Forever A Hillbilly: Quebec City

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

Quebec City

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Trouble

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: A Year On The Road

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

A Year On The Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ontario’s One Damn Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

CONTINUED

Forever A Hillbilly: Memory Pearls - and a Regret

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

Memory Pearls - and a Regret

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

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

     These sweet moments always seem to stick in my mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Goodbye Africa

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

Goodbye Africa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     It was time to go home.    

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

     *

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

Goodbye Africa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     It was time to go home.    

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

     *

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Uncle Harry's Little War

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

Uncle Harry's Little War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - Latsha

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - Latsha: Note: some of this material is new, as of today, and some is out of chronological order. But it’s too good to leave out. After all, this a...

Part Two - Latsha

Note: some of this material is new, as of today, and some is out of chronological order. But it’s too good to leave out. After all, this ain’t no book!

Greg once left a very rare, large and strange looking beetle on my front porch, along with a note:  “Mr. Gillum, I found this Rhino Beetle I thought you would want to see. It looked a little better before my brother stepped on it.”

     Greg’s mother once bought a new mop she was very proud of. Greg was headed out on a snake catching trip, so he cut the handle out to make a snake catching stick. He caught a bucket of snakes – Moccasins, rattlers, black snakes. When he got home, he spread them all out on the basement floor for display. His dad got him good because of the house full of snakes, while Mom got him even better because of her ruined new mop.

     One of our Wildlife Club field trips was to Degray lake. We were all asleep at daylight the next morning, except for Latsha. He excitedly woke us all up, telling us all he had located a school of white bass, right up at the edge of the water. We sleepily caught 115 large white bass.

     On another field trip, I set up a Woodsman contest, involving tree climbing, wood splitting, wood chopping. Guess who won all events.

     Greg has a spectacular collection of Indian relics. He walked about every creek bottom around Arkadelphia to find them. I called Greg yesterday on my cell phone. Guess what – Greg had discovered a new spot to hunt indian relics, and he and his sweet loving wife were on their way to search it out. The years have not changed Latsha. Or, his loyal wife.

     Greg figures he has fished about every pond within sight of a road around Arkadelphia. His largest black bass caught is 8 lbs. 4 ounces.    

The doc was right. Late in high school, Latsha was 5’ 10” and weighed 150 pounds. In the next two years, he grew six inches and gained 60 pounds – no fat.

     Greg joined the baseball team at Henderson State University. At 17, he was hitting the baseball over the scoreboard at HSU. Soon, he set a school record by hitting a home run 600 feet. Many people began to take notice. The tennis courts are beyond the baseball field at Henderson. When Greg came up to bat, the tennis team just stopped practicing, and just watched. In awe. And also, in case the ball lands in the tennis court. But if it was a good hit, it went over the courts, the path, the creek, and into the woods.

     The pro baseball scouts soon heard of Greg. They began to show up at his games. They interviewed him. But that was not to be Greg’s path.

     In 1992, he played his last baseball game at HSU. A scout from a super major softball team followed him to his car, and offered him the opportunity to play at the highest level of softball in the country.

     Greg said, “Well, my buddies and I already have a softball team.”

     “Well, just let me tell you what we can give you. We’ll send you a plane ticket each week, and fly you all over the country and Canada. This will give you an opportunity to play at softball’s highest level.” Then he went on to tell Greg what all  they could give him. The list was impressive. He would be back to Arkansas, and the woods he loved, each Monday. So, Greg agreed to sign up to play in the super majors. This year, he was inducted into the State Super Majors Softball Hall of Fame. All indications are he will be inducted at the national level in a few years. They don’t induct young guys, let them get a little age on them.

     By 1999, softball was no longer fun. Four days later, he was in Destin, Florida, signing on as the mate on a deep sea fishing boat, helping 40 clients catch a lot of fish. The afternoon was spent, with one helper, cleaning the catch of forty fishermen. Later, he signed onto a boat that goes after the largest fish. There he caught 600 pound blue marlins and sharks. He often hooked the monsters, then handed it off to a client to bring it in. The client takes home a trophy, Greg took home a very nice tip. He often made three hundred trips each year. He fished for 14 years, two trips per day.

     Latsha is a top notch duck hunting guide. He stays booked solid each season, and can perfectly imitate every sound a duck makes. He has a wide range of calls, and demonstrated them for me – feeding, greeting, come back, hail, chuckles, and more. He can even play a song on a duck call. He has guided for 25 years.

     Latsha has hunted a wide range of animals for many years. Now, he figures he has about shot his share, and just goes hunting to watch the animals, mostly.

     Greg worked for the Arkansas Game and Fish videoing wildlife for a year. Then, it was no longer fun.

     Though many around Greg have tried to change the path of his life, they are unsuccessful.  He sticks to his own chosen path, doing what he loves, no matter what. Now who can ask for more than that in this one lifetime that we all are given?

     Latsha’s favorite bible verse is Matthew 7: 13-14. Narrow is the gate that leads to life. Few find it. Greg has found the gate that leads to the life he wishes to lead; he sticks on that narrow path. No matter what.

     His goal for each and every day is to make someone smile. And he reaches that goal, many times each day.

     And, I still just love Greg Latsha.

Forever A Hillbilly: Latsha

Forever A Hillbilly: Latsha: MY FIRST MEMORY OF GREG LATSHA was the year we moved to Arkadelphia. My son Corey was the eighth grade quarterback. At split end was a s...

Latsha

MY FIRST MEMORY OF GREG LATSHA was the year we moved to Arkadelphia. My son Corey was the eighth grade quarterback. At split end was a small, scrawny kid, who looked way too small to be out there with those bigger boys. But he knew how to catch a football, and he was Corey’s favorite go-to guy when a passing situation came up. But when he was tackled, and Greg wound up on the bottom of a big pile of really large guys, we all kept our fingers crossed that Greg would soon emerge unhurt from that pile of meaty boys. Or, be able to emerge at all. But, when all the big kids had been peeled off, Greg always jumped up with a smile. That was Greg’s last year of football. He was just too small.

     Greg showed up in my tenth grade biology class a couple of years later. He was somewhat of a cutup, and could be a class disturbance on a regular basis. But he really loved biology class, and worked at it harder than anyone else. In spite of his disturbances, not counting the fact that he was sometimes a major headache, I began to like Greg Latsha.

     One of the first projects we did that year was a fall wildflower collection. This was right down Greg’s alley, and his collection was much superior to anyone else’s. The same was true of his insect collection. He just put everybody else in the shade. Identifying all the local trees was a snap. He already knew them all, for the most part. I could tell he spent most all his time in the wilds, whether there was a project going on or not.

     I thought organizing a school wildlife club would be a great idea. Naturally, Greg was my star. ( I knew he would be. ) On club camping trips, I was amazed to learn that he could perfectly imitate the call of any bird out there, or any wild animal.

     Camped far back in the Ouachita Mountains one night with ten youngsters, we had a good campfire going. Greg gave a long wolf howl. He was immediately answered, right across the creek from our fire. I looked at the ten kids around that fire. Many very big eyes. Everybody was perfectly quiet, and I could tell the smarter ones were busy counting heads around that fire, suspecting one of our campers was out in the woods, playing a trick. When they reached ten, they bolted for the van, nearly pulling the door off, followed by all those not smart enough to count that high.

     The next morning, I cooked up dozens of eggs for breakfast.

     “Dig in guys, these eggs will be great! I only found one baby chick when I cracked these eggs, and I was able to get a good part of it out, so that won’t be much of a problem. Dig in!”

      They would not touch these eggs. I confessed to them that I was just kiddin’ around. But no luck. They still would not. I ate a lotta eggs that morning.

     It was a good day. No other incidents of note, except one of those guys who couldn’t count to ten walked up to and kicked a skunk, just to see what it would do. He found out, and pretty much became a loner for the rest of the trip.

     All day long, Greg was finding and showing us strange wild plants and animals. Though I considered myself a good woodsman, having spent much of my life in the wild, and after all, I am a biologist, I began to realize, Greg was already a really good woodsman.

     As we cooked supper, a snowstorm moved in. Lee Lester finally said, “Uh, Mr. Gillum, I think I am getting a case of the sniffles. Maybe we should go home.”  Everybody laughed at that, but I was beginning to agree with Lee. At the rate snow was falling, we might have a hard time getting out of here soon, and we might be snowed in for days by morning. So, we headed home. We got out of the mountains ok, but we did have a little trouble getting over Amity Mountain. One of the major problems in going home was finding somebody who was willing to sit next to the skunk kicker.

     We did other camp outs deep in the mountains that year. Most of the guys were at least just a little bit nervous at just being out there, and didn’t react well when Greg would bring in a giant snake or a tarantula or some such animal, then “give” it off to somebody else, but we had fun. I finally found about the only way I could keep Greg under control was by threatening to kick him out of the club, not let him come along any more. But he soon learned just how far to push me. Actually, I could never have done that. He was the star, the one normal humans looked up to out in the woods, and he just made the club. And besides that, I just loved Greg Latsha.

     Greg, of course, also took advanced biology. During those two years, Greg often brought me gifts he had found out in the woods. Something he wanted me to see.  I began to get a little nervous about this, because they usually showed up in five gallon buckets, top on, with air holes cut in it – meaning, there’s something alive, wild, and very angry inside. The first one held the largest black snake I have ever seen, as large as my forearm. I became very careful about opening one of Greg’s little gifts – just pull the top off, and run. Greg once brought me a photo he had taken in the woods of Arkansas, a black panther, even though they officially do not live in Arkansas. I asked Greg just a few days ago to show me that photo again. He said, “Ah, I don’t know where that picture is anymore.” Just par for the course for Greg Latsha, but it would have been the picture of a lifetime for me. I would still be showing it off to anybody who would look.

     Toward the end of high school, Greg was still a small, skinny kid. His mother took him to the doctor, asked him why he was just not growing. After the doctor examined him thoroughly, the doc came in smiling. “Just sit back and watch. Something BIG is about to happen here!”

CONTINUED

Forever A Hillbilly: Goodbye Kikimanjaro

Forever A Hillbilly: Goodbye Kikimanjaro: WE LIVED IN THE SHADOW OF KILIMANJARO FOR SEVERAL DAYS.   Yeen Lan, the Rafiki director, called us the last day before heading back to K...

Goodbye Kikimanjaro

WE LIVED IN THE SHADOW OF KILIMANJARO FOR SEVERAL DAYS.

 Yeen Lan, the Rafiki director, called us the last day before heading back to Kenya. We were able to tell her we had seen the top of Kilimanjaro every day, a rare event. This mountain is the tallest free standing mountain in the world, over 18,000 feet, standing right on the equator. It is a four day climb, the last day being through hellish arctic conditions.  She told us she had prayed for us to see the mountain in all its glory. She said some people stay there for weeks without ever seeing the top. Don't doubt that Yeen Lan has those connections. I personally believe Yeen Lan is an African legend in the making. If we live long enough, many people will be enthralled to find we actually know her.

     We got bad news just before heading back to Kenya. Deb, the director at Rafiki Tanzania, told us our visa was a one way thing, and we would have to buy another to cross the border back into Kenya, at $100 each. No way around it, that's just how it's done. We didn't have that much on us, and only cash could be used.

     Deb insisted on cashing a personal check of ours before we left. Barb seemed confident we would never need that money, I wasn't so sure, and I took Deb up on her offer. But, as I well knew, its very easy to underestimate Barbara's abilities, when it comes to public relations.

     On the bus headed out, we saw many small, circular compounds in the bush. Mud and cow manure huts were surrounded by a high fence of thorns. Most were unoccupied. The Masai, with their herds of cattle, mules and goats, just went wherever the grazing was in this dry, arid land that is East Africa. The donkeys were used to haul containers of muddy water from sources that might be many miles away.

     Drinking water was a real problem there. The Masai often had to drink from the same source the cattle had been in, a very bad thing in Africa. Many people die because of the water. Modern water wells and filtering systems could save many lives there.

     Young boys herded the goats. "Isn't that dangerous?" I had asked. "Yes, we do lose boys often." Those who survive and become a man are a very formidable force, with only a spear, in protecting their herds from lions.

     Traditionally, a young Masai warrior-to-be has to draw first blood in the killing of a lion to become a man. One youngster showed me how this was done.

     When a lion stalks their animals, four or five warriors track it down. They surround it, each with a spear and a cowhide shield. The young warrior seeking to become a man confronts it. When the lion charges, he braces the back of the spear with his foot, points the spear at the charging lion. If things go well, the lion will be impaled, and the warrior crouches behind the cowhide shield. But if things go bad...

     Other warriors then move in and help. This is technically not legal now, but many older men show many scars from the day they became a man.

      Masai often open up a vein in a cow's neck, drink the blood, and close it back up. Safer than drinking muddy water, I guess.

     When dry times hit, and the grazing dries up, they move the cattle into downtown Moshe, into the moist micro climate at the base of Kilimanjaro. They have been doing this for eons, long before Moshe, and besides, who is going to stand up and tell these seven-foot-tall warriors no? Since they strongly believe that all the cattle and the grazing in the world belongs to them, they go where they wish, paying no attention to borders.

     Barbara is the only woman I have ever heard of who has held their hands, and danced with these warriors. Their hands were sorta rough, she reported. However, she had no spear, and her vertical jump was not impressive. I was not invited to dance, and I was not going to insist. Barbara’s boldness has landed her in many unusual situations around the world. But she was well warned by our free lance spy friend in Austria – You travel far too lightly about the world...people will entrap you... you should have never allow me into your car yesterday...

Barbara’s reply –we had you out-numbered.

**
My new book, The Truest Friend, Tooter of the Fourche LaFave, is now available on amazon.com. A personalized edition is available from me.  barbandpat1966@suddenlink.net. 

Forever A Hillbilly: A Sears and Roebuck Family

Forever A Hillbilly: A Sears and Roebuck Family: ONE OF THE HIGHLIGHTS OF THE YEAR when I was a child, maybe the major one, was the arrival of the giant new Sears and Roebuck catalog. T...

A Sears and Roebuck Family

ONE OF THE HIGHLIGHTS OF THE YEAR when I was a child, maybe the major one, was the arrival of the giant new Sears and Roebuck catalog. The old one was formally relegated to paper doll duty and fueling the outhouse for the next year.

     It was not enough that what few clothes we didn't make from chicken feed sacks came from Sears, or that almost everything we bought, including baby chicks, came from the giant book. No, that’s not enough! Harold shipped his mink pelts there. My sisters spent many a hot summer afternoon, in the cool cellar, thumbing wistfully through the giant wish book.

     I learned recently, for the first time, that the very house we lived in—where I was born—the only house I ever lived in until leaving for college in '62, was a 1920s era Kit House, ordered from, guess where? Yes!! You guessed it! Sears, Roebuck, and Company. It was built by my aunt Hallie, an unmarried school teacher. The price for a turn-key job in the catalog was $2300 dollars, but she must not have included most of the lumber, because the cost of building it was only a fraction of that, $500 or $800 dollars, depending on who was telling the story. It was built 20 feet in front of the original Gillum house, and much of the lumber was salvaged from that house, still in use, to finish it. My aunt Lula Belle came over and threw a fit about that when she found out, but the salvaging continued, plank, by plank, until the new house was finished. The old house must have not been usable by then, so the whole family moved into Hallie’s new house also. Hallie died early, in 1941, so she never lived in her new house alone.  

     This was not just a Wing thing. Far to the southeast, through Back Gate, deep in the Delta, my future wife, Barbara, was shooting to the pinnacle of Watson society, by arriving on the high school scene, sashaying in, wearing—guess what? Nothing less than the pants suit modeled on the cover of the current Sears and Roebuck catalog!

     Now, you must understand the situation here. Barbara Sue doesn't remember how this came about. And the good Lord knows, Verla Mae Dunnahoe, Barbara's mother, never told me. She was a very strong woman of few words, and like my family, she had very little money. Barbara’s parents, Sport and Verla Mae, were raising seven children on 80 acres of cotton. Barbara would just never have asked for that pants suit. I'm sure there was never a conversation between the two about that.

     A woman who does not waste words sees a lot. I am sure she saw how long, and how hard, Barbara looked at that cover. Someway, somehow, that strong woman just willed that to happen. And found a way to do it. I am equally sure it just showed up one day, probably on Barbara's bed. I am sure no explanation was ever given. Verla Mae just did not work that way.

**

     My new book, The Truest Friend – Tooter of the Fourche LaFave, is selling well. It can be bought at the Yell County Record Office in Danville, The Country Store in Rover, Gypsy Junktion in Plainview, Hardman Interiors in Arkadelphia, on at amazon.com. The price is $12. My next book, Dead Eye Samantha, will be out by fall. Thanks for reading!