Grams Writes

The highway ran right down the middle of the pecan grove, straight as an arrow with only an occasional hill. If there were ever a road that invited drag racing, this was it. And the invitation was accepted just about every weekend. However, there was one hitch. It was a public roadway, other vehicles traveled that road, and it was frequently patrolled. But, those factors would never deter a bunch of south Georgia boys.

On this particular night, a sizable number of Tift County high school boys were at the pecan grove, or it seemed that way. Cars, but mostly trucks, were pulled onto the side of the road so their head lights could light up the “drag strip.” Now, every race needed someone to start the race, so that was Brian’s job. Good move on his part.

The cars were lined up, with motors racing, and Brian standing between them. When he dropped his arms, the race would officially begin. Suddenly, without warning, kids began running to their vehicles and tearing out of there. The two racers backed around and headed toward home. Brian had not heard the sirens, but by the time the sheriff’s car lights topped the hill he’d figured it out. But there was no place to run. There he stood in the spotlight.

Brian walked to his truck and waited for the sheriff. The sheriff asked the usual questions and then asked, “Son, you been racing?” “No, sir, I haven’t.”  The sheriff gave him a knowing look and said, “Go on; get out of here and don’t let me catch you out here again.”

I learned of this several years later, long after he was too old and too big for me to discipline.  Did he heed the sheriff’s advice? I really don’t know, but I doubt the sheriff’s visit completely stopped the weekend drag races. I bet they’re still going on.

Grams

The time we lived at the mission house was not so bad. The house was on the campus of the school and there was a little church that had services every once in a while. It was on a dirt road off Highway 82 east of Tifton, past Alapaha, Georgia. Now, I’m talking about down south, almost to the Okefenokee Swamp.

There are a lot of things to recommend south Georgia. One is its climate, very mild for the most part except in the summer. Then it is extremely hot and humid. Because of the climate, planting season came early and stayed late–two crops a year. As you’d imagine, this was a highly agricultural area, kind of laid-back, quiet, and gentle.

One thing that was important to the boys was the fishing and hunting. That was their past time. Almost year round there was something to do and that was important to keeping boys out of trouble. I decided a long time ago I’d rather they were fishing and hunting than running the streets with other guys with nothing to do. That just spelled trouble anyway you wanted to look at it.

But there was one activity that beat all the others hands down–the yearly rattlesnake round-up. Yep, you heard me right. Each year Tift County held its annual rattlesnake round-up. A guy would pull in his trailer at the fairgrounds and set up to milk the rattlesnakes. This guy would pay so much a pound and the one who brought in the longest snake got more money. I think there was some way you were paid by the foot. I’m not sure about that but I know a lot of high school and college guys made good money during a short period of time. We often went to watch as the guy milked the snakes. It was very interesting and scary.

Brian and his buddies had been hunting rattlesnakes and had been lucky, if you call that lucky. I’m not sure how they caught the snake, but they had him in a 5 gallon bucket in the back of his truck. They were headed to weigh up. Brian and Chris with another guy sat in the cab. Several other boys rode in the back of the truck. The road they were on was a “washboard” dirt road. Now for city guys, that is a rode packed so hard that the ruts and ridges in the rode bounces you around like you were riding across a wash board. If you don’t know what that is, then it really doesn’t matter, I guess.

Anyway, Brian heard some yelling and scrambling around in the bed of the truck. Then boys began to jump out of the truck, landing on gravel, tumbling and rolling into the bushes beside the road. Brian jammed on his brakes. When he got to the back of the truck he understood why all of the excitement. The bumpy road had jarred the lid off the bucket and that rattlesnake, all 6 feet, had crawled out of the bucket. Suddenly, the back of that truck was no place to be.

I’m not sure what happened to the snake, but I think that ended the round-up for those guys, at least for that year.

Grams

The man we rented from had put a sow with some little pigs in the pasture next to our house. That was the biggest pig I’d ever seen. I’m not sure why they were separated from his other pigs, but there they were.

One Saturday morning I looked out the front door and the pigs had gotten out. Somehow the mother pig and her piglets had gotten through the fence and were roaming around our yard. I knew they needed to be back inside the fence but I had very little experience with pigs; actually, no experience. So, what were we going to do? Surely we could get a momma pig and her babies back inside the fence. I called Brian and Chris.

We all got out in the yard and tried to round them up and head them toward the gap in the fence. Just about the time we thought we’d made it, one of the pigs would decide to check out something in another part of the yard. While we were getting that one started back toward the others, another one would get loose. Finally, the old sow was back inside the fence and the little ones were making their way toward her. Once inside, then we would shore up the hole in the fence so they couldn’t get out again.

We had been at this for the most part of an hour when the last little pig started across the gap in the fence. Out of frustration Brian put his foot under the pig and lifted him across into the pasture. Now, that was the wrong thing to do. That ole momma pig gave a snort and out through that hole she came, right in behind Brian. She had eyes for no one but Brian.

Brian took off running with that ole sow close on his heels. Chris and I were laughing so hard we could barely hear Brian’s calls for help. After about three laps around the house, Brian hollered, “Mom, bring me a hoe or a shovel. Anything the stop this pig.” I sent Chris for the hoe, handed it to Brian as he came past me, and watched as he turned on the sow. Threatening her with the hoe, he gradually headed her back through the fence to where her piglets waited for her.

While he was fixing the fence, Brian glared at me. “I don’t see what was so funny. How’d you like to have a mad momma pig chasing you around the house?” I was still laughing. I’d heard people talk about being as mad as an ole wet hen. I didn’t know if this was the same sort of thing, but I can’t imagine a wet hen being any more annoyed with someone than that ole sow was with Brian that morning.

Grams

The boys and I were living at the Mission House. That’s what we called it anyway. One of the members in our church had a relative whose home was vacant while they cared for their parents. We were told we could rent the house furnished, at least until something better came along. The only problem was the heat pump was broken and the guy did not plan to get it fixed until they were able to move back home. So, if we wanted it, we’d have to take it as is. By this time we were ready to be in our own place so we took it.

Now to begin with, things went well. It was fall and winters in south Georgia did not get very bad, usually. Anyway, there was a huge fireplace in the den and we could used electric heaters and blankets if we had to. So, we’d do what we had to do.

Winter was unusually harsh, coming early with cold rain. There was some wood already there and we were told we could use it. But because of our delight in an open fire, we used the wood up quickly. Yep, you guessed it. We ran out of wood just about the time it got really cold.

Finances were kind of tight and I didn’t know where I was going to get anymore firewood. At night we’d be ok. My concern was mother. She was at the house all day and would need heat. I kept Chris home from school the day the wood ran out. His job was to hunt dead fall wood and drag it to the house, break it up and keep the fire going. Somehow I’d find some way to get wood before the next morning.

That night as we sat around the supper table, the boys looked at me, “Were you able to get any wood ordered today?” “No, I just don’t have the money.” I began to think of who I could leave mother with the next day. It was a couple of days til payday and then I could order enough to last a while. About that time there was a knock at the door. It was way after dark and in the country folks didn’t come visiting that late. Brian got up to see who it was.

A man we didn’t know stood on the steps. “Is this where Dianne Sargent lives?” Brian told him it was. Then the man said, “I was told to deliver this load of wood to your house. If you don’t mind me and my man here will stack it for you here on the carport. Will that be ok?” We all looked at each other, hardly believing our ears. “Who told you to do this?” The man just smiled and said, “Ma’am, I was just told to deliver this wood to your house and that’s what I’ve done.” And with that he turned and began stacking wood.

When the man drove away, this woodpile reached higher than Brian’s 5′11″ and ran the full length of the carport. I didn’t have to buy wood the rest of the winter. Brian and Chris had to split some of the wood, but that didn’t matter. God had supplied our need in a most ample way. Didn’t matter that it needed splitting. Well, Brian and Chris might have argued that point a little, but I doubt it. They were just glad to be able to be warm.

Grams

Brian, Chris, and I were all in school at Free Will Baptist Bible College at the same time. Chris and I lived on the second floor of what is now President Pinson’s home, behind the boys’ dorm. Brian lived in the dorm. Naturally, we saw quite a bit of each other.

Brian was walking toward me and I could tell he was upset. Well, that’s not exactly the word for it. He was furious. I’d better see what this was about, so I stopped to wait on him. When he got even with me, I asked what was wrong. Seemed to me like he was late for class. He replied through clinched teeth, “Yes, I’m late because of a bird.” He turned and pointed to some wires that stretched across the drive right where everyone had to walk. “Just about the time I got under those wires, a bird decided to bomb me, right in the top of the head. So, I had to go back to the dorm and wash my hair. Then no sooner had I gotten back to the exact same spot, I got bombed again. So, I’m just now getting back from my third hair washing for today.”

I grinned and then I laughed. Wrong thing to do! “Mom, it’s not funny. I have missed my first period class and what kind of excuse am I going to give?” All I could advise him was to tell what happened. It was so far-fetched I’m sure his professor would never believe he was making that up. With that he walked off, fuming that the day was probably going to go downhill for sure.

I grinned again and I’m grinning now. Sometimes I miss that thick mane of hair. Oh well, the army took care of that for sure.

Grams

Billy’s mom brought us big glasses of iced tea. The afternoon was quiet. We knew we’d soon have to go home, but we didn’t want to. We sat in the swing by the creek, sipping our tea, watching Brian play. The moment almost defied interruption. Linger we would, but as the sun dropped behind the tree line, we gathered up our things, got our son, and headed home. The leaves on the big oak tree fluttered, swaying to a gentle wind as if they too acknowledged our departure.

Monday morning began like most Mondays. The start of a new week brought the usual frantic rush to get breakfast, lunch packed, and Billy out the door to work. I always let Brian sleep as long as he wanted to. Now that was for his benefit, but honestly it was a quiet moment for me. The time between when Billy left for work and Brian got up afforded me a few moments for myself or to get a jump start on my chores, leaving me time to devote just to him. It was time well spent.

This particular Monday morning took a turn none of us expected. Billy’s mom called not long after Billy left for work. I could tell she was angry . . . extremely angry. “Is Brian up yet?” “Well, no he’s not. Why? What’s wrong?” “That young man filled the gas tank on my riding mower with sand!” I stood there with my mouth open unable to utter a sound. There was nothing I knew to say that could fix this. She went on, “I started it up this morning and the motor is completely ruined. I’m going to have to buy a new mower or have this one fixed. You tell Brian if he even looks at my mower I’m going to whip him within an inch of his life.” And with that she hung up.

So, now to tell Billy. I wasn’t sure just how this was going to work out. Amazingly Brian survived, even though he never lived down the time he used sand for gasoline when playing service station. After his grandmother had gotten over what he’d done, when he’d walked by her new mower he’d say, “Maw maw, I’m looking at it.” Eventually she got to where she could laugh about it. She’d shake her head and say, “He’s one kid who just about outdid me.”

If she were alive today, I think she’d be very proud of the men he and Chris have become. Their mother is.

Grams

On this night the community center was open for local talent, singers and musicians, to perform. Billy’s country music band was going to play. The night was hot and humid, just like late June or early July evenings are supposed to be in Mississippi. People grouped together, laughing and talking, enjoying time together. Some even listened to the music, but mostly folks just liked getting together.

All of this made for a good time, unless you happened to be eight months pregnant with an excited five year old who refused to stay where you put him. Billy’s mother had offered to help me with Brian that evening so I could go. Her help proved invaluable. Between the two of us surely we could keep a small boy corralled. What were we thinking?

About half way through the program, Billy’s mother told me she couldn’t find Brian. So the search began. We checked every place we knew to look, even asking some men to check the men’s restrooms. No Brian. By this time people were walking the halls and the grounds in search of Billy and Dianne’s boy.

Mrs. Sargent and I were standing just outside the door to the community center when we heard a snicker. Wait a minute! That was coming from above us. As we both looked up, Brian’s straw-colored hair peered over the edge of the roof. “Brian, what are you doing up there? How did you get up there?” The questions just poured. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Can you get down?” “Oh sure, Mom. See!” And down he came. The building was made from block and brick. At the corner of the building, the bricks stuck out in a crisscross pattern, making perfect little places for a boy’s foot. Brian had climbed up to the roof, using these bricks as stepping stones.

When he reached the ground, Brian darted into the building and headed straight for the men’s room. I looked at Mrs. Sargent and she was boiling. She told me between clinched teeth, “You wait here. I’m getting that young man.” Somehow she managed to get him out of the men’s room. That night as we drove home, she shook her head, and said, “Boy, I’ve never seen a kid yet that could outdo me, but tonight was close to being the first.”

Grams

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

I’m the eldest of three sisters. I guess that’s the reason my sisters both believed pretty much anything I’d tell them. And being of a mischievous disposition, I often took advantage of that.

Judy told me she had a cold sore in her mouth and asked if I knew what to put on it. Well, I’d seen daddy use alum powder for fever blisters and I figured cold sores were a close cousin. So I told her I’d fix her what daddy used on his. She dutifully followed me into the kitchen.

I mixed a tablespoon of alum powder with about 4 ounces of water. I stirred it up until it was dissolved really good and told her to gargle with it, making sure she got plenty on the cold sore. Without a question she took a mouthful. Now for those of you who don’t know what alum is, it’s a powder used in pickling and it can be used for medicinal purposes. The down side of it is that it is extremely bitter.

Judy was standing at the kitchen sink and I had moved around to the back door proceeding to unlatch the back screen. When the bitterness hit her, her eyes flashed, and she glared at me. She began to drool, unable to swallow fast enough to take care of the amount of saliva that filled her mouth. Between all the spitting and carrying on, she told me in quite emphatic terms that she was going to beat me. And I knew she meant every word she was saying.

Now my problems multiplied quickly because I hung around long enough to enjoy the results of my prank. Too late I took off out the back door, trying to outrun her. Now she was a sprinter in middle school so I had no chance. My problem was doubled by the unwillingness of the gate in the back yard fence to open fast enough. True to her promise, she caught me and she beat me.

The funny part of it is that she still believed anything I told her. Yeah, I had a lot of fun growing up with her.

Grams

What is that noise? Sounds like one of the kids. They knew not to wake me. I’d worked from 6 p.m. until 6 a.m. the night before and needed to rest. I heard Brian tell Chris not to wake me. “Chris, please don’t wake momma. She’ll bring the alcohol.” About that time my bedroom door opened with a bang. “Mom,” Chris yelled, “Brian’s hurt.” “What’s wrong with him? What happened?” “He fell out of a tree.” Now I’m wide awake.

I headed for the front door. There Brian sat on the edge of the porch, his legs sticking straight out in front of him. When I got to where I could see the damage, he looked like he’d been peeled from head to toe. Dressed only in cut-off jeans, there was hardly any place that did not have a scratch, bruise, or cut. Tears rolled down his face, dripped onto his chest, and continued their journey, leaving tracks in the dirt on his belly.

“Son, what have you done? How did you get hurt like this?” He looked up at me and through the tears he said, “I was after a lizard.” “A lizard?” “Yes, Ma’am.” Sure enough, still clutched in his hand was a green lizard. The tail moved, so it was still alive. “Well, Brian, how did you fall?” He pointed to a tree at the edge of the yard. “I climbed up that tree after him and when I started back down, every limb I stepped on broke with me. I fell down through the tree, sliding all the way down the trunk. But I got the lizard.”

“You know I’ve got to clean these cuts and scratches, don’t you?” “Yes, Ma’am, I know.” I turned to tell Chris to get the alcohol, but he already had it, cotton balls and all. As gently as I could, I swabbed all the cuts and scratches and put band aids were needed.

I got him inside; mother fixed a hot lunch and then he piled up on the couch. Soon he was asleep. Now if I could get back to sleep.

Grams