Grams Writes

My father was simply a country boy living in a big city. Opportunities to fish and hunt did not present themselves often, but that was due more to him working 40 hours a week, pastoring a church full-time, and carrying 18-20 hours a semester in Bible college. Therefore, when he had the opportunity to get a break, it was well deserved and needed. One such break happened when he was in revival in south Mississippi.

Some of the men of this particular church decided to take daddy hunting one night after services. I do not remember what kind of game they were to hunt, but I do remember hearing them talking about how quiet they’d have to be walking through this one area. Apparently, to get to the place they wanted to hunt required them to go through an area where Brahma cattle bedded down. As I understand it, these cattle are not like what most of us see on farms. They are larger than the usual cow, have a hump on their back, and are very aggressive, especially when disturbed when bedded down for the night. At least that’s what these men were saying. I remember sitting, listening wide-eyed, as the men told daddy how dangerous these cattle could be and that extreme quiet was a must. They told him that if a cow got up and started toward him, the only thing to do was to climb a tree. Well, daddy felt sure he could do all of that.

The story goes that they were creeping along, being very careful not to wake any of the Brahma cattle, when one of the men slipped away from the group. He hid in a bush close to where my daddy was and began shaking the bush and making sounds like a bull, stomping around and making all kinds of noise. My dad threw down his gun and jumped for the lowest limb on the nearest tree.

The night air filled with all kinds of racket. Not from Brahma cattle disturbed from sleep, but from the men rolling on the ground, laughing at the preacher, the only one sitting in a tree.

Were there really any Brahma cattle in that wood? Yeah, but they were all bedded down, not in the least perturbed by a preacher in a tree and a bunch of men whooping and hollering because they’d pulled a good one.

Daddy went to that area for many years to hold revival services and that story never grew old from the telling.

Grams

The Foot Log

The gray sky hung low and heavy, almost touching the ground. A mist rose to mingle with the rain, soaking and chilling as it fell. No wind. All was quiet and just plain cold. No birds, no sounds, nothing. I wondered if this was the way it felt when the earth was young.

I wasn’t the only one feeling like we’d made a big mistake in coming on this camping trip. I could tell from their faces that others shared my sentiments also. There was no way it had been this cold and wet when we left the comfort of our beds to spend a day “roughing” it in the woods. Maybe it’s colder and wetter in the woods. I don’t know, but that sounded logical to me.

Daddy had agreed to take the boys from the church on a hunting/camping trip and, of course, we girls wanted to come along too. So, in trying to be fair to all the youth in the church, he had agreed to take anyone who wanted to go. That was his first mistake. His second? Going camping in the fall after the winter rains had set in. In all fairness to him, he had planned the trip for just the guys and it was to be a serious hunting trip, not a social for the young people at church. His third mistake was failing to understand the reason girls would want to go on a hunting/camping trip in the first place.

We had ridden into the wilderness (that’s what it seemed like to me) a long way over bumpy, potholed, dirt roads. Finally it was time to park the vehicles and walk to the campsite. That meant all the gear had to be carried and everybody had to do their part. I didn’t remember this being part of the deal. But, not to be outdone, we all grabbed a pack and started for the campsite.

Before we could set up camp we had to cross this creek. Now the problem was that the rains had caused the creek to be higher than it was supposed to be. Someone had this “great” idea of a foot log, which lay perfectly across the creek and offered convenient access to the campsite. So, across the foot log we would go.

Daddy went first. Now in an effort once again to be fair, my daddy was a woodsman. He hunted and fished and knew a lot about survival, long before all the survival shows we have today. I never doubted his ability to take care of us while in the woods. He had the heaviest pack and carried his shotgun. He told us he was going to clear the leaves off the log so our footing would be sure. The rest of the group waited as he started across. He walked carefully, kicking the leaves off the log before each step. He was walking in rhythm, swinging his leg and kicking the leaves. Then the inevitable happened. For some reason, still unknown, daddy lost his rhythm and instead of kicking leaves, his right foot kicked his left ankle and there was this big splash. Daddy had kicked his feet out from under him and gone feet first into the creek. Remember the rains? He went all the way under. Only his shotgun could be seen; he had managed to hold it above his head and avoided getting it wet.

While daddy was scrambling up the bank, the rest of us hurried on across. The next thing on our agenda was to build a fire. Daddy needed to get dry and warm as fast as he could. He was our guide, caretaker, provider, and anything else we needed. We had to take care of him. So, as only young people can do, we immediately set up camp; one of the other men built a fire and looked after the preacher. Before long we had a semblance of a meal ready and daddy was in some dry clothes; well, they were almost dry. We sat around the fire, talking about what had happened, and laughing at the preacher who had been the only one to fall into the creek. Somewhere along the way we had forgotten the rain, the cold, and the discomfort. We were actually enjoying ourselves.

There are several lessons one can learn from a day like I’ve just described: don’t be over confident; plan carefully, considering any and all possibilities; be prepared for emergencies; make the most of a bad situation; even cancel plans when conditions warrant it. But the one thing that has come to my mind down through the years when I recall that day has been people’s ability to laugh at bad situations; to turn a bad day into an enjoyable outing. And that’s what it was–a good day.

Grams

We were not referred to as the youth group back in the 60s. We were simply the young people at church. We had a Sunday School class, a teacher, and a church-elected volunteer youth leader. No salary, just someone who loved kids and wanted to help keep them in church. Often as not, it was the preacher and in my case it was my daddy.

Television had been part of the average household for only about a decade. Video games were not even a glimmer on some geek’s brain. And who knew what a geek was? So youth activities would be tame compared to today’s ski trips, white water rafting, etc. But we were experts at planning “get-togethers.”

A “get-together” took on the character of the one who planned it. But, usually we just ended up hanging out together, eating, playing games, maybe even listening to music. There was something special about just being together. We belonged; we were part of something larger than ourselves, even if our numbers were small.

When you think about it, that’s not much different from what kids do today. The youth leader is usually paid a salary, the activities may be on a larger scale and more expensive, but kids still seem to like just hanging out. They still need to belong to something larger than themselves.

Ever notice that the more things change, the more they stay the same?

Grams

Mother had finished with me; she had two more to go. I was told to sit in the rocker on the front porch and not get dirty. This was the usual routine when getting ready to go anywhere, especially to church. Sometimes I was told to sit in the living room on the couch or a chair, but seldom was I allowed to go outside while mother bathed and dressed my sisters. For some reason she thought she could trust me to do what she told me to do. And for the most part I did. But this time it was different.

This was not our porch; this was not even our house. Back in the 50s whenever a preacher “ran” a revival the entire family went along. There were few hotels, at least where we were, so we always stayed with a family in the church where the revival was being held. This particular family eventually became lifelong friends of our family, which made it really neat to stay there. You didn’t have to always be on your very best behavior, and that made it especially nice for me.

So there I sat, starched dress and slip, hair fixed just so-so, and those dreaded patent leather shoes. Johnny (not his real name) came around the corner of the house. I asked him what he’d been doing? (He was about me age.) He told me he’d been riding a billy goat. He cocked his head to the side and said, “I bet you can’t ride him.” Well, that did it. Of course I could ride a billy goat. If he could, I could and I told him so.

We went around to the barn and the goat was penned up in the barn lot with other animals. Actually, they were pigs. Anyway, Johnny caught the goat and held him while I got on. I grabbed hold of the horns, Johnny let go of the goat, and he took about three steps and balked. I didn’t know that’s what you called it but I learned quickly what it felt like. Over the goat’s head I sailed, right into a hog wallow. Know what that is? It’s a muddy hole a hog has wallowed out and it stinks worse than anything you can imagine.

When I hit the ground I remembered the starched dress and the patent leather shoes, and mother. Too late! I had to face her. That most definitely qualified as doomsday. Needless to say, mother was none too happy. Neither was I when she finished with me, again.

Grams

Queen had never been shampooed nor taken to a vet for shots. She had no special kind of food filled with vitamins and minerals, formulated to cause her to live beyond the normal life span of a dog. But she was healthy. She ate good; the same food we ate, supplementing her diet with a rabbit or two. And if she got hurt in any way, my dad took care of it. He always knew what to do for cuts, ticks, even snake bites. Queen was a working farm dog.

I really don’t know how old she was, but I remember her standing guard at the gate to prevent strangers from coming into the yard. I was three at the time. Queen’s chief responsibility was to watch over my sister and me when we were in the yard playing. When anyone came to the gate, even if mother said it was OK to come in, Queen always stayed between my sister and me and whoever had come to the house.

Queen was not a pretty dog and I don’t remember having any particular feelings one way or the other for her. I was only three and she was the watch dog. She was not a pet that was allowed in the house. She had a function and she performed it very well.

Daddy needed one more crop and he’d have the farm paid for; it would belong to him, all of it. But God had other plans for him. God had called him to preach! He faced a major decision in his life. Owning his own farm had been a life’s dream for him and he was within one year of reaching that goal. But, now God was redirecting his life, and ours as well. I don’t remember how long it took him to decide what he would do, but I do remember that soon we were driving 100 miles to Bibb County, Alabama for daddy to preach.

After about a year, daddy became pastor of a church and we had to move. The farm had to go. He was a preacher now, not a farmer. The crop that would have paid the farm free of the bank was ready to harvest, but daddy didn’t have time to gather it. One Saturday there was a big sale. The crops, the farm equipment, the mules and other livestock, and the land were all sold. We had burned our bridges behind us. From here on out my daddy would be a preacher and I would be a PK, a preacher’s kid.

I never did know who got Queen.

Grams

We had heard about it and had been in a few places that had it, but air conditioning was only a dream for most poor folks in the deep South back in 1953. Maybe lack of air conditioning is one of the reasons most of us kids stayed out of doors as long as we could.

Southern Mississippi steamed. People, animals, even plants sweltered in the heat. The only reprieve was a vagrant breeze or when the sun went behind a cloud. The occasional summer shower cooled the air just for a bit, then the heat would return. There was one thing worse and that was being inside.

I squirmed; my mother glared. Nothing was stirring but me and the June bug that flew in and out of the open window. There were no screens so the insects had free range. Adding to my discomfort were the starched dress, slip, and patent leather shoes mother insisted that I wear. There seemed to be an unwritten law that girls had to suffer unbearable torture in order to become a lady. But being a lady was not what I was interested in. I wanted out of there. I had heard a bunch of boys talking about playing baseball. I could play ball just as good as any boy there and I intended to prove it. I sighed. Would he never get through?

What was that? Sounded like someone was gagging. My dad had stopped talking and was choking on something. I looked at mother; she seemed a little concerned but she didn’t go to him. Dad turned his back to the audience, walked to the window behind the pulpit, put his finger down his throat, and pulled out the biggest June bug I’d ever seen. That was the end of the sermon for that day. The June bug had scratched the back of my dad’s throat and he was not able to finish preaching. Even today, June bugs remain one of my favorite bugs. I’ve always wondered if that June bug thought dad’s mouth was just another open window.