Deer Rocks

This is a deer that was created by arrow points and crushed clay pottery to fill in the voids.  It is just one of the many projects created at my shop, C & S Signs.

Change to Illegal Alien

Looks as if these Indians are going to eat me out of house and home if one is not purchased soon. I wonder if I might be able to qualify them as illegal aliens and collect a government check each month.  Until then, they are going on a cellulose fiber diet.

Special Moments

     As married couples spend most of their lives together problems arise.  Such was this case of heat, work and Jehovah's Witnesses.  Saturdays are our day to sleep late, drink coffee until noon and do yard work,  By the time we go out to trim the weeds and mow the lawn, the temperature has usually reached well into the nineties,  This particular day, Sheila was going to help me with the yard work.  It was hot with nary a cloud in the sky.  She protects herself from the sun with long sleeves and pants and a wide brimmed floppy hat.  By the time I got the weed eater started, I was hot, tired and in a foul mood.  She was hot and impatient, with my mood transferring over to her.  We were both yelling crossly at each other over the sound of the two-cycle engine.  As loud as we were, the neighbors learned a few choice words that they probably can't forget.      When I handed the weed eater over to Sheila, she gunned it and the blue smoke filled the air.  As she walked around the corner of the house with her hips on her shoulders, never taking her eyes or anger off me.  The string at the end of the machine cut a path of destruction through the Hawthorne bushes.  She never saw the bushes or the black Jehovah's witness.  He was sitting in the shiney new car with a horrified look on his face.  All he could see was the weed eater carving a path down the side of  the new car.  As Sheila made it past the car, just inches from the paint without touching it, he breathed a sigh of relief.  Too quick.  Thinking that I was out of earshot, she backed up.  His eyes and mine were locked up in horror and we knew that there was not a thing that we could do to prevent disaster.  She moved up the driveway again, just inches away from the paint.
     Watching the scene unfold, the man's wife got into the car.  As soon as she buckled up and he cranked the car, they lost their religion.  When he passed Sheila, she finally saw him and her face turned red.  We have had Jehovah's witnesses since then, but I have not seen that man or car in the yard again.
     Sheila was doing the yard work because I was recovering from rotator cuff surgery.  Thanks baby.

Hen House

This is the way I remember my Grandma's chicken yard.  Those were simpler times back then, but more physical work.

Ashford's Turnip Wash

     Everyone that has ever had anything to do with turnips, knows that because they grow close to the dirt, they are hard to clean.  In the early fifties, water had to be drawn from the well by rope, or a hand pump.  A few lucky folks, in the country had electric pumps, but they were aggravating at the best of  times.  The turnips had to be cleaned, the dirtier they were the less money you received.
     Most of the black folks that came into Ashford on the dirt road from Cowarts, to sell their turnips, would stop at Mill Creek just before town.  Many of them could not pump enough water by hand to clean the greens.  The creek was fairly large and had plenty of running water to rinse the water away.  There would be a crowd of fifteen or twenty folks along the banks, washing turnips and stacking the clean ones on "croaker" sacks spread out on the wet dirt.  Even though it was cool, they had to beat the bushes to run off the moccasins.  Most would leave, but the old female would stay and have to be killed.
     The women always kept a sharp eye out for the remaining snakes.  The current was strong and it did not take long to rinse the dirt away.  They always breathed a sigh of relief when they finished and could leave.  When one left, their spot was quickly taken up by someone new.  The men would stand around the mule and wagons and old trucks, smoke rolled up Prince Albert, spit, scratch their butts, drink dollar-a-pint red wine and talk some stuff.  Old mammy would climb up out of the ditch, dry her legs, straighten up and yell, "Joe Freddy, git off yore lazy ass, load them greens and let's git."  "Yes sum,"  he replied.  That's how Mill creek got the nickname "The Turnip Wash".
     The Turnip Wash, played a role in my married life as well.  When Sheila and I were in our mid-twenties, I wanted to go fishing.  It was Saturday night, the moon was bright and we had no fishing license, so off to The Turnip Wash we go.  If Sheila knew now that we needed a fishing license then, she would be worried to death now that we might still get a ticket.
     I had a few beers under my belt and was in charge of the flashlight.  After rigging Sheila's cane pole and hooking the worm, she laid the line out by the old stump.  Becoming bored pretty soon, she began to raise and lower the worm out of and into the water.  The worm was getting sea sick and was ready for a fish to put him out of his misery.  The alcohol and laughter had me slipping and sliding on the muddy bank next to the water.  "I caught one, I caught a fish", she squealed with delight.  "Ain't no way", I laughed, "the hook ain't even wet."  "I did too!" and I could feel the excitement make a slight turn to anger.  "O k", so I shined the light at the end of her cane pole and yep, she had hooked a fish.  The poor cat fish had been sleeping soundly in a warm bed and she had snatched him up by the side.  I laughed so hard I fell down onto the muddy bank.  "Well, you did not specify how we had to catch them" she said.  Life has been good, albeit more for me probably.

Moonlit Barn

     The trip to the barn was extraordinarily long.  Not a sound on either side, except for the footsteps that shattered the silence.  A bright December moon was casting mysterious shadows on the cold frigid ground.  As the north wind blew extreme cold into every crack and piece of loose clothing.  There was no escaping the bitterness.  The dog walked alongside in loyalty, not understanding the forlorn somber mood, but sensing the need for loyalty.  This was their second trip in as many hours and the horses had already been fed.  There was not even a hint of the dog herding Bob and Princess into the stalls of the red barn.  Bewildered, they marched silently into the open stalls of the old barn.
     Each tree stood at attention, saluting, holding their branches highlighted by the light of the cold gray moon, up to the dark sky.  Winter had stolen their leaves, giving the skeletal appearance of a fine tuned, well oiled fighting army honoring one of their fallen comrades.  Standing as an old friend, the red barn was comforting and inviting.  As with all old friends, it needed some cosmetic work.  Siding that needed to be replaced, damaged by damp hay stacked to the rafters.  Lights, dimmed by endless clouds of dust that had settled on the bulbs, shone weakly on the walls.  Boards that had been kicked and gnawed over the years.  The smell of horse manure and urine overwhelmed the senses.
     In the tack room with bridles, halters, bits and lead ropes was a calm peace.  One saddle with the left stirrup tied up in the hero position.  Even the horses were observing in silence.  That beautiful stone bridge over the great divide filled with dark despair, was inviting and tempting.  The sound of the sirens singing their hypnotic songs could be heard from the other side.  The beauty was overwhelming, but the cost was much to high.  It could change the destination forever.  Patience is a virtue and twenty or thirty years would go by in an instant.
     At that moment the wind changed and blew in warm air and renewal of life from the south.  The mice came out, in search of food, scurrying here and there.  The horses started whinnying and Bob was rearing up, turning and running into the paddock and banging his muzzle on his feed bowl.  Princess was turning circles in her stall and biting on the boards separating the two stalls. The dog, excited by the noise and change of atmosphere, turned suddenly and knocked the cocked rifle over.  As it fell it discharged, a loud noise, a flash of light, the smell of gunpowder and sudden complete utter darkness.  Halfway over the grand stone bridge, heaven's choir began singing the Haleaula Chorus as the wonderful reunion occurred.
     This is an entry to a mini-challenge on writeandreview.webs.com.  The challenge was to describe a barn from the point of view of a father just learning that his son was killed in the war, and not mention the father, son or war.  If you have time, let me know how I did.

Setting Out Hooks on the Little Choctawhatchee

     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.