Wayne, Benny and Me

     The future looked bright for my brothers and I in 1959.  All in all, it has been a pretty good life.  Completely different than what I imagined, but still a good life.  Hope yours is also.

Sheila and the Yellowjackets

     There was a cool breeze coming in ahead of the approaching cold front.  Such a wonderful refreshment after this long hot summer.  With record temperatures over the hundred degree mark and the worst drought in my lifetime, the rain that had just ended was a welcome respite.  The change in the weather has put us into the mood to put up a fence around our property.  We had been planning to do this for a couple of years, but it had been pushed to the back for one reason or another.  Not only the weather, but my neighbor pushing his dead tree limbs onto my side, helped to make it happen.  So here we go, working hard on another project.
     Saturday, we had cleared a walkway around the perimeter of the property.  I used the 8-N Ford tractor and bush hog to do this.  As I rode and bush hogged, Sheila was clipping bushes that were so close to the trees that I could not reach them with the tractor.   I went between two nice-sized pine trees , the ground was covered with pine straw and fairly clean.
     Starbuck, as usual, was with me, but Dakota was with Sheila.  When those two walked between the pines, Dakota yelped in pain.  She was covered with yellow jackets.  Sheila was raking them off Dakota's fur with her bare hands, oblivious to the ones swarming around her.  As she caught one, she would mash it between her fingers and dash it to the ground, and grab another one.  She was furious and declared war.
     On Friday, the day before, one had stung Sheila on the leg and she let it slide.  However, today the picked on her baby.  She stomped down the lane with her butt on her hips, leaning forward as she walked with her arms swinging stiff.  I knew all hell was going to spill out over 1625 Ashford Road.
     "You stirred up that yellow jacket nest and I'm going to kill them all" she exclaimed.
"Yes ma'am", I murmured.
"What?"
     That was more a rhetorical question, but I felt that I needed to answer anyway.
"O K", I spoke a little louder.
     I had been on the receiving end of her anger before and I knew the yellow jackets were in trouble.  As I watched her walk away, I smiled, for I knew what was coming.  In a few moments she returned, looking as if she were a haz-mat worker.  Even though it was still in the eighties, she was covered from head to toe.  Three pairs of my jogging pants, two long sleeve shirts, a cotton hoodie and over that a rain slicker buttoned to the top.  A can of Raid in one hand and a bucket of hot soapy water in the other.  She set the Raid down and poured the hot soapy water into the entrance hole.  That gave her a few seconds to step back and grab the Raid can.  When the soldiers came boiling out, she blasted them with the Raid. 
     The fog of insecticide was so thick, they could not see her.  If one got past the spray, she would knock it down and stomp on it.  There were so many that you could not tell the swarm from the Raid fog.  It was touch and go there for a moment, but then the fog lifted and she was the only one left standing.  At that point, she picked up a long stick, poked it into the hole and twisted it around.  A few more came out and she promptly dispensed them.
     She had locked the dogs in the pen to keep them out of harm's way, before going to war.  She was fighting something and I was working.  Starbuck could not stand for that.  Sheila desperately needed his help to win.  If he was not supervising me, I would surely mess up the  job.  How dare Sheila lock him up.  He was furious and fit to be tied.  When we went in for the night, I noticed that he had almost dug under the fence.  Another few moments and he would have been out to rescue us.  Good wife and good dog.

My Dog Starbuck

     Last week, Starbuck and I worked on the dried up pond with the backhoe.  At the end of that day I had a hydraulic hose to bust.  As I worked on repairing it, Starbuck stayed right with me.  His favorite place in the whole world is on the deck of the backhoe.  Now that he is getting older. after about thirty or forty jumps up and down, the last few are a little more difficult. 
     The only difference between yesterday and last Saturday was the hose that busted.  This time it was on the opposite side of the bucket, but the hose was virtually identical.  After replacing the hose, we were able to continue on with our work.  I was clearing a road through the woods between my neighbor and myself.  It was tight getting the hoe between the trees and a few small ones had to be taken out. 
     At one point, I had to get off the 'hoe and stretch my legs.  Starbuck was off chasing squirrels or digging up chipmunks or some other such nonsense.  As I stepped off the hoe, I stepped into a hole that was covered with leaves.  My ankle was twisted pretty bad and I yelled in pain.  No one was around for a thousand feet in either direction, and the woods were thick anyway.  Out of nowhere Starbuck showed up to check on me.  He licked my face and used his front leg to scratch me as if to say "Are you ok?"  Yeah buddy, just relax a minute, I'll be ok.
     Now that is a good dog.

Choctawhatchee Fishing

If you ever want to travel in time and space, build a fire in the cool night air. There is something about the wood releasing it's energy as flame, heat and the smell of smoke that acts upon the brain. As you stare, mesmerized, into the flame and red hot coals, you become transported to another time and place. Sheila and I had cut down trees in the yard and piled them up. Using a large lighterd stump, I set the pile on fire. As the sun vanished and darkness descended upon us, she went inside to fry chicken and make a potato salad.



The dogs and I were tired, they lay down for a nap, I sat in a lawn chair and stared into the fire. I went back to a time when my body was fresh, no arthritic hands, sore back or dim eyes. I was ten again, fishing on the banks of the Little Choctawhatchee river. Dad had carried my brother Benny and I, Junior Key, Harold Key and Otis Cole to Mr. Woodham's place. It was located near the Sylvan Grove church in Dale county. My brother Wayne, who was fourteen at the time, had only one thing on his mind and fishing was not it. We turned off the paved road at the old grocery store, traveled down the dirt road a couple of miles, turned into a field road that carried us to a large scope of woods. After a few minutes of driving through the woods on the rough path, going around washouts we finally saw the river. At this point it was really just a large creek.



When we got there it was late in the afternoon. There was plenty of light left in the day to cut sticks and sharpen the ends. We walked along the bank and every twenty feet or so we would drive the sharpened end of the stick into the soft dirt of the bank. To this we would tie a nylon string to the end. At six feet or so in length with a large lead sinker and treble hook. For bait we carried a tub of chicken livers. We always only carried two 1 pound tubs of livers, but that was never enough. Before it got completely dark we would overturn dead limbs and rocks to find salamanders. This dirty job always fell to Benny and me, but we didn't mind. The catfish always went for them anyway.



Our next job was to gather up wood for the fire. To get it going, we would get a few dry leaves burning and then dad would throw a half cup of clear moonshine on the small fire. After the explosion, in any wood remained on the pile, it was definitely on fire The first few trips to check the hooks was taken by us all. By the third trip all the men had started a poker game and it was up to Benny and me. Benny carried the lantern until we got to the hook. If the cork was underwater he would hand me the light and he would pull up the fish. Then I would have to carry the heavy string of fish in the dark and slippery mud. However I did not mind. At that moment I could tell that I was soon to leave childhood behind. My father loved good moonshine whiskey, but the other men liked beer. I asked if I could have one of those beers and dad, thinking that I would not like the taste, said "yeah, why not". My first taste was like drinking nectar from the gods. Nothing before or since that crossed my lips, tasted so wonderful. I could not wait for my next can. For the next forty years, I could not get my fill. At fifty, I decided to not drink any more. Thank God, I was able to lay it down. I am not an alcoholic, but the wonderful taste of beer will always be with me.



There was a full moon that night and the light was soft and eerie. The woods were thick and stretched for miles in either direction. All kinds of creatures lived and died there. Sounds near and far were strange and terrifying. The grown ups did not pay any attention, but we could see them looking at us out of the corner of their eyes. Benny and I played it cool though and acted as if nothing scared us. And after a while, it didn't.



After the fourth trip, we had enough fish for a grand feast. After Benny skinned the catfish, I gutted them. Dad had a big cast iron frying pan full of hot grease. After he battered them up in beer and Adam's Mill cornbread, he fried them to a crisp golden brown. The white meat would just melt in your mouth. Along about midnight, after dad had won all the money, and everyone was tired of walking the bank and drinking, we called it a night. Some of us slept on blankets and some of us fell asleep in the vehicles. As the sun was coming up in the east, the trees on the other side of the river, shrouded in the mist rising from the river presented a glorious sight. That along with the blue wisps of smoke wafting up from the smoldering campfire, is a sight that I will never see again. The sound of the wood pecker hammering on the hollow tree, the great blue heron honking and the fox in the distance, is etched in my mind. I was suddenly brought back to the present by "Charles' supper is ready." Now that is indeed a glorious sound.

Back Hoe

Had a busy day today.  I had to remove door hinges and spray them with oil rubbed bronze paint.  While I was waiting for the hinges to dry so that I could re-install them, I had a few minutes to work on my pond.  Just as I was finishing. two minutes away from heading to the barn, I heard it.  The pop, whoosh of the hydraulic line busting and the spray of the fluid going all over the left side.  I knew that I had to shut it down.  The only good thing, if one at all, was that the hose that busted can be replaced by me.  I won't even have to stoop down or remove any coverings to get to it.  Thanks for that.

Deer Rocks

This is a 26x34 inch plywod panel, with arrow heads.  The space between the points is filled with crushed pottery and the antlers are made with cut pieces of pottery.  This was out of the ordinary for me but a very enjoyable piece to do.

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.