Forever A Hillbilly: A Hillbilly's Medical Advice

Forever A Hillbilly: A Hillbilly's Medical Advice: AS YOU KNOW, IF YOU READ MY BLOG, sometimes I just have to take out from my storytelling and tell you what's rattling around in my h...

A Hillbilly's Medical Advice

AS YOU KNOW, IF YOU READ MY BLOG, sometimes I just have to take out from my storytelling and tell you what's rattling around in my head that day.

     "But you're crossing over the line this time,"

     So, take this column with a grain of salt. You're probably right. But, having said that, there still could be a little something here one of you might be able to take away from this, and put to use someday.

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

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

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

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

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

     It worked too.

   

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

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

     I did.

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

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

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

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

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

     LOUDLY!

     Isn't it written somewhere, "FIRST AND FOREMOST, DO NO HARM." or something like that? Knowing what I now know, If I were the daddy, and I was in that room, I would be flinging folks right and left to get that baby out, when the nurses start wringing their hands around and crying. That would be a bad sign, if the doc's not there yet.

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

      Just askin'.

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Sammy Turner leads me into trouble.

Forever A Hillbilly: Sammy Turner leads me into trouble.:    Sammy Turner was two years older than me.  We ran around together a lot in the 1950’s. We had a call. “Whoo, Whoo, Whooie e ooo!” T...

Sammy Turner leads me into trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Night of Fear, then the Wolf came

Forever A Hillbilly: Night of Fear, then the Wolf came:      One balmy autumn day, when I was in the eighth grade, I packed my tow sack hammock, food, water, my .22 rifle, and Tooter and I s...

Night of Fear, then the Wolf came

     One balmy autumn day, when I was in the eighth grade, I packed my tow sack hammock, food, water, my .22 rifle, and Tooter and I set out to climb Main Mountain. This was the tallest of all the mountains around, seven or so ridges over from our farm. We followed Stowe Creek up the holler', avoiding most of the climbing until we reached the big one. It was a hard, tiring climb up the mountain. We reached the summit at sundown. The trees on top were mostly knotty, gnarled oaks. Fox squirrels abounded here, but many trees were hollow. It was a real challenge, getting a mess of squirrels on top of Main Mountain. I set up camp, we shared the water and food, and I crawled into my hammock. Excited about our hunt tomorrow, I finally dozed off.

     I awoke with a start. The moon was up, and an ominous wind blew through the tree branches. An owl hooted in the distance. Although it seemed I had been asleep a long time, the moon told me it was not yet midnight. My major concern, however, was Tooter. I had never run onto anything in the woods that frightened Tooter. But here he was, whining, crying softly, pressing against me, staring into the darkness. A heavy rustling in the leaves came from the direction of his attention. I picked up the .22, releasing the safety. The rustling, about a hundred yards out, slowly circled us, with heavy footsteps. Almost no deer were in those mountains then, and the other options were much worse, maybe deadly. With Tooter following every move with his nose, whining, we strained to see through the darkness. The circling continued, at intervals, throughout the long night. Tooter and I pressed closer and closer together. As a faint light appeared in the east, the rustling disappeared. We found no tracks in the freshly fallen leaves, never knowing what had stalked us throughout that long, fearful night.

     The hunting was good, and with the sun heading toward the horizon, we headed down the mountain with a full pack of fox squirrels and memories of a night the passing decades have not erased.

     The good hunting on Main Mountain set up yet another adventure to Wing Holler'. My buddy, Bob Rice, wanted to try his luck with those Main Mountain “foxies'.” One Saturday we set out up the holler.' After a long hunt, we had a few, and the sun was dipping low, so we turned toward home. Tooter thundered through the underbrush, in his customary manner, a hundred yards to the right. Suddenly, a large gray shadow flashed across the trail in front of us. Bob and I both glimpsed the animal, a large wolf or coyote. I glanced at Bob, noticed his chill bumps were as big as mine, and we picked up the pace.

     As we neared the last turn in the trail before Turner's Store came into view, I realized my hunting knife was missing. Remembering the last place we had used it was where we field dressed the squirrels, my concern for my hard-to-come-by knife overcame my concern about the wolf. As Bob stretched out on the trail soaking up the last rays of the late evening sun, I started back up the trail. Tooter and I quickly found the knife. On the way back down, a sinister plan began to form in the dark recesses of my mind. Perhaps Tooter and I could use the wolf episode to have some fun with Bob. Just before we came into sight of Bob, I gave Tooter the “stand” command. I went around the curve, saw Bob stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, chewing on a weed. I softly called Tooter, then began running, screaming, “Bob! The Wolf!” I saw Bob glance up, just as Tooter, alias the great gray wolf, burst from the timber.

     Under normal circumstances, there is a process to be followed in getting to one's feet from his position. I have never been able to explain or understand exactly what happened in this situation, although I have thought through it many times in the past fifty-plus years. One moment Bob was glancing up, the next he was leaning into the wind, fairly flying down the trail to Turner's store. His feet seemed to scarcely touch the ground. A small cloud of dust marked his disappearance around the bend. When I reached the bend, there was no sign of Bob. Tooter and I set off down the creek toward home. Moments later, a car came speeding up the trail, a large dust cloud boiling up behind it. As it approached me, I made out a wide-eyed Bob, Buell Turner, and some old men who often hung around the store, whittling and chewing tobacco. Guns bristled out the windows. I had some tall explaining to do.

Forever A Hillbilly: Harold Gillum, my Hero

Forever A Hillbilly: Harold Gillum, my Hero:  MY DEAR BROTHER HAROLD GILLUM  passed away some time back. Starting when I was only a baby, Harold has always been my hero, my role mod...

Harold Gillum, my Hero

 MY DEAR BROTHER HAROLD GILLUM passed away some time back. Starting when I was only a baby, Harold has always been my hero, my role model.   One of my very first memories was of Harold, standing in front of the mirror, carefully shaping his beautiful locks of curly dark hair with Wild Root Cream Oil Charlie. Harold is fourteen years older than I, so my time with him before he left Wing was limited.   When we swam together in the creek, if the water got too deep for me, he swam with me on his back.

     With a baseball in his hand, Harold could produce miracles. His knuckle ball usually hit me just about anywhere, except in my glove.  His curve ball would look like it was way above my head, then curve neatly in for a strike at the last moment. Right or left. His fast ball, well, I think I have about blocked out my memories of catching that. He once stood in front of our house, threw the ball up in the air, and hit it to the old barn down in front of the house. “There. That will give you a goal to shoot for, as you grow older.” When I was grown, and still was not anywhere close, I measured his hit. 500 feet.

     When we squirrel hunted, I felt lucky to hit the squirrel anywhere with our old .22. Harold only shot his in the ear, to save the meat.

Fishing for red horses and suckers, I once caught one with a bare hook. While Harold caught half a washtub full.

     Harold was a mature, solid person at a young age. When Harold was a senior in high school, they needed a school bus driver from Wing very badly. The Bluffton bus was doing a double route, and the people up there were getting tired of getting up so early. There were no potential drivers on the Wing end of the line, and there was no house on our end of the line to move someone into. Finally, Harold's name was brought up. It was said that he was as solid as a 40 year old man. And that was true. So, Harold was hired as a school bus driver a week before school started. There was just one problem. He couldn't drive. Some of the local men gave him a week's crash course, and he learned quickly. When the Yell County Fair time arrived, he drove a bus load of students over Danville Mountain, then only a dirt mountain trail. All the other bus drivers chose to go around by Ola.  Mr. Tommy Sullivan was on that bus. When they started down the mountain, he moved up and sat on the steps right by the door, hand on the door opener.  At the bottom of the mountain, he pronounced Harold a good driver.

      Harold came in on a furlough from the Air Force. I had caught some pretty nice catfish down at the slough, and as is typical for Harold, he just had to give it a try even though it had been raining a lot and the river was coming up. The slough makes a big curve from the river, then back to it, and we would have to swim to get to the good hole. One night Harold, my cousin Jack Larry, and I set out. The water was over my head, but we got across okay. The fish were not in a biting mood, but the river just kept coming on up. Pretty soon, the road was about the only ground not covered on the whole island, and we decided to get out while we could. The water moccasins were all up on the high ground too, and Jack Larry and I were barefooted, with one small light. Every few steps we spotted another one. When we got to the spot where we had to swim, there was now a rushing current. Larry and I both had to hang onto Harold on the way across to keep from being washed away. He was larger and a strong swimmer, but I still don't know how he did it. Well, the snakes were just as thick on the other side, too, and I've never been so happy to get home.

    My wife and I once visited Harold while he was in the Air Force, in Montana. He drove down town to a store and found a parking place in front of the store, but it was going to cost him a dime. He drove another quarter of a mile down the road, and found free parking. We had to walk half a mile, but when we left for home, the dime was still in his pocket.

      Harold worked for the Forest Service several years. When Yellowstone burned over, he took a firefighting crew there. After 30 hours on the fire line, he had a ruptured aneurysm in his brain.

He was flown to Idaho Falls for surgery. His wife Lou headed for Idaho Falls, and I followed a day or two later. When I got to the hospital,  Harold had a drainage tube in his head, but he had not lost any of his sense of humor. "Pat," he said, "Be sure to tell the surgeon, if she takes anything out when she operates, just put it in a little box. I'll want to go through it later."

     

     The operation took eight hours. They had to cool his body down to stone cold, to slow the blood flow. When the vessel was then empty of blood, a clamp could then be slipped over it, and the heart restarted.  He made it through all right, partially because, the doctor said, he was so big and strong to begin with. I shook his strong but stone cold hand, and I headed home. I was not needed there.  Lou was awake, and on guard.

     The net result was, when it was all said and done, Harold's balance and ability to get around were affected. He could not swallow for some time, and took his nourishment through a feeding tube for a good while after he took the farm back over. His brain, fortunately, was as sharp as always. Once he got through rehab, he continued to run his cattle farm as always, but it was a lot slower and more complicated now. Given enough thinking time, one can figure out a way to do most anything, if the determination is there. And he always had a lot more than his share of that. He went on steel determination for years. Once, he was raking hay. He was standing beside the tractor and pushed a rake lever the wrong way. It tightened in on him, and he quickly pushed the lever again–still the wrong way. Bones started popping. He finally extracted himself with numerous broken ribs and a punctured lung, but in typical Harold fashion, finished raking his hay before going to the hospital. First and foremost, the farm is taken care of.

     ­­­­­­­When I thought Harold was pretty well over the hill, pushing forty, and I was still a young buck fresh from running college track, I challenged Harold to a race. He won. So, I challenged him to an arm wrestling contest. He slammed my arm down so fast and so hard, I thought it must be broken. To try to save a little face, I pronounced, “I’m going to start lifting weights. Someday, I’ll challenge you again.” For years I stalked him. As he got older, time and again I visited Harold, and evaluated my chances. Each time, when he rose to greet me and wrapped his aged, strong fingers around my hand, I realized, I was rushing it.  Finally, he could no longer stand to shake my hand, and I started looking for a table we could use. But his strong handshake again told me it was no use. I just never felt the time was right.

     I love you, Harold, and I will keep you in my heart forever. But I will continue lifting weights, because I will see you again.

Forever A Hillbilly: A Visit back to Wing

Forever A Hillbilly: A Visit back to Wing: I WENT BACK TO YELL COUNTY recently, to visit my Big Bro. He always keeps a project going, and he thinks through each step in detail. This...

A Visit back to Wing

I WENT BACK TO YELL COUNTY recently, to visit my Big Bro. He always keeps a project going, and he thinks through each step in detail. This time, his project was to get rid of a very intelligent animal. His house has a small room off the porch where the cats sleep. This mysterious animal was eating the cat food. He expelled the cats for the duration of the project, and had tried a number of ways to catch it, all to no avail.  A home-made armadillo trap, then a wire box trap from Walmart. Each time, the bait, cat food, was all gone, and the animal was gone. This animal had carried off enough bait to feed an army.

     This is where I came into the picture. We discussed the problem in detail, for the better part of a day.  Since this animal had already defeated two traps, designed for larger type pests, such as a stray cat, or a raccoon, or a possum, we determined that it was smaller. And since it had already carried off tons of food, we assumed it was carrying off the food and stashing it in the under part of the house, which was connected to this room. We put our heads together, and over the bulk of the rest of the day, we decided it must be a pack rat. Once we were totally in agreement, we spent the rest of the day on strategy.

     Big Bro had a rat trap, a wire and wood thing, like a giant mouse trap. We discussed bait in detail. I suggested a hunk of cheese. He suggested we stick pieces of cat food on the cheese, as this animal had already shown an affinity for that. I tried to convince him that everyone, and everything, just loves cheese, and that a chunk of ripe cheese, alone, would do the trick. After we debated that an hour or so, he gave in. We set the trap right there between the two useless traps, topped with a really nice, ripe, hunk of cheese. Big Bro suggested we must tie that trap down, because if it got caught by a leg or something, it might just drag his only rat trap off. I suggested that it was not needed, because once a pack rat was in that trap, he was going nowhere. But by sundown, he had won out. It was his trap, and his pack rat.

     Big Dan, his son, was there temporarily recovering from some medical issues, and he was not about to be left out. Big Dan allowed as how, in case it didn't get caught, it might walk around that trap a time or two, just inspecting that cheese, and we should sprinkle flour all around on the floor in the whole area, so that we might at least get a look at a track or two, and know something about what we were up against. We discussed the merits and shortcomings of that idea, we each had our say. But, in the end, nobody came up with a good reason why we should not to that, so we did.

     As bed time approached, we were all excited about what the morning would bring as we visited until bedtime.

     Big Dan has led a wild and adventurous life, but he had now found the Lord, and he was anxious to talk about it. Big Dan and I talked more that night at Big Bro’s house than we had ever talked before.

     Big Bro was about to go to bed, and I suggested we might just peek in on the situation now, but Big Bro said no, leave it alone. That animal never stirs before midnight, he said. Now, I didn't really understand how Big Bro knew that, because he was always asleep by 8 o'clock. But I didn't mention that, as I knew that would only trigger another round of debates, and we were all pretty well exhausted from debating all day anyhow.  Big Bro went to bed at 8 o'clock.

     Big Dan and I talked some more. I lived with Big Dan for a time, during the big gas well boom in western Oklahoma. I was working on a gas well one summer, to supplement my teaching pay. Big Dan roared up one day on his Harley, and easily got a job there, when the boss saw how big and strong he was. He made my life there a lot easier. The other Roughnecks stopped pitching chunks of iron off the tower at me, just to see how well I could dodge, once Big Dan was on the scene. And life was sure a lot simpler in that Roughneck town, also, hanging out with Big Dan. He was just a skinny kid then, about 280 pounds or so. Nobody messed with Big Dan, or any of his friends.

     When I headed for bed, I stopped for a moment, turned, and held Big Dan's eye for a moment across the room. “I'm proud of you, Big Dan. You're a good man.” He flashed a smile. “Thanks, Uncle Pat. You've ALWAYS been a good man.” That exchange warmed my heart. I slept well.

      When I got up the next morning, Big Dan had already been up a long time, and drained the coffee pot totally dry, probably for the second or third time, because you can just never tell about Big Dan. He was now long gone, off to see his friends. Big Bro was up too, waiting at his spot at the table while sweet sis-in-law fixed breakfast. “Just go look for yourself, and see if you can pick a track or two out of that mess,” he said. Well, that told me we had been beaten again, but I rushed out there anyway. The cheese was gone, the trap was thrown, and it was pulled to the end of Big Bro's wire. The animal was gone. There was a lot of scratching and clawing marks in the flour, but it was mostly a mess, and using all my woodsman skills, about all I could read from that was, it sure had some sharp claws. I would have loved to have hung around and seen the end game of this mystery played out, but I wanted to look over the old farm today, so, after breakfast, I headed out. I wanted to grab that last sliver of lemon pie as I walked out, but Mom had long ago warned me about grabbing the last bite of anything. I always tell Sweet Sis-in-Law well ahead when I'm coming, and I always show up around meal time, and she always has my favorite waiting, coconut pie. This time she surprised me, and it was lemon pie. I now think my favorite kind of pie is lemon pie.

     As I walked out the door, I could tell Big Bro was already plotting his next move in his mind, and I knew that by now, he was about to pull out all the stops.

     I got the word the next day. Big Bro had, indeed, pulled out all the stops and caught a pack rat, using women's nylons and peanut butter. I'm still a little fuzzy about how this all played out, or I would tell you more. Why didn't I think of that, women's nylons and peanut butter? It all sounds so simple, now.

     But yet the saga continues. The cat food is still getting gone. And now, that pest has really gone to extreme measures, chewing the cover off the wiring to their car’s computer. Big Bro has that look in his eye that I haven’t seen in a long time. That look always scared me to near death when I was a little boy, and Big Bro was already big.  Now, it’s all-out war.

Forever A Hillbilly: Traveling Sweden

Forever A Hillbilly: Traveling Sweden: WE WERE LOOKING FOR A HOSTEL. When we found it, It was way back out in the country, on a farm behind a farm. Lots of people were around...

Traveling Sweden

WE WERE LOOKING FOR A HOSTEL. When we found it, It was way back out in the country, on a farm behind a farm. Lots of people were around when we checked in, so at least, we wouldn't be alone this time, like we had so many times before. It was a huge building. Said it was a converted “Old Folks Home.” Well, we weren't that old yet, but so many younger people were there too, It shouldn't be so bad.

     We drove out to town for supper, and when we got back, we realized we were the only LIVING souls in this three story building. Again. Even the woman who had taken our money had disappeared. None of the buildings within sight had lights on. Going up to the third floor to investigate, I saw a light was on in one room, and the door was open. It was full of computers and such. I walked on in to check it out.  A very small, tentative voice from a hidden spot said, “h-h-hello?” It was a woman, who, when she began to get over the shock of me walking in on her in this deserted place, said, “My husband rents this room for office space. We have a farm nearby. I'm just up here, catching up on my book work.” I apologized for startling her, and she was nice, but as soon as I left, she locked up and cleared out too. I guess her car must have been out back. We never saw her again.

     Barbara reminded me of the history of this building, and mentioned that a lot of those old folks probably died in here. Along about that time, strange, unexplainable sounds started coming up from the basement. We had some time before bedtime, and we busied about to take our mind off all those strange sounds. Barbara took a long, soaking bath sitting up in a bathtub about the size and shape of a washing machine box. Then, we washed clothes in it. In Wing, we always believed in multiple use of a big tub of hot water, but Barbara didn't. Had to change the water after each use. Then, Barbara read while I looked for a book. I had already read every book I brought along. That's one area I have the jump on Barbara. She reads at a book a week or two. One day or so for me, maybe two. Anyway, I found a large color picture book of their Princess Victoria. She was beautiful. Just like Barbara. Perfectly posed in every shot, just like Barbara. Perfectly at ease in the presence of royalty. Perfect makeup, clothes perfectly matching, never a wrinkle. Just like Barbara. I really don't understand how Barbara always looks so perfect on trips like this, since we hardly ever find a place to wash clothes. But she does. All I can figure out is, she was born destined to become a Princess, or a Queen, And I must have came along early, and stole her away, before she had a chance to meet her destiny. I just have no other logical explanation.       

     We had two single beds, the only kind they seem to have in Europe. But we scooted them close together that night. After a time, we dozed off, in spite of the fact that the who-knows-whats kept playing around downstairs.

     The nice lady showed back up and fixed up a good breakfast. She said the radiators had just been turned on, hooked up to very deep wells. The air from that deep in the earth, a few degrees warmer, circulated up and heated the place. Questionable heat in that climate, but the radiators did dry our clothes good. Maybe that explained the noises.   

     We declined a two night stay. We were ready to move on.

     Traveling through the Dairy country, I realized the Swedes had developed their milk cows to an amazing degree. Their udders were often twice the size I had ever seen before, comparable to some we saw at a Fair in Quebec City. Their bag was so heavy, they sometimes just sat back on their haunches, like a dog, to rest their load. Actually, I fear they are ahead of us in other areas of technology. America seems to call them over to do very difficult things, like setting up a computer system for a city.

     Barbara had started ragging me about a week ago about getting a haircut. But, they wanted $60! I was just not about to do that. Every town we came to, she tried to bargain them down. We were sitting in a town square one afternoon, enjoying an ice cream cone. Barbara said, “Be right back.” I looked down in the direction she was headed, and I knew she had spotted another salon. Will she never give up on that? Well, actually I  knew the answer. No. She stayed in there a long time, then stuck her head out and motioned me down. She had gone through all the operators, one at a time, telling them how little hair I had, how we won't spread the word about a cheap haircut, how we would never be back. Finally, she just wore the youngest, 21, down. She didn't have her customer base built up yet. $20, how could we pass that up? She did a great job, though. We found they have to go to school five years for that. Like a Doctor. Who would guess.

Forever A Hillbilly: Skeet

Forever A Hillbilly: Skeet: SKEET WAS BORN JESSE ADAMS in 1944. Somebody mentioned that day that he was no larger than a ‘skeeter’ when he was born, and that name s...

Skeet

SKEET WAS BORN JESSE ADAMS in 1944. Somebody mentioned that day that he was no larger than a ‘skeeter’ when he was born, and that name seems to have stuck.

     He and his wife of 45 years, Willene, a great lady who babies Skeet much as Skeet babies his boat, his little red cars and his big red truck, have lived their life at Pine Bluff until six years ago. Then they bought a house on DeGray lake, partially to give Skeet’s big, beautiful bass boat a home close to good fishing waters.

     Skeet’s big bass boat may very well be the most beautiful bass boat most of us have ever seen; bright red, with pretty sparklies all over it in typical Skeet fashion. He bought it many years ago, but also in typical Skeet fashion, it has been babied and cared for lovingly so that one would think it was bought brand new yesterday. I heard a dealer once tell Skeet that it was probably worth $80,000 today, though it only cost a small fraction of that new.

     Skeet fondly recalls the Pine Bluff of his youth, when many people had no locks on their doors, and those who did seldom used them. “Everyone just seemed to get along,” Skeet says. “A Pine Bluff youth of today, transported back to the 1950’s, would think he had died and gone to heaven. Even a child, walking alone down a dark street where the beer joints abounded, with fist fights involving the patrons often going on nearby, was considered safe.” However, some things were scary, such as accidentally falling into a shallow grave onto a pile of bones while running through the woods one night.

     Pine Bluff night clubs of the fifty’s, such as the Trio club, were considered great stepping stones for Memphis by up and coming young musicians.  Skeet regularly rubbed elbows with the likes of the Uniques, (he dated the drummer’s sister) Jim Ed Brown, and Jerry Lee Lewis. They often played at area schools, also.

     Once, a young man came out and played with Skeet and his dog in the street for a while. The next day, Skeet’s dad asked if he knew who the young man was. Skeet said no. His dad then said, “Elvis Presley.” Skeet was not impressed. “So?”

     Riding his Cushman[BG1]  Eagle scooter back to school to pick up his grades, he accidentally collided with a 57 ford with yellow fenderskirts, (Only Skeet would be admiring the color of the fenderskirts while

 getting his leg broken)  and his scooter hung up on one of those beautiful fenderskirts. The scooter was pulled out from under him. Skeet emerged with a broken leg. After lying up most of the summer, he went to Dr. Cunningham to have the cast taken off. When the doctor, who was their family doctor, realized his parents were not there with him, he asked Skeet how he got there. “Rode my scooter.” The doctor took him to the back room. The doctor then  gave him a good spankin’ and said, “I’m gonna tell your daddy!” He did, and Skeet got another spanking when he got home.

     Skeet was a bit wild, at times. He once was driving his buddies around in his car, took a curve a little fast, and the car slid out into a yard and partially under a house. Skeet’s buddy went inside to see if anyone was hurt. As the police arrived, he came running back out, “Quick! Call an ambulance! There’s a woman dyin’ in there!” Seems she was sitting on the commode when the car hit the drain, and the commode suddenly disappeared. She was fine, except for a couple of strategic bruises. She never seemed to like Skeet after that.

     At Skeet’s graduation ceremony at Watson Chapel High school, he was called up by the Superintendent and recognized as the only student to ever graduate from Watson Chapel High School with straight F’s in math his senior year. I’ve often said Skeet walks a very thin line in life between being a total genius and totally crazy.

      Skeet and I both attended Arkansas A&M and lived in the same dorm, Sorrell’s Hall, for two years. He lived upstairs and I lived down, and we never met. I do know many strange things occurred upstairs at Sorrell’s Hall during Skeet’s tenure, such as a trash can carrying a live skunk appearing in someone’s room as a surprise gift, as well as a limb covered with honeybees arriving in much the same way. Blocking off the community shower with huge blocks of Styrofoam glued into place made a great swimming pool until the dam burst, sending a great waterfall of white water cascading down the stairs one night. Each of these incidents emptied the building for a time, and the culprit(s) were never caught. Skeet emphatically denies major participation in any of these dramatic events, but I do know things settled down up there when skeet left after two years, to start working at the paper mill and signing up with the National Guard at Pine Bluff.

     After 42 years working in maintenance at the paper mill, Skeet can fix any broken metal item, making it look new. He’s an artist with a welder in his hand. He’s also a gifted artist with a pencil in his hand. My grandchildren regularly fight over who gets to sit next to him in church. They know Skeet will draw a wonderful picture of a smokin’ hot rod, or motorcycle, or some such vehicle during the service and the closest kid to him will proudly get to take it home.  All the college kids flock to Skeet in droves. They know where to find him. He will always be occupying his accustomed place of honor on the back row.

     Skeet and Willene have two children, four grand-children, and one great-grandchild.

     Life is never dull around skeet. It becomes difficult, over time, to remember just exactly what his face looks like if he is not smiling, laughing, or telling a story. We need a lot more Skeet’s in this world, as long as we keep them spread out a bit. I can just not imagine what a room full of Skeets would be like, and what could happen.

---

 [BG1]

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - The Indian Uprising, and my Kids in Per...

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - The Indian Uprising, and my Kids in Per...: MY MOTIVES, THIS SECOND TIME, WERE MUCH MORE PURE. This time I was in a small village on the outskirts of Cusco.      When we arrived ...

Part Two - The Indian Uprising, and my Kids in Peru

MY MOTIVES, THIS SECOND TIME, WERE MUCH MORE PURE. This time I was in a small village on the outskirts of Cusco.

     When we arrived at the village, I discovered that my bag was not in the car. We finally figured out it went with another group, to another village, a long way off. The pastor who was with us at the time

said he would take me to that village, so we started out in his car. Right after we left the church, we passed a house with a pretty girl, about 18, in the front yard. She looked at us, and she flushed. I saw a certain look pass between them, that look that passes between two people who share a dark secret. I saw that look many years ago, when we lived in another city,  pass between  a man leading the singing at our church and a lady in the front row. Barbara had seen it too, and later, we discussed it. We thought surely, we had misread it. Both of these church members had spouses and a family. A couple of weeks later, they ran off together.

     I hope I misread this new look, too, but I doubt it. This pastor had a large family.

     When we got to the village where my bag now resided, One of the mission trip members, also with grey hair, was leading a funeral procession up the mountain, about to preach a funeral. Like I said before, If you are old, and you go on a mission trip, you best be prepared for anything.

     The people were much the same, except now we cooked a very large meal each day, the college kids went out in the poor neighborhoods and brought the kids in like pied pipers, each child with a bowl and a spoon, ready to eat. I was somewhat unofficially in charge of my group this time, and I was determined to prevent my kids and I from getting that horrible stomach bug. I  treated all the water personally with chemicals, I watched over what we all ate, and all they did, like a hawk, and when we were flying home, I had the satisfaction of realizing, It was successful. No one in my group had gotten the bug. Pride goeth before the fall. When I stepped off the plane, it hit me, and hit me hard. 

     My gray hair, thinner and grayer now, still caused me some guilt attacks. A ceremony was set up one night at a small village, for me to officially present a soccer ball, one I had no role in bringing along in the first place, to the city fathers for the benefit of the children of the village. The main pastor's wife made a very long and elegant speech one night, thanking me for all the great work I had done for the children of Peru, over the years. I had been in Peru, in my life, maybe a total of a dozen days. But, I accepted her misplaced praise with great dignity, as one with hair such as mine should do.

     The last day, with everyone else headed for Machu Picchu, I begged off. I hired a car and driver, an interpreter, and headed out to my old village, to see my friends and search for my God children – and Aqua Amigo.

 That did not cost as much as it sounds, probably about  what a rental car alone would have cost me at home. The little Indian preacher, now my dear friend, Pastor Cirro, went along. He and I have never exchanged an understandable word between us, but we communicated easily with smiles, handshakes, gestures, laughter, and love. He told me, through the interpreter, that he had a picture of me hanging on his wall. Funny. I have a picture of him on my wall.

     I had been trying to trace my God children all week. Seems the oldest girl, now nearly grown, was in Cusco for awhile, then the trail went cold. The rest of the family was harder to trace, but I hoped to find them at or near our old village. Turned out, when reaching the village, they had moved on.  But I did find Lenore, the church mother, busily cooking corn over an open fire in her hut near the church. I gave her several more pair of reading glasses I had brought for her. Her father was there, now totally blind with cataracts. Where is my friend the eye surgeon, Frank Teed, when I need him?  She sat us down to a meal of mostly corn on the cob.

    The corn grains in Peru are huge,  larger than a big marble.  We just pull them off, and eat them one at a time. I now realize, that was the one place I messed up, in guarding against the bug. But what could I do? Just tell sweet Lenore I wouldn't eat her corn? Afterwords, I found several of my children, now nearly grown. I was wearing my trademark hat and the same white coat, and they recognized me. My family, with my four God children, Lenore told me, had moved to a village farther away, but she would see them at a festival later. I gave her an envelope containing all the money I could spare, and asked her to give it to them. Indians have nothing. That small amount would make them rich.

     Lenore told me her son was working, some distance away, but he could be sent for. I really didn't know who her son was, and time was getting short, so I said, “No, we've got to go.” We were nearly back to Cusco when it hit me. Her son was Aqua Amigo! My “water friend!” I had missed my last chance to see Aqua Amigo! My eyes filled with tears, and overflowed.

      I knew I would never be back to Cusco. That altitude thing hit me hard this time, and I know I would be pushing my luck going again. One of our OBU kids, who went on up to 14,000 feet or so, got extremely sick, and had to be quickly brought back down. There's only a couple of places in the world where people actually live at those altitudes, and there's a reason for that. My very last morning in Peru, our group decided to take the names of all those we worked with this week to the top of a mountain and pray for them. I carried the names, and we headed up. About halfway up, I handed the names off and told the group I would wait for them there. You young'uns go on. Nice to be young. 

      I sat down on a rock, and just looked. Far below, I saw a person working out in a field. The more I watched, the more I began to realize, I was watching a world class athlete of some description. He/she could raise one leg straight up, with the other standing on the ground, and put that body in all sorts of amazing positions.

     I watched a plane take off in the valley far below. The runway was at least twice as long as an ordinary runway, even one designed for the large jets. It took every bit of it for that plane to get airborne. Thin air.

     Goodbye Peru. I love you. Goodbye, Aqua Amigo. I'll hold your hand again in Heaven.

      For some reason, the other leaders had to fly back half a day early. I was given the job of making sure all the kids got home. At the airport, I was sorta nervous. Being a world traveler, I shouldn't be, But Barbara had always got me through the airports, and this was an awful lot of kids to get home. When my carry-on was X-rayed, they found something. They told me there was Leatherman tool in there, (with sharp blades) and why was that? Well, I did carry several of them down in my checked luggage, as gifts, but they were all gone. I emptied the bag, it was not there. They X-rayed it empty, and there it was. Showed me the x-ray. I dug around in the bottom, and found it under the first layer of the bottom. They were very concerned about me now, I could tell. I had no idea what they would do with me. They could make me stay in Peru. So, told them how sorry I was, how it was just an accident. I gave up the weapon, I begged and pleaded until they let me off, then repacked the bag, and hurried down to rejoin the kids.  A few minutes later, the same man came down to see me. Said someone left a hat up there, did we leave it? My hat was on my head, so I asked the kids. No response. I said, “Last chance! Did anyone leave a hat?” no response, so he left. In about 3 minutes, I remembered. I had bought a hat for Frank Teed, and that was it. I rushed back up to him, told him that was my hat.

      He was about tired of messing with me now, and said, “But you said, last chance! Last chance!” A couple of my kids had to come up and rescue me. And the hat.

     A strange, safe feeling has always enveloped me on mission trips. What better way or place to die, than out, doing God's work. Fulfilling the Great Commission?  I guess I figured  if I die here, St. Peter will just give me a pass straight through to Heaven. I won't even have to account for all my sins.

     We flew into  DFW, and  I rode  toward Arkadelphia with the “wild child.” He had been on the other trip, too, and he was trouble. Once, in Lima, he followed some stranger off down a dark alley who told him he had a special deal for him, he said, and he got lost. Almost  missed the plane. On the first trip, he wanted to carry only camo clothing. I told him that camo attracted unwanted attention in third world countries, told him how my camo hat had gotten a truck load of soldiers to point their guns at me once in southern Mexico. We argued awhile. He would always do the unexpected, kept a person nervous about what he would do next. Little did I know he was about to totally outdo himself.

     Anyway, on the way back from Dallas, I was riding in  “Wild child's” car. I went to sleep in the back seat, and woke up to the sound of our windshield breaking, "wild child" screaming,  and screeching tires. When I opened my eyes, we were lodged under a 16 wheeler, crossways, right in front of the back tires, and being dragged down the road at 70 MPH. The side of our car had cut a “V” shaped,  two inch gash in the bottom of the truck siding, and the car being lodged in that

gash was all that was keeping us from being rolled up like a tin can. The driver of the truck handled it perfectly, slowing down very slowly, and when he got down to about 40 MPH, our tires were gone and the metal rims were grinding away.

     When we stopped, I looked up at the two boys in front. Other than shaking with convulsions and probably in shock, they seemed to be OK, and lots of people were already on the scene getting them out. I was worried that traffic would hit the car before the boys got out. The car was sticking out in the fast lane. I got out and started directing traffic. Strangely, I never got excited. Not one bit. Others in our group started arriving, found the two boys lying in the grass shaking with convulsions. They knew I was in that car, so they started walking the road ditches trying to find me. Finally, someone yelled, “There he is! He's the one directing traffic!”

     I really just have no explanation for my reaction, or lack of one. I called Barbara two minutes after I got out, and she said later I was perfectly calm. Maybe, I've just ran out of adrenalin. Maybe being asleep when it happened caused it. Or, maybe, just maybe, that strange safe feeling was still surrounding me. The mission trip wasn't over yet.

     As we rode on to Arkadelphia, in someone else's car, I asked "wild child" for an explanation about how he could POSSIBLY have gotten that car into the position it was in when I woke up.

     “Well,” he said, I've had six other wrecks, and they were just barely my fault too, and -”  That explained it all.

     A perfect ending, I guess, for my adventures in Peru. To this day, I regularly converse with Edith, my interpreter in Lema. Her last adventure was leading a group of Christians to Cuba. She keeps me posted regarding the activities of Pastor Cirro. I guess I will never again see my four God children in Peru – or Aqua Amigo. But they will always be in my heart. And it gives me some measure of satisfaction that my children are probably still rich, by Peru Indian standards.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Indian Uprising, and my three Children in Peru...

Forever A Hillbilly: The Indian Uprising, and my three Children in Peru...: I PUSHED AGAINST THAT GATE  with every pound of my considerable weight, and every ounce of my inconsequential muscle, sweat running off me a...

The Indian Uprising, and my three Children in Peru...

I PUSHED AGAINST THAT GATE  with every pound of my considerable weight, and every ounce of my inconsequential muscle, sweat running off me and fear running through me. My mind was a blur. This could just not be happening to me! This sort of thing does not happen anymore, Indians just didn’t do things like this. Not for at least 150 years.  But then, I’m thinking about back home, in the good old USA. I had not been in this remote corner of the world before. Apparently, these Indians didn’t follow the new guidelines.  No telling how many outraged Quechua Indians outside pushed back, screaming at me, trying to force their way in.....

     Only a few days before, I was in my comfortable home in Arkadelphia, Arkansas, spending hours on end, praying that God would put the correct words in my mouth as I witnessed to the Quechua Indians of Peru, high in the remote Andes Mountains, near the headwaters of the mighty Amazon River. Well, I should have spent some time praying that none of my fellow mission trip members, even with the very best of intentions, would trigger an Indian uprising.

     I had heard about the trip at a community group meeting of our church. It was planned as a backpacking trip, out of Cusco, Peru, pushing into the wilds of the Andes Mountains, hoping to reach previously unreached  Indian villages for Christ. It was organized and carried out by Outdoor Discipleship Ministries, involving mostly Ouachita Baptist University students. The time was around 1999, and, I must confess, I was not really the strongest of Christians at the time. My motives for my sudden decision to go were suspect. It was spurred on more by the thought of joining a great adventure into one of the remaining truly wild places of the world, than about the thought of fulfilling the Great Commission. But, I must confess, I came back a changed person. The most noticeable outward change was, I am more emotional, unable to tell even a slightly stirring story without choking up. I had never been that way, but the change appears to have been permanent. The upside of it is, I now can write with true sensitivity and emotion, and I know when my writing is good, because tears begin to flow...

      I didn't even think to pray about God giving me the ability to preach, or do dedication ceremonies, funerals, or anything like that. I had no idea how far my gray hair would take me, what kind of tights it would put me in, here in a land where few people ever reach the age of gray hair.

      Anyway, when I heard about this trip, and that a spot remained unfilled, I just said “I'm going.” Maybe I should have thought it over a little bit. But I didn't. I was the only older person. (In 1999, I was “older.” Now, I'm just old.) My little group consisted of several girls and a few boys. As I say, this was billed as a backpacking trip, and during preparation, when I started hearing some of those little girls saying things like, “I've never slept on the GROUND before” I began having doubts about the whole thing. But those “little Girls” soon proved it was myself I should have been worrying about, not them. Their oft-stated motto was, “I could have stayed at home and been comfortable. Or, I could come to these unsaved Indians and do God's work. NO COMPLAINING.” And they didn't. Not one time.

     As I said, I spent a lot of time in my room praying for the right words to come to me. At the very least, “words.” I have never quite gotten over the time in college, in church one night, (This is another “first time ever told” story) the preacher asked me to pray. Well, I searched and searched for the words, but they just would never come. Finally I stuttered out an “Amen.” As I glanced up at my girlfriend Marty's face, I saw it was red as a beet. She was embarassed about/for me. That always seems to hang in the back of my mind when I start to pray in public, or when I start to witness. Also, I dearly loathe hypocrites, and I often just feel unqualified to witness, feeling like I'm saying, “I sure do wish you guys could just be as perfect as me.” It took many years for me to fully realize, witnessing is just one sinner talking to another. But it finally came, although witnessing ability is coming along somewhat slower.

      I read Jeremiah a lot, concentrating on the part about “If you go, God will put the words in your mouth.” Well, I went, and God did, mostly, to small groups. But he seemed to have some reservations about my preaching ability, and the like. (For some reason, I am learning, I can make confessions to this computer, and God, that I can never make to another person.)

     Things were kinda tight for us then, having just sold our business and traveled for a solid year in our RV, and I began to feel guilty about going at all when I thought of that final payment I owed, $1500. A day or so later, I had to look about something in our old statements from out rental property manager. The statements are sent to me, the money sent to our bank. I pulled a two-year-old statement out, and guess what just fell out of it. A check! Well, guess the amount. Yes, you got it. $1500. Here was proof. God was in my corner in this adventure.

     I knew I had to get into shape, if I was going to keep up with these kids on a backpacking trip at high altitude. Or at any altitude, for that matter. I put a heavy backpack on and walked the steepest and longest hills in Arkadelphia, daily. As it turned out, I was put into a group going to a village that could be driven to, and we only backpacked through the airport. But I was in shape, mostly, except for the knee I nearly ruined

getting in shape.

     We arrived in Lima early in the morning, and loaded onto a smaller plane for the flight to Cusco. That city is at 12,000 ft. altitude, the highest inhabitated city in the world, and planes only go out and in during the morning. Has to do with thin air. Not enough lift. Well, If I'm going to fly over these mountains, I sure do want some lift!

     A group of young women from Peru got on our plane at Lima, and I was totally relieved to see that they spoke perfectly good English. We had been told a lot about the language barrier problem, and it worried me, but listening to  these young ladies made me feel better. “Hey, guys! These Peru people speak great English!” One of our kids rolled his eyes. “Uh, Pat, they're our interpreters.”

      We had been told, in pre-trip planning, that these Indians who live at high altitude prevent altitude sickness by drinking Coca tea every day. Well, since Cocaine is made from that plant, we had quite a discussion about using that at all. After all, this WAS and OBU trip. Finally, our nurse who was going along just said, “I've done it both ways. Without Coca tea, I got very sick. With it, I was fine. This is NOT Cocaine. It has to be refined, refined, and refined to get to that point.” We drank Coca tea.

     That first day in Cusco, at 12,000  feet altitude, we just took it easy, to make the altitude adjustment. And, we drank Coca Tea.

     The next morning, we headed out to our Indian village, a couple of hours out. We traveled in a hired taxi, a van. All our stuff, mountains of it, was piled on top, and the driver found a little short piece of rope on the ground, and tied it down with that. I don't know how he did it, but he made it all stay on, over some of the roughest mountain roads I had ever seen. I'd  heard the story of Jesus stretching the loaves and the fishes, and I think God must have stretched that rope a lot to handle the job that little piece of rope did.

     The country was totally beautiful, with green fields sloping up to great mountain tops, speckled with fields of corn and potatoes, and villages of little mud houses with thorn fences around them, keeping the animals in.

     Halfway out to our village, There was a major landslide across the road. A single set of car tracks told us that at least someone else had crossed it, so we followed. At the peak, we met another van. No way to pass, and nobody was anxious to back down. The driver and the taxi owner, got out. A couple of men from the other van got out. They held a true SUMMIT conference, concerning which van was on the most important mission. Finally, our driver told them he was carrying a great team of missionaries, who came all the way from America. He pointed out that big man with gray hair, me, and I felt my first guilt attack. The other men could not argue with that. They had absolutely no grey hair in the van. They slowly backed down the landslide. Being big and gray headed, I began to learn, carried a lot of weight with the Indians, because they were very small, up to my chest, and very few of them lived long enough to ever have gray hair. I felt like the fake I was the whole time I was there, because I got a lot more respect, God knows, than I ever deserved, having impure motives for even starting this trip in the first place.

     When we arrived at the village, we unloaded our gear, and stashed it in the church. It had been built years ago by another missionary group, and was a small wood and mud structure with very short benches inside, and with its two doors open, it was mostly being used now as a place for hogs and chickens to lounge in.

     One of my first chores was to filter a supply of drinking water with a hand operated pump. Although we did have access to one of the few faucets in the village, the water had lots of specks in it, and, we were told earlier, 30% of us, at least, were destined to lose a lot of weight the quick and hard way, when their terrible stomach bug hit. A young boy, about eight, quickly latched onto me and was a great help in filtering water. I showed off some of my four or five Spanish words I had learned over the last 3 weeks by naming him, “Aqua Amigo.” My water friend.

     Sure enough, when I got in front of a small group of Indians, with my two interpreters ready, (first into Spanish, which the kids understood, then into Quechua, the only language the older Indians knew)  God and Jeremiah came through for me, and the words just poured out. Partly, I guess, because I had lots of time to think up the next paragraph, while the interpreters did their thing. I think God just had it planned out that way, because it took every spare second to think up the next line.

     I had proudly worn my Indiana Jones hat to Peru, thinking if I was going to be like him, I should look the part. But as it turned out, every Indian woman in the village had one on just like it. That sorta dulled the luster on my hat some.

       After we had gotten settled and talked to the Indians awhile, we found out that today was a big celebration day in the village, celebrating the day it was first built. It was all taking place at the soccer field, and we went. The mayor and elders all sat in chairs along the edge of the field, and everyone else sat in the grass behind. Well, the Mayor took one look at my gray hair, told one of the elders to go sit in the grass, and with much fanfare escorted me down to his seat. Another guilt attack.

     They were having Guinea Pig races, with each girl having a string attached to hers, and a little switch to spur him on.  I had doubts about how fair these races were, because usually, the winner just dragged hers the last few feet.

     Guinea Pigs were, I found out, in a class with Llamas, etc. in that they did well at high altitude. They just ran free in their houses, a pet, until, one fateful day, there was a need, and they became a meal.

     At church that night, the little Indian preacher from Cusco,  Pastor Cirro, who was supposed to meet us there and preach, just did not show up.  We sang a few hymns, then all the Indians turned and looked at me. After a couple of minutes, Lenore, the “mother” of the church, suggested we sing some more hymns. Then, they all turned and looked at me again. It finally hit me, they were expecting me to preach! Well, I had no sermon prepared,  and I was, really, no sort of preacher. Not even a bad one. Witnessing to a small group was one thing, but I had not even thought to ask God to make me a preacher. That went back and forth awhile, then me and a student or two got up and told them how much we appreciated their hospitality, etc. We said a prayer, and they headed home.

     The girls were to sleep in the church, which was right next to the church mother, Lenore's house. The ground was rock hard, and had bumps the size of a baseball all over it, but those girls just took that all in stride, They even adjusted quickly to the toilet in that part of town, which consisted of a few bushes out by the creek. Ever since I really got to know these OBU kids, I was just totally blown away by them. I felt honored to be on this trip with them.

     A man in the village donated his house to us men as sleeping quarters. The ground was just as hard and uneven as the church floor. There was a bed in there, but we all figured that was where the guinea pigs would all wind up, so we just spread our bags on the floor. When we got settled, and turned out our flashlights, we began to hear tiny feet scurrying about. We never could spot one, so we were never sure if they were guinea pigs or not – or worse.

      Like I said earlier, I was deeply affected and changed greatly by this trip. I got to thinking about the terrible living conditions of these people, how eager they were to hear us speak God's word, what a sweet nature the children had, and how delighted they were to get these tiny bibles we passed out. That change started that night, as I lay awake all night long, with tears pretty much my constant bedfellows. It would be the third night before I slept a minute, after the whole team prayed for sleep for me - and someone dug out a sleeping pill or two from their bag.

     The next morning, we did craft things with the kids we had brought along, played and laughed a lot with them. They were totally delightful. A couple of young girls just could not accept the fact that I could not understand a lick of Spanish. “No Comprende” became my constant answer. The little girls felt that if they could just take my cheeks in their two hands, hold my face still so I was looking right into their eyes, then say the words very slowly and clearly, a light would just come on in my head, and I would understand. “No comprende.”

     One of the Indian boys stuck a piece of metal almost through his foot. A man picked him up. I asked the man if he would be OK. He looked at me,  very seriously, and shook his head no. Seeing none of the Indians with any means of first aid, we dug our kit out, I dug out the metal, washed the mud out of it as best I could, covered it with disinfectant, then wrapped it up good. His mother was very appreciative, and carried him home. We prayed for him. I never saw him again.

     One of the members of our team, slightly over college age and from a northern city, had brought a trunk just totally filled with teddy bears and other soft toys. He started passing them out to the children, and they went totally wild with joy. Many ran to show their family. The word spread like wildfire.  Many, many mothers came running with their children. Along about that time, someone brought us the word that the Mayor had been very, very drunk from the festival yesterday, but he was now awake and sending a truck to haul us across the village to “city hall,” a large building that at least had wood floors for us to sleep on. Well, we were beginning to worry that the toys might run out, as more women and children, and now some men, showed up.

     About that time, the truck arrived. We quickly loaded our gear on the back, and as we started loading the trunk, with very few toys now, the mothers were tearing at our arms. Pointing to their children, they screamed, “My baby! No toy!" The last of the toys were in sight, yet more and more Indians just poured out of their huts. We finally all got on the truck, and started out, with dozens of Indians running behind. The men were now at the front of the pack.

     About half way to city hall, we saw we were going to meet another large truck on that very narrow street. The trucks just kept coming, and the mirrors on both trucks fell off in the road. The drivers just got out, looked at their mirrors lying in the road, shrugged their shoulders, got back in, and drove on. Now, in America, we would have soon had two police cars on the scene, and two lawsuits would have been in the works. Life is just more laid back and simple, with the Indians, at altitude.

      We reached city hall, with a short lead on the Indians, got everything inside, and locked the door. But the back yard was a problem. There was a high mud fence around the compound, with a gate, no lock.

     Alright. Now I am back in the jam I was in when I started this story. As luck, or more likely God, would have it, right about that time the late little Indian preacher from Cusco, Pastor Cirro, showed up. He talked to the parents a long time, then came and talked to us. He told us, through an interpreter, that we must never pass out gifts with abandon, like that, to people who have nothing. Gifts must be given to the church, and would be slowly passed out later in an orderly fashion. He also told us the people had settled down, and that he didn't think this was going to damage our mission here.

     I've thought a lot about that situation, and knew that somehow, I should have had the wisdom to handle that situation before it got out of hand. After all, I am the one with gray hair here, now a little greyer. All I could figure was, to just prevent the toy “pass out” before it got started. Once it got going like it did, and without being able to talk to them, about the only option I could see on the table was what we did. Just run. Gray hair and wisdom don't always go hand in hand, you know. “ Dumb young” usually transfers into “dumb old.”

     There were a lot of windows in that building, with no shades. The Indians, adults and children alike, just lined up at those windows, and watched every move we made, while we unpacked our stuff. When someone left, another Indian filled that spot, just staring. They kept that up whenever we were in there that day, but were nice enough to leave their posts as it got dark.

     That night, The preacher was there, the church was full. Their little benches were about six inches high, and I couldn't hang with that, so I just hung out in the back, Aqua Amigo at my side as usual, and leaned against the wall. The little preacher saw my situation, and sent me a stool, which I gratefully sat down on. I put my index finger tip on the end of my chopped off thumb, and flashed him the “OK” sign. His smile faded. Seems that little signal has a whole nother' meaning in Peru.

     The next day, the Indian christians were to meet us at noon. We planned to go to every house, witnessing. They finally showed up, and hour late, and then said we needed to brew up and drink some Coca tea first. Seems at altitude, things just move more slowly. A way of life. Things went well, talking to the people. Seems the people who were trying to tear my arms out of their sockets yesterday just loved us today.

     It seems spousal abuse was rampant amoung the Indian families. Many of the Indian women had bruises on their faces. Pastor Cirro got right in the faces of the husbands, when he saw that, and they just stood there, head down, and took it.

      Then we were about to head up on the hill overlooking the village, to talk to the people up there. Our college girls were hesitant to go, and they didn't want to talk about it. Finally, one told me that when they went to the toilet, just a few bushes remember,  a group of little old men on the hill tended to gather and try to watch. They really did not want to talk to them face to face.

     That night, the whole village showed up. We presented the Jesus movie, in their language. Agua Amigo held my hand the whole time. Then, we put on a little drama the college kids had worked up. They really didn't know what to do with me, so I was given the roll of the soldier who beat on the Jesus actor while he carried the cross. I was told to just continue to lash the Jesus actor with an imaginary whip until the music stops. I started lashing; the music dragged on. More lashes, more music. The altitude was hitting me hard now. But that music just wouldn't stop. I think the Indians were making bets about who would get beaten down first, me or the Jesus actor.

     The next morning, we walked a mile or two to a small village to talk to some more people. We split up. I followed my guides and interpreter up to the high country. I was to speak to a group of people up there, and they were getting their cattle ready to take out to graze. A young husband and wife team led us, and she had her 17 day old baby on her back. Well, that young woman, 17 days out of childbirth, just walked circles around me at that altitude. All the Indians must have developed very large hearts, because the altitude didn't seem to affect them like it did us. I think I did a pretty good job, for me, witnessing to that group, and we headed down.

     They knew how I had struggled on the way up, and the husband guide ran ahead and found a donkey for me to ride down. Well, that was a major guilt trip, getting me a donkey to ride, just like they did for Jesus in the old day! Bad as I felt, they had the donkey, and there was just no way around it.  I straddled the little donkey, my feet were touching the ground, and that pore' little donkey started swaying, then slowly falling over to one side! I had to walk down, but I felt better about it. 

      Our guide couple just really took a liking to me, and I could tell that they were putting a lot more stock in me than I deserved. At the bottom of the hill, they called the interpreter over, and made a long speech. The interpreter said they wanted me to be their children's-- she struggled for the right word-- Godfather. They wanted me to do a dedication ceremony with each of their four children. I thanked them, told them that was a very great honor for me, and that I could arrange it.  We left them there and went back to our village.

     It wasn't long before they and their children showed up. They were all dressed up in their very best. I told them I would go get the little preacher to do the ceremony. The dad waved that off. No, he wanted me to do it.

     I had no idea what a dedication ceremony should be like, but the principals were all dressed up and lined up, waiting. I just turned slightly away from the interpreter, so she couldn't hear what I said. One at a time, I put my hand on their head, raised the other arm, and began. I remember I had the child's name, the lord's prayer, portions of the 23^rd psalm, and some other biblical statements in there.

     If you are old, and go on a mission trip, you best be prepared for anything, I learned.

      We were leaving the next morning. Late that afternoon, we all gathered up our clothes we weren’t wearing, and all our stuff we wouldn't need on the way home,  and laid it out in a row, so the Indians could pick out what they needed. The little Indian preacher, way under five feet tall, took my long handled underwear. Said he was going up to very high altitudes next week, and he could sure use them there. I could only imagine what he looked like, wearing them.

     I announced I had an extra pair of reading glasses, and did anyone need them? They all pointed to Lenore, the church mother. She ran to get a tiny bible that she had been given years before. She put on the glasses, and she screamed. She could read it – for the first time! She hugged me with tears in her eyes, and thanked me over and over. I had seen only one pair of glasses in the village, worn by the school teacher. I thought we had brought an over-supply of small bibles, but now they were all gone. And many Indians still wanted them.

     The Indian ladies announced they were going to cook their best hens the next morning for us, before we left. I had been eating power bars, mostly, all week, trying to avoid the horrible stomach bug so many people got. But who could say no to their best hen?

     We bedded down to sleep late that night. There was only one big room, so the girls had a sheet hanging up between them and us guys. I got to thinking back to my younger days. I remembered hearing stories on TV about a group of terrorists, the Shining Path, who terrorized these Indians in the Andes. 7000+  were killed.

    The Shining Path was the brain child of  Abimael Guzman Reynoso. He had spent years in China, and had become convienced that Mao's revolution could be replicated in Peru. It was the most scary and bloody group of Terrorists of the 1980's.Years ago, I had nightmares about the Shining Path. I had heard more stories after we got here, how they would come into a church, line the people up in a row, and ask each one if they believed in God. Some admitted they did, some were afraid to. Those who were afraid to admit they believed in God, standing here in this church, were shot. The others were forced to join their group. They wanted only brave people in that group. Well, over the years, the leadership was caught and put in prison, and the terrorist group pretty much disbanded. But we had been warned.  Remnants of this group were still hiding out in these Indian villages. Since Indians in these mountains never lived to be very old, I felt that some of them were dead by now. Just as that thought crossed my mind, around midnight I believe it was, I heard many, many soft footsteps going up the stairs outside, up to a big room above. My heart started to pound faster. Were they Shining Path remnants, and were they going to test this tiny group of believers tonight, our last night, at gun point? I stayed awake a long time, listening. But I never heard another sound, and they never came back down.

     I noticed as we sat down to eat the next morning, some of the college kids were faking their “best hen” eating as well as they could, not really taking in much at all. I ate my share, however, telling the ladies over and over how good it was, and It was good. Before dark that day, I set in to lose ten pounds the quick and hard way. I'm not sure why native food, well cooked, doe that to us so often. But it does. But I have a theory. Water, in food, boils at a much lower temperature at high altitude,  and stays at that temperature until the water boils away. This bad bug must be a tough one, who can handle that low temperature, and does it's thing when we eat it. The Indians, over the years, have become resistant. We have not.

     After saying our goodbyes, during which Aqua Amigo just seemed to not be able to let me go, (and I him) we headed out to Cusco. Tomorrow, our off day, we were headed for Machu Picchu!

     On the way back to Cusco, we passed a small pickup truck. It had just had a flat, and the back was loaded with Indians. Well, they just hopped out, and the driver changed the tire while they held the truck up. Never seen that before, or since.

     I have to admit, I chew tobacco.. A little habit I picked up during my construction days. That was a big no-no for this trip, so I had to swear off it for the duration. I was, truthfully, about to have a nicotine fit by now. I got to looking at all those little Coca leaves, lying around the hotel. I wadded up a small piece of one, and stuck it in my mouth. I found it made a pretty good replacement, and we weren't around the Indians any more, and besides, the piece was so small, no one knew. Well, it worked so good, I pretty well kept a small piece hidden in my mouth all the next day, and until we flew out the next day.

     The ride to Machu Picchu was breathtaking. The train had to do a strange move to get out of the valley Cusco was located in that I had never seen before. It would start up the hill at an angle, then stop and back uphill at an angle on another track, then repeat this over and over until it was high enough to head out.

    The Valley of the Incas was beautiful. We rode past many Inca ruins, and gradually headed down until we were in the tropical rain forest.

On the way down, we traveled along beside a river that dropped so fast through those rocky gorges that I knew no one could survive those waters. A fellow train rider who knows about such things told me it had a "seven" rating, with "five" being all a person, swimming, could survive. I didn't know it then, but I figured out later, this river was the upper reaches of the Amazon, and world class Kayakers had survived it, traveling the Amazon from end to end.

      Traveling through the rain forest, one could see towering mountains in the background. Many reached into the clouds, but occasionally, we could see the snow capped peak in the top of our vision, yet the beautiful flowering tropics in the bottom. I quickly got out my camera, but that view was covered in clouds again. A rare sight. Cusco is technically in the tropics, map wise, but so high, it is very cool.

     Machu Picchu is one of the wonders of the world. An Inca village was once built on the  top of a very tall, very steep mountain. It was so steep, one would have to be a skilled mountain climber to reach the top. This location provided them a measure of protection from their enemies. The Incas were the most skilled rock builders of all time. I saw one large rock, in one of their structures, that had 27 different angles cut into it. All the adjoining rocks fit so perfectly to it, that one could not stick a toothpick into the joints. Narrow terraces were cut into the mountainside, for raising food.

     One young Indian businessboy had it figured out. On the way back down that very steep mountain, the road consisted of a dozen or more very tricky, long, switchbacks. This little indian boy kept waving at us all, on the bus, before we left. Then, the sure footed youngster ran straight down the mountain, in the middle of the switchbacks, waving at us all each time the bus passed. Again, again, and again. When the bus stopped at the bottom, finally, he climbed aboard, pulled his hat off, and walked down the aisle with a big smile, collecting  a whole hat full of money from the passengers.

    Those Inca ruins were lost to the world for centuries, until discovered by Hiram Bingham, an American archaeologist, in 1911. They were  cleaned up, and made into one of the great destinations of the world. That was a breathtaking trip.

     The Inca empire, one of the largest and most powerful civilizations ever, was brought down by less than 200 Spaniards. How this came about involves a number of factors. The Indians looked upon the Spanish, in their metal suits and hats, riding great animals, as Gods. Many of the Indians were disabled by various diseases the Spanish brought with them, which spread like wildfire because they had absolutely no resistance to them. The Inca empire was totally ruled from the top, with orders passed down by sub leaders.

        

     The Spaniards marched to Cusco, containing 40,000 Indian warriors. The year was 1533. The Inca King went out to the Spaniards, in a gesture of welcoming these Gods. The Spanish captured him, and cut his head off right in front of the Indians. The Indians were like a snake without a head.  Nobody was there, once the king was dead, to issue orders. The Spanish took over, and  brought down the entire civilization. Once Cusco was occupied, the Spanish installed a compliant

 young Inca prince, Manco, as a puppet ruler. After 3 years, after the Spanish had chained him up, called him a dog, urinated on him, Raped his wives, stolen his gold and jewelry, Manco got mad. He fled, and he established an Inca city, Vitcabamba, and restored it to its former glory. It took the Spanish 35 years to capture this city, and by that time, Manco had died and Manco's son, Felipe Tupac Amaru ruled. Felipe was led to Cusco with a golden chain, and he was hanged and mutilated in Cusco's main plaza. This closed out the final chapter of the Inca Empire.

      The Spanish and other European explorers of the 1500's reported a great, advanced city in the lower Amazon valley. It was called El Dorado. Many great explorers searched for this great city, later in the 1800's and early 1900's. Many lost their lives there, such as Percy Harrison Fawcett, in the 1920's. He was one of the greatest British explorers of all time. He became so famous there, in those early days of modern communication, that many more lost their lives in search of him, or trying to determine what happened to him. Indians, disease, and starvation killed many of these men.

  

     Later, faint signs of  long gone, great civilizations were found by scientists, and it is generally assumed that diseases carried in by the early European explorers had so decimated the Indian populations  that they now only existed as small, isolated tribes. Jungle cities consist mostly of plant material, which quickly disappears in the tropical jungle. El Dorado was no more. The Indians had learned how to build and maintain great civilizations in the Amazon jungle, a feat many early scientists thought impossible. But they were unable to deal with European diseases brought in by the early explorers.

     Cusco is a mixture of  Spanish and Indians, but there appeared to me to be very little mixing of the bloods over the centuries, because the Spanish one sees there look just like the Spanish one would see in Madrid. They are very beautiful people. I did see one tall, slim, very beautiful Spanish woman with a very short, heavy, Indian husband. The children varied. Some looked like her, some like him. It appeared to me that was the exception rather than the rule.

     We flew home. I arrived 10 pounds lighter. Like I said before, I was changed, and that has been permanent. But there was something else going on with me, that puzzled me. If you have read my writing, I am sure you have picked up on the fact that I have been the insecure, shy, retiring type around most women, except Barbara. And she has brought a change in that aspect of me, to a certain extent. But I arrived home with different feelings. Something unexplainable.

     We were headed out for a short vacation with Barbara's sister‘s family, upon my arrival home. As we toured around, I began to put my finger on it. I was feeling like I was a true chick magnet! I felt like every pretty woman we were around had eyes only for me. I even felt sorry for the young, muscular, handsome men they were with, because I knew their women was thinking only of me. This was a total and complete,180 degree change in my thinking. Barbara was so lucky to have me, and I was sure all the other women around were green with envy. How could I ever go back to Arkadelphia, and work on my rental properties in shorts, as I did before? I knew the young women would just never leave me alone, and let me work.

     By the time we had gotten home, that feeling was beginning to fade. I looked up my chemist friend, and asked, “How far is the juice of the Coca plant from being Cocaine?” He looked at me, puzzled, then said, “It's right there.”

     All I could figured out was, I was getting a super concentrated dose of Coca juice by substituting it for chewing tobacco, nothing like the much watered down Coca tea. I never felt like I could fly, but who wants to fly when you can be a full blown chick magnet!

     I recently read a book about traveling on the upper Amazon river at great altitude. One of the explorers had been chewing on Coca leaves all day, and that night, he just suddenly ran out into the snow naked, thinking nothing could harm him, and ran around that way for a long time. Thankfully, I managed to keep all my symptoms inside me, and never put on a show. I'm glad about that.

Before Peru, Barbara has been working on me for a long time. My spiritual life was not what it should be. I had this problem, for many years. I looked at many fellow church attenders who seemed hypocritical to me. Some seemed to pray long, very elegant prayers. I didn't feel God required that kind of elegance in order to talk to him. If not God, then who were they trying to impress? Others were in their church position to further business interests, obviously. And some “strong Christians” appeared to be that only on Sunday. See them later in the week, and it was a different story.

     Collectively, Barbara, Michael Holloway, my best friend who was killed in a motorcycle crash, and that trip to Peru affected me in such a way that I begin to realize that everyone around me, and I, was a sinner. My relationship with God had nothing to do with other people around me. They had their own spiritual life to work out.

I returned to Peru, a few years later.   CONTINUED, NEXT POST – THREE DAYS...