Forever A Hillbilly: The Point of no Tomorrow

Forever A Hillbilly: The Point of no Tomorrow: SPORT DUNNAHOE, BARBARA’S FATHER, WAS ONE OF A KIND.   A man I will never forget. He was always ready for a fishing, hunting, or camping t...

The Point of no Tomorrow

SPORT DUNNAHOE, BARBARA’S FATHER, WAS ONE OF A KIND.  A man I will never forget. He was always ready for a fishing, hunting, or camping trip when we got to Watson. Even as an old man, it never bothered him a bit to sleep on the hard ground. If a catfishing trip was in the offing, he hooked up the middle buster, plowed up a strip across the old hog pen, and we picked up a gallon or two of huge buckshot worms. Then we headed for the river.

     If there were games to be played by the children, Sport  was always the ringleader. Even in his older years, with arthritis in his knees from so many years of following a mule and a plow, he could always keep up. Once, when he was about 65, we were playing touch football. I was just a few years from running college track, and I thought I was a runner. I went out for a pass. Sport was covering me. I just could not shake him! He stuck to me like glue.

     When the children and grandchildren got rowdy in the house, Sport just looked at the rowdiest one, stuck out his hand, and said, “Come round' by me, boy!” ( Boys and girls alike were "Boy" to Sport) They never “came round‘ by him,” they knew the danger in that. But they all exited the room pronto. Mission accomplished. There were always plenty of rowdy kids. I've seen 10 crawling babies on the floor at once in his house.. And that was just in the living room.

     Once, when Barbara and I were in California, we visited her cousin who grew up near Watson. He said, “When I was a child, every weekend, all us kids showed up at Sport's house. Our own fathers were too tired to play, but Sport never was. He demonstrated to us all how a father should play with his children, and I am a much better father myself because of Sport. He influenced an entire generation of boys, and they are all better fathers because of it.”

     Although Sport was always loving and protective of his girls, He also taught them to take care of their own problems. Once, just after Barbara started driving, she ran out of gas a quarter mile from home. She walked home, saw Sport in the yard, and told him the truck was out of gas, and started walking in the house. Sport said, “Hey, wait a minute! Go out to the tank, get some gas, and go get the truck. You ran out of gas, not me. Next time, be sure there's plenty of gas in the truck before you head to town.”

     The one time Barbara remembers disobeying Sport, he had told her she could take the truck to Watson. Well, when she got together with her girl friends, they wanted to go to Dumas, so she took them. The next day, she was torn by guilt, and she told him. He said, “Well, you shouldn't have.” That was the end of that.

     Sport was endlessly curious. If I showed up at Watson with some minor car problem, the first thing Sport would say would be, “I wonder why a feller couldn't -” and then, he would proceed to tear into the motor to see, stopping when he found out. Or maybe, when the car wouldn't run at all. I soon learned to keep my car problems to myself at Watson.

    Watson, in the old days, not that long ago, was a lot like the old west. A man had to look out for himself, and his family. Nobody else would. Sport had a side to him that I never saw, or heard about, until after his death. Sport protected his six girls from the ugly things in life. They never knew about most of what I'm about to tell.

      But his only son, J.D., was right in the middle of everything with him. And, J.D. carries his genes. He's a lot like him. Once, Sport had loaned Albert, his nephew, his shotgun to hunt with. He handed Sport his gun back just as a Game Warden pulled into the yard behind him. He started ragging Sport pretty good about loaning his gun to that kid. Sport had enough. “Did he hurt anybody with it? Did he damage anyone's property with it?”

     “No, but - “

     “Then get in your truck and get off my property.” The shotgun, still in Sport's hands, added emphasis. He left.

     Barbara, as a little girl, witnessed this exchange, a rare event. She was scared they were just going to come and arrest the lot of them.

     Sport would just not allow any man to take anything from him. Or push him. If you pushed Sport, there would only be a small number of possible outcomes. Sport would get hurt, you would get hurt, or he would stop you. And Sport always handled that option in such a way that it never happened again. The humiliation prevented that...  That is best illustrated by this little example----

     Once, a very cranky old neighbor had two large dogs. They were very bad at chasing and killing livestock. They struck Sport's livestock, and Sport went to visit the man. “That has to stop.”

     The old man said, “You mess with my dogs, and there will be some killing going on.”

     A few days later, they struck again. Sport had J.D. bring the gun. Sport gave the word as the dog ran by, chasing a calf. J.D, a dead shot like his father, took him out. Soon the other was dead too. Sport loaded them up, and they went to visit the neighbor. Sport threw both the dogs up on the porch, and pounded on the porch with his shotgun. When the old man emerged, saying, “What's going on here?”

      Sport said, “You told me, if I messed with your dogs, there would be some killin'.  I'm here to start it.”

      Well, the old man wilted. “Now, don't you worry none about those dogs!” They left.

     J.D. was puzzled. “Why did we not just take the dogs down and throw them in the Bayou? He would never have found them.”

     Sport answered, “ If we had done that, that old man would have been bad mouthing us all over the country. This way, there will never be another word said about it.” And there wasn't.

     One of Sport's cows wandered off into a neighbor's pasture. He sent J.D., a young boy, to get it. The neighbor man told J.D., “It's in my pasture now. It's mine.”

     When J.D. told Sport, Sport said, “Let's go get it.” Sport started up toward the man's house.

     J.D. said, “We could cut the fence in the back and get it out.”

     Sport shook his head. “I'll get it.”. He walked up by his front door, into the pasture, got behind it, and drove it through the man's front yard. Nothing was ever said.

     The road grader man started making his turn through Sport's bean field, taking out more and more of Sport's beans. Sport stopped the man, told him to stop doing that. Well, before long, he did it again. Sport ran him off, this time with a shotgun. A short while later, the County Judge found the road grader man a new place to turn around.

     A rich, big landowner bought up some land next to Sport. Told Sport, “The old survey is wrong. You'll have to move your fence back 50 feet.”

     Sport replied,  “That fence has been there since 1927.  It stays there.”

     Well, a while later a couple of surveyors showed up, started setting up their equipment. Sport and J.D. walked down. Sport: “Nothing is going to be changed down here..”

      The surveyor started explaining, “We're doing the job we were hired to do, check these old lines.”

     Sport said, “I've got a shotgun here that says you're not going to survey anything here.”

      The younger man wanted to get bad, but JD stopped him. “You just really don't understand the situation. If that old man says you don't, you don't. For your own sake, you best go home.”

     The older man toned the younger one down, and they went home. They never came back.

     The girls, for the most part, never knew about any of this. Their sweet Daddy could just never have said any of those words. And that fits right in with my daughter Kinley's memories of sitting in his lap, putting rollers in his hair, and painting his fingernails. But in the “wild west” of the early Delta country, a man had to stand his ground or just move. Sport never moved.

      I fully believe all of this for two very good reasons. First, J.D. is just like him. Second, I've seen those strong genes of Sport's in every one of those girls, cropping up from time to time. They call it “Dunnahoe Nerve.” They are all very strong women, always ready to stand up to whatever life throws at them. All us inlaws were very fortunate to find a member of this family to scoop up and marry.

      Sport just had that unique ability to be a fun loving, lovable person, always loved dearly by all those around him. But he had rather die than allow himself to be pushed. If Sport Dunnahoe had been my father, I could never have loved or respected  him more. When I fished with Sport's grandsons, and great grandsons, I came to realize, some of them only know Sport Dunnahoe by his name. I hope, in writing this, they will come to realize what a great man he was. On my “Great men I have known” list, Sport Dunnahoe stands right up there with the best of em'. An ancestor to be proud of.

     Later in life, Sport was diagnosed with dementia, but he never lost his sense of humor. A doctor was interviewing him in his office to determine the extent. “Mr. Dunnahoe, what is today's date?”

      “Thursday, August 4.”

       Very good, Mr. Dunnahoe. How did you do that so easily?”

      With a little grin on his lips, Sport replied. “Its on the calendar, right behind you.” Another time, he was in another doctor's office with a daughter. The doctor came in. She immediately started giving instructions to the daughter, ignoring him. She was saying, “Take one tablet, four times a day, and-”

     Sport was pulling on the daughter's sleeve, with that little grin. “What is it, Mr. Dunnahoe?”

      “Well, that just looks like it would be sorta hard – taking the same pill, 4 times a day.”

      “Point well taken, Mr. Dunnahoe. The next time I will talk to YOU about your medicine.” Barbara was taking Sport home from the Hospital. At the door, she instructed, “Stay right here while I go get the car. Don't move.”

      Sport was getting around pretty slow by now, and said, “I could start right now and not get outta' sight by the time you get back.”

     Sport left us all with a vast array of  “Sport-isms.”. My favorite is, “Bein‘ right won't help yore' old haid' none.”

      After Verla Mae died, Sport just couldn't go on without her. He gently explained to all his girls, “I just can't live without her.” Just a few months later, Phyllis found him dead in his bed one morning. The paramedics said it must have been a heart attack, there was a blue spot on his chest. But we all knew. A broken heart is just one kind of heart attack. Verla Mae's death had pushed Sport to the point of no tomorrow.

Forever A Hillbilly: Verla Mae

Forever A Hillbilly: Verla Mae:      During those early years in our marriage when we lived at Fayetteville, and later, we spent a lot of time at Watson. Mostly, ...

Verla Mae

     During those early years in our marriage when we lived at Fayetteville, and later, we spent a lot of time at Watson. Mostly, we just loved to be there, but also, Verla Mae, Barbara's mother, just had some mysterious hold on her large family. She seldom spoke, but when she did, they listened. Right up until the day she died. When she called our house, if I answered, all I ever heard was “Barbara there?” Then when she got Barbara on, she said her say, a few words, then just disappeared from the air waves. Never “bye” or “so long.” just disappeared.  If one of the things she said in that phone call was, “Ya”ll coming for Thanksgiving?” we went. We all did. She always prepared about twice as much food as we needed, and we ate it. By the time that food had just began the digestive process properly, she was at the living room door. “Supper.” Then she was off to somewhere to eat hers alone.

     Us prospective and actual in-laws never really knew where we stood with Verla Mae. She just never talked to us much. The only hint of where I stood with her occurred one day before we were married when another guy she was dating for a time, the jock, came home with Barbara to meet the family. (His idea, Barbara says.) She got Barbara alone, said, “Where's Pat?” A short time later, I was back in the fold, he was out. I've always had a warm place in my heart for Verla Mae about that.

     Barbara tells of a little incident that happened when she was 12 years old, the one time Verla Mae used more than just THE LOOK on her. Barbara developed early, and at 12 she looked 16. Her brother brought a friend home with him. He was 16. He started paying Barbara a lot of attention, and Barbara was flattered. Barbara and the older boy were flirting away with each other in the back yard. Verla Mae called Barbara over to the back door. "Get away from him." Then Verla Mae turned and disappeared. Barbara did, pronto. Case closed.

      I have never seen a large family so close. They pretty well all wound up living close together, but if some of us did venture off for a time to another state, Sport and Verla May just got in that old truck and came to us, regularly. Verla Mae worked very hard, and she was always very fast. If she was chopping cotton, and Sport dared to suggest she slow down a little, as she was chopping too many cotton plants, She didn't say a thing. Just threw the hoe down, went to the house. Sport seldom did that, by the time I came around. Throughout our married life, as we worked together, if Barbara or I got a little too bossy, we had only to say, “I'm gonna throw my hoe down.”

     If one of her children wanted/needed some new clothes, shoes, etc. badly, they never discussed it. Verla Mae just found a way to make it happen, it just showed up on their bed one day. There was never any family discussion about whether they could afford it or not, it just showed up. Never a word said later. But they always got by, money wise. Verla Mae just saw to that. Sometimes, after the girls got older, Verla Mae would buy them new shoes and she would wear their old ones. She made sure her children and grandchildren never missed celebrating a holiday. One rainy Easter, she hid a dishpan full of Easter eggs in the house. Took hours to find them all. She was a firecracker fanatic. I think she liked them more than the kids did.

     Verla Mae loved to drive around, find an old house place, dig up some plants to put in her yard. When she got behind the wheel, she started humming church songs, then got to tapping her gas pedal foot to the  beat of the music. That could be a hard ride. Phyllis said, they bobbed their heads long before head bobbing became the thing to do

     Verla Mae instilled an extremely strong sense of right and wrong in her children, similar to the old Gillum “ Do Right Mechanism” I have already talked about.  But somehow, she just brought it about,  with no screaming at them, no constant reminding, no watching them with eagle eyes. However, they did get  THE LOOK if they messed up. She expected it, therefore they did it. Maybe a “Stop messin' and gommin'” thrown in occasionally. Just generally speaking, some sort of magic.

     A little word about THE LOOK. Barbara inherited THE LOOK. During the years Barbara was  substitute teaching, she was always the first sub called to handle a difficult situation. Even in boy's PE, shop, whatever. They quickly learned, that soft spoken young lady could just put a rowdy kid on the floor with THE LOOK. Kinley was always especially vulnerable to it, and would do anything she could to avoid it. Oh, all right! I'll admit it. I was, and am, vulnerable to it too. I have changed more than one segment in my writing, when Barbara, while proofreading, gave me THE LOOK.

    When Verla Mae's  children got married, they always stayed married. None of that messing about stuff. The world needs a lot more mothers like Verla Mae Dunnahoe.

     Verla Mae had a very hard time in her last years. Congestive heart failure dogged her for a long time. Once, in the hospital, daughter Patsy was helping her across the room. She just totally collapsed. Patsy ran to the hall, and there just happened to be a team of doctors with a defibrillator walking by. They hurried in. One doctor got to her side, while the other got the machine ready. Right after the first doctor pronounced her dead, the second doctor kicked a can out of the way to get the machine in place. "Do you want her back?" A doctor asked Patsy. "Oh, yes! Yes!" After awhile, the machine brought her back to life.

      Later, she took Patsy aside. “You should have let me go. I was floating above that room. I saw the doctor kick something aside. I saw a bright warm light. It was pulling me to it. I wanted to go. Then I was pulled back, slowly, into my body. I wish I had been able to go.” A year later, she finished that journey that she had started that day.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Chickens

Forever A Hillbilly: The Chickens:                   Somewhere around 1947 or so, an enterprising businessman from Plainview, ten miles from Wing, came up wi...

The Chickens

      

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

     Dad built a long chicken house. Closer to of the road was the huge barn that was built to house the Gillum/Compton/Turner super mule breeding project of the nineteen teens or so. The barn, by the way, was so large, it cost twice as much to build as the house we lived in. That business did well, before the Depression, but that business played out, when tractors came into common use, in the late thirties. Old Murt, the only super mule alive when I came along, successfully sidestepped the glue factory until the late forties. I rode him bareback a lot, and an old, skinny mule without a saddle can be a hard ride. Ida' bout' as soon walk.

     In 1949 or so, the chicken house was stocked and producing. I was just getting old enough to work the chickens. That year, Dad needed a second generation of chickens coming on, to replace the six hundred some odd laying hens, along with a cranky, mean bunch of roosters. The hens in the house were playing out, and getting just too tired to produce an egg a day reliably. And the roosters, each with a very large flock of ladies to attend to, ensuring those eggs were fertile, were playing out too. So the next generation was housed in the barn. These young chickens were producing some eggs, but the eggs were too small for market value. Thus we ate a lot of eggs. During the day, they were turned loose to forage for themselves, cut down on the feed bill. So, we had six hundred or so hens running free all day long in front of our house. I would like to tell you it was my job, every afternoon before dark, herding each of those six hundred chicken back into the barn to lock them up and protect them from the coyotes, coons, mink, foxes, etc. at night. Or, it might be an even better story if I told you I just started playing my little flute made out of a piece of fishing cane, marched down the lane to the barn, and they all just lined up and followed me in, a little trick I learned from the pied piper story. I just love to impress people.

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

      My main job was gathering those eggs in a big, wire basket. Now, those chickens had big plans for those eggs. They planned to lay up about all the eggs they could sit on and keep warm, and eventually hatch out their own batch of baby chicks. Once they began to get the mindset to become a “settin' hen,” they became protective of their eggs. I had to steal many of those eggs out from under that mad hen. She would flog, squawk, and peck me. Then I went on down the line to the next nest.

      Those cranky roosters didn't like me one bit, either. I was invading their territory, and messin' with their women folk. I never knew when one of those cranky old roosters would be on my back, scratching, biting, and floggin'. And, it was not unheard of for me to approach a nest, only to find it occupied by a really big black snake, containing several egg-sized lumps in his belly.

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

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

     The egg business played out in a few years. The scuttlebutt going around was, the main business was really selling a lot of chicken feed to the farmers. Lots and lots of chicken feed. The hatchery sorta took second fiddle.

     A plus was, all that chicken feed came in pretty cloth sacks, all decorated up to make shirts and dresses from. Mom and my sisters spent a lot of time on the old singer sewing machine. It was not uncommon for Mom to give Dad a few scrap pieces of feed sack material for Dad to try and match when he headed to Plainview for yet another load of chicken feed.

     And, during that time, we ate lots and lots of eggs. 

     Also, later in high school, I taught myself to pole vault with a well-seasoned pine pole I stole from the chicken roost. In addition, I learned to run fast at an early age. So, I guess all's well that ends well.

     Dad dispensed with the chickens. It seemed some of that chicken feed had gone bad, and we sometimes had to haul a tractor and wagon load of dead chickens off into the woods to feed all the hungry coyotes around. And that, along with the fact that the money-making aspect of that enterprise was not too great to begin with for the farmer, did it in.

     Uncle Franz, the school teacher, once bought up a bunch of registered and double registered Polled Hereford cattle, and brought them up to us for Dad to raise and sell on the halves.

     That business enterprise did better, and Dad stuck with that business the rest of his life. He was growing up a pretty good herd of registered Polled Hereford cattle, concentrating on high quality young herd bulls for sale. And me, I began my stage in life as a cowboy without a horse. But I didn't fare a lot better than I did with the chickens.

     We had some mean cows there, too. And those big bulls just dared me to step into THEIR pasture. Once, one of those big bulls tried to get romantic with one of Aunt Lula’s cows, through the barbed wire fence, and lost all his value as a herd bull. Another time, two of those big bulls got together and were fighting all over the pasture. Dad was at town, so I ran down and shot our double barrel shotgun, both barrels at once, over their heads, to try to scare them apart. It didn’t impress them much, but it knocked me flat down. When Dad got home, one had a broken leg.

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

Forever A Hillbilly: The Pork and Beans Trips

Forever A Hillbilly: The Pork and Beans Trips: "WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU THINKING?”   she was saying to Barbara. “Haven't you read The Bridges of Madison County?"  ...

The Pork and Beans Trips

"WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU THINKING?”  she was saying to Barbara. “Haven't you read The Bridges of Madison County?"

    “No, actually, I haven't,” Barbara replied, still smiling.

  

    Her brow tightly knitted together, the lady just said, “Well, maybe you should!” and shaking her head, walked away.

     Many years ago, in the early days of our marriage, when Barbara was still yet a teen, Barbara readily accompanied me on my “roughing it in the wilds” adventures, for a time. Two particular trips brought that to an end.

     Once, when we still lived at Fayetteville, we drove over to War Eagle Mills. We opened the farmer's gate and drove down to that beautiful river, which the farmer allowed at that time. This was before the days of the big festival now held there. We found a beautiful spot, we fished, built a fire, cooked, ate, and just generally had a great day. That night, we rolled out our sleeping bags, and since Barbara was not really a “sleep out under the stars” type of person, as I was, I made the concession of stretching a tarp over us. I slept well, as I always do at such a place. As dawn broke, Barbara was awakened by a big, slobbery kiss – right on the lips. No, not by me, this is not that kind of story. A big old hound dog.

     “We need a tent,”  Barbara stated firmly, “If we're going to keep doing this!” I went to Walmart, right behind our house, the next day. I found a perfect one. But I didn't buy it. A purchase that major, in those days, was something for us both to discuss long and hard. We were pore' folks.

     Tommy Beard was one of my best friends and fishing buddy. He was a student majoring in business, and he was destined to become a financial wizard, managing and investing money for several large companies. But to me, then, he was just another kid, newly married to his wife Pat, and he loved to go along with me in search of the catfish. While Barbara and I were still agonizing over that tent purchase, Tommy said to me one day, after taking me aside, “You need to scrape together every penny you can. A company up the road is about to make their first stock offering. This is a once in a life time opportunity. This company is going to really, really go places.”

     'Tommy,” I said, “ We live in a trailer park. We don't have money!” He didn't say any more. Just walked away, shaking his head.

     Barbara and I made our decision that night. We would buy that tent. The next day, I walked into Walmart, one of only a small handful in the world at that time, and bought a six million dollar tent.

    Maybe I should explain. Twenty years later, I was reading the Sunday paper one day. I saw an article about a large company from Arkansas, detailing what the initial stock offering for that company was now worth. The $36 dollars I paid for that tent translated into six million dollars at that time. Much more today. The company? Walmart. 

     Several years later, when he knew I had decided to leave coaching, and was looking for a teaching job, Tommy again advised me. “Walmart has just started a new program, training up store managers. No telling how much you could wind up making, if you get in that program on the front end.”

     I chose teaching. Story of my life. A pore' boy, destined to die a pore' boy.

     Anyway, let me get back to my story. Shortly after we bought that tent, we went back to the War Eagle River, camping once more. The river bank was pretty well grown up in bushes, but I did find one clear place. Kinda in a swag, but the sky was clear, no rain tonight. We now also had air mattresses; I had to make Barbara as comfortable as possible, to keep her roughing it with me.

     About midnight, dark clouds rolled in. It came a “toad strangler.” (That's hillbilly for a major rain.) I slept through it. I always sleep my best, out in the wild. Until Barbara elbowed me sharply in the ribs. “My air mattress is floating around!”

     By daylight, Barbara had had all she wanted of “roughing it in the wild places,” and she has never weakened or wavered from that position in 45 years. The next day she declared, “If you are going to keep doing this, you'll have to go alone!”

     Well, that set the stage. Barbara knew I have to return to the wild places periodically, to recharge my batteries. It's as necessary for me as breathing. I grew up a loner, and I am far more at ease and at home in the wilderness. It would be many years before “roughing it” was not the only option for such trips.

     We worked out a deal. I would do my thing, in the wilds, while she would do her thing. That often turned out to mean, she would visit her family, go on car trips with her sister's family, or, later, her and one of our kids or sisters went on a cruise.

   

     The Pork and Beans trips were born. I planned my trips very carefully. Wildlife photography was my main goal. Hunting and fishing lost it's attraction before these trips began. Barbara didn't like wild meat, but the clincher was, she didn't want to cook it either. If we were not going to eat it, I didn't want to kill it.

     Not spending much money was rule number one. I cooked every meal, I never ate out. I  cooked only the least expensive foods, so pork and beans was a major staple, along with potatoes and

spam, if I really wanted to live high. I could pull over to a park picnic table, whip out my little burner and skillet, and have a meal ready in five minutes. Barbara and I adopted, early on, a little but very effective rule to live our lives by: Always live below our means. That rule has been good to us, and enabled us to do many things that pore' people like us usually never get to do. (seen 40 countries, all the continents except Antarctica, and seeing all the states. I camped only in the least expensive places, usually National Forest Campgrounds, or maybe Walmart's parking lot.

     After our children were grown, I planned my first real Pork and Beans trip. Barbara's sister planned a car trip to New England, six days, and they wanted Barbara to go along. This situation was perfect. I slept as late as possible the day I left, ten AM. I headed out for Rocky Mountain National Park. Actually, I just wanted to get as close to it as I could that day, never intending to drive the whole way, but that's the way it turned out. Those Kansas plains just offered few camping spots while thunderstorms rolled through. Driving through a small town in Oklahoma late that afternoon, I pulled over to study my map. I noticed in my rear view mirror that a truck pulled up behind, and an angry looking man got out, walked up to my window. “Somebody driving a truck just like yours just shot out my front window,” he said, looking me and my truck contents over good.

     “Now look,” I said, “Don't you think if I had just shot out your window, I would already have my getaway planned out? Do you see what I'm doing? I'm reading a map! And, do you see a gun in here? I'm shooting with these cameras.” He looked my gear over good, but I guess my words settled him down a little, because he turned and left. 

     I went on up through Kansas to I70, did a hard left, and began the long haul up toward Denver. Approaching a long grade near daylight, the lights of Denver began to appear. As I dropped into Denver, my need for sleep began to overtake me. I dozed off twice momentarily passing through Denver, but soon I was in the Rocky Mountains, and my excitement pushed the sleep urge back. I realize now, a sleepy driver can be as dangerous as a drunk driver, and I don't push my limits like that any more. No more 24 hour drives for me. Well, maybe one. A couple of years later.

     I headed north, fully enjoying the early morning views of the Rocky Mountains, no big rush now. I arrived at the west gate of Rocky Mountain National Park around 10 AM, a twenty four hour drive. I arrived at a campground, set up my tent. I was much too excited just to be there to sleep now, so I walked through a creek bottom, looking for wildlife. I got a good picture of an elk calf suckling, and saw lots of other Elk. I drove slowly back toward the entrance and back, and saw a large wolf and a Moose with two calves wading in a pond. When I got back to camp, I was at 8000 feet or so. I decided to drive on up to the Continental Divide, at about 12,000 feet. Climbing on up in my little red truck, I was beginning to feel the effects of altitude sickness, climbing so high in my exhausted state. I turned around. By the time I got back to the campground, It was hitting me hard. I crawled into my sleeping bag, really not caring whether I lived or died, at the moment, and was soon asleep.

     I awoke at dusk, and could hear some sort of program starting up at the pavilion, but I really didn't care. I went back to sleep, and slept the night through. When dawn broke, I awoke, feeling a little better, but I still had a major headache, and my eyes were totally red from the long drive with my windows down. Looking out, an elk was right beside my tent. That brought me fully awake, and I soon was headed back up to the Continental Divide.

     Exiting my truck standing right on the Continental Divide, I looked up to the tall peaks around me. The divide was at about 12,000 feet, and the peaks went up to around 14,000. I could see tiny white spots near the top, probably mountain goats. Could I climb that high? I decided to find out. The altitude was hitting me hard. I walked 30 steps, rested, and did 30 more. Finally, I knew I had to be nearing where I had seen the goats, but no sign of them now. Then I looked up, and they were lined up on a ledge above me, all staring at me, 60 feet away. I got several good photos.

     Traveling a little farther in my truck, I saw a narrow foot trail winding up the mountain. I decided to take it. Half way up, I met a huge bull elk, his beautiful rack in full velvet, heading down. He was used to tourists, did not fear me, and saw no reason to yield the trail to me. He kept coming, and I was about to take my chances down the steep slope, when he took the lead role and headed straight up the mountain. I did get several good photos.

     Heading home, I decided to make a halfway stop at Witchita Mountains National Wildlife Refuge near Lawton, Oklahoma, and have used that as a good place to spend the first night out since then, several times. It was set up as a place to start somewhat of a comeback for the Buffalo, right after millions upon millions had been killed for their hides. It still has large herds of Buffalo roaming free, as well as many deer, elk, and smaller animals. It has a couple of good campgrounds, and it is a good spot for wildlife photography.

     My next trip was toward Okefenokee Swamp on the Georgia-Florida border. It is simply a spot where the Swanee River spreads out very, very wide, fifty miles or so, and is still one of the true remaining wild places in the United States. It was not successfully crossed by the white man until up in the 1930's. Alligators abound, by the thousand, and it takes three days or so to paddle across in a canoe. Raised platforms have been placed about a day's travel apart, to avoid having to sleep right down in among the gators. I had always wanted to paddle across it, but never could find anyone to go with me, and one can't do it alone. Against the rules.

     I headed out, again in my little red truck. I got to Tallahassee the first day, It was raining hard, and that little bit of mud to put a tent up on was only $10 less than a cheap room, so I violated one of my rules that night. I arrived at Mark Twain State Park, on a peninsula well out in the swamp. Tons of wildlife to photograph. I rented a canoe the next day and paddled far out into the swamp and got some really good gator shots. If I knew then what I've since learned, I would not have gotten quite so close. I have heard they can outrun a horse for 30 feet, but I really didn't believe it until I saw one do it, going after a bird, at Aransas, on the Texas Gulf Coast. They can really come up on those toes and fly! I got one pic of a big mama gator sitting on her nest, and as I snapped the shot, I saw movement above her. When I got the pic back, there was a baby gator crawling over her head. I've been back to Okefenokee several times since, and I always see lots of wildlife, and called up lots of foxes. A ranger told me that he once had a report of a turned-over boat in the swamp. When he got there, the boaters, who were still in the water, were surrounded by forty gators. Just looking.

     When I take family members out in a small boat into the swamp, I always give my gator lecture. “Most of the time, you will be surrounded by gators. But it’s winter now, and they are cold. They won’t come in this boat. But if one does get close, and you jump up and run, you will swamp us, Then, we’ll all be right down in there amongst ‘em.” They always stay still the whole trip. Though they are half scared to death the whole time, they usually consider that the highlight of our trip.

     On the way back, I found a pure white squirrel, totally beautiful. I dropped down to the Florida gulf coast to camp, and while I was cooking supper, sun still up, the raccoons were already coming in for supper. I sat up a photo session after dark, heated some leftover soup up in a skillet, and they flogged me. I got eight of them in one photo. One particular coon constantly kept stalking me, coming real close. Not sure exactly what his intentions were, but I finally got up off the ground, and ran him off.

     For my next trip, I decided to drive totally around the border of Texas, with Big Bend National Park my main goal. I spent the first night, again, at the Witchita Mountains, then drove down the western edge of Texas the next day. My old trucks never seem to keep the A/C working, and this one was no exception. I about burned up. West Texas is different. I passed the opening gate to a ranch, with a dim trail going off across desert out of sight. The sign said, “so and so ranch, 38 miles.” Distances are very great in west Texas. Telephone poles were about head high, consisting of little scraps of limbs. Just work with what you've got. I topped off my gasoline every time I passed a rare station. Distances were the same in Big Bend National Park, 20 miles plus from the entrance to the Visitor's Center. When I started in the building, a big roadrunner was leaning up against the building, in a small bit of shade, tongue hanging out. It WAS hot that day. I started to go back for my camera, then I thought, I'll see lots more. I never saw another that close. There is a campground on the far south side of Big Bend, right along the Rio Grande, but it was deserted, and it didn't have a good feel about it, right on the border. The major campground is up in the mountains, so I chose it. Lots of desert wildlife around up in those mountains.

     Javelinas, or Collared Peccarys, were plentiful. Stalking a large group, I came upon a large male, very close, and it made him mad. His hair went straight up, and I snapped a photo, not totally sharp, as I was getting out of there. Texans tell me, they will even attack a man on a horse, as well as on foot, and those sharp tusks can cut a man or a dog up real good.

     Heading east along the Mexican border, I got to a large State Park just after they had closed down for the day, and I left early the next morning, so I never saw another human. The Jackrabbits were plentiful, though, and I got my best close up Jackrabbit photos at sundown.

     If anyone ever asks you, how far it is around the Border of Texas, it's about 2200 miles, including a few side trips.

     I did several other other Pork and Beans trips, mostly in the 1990' s. I always scheduled  these when Barbara was otherwise entertained, in some fashion. The most recent of these involved her going with her sisters Sugar and Frances, along with France's husband, Bill. They went on a cruise to Hawaii and on to Fanning Island, during which Barbara completely lost half her birthday. The ship anchored offshore on her birthday, the launch to the island carried her across the International Date Line into another day, then came back to what was left of her birthday that night. Meanwhile, I went on a  trip into the Grand Teton Range, and spent several days mostly just looking at my favorite view in America. As always, in my cute little red truck.

     When the cruising crew returned, the sisters told me right off, “Bill slept on top of Barbara every night while we were at sea.” That caused a momentary wrinkling of my brow, until Bill said, “I prefer to say, I slept ABOVE Barbara. Bill had the top bunk.

     Actually, I saved us a lot of money with my trips. I never spent as much as I would have had I went along on that cruise, nor did I gain as much weight. And, I was happy, in the wilderness, plus Barbara was always happy to see me when I got back, and likewise. A win-win situation. I finally decided, I had photographed, in some fashion, about every animal I was likely to find in America. But if one of those long, super strong digital lenses ever falls into my lap, I think I will start them all over again, if Barbara is agreeable to that…  My limited lens at that time limited my photos, And, after all, I have always been only a “pretend photographer.” I'm not like Barbara or Jane Dunn. But, I was out there, doing what I love to do, in the wilderness. My Pork and Beans photo album still lies on our coffee table. But, actually, I'm about the only one who ever looks at it. But every picture, even the bad ones, bring about memories of a very special time in my life. I did sell one, a picture of the white squirrel. So, I guess actually, I am a professional wildlife photographer. That title and a dollar will buy me a burger at McDonald's.

     This summer, my two grown(?) Grandsons, Christian and Jordan, are going with me on my first Pork and Beans trip in many, many years. This time, though, we may fudge on the sleeping spots and eating spots, but it will be fun! Now, I do have that super long digital lens. No excuses if the pics are not good.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Diamond Fountain

Forever A Hillbilly: The Diamond Fountain: I FIRST MET HENRY EMISON MANY YEARS AGO as I was digging for Diamonds at the Crater of Diamonds State Park in Murfreesboro, Arkansas.   ...

The Diamond Fountain

I FIRST MET HENRY EMISON MANY YEARS AGO as I was digging for Diamonds at the Crater of Diamonds State Park in Murfreesboro, Arkansas.  The only diamond mine in North America, and the only spot in the world where one can pay a small fee, go in, dig for diamonds, and keep what you find.

     I was immediately impressed by the speed of his work. I soon learned, as did everyone else on that field, that Henry was a true man among men, one who could outwork anybody else on that field five to one. Naturally, he soon began finding many diamonds, while my diamond stash was coming along much slower.

     Soon Henry and his family decided to move closer to the diamonds, and they rented my six bedroom brick house in Gurdon, the oldest brick house in the county. When I realized the caliber of renter now occupying that old house, and how fast they were fixing it up, making it better, I opened an account at the local hardware store, told them to charge whatever they needed in order to improve that house. With, of course, a maximum of $100 per month. They did, never violating that trust, and when they had to move, years later, to find work, the house was greatly improved. That’s the sort of people the Emison’s are.

     One Sunday at the diamond mine, three men from Texas struck it big. A vein of fine sand, found very deep. It was an old creek bed from eons past. They started finding one diamond after another.

     But they had been working for days when the big strike was found, they were already tired out.  They had to go back to Texas at the end of that day.

     Henry was working nearby, and they had already noticed that Henry was a digging machine. They went to him, and, I would wager, struck a deal with Henry, the likes of which has never before been seen on that field. They told him if he would dig with them, he could share the diamonds found. At the end of the day, Henry had five nice diamonds to add to his collection, and the Texas men went home with twenty some-odd diamonds.

     Henry, also, had to go back to work the next day. He called me that night, told me exactly where the diamond-rich sand was, and naturally, I was there, ready to dig, the next morning.

     But an old man, a full-time diamond hunter, had already taken over that spot, and he dug there for days, until the sand bar was completely exhausted. He never revealed to anybody how many diamonds he found.

     So, I went back to that spot months later. But it had rained a lot, and there was now six feet of water in the hole. As I sat there, mourning my misfortune, 3 or 4 college boys came by. Naturally, being a better story teller than diamond hunter, I had to tell the story of twenty some-odd diamonds being taken from that hole in one day. When I came back by later in the day, the college boys were diving down, pulling out that sand two handfuls at a time. There is no limitation to what one will do when struck by the diamond bug.

     At the end of that day, I was just finishing up a winter of digging diamonds; thirty days, with very little to show for it. I did, however, struck gold. When digging in black stand, I found sheets of it. I learned that gold, as it comes out of the ground, is in very thin layers. After I had stored it in water for a time, those sheets roll up into nuggets. The park officials would not believed I found gold there. "There is no gold in this park"! They believed I brought it in from elsewhere. But God and I both know I did.
     My grandson Jordan, who was with me that day, told me, “Papaw, work we do for fun can never be this hard.” Great wisdom from a young child. My body was breaking down from all that hard work, and I did not wish to be in constant pain in my older years, so I hung up my screens, and have never been back.

     Time went by. Years. From time to time, Henry had gone back to that spot, and still found diamonds, as did other diggers he knew.

     Henry came by to see me a year or so ago. He was totally obsessed with that small spot of diamond sand. He was working on a theory, but this is secret, so if you read this, let’s keep it just between us. OK?

     That sand bar, if one is lucky enough to find it, seems to continually be re-supplied with new diamonds. Maybe, they are being washed down over the bedrock, far underground, into that underground sand bar, and forced up into the sand by some freak happening of nature.

     I ran onto Henry again a few days ago. Henry has just become an employee at my son Corey’s new Painted Tree Vintage Market in North Little Rock, and is considered by Corey as an extreme blue chip hire, for good reason.  But all Henry wanted to talk to me about was that natural diamond fountain. Over long periods of time, more and more diamonds seem to be forced up into that sand. His hypothesis is far too complex for me to totally understand, much less explain, and besides, this is all top secret stuff, remember?

     I asked Henry how many diamonds he had found. He didn’t really know, because he had given all but one away to people who needed them more badly than he did. He’s just that kind of guy, remember?  I guess I have finally found one way Henry and I are somewhat alike. Although my lifetime stash was, at it’s best, only a fraction of Henry’s, I have never sold a diamond, and I, also, only have one remaining.

     But I keep remembering. As you read this, that diamond fountain is still spewing diamonds up into that ancient sand bar. And only Henry and I know where it is. And we ain’t tellin’.  Someday, when I again feel the urge to start digging holes deeper than my head, I will join Henry, and we will become rich men. And we’ll have a good time, then.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Thing About the River

Forever A Hillbilly: The Thing About the River: THE THING ABOUT ME IS -    I just keep going to the wild places, until a pretty good story comes of it. The thing about Neal Nelson is – h...

The Thing About the River

THE THING ABOUT ME IS -   I just keep going to the wild places, until a pretty good story comes of it. The thing about Neal Nelson is – he just keeps letting me tag along until a good story is created. Such was the case last April. Neal invited me along on his fishing/floating/turkey hunting trip with him, his dad Travis, and Scott Jackson. Neal and Scott are my pastors. Travis is retired, as am I. We planned a five day trip to float the last 17 miles of the river. The thing about the lower Buffalo is – it is relatively calm. It kinda gets a couple of old guys overly confident.

     Neal sent out instructions telling us all what we could and could not take. But nobody took it seriously enough. We wound up at Rush with enough food and gear to keep an army comfortable for five days.

     I was traveling with Travis.We loaded our flatbottom boat down good. Too good. Hardly had room for us to get in. The thing about Neal is, he is an all – around outdoorsman of the first order.The best I've seen. Neal scouted the first rapids. He shouted, "Stay hard left" on the L shaped rapids. Travis and I went first, he in front, me in back. I was hugging left. Travis said, "Pull right! We have to go right of that bush!" I did. When we got to the turn, I knew we were too close to the middle.

     The thing about many rapids is, the largest waves are thrown up at the end. In the middle. We hit the big waves, expecting the front of the boat to ride the top of them. The heavy front end went under them. Neal was watching from above. "Hey, they made it!" Then, a moment later, "But they sure look awfully short!"

     Our boat floated, just under the water. Our gear was washing out. Our motor was under water. Fortunately for us, though I would not have wished it on them, two boatloads of turkey hunters were ahead of us. One of them swamped also. They were in position, gathering up their gear, and they started picking up ours also. Neal and Scott quickly crossed the rapids uneventfully, and started helping. One of the other boats approached us, and started giving us our gear.

     One said, "I've also got a garbage bag with a backpack in it."

     "Not mine," I said. We weren't planning any backpacking.

     We pulled over to a gravel bar, and began spreading out stuff out to dry. The other group picked out a bar on down river. They finished first and went on. They had lost a valuable gun. Travis had lost very valuable rods. I lost two rods, myself, but they were garage sale specials, as is most of my stuff. We decided to spend the night there. Later, I realized. All my clothes, including my coat, were gone. All the clothes I had left was the wet ones I had on, still wet, and we were looking at a cold spring night.

     The river took all my clothes. Three days later, the river gave them all back to me, all dried and neatly packed

     I always pause here, in telling this story, for effect – to see if anyone will react to that last statement. No one normally does. WHAT WERE THEY THINKING? Does that seem like the natural course of events here? Does the river just normally take all your clothes, then spit them out, at your feet, three days later? Good grief! Are they thinking we have some sort of Jonah thing going on, since we have two preachers along? Or, more likely, have they not been listening to a thing I said. I vote for Jonah, but suspect the latter.

     Actually, I remembered later. They were all in a daypack, the "backpack" the other hunters found. As it turned out, they were camped far down the river. We finally met one of their boats coming back up river, told the guys they were ours, and when we got there three days later, the clothes were all dried, re-packed nicely, left lying on a gravel bar for us. I was so tired of those filthy, wet clothes I had been wearing three days. Travis and I had to wait awhile for Neal and Scott there anyway, the other hunters weren't home, so we just stripped and took a bath, right in front of their camp. Other boats going upriver ran us into the bushes a couple of times, though.

After Travis and I had swamped a perfectly good boat in the first fifteen minutes of our trip, I think Neal and Scott feared we had gone senile. Just taken these guys along one year too many. When another fairly large rapids came up, Neal kept coming up with, "How about Scott or I take your boat across?" or, "Why don't we just tie a rope on your boat and ease it over?"

     Travis and I would have died first. Our manhood was being called into question. "I was taking boats through worse places when you two pipsqueaks were still sucking a bottle" I was thinking. I felt sure Travis was too, though we never spoke of it.

     The thing about Scott Jackson is – he has an outfit called Outdoor Discipleship Ministries, and he takes groups of young people to the deepest, highest, darkest parts of the world, seeking unreached people for Christ. I had been on two of those trips myself, near the headwaters of the Amazon River. He is the perfectly organized camper. He had every kind of condiment we could have found at home: every kind of coffee, additives, everything – all perfectly organized in a cute little box.

   

     A few days into our trip, Scott and Neal were scouting for turkeys. Travis and I, not hunting, were in our usual position – in our chairs on a gravel bar. When they returned, Scott noticed a biological phenominon. Dozens of beautiful Butterflies, both Zebra and Swallowtail, were swarming around a wet spot in the sand. Scott was determined to get to the bottom of this. Why this wet spot, why not others? Maybe a strange spring bringing exotic chemicals to the surface. He dug in the sand there. He examined it very closely. The true, latent biologist was awakening in him. Finally, fearing he was about to taste it, I could stand it no longer. "Uh, Scott, that's where I peed."

     Neal's true nature was revealed to us on that trip, though it was no surprise to any of us. Neal is the expert turkey hunter, Scott the novice. In the last place they hunted, and in the most likely, they sat side by side, full camo.' Scott held the only gun. Neal called; a gobbler answered. This went back and forth a long time. Finally, Neal saw the gobbler. It was hidden from Scott. They waited for it to walk into Scott's vision; it just would not. Turkey hunters know. If you move, he's gone. Finally, the turkey was in the position for a perfect shot for Neal. Scott insistently scooted the gun over to Neal. Neal reluctantly drew a bead on the big gobbler. He had him dead to rights. His finger would just not pull the trigger. Neal's nature would not allow it. He spends his life, doing things for others before himself. That servant nature would not allow him to call a turkey in for Scott, then shoot it himself. At long last, the turkey strolled away.... Scott free, so to speak.

     The thing about my fishing career is – The good stories, and the 40 pound cat, are still out there, waiting somewhere beyond the next bend in the river. Actually, in case you have not yet suspected it, my lifelong love for the river is not really primarily centered on how many, or how large the catch is. Rather, it is all about just being out there.

     If you slide a 14 foot flatbottom boat into the gentle waves of the river at daybreak, maybe a family of beaver will be swimming around, slapping their tails. Possibly, an otter will be floating on his back, a shellfish on his chest, using a stone to try to open it. You may see a pair of wood ducks take flight through the mist rising off the river. Perhaps a big cottonmouth will swim by, floating like a long balloon on top of the water. You might, hopefully, hear a big bullfrog roar, like his namesake, in the distance. Sometimes, a doe and  newborn fawn will come down for a drink.

     Paddle along quietly for awhile, then just drift. And look. And listen. Then, you will know why I love the river.

Forever A Hillbilly: Poor Dumb David

Forever A Hillbilly: Poor Dumb David:      The football game was about to start. I lounged in my lawn chair up on the hill, my favorite spot for watching the action at Hend...

Poor Dumb David

     The football game was about to start. I lounged in my lawn chair up on the hill, my favorite spot for watching the action at Henderson State University. Few fans came over here, well away from the bleachers. The first person to come my way was a nice looking lady, near thirty. She sat ten feet below me, on the hillside.

     For some strange reason, a thought from years past crossed my mind, and I had to smile. She looked like she could be one of poor dumb David's girls.

     I own an apartment house on 11th street. I'm the main fix-it guy.  Some of  my tenants seem to treat me like others do their bartenders. They talk to me a lot about the things going on in their life. It just so happened, at that time, that I had a lot of tenants there who were single women, twenty something. All were attractive, but there was an over-abundance of single women in Arkadelphia, but few single men. Over a period of time, several mentioned to me their boy friend, David. I was surprised to learn, over an even longer period of time, that it was the same David. Finally, I met David. He was tall, muscular, good looking, had a cool truck, a great smile, didn't talk much.

    " I like David a lot," she was saying as I unplugged her sink drain. "He's such a hunk. But he hardly ever talks. He's so good looking, I decided not talking was not such a bad thing. Well, last week, just after our vacation we took together, he finally loosened up and started talking. And, you know what? He just cannot string together five words without saying something dumb. I hate to do it, but I've just got to dump him. It's so embarassing when we're around my friends. I hope, eventually, he can find somebody else.

     I know poor David was crushed. But, I guess he was just too dumb to mourn too long about the loss. Someday turned out to be the next day, a cute redhead three doors down.

     A few weeks later, a male tenant called me with concerns about the young lady next door. Her car was in place, but she had just been gone for days. I checked the apartment, all her stuff seemed to still be there. I called her employer. "She's on vacation this week with David," he told me.

     I was beginning to see a pattern develop. It seems poor David was very shy when he began a new relationship. But, eventually, he loosened up, and poor David's fatal flaw showed up. He was then quickly dumped. At least, all those women felt bad about dumping poor David, and kept his flaw secret. He never seemed to have a problem finding yet another pretty woman quickly.

     The football game had started, and HSU was drubbing my old alma mater, badly, heading toward a 30-0 trouncing. The game was so boring, I could not help but notice the lady below me was on her cell phone. "Sure, Debbie, come on down and watch the game with us. David is coming too, and I want you to meet him! He's such a hunk. He doesn't talk much, but we're going to be spending a lot of time together at Dallas next week, and I promise you he will be talking a blue streak by the time we get back!"

     Could it be... naw, I haven't seen David around in years. I felt sure he had flunked out and left by now.  Yet, here he came, older now, but still a hunk. Still with a great smile, not talking much. As she wrapped her arms around poor David, a strange series of thoughts ran through my mind. Poor, dumb David is facing still another broken heart. Yet, he seems to be holding up well under all that heartache. Could it be that David is not as dumb as I thought? No, that could not be. But yet...

     I got my answer at graduation that next spring. David was receiving a Master's Degree. He was finally going to officially become what he had already been for many years. A master of Psychology.

This is a true story. Mostly. 

Forever A Hillbilly: Half Priced but the Hard Way

Forever A Hillbilly: Half Priced but the Hard Way:      I had always thought, in the deep recesses of my mind, someday I will build my own house. Mostly by myself. I decided, now was the t...

Half Priced but the Hard Way

     I had always thought, in the deep recesses of my mind, someday I will build my own house. Mostly by myself. I decided, now was the time. We borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars in 1978, and I set in. I didn't know how to build a house, but I knew how to use a saw and hammer. Pretty well all of us raised in Wing learned to do that. The rest I learned along the way. If I got to a point where I was stumped, I went and looked at other houses under construction, and just did like the big boys did. When I first started and was doing the dirt work, a friend said, “I don't know how you ever make any progress. Every time I come by, you're leaning on your shovel.” Actually, I was very busy thinking. Trying to figure out what to do next. I did, however, dig the footing trench in one day. Lots of sand, no rocks.

      It was pretty well framed up, and Kinley, about four, was sitting in the front yard, playing in the sand. She had a spoon in her hand, and dug up a spoon full of sand just as we saw the mosquitoes were eating her up. We scooped her up, along with her spoon full of sand, and she quietly reached down and pulled a gold ring from the spoon. We figured that was a good omen for the house.

     I was working on the master bathroom when Barbara and Kinley came over with the news. Elvis Presley had just died.

      Some of the finish work I saved for the pros, like the cabinets, carpet, and brickwork. I knew I couldn't hide my lack of skill there. I found a little trick that worked well. After a contractor had been on the job one day, I went over his work until I found a flaw. Then I ragged him until he re-did it. His work quality now moved up a notch. Most contractors will only do their best work if they are pushed to it by picky people. It's all about speed with them. Many will go too fast if you let them.

     When it was finished, we turned three thousand dollars back to the bank. A one thousand, seven hundred and ten square foot, three bedroom brick house for twenty two thousand dollars. Including the lot. But, that was 1978. Prices have changed some since then. But the labor expense saved amounted to close to half the cost. It took ten months, after school, weekends, and a summer. I never, in my life, become as completely focused as when I start building a house. Barbara has a lot of trouble getting me away from it, for any reason.

     I wound up building the next two houses we have lived in, too. But not for that price. Thirty eight thousand dollars in 1983, out in the country, in the woods four miles from Arkadelphia. It was a two story frame house. Our new banker was very hesitant about lending money. He just said most people who set in to build their own house were soon overwhelmed, and quit. But, I had done it once already, so he finally relented. When the house was finished, and he came out for the final inspection, he told me I should build houses for a living. No thanks. Once the banker does his final inspection and declares it finished I take his word for it and just quit right there. I'm sick of it by then, and I have never finished up every little detail .Who am I to argue with a banker? Usually, it's part of the garage that is eternally unfinished. Water was a problem. We first dug a large bore well, thirty or so feet deep. Plenty of water, but the test came back bad. So, we dug a small bore well, 200 feet deep.  It tested bad also. The next sample was bad. The bank would not finalize our loan until we passed a water test. The third sample was accidentally dropped into the microwave for a minute or so. It tested perfect. Sometimes, one just does what one must do. After our kids grew up there, Barb wanted back in town with city water and cable TV. That third one, twenty years ago, cost sixty eight thousand, the one we still live in. But this time, the soreness in my body did not end after a few days. It was there, every day, for ten months. I was getting too old for this.

      A sheet rock hanger guy, in his mid-fifties, lived next door. He kept a close check on my progress awhile, then told me I was going to make it. A neighbor woman commented, “I’ve been wondering what’s going on over there. I never see but one man there, yet it just keeps going up.” The sheet rock hanger’s son told me one day, “I never want to be old. I want to die by fifty.” I asked why. He said, “I never want to hurt as much as my father does, every morning when he gets up.” A few months later, his father died suddenly, no one seemed to know why. But I did. Hanging sheet rock every day, for an old man, is a man killer. I had learned this on my first two houses, so this time I left the sheet rock hanging and finishing to the pros, a big crew of young guys. Three or four days as opposed to two months. The sheet rock hangers told me when they finished, it was the most square and plumb house they had ever worked on. A plus, I guess, for being so slow in framing it up.

                                                             

      The city inspector was the bane of my existence while I built that last house. Although it was legal to buy permits and build one's own house in Arkadelphia, plumbing, electrical and all, he was determined that you just can't build a house like that, alone.  He was there, nearly every day, finding things wrong.

I pulled a fast one on him once. I had the under-the-slab plumbing finished, uncovered in a four foot deep trench, and he was getting out of his truck, coming to inspect. I noticed a drain curve turned the wrong way. I knew he would say, "You can't do that! That will cause the drain to stop up every couple of weeks! Pull it out and redo it!" I threw a shovel full of dirt down on top of that joint as he walked up, gambling he was too lazy to get down in the ditch and check it. He didn't, and twenty years later, it has never stopped up.

     A couple of times, I had to bring him an engineering book to prove my point. He once decided that two by six inch studs, two feet apart, would not hold a two story house. He told me to put another stud in between. I finally convinced him that two by sixes spaced that way could carry more weight than two by fours spaced sixteen inches apart. I let him read it right out of the engineering book. But the last time he came out, as I was finishing up, he was different. He smiled and said, “You know, a man should never have to do what you did on this house, alone like that, but once in a lifetime.” And I was doing it for city water and cable TV, for heaven's sake!

      I decided that day that he and I finally agreed on something. This was my last house. On the first two houses, when I started, I would be sore for a few days, then the soreness went away. On this last house, I was sore every day for ten months. My body was telling me. Enough of this.

                                

     Then we started buying old, rundown rent houses, and I fixed them up. After the first one, our banker realized I would quickly fix it up, make it worth more. Sweat equity, he called it. I never had to make a down payment on another one. I even made a profit on a closing once, because rent was due. But like I say, that was then, and things have changed in banking. Barbara made sure our credit rating stayed over eight hundred. And, I have changed. I've got to renovate a trashed apartment next week, and what I really want to do is write. I wouldn't mind if I never saw another hammer and saw. Anyone want to buy sixteen old houses and apartments? Have I got a deal for you!

      (This story was written some time back. I now own only two rentals to work on. I’ve stopped climbing up on steep roofs, and squeezing under low houses, so my profit is less. A product of being old. I don't do that kind of work anymore.)