Note: this story is more meaningful if you have read posts 1-4 first. You need to know the old Gillums, and me, first.
I was at my wit's end. I had been searching every nook and cranny of our house, for months on end, looking for “The Chickens” picture. Say that title to anyone in our branch of the Gillum family and they immediately know what you are talking about. I knew Ken Gillum had one, and I know daughter, Kinley, had one. So did I. But no one could find it.
You must understand. My wife Barbara has spent a lifetime taking pictures, not just professionally, but of everyone in our families. She often said, going professional messed up a really good hobby. She has dozens upon dozens of photo albums. Plus sack after sack of just loose photos. I myself contributed to the stash considerably. I had been through it all.
One day it hit me. I remembered that years ago, I put a few boxes of stuff up in our attic, my room was just too full. The first box yielded two albums of brother Harry's photos. Harry's albums were extremely well organized. Imagine that. One was labeled “oldies but goodies.” I began to get excited. When I hit the last page, I found the mother lode! Along with The Chickens, there was a very old, very dim, nobody-has-a-clue-whom-they-are photo. I took it along, copied it anyway, enlarging it.
I sat looking at that photo that night. The faces on the original were almost blank, but now, enlarged, you could begin to see detail.
It was useless. It was just too dim; I didn't recognize the house, or any faces. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning hit me. There was something about the small kitchen chimney with its unique cover. I had seen it before. Looking back through my pile of old photos I had built up while finishing my “Gillums” book, I found it. In an old 1920s era photo of the grandpa Gillums, with the old house they had built when first moving to Wing in the background, the same chimney was sticking up behind. His old house, twenty feet behind Hallie's house! Hallie's was built later in the twenties, the one I was born and raised in. The old house was torn down before I was born. Aunt Lula Belle had come over and thrown a royal fit when she found out it was being done, but it still disappeared. I sat beside Barbara, who was reading, and slowly, piece by piece, the parts came together. The big man had Grandpa's desperado mustache. The young man, standing beside a tall horse, must be Dr. Arthur Gillum. A cute little girl, nine or so, sat in front. Her legs were hanging off the porch, ankles crossed very ladylike, a sweet smile on her tilted face. She looks like Katie Marie, Barbara's niece, I thought. Had to be Lula Belle, but something was very wrong. She was happy, I thought. I had rarely seen Lula Belle happy. Seated beside her was a young boy. He had to be Franz. Back left, Grandma stood. Hallie stood beside her. The tall young man in the back—Homer. But the young man at the front right, leaning against the post, held my attention. I began to tear up. Barbara said, “You've been dealing with this old family stuff too long. You're getting emotional about it.” He had to be Dad! I stared at that image a long time. I had never seen a picture of Dad as a boy! He was a skinny kid, just like me at that age, about sixteen. I thought, “Oh, if I could only have known him at that age!” We could have had so much fun, playing ball, fishing, just roaming the hills. All the things I wanted him to do with me, when I was sixteen. But he was sixty-eight by then, and time and a very hard life had taken its toll. We never did any playing, just work. Barbara stirred beside me. “Are you going to stare at that picture all night!? I'm going to bed. See you in the morning.”
I sat, just staring at that image. A long time passed. I began to daze out. Suddenly, the haze disappeared. I realized with a start that I was somewhere I had never been. I was riding a horse, shorter than the one in the picture. I looked at my hands and arms. They were skinny! My left thumb was intact! I guided the horse across a creek. Looking into the water, I was amazed! I was young again! A boy, 15 or 16, looked back at me! Something very, very strange was going on!
I rode on through forested bottom land. I approached a hill with a house on it. People were on the porch. I did not recognize the house, but the hill. . . Something about the hill stirred me inside.
The husky man on the porch was hailing me. “Howdy, stranger. Come by and sit a spell. Get a drink. Where you headed for?” “Howdy. Just passing through,” I lied. He said, “Soon's as we get a picture made, we're goin' ta' eat a bite. Hang around. You must be hungry.” “Thanks, don't mind if I do. I am a little hungry.” I got off, tied up my horse, and walked over. The man with the camera started lining them up. The bubbly little girl sat on the edge of the porch, tomboy style, swinging her legs. “I used to work with a photographer. She always had little girls cross their ankles,” I said. The little girl didn't seem to like that idea, but she smiled at me anyway. Her mother liked it, though. “Glad you mentioned that, young feller. By the way, did you say the photographer you worked for was a she!?” The younger woman seemed to like that. “I'm a teacher. It’s high time women were doing other jobs, too!”
The camera dude was getting tired of my interrupting. He let me know by stepping in front of me, struggling with his heavy tripod. I just hushed and watched. Suddenly, an amazing realization came over me. TO BE CONTINUED, NEXT POST. THANKS FOR READING!
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Post Thirty-One: My life at Wing is ending
Sammy Turner and I learned how to swim in stock ponds and kept our skills brushed up there regularly. The only problem was, you had to keep the top water scum beat back or it would envelop you. One day, we were working on our swimming skills in a hidden pond, strictly forbidden. Barbara Lou and Jan had followed us there once, and the rumor was getting around about what we were doing. Well, Bernice Turner, Sammy's mother, caught us. “You boys get out of that water right now!” Well, Sammy started wading out, and I, being always the good follower, started wading out. It suddenly hit me, when we were about knee deep, that I was buck naked. I fled back to deep water. Bernice was a nice lady who could appreciate my situation; she left so I could come out.
When I left Wing for college in the fall of 1962, I knew a large chunk of my life was ending. I knew I would never live there again, as much as I loved those mountains, bottoms, that river. I loved the only home I had ever known, but I knew there would never be a way for me to make a living there. I would always be back, every chance I got. And I have been.
I have never thought I had a deprived childhood, as some might think when reading this. I had very few material things, compared to children of today. But actually, I sorrow for them. I could walk out my back door, walked 40 miles south, and never see a house, maybe never see another person, and never cross a paved road. Now I ask you, what child has a back yard to compare with that? The adventures many children today can only hope to see on television were lived out daily by Tooter, Sammy, and me.
I wanted to go to college and then see the world. Go to faraway places. I had seen that my dad, and my uncles around me, had become so attached to their spot of ground in the world that they began to believe that the farm could not continue if they were absent even for a day. “The Gillums were not like other people.” If I ever asked Dad, after I had left the farm, to come see me graduate from college – to see me get married – to come to my house and watch me coach a basketball game – to be there when my children came into this world – the answer was always the same: “I need to stay here to look after these cows.”
Years later, a month or so after Dad's death, I drove to the farm. When the farm came into sight, I guess I was surprised to see that it looked just the way it always had. I realized I had really begun to buy into the idea that the farm would totally go to hell if Dad was not there to watch over it. The land was exactly the same, the house had not changed, the cows were all grazing contentedly – nothing, nothing at all, had changed. Dad was gone, but everything there was the same as it had always been. I just sat there and looked for a long time. And I cried.
Two years later, Barbara and I were moving to a new job in Hannibal, Missouri, on a very thin shoestring, two babies, and an old car. Dad's old truck carried our stuff. Our babies were just joining their generation, which was well in progress already. We knew Mom was not doing well alone. Barbara Lou took her to Memphis to live with her. Barbara called me one day. Mom was in the hospital there. Mom fought hard for a few days, but the end came soon after Harry's arrival from California.
I did not set out to write a sad story. But, in writing of a generation of people, the story must end, and it just sorta works out that way. We can't stop that. But we can help to write that ending. Once written, it can never be rewritten or erased.
Dear readers, we are nearing the end of this story. My blog contains about one third of my book. Two or three more posts will finish up our story.
My book is available only through me. Ninety-three pages, lots of pictures of the Gillum Clan. It is $17 postage paid. E-mail me if you wish to buy a copy. I hope you have enjoyed, and I thank you dearly for reading. barbandpat66@suddenlink.net
My blog, of course, will not be ending. My next story, "The thing about Water," is an autobiographical story, telling of my life-long fascination with the river, and the adventures that happened along the way. I hope you will like it!
When I left Wing for college in the fall of 1962, I knew a large chunk of my life was ending. I knew I would never live there again, as much as I loved those mountains, bottoms, that river. I loved the only home I had ever known, but I knew there would never be a way for me to make a living there. I would always be back, every chance I got. And I have been.
I have never thought I had a deprived childhood, as some might think when reading this. I had very few material things, compared to children of today. But actually, I sorrow for them. I could walk out my back door, walked 40 miles south, and never see a house, maybe never see another person, and never cross a paved road. Now I ask you, what child has a back yard to compare with that? The adventures many children today can only hope to see on television were lived out daily by Tooter, Sammy, and me.
I wanted to go to college and then see the world. Go to faraway places. I had seen that my dad, and my uncles around me, had become so attached to their spot of ground in the world that they began to believe that the farm could not continue if they were absent even for a day. “The Gillums were not like other people.” If I ever asked Dad, after I had left the farm, to come see me graduate from college – to see me get married – to come to my house and watch me coach a basketball game – to be there when my children came into this world – the answer was always the same: “I need to stay here to look after these cows.”
Years later, a month or so after Dad's death, I drove to the farm. When the farm came into sight, I guess I was surprised to see that it looked just the way it always had. I realized I had really begun to buy into the idea that the farm would totally go to hell if Dad was not there to watch over it. The land was exactly the same, the house had not changed, the cows were all grazing contentedly – nothing, nothing at all, had changed. Dad was gone, but everything there was the same as it had always been. I just sat there and looked for a long time. And I cried.
Two years later, Barbara and I were moving to a new job in Hannibal, Missouri, on a very thin shoestring, two babies, and an old car. Dad's old truck carried our stuff. Our babies were just joining their generation, which was well in progress already. We knew Mom was not doing well alone. Barbara Lou took her to Memphis to live with her. Barbara called me one day. Mom was in the hospital there. Mom fought hard for a few days, but the end came soon after Harry's arrival from California.
I did not set out to write a sad story. But, in writing of a generation of people, the story must end, and it just sorta works out that way. We can't stop that. But we can help to write that ending. Once written, it can never be rewritten or erased.
My book is available only through me. Ninety-three pages, lots of pictures of the Gillum Clan. It is $17 postage paid. E-mail me if you wish to buy a copy. I hope you have enjoyed, and I thank you dearly for reading. barbandpat66@suddenlink.net
My blog, of course, will not be ending. My next story, "The thing about Water," is an autobiographical story, telling of my life-long fascination with the river, and the adventures that happened along the way. I hope you will like it!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Post 30: Moving on up
As I reached high school age, things on the farm began to change, somewhat. I thought we had reached the ultimate in high class living a year or so before when we cut an old rug up into strips and made a path all the way to the two-hole outhouse. I could go to the outhouse in the middle of the night, and my feet never touched the ground! Come to think of it, I never understood the logic behind having two holes. They were right side by side, and I never knew of a single time when both were used at the same time. I know for sure I never shared it!
But now, we were digging a ditch and running water into our house, and a real bathroom was about to be in the works. It was only a one-holer, but eons ahead of the outhouse. Real toilet paper too! No more old Sears and Roebuck catalog for the Gillums – we're moving on up!
Bob Rice and Grady Hunicutt moved to Wing, a big event for one year. Nobody moves to Wing anymore. They were a year or two younger, but we had lots of good times. Bob, Grady, and I were headed to the river for a night of frog gigging, fishing, and camping. Grady had just gotten out of the hospital, having had a very serious sinus problem. He had specific strict orders from the doctor to not get any water in his head whatsoever. Grady gigged at a frog, missed, lost his balance and his head went clean under water–I've never seen anyone do that while frog gigging, before or since.
We decided on that trip that we were all cussing too much, so we made a gentleman's agreement that if one of us cussed, the other two were obligated to hit him on the shoulder, hard. Well, poor old Grady. Just out of the hospital and everything is going to h– I mean, everything is going bad. He cussed, Bob and I fulfilled our duty. It made him mad, he cussed again. We hit him again. This time, he cussed a blue streak. Well, before this incident was over, Grady was all stove up and Bob and I were rolling on the ground, laughing.
Later that winter, on Thanksgiving Day, Grady and I were hunting in the bottoms. Squirrels, mostly. We flushed up a couple of ducks off Lilly Pad Lake, we both shot, and they both fell, right out in the middle of the lake. Wing is not on a major duck flyway, and they were rare. Also, we both had a strong sense that if we killed it, we ate it. Well, we flipped a coin, probably a penny. I stripped off; Grady built a fire, and I swam for the ducks. It was only about 3 feet deep, but I had to swim. If I put my feet down, I just buried up. By the time I got back to the fire, I thought I was going to freeze to death! Later on that winter, the same thing happened, I won the coin flip, and I had a good laugh as Grady started to strip. Then he said, “Hey, there’s a boat on the other side!” If I had not been afraid Grady would hit me on the shoulder, I probably would have cussed.
Harold came in on a furlough from the Air Force. I had caught some pretty nice cat down on 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 it to get to the good hole. One night Harold and I and my cousin, Jack Larry, set out. The water was over my head, but we got across OK. 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, and I've never been so happy to get home.
But now, we were digging a ditch and running water into our house, and a real bathroom was about to be in the works. It was only a one-holer, but eons ahead of the outhouse. Real toilet paper too! No more old Sears and Roebuck catalog for the Gillums – we're moving on up!
Bob Rice and Grady Hunicutt moved to Wing, a big event for one year. Nobody moves to Wing anymore. They were a year or two younger, but we had lots of good times. Bob, Grady, and I were headed to the river for a night of frog gigging, fishing, and camping. Grady had just gotten out of the hospital, having had a very serious sinus problem. He had specific strict orders from the doctor to not get any water in his head whatsoever. Grady gigged at a frog, missed, lost his balance and his head went clean under water–I've never seen anyone do that while frog gigging, before or since.
We decided on that trip that we were all cussing too much, so we made a gentleman's agreement that if one of us cussed, the other two were obligated to hit him on the shoulder, hard. Well, poor old Grady. Just out of the hospital and everything is going to h– I mean, everything is going bad. He cussed, Bob and I fulfilled our duty. It made him mad, he cussed again. We hit him again. This time, he cussed a blue streak. Well, before this incident was over, Grady was all stove up and Bob and I were rolling on the ground, laughing.
Later that winter, on Thanksgiving Day, Grady and I were hunting in the bottoms. Squirrels, mostly. We flushed up a couple of ducks off Lilly Pad Lake, we both shot, and they both fell, right out in the middle of the lake. Wing is not on a major duck flyway, and they were rare. Also, we both had a strong sense that if we killed it, we ate it. Well, we flipped a coin, probably a penny. I stripped off; Grady built a fire, and I swam for the ducks. It was only about 3 feet deep, but I had to swim. If I put my feet down, I just buried up. By the time I got back to the fire, I thought I was going to freeze to death! Later on that winter, the same thing happened, I won the coin flip, and I had a good laugh as Grady started to strip. Then he said, “Hey, there’s a boat on the other side!” If I had not been afraid Grady would hit me on the shoulder, I probably would have cussed.
Harold came in on a furlough from the Air Force. I had caught some pretty nice cat down on 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 it to get to the good hole. One night Harold and I and my cousin, Jack Larry, set out. The water was over my head, but we got across OK. 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, and I've never been so happy to get home.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Post Twenty nine: Fourche Valley School - Fun times
I played every sport Fourche Valley had - basketball and track. At the Yell County track meet, Sonny Lofland and I made up a two man team. Sonny won second in the mile, and I won the half mile, and placed in the high jump, pole vault, and discus. We won second place as a team, with seven teams entered. I had taught myself how to pole vault in my front yard, using a pine pole I stole from the chicken roost. The only trouble was, I went over the bar on the wrong side of the pole. Everyone in the stands just died laughing when they saw me vault, including my competitors. But those I beat stopped laughing then.
We were playing basketball in the finals of the county tournament. I strutted onto the court for pre-game warm ups, and started shedding my warm up pants. I discovered, to my horror, that I had on only a jock strap underneath. I should not have been so horrified. The whole county had seen me nearly naked in the calf scramble at the fair. Anyway, I jerked my warm ups back on, ran to the coach, and he scraped up a pair of red pants from the other team. Our shorts were blue. I did no more strutting that night.
I ended my high school basketball career on a sour note. We were playing Plainview, our arch rivals, in the district tournament. We were behind one, only seconds to go, they were shooting a free throw. He missed, and as I pulled the rebound down, I saw Butch cutting down court. I slung the ball down court as hard as I could, and Butch made a layup. We were up one, and I knew the buzzer was about to go off. I was at the center line, jumping up and down, clapping my hands and screaming, when their big man, Padgett I believe his name was, dribbled around me. I was celebrating so wildly that I could not even slow him down. He lofted one in from the top of the circle as the long-overdue buzzer went off.
Neither my dad nor my mom ever saw me play ball or run track. Mom did not drive, and Dad just did not leave the farm. I do believe, however, that I once detected a slight hint of a smile cross Dad's face, just for a second, when I told him I had set a new county record in the half mile. Nah, surely not. I dearly loved Fourche Valley School. I'm sure I join many hundreds of FVHS Indians out there who can truthfully say that their years there were some of the happiest of our lives.
FVS has a rich history. Our forefathers decided, in 1928, that we needed a high school. Then proceeded to make it happen. Hundreds of rocks were dug from the surrounding mountains, loaded onto wagons and hauled to the site. They did it the hard way. The ladies gathered at the site and cooked meals for the men as they worked. It was a community effort.
I like to think that maybe some of those mules who hauled the rocks were some of the super mules produced by my grandfather, John Wesley Gillum. On the other hand, he died in 1922. Maybe not. Though old Murt, our last mule, managed to sidestep the glue factory until the 1940's.
It saddened me greatly when the doors of the school were closed. However, the valiant effort of so many to keep the school alive truly showed that the spirt of the Fourche Valley Indians lives today, and will always live in the hearts of those of us who proudly called ourselves FV Indians, as long as one of us draws breath.
I was also happy to hear that plans are in the works to house our historical material in a building on campus, and that the our reunions may be held there in the future. Thanks, guys, for your hard work!
From the time my memories started, I was surrounded by siblings, and close neighbors like Cindy Buford, who bled blue and gold. If someone had asked me to sing the National Anthem during my formative years, (at least, after I was three, when I learned to talk,) It would probably have sounded like this:
"Oh, when the Fourche High Indians fall in line,
We're gonna win this game another time,
For the dear old school we love so well," - - - - Thanks for reading!
We were playing basketball in the finals of the county tournament. I strutted onto the court for pre-game warm ups, and started shedding my warm up pants. I discovered, to my horror, that I had on only a jock strap underneath. I should not have been so horrified. The whole county had seen me nearly naked in the calf scramble at the fair. Anyway, I jerked my warm ups back on, ran to the coach, and he scraped up a pair of red pants from the other team. Our shorts were blue. I did no more strutting that night.
I ended my high school basketball career on a sour note. We were playing Plainview, our arch rivals, in the district tournament. We were behind one, only seconds to go, they were shooting a free throw. He missed, and as I pulled the rebound down, I saw Butch cutting down court. I slung the ball down court as hard as I could, and Butch made a layup. We were up one, and I knew the buzzer was about to go off. I was at the center line, jumping up and down, clapping my hands and screaming, when their big man, Padgett I believe his name was, dribbled around me. I was celebrating so wildly that I could not even slow him down. He lofted one in from the top of the circle as the long-overdue buzzer went off.
Neither my dad nor my mom ever saw me play ball or run track. Mom did not drive, and Dad just did not leave the farm. I do believe, however, that I once detected a slight hint of a smile cross Dad's face, just for a second, when I told him I had set a new county record in the half mile. Nah, surely not. I dearly loved Fourche Valley School. I'm sure I join many hundreds of FVHS Indians out there who can truthfully say that their years there were some of the happiest of our lives.
FVS has a rich history. Our forefathers decided, in 1928, that we needed a high school. Then proceeded to make it happen. Hundreds of rocks were dug from the surrounding mountains, loaded onto wagons and hauled to the site. They did it the hard way. The ladies gathered at the site and cooked meals for the men as they worked. It was a community effort.
I like to think that maybe some of those mules who hauled the rocks were some of the super mules produced by my grandfather, John Wesley Gillum. On the other hand, he died in 1922. Maybe not. Though old Murt, our last mule, managed to sidestep the glue factory until the 1940's.
It saddened me greatly when the doors of the school were closed. However, the valiant effort of so many to keep the school alive truly showed that the spirt of the Fourche Valley Indians lives today, and will always live in the hearts of those of us who proudly called ourselves FV Indians, as long as one of us draws breath.
I was also happy to hear that plans are in the works to house our historical material in a building on campus, and that the our reunions may be held there in the future. Thanks, guys, for your hard work!
From the time my memories started, I was surrounded by siblings, and close neighbors like Cindy Buford, who bled blue and gold. If someone had asked me to sing the National Anthem during my formative years, (at least, after I was three, when I learned to talk,) It would probably have sounded like this:
"Oh, when the Fourche High Indians fall in line,
We're gonna win this game another time,
For the dear old school we love so well," - - - - Thanks for reading!
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Post twenty eight: Fourche Valley School - The calf scramble
Mr. and Mrs. Lowe lived on the school campus. Mr. Lowe had a certain air about him that quickly let us know he was not one to be trifled with. One recess my friend Tommy Joe and I were comparing our bean-flips (some call them slingshots). As we looked for a likely target, Mr. Lowe's shed behind the house proved to be an inviting target, especially the window about half way back. I took careful aim and fired. The stone flew straight and true, and glass from the window exploded and fell to the ground. Flushed with success, I turned to Tommy to get my well-earned praise. Then a tall shadow fell across us, and my flushed face turned chalky white. It was going to be a bad day. The key phrase, as I remember it, was “I'm gonna get your pappy up here, and he's going to tear you up like a sow's bed.” I was sitting on the gym steps, and a schoolmate was playing golf with a stick and rocks, out by the well shed. He was hitting in my general direction, and someone said, “You better stop that, you're gonna hit someone.” He hit another hard drive. I saw the rock come off the stick, but it never seemed to move, it just got bigger and bigger. I sat mesmerized by it, and it raised a big knot on my forehead. Slow reflexes can be a real headache.
It snowed. That was rare in Fourche Valley, and us boys took advantage of it by throwing snowballs at the girls coming to and from the bathroom building. I packed one good and hard and made a long throw at the open door, but nobody was in sight. There was a small space between the top of the door and the top of the partition behind it, and the snowball arched toward the door. Just as it reached the door, I saw a head rise up over the partition, and the snowball hit her square in the eye. The next day she had a black eye, and I realized I fully deserved the rock in the head.
In PE class, we sometimes did tumbling the hard way, on the floor. I once hurt my back. Never wanting to be a whiner, I went ahead and helped Dad unload the 100 pound bags of cotton seed meal that afternoon. I never said anything about it, and neither did Dad. Later, Mom said (Dad often funneled his comments to me through Mom), “Your dad said you are just not as strong as you should be, at your age.” That bothered me a long time. I never realized HOW long, until Years later, my doctor x-rayed that area of my back. He said, “What happened here? You got significant damage to your spine there, a long time ago.” My first thought was, I need to go tell Dad. Then I remembered. Dad had been dead 30 years.
Somehow, with a lot of grace, I made it to the twelfth grade. I had just decided I would go to college, and I suddenly turned from a lifelong "C" student to a straight “A” student. Nobody could believe it. Things were looking up on the political front also. I was elected class President. Actually, that was a little bit less than it appeared on the surface. There were 12 students in my grade, and my time had finally come.
The Yell County Free Fair rolled around, and I was entered in the calf scramble. One boy from each school was entered, seven in all, and two calves were released at the other end of the Danville football field. Once a boy got his hand on it, nobody could touch it unless it got away. If you could get your lead rope on it, it was yours. Stripped down to my jeans and track shoes, I quickly shot out to the lead. When I reached the calves, I made a poor decision. One was small, the other nearly grown. Figuring bigger was better, I grabbed the tail of the big one with both hands. I had watched in the previous scramble while larger, stronger boys than me had worn themselves down trying to out-muscle smaller calves, then were too worn out to get a rope on it, eventually losing it. I reasoned that if I just held on, letting the calf pull me around, it would eventually wear itself out, and my chances were better. I was long on endurance, short on strength. So, round and round the football field we went. On about the third lap, the calf made a sharp turn, and down I went. I hung on for dear life, and the calf dragged me some more laps. Gradually, I realized to my horror, my pants were slipping lower and lower. I began to realize I would soon have to make a horrible decision between my modesty and the calf. The crowd, seemed like everyone in Yell County, began to realize the drama that was being played out before them, and the interest grew. We were reaching, rapidly, the point of no return. I made the agonizing decision that my modesty was not as valuable as that calf. Suddenly, fate stepped in. The calf stopped, allowing me to regain my feet and my pants. Then we were off again, leaving the football field far behind as we ran through back yards and into a big field. Finally, the calf could go no more. When I, at long last, led MY calf back to the fair, the lights were off and the crowd had gone home. But I had my calf! Later, I learned that a spectator, at the peak of the action, was heard to say, “That skinny kid will never hold that calf!” The person next to him said, “That kid is a Gillum, and a Gillum would give up his life before he would give up a hundred dollar calf!” “The Gillums are not like other people.” Just a chip off the old block! My final post on Fourche Valley School will be made in a couple of days. Thanks for reading!
It snowed. That was rare in Fourche Valley, and us boys took advantage of it by throwing snowballs at the girls coming to and from the bathroom building. I packed one good and hard and made a long throw at the open door, but nobody was in sight. There was a small space between the top of the door and the top of the partition behind it, and the snowball arched toward the door. Just as it reached the door, I saw a head rise up over the partition, and the snowball hit her square in the eye. The next day she had a black eye, and I realized I fully deserved the rock in the head.
In PE class, we sometimes did tumbling the hard way, on the floor. I once hurt my back. Never wanting to be a whiner, I went ahead and helped Dad unload the 100 pound bags of cotton seed meal that afternoon. I never said anything about it, and neither did Dad. Later, Mom said (Dad often funneled his comments to me through Mom), “Your dad said you are just not as strong as you should be, at your age.” That bothered me a long time. I never realized HOW long, until Years later, my doctor x-rayed that area of my back. He said, “What happened here? You got significant damage to your spine there, a long time ago.” My first thought was, I need to go tell Dad. Then I remembered. Dad had been dead 30 years.
Somehow, with a lot of grace, I made it to the twelfth grade. I had just decided I would go to college, and I suddenly turned from a lifelong "C" student to a straight “A” student. Nobody could believe it. Things were looking up on the political front also. I was elected class President. Actually, that was a little bit less than it appeared on the surface. There were 12 students in my grade, and my time had finally come.
The Yell County Free Fair rolled around, and I was entered in the calf scramble. One boy from each school was entered, seven in all, and two calves were released at the other end of the Danville football field. Once a boy got his hand on it, nobody could touch it unless it got away. If you could get your lead rope on it, it was yours. Stripped down to my jeans and track shoes, I quickly shot out to the lead. When I reached the calves, I made a poor decision. One was small, the other nearly grown. Figuring bigger was better, I grabbed the tail of the big one with both hands. I had watched in the previous scramble while larger, stronger boys than me had worn themselves down trying to out-muscle smaller calves, then were too worn out to get a rope on it, eventually losing it. I reasoned that if I just held on, letting the calf pull me around, it would eventually wear itself out, and my chances were better. I was long on endurance, short on strength. So, round and round the football field we went. On about the third lap, the calf made a sharp turn, and down I went. I hung on for dear life, and the calf dragged me some more laps. Gradually, I realized to my horror, my pants were slipping lower and lower. I began to realize I would soon have to make a horrible decision between my modesty and the calf. The crowd, seemed like everyone in Yell County, began to realize the drama that was being played out before them, and the interest grew. We were reaching, rapidly, the point of no return. I made the agonizing decision that my modesty was not as valuable as that calf. Suddenly, fate stepped in. The calf stopped, allowing me to regain my feet and my pants. Then we were off again, leaving the football field far behind as we ran through back yards and into a big field. Finally, the calf could go no more. When I, at long last, led MY calf back to the fair, the lights were off and the crowd had gone home. But I had my calf! Later, I learned that a spectator, at the peak of the action, was heard to say, “That skinny kid will never hold that calf!” The person next to him said, “That kid is a Gillum, and a Gillum would give up his life before he would give up a hundred dollar calf!” “The Gillums are not like other people.” Just a chip off the old block! My final post on Fourche Valley School will be made in a couple of days. Thanks for reading!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Post twenty seven: Fourche Valley School: recess
Getting an education at Fourche Valley schools was a memorable experience. I'm sure many noteworthy events occurred during class time, but it is recess that fills my mind with memories. Some names are changed, to protect the innocent.
One of my classmates in particular, educated me considerably. Lonnie Ray was a grade behind me, but older. He had broad, muscular shoulders, a bull neck, and tree trunks for arms. His recesses were filled trying to think of new ways to make life miserable for the rest of us.
My buddies and I dammed up the sewer ditch from the lunch room. This made a dandy pond. The next day we brought little fish from home that we had caught in the creek and stocked our pond. We were so proud. Each day, we slipped some bread out during lunch period and fed our fish. Things went fine for a week or so; then Lonnie Ray figured out what we were doing. He tore out our dam, stomped our fish, and, daring us to do anything about it, laughed and walked away, looking for new kids to torment.
We hatched a plan. We agreed to circle Lonnie Ray. While those of us in front distracted him, Snake Aikman, the strongest of our group, would back jump him. Then, the rest of us would help. Things slid smoothly along according to plan until we got to the point where the rest of us were to come into action. Snake held Lonnie Ray around his arms, but as Lonnie Ray struggled, becoming redder and redder, madder and madder, we all knew Snake's moments were numbered. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I jumped in to help. Together, Snake and I pulled Lonnie Ray to the ground and held him. Long moments passed, some of the longest of my life. Lonnie Ray introduced us to several new vocabulary words, and made us a number of promises, none of which were very appealing. At long last, the bell rang. We jumped up and ran for our life. Our only saving grace was that Lonnie Ray was slow afoot. The next several days we spent hiding and running.
A few months later, Lonnie Ray again contributed to my education, in an even more memorable manner. While my friends and I played kick ball, Lonnie Ray saw another chance to torment. He grabbed our ball and sailed it into a briar patch, across the fence. We finally fished it out and continued our game, as Lonnie Ray laughed and walked away. Later in the recess, as Lonnie Ray and his friends played kick ball nearby, an opportunity arose to return the favor. His ball rolled over toward us. Without taking time to think out my actions, I threw their ball into the same patch. Even as I released the ball, I longed to have it back, to smile and gently pitch it back to Lonnie Ray, but it was too late. My heart sank, and I well remember the contorted, red face as he strolled toward me, rolling up his sleeves. A circle of people gathered. Lonnie Ray and I stood face to face. If Mary Lou had not been in the front of the circle, I think my feet would have found wings. I just could not bring myself to do that in front of Mary Lou. Suddenly, Mary Lou stepped forward, stared Lonnie Ray in the eye, and said, “Lonnie Ray, why don't you just leave him alone! I'm not too sure about Pat, but I know Jack Larry can whip you.” I heartily agreed to let Jack Larry take my place, but as I glanced over at him, I saw him ease his cap down over his face and slip to the back of the circle.
My mind raced as I searched for a way out. Suddenly, I remembered. A few months ago, Lonnie Ray was picking on Butch. Though he was much smaller, Butch took the initiative and popped him in the eye. Lonnie Ray ran off crying and never bothered Butch again, at least to my knowledge. So I stepped up and popped him in the left eye, then it all broke loose! Fists the size of softballs began to rain all over my head. Knuckle bumps started popping up. I swung blindly, but it didn't slow him up a bit. Finally, he stopped. I thought to myself, “Why didn't it work? It worked so well for Butch! Maybe I hit the wrong eye.” I stepped up and popped him in the right eye, but Lonnie Ray then found places to raise all new bumps, plus close and eye or two. At long last, the bell sounded, ending the longest recess of my life.
A few months later, my chance to redeem myself in Mary Lou's eyes arose. As we sat in class one day, Miss Durah, our fourth grade teacher, saw that a grass fire threatened a small house nearby. Not wishing to endanger the class by letting the entire class rush out, she picked Butch and me to run help. Butch was two steps faster than me, so he was first to arrive. The exhausted woman fighting the fire pitched Butch a wet tow sack and directed me to get a tub of water sitting nearby. As Mary Lou and the other students watched from the window, I grabbed the tub. I couldn't budge it! I tried pushing it, tearing up the grass with my tennis shoes. I pulled at it, yanked it, but it did not move. By the time Mary Lou and the rest of the kids arrived, Butch had the fire out and was I heaving from exhaustion, beside the still full tub of water. All the class gathered around Butch. Mary Lou said, “Oh, Butch! You are so brave and strong!” Maybe I only imagined it, but I thought I saw a sidelong glance at me as she said “strong.”
One of my classmates in particular, educated me considerably. Lonnie Ray was a grade behind me, but older. He had broad, muscular shoulders, a bull neck, and tree trunks for arms. His recesses were filled trying to think of new ways to make life miserable for the rest of us.
My buddies and I dammed up the sewer ditch from the lunch room. This made a dandy pond. The next day we brought little fish from home that we had caught in the creek and stocked our pond. We were so proud. Each day, we slipped some bread out during lunch period and fed our fish. Things went fine for a week or so; then Lonnie Ray figured out what we were doing. He tore out our dam, stomped our fish, and, daring us to do anything about it, laughed and walked away, looking for new kids to torment.
We hatched a plan. We agreed to circle Lonnie Ray. While those of us in front distracted him, Snake Aikman, the strongest of our group, would back jump him. Then, the rest of us would help. Things slid smoothly along according to plan until we got to the point where the rest of us were to come into action. Snake held Lonnie Ray around his arms, but as Lonnie Ray struggled, becoming redder and redder, madder and madder, we all knew Snake's moments were numbered. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I jumped in to help. Together, Snake and I pulled Lonnie Ray to the ground and held him. Long moments passed, some of the longest of my life. Lonnie Ray introduced us to several new vocabulary words, and made us a number of promises, none of which were very appealing. At long last, the bell rang. We jumped up and ran for our life. Our only saving grace was that Lonnie Ray was slow afoot. The next several days we spent hiding and running.
A few months later, Lonnie Ray again contributed to my education, in an even more memorable manner. While my friends and I played kick ball, Lonnie Ray saw another chance to torment. He grabbed our ball and sailed it into a briar patch, across the fence. We finally fished it out and continued our game, as Lonnie Ray laughed and walked away. Later in the recess, as Lonnie Ray and his friends played kick ball nearby, an opportunity arose to return the favor. His ball rolled over toward us. Without taking time to think out my actions, I threw their ball into the same patch. Even as I released the ball, I longed to have it back, to smile and gently pitch it back to Lonnie Ray, but it was too late. My heart sank, and I well remember the contorted, red face as he strolled toward me, rolling up his sleeves. A circle of people gathered. Lonnie Ray and I stood face to face. If Mary Lou had not been in the front of the circle, I think my feet would have found wings. I just could not bring myself to do that in front of Mary Lou. Suddenly, Mary Lou stepped forward, stared Lonnie Ray in the eye, and said, “Lonnie Ray, why don't you just leave him alone! I'm not too sure about Pat, but I know Jack Larry can whip you.” I heartily agreed to let Jack Larry take my place, but as I glanced over at him, I saw him ease his cap down over his face and slip to the back of the circle.
My mind raced as I searched for a way out. Suddenly, I remembered. A few months ago, Lonnie Ray was picking on Butch. Though he was much smaller, Butch took the initiative and popped him in the eye. Lonnie Ray ran off crying and never bothered Butch again, at least to my knowledge. So I stepped up and popped him in the left eye, then it all broke loose! Fists the size of softballs began to rain all over my head. Knuckle bumps started popping up. I swung blindly, but it didn't slow him up a bit. Finally, he stopped. I thought to myself, “Why didn't it work? It worked so well for Butch! Maybe I hit the wrong eye.” I stepped up and popped him in the right eye, but Lonnie Ray then found places to raise all new bumps, plus close and eye or two. At long last, the bell sounded, ending the longest recess of my life.
A few months later, my chance to redeem myself in Mary Lou's eyes arose. As we sat in class one day, Miss Durah, our fourth grade teacher, saw that a grass fire threatened a small house nearby. Not wishing to endanger the class by letting the entire class rush out, she picked Butch and me to run help. Butch was two steps faster than me, so he was first to arrive. The exhausted woman fighting the fire pitched Butch a wet tow sack and directed me to get a tub of water sitting nearby. As Mary Lou and the other students watched from the window, I grabbed the tub. I couldn't budge it! I tried pushing it, tearing up the grass with my tennis shoes. I pulled at it, yanked it, but it did not move. By the time Mary Lou and the rest of the kids arrived, Butch had the fire out and was I heaving from exhaustion, beside the still full tub of water. All the class gathered around Butch. Mary Lou said, “Oh, Butch! You are so brave and strong!” Maybe I only imagined it, but I thought I saw a sidelong glance at me as she said “strong.”
Monday, July 18, 2011
Post twenty-six: Fourche Valley School
I have never had any regrets that I went to a small school like Fourche Valley School, small in terms of students, but one of the larger districts in the state. There were lots of mountains and few people. Two icons of Fourche Valley that quickly come to mind were the Lowes. Mr. Lowe was the superintendent and principal. Normally, dealing with the principal was a negative, and I had lots of dealings. However, in the long run, I realize, he had a way of turning my associations with him into a positive thing. Winnie Lowe, I well remember, had a deep voice that could sound like rolling thunder coming across the room when one messed up, and it could make one shrink down in ones desk, becoming as invisible as possible. But she had a way of teaching us to be the best person we could be. Neither taught me in a classroom very often, except possibly short term. But I remember them so well, it seems like they did. They had three daughters who each became doctors in one form or another, and each is leaving a very large footprint on our country. I am sure genetics were involved, but as I said, just being around Winnie Lowe brought out the very best. One great thing about small schools, we dealt with the entire faculty on a daily basis, and I am a better person for it. My class, the Class of 1962, was made up of twelve students. Nine lived in Fourche Valley, three lived across South Fourche Mountain near Aly and Chula.
There was no quick and easy route from Aly to Fourche Valley School. Mr. Mabry drove the Aly bus, many miles on rough dirt roads through the mountains. Few from the south side of Fourche Mountain participated in school sports, in those days. Just too far. Too complicated.
Shelton Dishongh spotted it early. Although my class had a pretty good crop of boys for a basketball team, It was the girls who were awesome. He was our class sponsor in the seventh grade, and he was also the coach. He took us to the gym, one day, and we played, girls vs. boys. The girls beat us like a rented mule. Just wore us out. We boys never quite recovered from that, and it never got better.
We five boys were the starting team, as seniors, early on, then we began to get a lot of help from the likes of Dobbie Wilson and Lanny Ashlock. We were 16-9, but it was the girls who won the District Tournament, and played in the State Tournament at Parkin. I asked our teacher, Rubye Singleton, single but courting heavily at that time, if she was going to Parkin. She said, "You never know!" I said, " I meant, are you going TO Parkin. Not going Parking." She flushed bright red. We loved to make her do that.
Jack Larry Gillum and Monty Dishongh were the ladie's men. Larry started chasing the girl's early, before I even knew "for why." and, they chased him back. Monty never needed to chase, they chased him. Jackie Aikman didn't seem to think about the ladies much in high school. Butch Garner was committed to the love of his life early, and never varied. I, myself, I had tons of romantic entanglements in high school. But only in my head. Nobody else ever knew about them.
Jackie Aikman didn't rag the teachers much. He was very well behaved, compared to the rest of us. But one day in typing, he messed up. Miss Gussie Lofland, already sick of the whole lot of us for the day, set in on Jack. "Jackie Aikman, you're just as bad as the others! You're just sneaky! You're a snake in the grass!" Well, the name "snake" stuck, and he could not shed it. "Snake" Aikman."
About the time I was ready to go off to college, I began to realize that was a very large crop of "easy to look at" girls coming up, 3 0r 4 years back. That was about where my maturity level wound up, anyway. (I spent 25 years teaching ninth and tenth grade students.) Anyway, getting back to the crop. Jackie and Monty later picked a plumb from that crop, as did Butch, early. By the time that fully hit me, (I have always been slow to catch on) I was gone, off to college. If I had stayed in Fourche Valley two more years, I probably would have never left. The love of my life, when I finally found her, was in that age group. Four years younger.
Several more posts to come on Fourche Valley School, about every two days. Thanks for reading!
There was no quick and easy route from Aly to Fourche Valley School. Mr. Mabry drove the Aly bus, many miles on rough dirt roads through the mountains. Few from the south side of Fourche Mountain participated in school sports, in those days. Just too far. Too complicated.
Shelton Dishongh spotted it early. Although my class had a pretty good crop of boys for a basketball team, It was the girls who were awesome. He was our class sponsor in the seventh grade, and he was also the coach. He took us to the gym, one day, and we played, girls vs. boys. The girls beat us like a rented mule. Just wore us out. We boys never quite recovered from that, and it never got better.
We five boys were the starting team, as seniors, early on, then we began to get a lot of help from the likes of Dobbie Wilson and Lanny Ashlock. We were 16-9, but it was the girls who won the District Tournament, and played in the State Tournament at Parkin. I asked our teacher, Rubye Singleton, single but courting heavily at that time, if she was going to Parkin. She said, "You never know!" I said, " I meant, are you going TO Parkin. Not going Parking." She flushed bright red. We loved to make her do that.
Jack Larry Gillum and Monty Dishongh were the ladie's men. Larry started chasing the girl's early, before I even knew "for why." and, they chased him back. Monty never needed to chase, they chased him. Jackie Aikman didn't seem to think about the ladies much in high school. Butch Garner was committed to the love of his life early, and never varied. I, myself, I had tons of romantic entanglements in high school. But only in my head. Nobody else ever knew about them.
Jackie Aikman didn't rag the teachers much. He was very well behaved, compared to the rest of us. But one day in typing, he messed up. Miss Gussie Lofland, already sick of the whole lot of us for the day, set in on Jack. "Jackie Aikman, you're just as bad as the others! You're just sneaky! You're a snake in the grass!" Well, the name "snake" stuck, and he could not shed it. "Snake" Aikman."
About the time I was ready to go off to college, I began to realize that was a very large crop of "easy to look at" girls coming up, 3 0r 4 years back. That was about where my maturity level wound up, anyway. (I spent 25 years teaching ninth and tenth grade students.) Anyway, getting back to the crop. Jackie and Monty later picked a plumb from that crop, as did Butch, early. By the time that fully hit me, (I have always been slow to catch on) I was gone, off to college. If I had stayed in Fourche Valley two more years, I probably would have never left. The love of my life, when I finally found her, was in that age group. Four years younger.
Several more posts to come on Fourche Valley School, about every two days. Thanks for reading!
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