My Dogs: Sad Endings

My Dogs: Sad Endings

     Contact with dogs came early in my memory. Spot was an aging, cancer-eaten long haired dog, nearing the end, faintly recalled in my early recollections. Not so faintly recalled is the rifle shot that ended his suffering existence.

     Snippy was a short haired, black, chunky feist. He was a dandy squirrel dog without a hunter. Harold, my older brother, his hunting partner, had gone off to college. Snippy spent his days, lying in the warm sun, dreaming of days gone by. On cold winter nights, he would jump up through the open crib door into the barn, work his way into the hayloft, and burrow in for the night. One very cold winter morning, with the temperature hovering near the single digits, I approached the barn. Then I saw him. Snippy lay, curled up in the snow, frozen solid. Above him was a closed, and latched, crib door.

      My very first dog of my own was Champ. I built Champ a house, painted his name over the door. We wrestled and played, getting closer daily. As Barbara and I rode to the cucumber patch one morning, Champ followed. When we arrived, I said, “Let me out so I can watch after champ while you make the turn.” I was too late. Bumped and knocked off balance by a front wheel, the rear wheel ran over his snout. Champ got up, walked a few steps, looked at me, and I saw the light fade from his eyes. Slowly he fell. I raced to kneel beside Champ, my shaking hand feeling a faint heartbeat fading away. It was a long time before the memory of Champ began to fade.

     When I got Tooter, he was an eight week old, part German Shepherd pup. He had a black and white cross on his chest. I carried him, resting on my forearm, the two miles back to our farm. As Tooter grew, he learned quickly. He became my constant companion as we hunted, fished, and trapped – or just roamed the bottoms and mountains for the fun of it. He quickly learned to “stand,” “heel,” and “back  up.” Tooter was my best friend as I grew up. Early one summer morning, after my freshman year of college, a loud disruption awoke me one morning at daylight. I ran to the yard wiping the sleep from my eyes. Two large coyotes held Tooter, strung out between them. When I hollered, they dropped him and ran. Tooter chased one of them down, and grabbing him by the throat, began to choke the life from him. I pulled Tooter back, and the coyote melted into the woods.

Over a period of days, Tooter seemed to be getting better. One morning, Tooter leaped from a load of cattle feed in our truck, yelping loudly with pain. He limped to the porch, and lay down. Soon, he was unable to get up. I carried Tooter to the cool cellar. He got worse. As I checked on ;him during the night, he became weaker. At daylight, he was gone. That day, I buried tooter under the large tree overlooking the valley and the bottoms we had roamed so many times. Tooter had seen me through my growing up years. His job was done. Now I was a man. I must go on from here alone.

Forever A Hillbilly: The King of Fayetteville

Forever A Hillbilly: The King of Fayetteville: I read this story on Tales From the South in Little Rock. It was then heard on NPR radio. Affiliates of NPR then broadcast it over most of ...

The King of Fayetteville

I read this story on Tales From the South in Little Rock. It was then heard on NPR radio. Affiliates of NPR then broadcast it over most of the world.

     The year was 1968 and I had just turned 24. I was flipping through the paper one day when I stopped on a picture of an old man with what looked to me like, at the time, an unbelievable large string of catfish. The caption under the picture was, "Dick Dyer Does It Again!" Seems Dick Dyer was about the best cat fisherman around Fayetteville, Arkansas. I wished I could do that, but it seemed out of my reach.

     When I was a kid, growing up in Wing, Arkansas I caught lots of catfish, and we needed them. They sure tasted good, after a diet of salt pork. But they weren't real big. In the early days of Fayetteville, I had access to larger rivers, and I thought more and more about cat fishing.

     Well, as it happened, shortly after seeing that newspaper article, my wife Barbara and I  moved  over to Anderson Place. Would you care to guess who my neighbor, right across the street was? You guessed it. Dick Dyer. I befriended him, I cultivated him, I quizzed him. After a while, Dick's MO began to emerge. I studied his techniques. He even let me go fishing with him, once. Well, he began to see that I could be a competitor somewhere down the line, and Dick dearly relished being the best river catfish catcher around. Maintaining that status consumed his whole life. He pretty well cut me off from any more information.

     But I knew enough. I began to catch more and more fish, emulating his methods. Dick was OK with that, he was catching more, and bigger fish. We went along there, him doing a bit better, for several years. Then I slowly began to catch as many fish as he did, and probably about the same in total weight.  He still had the largest fish, 16 pounds. Every time he saw me, he told me about that 16 pound catfish.. He never let me forget about that 16 pound catfish..

     Barb and I were coming into our last months at Fayetteville. One really deep hole I fished a time or two that spring, with my limb lines probably tied to limbs I know now were too solid, with very little give, just kept breaking. The lines were 120 pound test or so, and I couldn't understand it at the time.

     Barbara and I were walking along the river bank, one day in June, on a picnic. I saw two old watermelon rinds lying on the bank, and they were just covered with hundreds of june bugs. I had never heard of anyone using june bugs to catch catfish, but I knew that in the late summer, they often fed by just skimming along the surface, picking up floating bugs and whatever they could find.  I had seen them doing that at night.

     After Barbara had walked on toward the car, I went back, pitched the rinds in the river, and the June bugs all floated up. I just scooped them all up, put them in a paper bag, and stuck them in the car.

     When we got home, I wrapped them up real tight in a freezer bag, and stuck them way back in the back of the freezer, out of sight. Barbara put no stock in mixing fish bait and food in the freezer.

     Late in the summer, I was watching TV one day, and I heard Barbara scream. I ran to the kitchen. There she was, the bag in one hand, a handful of June bugs in the other. Seems she had been going through freezer bags to find something to cook, stuck her hand in, and pulled out the June bugs. I caught it pretty good over that.

     As Barbara settled down some, a little later, I said, “ I've just got time for one more fishin' trip before we move, and no telling when I'll get to fish again. I'll get every one of those June bugs outta' here then.”  She agreed. Catch Barbara when she's not screaming with a handful of June bugs, and she's a great gal.

      Next week rolled around. I asked John Philpott if he wanted to go with me. Said he guess so, nothing better to do.

     We went back to that hole, where the White River and the West fork of the White River join, where my lines had been broken last spring.

     This time, I had a new idea. We were fishing with cane poles, very limber, and we stuck them way, way back in that mud bank. I floated each hook right on top of the water, with a June bug on it.

     We ran the lines at midnight, and had a couple of ten pounders and a whole passel of smaller catfish. But, right where the two rivers join, that pole was going absolutely crazy! Ever tried to get a lively 25 pound catfish into a small landing net? We finally did. The next morning, we had a couple more ten pounders and another bunch of smaller catfish.

     Then, we approached that last pole, right where the two rivers join. The pole was completely pulled out of the bank,  but it was still laying there, mostly out of the water. Lying in the water, either just too worn out for one more flip of the tail, or having learned from his struggles that was as far as he could go, was the brother to the last big one. He was also 25 pounds.

     Well, when I got home, the first thing I did was take them over to Dick Dyer. Dick came out, I held them up as well as I could. Didn't say a thing, I didn't have to. He never said a word to me. Just turned sorta sick looking, turned around, dropped his head, and walked back  into the house.

     We moved to Hannibal, Missouri a couple of days later.

     I never saw Dick again.

     About two weeks after we got to Hannibal, a letter chock-full of pictures arrived. A 40 pound catfish, and a whole bunch in the 20 pound range. The letter just verified the weights,  And in the picture an old man was smiling.

     Smiling right straight out at me. Thats all. Not another word.

     The return name on the envelope was Dick Dyer.

     I knew Dick didn't have my address. But he managed to find it. And I knew he had found my Glory Hole. All I could figure out was, he must have ragged John Philpott into telling him.

     I was pretty put out by this whole thing for awhile, then after I settled down some, I began to think about it a little differently. I had used Dick's methods, developed through his many years of experience. He used me to locate the Glory hole. Fair's fair.

     I've never been back to that Glory Hole, but someday I will.

     Over the years, I think I've figured it out. There's a dam on the White River, a quarter mile upstream. Catfish naturally swim upstream. Until they're stopped by a dam. The small fish stay there, in that shallow hole at the dam. The big fish must have deep water, and they go back downriver, only as far as they need to, the first very deep hole. Right where the two rivers join. In the Glory Hole. And there they still lie.

    Year after year, just getting bigger and bigger.

    Just waiting for me to come back and challenge them again.

    But Dick Dyer passed away many years ago, and when he died, he was still the King of the Catfish Catchers in Fayetteville---and it just wouldn't be the same. Who else in the world could care as much about the size of the catfish I might catch there as Dick Dyer did? Nobody, thats who.

    For all you fishermen out there, I know you can find my Glory hole from what I've told you here. But where will you be able to find a whole bag full of June Bugs?

Forever A Hillbilly: My Hero

Forever A Hillbilly: My Hero: My dear brother Harold Gillum was buried this week. Starting when I was only a baby, Harold has always been my hero, my role model.   O...

My Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing Community Church

Forever A Hillbilly: Wing Community Church:      The old, old church in Wing, Arkansas has a very rich history dating back to September 18, 1879. On that date, a plot of land was d...

Wing Community Church

     The old, old church in Wing, Arkansas has a very rich history dating back to September 18, 1879. On that date, a plot of land was deeded over to Mineral Springs   Methodist Church by William S. Buford.

Wing was originally named Mineral Springs, because of a very large, cold spring behind the church. The name of the community was later changed to Fair Hill, in honor of a preacher, Nathan Fair. Then, it later became Wing. The church building was finished soon thereafter. A church record book, still in existence, shows a record of church members, and a record of activities and events taking place there starting early in the 1880's. The original church pews, built from virgin timber from boards 16 inches wide, are still there. The piano that is still there today was put in new, in 1904.

That Church will always be dear to my heart. Though I no longer live at Wing, I keep a picture of that church near my desk in my writing room.

     The Turner, Compton, and Woolbright families were key figures in the church in the early days, and many of them are still involved in the present and future of the church.

     Montgomery PikeWoolbright brought his family up the Arkansas River prior to 1870. The Arkansas River was said to be sixty miles wide at the time, and other pioneers reported the same thing. That puzzled me, until I remembered. Before the days of flood control, the Arkansas, White, and Mississippi Rivers merged together in times of flood, creating one very large body of water in the Delta. At the mouth of the Fourche La Fave River, they boarded a smaller boat, containing two adults, one child, three ducks, and MP's tools. They traveled up the Fourche to Jennings falls, as far as they could go by water. Jennings Falls is now under Nimrod Lake. They eventually settled at Wing. Samuel A.Turner homesteaded land near Wing in 1861. His offspring have always played a leading role in the church.

     Methodists and Baptists were not always on the best of terms, I understand. Bob Compton, a leader in the early days of that church, once royally dressed down my two aunts, Lula Belle and Hallie,  for walking two miles to Briggsville to attend a Baptist church.

     None of his business, he was told.

     Prior to the arrival of my family in 1898, theWing area was an educational mecca. My Uncle Arthur traveled to Wing, boarded, and went to school. He became one of the last traveling country doctors, making his rounds on horseback for many years. In addition to a large school building across the road, Mineral Springs Academy advertised for prospective students, "Room and board with a nice local family for two dollars per month." There was also an "overflow classroom" in the upstairs part of the church. My Aunt Hallie taught in that building many years. The stairs have long since been removed, but in the 1950's, my buddy Sammy Turner and I, as boys, crawled up in that bell tower to that room after church one day. We had to sidestep a rattlesnake about half way up. When we reached the classroom, the name "Leta Lazenby," along with others, was written on the chalkboard. She was my aunt who left Wing forever for the bright lights of California in the early 1930's. Carpenters working on that church saw that name and  many others, years later, and I assume they're still there.

     Though a Methodist church, many different denominations often used it for revivals, "Meetings." My oldest brother was saved at a Baptist meeting, led by R.L. Whitten, one of the finest men I have ever known. I always put an extra flower on his grave every Decoration Day at Hunt's Chapel. The building was often used by Woodmen of the World, the Women's Circle, voting, weddings, and funerals.

     We usually had an attendance of fifteen or so in my childhood. In the winter, we all did an unusual thing, for a church. We all raced for a spot on the front row, right by the huge potbellied stove. For a long time, a student minister from Hendrix College preached one Sunday each month. One day, Flossie Hull, who played the piano, suggested that our youth should play the piano and lead the singing. Well, we had only two youth then, Annette Person and myself, and I knew I couldn't play a lick, so I grabbed a song book. Annette was just then learning to play, so she played at half speed. I had to slow my singing way down, dragging out those words as far as possible. And, though I was supposedly leading, I always waited for Flossie to kick in before I started. My singing was not safe at any speed, but Flossie was a good sport. We held those official positions for a long time. Seemed like forever for all of us. I've never been asked to do that again.

     Christmas carols were blasted out from the belfry for days leading up to Christmas, and we decorated our church tree with strings of red berries, popcorn balls, and sweetgum balls covered with tinfoil. It was truly the center of our community, with box suppers, home made ice cream, and pot luck dinners on a regular basis..

     After I left Wing in 1962, the church remained closed to regular services for a number of years. In the early 1970's, regular services were held for a few years, with Rev. Claude Miles preaching. Later, Rev. Royce Savage preached at several of the area Methodist churches, but not at Wing. A few years later, several ladies held bible study services and sang hymns, without a regular pastor. 

 This finally came down to two sisters, Edith Turner and her sister, Hazel, coming each Sunday for prayer and hymns.

     "Where two or more are gathered in my name, I will be among you."

     A lady from the Methodist Association later showed up in the office of Cindy Turner Buford, informing her, "Since the church belongs to us, we have decided to do something else with it."  I suppose that could have meant saving for historical purposes, or removing it. 

    "No," Cindy said. "The church is on our land, and we will take care of it."

     And they did. The road in front had been moved,  now too close to the building. Buell Turner, the long time Postmaster and store owner deeded a new plot of land, reaching farther back and allowing for a small cemetery. The plot was deeded to Wing Community Church. The Methodists, it seems, are out of it.

     Coleman House Movers moved the church back. The Turner Family, and possibly others, pitched in and repaired the old church, providing the beautiful building of today. Buell Turner even ran electricity to the church from his own house for a time. Buell, his brothers Sam and JR, and cousin Fay Turner all played a major roll in the repairing. I'm sure others were involved, but few of the old timers remain to tell the whole story. Since then, it has been used for special occasions.

     As a child, I remember our Sunday school teacher leading us in reading from our song book, Part of which was "I believe in the holy catholic church." I never understood that. Rev. Savage told me, since it was written in little letters, it meant "Universal Church."

 I was sprinkled in that church. The last year or two I lived at Wing, the church closed, so my mother and I went to the Rover Baptist Church. I was baptized there, in the Fourche River. So, hopefully, I am fully covered.