Forever A Hillbilly: The Sixty Year promise Contest

Forever A Hillbilly: The Sixty Year promise Contest: The Sixty Year Promise Today, I am announcing – SPREADING WING'S – My Best Family Story Contest - . Here's why - When I fi...

The Sixty Year promise Contest

PLEASE NOTE: SINCE SOME OF THE WRITERS ARE CLOSE FRIENDS OF MINE, AND SOME I MAY NOT  KNOW AT ALL, IT WOULD BE MORE FAIR TO JUDGE THE FINAL WINNER BASED ON THE NUMBER OF READS A STORY GETS IN THE FIRST THREE DAYS IT IS UP. I HOPE THAT'S OK WITH ALL OF YOU.  PAT

Today, I am announcing – SPREADING WING'S – My Best Family Story Contest - . Here's why -

When I first started writing, about four years ago, here was my goal. I wanted to find out as much as I could about my ancestors.  Not just names on a genealogy sheet, not just their picture. I wanted to know how they lived, the ups and downs of their lives, who they loved, and yes, also, who they disliked. I wanted to turn them into flesh and blood people, so that my offspring, and later generations, could feel like they actually knew them. A few stories, or the start of one, sometimes came through on genealogy sheets from researchers from generations past. Like, “Grandpa Tucker (my grandmother's father) and his family hung a man one morning, down in front of his house.” or “Great great grandma had a little brother who was eaten by a wild hog.” or how about this – my great uncle, Harry, “faced down a thirty man posse who came to arrest him in downtown Dover with the words, “I will give up my guns with my life, and make the man who takes it pay a heavy price.”  The posse finally turned around and left. Without Harry.” What!? How could anyone just let a story like that lie, without giving any details? Well, maybe the old time researchers could not find out any more, with the resources available to them at the time. But in this day and age, especially with great historical societies like the one in Pope County, Arkansas, I was able to dig up the whole stories, and tell them in SPREADING WING. 

     Now, most of the stories I was able to unearth and record were not that dramatic. Most were just sweet little stories, but they still told me much about those people. The oldest people in one's family are always the best sources, if their long term memory is still somewhat intact. Many older people may not remember what they did yesterday, but the long term memory is good. All one need do is ask, and sit and listen. They love that. I was born the youngest of a generation, by several years, so almost all the old Gillums were long gone well before I started my project, at sixty five. Actually, all of my dad and mom's generation. I never met any of my grandparents. After all my research on my grandparents, I felt like, for the first time, that I actually knew them. I cried.

     So, if I could do it, you can too. But start early. When the old folks die, their stories often die with them. I also told all I could remember about my generation, and my children and grandchildren love it.

My first book was titled “THE GILLUM'S WERE NOT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE.” (All right, I've just got to take out right here and explain to you that title. My brother Harold worried about that title a lot. Thought I was saying, “The Gillum's are better than other people.” When someone asked him about that, he often said, “If you would just read the book, you would see that's not always the case!”  Actually, I was talking with JR Turner, a Wing icon who was around one hundred years old, and, since he knew all the Gillum's, I asked, “What did you think of the old Gillums?” Well, I knew that was a hard question for JR, since most of the old Gillums were pretty stern men, who seldom smiled. JR thought for a long time. He obviously didn't want to hurt my feelings. Finally, he just said, “Well, the Gillum's were not like other people.” then added, as an apologetic afterthought, “They were very solid.” which was true. Solid like a rock. I knew right off, JR had just named my book.) Anyway, getting back to my story. My son Corey had several hard copies of my book printed, gave them to me. He called that volume one. He also established the “sixty year promise.” He vowed to write volume two, starting on birthday sixty. His oldest child, Caylie, an old soul at fourteen, vowed to write volume three starting on birthday sixty. Thus publishing an ever increasing volume of past writings. So that, as Corey stated, “Many generations from now, when all of us have left this earth, I hope a young Gillum will read these first hand accounts of who we were, and how we lived. Through this, maybe he or she will truly know those who went before them, and learn something about themselves, as I have from Dad's book.”

     So, anyone can be a writer. In today's world, anyone can publish a book. I challenge you to start writing volume one of your family's “SIXTY YEAR PROMISE.” There is no better way to honor the old people in your family that to record their stories, before they are lost forever. We are all going to die, but who we were and what we did can live on and on, if you just take the time, and love them enough, to write down their stories and preserve them. Your offspring will be so happy you did.

     So, you're going to do it? Good. Now let's get down to the nuts and bolts. Who wants to read and preserve a boring book? Not much anybody, that's who. Your stories have to be INTERESTING, and

when appropriate, HUMOROUS. I try my best to keep those two thoughts at the forefront of all my writings. Sometimes, to do that, I have to ruffle a feather or two. But if you stay HUMBLE, and make fun of yourself more than you do anyone else, most people will accept that. If people of your generation don't like to read it, later generations will just throw it away. Nobody likes to read one's writings if the writer brags on one's self too much. SELF DEPRECIATION is a wonderful tool. Now at this point, I have to tell you, I'm not a trained writer. I'm not trying to set myself up as a writing expert here. I'm only telling you what seems to work for me. You have to write using your own thoughts. With all this in mind, I am announcing -

Forever a Hillbilly's First Annual – MY FAMILY STORY CONTEST

RULES -

1.   Write your best true family story in English. Up to 1400 words. If possible, typed, single spaced. Send it to me, copied and pasted onto the body of your e-mail. (No attachments, please. I can't always open those.) E-mail to barbandpat66@suddenlink.net

2.   If number one is not possible for any reason, I don't like to exclude people. Print it clearly and mail it to me at 1030 Evergreen, Arkadelphia, Ar. USA 71923.

3.   Please include a short bio about yourself, up to forty words.

4.   Contest ends September 1, 2018. All those judged “Totally wonderful” by our official judging panel, Barbara and I, will be posted on foreverahillbilly.blogspot.com, along with your credit and bio.

            Forever a Hillbilly is currently read by readers in eighty plus countries.

5.   The overall winner, as judged by the same distinguished panel of two judges, will be awarded the grand prize, which is: A. If you live in the USA, a signed and personalized edition of SPREADING WING.

6.   B. If you live outside the USA, I will send you an amount equal to the current price of SPREADING WING on amazon.com or Amazon Europe, along with a letter from Barbara and I bragging about what a good writer you are and stuff like that. I'm very interested in hearing from my foreign writers. I'm sure reading and comparing your life stories to mine would be very interesting.

7.   Now, I have to confess. I ran this contest once before, and nary a soul responded. But now, I’m reaching about 10 times as many people, so I’m more optimistic.

 So, get to work, and send your best family story to me! Kay and Linda, who lead my faithful pack of local readers, Please set the pace! Thanks for your time, and your attention.  

Forever A Hillbilly: The Thing about the River - Part 2

Forever A Hillbilly: The Thing about the River - Part 2:     THE THING ABOUT THE RIVER IS, it has held a lifelong fascination for me, whether it be fishing, frog hunting, or just floating along...

The Thing about the River - Part 2

   

THE THING ABOUT THE RIVER IS, it has held a lifelong fascination for me, whether it be fishing, frog hunting, or just floating along, watching and listening to the wildlife that lives in, on, or along it. The river is a wonderful place. The persuit of several animals that prowl below and near its surface has pushed me to travel to the far corners of Arkansas (wow!) and even beyond. 

Now take the catfish. They reside in almost all significant rivers of  Arkansas, but the concentration in the far southeast corner of Arkansas surpasses all. To my way of thinking, the entire Delta, excluding the people I love who live there, is a bit bland. Until you get near or inside the river levees. Then it becomes transformed into one of the most wonderful places on earth. The concentration of all wildlife is greater. They have been crowded out of the farmed portion of the Delta, and concentrated into these long crooked stretches of natural perfection. The lure of these whiskered monsters of the deep in the river delta has brought about so many of the memorable occasions in my life that this story has to be told.

     Like my three very close approaches to death, all at Wargo. Wargo is simply one of the many oxbow lakes off the lower Arkansas River. I was once camped on a high bluff on Wargo. My parnter in this adventure, as so often was the case in the old days, was Sport Dunnahoe, my father in law. I loved him like a father. An eighty foot tree was leaning far out over the water at the top of the bluff upon our arrival. Soon it would fall into the lake and disappear along with a good portion of the bluff around it. Naturally, we moved our campsite well back from it as a precaution. Our catfish lines were set and baited. We went to sleep. In the middle of the night, we awoke to an earthquake, or so we thought. We peeked out of the tent. The entire bluff, pulled by the falling tree, had caved off, leaving our tent, and us, perched on the very edge of the bluff. The tree had totally disappeared, buried under many tons of river sand.

On another occasion, JD Dunnahoe, my brother in law, and I had just finished baiting our catfish lines on the far side of the lake, when a major thunderstorm struck right at dark. We started back across the lake in our small boat. The thing about the river is, when the waves are pushed by heavy winds, rain, and lots of lightning and thunder, it can transform quickly into a place one does not wish to be. We made it across without incident. I dropped JD off at his truck, then I turned into the teeth of the storm to head for the boat ramp. The thing about a small, light boat, with most of the weight now concentrated in the back is, The front end sticks up high into the howling wind. I had just gotten started when a strong gust of wind picked up the boat – and I was airborne! Time slows down, up in the air. I had time to ask myself, "Where's my life vest?" and "Can I swim a lick with this rain gear on?" Then, I was dropped back to the water, the boat turned 180 degrees. I forgot about the ramp and struggled toward the shore, and for survival.

     The thing about Wargo is – you have two choices: You can fish it and be cold, of you can fish it and be swarmed by hoards of mosquitoes. There is a very small window in between. I often chose the early spring.

     Camped alone, I struggled out of my tent on a cold morning. My fire from the previous night was completely out, or so I thought. I picked up a gallon can of gasoline, stood back, and sloshed a long stream onto the remaining wood.

     The thing about fire is – it can come to life from a single small spark, and run up a long slosh instantly. I found myself standing, with a giant flamethrower in my hand. I slung it – far. It may be a while before I fish Wargo again, but when I do, I will be sure all my affairs are in order first.

     Not all my memorable experiences at Wargo were life threatning. Once Sport and I were asleep in our tent with only a very small hole in our almost-zipped-up doorway. The thing about small holes, though, is - it sorta negates being enclosed in a tent in the first place. In the middle of the night, Sport roused me from my dreams with an elbow to the ribs. "Pat," he said, " We are not alone." I switched on my light. The prettiest, most bushy tailed skunk was sitting on Sport's sleeping bag! We quietly enlarged that hole, and slid outside in our whitey-tighties, and waited, shivering. Fifteen minutes later, the skunk strolled out and off, never having left his calling card.

     The thing about a family chock full of pretty daughters, like the Dunnahoes, is – sooner or later a whold herd of son-in-laws will fill that old home place on hollidays, especially Verla Mae Dunnahoe's house. She seldom spoke, but when she did, it was law. We were all there for Christmas. The thing about men, especially young men, is – they are chock full of testosterone. They are driven to seek excitement, in one or more of it's forms daily. It's a requirement of life.

     We men were once sitting around relaxing after a big Christmas dinner at the Dunnahoe farm. Someone mentioned the river, and I woke up. I always slept through all those long discussions about farming. They bored me to death. The river is really rolling right now, someone was saying. "Let's go see it" someone else chimed in. "Why don't we take the boat?" We loaded up the boat and headed for the river. As I think about it, forty some-odd years removed, only an irrational craving for excitement or extremely pore' judgement could have brought about what happened on that cold winter day.

     So, I and my inlaws loaded into that small boat and headed up river. The boat was far too small for that crowd, and not a life jacket was in sight. Sport was the only one old enough to have better sense, but there was no way, I mean no way, Sport would let himself be left out when a river adventure beckoned. Not even up to the day he died. The twenty horse motor pushed us up the rolling  river. A rock levee extended well out into the river ahead. JD pushed the boat toward the end of the levee. The thing about rolling river water is – when it hits the end of a rock levee, a huge whirlpool can develop, and suck down anything that enters it. JD steered the boat around the levee. Suddenly we went down – down into the heart of the whirlpool. All around us was a whirlpool of water. Time to say our prayers.

     JD opened up the motor full throttle. The motor strained. We whirled with the water. Ever so slowly, the motor pushed the boat to the side of the whirlpool; then, even more slowly, we climbed. As we pulled out, finally, we were all ready to go back to that warm living room, ready to be bored the rest of the day. Talking about farming didn't seem quite so bad. Our appetites were sated, for that day.

    Once I was floating with my brother-in-law, Delton, down the White River to the Mighty Mississippi, then floated past the mouth of the Arkansas River to Arkansas City. We reached the mouth of the White River about sundown, and camped on a sandbar. The mosquitoes were beyond the edge of comprehension. In pioneer times, nobody could live here long, with malaria running rampant. The grave yard at Napoleon, Arkansas, a town there that no longer exists but was here in pioneer days, left lots of tombstones. Few, if any, died here that were older that 26. Anyway, we set up our tent, sprayed the doorway down good with mosquito repellent, dashed in and zipped it up quick. Then we spent the next hour picking off the mosquitoes inside, one at a time. Then, we could sleep. Or we would have, had it not been for the buck deer who resented our presence so much, he spent the night dashing up and down behind our tent, stomping and snorting. Anyway, now we can get down to the scientific work. By morning, my body was stopped up tighter than a drum. I took a good dose of Castor Oil, the most horrible tasting stuff God ever created, but one of the most effective. We then shoved off from the mouth of the White, down the mighty Mississippi. By the time we reached the mouth of the Arkansas River, I was rushing ashore to the bushes.

     The thing about floating a major river is – you have lots of time to think. By the time we had reached Arkansas City, I had finished my calculations. It is six miles, 31,680 feet, from one river mouth to the next. The Big Muddy rolls along at approximately six MPH. The human digestive tract is 23 feet long. Using that raw data, Castor Oil must run through the human body at a rate of .0007 MPH. Something I had always wondered about.

The thing about the river is – some creatures can live both in and near it. They normally breathe air with their lungs and have to surface regularly when active. But with the coming of the winter, they can bury up in the mud of the river bottom, get real still, and take in enough oxygen through their skin to live.

     Such is the Bullfrog, which is in the process of disappearing from this earth as I speak. Their numbers have dropped alarmingly in my lifetime. Now let's move our focus to the far northwest corner of Arkansas, to Fayetteville. My friend Bob and I decided to try our hand at catching bullfrogs on the west fork of the upper White River near Fayetteville. It had rained quite a bit, but it looked doable on the wide stretch of the river were we put in.

     The thing about the river is – it can flowly slowly in a wide eddy, even when up. When a narrow chute comes up, it can pick up the pace drastically. We were downriver half a mile before such a chute appeared, past the point of no return. We came around a bend, and our lights picked up a log, stretching from side to side, right at water level. Too late. We hit it, the boat turned sideways, we took on water on the backside, and our boat was swamped. We were held tightly against the log in the swift current. I looked downriver. Our gear was headed to Beaver Lake, accompanied by our lights, their beams swinging back and forth like searchlights at an airport. We tied the boat to the log, ( I don't know why, it was going nowhere.) I floated downstream, gathering up what gear I could find. When I got back, Bob had salvaged what he could. He was now walking across the log, gear in hand. He had my large landing net in one hand, which should not have been in the boat at all on a frog hunting trip. Bob slipped slightly at mid stream, slowly sat down on the log, then even more slowly was pulled off and under the log by the current. When he surfaced downstream, he shouted, "My glasses! I've lost my glasses!"

     You must understand. Bob's glasses were as thick as coke bottles, and he couldn't see a lick without them. And, they cost a pretty penny. Like me, he was dirt pore'. This was a big deal. I looked up. Bob's glasses were perfectly balanced on the rim of my landing net, which was still in his hand. "Hold very still, Bob!" I shouted, as I swam over and grabbed them.

     We finally righted the boat, sloshed most of the water out, and continued on. We had never floated this section of the river in the daylight, a big mistake. We soon entered a long hole that was filled with logs from end to end. We had to swim, pulling the boat over, under, around, and through. When the river merged with the main White River, it grew much wilder.

     The thing about chill bumps is – they start on one's lower back, slowly spreading upwards.They finall come across the top of the head, and stop, right above the eyes. Such was the case with me, as I sat listening. Listening to the wild rapids below, between us and my truck. It proved to be a long night, productive only in everlasting memories.

     The thing about pore' schoolteachers. The family has to eat. During the summer, I worked at whatever job I could find. I once worked for a plumbing outfit in Fayetteville.When they discovered I was a good, hard worker, they stopped renting a backhoe. I became a human backhoe, at thirty dollars a week. I told my working buddies about my frog hunting trips. One could float a five mile stretch on one of the pretty, clean rivers around there, and pick up as many bullfrogs as a family could eat in a while, in those days. The loud, deep bellow of a large bullfrog is seldom heard on the river nowadays. Then, one could hear a dozen at a time. There is no sound quite like it.

     One very large guy wanted to go with me. He was not a nice person – Big, tough, and rowdy. I finally agreed. We placed my truck on the War Eagle River, drove five miles up and put my boat in. As we sat around waiting for it to get dark, we were joined by an old timer, who talked our ears off. Sensing my partner was a true greenhorn who had never been on the river at night, he proceeded to tell a string of water moccasin horror stories. After a few, my partner got up, went to his truck, and got two rolls of duct tape. He proceeded to wrap a whole roll around one leg, right up to his hip. Then he did the other leg. I was beginning to have misgivings about this expedition. But we were there, committed. When it got dark, we headed down river.

     The thing about the river in those days was – The old timer's stories were true. In the space of time that I now see a moccasin on the river today, I would see 10 then. They are disappearing too. Far too many people beating on their heads with a chunk. For every two bullfrogs we picked up, we saw one snake. Those rivers are so clean, and weed free, we had no need for a gig. Just keep the light in their eyes, slowly ease up on them, look around to make sure it is not also a target for a nearby snake, then pick it up. After I had picked up several frogs, and we had seen several snakes, my partner had lost all his bluster. He was shaking like a leaf. After another mile, tears were rolling down his face, and he simply would not get out of the boat. The thing about pulling a light boat over a shoal, empty, It was easy. But add a whimpering 280 pounder, and it was back-killing work. It didn't help the bottom of the boat any, either. We were nearing halfway, over two miles to my truck. I could balk, and hope he was anxious enough to get home to get out of the boat, or I could just pull him the rest of the way. I just bowed up and did it.

     The only other noteworthy experience on the rest of that trip was passing through a giant, new hatch of mayflies. They were so thick, one could not inhale without taking one in. When we did pass on through, the boat had an inch of mayflies in the bottom.

     The thing about the river at night is, it just does that to some people. I once had a big, tough football coach in the front of my boat at night. We passed under a low hanging limb, a roost of birds thundered out, and he just ran to my end of the boat, sat in my lap, and sunk the boat. Farther down, a large beaver, for some reason, went against his naturally mild, shy nature, planted himself in the middle of a riffle, and made it plain that he had no intentions of letting us pass. I had to get out and do battle with him with a boat paddle, while my partner hung in the back of the boat. The wild river at night is not for everybody.

     It took two people, and two trucks, to do this right. I became more selective in my partners, and they became harder to find. I had ot hunt less. I have only been bitten once in all my frog hunting days. The telltale two fang marks of a poisonous snake were on my ankle, and we headed for the hospital. On the way, we passed a farm where two men, an midnight, were gathering sweet corn from someone‘s patch. When we got to the emergency room, I felt a bit silly, because it never swelled up or discolored. I guess I was sorta wishing it would when the doc came in. All I could figure, he had already used up his venom on another victim.

     Frog legs, properly cooked, are the best of wild eating. But they do move around in the skillet, when cooked fresh.

The thing about me is, there have been two distinct periods in my life when the pull of catfishing the river has been really strong. I have related to you some of the high and low times of the first period, when young blood coursed through my veins. During the early years of our marriage, that was the single largest problem Barbara had with me. I was gone too much at night, on the river. Most of those times, I was gone all night. That period tapered off and ended many years ago, though all the reasons are hard to put my finger on. As a young boy, we truly needed the wild meat for food. It was that or eat salt pork, period. And the salt pork did not keep into the summer. When Barbara and I married, that need lessened, because Barbara didn't like to cook it. Then the need for wild meat disappeared. But I still loved the river, and my attraction for the river was transferred more toward wildlife photography, float trips, etc. Then, thirty years later, after I retired, I began thinking more and more about my catfishing days, and I missed them. I have not yet caught the big one, three 25 pounders about topped it out. After much soul searching, I made a deal with my soul. I would not kill it if it was not to be eaten or for bait. I often, especially around my grand children, use the Indian custom of thanking the fish for giving it's life for our food. I have been more successful in my second period. I went through the learning curve a lifetime ago. For the last three years, I caught enough in one trip to feed the church catfish fry, seventy people or so. Several times. Up to 400 pounds per two-day trip.

Forever A Hillbilly: Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker

Forever A Hillbilly: Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker:  IN AUGUST OF 2006, I WAS WALKING OUT FROM FISHING  my favorite hole in the Fourche River, and a very large woodpecker flew from a dead ...

Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker

 IN AUGUST OF 2006, I WAS WALKING OUT FROM FISHING  my favorite hole in the Fourche River, and a very large woodpecker flew from a dead snag that had a large hole in it, near the top. I was struck by the bird's size, and its markings.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Then IT flew in, and changed my thinking forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 The world needs to know.

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

Forever A Hillbilly: The Truest Friend - Tooter of the Fourche La Fave

Forever A Hillbilly: The Truest Friend - Tooter of the Fourche La Fave: This boy-dog love and adventure story is a gentle mixture of fiction and actuality, set in the Fourche La Fave River Valley of t...

The Truest Friend - Tooter of the Fourche La Fave

This boy-dog love and adventure story is a gentle mixture of fiction and actuality, set in the Fourche La Fave River Valley of the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas.

     Tooter was my best friend of my boyhood. 

     Many of the folks of the valley make their literary debut in this story; some as themselves, some with changed names, others moved around in time, one of the wonderful options of fictional writing.
     My first order of books are sold. My second order is in hand. They are available at the Yell County Record in Danville, Gypsy Junkton in Plainview, Emerson's Country Store in Plainview and on amazon.com. Personalized books may be ordered by contacting me at barbandpat66@suddenlink.net. The price is $12.
    I have included here a few excerpts.

                                        ***
WHEN THE STARS ARE ALIGNED JUST RIGHT, and God looks on with favor, the length of a boyhood and a good dog’s life pretty much coincide. But in this story, there are heartbreaking problems along the way before Tooter came to me.
                                        ***

     The Fourche River has its headwaters in west-central Arkansas. The upper reaches of the river flows through a beautiful valley, up to three miles wide, bordered by high mountain ranges on each side. These high mountain ranges, together with the fact that there are no large light sources in the valley, produces some of the darkest skies, and brightest stars, in America. This is Fourche Valley, one of the most beautiful valleys on God’s green earth, and a wonderful place for this story to take place.

     The beautiful river still flows pristine; Eventually, it will flow into Lake Nimrod on the eastern end of the valley, well along on its way to joining the Arkansas River.

                                           ***

     The forest had come alive in that last hour of daylight. The squirrels scurried here and there, in a frenzy, barking and chasing each other, as they do at day’s first light. An early-awakening owl hooted in the distance. The sparrows were on the forest floor, pecking, gathering in their last few seeds before darkness enveloped us all.

     Tooter still lay with his head on my shoulder. He paid little attention to the animals around us. He had not yet learned of the importance I attached to the squirrel. But I would teach him, when the first cool nights arrived, and the brightly colored leaves dangled on the tips of the limbs of the oak, the elm and the hickory, about to begin their fluttering journey to the forest floor.

                                           ***                                      

     About an hour later, we could hear rustling in the leaves. I could tell Tooter was ready to fight. But he made no move to leave me, and go after the enemy. He seemed to know he was not physically up to spoiling for a fight. If a fight came this night, he would make his stand right in front of me. And I knew he was ready to give up his life to protect me.

                                             ***

     This story is suitable for any age.

Forever A Hillbilly: Flashing Trophies

Forever A Hillbilly: Flashing Trophies:         Ky, one of my ex-students, and my son Corey’s close friend, invented a trophy. Not just any trophy, but a flashing trophy. With ...

Flashing Trophies

      Ky, one of my ex-students, and my son Corey’s close friend, invented a trophy. Not just any trophy, but a flashing trophy. With six different lighting patterns. Like no other. Ky needed a partner with a strong business background. He chose Corey. The first need was finding a company that could build such a thing. Finally, a company in China said they could do it. They sent a few hundred for them to see.

     I was asked to take one apart, see if I could find any problems. I found one. The on-off switch had no solid backing. They were simply glued into place. Occasionally, a switch would just give way. I reported the problem to Ky, he passed it on to China. They said they could fix it.

Ky and Corey, both big thinkers, ordered a shipping container load. Their banker went ballistic when he found out that money was going to China, a very dangerous thing to do, he said. Barbara and I agreed to cosign.

     Back after The Great Depression, Dad spent 17 years paying off the notes for his sharecroppers. He decreed that a Gillum would never, ever again cosign anyone else’s note. And they never did, until this came along. But this trophy seemed to be a sure thing.

     The trophies arrived in December.  The International Trophy Show was in March. We went to the warehouse to see. The crates of trophies seemed to stretch out of sight, almost filling a warehouse. We started testing. The switch on the first trophy gave way. So did the third. And on and on. We were looking at 22,500 unusable trophies. These trophies were shipped during cold weather, which seemed to have had a bad effect on the glue. China’s “fix” seemed to have been, just add a lot more glue, still no solid backing.

 China said no way would they take them back, the shipping was most of the cost. They discussed sending a repair team from China. Other options were considered. China did not want to lose out on future orders, if this was a hit and the big bucks started rolling in.

     We discussed this far into the night. There was a second generation trophy on the drawing boards, much larger, but it was on hold right now. We decided that if a team of Chinese could repair them, so could we. We proposed that if China would build the second generation of corrected trophies for free, get them to us by March, we would do it. They agreed.

     We knew that we could come out ahead, IF we could repair them, and have them ready for the International Trophy Show in March. A very big IF. The chore of deciding HOW fell to me. I dissected trophies for days. Various methods were tried, yet failed. Finally, I discovered if a small screw was placed in the bottom of the battery case at exactly the right place and depth, it would back up the switch, and hold it in place. It worked. But it was slow. Take each trophy out of the crate, take it out of the box, remove the battery cover and batteries, drill the hole, place the screw in, and re-package everything. We discussed hiring a large team of men.

     Then it hit me. We didn’t need a team of men, just one man. If we could get the right one.

      I called Henry Emison.

     Henry said he needed a little Christmas money right now, and said he could do it. By March. Corey and I went shopping for dremmel tools, small bits, screwdrivers, and 22,500 screws. Just the right length. For weeks, we shuttled truck and trailer loads to Henry, then back to our warehouse when they were finished.

     All were repaired when March rolled around. China put a rush order on the second generation trophies, and they were perfect, and in place. Ky, Corey, and wives headed for Las Vegas, loaded for bear.   

     The call came late one night. Our trophy had been chosen best new trophy of the year. We celebrated. We would all soon be rich.

     Now, while the item was hot, we must find a buyer. A company that could handle supplying trophies nationwide, maybe worldwide. The ball was now in Corey’s hands. Offers were made, considered, then rejected for days. Finally he decided on a company in South Dakota. They would buy the repaired trophies, and pay a nice royalty on each trophy sold.

     When their new catalog came out, the company devoted the entire back page to our trophy. The dealers just loved them. Trophies were flying off the wholesaler’s  shelves. They quickly ordered 100,000 more from our company in China. Other manufacturers, even in China, could not figure out how to make them.

     Then, we waited to see the reaction of the public to our trophies. It was disappointing. Seems the public was not as excited as the rest of us. We did not yet get rich, but small royalty checks keep coming each quarter. Sales reached a trickle, and have stayed there, so far. But our cosign money is safe, and while we are disappointed, that check each quarter comes in handy. Oh well. Born a pore boy, destined to die a pore boy. It could have been a lot worse. Oh, and by the way. I still have 1200 unrepaired, un-assembled trophies in my garage, if you just love flashing lights. At bargain basement prices.