Smoky Morning

My daily routine starts out with bible reading, coffee from 6:30 until 8, then I eat and go outside to feed the dogs and horses. It was cold and crisp this morning, and when I walked out the barn through the stall, the dogs were taking off like bullets out of a gun barrel. Looking down the path that the horses had packed down, I could see the woods, with the trees in front and I could smell and see the smoke wafting up from a pecan tree that I had piled up and burned last weekend. The sight and smell carried me back to the early 50's when all the neighbors gathered at grandpa's to have a hog killing. I know that it sounds cruel and if you were a hog, it probably was. However if the people did not get the meat and prepare it for winter, most of them would starve to death. The person hosting the killing would get the majority of the meat and the rest would be paid in meat.

That morning was bitterly cold and we were all outside at the crack of dawn. Someone had built a large fire under the syrup kettle, that today was going to be used to scald the hogs so that the hair could be scraped off easier. NO they were already dead before being scalded. That was the first place that I stopped at. It was sure warm by that pot, but being a young kid I was disturbed by the sight. Even today I can still remember the sounds of the squealing hogs, not knowing what was fixing to take place. At that time and age I could not understand how people could do what they were doing to the animals, but just a few years later, home butchering was over with. I was with my father at a hog pen near the creek, where there was a group of hogs waiting to go to the sale. They were young gilts and shoats, so I know now that they were not going to slaughter at that time. I don't know why I did it, but I spit on one of them. Instead of whipping me, daddy told me that on judgement day God would make me lick that spit off the hog. I was never more embarrassed than at that moment. However, I knew then, that on that cold morning that the people doing the slaughter had respect for the animals. Even native Indians gave honor and glory to the wild animals that they used for food.

Weldon

The other day someone had me thinking of my first cousin, Weldon. When we lived at the old wood frame house underneath the big magnolia tree on the dirt road where the smoke and sulfur from hell came out from the cracks in the road (previous story), Wayne was carrying Weldon for a ride on the bike. The only place to ride was on the dirt road because the roots of the magnolia were huge and out of the ground and covered most of the yard. Safety was not an issue because most of the three people per day that used the road came by at a snails pace, and were always on the lookout for an excuse to stop and talk. The bike had no fenders, the seat had no padding, and no chain guard. Wayne was 8 and standing up pedalling and Weldon was 3 and sitting on the seat holding on. It was a lot of work for Wayne to pedal in the soft dirt and he was swinging back and forth. Weldon was holding on as best he could when his big toe got caught between the chain and chain sprocket.
Screamed so loud he broke blood vessels in his cheeks. No one knew what to do. Wayne was the oldest, but he could not let go of the bike, Weldon was stuck on the seat, if he moved his toe probably would fall off, Benny, Frankie, and I were a good ways off. Barbara was in the house and heard the screams and came running, with aunt Betty and mama a few feet behind. Everyone was excited and moving around all crazy like, but finally someone got a pair of pliers and loosened the nut of the wheel and moved it forward. When his toe came loose Weldon jumped down and ran like crazy because he knew that the kerosene treatment was next. Whatever happened to you , the treatment was to pour kerosene on the cut. I guess it worked because none of us ever had a wound to get infected.
Now Frankie Joe was Weldon's older brother and was a mischievous little fellow that would play a trick on you if you weren't paying attention. One Christmas at Daddy Frank's house over by Harvey Palmer's place it was almost dark and every one of the many grandchildren were shooting fireworks and bottle rockets. It was not enough excitement for Frankie that he accidentally set off his bag of fireworks in his back pocket and scared the hell out of everybody, he found an empty gas can. Well, this looked like his kind of fun. Let me drop a lighted match into this container and see what happens. How did that work out?
The can exploded like a mortor round and landed on the other side of the house, Frankie's hair and eye brows were gone, his face was a bright red and I think he had one of those brown spots in his pants also. Today he uses the diesel pump.

Lamentations

Going down the road, looking like a fat toad, toting a heavy load of moon pies that finally settled in my stomach, just above my thighs. Ah, for the days of my youth, when I had no tail, now I am afraid of the scale. Then I carried rocks in my pocket to keep the wind from making me sail, now my wind could fill a sail.
Exercise is hard, that is why I am a tub of lard. Tomorrow is another day, tonight I will have another chip by Lay. My willpower is shot, all I do is eat a lot. Take heart, if it will last, when I reach eighty, I will have a blast. My taste buds will be gone, and I will journey back to the bone. Back to the rocks in my pocket, maybe one in my locket. But my knees, my knees, my knees, will say please, please, please, you ruined us by carrying all that food, now we are really in a bad mood. So I will stay out of the wind, so my knees won't have to bend.
Oh well, here we go again, what the hell, one more pie for old times sake, maybe even a piece of chocolate cake. Try as I might, I want to eat everything in sight. My, my, my look at that red velvet cake, the breath from me it does take. Try, try, try to fight the temptation, it is so hard to only eat in moderation. The day is short, so I will have another snort, of rye, and say bye, bye, bye.

49 Chevy step side

Every now and then, we would pile into the back of grandpa's dark green 49 Chevrolet step side pick up and head off to grannie's sister, Dora Marshall, who lived in Gordon, Alabama. This particular trip was known to us a few days in advance and Wayne, Benny, and I had time to gather up a few paper sacks and fill them with dirt. The truck was a work truck and probably had never seen a wash job, had tools and hay wire and peanuts that had been pulled up and thrown in the back, to show the neighbors how good the crop was. We had to push everything to the side and pile in. I don't know why grannie did not go, but daddy and grandpa were in the front. To go from McKay's store to Ashford, we had to go by Balkum Church and come out at Green Front on the Columbia Hwy. Grandpa's top speed was 25 and even though he had a three speed on the column, he would wind it out in low and go straight to high, causing the truck to lurch and jump until he could build up enough speed to handle the shift. He did not want to wear out 2nd gear and save gas by not using it. When he went by a field he would slow down so he could get a good look and comment on how straight the rows were, how much fertilizer was needed, and why didn't they keep the weeds pulled. A trip that should have taken 45 minutes, would take 2 hours. We did not care, when no cars were behind us we would throw the paper bags of dirt in the air and they would land on the hard top and explode and look like a mushroom cloud. We could have gone through Dothan, but there was no traffic circle and going through the middle of town would have taken even longer. For those of you who don't know, Gordon is below Ashford.
By the time we got there we were ready to get out. Just about the time he stopped, we bailed out and hit the dirt running. My third cousin Crissie and one of her friends(prettiest little girl I had ever seen) were outside and looked startled to see us. We played chase and hide and seek for most of the afternoon. The porch on the house was higher than our heads, with wooden steps that reached to the sky. Some of us hid under the porch, but since it was so open we would have to race to base to keep from being tagged it. Crissie had a big slide that we took turns on. Some one suggested using wax paper to slide on and it will make you speed up on the way down. By the time we left to go home it was almost dark, so we made it back pretty quick.
Years later when I met Sheila and we had dated for a while I carried her to meet grandpa and grannie. If you never knew Guy Carlile, he was a talker and asked one question after another. Sheila was always called Girl, by him. Girl, do you know Homer Aman from Ashford? Yes sir. Girl, do you know Dora Marshall? Yes sir I am friends with her grand daughter. Girl was an instant hit. Sheila told of a day when she was a child in the first grade, that she was spending the weekend with Crissie. Crissie was big for her age and mean as a snake. She had all the boys in Harmon School afraid of her. When they saw a green chevrolet truck drive up and three boys jump out, Crissie told Sheila, Those boys are mean. If she said those boys were mean, Sheila knew she was in trouble, but said that she had a good time playing hide and seek , tag, and sliding down the slide on wax paper. We looked at each other and started laughing. It was weird to find out that we had played together all those years ago. On the 23rd of this month we will have been married for 38 years.

Henrietta was actually Henry

     It was a beautiful spring day early in the morning. Just right for branding pigs. In the pasture were assorted shelters for the animals. In a small pen was a group of hogs that had given birth to several pigs. Today they were old enough for grandpa and his helpers to go in and cut brand notches in the pig ears. As you can imagine there was a lot of squealing pigs and excited sows around. Being a small child I thought those pigs were just needing to be picked up. So I did. Big big mistake. When I scooped him up, he squealed like I had cut off more than his ears. The mama sow was just a few feet away and made a bee-line for me with her teeth a clacking and stomping her feet. All the color drained from my face and settled in my lower end as a brown spot. Lucky for me, grandpa was closer than the the sow and he reached down and plucked me out of there.
     Now fast forward 53 years and meet Henry. He was an escaped pig from my trapper neighbor. He would trap hogs for the state, collect the money, turn the hogs loose, and trap them all over again. When we first noticed Henry we called him Henrietta. As he got older and bigger we could see our mistake and shortened his name to Henry. He was wild as a jack rabbit, but he loved our horses and actually bedded down in the roll of hay while they were eating. I knew that the neighbors thought he was my hog and as long as he stayed in the pasture he was ok. When I awoke one morning and saw Sheila's flower bed plowed up I knew Henry had to leave town. With neighbors on two sides I was afraid to just shoot at him anywhere. Plan #1 was to pull the truck down to the barn at 10:00 and wait for him to show up.   At a little after ten, I pulled the truck just outside the barn.  This was highly unusual for me and the horses were nervous.  After a few minutes they settled down and went back into the stalls.  I sat there for what seemed an eternity.  I should have known better than to drink all that coffee.  It kept me awake, but my bladder was stretched to the max.  I could not get out or I would scare the hog away.  So I sat there in agony for a while longer.  The radio was calling in some good old tunes, but I had the volume down low, so as not to scare Henry.  Twelve o'clock came and went with no sign of Henry.  I had the light on at the rear of the barn so that I could see him come in from the woods and he would not be able to see me.  That did not work out very well.  By three a m I was in misery, but could not give up now.  Surely he would be here any moment.  After all, I was being as quiet as possible.  The horses smorted, snored and farted all night, but not a sound from Henry.  Where is that hog?
     When the sun came up I saw him asleep beside the horses. He had been sleeping all night while I was just sitting there. When I shot at him with my 45 he could not keep up with the horses.  I just knew that the barn was torn to hell and back.
     For plan #2, I borrowed a friends trap and baited it with sour corn. It took several weeks to coax him into the trap and then he would eat all around the trigger without tripping it. Frustrated Sheila put a mirror at the back of the trap and covered the back of that with bushes, and I piled brush around the trigger. That night when he saw his reflection in the mirror, he thought that was the prettiest pig he had ever seen, and tripped the trigger.
When I got out there that morning he was asleep. One of the pins did not latch when the gate came down. I eased over real quiet like to push it in. That 300 lb hog woke up, lunged at me like lightening, clacking his tusks and grunting like a freight train. In 53 years that brown spot still worked the same. When my son-in-law came over that afternoon I asked him to latch the pin. First time in ten years he was speechless. His face was white too.

Dirt Road

 Charles, go to Mr. Boonie's and get me a 5 lb. bag of flour. With these words I knew that grandpa had forgotten to to get it at Pat Tice's grocery store in Midland City. I don't remember the year, but the farm to market road paving project did not start until 1957 or 58 and the road was still dirt. Grannie was a kind soul, but was quick to lose her temper and I was glad this time it was aimed at grandpa. She was "hard of hearing"(completely deaf) so when I stayed with her, which was most of the time, I had to entertain myself and my imagination was pretty active.

This was my first outing by myself and I was grown ..I was a man. Boonie's was about a mile away and I had to walk. It was mostly sand beds and hot, the sand beds were hard to walk in and there was a steep hill about 3/4 of the way there. All the sand had washed to the bottom of the hill and the dirt on the hill was hard red clay.

Since I was off on an adventure I did not notice the clay on the way, but I was getting tired on the way back. All the road was open on both sides until you got to the fall of the hill. Woods were on both sides with big oaks spreading over the road making a tunnel going down to the bottom and the closer to the bottom the darker and colder it became. By the time I reached the bottom it was so oppressive that I could hardly stand.

Where the stream went under the road, the dirt was cracked and I could see the smoke and brimstone and smell the sulfur from hell coming out of the cracks and the cries of the tormented souls came wafting up out of the bottomless pit. If I go across, the dirt will give way and I will fall to my doom. I had to get home so I tiptoed ever so lightly over the cracked clay. Almost over and I felt it......the devil had grabbed my ankle, I could feel his hot bony grip with his long fingernails wrapped around my skinny leg. I kicked, screamed, messed my pants, and called for Jesus to save me. That did it, the grip was loosed, the skies cleared up, the cracks in the ground were sealed and I was almost home.

      As I rounded the curve with the fence post on each side of the ditch, I could see granny out in the yard.  I thought that she was looking for me.  That old crow was sitting on top of the fence post,pulling back on that cigar with a smug look in his eye.  "Almost didn't make it did you boy?"  Before I could answer him, feathers flew from his chest and he looked at me with a sorrowful expression, before he fell dead, to the ground  Just then I heard the crack of the 22 rifle.  Granny said with a satisfied voice,  "That old crow has been worrying my chickens to death. I think he worked for Satan".  You do not know how true that is, granny.  Looking back now I know that I was saved then, long before I walked the aisle at Wiggins Church. True story.

Full Moon

Sheila and I were riding our bikes around the ponds this afternoon to exercise the dogs, not us. There was a coolness in the air and a full moon rising over in the east, just clearing the top of the trees. All at once I was taken back about 50 years to that night in early September. Peanuts had been picked and the cotton was beginning to bust. Peanuts were picked with a mechanical picker, but most cotton was still picked by hand. It was the weekend, school was out, I had no bills, no interest in girls, no concern over how I was to make a living and no cares to cause me any worry. Now you know how my mood was when Benny and I and the two Nowell boys were to camp out that night. Maybe we were spending the night with them and just did not go to bed that night.
We started out that night playing in the barn loft, jumping from the rafters turning a flip and landing in the trailer full of cotton. We really packed that cotton into a bale before we were done. By the time we tired of that, everyone else had gone to bed for the night, so we headed out to the fields. The light from the moon was bright enough to see how to maneuver around without fear of stumbling into anything. The air was crisp without much moisture and you could see for miles around. We were running around yelling and hollering like a bunch of drunk red neck teenagers at a Bama Jam concert. The only problem was a deserted house on the edge of their cotton field that had been the scene of a murder. we went in to look at the blood on the walls. Thats what Ronnie and Wayne told us, but I think they were messing with us. It looked like red paint to me, but we were still excited and wondering if the ghost of the departed was to jump us at any minute. Some one moaned and we hauled **s.
The next morning Mr. Bounie McKay was at his store when we came in. When he found out that it was us screaming all night he was fit to be tied. We did not know that the cool crisp air would carry sound forever. It's a wonder he did not call the sheriff. He must not have told on us because we never did get into trouble for all that fun.

American Flag

Wiggins Church

I was watching Springfield Community Church on WJHG this morning and it took me back to Wiggins Church in Napier Field. The pastor was A. B. Martin and he was a good preacher, and the choir was pretty good. The best thing about this church was the people and the songs that they sung before the 11:00 service. Some of the songs I can still hear in my head.
Also during the summer was the highlight of my memories, vacation bible school. We would do crafts, study the bible, play with everyone, and then...off to the big oak tree at the end of the lot. Under the shade of this tree was King Solomon's treasure. Tables 40' long piled high with every imaginable cookie and treat that you could imagine. It was more than I could handle. Every pocket and free hand that I had was stuffed full. I was going to take all I could home because it was going to be a long time before Christmas came again. The Nowell boys called me cookie hog, but I did not care. Later I found out that Benny and Wayne were also called this. but they did not worry about it either. Boy for the good old days.

Starbuck & Dakota

Starbuck's wasp

I started this blog to showcase and talk about my art. I don't know if anyone is reading it so I can change the format and then go back if I want to. The blog is blackwhiteinthesouth.blogspot.com/. I promise you that it has nothing to do with race relations. My black German shepherd, Starbuck, has been stung by yellow jackets and he hates them with a passion. Walking him and my other shepherd, Dakota, around the pond, yesterday, I noticed that he was involved in something in the bushes. Most times they are on the trail of a rabbit, squirrel, or coon. By the way he was behaving, I could tell that it was more serious than that. When I got closer I could see the wasps flying around and he was catching them in his mouth and killing them. Then he went over to the bush, shook it vigorously, grabbed the nest in his mouth and took off. Poor wasps never stood a chance, but I had to plan a new route. He never did get stung.

Red Head Rooster

Rooster

You know chickens have it pretty good until time to feed the family. Someone feeds them, gives water and shelter to them and all they have to do is keep their head down when it is raining. Roosters on the other hand have to impress all the chicks, fight off younger roosters and keep the neighborhood children in check. Such was the case of the rooster sitting on the gate across the dirt road from grannie's house. It was a sweltering dog day afternoon in early August and Benny and I were playing outside after our nap. Normally I did not pay much attention to chickens and roosters other than to watch my step. But for some reason that day I walked across the road(you could do that in the old days because if a car was coming it was moving at about 15 miles per hour) stuck my thumbs under my armpits, flapped my elbows, and crowed at that red-headed rooster. Even if I would have had a shirt on, I don't think it would have helped. By the time he sailed down off that gate, struck me on my white bony chest and tattooed me for about an hour(10 seconds max.), Benny was hollering shoo, shoo. Shoo hell, get a gun and kill this crazy fowl. By the time I was able to pick myself up out of the sand and assess the damage Benny was rolling in the dirt, laughing, and ignorant to the fact that he was rolling in the blood that I had lost from the lacerations on my chest. Here comes grannie running from the house, all hollering and screaming. When she saw that I was all right, damned if she didn't start laughing. That was the first time I can remember having fried chicken during the middle of the week.

Chicken Yard

Chicken Mines

Talking about barefeet, there were more hazardous and deadly things to worry about than splinters. There were stone bruises, broken glass, and assorted barnyard droppings. Cows were in pastures and we all know that you can see it, hogs were in pens and you knew that if you were in the pen you were also up to your ankles in this mixed with mud. So if you got those two on you it was really your fault.. However chickens were always a surprise My grandparents did not have grass in their yard. If a blade of grass showed it's head, it was promptly hoed up. We all know that if chickens are allowed to roam free, it is dangerous. It is perfectly camouflaged to blend in with dirt. You can tell when it is too late, and to wash it off you have to go to the hand pump and pump water, which is hard to do when you are a little kid, wipe it off with sand, or track through the house to find your deaf grandmother and that is a more serious situation. So deal with it.
One day Wayne, Benny and I were playing with our rock cars and trucks in the sand when we saw Grannie chasing a chicken. This looked like more fun than we were having so we gave chase also. After Wayne caught the chicken he gave it to Grannie, She kneelled down on the dirt by a stump and had a stick with shiny metal on the end. Whummp, she turned the chicken loose and he ran around like the proverbial chicken with his head cut off. Benny pointed to the ground and what the hell? There was a chicken head laying there. No wonder I started to drink at an early age. Pretty soon they had put up a chicken pen . Not too long after that they started to buy their chickens at the store.

Life

Fiddle de de fiddle de dum, look out pain, look out suffering, look out heartache, here I come. I started out as a sharp jagged cumbersome rock, moving slow and cutting deep in the stream of life. As I moved further down the mountain, the current became faster; ok, that's cool, so far so good. Shhh. what's that? Whitewater rapids; helllllp!!! Bouncing off a boulder I lost anger and strife, crashing into another I lost pride and arrogance, hitting another alcohol tore loose(that hurt). Water is slowing down and I can breathe again. Back pain get out of the way, arthrithic hands move, dim eyes brighten, because I am going to glide right by you to that clear still water by the path of righteousness.
Father and Son stroll by in the cool of the evening. Son, pick up that smooth shining Charles stone. Father, Charles did not crumble when I squeezed him. Let Us put him in the gem bag and take him home. Well done. Still plenty of work left to do.

Red brick siding

Dirt Clods

When I awoke from my nap Benny and Wayne were already outside throwing dirt clods, trying to ring the opening at the top of the chimney. Wayne was seven and had a pretty good throwing arm but he was not having much luck. Heck the chimney was 25' in the air and the sun was glaring down on him. Benny was 5 and he was not having much luck either. So calm and collected 3 year old Charles walked barefoot across the old wood planks of the porch, shrugged off the splinter that went into his hardened feet and grabbed a dirt clod turned and threw it through the opening and ran like crazy to keep Wayne from beating him. It was funny later but he never laughed as hard as I did.
The house had asphalt siding that simulated red brick and was torn in places, but it was a good home for us. Later it was turned into a cow barn. Don't know what happened to the fireplace and chimney. I'm sure it was torn down and the bricks removed, else there would have been several broken plow points.

Crip, Benny, and me

Because I was so young when Crip stayed with us I did not know much about him other than he was a kind and gentle man. Except for the day we were sitting on the front porch and I called him an ugly word. When he tapped me pretty hard on the head with one of his walking sticks, I began to learn respect for people older and different than I. I feel bad about that incident to this day. My brother Wayne aka Paul told me the other day that Crip's father was a slave. When he was a young lad he was in the barn loft and saw a white man raping his young sister. He was so upset about that and trying to get down to stop it he fell and broke both legs. Being a poor black kid he had to heal the best that he could and that was why he was a cripple. He stayed with us for a season and then he was gone to help someone else. I saw him for a brief time when I was 6 or 7 and I remember him picking me up and holding me for a while. I don't know what ever happened to him, but I know that it was good.

Picking Cotton

My grandmother was the ultimate multitasker. Up before dawn, milk the cow, fix breakfast on a wood burning stove, make the biscuits from scratch, clean up the mess, go to the fields, leave there at 10:30 am, walk home and fix a substantial meal, clean up the mess, go back to the field, back at dusk dark, fix supper, clean up the mess, wash clothes, and still have time to relax. I'm tired just from typing what all she did. This is her when she was 45 and me at 45. I never did pick much cotton.

This is the Ozark, Alabama railroad depot. I guess the gentleman knows when the train is coming, or that the mules are too tired from working all week and pulling the family to town on Saturday to bolt and run when the train rolls in with the whistle blasting and the brakes a squealing like an old sow looking for her crying pigs.

Ozark Depot

Check out my website http://charlessims.webs.com/

Black eyed peas

I told yall that I would tell you about the black eyed peas that Crip could cook. We had a wood burning stove and it got really hot in the summer time when he cooked. He would open the windows, but the breeze did little to cool the house. No electricity, no fan, no air conditioning, but we were ignorant of all that. All we had ever known was the gentle breeze to cool us in the summer and a wood fire to warm us at night. My parents may have known that they were hot or cold, but us three boys thought that everything was good. Talk to yall later

Of course ya'll know that i dont remember those events, but was told of them later. However i do remember that in 1953 social programs had not worked themselves into the fabric of the old south. If you were handicapped, disabled, or down on your luck you had to depend on the kindness of strangers and family and or friends. Such was the case of "Crip" Walker, a crippled old black man that was in this rural community. I say old, he could have been in his thirties, because when you are three anyone over seven looks very old.

My grandfathers tenant house was small and decrepit. You could stand at the back door and look through the cracks of the walls and see who was standing on the front door. My mother had to go to work to help out, so my grandfather and father made a small room on the back porch for Ole Crip to sleep in. In return for this room and board he would cook and tend to us three boys. Later i will tell you of the delicious black eye peas that he could cook. But now I would like for you to take a look at the pen and ink drawings and paintings on turkey feathers that I did. If you are interested in purchasing these contact me at persimmondog@graceba.net for availability and prices,

Hey ya'll, let me tell you a story about black and white in the south. On the cold pitch black night of Monday March 13, 1950 the wind was blowing hard on my father as he hurried to get Dr. Coe from his home office in Midland City. By the time he and Dr. Coe got back to the tenant house on my grandfather's farm, my mother was well into a hard and dangerous labor.

We were a poor white sharecropping family living on my grandfather's farm, until my parents could get on their feet. So going to the hospital to have a child was out of the question. When the Dr. arrived he began to help my mother and soon I was born. Ah, the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck and I was born black. After working most of the night to keep me alive, the doc finially got me to my right color which was white. That was good news because it meant that I was alive. Times were hard in those days. I had 2 older brothers and 2 that miscarried.