Forever A Hillbilly: Grandma's Milk Cows

Forever A Hillbilly: Grandma's Milk Cows: Grandma's milk cows  GRANDMA GILLUM WAS LEFT A WIDOW  after the death of my grandpa, John Wesley in 1922.   She still worked very ha...

Grandma's Milk Cows

 GRANDMA GILLUM WAS LEFT A WIDOW after the death of my grandpa, John Wesley in 1922.  She still worked very hard raising her large flock of chickens. She once bought my annt Lula Bell a car with money saved up from her egg sales.  The eggs were sold to the "chicken peddler." She also had cattle, and among them she had four milk cows. During that time, most of the cattle roamed the free range south mountains. Some people grew corn in the bottoms, along the river. A likely scenario here was, the cattle got into someone's unfenced corn patch. Possibly in retribution, Grandma's milk cows were stolen. Chances are, the wild mountain cattle could not be taken, but the tame milk cows would be easy prey. That's a possible scenario. All we really know for sure was that Grandma's four milk cows were stolen. Someway, somehow, someone must have thought he saw them in another man's possession. But, that man made a very serious mistake. He said they were his. Grandma needed help, and she knew just the man.

     From all I have heard about Grandma Gillum she was a wise, hard, and strong woman.  She had grown sons, hard and mature, around her, but for this milk cow thief, she needed a specialist. Indeed she knew one; the man who raised her, sister Dozie's husband, W. H. “Harry” Poynter. Harry must have been getting up in years by this time, probably in his seventies. The time frame here must have been near the mid 1920's, because my uncle Homer spoke of this event around 1928 as something that occurred a few years earlier.

     Though Uncle Harry was now an old man, he had a very, very colorful past. During the Civil war, he fought in many hard battles for the South. And, during the Reconstruction, he was a legendary figure in the Pope County Militia War, which I call “Uncle Harry's Little War.” During that war, he once took on three men in a gunfight in downtown Dover; the county sheriff, his deputy, and the county clerk,  killing one and running the other two out of town, chased by much flying lead. An over-the-body inquest was held, and harry was found innocent. This did not fly in Ressellville, however. He later faced down a thirty man posse, sent from Russellville to arrest him, with the words, “I will only give up my guns with my life, and make the man who takes it pay a heavy price.” This also took place in downtown Dover. After much discussion by the posse, the posse went home without Harry. Once the Reconstruction was over, Harry became a leading citizen of Dover, became rich, and founded the Bank of Dover. He remained close to Grandma for the rest of his life.

 Uncle Harry came over to Wing and set out to find the thief. Some 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. The law investigated, because a man had come up missing.  The Law wished to question grandma about the missing man, I am told. But he chose not to do that. I could never understand that when my dad related that to me. Why would he not wish to question a very old, fragile woman?  Could it be, because she was very close to a very dangerous man?

     Harry died around 1930, and grandma lived on, running the Gillum clan with an iron hand until 1941. I was born in her house in 1944.

     I have a photo taken at Grandma’s eighty second birthday party, in 1941. She is surround by the entire Gillum family, 30+ strong.  Except me. I would not be born until three years later. Only one member of Harry’s family was present at that party. The connection between the Gillums and the Dover Poynters died that year with Grandma, it seems. But not completely. My oldest brother was named Harry. My other brother was named Harold, a form of the name Harry. I was named, I am told, after the smartest man in the Valley. The only one who could repair a radio.

    These were the people who surrounded me, and loved me, as I grew up. Only four survive today.

     Hold your family members close, and love them with all your heart. Life is short.

Forever A Hillbilly: BUD

Forever A Hillbilly: BUD: BUD IN 1998, BARBARA AND I BOUGHT AN RV, leased our house out for a year (we took down our pics and personal stuff, locked it up, leased...

BUD

IN 1998, BARBARA AND I 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 see 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't 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. 30+ 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 sawed off 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 that 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.”     -- 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.

Forever A Hillbilly: Cheap Travel

Forever A Hillbilly: Cheap Travel:  FRANCES, BARB'S SISTER, AND HER HUSBAND  Bill, Barbara and I have traveled to all four ends of our country on car trips. We travel in...

Cheap Travel

 FRANCES, BARB'S SISTER, AND HER HUSBAND Bill, Barbara and I have traveled to all four ends of our country on car trips. We travel in one car, and spend the night in one motel room, which is common in Barbara's close family.

     We once wound up at Key West in Florida. Bill had just parked the car in front of our B&B, and just began to crack open his door, when a woman on a bicycle, who was meeting a car, pulled over too close to Bill's car. She was only inches from the car, and hit the end of the door hard, falling off her bike. Bill, who Barbara has often said, “is so nice, that if you don't like Bill, there's something wrong with you,” jumped out. He apologized over and over, helping her and her bike up. Her bike could not be ridden, and the woman was livid. Even though Bill was fully stopped in a parking space, and opened the door only a couple of inches, the woman was by now feeling it was all Bill's fault, what with all his apologies. After she made a few choice statements, she began pushing the bike to a repair shop. She was getting madder and madder. After pushing it a short distance, she turned and came back. “YOU push this bike to the repair shop, and get it fixed, or I'm calling the police.” I was beginning to see that Bill was just too nice to handle this lady, and it was not really my business, but I said, “Call the police.” She did.

     When the police arrived, they soon realized Bill was totally stopped when it happened, so they left. The lady then started to again push her bike toward a repair shop. But she didn't like it.

     Once we arrived at Mark Twain State Park out on a peninsula into the Okefenokee Swamp, in Georgia. We were too late to catch the big boat tour out into the swamp. I had been there several times before, exploring a good bit of it by canoe. I rented a small boat to take them out into the swamp. Barbara had been on this boat tour with me before, but Frances had not, and she was a full blown city girl, so I had reason to give her my gator lecture. “We will have gators all around us, but it's winter now, and they are cold, and they will be moving slow. They will not try to come into this boat. But if one comes close to you, and you jump up to try to move away from it, you will swamp us, and we will all be right down in there among'st them.”  They did come close, but she never moved an inch. We saw many gators and other animals. The water is strangely tea colored, due to the high tannin content of the water.

This water reflects the trees so well, it's hard to determine the trees from the reflection. Frances later called this the high point of the trip, though she was scared witless at the time. A ranger told us they once had a report of a boat turned over, with people in the water. By the time they arrived at the scene, the people were still in the water, surrounded by 40 gators. Just looking.

     The Texas Hill Country was interesting. We visited President Jonnson's burial site. A tourist asked, “Is Ladybird Johnson buried here too?”

    “ No, we tried too. But she keeps fighting us off,” the guide deadpanned.

     We recently discovered a narrow strip of land through Indiana, Ohio, and Kentucky that none of us had ever really explored. Bill is a history buff, so he always figures out lots of fun stops, the kind Barbara and I sometimes just breeze by, since we usually just prefer to wing it, and we tend to miss some of these neat places.

     Last week we headed out on an 8 day trip. They have a Toyota Avalon, and Barbara and I soon fell in love with it. It has the most comfortable back seat we have ever ridden in, as well as just riding so well in general, along with reasonable gas mileage.  We soon wanted one just like it. But we didn't talk about it when we got home, and were in Barbara's cute little HHR. Bonnie might get her feelings hurt.

     When we looked for a motel that first night out, Frances went over with Barbara, again, all her strategies for talking them down a little. But quiet Frances preferred to let bold Barbara get out and try out her strategies. Barbara is our princess as in “Princess and the Pea,” and can spot a hard bed at first touch. It sometimes took 4 stops to find the right one, but we usually did, though that bed the first night was a bit hard, I'll have to say.

     When we unloaded, Frances said we were now getting into the bedbug capital of the heartland, and she pulled out her flashlight to examine the mattresses, with nary a bug ever found.

     We went to the Indianapolis Speedway, and rode a lap around, on a bus, then we looked over every car ever to win the Indy 500. In Dayton, Ohio, we visited the National Air Force Museum. That was a great stop, and took nearly half a day to see it all. It had three huge buildings, connected with a tunnel. I got separated from them once, thought I had seen it all, so I went to the front desk to wait for them. Bill came to find me, after awhile, told me there were two buildings left yet to see. They were a little put out with me, slowing them down so, but that's just me for ya. I think we saw every military plane ever flown, atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, rockets, a command module that went to the moon and back, and a lot more.

     We decided on pizza one night. Bill and Frances ordered a smaller pizza, but after telling them all about winning a pizza eating contest once with one of my students (A ninth grade girl) by eating 27 pieces of pizza, I felt obligated to order a large, with thick crust, with everything on it. Barbara didn't hold up her share of the eating, however, and there was just no way I could leave pizza there to go to waste, so I did my best, what with all the bragging I had been doing. But I wound up eating a little too much, and was sick for a day and a half. The upside was, I didn't have to do my share of the driving the next day, being so bloated and burning up with pizza fever like I was.

     The fall colors were nearing its peak in Ohio, and the Amish Country was totally beautiful, but I missed out on some good eating there, being still off my eating form somewhat. Coming back through Kentucky, we visited an Artisan College. (Who knew there was such a thing?) But the students really made some neat things. The Kentucky people mentioned a time or two that Kentucky was playing Arkansas this week, but they didn't seem real enthusiastic about it. I found out why, watching the game last night. Arkansas is not having a good year, but Kentucky's  year is worse. I was so happy to finally see Arkansas winning, I watched the whole game. Even the long rain and lightening delays.

     Note: Arkansas is playing Kentucky tonight in basketball. They have similar records, but Kentucky has beaten Arkansas the last eight games in a row. I gotta see that!

     Frances had the bills all added up by the time we got back to their house, and we split the gas and housing expenses, as always. $58 per couple, per day. How's that for cheap travel?  Now, we're all going home to try to find another little strip of land in the US that we haven't seen yet, so Bill can start finding all the good stops for the next trip.

Note:  I told our grandson a while back that he would be hard pressed  to put his finger on a spot in the country map  that we had not visited. So, he started naming cities, and he went through more than a dozen cities before he stumped Barbara. I didn't remember going to half those cities, but Barbara has a memory like a razor. She knew them all. I promised to take him on a Pork and Beans trip this summer.

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing - A Town the World Forgot

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing - A Town the World Forgot: SOME TIME BACK I TOLD YOU   about the beautiful old church at Wing, Arkansas. It was built in 1880, totally from virgin pine. I told you...

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing - A Town the World Forgot

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing - A Town the World Forgot: SOME TIME BACK I TOLD YOU   about the beautiful old church at Wing, Arkansas. It was built in 1880, totally from virgin pine. I told you...

Wing - A Town the World Forgot

SOME TIME BACK I TOLD YOU  about the beautiful old church at Wing, Arkansas. It was built in 1880, totally from virgin pine. I told you all I knew, at the time. But then I started wondering, how can it still be so solid, and so beautiful, after one hundred thirty three years? Are there no termites in Wing? I did a little more research about that. Seems the answer was right there, under my nose, the whole time, right in the back of my brother Harold's mind. Harold is eighty two, does not get around much. He's told me a lot about Wing in my research for my book, Spreading Wing. But Harold's a private person. Some of his revelations were followed by, “But you can't put that in a book!” Anyway, I stopped in to say hi a couple of days ago, and Harold told me he had come up with one more memory. Well, I was due in Russellville in a short time, needed to go, but he said, “Sit down, and listen to this story!” I sat. And I listened.

     Seems in the 1940s, Arthur Walden, reputed to be the best carpenter around, noticed the floor of the old church was infested with termites. He told the church, “I know of a certain type of oil to handle that problem.” Well, the church folks listened. But the church operated on pennies in those days. The pastor was paid in produce from the gardens, and chickens. That oil was expensive. It seemed the church building was doomed.

     Right about there was where Buford Compton, the legendary sheriff of Yell County for sixteen years, and a resident of Wing, stepped in, bought the oil, and put it on the floor. The termites just could not stomach that stuff. I remember my mother always told us, “If you're going to pray, don't kneel. Stand up.” That seemed strange to me at the time. But apparently, she well knew what that black oil would do to our Sunday best. We stood. Actually, the most likely reason for me to be on the floor was when I was wrestling around with Sammy Charles Turner when I should have been sitting up and listening. I was two years younger, and I was usually the one on the bottom. But it sounds better when I put it in terms of how I was praying.

     Many years later, a new floor was put down, right on top of that black floor. Kneeling was not only allowed now, but encouraged. Seems that old church would never have made it to the sixty's, when the Turners took over and completely renovated it, without Arthur Walden and Buford Compton's black oil.

     My good friend Skeet, (short for Skeeter) decided to go to Wing recently, since I was always talking about it. But he came to me with a big handful of maps, said he had been going over all his maps with a magnifying glass, couldn't find it. I told him, “The map makers of Arkansas have forgotten Wing. Just go to Rover, turn west, drive two miles, only church on the right.” He still headed out to Walmart, grumbling to himself, to get another map. Skeet just leaves nothing to chance. I knew going to Wing and back could be an all day trip for Skeet. He drives so politely, he told me one day it sometimes takes him up to an hour to get through a four way stop.

     If you want to go see Wing, just remember those directions. When you get into Yell County, you start to notice that cars you meet will usually have a smiling face behind the wheel. And, they will wave at you. But about the time you leave Rover and head up the valley, put away your cell phones and your GPS. You are now entering a forty five mile dead zone. But I have found there is one place at Wing where you can get a good cell phone signal. Go two miles south of Wing, wade out to the middle of the Fourche La Fave River, and it will work wonderfully. Though one is often unable to hear, this time of year, what with all the teeth chattering going on. If you are there at night, you city folks might want to bring a pair of sunglasses. Those bright stars just jump right out at you in Fourche Valley. My friend Cindy Aikman, who seems to be a star gazer who knows about such things, says the valley has some of the darkest skies in the country. There are no large light sources in the valley, and those steep mountains on both sides shields other light sources out. I noticed the stars looked very dim in 1962 when I left Wing.

     When you are arriving, you have to look closely for that tiny sign announcing Wing. Just remember, that old church is right in the geographical center of Wing. Just like it was the  center of our world when I was a child.

      Well, last fall, after three long years, I finished my book, Spreading Wing. I put it on Amazon, but Amazon seemed sorta hit or miss. One day right off, my friends and relatives, I guess, bought seven books, and I looked to see where I stood in the top one hundred. I was sitting right on number sixty nine thousandth. The next day I looked, nobody bought a book, and I was right around two hundred thousandth. After another day of bad sales, I had dropped to around four hundred thousandth.. I've been afraid to look at those stats after that. I decided I had to step in, Amazon needed some help. This was no way to sell a book. Nobody seemed to know me, or Spreading Wing at Amazon, once we got past friends and relatives and readers of my blog, Forever a Hillbilly.

     I mentioned to a friend in Fourche Valley the other day that some of my blog readers had heard so much from me about Wing and Fourche Valley, they just had to come see it. She said, “Tell them if they want to come, and don't have a place to stay, I've got a big house. Your friends can stay with us!” Wow. I thought that mindset played out along in the 1800's.

      I have always wanted to have my book launching at Wing, in that old church of my childhood. I knew that was a big risk, since I had been gone from Wing fifty years. I wasn't sure very many would remember me. We cooked up six packages of salt pork and a ton of biscuits, since that was a staple at our house in the 1940's when I was a child. I knew I was running the risk of having to eat salt pork and biscuit sandwiches for the next few months if nobody showed up, and I had way more than my share of that fifty years ago.

     Pat Gillum’s book, Spreading Wing, can be found on amazon.com  Hundreds of true stories of life in the Ouachita Mountains, much like the pioneer days. My second book, Forever Cry, can be found at Hardman Interiors in Arkadelphia, and also on Amazon.

     Well, to make a long story short, (too late) those valley and mountain people of Yell County just seem to always support their own, even those fifty years removed, and when launching day arrived, they just kept coming. Sometimes, I had a stack of books half a dozen high waiting to be signed, and still they came. I've always dreamed about how great it would be, with a line of people coming to me to get my signature! But I didn't have time to fully enjoy it. Even so, it was one of my best days ever. I didn't even get a bite of that mountain of salt pork and biscuits. We sold seventy books that day.

     Equally as important, they ate up every last scrap of that salt pork. Even more importantly, I had a chance to renew a lot of very old, wonderful  relationships. Edith Turner was there. She was ninety, but not anywhere near the oldest person in Wing. My children, Corey and Kinley, found out she was a friend of my mothers. My mother passed away when they were at or near infancy, and they are now at or near forty years old. They just could not seem to let her go, just hung with her every word, until long after the big event was over. She told them story after story of my mother. Kinley said, “Holding her hand was like finally getting to hold the hand of my grandmother.”

    Corey and three others, at great risk to life and limb, climbed up to the old classroom above. The stairs were long gone. I started up the ladder, but at the top was a three foot wall, to keep people from climbing up, I guess. Well, I'm old, so I headed back down. But Cindy Turner Buford, whom I knew was at least eight years older than me, (maybe more, but who's counting) just upper middle aged by Wing standards, scrambled up and over that wall. When they were all about to come down, Corey came first, and I saw him standing under that ladder, panic in his eyes, already holding his arms out as if to catch someone. He told me, “There's a lady in her seventies about to come over that wall!” I didn't worry too much about that. Those normal age limitations don't always apply to Wing people.

      I grew up with Cindy, just a tall ridge over. We often communicated with a loud holler, that went something like this: “Whoooo, Whoooo, Whoooo weeee ouhooooo! Of course, that was back at a time when I could still holler that loud. I well knew Cindy could have climbed that tallest mountain behind Wing again, if she set her mind to it. That hill up to her house was about as steep as any mountain around.

      Anyway, in the old classroom, they found the name of my aunt, Leta Lazenby, who left Wing forever in 1930. It was on the chalkboard, still just like it had been written yesterday.  It was just like it was when I saw it in 1950. That chalkboard was made, it appears, by painting or spraying something on those very wide, (1x20’s) virgin pine boards. It also had a lot of newer names. Seems climbing up there has become a “rite of passage” for Wing children.  Nephew Ken Gillum said, “It was just like stepping back in time.” The old classroom had not been used in at least eighty years, maybe much longer. Nobody living knows for sure.

     Effie Turner, an icon of Wing, ran the store next door all during my child hood. She died in 1979, at one hundred years of age. During her lifetime she rode to Wing in an oxcart, and saw men walking on the moon. Her son, JR, passed away last year at one hundred two.

     Elois Hunnicutt, just across the road and down the lane, ninety four, still grows a large garden. But she fell, out in that garden last year, and broke some bones. She managed to crawl to her back door, but could not get in. She had to lay out most of a day and a night. Remember, cell phones don't work well in Wing. But she's back now, as lively as ever. I know I'd have a hard time keeping up with her now, doing the kind of day's work she does.

     My sister Jonnie taught Sunday school classes in Fourche Valley for many years. Once I visited her class. The best I remember, her youngest class member was in his ninety's.

     Scientists should do a study of folks in the Valley. Try to figure out how they live so long and so well, here in a remote place far from a major hospital. But actually, I already know. People in Little Rock would be shocked to realize how quiet, peaceful, and wonderful life can be, only sixty miles away from the hustle, bustle, rush, and tension of life in a major city, with next door neighbors often a mile away. My Dad always said good fences make good neighbors. A little distance can do the same thing.

     I'm learning some good life lessons along the way, though. I was scheduled to read one of my stories at a Senior Citizen's Center a few days ago. But as luck would have it, I was scheduled to start reading my story along about the time the food was passed out. I thought the story was one of my funniest, but I don't remember hearing many laughs. All I could hear was a hundred or so spoons hitting plates. I'm always a little nervous starting a reading, then when I hear a few laughs, (and it doesn't really seem to matter if they're laughing with me or at me) I just seem to feed off that and really enjoy the rest of it. But that day, I was nervous all the way through. Like I say, I'm learning some good life lessons along the way. But on the other hand, I did sell books as a result. Beats the heck out of hauling hay at a penny a bale, like I did as a kid at Wing. Now, I'm not saying my Dad ever paid a penny a bale for hauling OUR hay. That was when I hired out to someone else. My dad figured room and board was payment  aplenty. Of course, hauling hay was not nearly as embarrassing. 

      Like I said, it just seems that Wing is a town the world forgot. Wing was first named Mineral Springs, due to the large amount of fresh spring water produced right behind the old church. Wing was a thriving town around 1898, when the Gillum's first arrived. At that time, there were said to be seventeen houses up Wing holler, right behind the old church, with every cleared spot as large as a wagon sheet growing cotton. There were none in my days at Wing, just old home sites. In 1898, the rich bottom land carved out by the river was dotted with small farmers rapidly clearing more land, more cotton and other row crops appearing. A cotton gin, a sawmill, and a grist mill sat at the mouth of Wing hollow, with the very large spring producing a large amount of cold water year around for steam power.

      Wing and the surrounding area was then an educational mecca. In 1915, fifteen school teachers lived around Wing. The old school room above the church was only an overflow classroom. Mineral Springs Academy took in boarding students from many miles around.

     Thousands of acres of prime, virgin forests covered the mountainsides. The walls of many of those old houses were made from 1x20 pine boards from that virgin timber. The mountains were free range land, with large numbers of cattle ranged out into those hills. My dad often had to ride horseback for many, many miles to locate his cattle. A bell cow, wearing a cowbell around its neck, was with each herd to help in locating the herd.

     But all this was not to last. By the time I came along in 1944, many changes had taken place in the valley. The thin rich topsoil was rapidly getting tired, and cotton and other row crops were becoming less productive. Cotton gins disappeared. Nimrod lake was built, taking much of the richest bottom land. Hundreds of acres of cropland were reclaimed by the forests. Most of the small landowners lived by grubbing out a living from the soil, and had to put the wagon sheet back on the wagon and move on.

     The word was out. The delta land of southeast Arkansas was now a mecca for farmers, and the exodus from Yell County to the delta was in full swing. I met the love of my life at the Delta Dip in Dumas, home of the Ding Dong Daddy. I also learned while I hung around nearby Watson, trying to win her heart, that many, many farmers in that area came to the delta from Fourche Valley during that time period.

      The larger landowners, including the Gillums, began to depend more and more upon cattle as a money source. The virgin timber was gone. In the 1920's, a rail line was built up the South Fourche River Valley, to reach that virgin harvest. This brought about temporary prosperity. Saw mill towns sprang up, large bustling towns. Once the virgin timber was harvested, these towns disappeared, and were reclaimed by nature. The only signs remaining to show they ever existed is a rusting piece of metal or concrete lying here and there on the forest floor. In 1927, the harvesting was winding down in the south mountains. The flood of 1927 destroyed the rail line, wrapping rails around trees. Two of the large train engines were trapped at line's end. One was moved onto the railroad bridge during the height of the flood, to help keep it from washing out. Afterwards, the rail line had to be rebuilt to get the engines out, taking up the track behind the engines as they were moved out.

     The government bought up much of this timberland for as little as fifty cents an acre during and after the Depression, which became part of the Ouachita National Forest. The free range mountains were no more. Without that free range land, many of the cattle farmers had to move on. Hundreds of old, deserted home sites dotted the valley

      But this is not the end of my story.

      In our day and time, all of these factors, many of which seemed so negative when they were brought to bear, have come together to produce a  valley which is an ideal place to be, whether it be living there or visiting.  Of course living there would be a problem, for many. Options for making a living are few, and a child might have to ride a school bus two hours to get to a school, while never passing through a traffic light, probably not even a four way stop. I think that's why Skeet likes it so well. Those four way stops can be a booger for Skeet. He’s just far too polite in his driving. If another car is in sight, he will always give them the right-of-way. The pollution problems of most of our world, whether it be air, sound, chemical, vast areas of concrete, an excessive number of large lights, or too many people crowded together in a small space, just do not exist in Wing or the valley. Having next door neighbors a mile away helps assure they stay good neighbors. Even in my day, Fourche Valley School was one of the largest school districts in the state, yet twelve students graduated with me. One year more recently, the senior class consisted of five girls. Even the old abandoned home sites that dotted the landscape in my day have been pretty well reclaimed by nature. Hard to find one today. The river still runs clean and pure, without an excessive number of canoes or boats all crowded up on it, as with most of our beautiful rivers.  The Fourche is a good river to float in the spring, but gets a little too shallow in the summer for a long float. The deer, which had mostly been chased down and eaten up in my time, are back in large numbers. Furry wild animals, no longer considered very valuable for their pretty fur as they were in my time, have returned. The squirrel, a prime choice for the dinner table in my day, can rest a little easier. The trees on the mountainside are large and beautiful once more.

       Maybe I named this story wrong. Maybe, in this day and age, I should have named it, “The town the world has not discovered.” Take a day sometime and make a slow drive up highway 28 from Rover to Needmore, where highway 28 hits 71. Stop along the way, and meet those friendly people of the valley. You will discover a world new to your experiences in Arkansas. Take a little time and explore, and get to know that long, narrow strip of land along the Fourche La Fave River. A place like no other, I can honestly say, and I've seen a very large chunk of the world. Once you've spent a full day in Fourche Valley, you will always want to return.

Forever A Hillbilly: Dens of Iniquity

Forever A Hillbilly: Dens of Iniquity:     My brother Harold and his sons, like Big Dan for example, were blessed with great strength. Those strength genes just passed my side...

Forever A Hillbilly: Dens of Iniquity

Forever A Hillbilly: Dens of Iniquity:     My brother Harold and his sons, like Big Dan for example, were blessed with great strength. Those strength genes just passed my side...

Dens of Iniquity

    My brother Harold and his sons, like Big Dan for example, were blessed with great strength. Those strength genes just passed my side of the family by, but I did have one strength when I was young. I could run a long way.

  But fortunately, I never really needed strength to get by in this world. Even as a young man, just out of high school. I had and still have a well-thought-out self-defense plan, consisting of these 6 steps.

 1. Never become a regular at Honkey-tonks, where most of the problems arise. My Dad never let me get accustomed to such as that when I lived in his house, and I just never got the urge to change that. However, I heard somewhere that it’s a felony to hit a man my age, so I’m tempted, armed with this new layer of protection, to investigate some of those Dens of Iniquity. If not now, when? If somebody would just tell me where they are…

 2. Be humble, which I have always been, especially when I’m in a dangerous situation. Some call that fear, but I prefer to think of myself as possessing great humbleness and humility. Just sounds better, somehow.

  3. My fake big man status. I say fake because I weighed 160 pounds, 6'2” right out of high school. No fat. That's the size I still am underneath the fat, but somehow, I now have trouble stretching myself out to six feet tall. I eventually got up to 260 pounds fat and all, now trimmed down to 220 pounds. So I'm a fake big man, because the fat really does not figure in on the positive side where self-defense is concerned. Just slows you down, and makes you hit the ground harder when you do go down. Though I guess that fat would help some, protect these now brittle old bones.

    But fortunately, this is the first time I ever confessed all this, and most possible trouble makers do not really know I'm not an honest-to-goodness big man.

 4. Bluff. That goes back to step three. Though I did try this a time or two during recess at Fourche Valley School, and it never worked a single time. But I didn’t have the protection of step three in those days. I was just a scrawny kid, and everybody could easily see that.

 5. Don't be too proud to run – far. Which I was able to do as a young man. And fear will help out with the lack of speed problem that always plagued me. Though I have trouble getting out of a slow jog now, and this one may be a little outdated and I may have to rework that. 

6. Don't be too proud to lie flat on the ground and beg for mercy, if none of these other steps work. I have no pride. Actually, bragging about a lack of pride is a form of pride in itself. But I always take great pride in my lack of pride.

So far, thank goodness, I've never had to go past step 5.  But it could happen, and when it does, I'll be ready. Remember this general rule to live your life by:

A MAN WHO CAN RUN FAST AND FAR, AND IS NOT TOO PROUD TO DO IT, DOES NOT NEED TO BE A FIGHTER.

     Of course, this rule will only work with a young man. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I should just stay away from those Dens of Iniquity.

Forever A Hillbilly: Completely Wonderful, Totally Heartbreaking

Forever A Hillbilly: Completely Wonderful, Totally Heartbreaking: BARBARA AND I ATTEND FELLOWSHIP CHURCH in Arkadelphia, Arkansas. We have been at Fellowship since 1999. Ever since we returned from a ...

Completely Wonderful, Totally Heartbreaking

BARBARA AND I ATTEND FELLOWSHIP CHURCH in Arkadelphia, Arkansas. We have been at Fellowship since 1999. Ever since we returned from a year on the road, seeing America. We were looking for a church. We attended the first corporate service of this church, at the Wesley Foundation at Henderson State University. We are the only members still in attendance who were here for that first meeting.

     We attended Calvary Baptist Church in Hannibal, Missouri for three years, but we lost that church when we moved back to Arkansas. It was our most wonderful church experience we had ever had, up to that point in our lives. The services were never really quiet. Churches like Calvary, who bus in a ton of disadvantaged people, especially children, and who have tons of outreach going on, local and abroad, and a church whose members are excited to be there for the right reasons, seem to often be that way, I guess.

     When we left Hannibal and moved back to Arkansas, we searched for another church like Calvary for twenty three years. We attended several really good churches, met tons of wonderful people, had some really fantastic pastors during that twenty three years.

     It's hard to really explain to you exactly what we were looking for, during all that time. Maybe it was that feeling of excitement just to be there. That certain feeling that makes us want to come to church just a little bit earlier, before the services actually start, just to be in the midst of that group of people. Or because we get well fed spiritually every Sunday. Or that feeling that makes us reluctant to leave when its over.

      When we showed up for that first service at Fellowship, it didn't take long for us to realize, that feeling we had experienced so many years before was returning. And it's been there ever since.

     We are fortunate enough to have two universities in our town. Along the way, a number of pastors who are associated with the universities came aboard. Many students followed. We now have hundreds of great college students attending Fellowship regularly. It just seems that students who come to our universities are just the cream of the crop. Then, those who choose to attend church regularly, and become an active part of that congregation, on their own, are usually just the cream of THAT crop.

     Instead of having Sunday night church services, we meet at homes in small groups. Like the first church. We meet, break bread, fellowship, study the word and pray for each other. Then we often have a campfire, roast marshmallows, and explode bamboo bombs, or the like. A few brave souls have even chosen to ride my zip line, sight unseen, down into the totally dark woods. Toward that big tree at the bottom nicknamed “splat.” Then they go home.

     This gives us the opportunity to really get to know and love these students. I cannot describe to you how great that is for us, and what a blessing this is to us. We have the opportunity to almost be substitute parents to these wonderful students for years. They become tightly woven into the fabric of our lives. But then, they graduate, and they often are soon gone, some forever, at least in this world. Many are reluctant to leave Arkadelphia, and work at jobs related to the universities for a time, or whatever they can find. But Arkadelphia has few job opportunities of the type they can hang their hats on, and raise a family around. Sooner or later, we lose almost all of them. It breaks our hearts, again and again, to see them go. We like to think of them as young people we have had the opportunity know, love, have an impact on for several years, then send them out as Fellowship's missionaries to the world. Our loss is the world's gain. That's the wonderful side of it, but it does not stop the heartache.

 

     But that is not the end of our story.

     I'm almost certain Griffin and Stephanie fell in love in our living room, many years ago. They now have four wonderful boys. We not only correspond, but visit occasionally. Griffin called us on Christmas night. They were coming through Arkadelphia during one of our very rare snowstorms, the road was getting bad. They asked about spending the night, and I told him our home was always open to them. But in all honesty, I had to tell him. Barbara and I were both flat on our backs with a bad stomach bug. Your choice. After a short discussion, they sadly chose the slick highway, instead. But they will be back, and we will be there, from time to time.

     Candi and Jeff had graduated, but they chose to stay around awhile. And, they were in love. Candi was a nurse at Hot Springs. Not just a very good nurse, but the one the hospital chose to deliver very bad news to the family about a patent, when those times arose. That kind of nurse. Jeff was temporarily training HSU students to be pilots, while waiting for a real job. Candi was ready to marry, start a family. Jeff seemed to have some reservations about being able to support a family, at that moment. I took Jeff aside after our group meeting, told him that if he missed out on this girl, he would never, in this lifetime, find another like her. He just smiled. Seems he had the ring in his pocket at the time. They have two wonderful youngsters now, and Jeff is a commercial airline pilot in Houston.

     Lisa was our one connection between Calvary, the church we attended and loved in Hannibal, Missouri when we lived there, and OBU in Arkadelphia. She grew up in Calvary, and when she showed up in Arkadelphia, we took her under our wing. She worked for Barbara, on occasion. She was a photography assistant, cleaned our baseboards when Barbara was down in her back, and helped Barbara throw a tea party. Those kind of jobs are more plentiful in Arkadelphia, more so than the real jobs. She was training to be an athletic trainer, and had to transfer to continue that pretty quickly. Way too quickly. She just got married. This year.

     Dayton graduated last year, and is currently getting a good, long look at some of the hard things in life, as well as some of the beautiful ones, as an African missionary. She's had dozens of marriage proposals while there, and took a young child, dying of Aids, in to live with her. She's there for a year.

     Bethany is a Spanish major, and is currently studying in Spain for a year. We miss her. But we'll get her back, for a time.

     Hillary and Annie have an even longer relationship with Fellowship Church than we do. Their parents, Michael and Shirleen, were some of the founders. Michael, my best friend, was killed in a motorcycle accident, years ago.

     In later years, I suddenly felt a need to call Hillary. Then later Annie. And finally, Shirleen. They later reported that each of those calls came during a major low point in their lives, and were a bit spooked by it. They wanted to know how I knew to call at that moment. I didn’t know, but I have a strange feeling about how that came about. Michael was the strongest lay Christian I have ever known. I’ll let you write your own ending to this little story. I already have mine.

    Hillary graduated from HSU, Annie from OBU. 

    Hillary and John now live in Tennessee, Annie and Clayton in Texas. Fortunately, they both pass through Arkadelphia to visit each other. That gives us a chance to see those beautiful babies they are having. 

     I took Aaron catfishing several times, setting out sixty or so cane poles. Aaron says I taught him a good lifetime hobby. Aaron is a biology major, like I was. He soon hooked up with Cayla-Marie. They married, and have moved on to Fayetteville. Cayla-Marie is a distance runner, like I once was, sixty pounds and fifty years ago. They are a perfect match. Like two bookends. With emphasis on the word perfect. Africa became their next home.

     Gobi was two weeks short of a master's degree when diagnosed with cancer. He was alone in this country, a student at HSU. Our church took him in, along with a lot of help from HSU. We drove him to Hot Springs to chemotherapy treatments regularly. When he became too weak to look after himself, Barbara and I took him home with us. Barbara often helped him dress to take him to yet another chemotherapy treatment. Barbara stood up in our small church one Sunday, said Gobi needed to go to MD Anderson Hospital at Houston. She needed $2000 by Friday. On Friday, she had $2000, a plane ticket, and paid motel reservations. He is now cancer free, a professor in Malaysia, has a beautiful wife and daughter.  Our daughter put up a wonderful post on Facebook recently about her parent's love. A comment immediately popped up from a world away. “I know all about that love. It saved my life.” Barbara and I had a good cry.

     Joann graduated from OBU, sold everything she owned to raise money to go to China as a missionary. She stayed for years. When in this country recently, she came by and spent the night. I got out a truly weird thing I bought at a garage sale in Australia, to ask her if she knew what it was. She ran away screaming. Seems it was a Chinese idol or god of some sort. But it has been a totally well behaved weird thing in my closet for years now. Maybe she knows something about it I don't, but need to.

     Daniel is one of the few who has not broken our hearts. He graduated from HSU, and found a real job in Arkadelphia. A rare thing. He still shows up regularly at our house on Sunday nights.

     Another Daniel spent much of his time, while in Arkadelphia, wandering the poor neighborhoods, meeting children, bringing them to church, playing with them, as well as making them totally adore him. A local lady once saw what he was doing, called him over to her car, handed him several hundred dollars. She told him to spend it on the kids as he saw fit. He did. He also visited elderly, lonely ladies regularly, and drove them wherever they needed to go. We finally hired him to do his thing for the Church, and train others to do the same. But there was only one Daniel Graham, and when he and others he trained moved on, that work lessened. But others were inspired by him, as we all were, and are beginning to take up the slack. Before he left, Barbara asked him to be her Words with Friends (internet Scrabble) buddy. He told Barbara he would take it easy on her.

     Barbara replied, “No! I want you to do your very best!” Soon Barbara was beating him like a drum. There's only one sixty something year old scrabble player like Barbara. I learned that long ago.

     Kate hung around Arkadelphia after graduating, even ran her own business for a time. She worked tirelessly on the Kid’s Festival for our church. Now she and Brian have moved on. Seems a seminary is now in their future.

     Yet another Daniel, and Kathleen, are twins. They were both in our group. Daniel and Lauren fell in love. That romance, also, could have started in our living room, but maybe not. We now see their beautiful baby regularly. On facebook.  Kathleen is a gifted dancer, a talent best used in a larger city.

     Most recently, Tim, our tireless power point and computer expert at our church, and his wife Kayla, who could always be found at our church working with the kids, left for Colorado, he for seminary and she for a university job.

     Kylie was my best renter ever. An old soul, still in her twenties. She hung around for an advanced degree. Then, she had a chance to work with Neal Nelson, one of our pastors and director of HSU's Baptist Collegate Ministries. Who could pass up a chance to work with Neal? As a really big plus, she met and married Daniel, (We just love our large flock of Daniels!) still finishing up his own degree, a budding Sports Analyst or Sports Information Director. But, we fear he will soon carry her away from us, to a larger city, where his expertise will probably lead him. But we won't like it.

     This is just a sampling. I could go on and on. My apology to all those equally loved students I didn't have room to include. Wherever our wonderful university kids/adults are in this world today, they will always be in our hearts. But we'll see them again. In this world or the next.

Forever A Hillbilly: Crittenden House and the Time Capsule

Forever A Hillbilly: Crittenden House and the Time Capsule:  WHEN I FIRST SAW CRITTENDEN HOUSE, she was a mess. Not just a regular type messy house; she was a living, breathless royal nightmare ...

Crittenden House and the Time Capsule

 WHEN I FIRST SAW CRITTENDEN HOUSE, she was a mess. Not just a regular type messy house; she was a living, breathless royal nightmare of a mess. I say breathless because one could not really stand to breathe inside that house. Those first associations with this house affected me in such a way that, until this day, I could never eat anything inside that house. But today, as Crittenden house is in the throes of its last days, I ate. Two peanut butter sandwiches, kept tightly sealed until they entered my mouth. So, today, I made things right between Crittenden House and myself, and gave her the respect she has deserved, during the twenty some odd year association we have had. Crittenden house has a date with a bulldozer, right after the first of the year. I sold her, awhile back. On a handshake. Keeps down the paper work. Jimmy Bolt, our best city manager, to my way of thinking, during our thirty year tenure in Arkadelphia, was my partner in this deal. Now, don’t get the idea that I normally buy and sell a house on a handshake. But Jimmy Bolt and I have a long history. We were both country hicks together out in the woods west of town in the 1980’s. We were so close, my dog once raided his henhouse, and caught a bullet in the foot for his efforts. Not by Jimmy, but from one of the several neighborhood kids, and we had several. None ever openly admitted it, to the best of my memory.  But it worked; to my knowledge, my dog, Booker Brand New, never went near his henhouse again.

     You see, Crittenden house sits right across the road from Jimmy Bolt’s office window, and Crittenden house had long ago lived out her best years when I bought her. She’s just plain ugly. Sorry, Crittenden House, but it’s time for me to admit what the rest of Arkadelphia has talked about as long as I’ve known her. According to my recent research, she went on the tax records in 1910. I knew fifteen years ago the city of Arkadelphia would one day own her, and remove her. The big surprise was, It took so long.  I passed up an offer twice what I sold it for, finally, around twelve years ago, waiting for Arkadelphia to bring a fine point pen to the negotiating table, and maybe buy the property by the square foot, which also means through the nose. But alas! I finally had to threaten to sell, OWNER FINANCING written plainly on my little For Sale sign, which could have given Crittenden house a new lease on life for thirty more years of being the blight of downtown Arkadelphia. Should have tried that years ago.  Gives you some sort of idea the kind of businessman I am. But that’s another story.

     But I digress. Being overcome by sentimentality, I have wandered off. Let’s get back to my first introduction to Crittenden House.  The relator, I forgot which one, could find nobody in Arkadelphia willing to enter the house to clean, no matter what they offered. But that brought the house down to $14,000. It IS a duplex, and all I could see was, if I can just get through the initial cleanup, spend a few weeks bringing her up a few notches, It would bring me in $560 a month, the renters will pay it off in a few years, and the rest will just be gravy. (ugh! Did I just mention food?)

     I put on a mask and rubber gloves. Sometime into the second day, I started cleaning off the counter and the stove. Skuttlebutt had it, the last renter, who made that mess, was being chased by the law, and had to leave in a big hurry. When I finally reached the bottom of the mess on the stove, I discovered part of the problem with the smell.  Pork chops were cooking on the stove, it seems, at some point just prior to the last tenant’s sudden departure. They were brown, as though partially cooked, or possibly time turned them brown. But that does not explain the additional two feet of debris piled on top of all that. Weeks had passed before I bought the house.

      I have a lot of on-the-job training with messes. My agreement with Barbara has been, she does more house cleaning of the normal variety than I do, but when the really bad messes occur, I clean them up. Fortunately, both our kids were past the diaper stage before I would go along with that. You remember washing out all those old, cloth type diapers? Nuf’ said. I’ve never understood how a family member can get a bad stomach bug, be kneeling right over the commode when the time comes, yet throw it all over the bathroom; nary a drop hitting the commode.

    I finally chased out the smell. Then, by applying a lot of elbow grease, (ugh! Greasy food!) putting a hanging picture or shelf over various holes in the walls, and putting on a couple of more layers of paint, the job was done. Crittenden house was smiling again. And she started paying off her mortgage note. Things were looking up, for this old gal, even if she was reaching 83.

     The Tornado of 97’, bad as it was, actually gave Crittenden House an image boost in the neighborhood. In seconds, she went from being the worst house in the area, to being one of the best. Nobody was in it at the time. Houses across the street were flattened to the ground. One apartment in Crittenden house was rented; his stuff was still there. Yet after the tornado, he was gone. We never found him, and he never showed back up. I wondered if he had become a victim, but further inquiries told me he also left in a big rush, also being chased by the law, a day or two before the tornado.

     Insurance adjusters descended upon the town in droves a couple of days later. Before I knew they had even looked at Crittenden house, my agent was presenting me with a check for the total loss of the house. I protested. “The contractor says it can be repaired.”

      “ But for the amount of the policy?”

     “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten an estimate yet.” Then, realizing I was talking against myself, which goes back to the kind of businessman I am, I shut up and gratefully accepted the check.

      My banker laughed when I told him that. “If he had seen that picture I have down at the bank, showing what it looked like before the tornado, you would have never gotten a dime!”

      I decided to repair it myself. I put on six squares of shingles. One day while I sat on that roof, getting a bird’s eye view of the destruction, I just sat there a long time. FEMA was doing a great job, but the town still had a pink cast to it from all the insulation strewn around. That wonderful little lady was pulling her little red wagon up the street with cold water for all the workers. She had been doing that for days. I never knew her. I wish I did. I’d just like to thank her. I sat there and bawled like a baby for my town.

     The volunteers  got the trees off the house, I  bought window glass by the box, attached the electrical service back on, and three weeks later, it was rented again, to one of those crooked guys who drove up from Florida to make a killing off our tornado, getting work. He told me, “I’m a little short on cash right now, long on equipment, could I put this chain saw up for a security deposit? I’m going to be making a lot of money in the coming weeks.”

      I went for it. I don’t think he did much work, though.  A couple of days later, he called me, asked me to bring his truck to Hot Springs so he could use it to bail himself out of jail. I went for that too, and after a few weeks, he went home. Seems that new rule put in right after the tornado requiring that repairmen flocking in must have a permit to prove they are honest and upright, and his drinking habit did him in. He called me a few weeks later, asked me if he would send me his rent due, would I send him his chain saw. Told him I would if he would also send shipping money for his chain saw. Never heard from him again. I still have that chain saw. It has not run in years.

     Have you noticed that “the Law” appears quite a lot in telling about Crittenden House? Well, I’m not near done yet. In 1998, Barbara and I were traveling a year in an RV. The last thing I did before leaving town and handing the rentals over to Bud Reeder was rent Crittenden House out to a Mexican framing crew for a few months. A month into our trip, I got an early morning call on our emergency phone. Son-in-law Mickey, then a paramedic, had been the first responder to Crittenden house after a fight over a woman broke out at the front end of the house. It traveled through the house to the back door, spilled out into the yard, and one man picked up a handy concrete block and busted the other man’s head in. I was far away, never got the official version, but scuttlebutt has it he was shipped back to Mexico, not being a legal citizen. When we got back to town, many months later, there was a concrete block lying in the back yard. Surely, that could not be the murder weapon. I feel certain that one was on file, up in the evidence room. But it sure had some curious stains on it.

     Along with a lot of good, clean renters, Crittenden House brought me quite a few occasions to practice up on my “dirty mess man” skills. One case comes to mind. When a renter moved out, I discovered the back bedroom had been used as a dog pen. For some time. That’s bad, but I’ve seen that a lot. Nothing noteworthy here, in itself. The problem was, his bagged garbage seems to have been placed in that room right down in there amongst’ em’ for a long time. That makes for a very bad combo. A big challenge for the dirty mess man. I have used Bud Reeder’s hired cleaners some, but I never sent them into that kind of mess, if I was in town. The dirtiest jobs were reserved for the Dirty Mess Man. But then, I’ll admit. I do travel a lot.

     Though I’ve relied on the bad side of Crittenden house to make an interesting story, there were a lot of good things along the way. One good renter I want to tell you about was the very last; though she only stayed a short time before the house sold, I think she was the best. When a house is for sale, renters are made aware of it before they move in, and assured of 30 day’s notice. But, most houses are bought as a rent house, and they usually stay on. This time, Crittenden house had served 104 years, and she was very tired. A house’s age seem to correspond to human age pretty closely. I wish I had known Crittenden house, when she was young and beautiful, clear fresh water running through her pipes and drains. But in that case, I would still have been making payments on her to the end. I told that last renter, the day it sold, she would have to move, and I dreaded that. But she took the whole thing well, with a sense of humor, like I knew she would.  She was in her early twenties, a sweet person. She was working two jobs, also helping her mom and younger sisters, and saving to go back to HSU.  I had been saving her another apartment, a higher priced one, and told her I would give her a month’s free rent, and reduce the rent to what she was used to. But she found another apartment that fit her needs better. I borrowed a trailer and helped her move. I also told her, no need to clean up at all, I’m about to start tearing things out.

     But I knew she would. And she did. It’s fitting, I think, for a once-beautiful house that has served so long, like Crittenden house, to begin the process of dying as clean as it’s ever been. I will always remember that hardworking, wonderful girl/woman. If I had the chance to choose a second daughter, in addition to the wonderful one I have, I would choose her.

      The front room in Crittenden house has a beautiful built in long bench, with bookshelves on each end. The whole thing stretches along the entire wall. The first thing she mentioned regarding what she will miss most about Crittenden House was that bench. I told her she could have it, if she could get it out. Her friend tried, but gave up. It would have to be torn up to get it out. I’ve studied that bench a lot, as I scavenged the building. I decided today I would have to sacrifice the shelves on one end to get the bench out. An antique buyer from near Conway, seeing pics of it, said he wanted to take it out, piece by piece, reassemble it out and sell it. But he never showed up.  I started tearing off the top right shelf. When it came off, I discovered a three inch deep, hidden and sealed pocket underneath. It was totally sealed with layers upon layers of paint, many of which I applied. The dust that rose up, and the air that I breathed, as I looked in, was just different. It had been in there for a very long time.  I saw a stack of papers in the bottom. Many of them turned to dust as I touched them.  I picked up an envelope that was more sturdy. It was a church collection envelope, stamped with the date, Dec. 16, 1917.  It’s stated purpose:

Weekly Offering

Arkadelphia Methodist Church, South

Arkadelphia, Ark

For: Pastor’s Salary – Current Expenses – Connectional Claims

     To my amazement, two items present were obviously not nearly as old. One was a baseball trading card for Mike Schmidt, who played for the Phillies in the 70’s, born in 1948. Also present was a payday advance receipt, made out to Mathis, with no year date. The business was located at 1730 Pine Street, Arkadelphia, Arkansas 71923  501-246-CASH. The amount was $33. My best guess for the late arrivals would be that the time capsule was not always sealed as tightly with paint as it is at present, and slipped in through the cracks. I have no other possible explanations. I applied many, many coats of white paint to it myself, over twenty years. Just today, in another hidden space in that shelf, I found business cards. If I ever decide to go into that business, I’ll be stocked up. The business advertised asbestos products. Along with those, there was a Malvern High School graduation announcement envelope, dated 1920.  Crittenden House, in your death you leave me with a puzzle I will be thinking about for a long time.

     Yesterday was a big day in the death process of Crittenden House. Lisa Green, the owner of the Blue Suede Shoes Antique Mall in Little Rock, showed up with a very large trailer and two hard workers, and we pulled out all the windows sashes, 50 or so, along with the doors, fire place mantles, door headers, shelves, and every other old thing she could load on that trailer. Soon, once beautiful parts of Crittenden houses will be adorning housed all over Little Rock. Makes me feel better, somehow. Parts of Crittenden House will remain alive, and totally beautiful again, for a long time to come. As Jimmy Bolt requested, I’ll soon present the keys to Crittenden house to him when I finish with the house. “But Jimmy,” I’ll say to him, “You see, she has no doors – or locks -”

     The beautiful, almost knot free planks trimming the doors, windows, and making up the baseboards, were a problem for me. Beautiful lumber, but I really had no market for them. Trying not to over think this too much, I pretty well pulled them all off, pulled the nails. Day after day. To date, I have not sold one of them. But they are far too beautiful to go to the dump. Every crack and crevice in all my storage buildings are now crammed full of beautiful lumber. For what, I don’t know. I’ll probably let my kids and grandkids deal it someday. When I left the house today, only two items remained for me to deal with. The beautiful clawfoot tubs. Monday, the last day, they will have to go, one way or another. And, they weigh about 300 pounds. Each. Everybody who sees them, or pics of them, just love them. They oooh and aaah, talk about how they would love to have them. But no one offers to buy or deal with their 300 pound bulk. The last day arrived. Nobody had claimed those two tubs, now priced down to $100 for both. If they take one, they must take both. No luck. The night before, I spent a lot of time searching for a way to save the tubs. I could haul them to my back yard. Keep trying to sell. Or, try to refinish them. Yes, that was the answer. I talked my friend Tyrone to help me load them. He loads heavy things for a living. He’s good at it. Actually, he did most all of it. Once on the trailer, I headed out. A block toward home, reality set in. I’m closing in on 70 years old. I’ve got a bad back. Moving them again, then maybe again, did not seem like such a good idea, now. I made a hard right turn, toward the metal recycling plant. At least, Crittenden house will never know where her two beautiful, but giant, babies went. And I’ll never tell.

The Time Capsule bench and  bookself unit was another last minute decision. I finally got it out, moved it in pieces to my driveway, and re-assembled it over a few days on my driveway. It’s done, but I had no place to put it. If it starts raining before I sell it, I’ll have to try to talk Barbara into moving her new car out of the garage for awhile. Might be easier said than done.

     Crittenden house and I have been through many hard times, in our old age. But there have been good times, also. She has always been my worst looking rental property, yet she always was easy to rent. She was cheap, $280 per month including free water, and provided cover and shelter for many who were only one step removed from the streets. Poor people need a place to call home, also. And, with the insurance company’s generosity in declaring Crittenden House a total loss after the tornado, she’s been my most profitable rent house. And remember, not just everyone can look out their window when they wake up, and see our beautiful city Hall, or see Jimmy Bolt, our best city manager ever, at his window, gazing out over his domain. Rest well, Crittenden House. I hope you love being spread around all over Little Rock, Though parts of you will not be so lucky, resting peacefully in a nice landfill. Just remember, in your passing, you will be making room for a nice new parking lot! Now, who can ask for more than that? The best I can hope for is a box, and a flower on Decoration Day for a few years. Or maybe not even that.