Forever A Hillbilly: Harold Gillum, my Hero

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

Harold Gillum, my Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: A Visit back to Wing

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

A Visit back to Wing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Traveling Sweden

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

Traveling Sweden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever A Hillbilly: Skeet

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