Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell

 – Not a contest entry, because I wrote it as she told me the story. But a good family story, so here goes.

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     Many of us older people have trouble remembering what happened yesterday. Or this morning. Or, often, five minutes ago. But often, we still have a pretty good long term memory.

     Take me for example. I have memories of several things that happened to me when I was two years old. And, I can sometimes remember what my thought processes were, long before I could talk at all. Although I do have to admit, I couldn't talk a bit until I was nearly four.

     We pretty well like to tell our old stories, and when we run dry, we just start repeating. Again and again. Or maybe you noticed.

     Most all of us have a few, or at least one, really good story mixed in. If one just takes time to listen to a person who has lived a long time. Such was the case with Dorothy Bell.

     Dorothy, as a young girl, lived near Gurdon, Arkansas. It was December of 1942. (Dorothy Bell, you see, has an amazing memory of dates, times, places.)  She was living with her mama, Artie Mae, and her father. Things weren't going well between her parents along about then. She knew her Papa had just started having an affair with that big, red haired woman that lived out that way.

     Papa and Dorothy Bell were sitting at the kitchen table one day. Artie Mae, just recovering from a miscarriage, had gone out to the well to get a bucket of water. The well was right beside the kitchen door. When she walked back in, something just set her papa off. Dorothy Bell didn't know what set him off at that moment, but both Dorothy's parents had pretty well been on a short fuse for some time, ever since his dallying about had come to light. Well, Papa just jumped up and hit Artie Mae really hard with his fist, breaking his little finger. He knocked her clear across the room and up against the wall, and she was unconscious for a time. Papa sat back down.

     Artie Mae finally came around; she slowly picked up a piece of stove wood, and set in on Papa. As Dorothy Bell said, “she just totally beat him into a pulp.”

     They lived together three more years, but things were different after that. For one thing, Papa never hit Artie Mae again.

     After the divorce, Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell lived together for a long time. They move to Dallas, to a house with six apartments. They had a neighbor, Dewey, who came to see them from time to time. One day, he showed up with a sorta mean looking young feller, who they had never seen before. Seems his name was Malcomb Wayne. In the course of the conversation, a neighbor lady walked by, and Malcomb Wayne made an off color remark. Artie Mae didn't seem to care for that, and let him know it.

     Malcomb Wayne never came back with Dewey again. Time rocked on. On Halloween night of l957, Dorothy Bell had the Asian flu, and they had both gone to bed early. Both their beds were in the same bedroom.

     “I just heard a screen being cut,” Artie Mae said. Then, they listened hard. They both heard it. They quietly got up, Dorothy Bell was given a claw hammer. “If you get a shot at him, try to hit him real hard right in the head,” her mother told her.

     There was only one other weapon in the apartment for Artie Mae. Seems the last tenant had left a really big, long, custom made butcher knife. They tiptoed to the door of the room the sound was coming from. It was dark, but in the moonlight, they could see a figure climbing through the cut screen of the back porch. He flipped out a switch blade knife.

     Artie Mae and Dorothy Bell started running for the front door, then headed down the stairs; they could hear him running behind them. They were nearly at the bottom of the stairs when he caught them. The switch blade flashed, and a long, deep gash was cut in Dorothy Bell's forearm. That scar is still visible today. Blood was spurting. Artie Mae took a swing at him with the big butcher knife, and cut off an ear, barely hanging on by a little skin. Blood was gushing from him too, even worse than Dorothy Mae's slice. As Artie Mae was taking another long stab at him, his fist hit her arm, and the knife went sliding across the floor in the dark. Dorothy Bell knew she just had to beat him to it, as she ran and slid across the floor.

     He turned his attention to Artie Mae, knocking her down, up against the wall, hitting her again and again with his fists. When Dorothy Bell found the knife, she headed into the fray. Her Mother was getting beaten badly. Dorothy Mae swung hard, not stabbing, just whacking hard with the blade, right between the shoulder blades. Every time the blade landed, she said, “Let her loose.” She swung again. And again. When each one landed, she ordered “Turn her loose.” After about ten blows, he was losing a lot of blood, getting too weak to continue. The Police had been called by a neighbor who heard the fuss. The police were accompanied by a long black hearse. The hearse doubled for an ambulance in those days.

     Artie Mae told Dorothy Bell later, “You really hit him hard. I could feel every lick you hit, jarring his body into mine!”

     From the ambulance lights, they could see him. It was Malcomb Wayne. He was put on a stretcher, none too gently, and slid into the hearse/ambulance. Then Dorothy Bell was loaded into the front seat.

They were taken to Parkland Hospital, on Harry Hinds Blvd., the same hospital President Kennedy would later be taken to after he was shot.

     Dorothy Bell waited outside a long time, while Malcomb Wayne was being attended to. Then they sewed her up too. Artie Mae, though beaten badly, didn't get a ride in the hearse. Not enough blood on her, and the hearse was pretty well full.

     Later, in court, Dorothy Bell was filmed testifying. She got to see herself on TV that night, Pony tail and all. A very rare thing in those early days of TV and video cameras.  The judge said to Malcomb Wayne, “If those two women had killed you, there's not a thing I could have done about it. You weren't supposed to be there.” Turns out, that was the extent of his punishment.

     A few days later, Dorothy Bell and Artie Mae went to get the stitches out. As they sat in the waiting room, Malcomb Wayne came in, sat down right behind them. Dorothy Bell watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was pulling out his switchblade; he held it a few moments, looked at her hard for awhile, but then he thought better of it, and started cleaning his fingernails. He never bothered those two ladies that day.

     They had a shock when they got home. The landlord told them to move out. The only time ever, Dorothy Bell says, they were evicted.

      In 1976, Dorothy bell moved to Denton, Texas.  Her mother later moved up to join her in a large apartment complex. In 1980, they saw a new tenant move in one day. Artie May asked Dorothy Bell, “Did you see who that was?”

      Dorothy Bell shook her head. They both knew. Malcomb Wayne and his Mama. But he never got anywhere close to those two women again.

     Dorothy Bell and her mother later moved to Arkadelphia, Arkansas. Artie Mae passed away a few years ago. Dorothy Bell now lives alone, quietly. She still has many good stories to tell. A long life and very sharp long term memory makes her well worth visiting, especially if you like good stories!

Forever A Hillbilly: A Love Story

Forever A Hillbilly: A Love Story: This story was written by Jackie Greear Leffingwell, and is the third entry into the Best Family Stories contest.             My mot...

A Love Story

This story was written by Jackie Greear Leffingwell, and is the third entry into the Best Family Stories contest.

          My mother, Ruby Lazenby, grew up in Wing, the third youngest child of Will and Lavinia Lazenby. She was one of seven girls and two boys.

          Even though she was raised in a rural area, pictures I’ve seen tell me that she was up on the latest fashion.  Her dark brown hair was styled with a little spit curl over her left temple, and she dressed her slim 5’2” frame in the latest flapper style.  Evidently, J. R. Turner was pursuing Ruby, but avoided the subject of marriage until he made his fortune.

         In the summer of 1930, at age 21, Ruby took the train from Arkansas to California for an extended visit with her married sister, Ollie Croney.

        In California, Ruby joined in with the activities of Ollie and her husband, Lloyd, and their circle of friends. She couldn’t help but notice a tall, handsome young man who was part of that group. At a little over 6’, he towered over her, even in her high heels, and his blue eyes and dark straight hair topped off the white shirt, tie, and blazer he liked to  wear.  His name was Homer Greear, and he was quiet and somewhat shy.  So Ruby, being the outgoing type, engaged him in conversation. One thing led to another, and they began dating. By the end of the summer, they were serious, but Ruby’s vacation was over, and it was time to return home to Wing. One evening before she left, still being the bold one, Ruby turned to Homer and asked “So, are we getting married, or what?”  With no hesitation, he replied “Sure we are.”

       So Ruby returned home, and Homer continued to live in his room in a boarding house in Upland, CA.  Meanwhile, he went to the local Ford agency and put in his order for a new Model A Ford, complete with rumble seat. In a month or so the car arrived fresh off the assembly line, and he took delivery – One of the first to come to Upland.

       But back in Wing, things were not going smoothly for the young couple. Her parents couldn’t be convinced that this “California Man” was right for their daughter. After all, they never met him, and her older sisters had married “local boys.”  But after much conversation and numerous letters back and forth, Ruby’s older sisters, Ora Carter and Irene Gillum, helped plead her case, and they finally gave in.

       So in the middle of December 1930, Homer left for a long, cold, solo trip to Arkansas, and he arrived in time to spend Christmas in Wing with Ruby and her family.

       On December 29^th, they were married in Yell County and spent their honeymoon driving back to Upland, where they lived the rest of their lives. Ruby passed away in early 2001, just a few weeks after they celebrated their 70^th wedding anniversary, and Homer continued on in an assisted living facility for three more years.

Jackie Greear Leffingwell

My name is Jackie, and I’m a native Californian. I retired as a secretary from our local hospital six years ago, and I enjoy reading, writing, crossword puzzles, computer games, and watching TV.  I’ve traveled throughout countries around the world, but I’m content now to stay home. I have a son and daughter, and two adult grandchildren.

Forever A Hillbilly: My Story......

Forever A Hillbilly: My Story......: History will tell you that the Great Depression lasted from October 29, 1929 until 1939.  Times were hard in Wing, AR during that perio...

My Story......

Entry number two, Sixty Year Promise Contest.  Written by Cindy Buford.

History will tell you that the Great Depression lasted from October 29, 1929 until 1939.  Times were hard in Wing, AR during that period, and for some years thereafter.  My Uncle, who lived 102 years and 9 months, told me more than once that the Depression started earlier and lasted longer in Wing than in other places.  He was a young man just turned 20 in 1929 and very aware of the starkness and absence of opportunity in Wing.  Many folks in the area left, looking for a better life in the land of milk and honey, California, (now known as the land of fruits and nuts).  

Many of my relatives went to California and were lucky enough to find work.  My parents also made the journey, and I celebrated my 2nd birthday there in 1937.  My Dad could not find steady work, however,  and they decided to make the long trek back to Arkansas.  

Things were primitive in 1937, and towns were few and far between in many places.  My Dad miscalculated on his gasoline supply, and we ran out of fuel on a long lonely stretch of road in Texas.  Night was falling, and Daddy decided he would just have to walk to the next place where he might find civilization.  Leaving my Mom and me in the car, he started out.

When he did find a small community and a service station, he asked for a can of gas and also if someone would take him back to his car.  The men at the station were incredulous.  They were very suspicious of this fellow who walked into their station from the falling darkness, with dust on his shoes.  His clothing was not impressive either, being Camp Reform CCC issued Khaki, well worn as he had been out of the CCC since shortly before my birth.  (I can guarantee you that they were patched, if necessary, and starched and ironed by my Mom's standards. You might be poor, but you would be clean and neat as possible.)

He told them he had to get back as he left his wife and baby out there in the car.

One man said, "Why, there is not a woman in Texas that would let you leave her out there on that road at night!"  

Daddy straightened up his shoulders and said, "Well, she's not from Texas.  She's from Arkansas!"

They got him a can of gas and gave him a ride.

Loucinda Buford

This is short, believe it or not, Pat!  As far as bio, you probably could write mine but I will say I was born in Wing and spent my childhood there, with the exception of about 3 1/2 years during the war and shortly thereafter.  Graduated from FV High School in 1952. and from ASTC (Now UCA in Conway) in January 1956. After retirement, I was fortunate enough to return to Wing for a while.  My heart remains there, and in the Valley.

Forever A Hillbilly: The Dog Days of Summer

Forever A Hillbilly: The Dog Days of Summer: This is the first entry story in the SIXTY YEAR PROMISE FAMILY STORY CONTEST!  Linda Hatcher of Arkadelphia is the writer.  Thanks, Linda...

The Dog Days of Summer

This is the first entry story in the SIXTY YEAR PROMISE FAMILY STORY CONTEST!  Linda Hatcher of Arkadelphia is the writer. 

Thanks, Linda, for your prompt action!

Summer time is dragging into the dog days of August here in central Arkansas where I now live. August is always a mixed bag. The summer months offer a relaxed schedule (good thing) played against a backdrop of extreme heat and humidity (bad thing). August heats up even more fiercely in Louisiana where I lived for most of my life after marrying Jimmy Hatcher, the Southern boy who stole my heart. One year many summers ago after ten days of triple digit temperatures,  Jim and I arrived suddenly at a place of desperation. In our usual last minute form, we made plans to travel north to escape the fiery furnace our state had become. We hurriedly packed the car with changes of clothes, inner tubes and ice chests, and set out to seek cooler temperatures and relaxing venues before school started in the fall. It was usually a matter of making the budget stretch, and so often Jim suggested sleeping in tents on air mattresses. I countered, “I see that camping trip and raise it to a quick Motel 6 weekend to Hot Springs.”

Or better yet. We responded to a postcard that came in the mail inviting us to a complimentary weekend in Hot Springs. And so, off we went with the two kids to Arkansas.The only catch was that we had to endure the long tour of the Hot Springs Village and listen to the sales pitch from our friendly host who pressed us to buy some property to which we could retire eventually and meanwhile use as a  vacation spot. We were honest people, we insisted, and promised we would indeed really think about buying a time share in the piney woods of central Arkansas. For the present, we answered the salesman, we would have to politely refuse to buy but gratefully accept our two night/three day stay in a cabin on beautiful Lake Hamilton. Oh the memories. Stolen nights in comfortable quarters on the lake. Vacation swimming and boating. Sunburns. Horseshoes. Card games. And best of all, time with family away from the stresses and demands of home and work. We did not have smart phones in those days. Thank God.

Hot Springs offers a myriad of distractions. Oops, I mean attractions.There is the $15 ride in the amphibious vehicle rigged out for tourists named The Duck. The driver with a microphone talks to  you about the points of interest around town. The spas, the springs, the wax museum, the boutiques and eateries. Then suddenly, the tour host drives the road vehicle right into the lake and suddenly the waters of Lake Hamilton lift you up and you are indeed, like your name sake, bobbing on the water like a duck. One of the places the tour guide points out once you are water born is the lake property of a famous gangster who had a secret escape tunnel out to the dock in case of raids by the FBI during the Prohibition era. For a youngster this is pretty exciting stuff, and I have to say as the responsible parents in the party charged with keeping our kids on the boat and out of the lake during the tour, Jim and I were having fun too.

Sometimes we did go on the ever-popular-with- Jim camping trip. We would make it to Lake DeGray in Arkansas or (even closer if we were really broke) to Caddo Lake just over the Texas line. We set up the tent and gathered wood for the campfire. The kids were excited, and Jim was in heaven. He often relived memories of camping trips out west with his family when he was just a boy. He happily regaled us with stories of the bear that he could hear breathing outside the tent. How his Dad had taught him to take no food into the tent and to tie up any food items and hang them high in a tree overnight. How he went exploring the camping site and nearly walked right off a cliff. These tales did not inspire courage in me, and you can ask the kids, I almost always slipped out to the car to sleep after everyone else in our intrepid family group was asleep. Jim was always trying to recapture those halcyon days of his youthful adventures. His main challenge was getting me into those joyfully recalled outdoor memories.

I am the quintessential city slicker. I grew up in Baltimore playing hopscoth on the pavement and riding my bike. For our annual vacations there was one scenario and one scenario only. We went ” down ne oshen.” Ocean City, Maryland. We stayed in motels that opened right onto the beach. At night we strolled the boardwalk and bought Thrasher’s french fries and corn dogs. There were no tents or campfires involved in these beach vacations. My early adventures did not equip me with the skill of getting excited about arriving at a campsite and setting up a tent and emptying all the articles out of the car which you had just packed in the car. I had not learned to be patient while the coals got hot enough to cook the food while everyone was starving after the long drive to the campsite. But I tried. God knows I tried.

Usually the first nights of these camping excursions really were a treat. Change of pace. Rustic settings.The smell of campfire food. I usually had imagination enough to unpack franks and beans. Jim opened a can of potatoes and cooked them with bacon in a skillet on the fire.The makings for S’mores which had been hastily purchased on the way out of town were retrieved from the car. Hey now on that first night, I could get into eating around the campfire.Also I enjoyed the lingering around the fire to tell stories and sing songs. Fun! But I had different emotions when we started the let’s get ready for bed routine. This involved walking to a restroom facility (sometimes quite a hike) if we were in a state park. Sending the beams of a flashlight ahead into the night, I stumbled my way to the facility that was crawling with Daddy Long-legs spiders and attracting moths and mosquitoes like crazy to the lights on the cinderblock building. There was a brave attempt made to potty whilst darting looks around for spiders, and then the brushing of the teeth in a disgusting sink, and then the trudge back to camp if the batteries in the flashlight had not already started to fade.

If it were a more primitive camp like Daisy State Park where Jim took us to camp when the babies were still in diapers, there were no restroom facilities. It was dark and wet because the rain had not let up since we crossed the state line into Arkansas. We had to rig an indoor potty with a large cooking pot which of course tumbled over before the night was through and sent us packing– loading the toddlers and all the equipment hurriedly in a downpour into the car for home. That was one first night that was not so good. Another first night that comes to mind  is the one none of us slept a wink at DeGray in our new pop up Jim could not wait to try out. The large black crows called out so early in the morning it was impossible to sleep and thus began the second day of camping when everyone is tired and grouchy. We had quite a few of these second days of camping in our married life. Enough said.

Oddly enough many years after these memories come unbidden into my heart and mind with the arrival of the sweltering last days of summer, I now live in central Arkansas just minutes from Lake DeGray and those crows. My camping enthusiast husband is now gone and hopefully organizing camping trips in much more beautiful climes and pest free places in heaven. How I wish I could share another miserable night with him and my now grown kids during the dog days of August.

Linda Hatcher