra help. I didn't want to face all those hills ahead short one cylinder, so we went for it. They brought out an extension cord, said we could live there for the duration.

     Barbara  and I went to an Acadian Village the next day, set up like their pioneers lived, and the people dressed the part. Their pioneer life on this cold coast made our pioneers look like a cakewalk. The English had pushed the Acadians up to this lonely, cold coast many years ago.

     Back at the RV, they had finished up. The total bill, when changed into dollars, was about $700. They had been extremely nice and helpful throughout, and after paying the bill, I wrote a very nice letter of recommendation, so that other travelers would know they were really good people. We said goodbye, and headed on.

Forever A Hillbilly: A Year On The Road

Forever A Hillbilly: A Year On The Road:   I  WAS KIDDING WITH BARBARA ONE DAY. “When we get out of our photography studio, let's buy an RV, rent out our house, and travel for a...

A Year On The Road

 I  WAS KIDDING WITH BARBARA ONE DAY. “When we get out of our photography studio, let's buy an RV, rent out our house, and travel for a year.”

      To my great surprise, she didn't even need to discuss it. She just said, “okay.”

     We put our house up for lease. Luckily, Rhower BF Goodrich was just about to open up in Arkadelphia. We leased it to them for a year, to be used by their executives coming into town to train new employees, as a sort of hotel. We bought an older model RV, 32 feet long. We also got a dolly to pull our car on. Barbara began to pay our major bills off, a year in advance. Everything else was on automatic withdrawal. Our house rent would pay for our lodging. We sold the business to our daughter Kinley and Mickey. We would be free as a couple of birds!

     The first day out, I began to learn how to drive that big rig. I saw right off that, in making a left hand turn, the trailing car would be thrown out into the far right lane. I had to learn to take over both lanes when about to make a turn on a four lane road. Many months into the trip, I would pay the price for that little problem. The big rig caught a lot of wind. On the interstate to Memphis, seemed like every big truck that passed us was blowing us into the ditch. And, I could not back that long rig very far, with the car on. I had to have half a football field to turn around in. Our plan was to travel a couple of hundred miles to a destination, hang around until we had seen it, then move on.

     We only traveled to West Memphis that first day. I had enough of that new stress by then. The second day out, Barbara made one of our best moves of the trip. She bought roadside service Insurance. It was on special for $69.95. It would quickly pay for itself, as it turned out. We camped near St. Louis that second night, and I ran into a lady I knew from Arkadelphia in the park. That never happened again.

     We decided that tomorrow, Sunday, would be a good day to see St. Louis. That proved to be true, and we toured many large cities on a Sunday after that. The St. Louis Arch proved to be one visit Barbara regretted. The trip up and down proved to be very crowded, claustrophobic, and the arch swayed. Although we did have a magnificent view from the top, she was so sick by then, she didn't care. I had trouble getting her in that tiny car for the ride back down. We learned another lesson that day. Mark where we park the car well. We almost never found it.

     Our next stop was in the driveway of our friends, Cheryl and Wes McGowan, in Hannibal. One of our less expensive stops.

     Moving on to Chicago, we camped a few miles outside. We toured the Field Museum. We saw the two lions who killed scores of railway workers in Africa, and actually shut down the project until a great white hunter brought them down. At the Museum of Science and Industry, we saw many more amazing sights. Then we spent lots of time just driving around seeing the sights of Chicago. Lost, most of the time. But who cares? What’s time to a hog with a year to kill?

     The next day, driving through Indiana headed for Michigan, our RV just shut down on us. The RV, fortunately, was old enough that a semi-shade tree mechanic could work on some things. I made a lucky guess, pulled the car off and bought a new fuel filter, and it worked.

     We arrived in Holland, Michigan just in time for the Blueberry Festival, just the first of many special events we would run onto, by accident, that year. Holland is all about wooden shoes, tulips, and people who came from the real Holland. We also got to watch diving pigs at the Michigan State Fair.

     After detouring inland from Lake Michigan to see the Gerald Ford Library, we drove on up through Michigan along the lake on a cold day, for us. We realized northern people are just different. They swam in Lake Michigan on that cold day, in droves, while we stood shivering in our coats watching them. Those pore' people just have no summer, and they just work with what they have. They even acted like they enjoyed it.

     We took a ferry over to Mackinac Island and spent a fun day in a society with no motor vehicles. Even the UPS man drove a horse and buggy. Someone clued us in on a neat little trick. Go into the Library, pick up a newspaper which keeps you from loitering, walk out back, and you will see the very best view of the island.

Ontario’s One Damn Road

The bridge into Canada was very tall, and driving over it in that tall RV was scary. Trying to get directions from a native, he told us, “That won't be hard to find. Hell, Ontario don't have but one damn road.” That proved to be almost true. Roads are very hard to maintain in the winter, and road crews work hard on their One damn road all summer. People seen to get impatient with the many long traffic delays on that road. Once, we were stopped in a long line of backed up cars. A northern redneck (yes, the South does not have the market cornered on rednecks) got out of his car and yelled, “Hey! What's the trouble up there?” Someone yelled back, “They're moving the bodies out of the road.” The redneck shut up.

     Sudbury is a city with no living trees within miles, except for tiny replants. A giant Nickel mine is located there, and the fumes from the plant just killed everything except the people. (Maybe I should say, everthing but the remaining people?) But, they had the most fantastic hands-on science center I have ever seen. I wondered if that giant company had built that as somewhat of an apology? I could have stayed in there for days. I even got to give a colonoscopy to a dummy. Not a live one. Before we went the way of the trees, we headed out.

     In Ottowa, we toured the Parliament Building, and Barbara got recruited to participate in some sort of play about their government. Outside, a Mountie sat at attention on his horse, full uniform, and Barbara tried to get him to get down and get his picture made with her. He didn't even blink at her, so she just hung onto his leg while I took the picture.

     Moving on into Algonquin National Park, we had just sat up camp when a French speaking family walked by. The kids started chasing a chipmunk which ran right up into our camp and into a hole by Barbara. She started talking to them, the parents yelled, “Americans!” and the kids fled in terror. 

     You would have thought they had yelled “Rattlesnake!” but then, they don't have any rattlesnakes up there. I guess they just had to have something to fear, and we Americans were handy.

     I got up really early to drive around to look for wildlife, while Barbara slept in. I got a good look at, and several good pictures of, a moose in all it's glory. Barbara was jealous. It would be many weeks before she saw one. But then, what's time to a coupla' hogs.

CONTINUED

Forever A Hillbilly: Memory Pearls - and a Regret

Forever A Hillbilly: Memory Pearls - and a Regret: SIXTY SOME ODD YEARS AGO, on a cold, rainy day, I found a tiny sparrow that seems to have fallen out of its nest. It had few feathers, see...

Memory Pearls - and a Regret

SIXTY SOME ODD YEARS AGO, on a cold, rainy day, I found a tiny sparrow that seems to have fallen out of its nest. It had few feathers, seemed to just barely be clinging to life. I picked it up, carried it to the kitchen, wrapped it up in a warm cloth, and placed it in the slightly-warm oven of our wood cook stove. Then I placed it in a cardboard box in my room for the night. By morning, more feathers were showing up, and it seemed to feel better. I fed it. After lunch, I took it outside. It stood on my finger, and began its maiden flight. It aimed for a fence post, missed it, turned around, flew back, and stood on it. It looked at me, waved its wings at me, and left me forever as it flew off into its new life.

     Twenty or so years ago, I drove to school one morning at Arkadelphia high. As I exited the interstate bridge, I saw what appeared to be the crushed body of a small kitten in the middle of the highway.  As I passed it, a tiny neck and head peeked up. A string of half a dozen busses were approaching it. I pulled off, jumped out of my car, ran to the front of the first bus, and threw up my left hand, traffic cop like, and stopped the string of busses. I picked it up, took it with me. By nightfall, it was feeling better. The next day, I gave it to a sweet little girl who wanted it badly. She smiled and hugged it as she carried it off to a much better future than it could have ever guessed, even a day before.

     These sweet moments always seem to stick in my mind.

     If you look at my wall page, you will see hundreds of chickens out in front of my house. To the left of the picture, but not is sight, sat our new chicken house, with 600 laying hens producing eggs for the Hatchery at Plainview, Ar. But those chickens, in that house, were getting tired of producing an egg a day. Those in front of our house were the next generation of layers, destined to soon replace them. They were too young to produce eggs large enough to market. But they were still producing hundreds of small eggs each day in the huge barn that was on the right of the picture. Thus during that short time in 1949, we all ate many, many very small, but very good, eggs each day.

     In the 1960’s, Barbara and I had just married. She still liked to camp in the wilds with me, but that was not to last long. We wanted a tent. I found a nice one at Walmart, right behind our house, for $36. But we lived in a house trailer, and a small one at that, and we were dirt poor. We were still debating spending that much money, when my friend who I often fished with, came over. He was just a kid, as we were, and was a college student studying finance. Years later, he turned out to be a financial genus, managing money for many large companies. He told me,  “Pat, you need to rake together every penny you can. A company up the road is about to have its initial stock offering. That company is really going to go places. Buy all the stock you can!”

     “Tommy,” I said, “look at us. Look where we live. We don’t have money.”

     Tommy walked off, shaking his head. We bought that $36 dollar tent that night. I still have it, somewhere, I think, up in my attic.

     Today my grandson Christian, who is 21 and is, also, on his way to becoming a financial whiz, called me.

      “Papaw, I hope you really enjoyed that $36 tent. That $36, had it been invested in that first stock offering of that company, would convert into $335 million today.” The company?  Walmart.

      Had I decided differently, that fateful day, I would gladly give each of you who read this a million or so. But, born a poor boy, destined to die a poor boy.

     But we did really enjoy that tent, right up until the next Fourth of July, when some other camper burned a big hole in it with his fireworks.  Oh, well. 

Forever A Hillbilly: Goodbye Africa

Forever A Hillbilly: Goodbye Africa: HEADING BACK HOME TO KENYA from Tanzania, a large truck had wrecked, totally blocking the road. A large crowd of very scary people, Masai,...

Goodbye Africa

HEADING BACK HOME TO KENYA from Tanzania, a large truck had wrecked, totally blocking the road. A large crowd of very scary people, Masai, had gathered. They looked more dangerous and wild than the others we had seen. The bus driver just hit the ditch, spun, backed up, over and over again, before getting around this. It looked like an impossible thing to do, but even I knew this would not be a good place to stop. When we hit the pavement, I yelled, "Let's hear it for THE MAN!" He got a big hand. He liked that.

     An older man and woman were on that bus. They looked like they had been out in the bush for a very long time. I sat down beside them, and started a conversation. I just had to know their story.

     They were missionaries from Oregon. They came to Moshe regularly, and stay a few months at a time. They daily travel in a 4 wheel drive jeep to remote Masai villages, and minister to them. Their last trip to Africa, they went to a village where the children of the chief were sick. The witch doctor was not able to help them.

     The chief called on the missionaries to heal the children. They doctored them, to the best of their ability, and prayed. When they returned to that village on this trip, the children were well. The chief gave them, and God, all the credit. Along with that, he gave them a large plot of land. They were returning to America to start raising funds to build a hospital and a church on that land.

     He said they had gotten malaria often, but they take a shot and go on. Their African guide and interpreter is also their African connection, and travels with them.

     We have all heard stories of brave and dedicated  African missionaries. The African bush is full of many more we have not heard of. Many self sacrificing men and women, from many countries, are fulfilling the Great Commission. These people, and the seven missionaries at Rafiki, and Deb, are just a few. They are bypassing the comforts of home, family, and security, and giving their lives to this work. It is an honor for a pretend missionary, such as myself, to be able to know and work alongside these people, if only for a short time. We knew Yeen Lan was grooming us, hoping we would become full time missionaries. But no, we had family at home, and were not ready for that.

      When we got to the border, things were just as conjested as before. Barbara picked the visa line she wanted, because it was manned by a guy who seemed relatively friendly,  and occasionally smiled. When we got up to his desk, Barbara poured it on. Smiling, laughing, telling all about us being missionaries, and on and on. She passed the old visa over to him. He was totally won over, and stamped our old visa, not valid now, and smiling, said, "You have a great day." We thanked him, and got gone quickly.

     It was time to go home.    

     We came to Nairobi just after the President agreed to sign a power sharing agreement with the opposition. It appeared the intertribal killing was over. It was not, but it has lessened. While we were preparing to leave, the opposition seemed to be beginning to think he didn't really mean it. (Whites were not yet being killed, but then, it would be very hard to find a white person in Kenya during this time.) Thus the killing was about to return with a vengence. Perhaps we chose a wise time to come, and perhaps we are choosing an even wiser time to go home. Africa has a way of getting into one's heart, making one always want to return. Most likely, we will never see our wonderful kids again. They are near college age now. Then again, maybe we will see them again. Either way, they will be in our hearts forever.

     *

     My new book, the story of Tooter, is still available at The Yell County Record office at Danville, Emerson’s County Store in Rover, Gypsy Junktion in Plainview, Hardman Interiors in Arkadelphia, or at amazon.com. My other books, Spreading Wing and Forever Cry are available also. Thanks for reading!

Goodbye Africa

HEADING BACK HOME TO KENYA from Tanzania, a large truck had wrecked, totally blocking the road. A large crowd of very scary people, Masai, had gathered. They looked more dangerous and wild than the others we had seen. The bus driver just hit the ditch, spun, backed up, over and over again, before getting around this. It looked like an impossible thing to do, but even I knew this would not be a good place to stop. When we hit the pavement, I yelled, "Let's hear it for THE MAN!" He got a big hand. He liked that.

     An older man and woman were on that bus. They looked like they had been out in the bush for a very long time. I sat down beside them, and started a conversation. I just had to know their story.

     They were missionaries from Oregon. They came to Moshe regularly, and stay a few months at a time. They daily travel in a 4 wheel drive jeep to remote Masai villages, and minister to them. Their last trip to Africa, they went to a village where the children of the chief were sick. The witch doctor was not able to help them.

     The chief called on the missionaries to heal the children. They doctored them, to the best of their ability, and prayed. When they returned to that village on this trip, the children were well. The chief gave them, and God, all the credit. Along with that, he gave them a large plot of land. They were returning to America to start raising funds to build a hospital and a church on that land.

     He said they had gotten malaria often, but they take a shot and go on. Their African guide and interpreter is also their African connection, and travels with them.

     We have all heard stories of brave and dedicated  African missionaries. The African bush is full of many more we have not heard of. Many self sacrificing men and women, from many countries, are fulfilling the Great Commission. These people, and the seven missionaries at Rafiki, and Deb, are just a few. They are bypassing the comforts of home, family, and security, and giving their lives to this work. It is an honor for a pretend missionary, such as myself, to be able to know and work alongside these people, if only for a short time. We knew Yeen Lan was grooming us, hoping we would become full time missionaries. But no, we had family at home, and were not ready for that.

      When we got to the border, things were just as conjested as before. Barbara picked the visa line she wanted, because it was manned by a guy who seemed relatively friendly,  and occasionally smiled. When we got up to his desk, Barbara poured it on. Smiling, laughing, telling all about us being missionaries, and on and on. She passed the old visa over to him. He was totally won over, and stamped our old visa, not valid now, and smiling, said, "You have a great day." We thanked him, and got gone quickly.

     It was time to go home.    

     We came to Nairobi just after the President agreed to sign a power sharing agreement with the opposition. It appeared the intertribal killing was over. It was not, but it has lessened. While we were preparing to leave, the opposition seemed to be beginning to think he didn't really mean it. Thus the killing was about to return with a vengence. Perhaps we chose a wise time to come, and perhaps we are choosing an even wiser time to go home. Africa has a way of getting into one's heart, making one always want to return. Most likely, we will never see our wonderful kids again. They are near college age now. Then again, maybe we will see them again. Either way, they will be in our hearts forever.

     *

     My new book, the story of Tooter, is still available at The Yell County Record office at Danville, Emerson’s County Store in Rover, Gypsy Junktion in Plainview, Hardman Interiors in Arkadelphia, or at amazon.com. My other books, Spreading Wing and Forever Cry are available also. Thanks for reading!

Forever A Hillbilly: Uncle Harry's Little War

Forever A Hillbilly: Uncle Harry's Little War:           Harry, as a young man, (fifteen when the Civil War started)   had been in many hard battles for the South – Poison Springs, Mark...

Uncle Harry's Little War

          Harry, as a young man, (fifteen when the Civil War started)  had been in many hard battles for the South – Poison Springs, Marks Mill, Prairie De Ann, and others. Then he went back, after the war, to his 32 acre farm at Dover, which he eventually grew into 1200 acres with the best house in Dover.  But not before he and his rebel buddies fought their own little war at home. And they won. The Pope County Militia War. I have studied three versions of this war, the first being the rebel version, found in Aunt Lula Belle's trunk after her death. To protect your tender twenty first century sensibilities as much as possible, I am mostly using the historian's version, many years removed from the fray.

     After Lincoln was killed, his plan to move the South back into the fold as quickly as possible was  changed.  Johnson liked the plan also, but lacked the power to sway Congress. They and many other government officials wanted to punish the rebels a while. They called it The Reconstruction. In some places, government did whatever necessary to eliminate rebel vote and participation, leaving the ex-rebels at the mercy of greedy and dishonest northern political officials, who hated them.

     Dover had few slaves. Most didn't need or want them.  A few acres here and there of rich river bottom land was not conducive to that. The mountains around Dover are tough as a boot. I know. As a young man, I rode in the back of a pickup each day one summer to Dover and worked in those mountains. I wore out two good pair of leather boots that summer. And, hard mountains produce hard people. The vets returning home from the war were a mixture of North and South. And they still hated each other.  No rebels held government jobs or offices. Without a strong county government, everybody suffered from roving bands of outlaws, scalawags, and carpet baggers, and much land was stolen by corrupt northern officials.

     Dodson Napier was the first Sheriff. He and his deputy were promptly shot.  William Stout, the county clerk, was shot through a knothole at his home. The replacement sheriff was shot while plowing.  Later, Confederate Major George Newton  was credited with all these killings, but too late to help this situation. Major Newton moved to Texas later and became a preacher.

   Feeling a little insecure one would suppose, a Dover native, Elisha Dodson, who had fought for the north, was awarded the job of sheriff. The next clerk, Wallace Hickox, was a Yankee, an able, brave and bold leader. But he was a schemer, made no local friends, and considered the rebels to be some short of human. The rebels hated him. By 1872,  John  Williams, a brother of a former sheriff, became deputy. Probably with no long expectations of life.

 The officials were justifiably scared. They needed protection. In an effort to get martial law declared, with Army protection, they took Williams out in the woods and faked a shooting. They shot holes in his clothes, hat, even his belt buckle. The word was passed that someone had tried to kill him. He hid out at home a while.  His neighbors, from both sides, gathered around him. One ex-rebel even offered to guarantee Williams life with his own.  He was refused.

At some point here, Uncle Harry took his wife and child, along with my Grandma, up to the mountains around Clarksville, twenty miles away, and hid them out in a mountain cave. He knew things were about to get hot around Dover. I don't know how long they stayed there, could have been up to two years, the duration of this war.

 On July 8, 1872, Hickox, the County Clerk,  had a bright idea. Round up a group of local men who might have been involved in the shootings, kill them on the way to jail, blame the killings on local people who they will say ambushed them. This should get martial law declared, plus the worst ones will be dead.

 They formed a posse of 30 men, including all the local officials, even the Superintendent of Schools. They went looking for likely suspects for all the killings.   Uncle Harry and the other most likely suspects heard about it, and skipped. They went to arrest Matt Hale, but he had skipped, so they arrested his father, Jack Hale, and his brother, William Hale.  Liberty West, a blacksmith, came up and begged them to release the two. He continued following them and begging, so they arrested him too. They finally arrested Joe Tucker (likely one of my relatives). They continued on toward Dardanelle, supposedly to deliver the suspects to jail. Finding no feed for their horses near Shiloh church, they continued on into the night. Near the Shiloh bridge, an official said, “If we are attacked, be sure to save the prisoners.” A voice said, “It's dark.” Another voice, “Dark as Egypt.” A third voice, “Egypt has no eyes.” On that signal,  the officials began shooting the prisoners and the horses started bucking. It's hard to shoot a man in the dark from a bucking horse.  Jack Hale laid over on his horse's side and lay spurs to its flanks. He rode out of it, his horse getting several wounds but he was untouched. His son, William, rode out of it too, but so severely shot in the back that he had to unhorse a little later. His horse got away and quickly caught up with Jack Hale. William crawled to a house, dying a few days later. Liberty West was thrown from his horse, hid behind a log and listened.  Joe Tucker was shot severely in the head and lay groaning. An official walked over and shot him again.

 Jack Hale did not stop running until he reached Dover, his son's horse with a bloody saddle beside him.  When he told his story, it spread like wildfire in Dover.  By daylight, Uncle Harry and other leaders, along with 50 or so other men, were on their way to Shiloh. They did not find the posse.   

 The Posse was never found, likely having disbanded and gone to Little Rock. About two weeks later, Governor Hadley came to Dover, but refused to declare martial law.

     Now, the officials, Hickox, Dodson, and Williams were in a bad spot. Give up their position, or return to their jobs. About the end of August, they came back to Dover and resumed their jobs On Friday, August 30, Dodson's son drove a wagon to the courthouse, and all the county records were loaded on, and hauled off, later found hidden in a cave.  The court house was boarded up. The next day, word had spread that the officials were about to leave. Tension was in the air. Armed men were in the streets.

 I am going to switch to the rebel version of what happened next, because it was told later by a Judge who was Uncle Harry's friend, and I think he was in the know.

 About middle of the afternoon, the three officials completed their work at the courthouse. They got on their horses and began walking toward Russellville down the street Reece B. Hogins, Uncle Harry, and John F. Hale  had agreed to kill the three men as they started out, in retribution  for the Shiloh killings. The officials made their start a little earlier than expected, and Uncle Harry was the only one in his proper place to discharge his duty when the 3 men started out. He was there; and when the three men saw him they began to draw  pistols, and at the crack of Uncle Harry's gun, Hickox  “ bounced from his saddle like a squirrel shot from a tree.” The other two men fired at Uncle Harry, but missed, and ran out of town shot at by a large number of people. It may sound cruel, but good women in the town of Dover looked at the dead man lying in the street, and rejoiced,  feeling that the greatest enemy to their peace had been killed. An “over the body” inquest was held, and Harry was not charged.

    But this did not fly in Rusellville.  Later, a 30 man posse was deputized to go to Dover and Arrest Uncle Harry. They found him, two pistols strapped on, a double barrel shotgun in his hand. Lots of Dover people were around, friendly as could be to the posse.  After showing Harry the arrest warrant, Harry said he was willing to be tried if they could guarantee his safety. He was told they could only guarantee it to the best of their ability. They asked for his guns. Harry reply made him a local legend.  “I will only give up my guns with my life, and I will make the man who takes it pay a heavy price.”

    Much discussion among the deputies followed. It was said, “These people would kill Jeff Davis himself to prevent us from taking Harry by force.” And that was true. Behind the scenes, many of the women had armed themselves, and swore to fight to the end for Harry. The men were determined that Harry would not be taken. Finally, the Deputy turned to a friend of Harry's and said, “I hereby deputize you, and order you to hold Harry under arrest until we get back to you.”  And they left. One deputy said on the way out of town, “Well, if that is an arrest, we have arrested him. I don't think it was much of an arrest, but we have discharged our duty as best we could, safety considered.

   The army kept peace for periods, during which times the town was practically deserted. Only a couple of killings were recorded for awhile. 

      Warrants were issued for ten citizens of Dover, but they could not be arrested. Finally, the Militia agreed to let the ten men bring in ten bodyguards each, if they would come in to Rusellville to stand trial. It was agreed. 110 Men, armed to the teeth, rode in, dismounted, walked in the courtroom and the ten men announced themselves ready for trial.

   Now I revert back to the rebel version, which gives a better look at the inside goings on.The trial commenced, and proceeded with until the noon hour, at which time John F. Hale proposed that they should go back to the courtroom and kill out the entire court and officials, leaving no one to tell how it happened but their friends. It was agreed to, but they postponed the act until the following morning, in order, as they said, that they might be completely organized in every detail, and not kill someone that ought not to be killed.  However, from some sort of conduct, or for some reason, the court became suspicious. Court adjourned that afternoon to reconvene the following morning. The prisoners and their guards returned, but that court never did reconvene, and stands adjourned to this good day.

    With the change to a democratic governor, this period was over, and these men were allowed to again run their town. Every leader of the Shiloh ambush was dead, except for the Superintendent of  schools, who fled to Iowa. They became prominent men of the community. Uncle Harry became an alderman, raised seven children in Dover, founded the Bank of Dover, became well off. However, as I looked through hundreds of issues of Pope County Historical Society publications, I found that if I looked under shootouts, or the like, Uncle Harry was sometimes there.   

    From the  Courier Democrat, Russellville, Ar. April 16, 1931.

{4}         "The death of “Uncle Harry” Poynter, at Dover, April 14, removed from the walks of life the last confederate veteran of this county who took an active part in the Pope County Militia War that raged with fury around Dover in 1872 and 73. His funeral was one of the most largely attended events ever held in Pope County.

   Dover was ravaged by the carpet bagger forces, suffered the loss of the county seat, and was twice reduced to ruins by fire, but the passing of W. H. “Uncle Harry” Poynter  was one of the town's darkest and saddest hours.

    At the funeral an orchestra was present, in keeping with a request made by Poynter. The band played sacred hymns at the church, then retired to the site of his home recently destroyed by fire and there played “Home Sweet Home”. And as a fitting tribute to this fallen Chieftain and at his request, played his favorite tune of Dixie as the last rite of the funeral."     

     Now lets get back to grandma's milk cow problem. Uncle Harry came over and set out to find the thief. Family Members were able to give him a pretty good idea about where to start, I would imagine.After a time, he came back with the milk cows.  No questions asked, no answers given.

      I am told that the Yell County Sheriff wished to question Grandma about this matter but was afraid to, Possibly because she was very close to a very dangerous man. It seems a man was missing.