Hard Heads and Hard Times

Jack was shouting “Gee”, or turn left. However, the ornery red mule continued to walk straight, dragging the cultivator over rows of young corn rather than down them and in the process uprooting some of the plants. Jack finally stopped Red by abruptly hauling on the lines.

Mopping sweat with his bandanna, he mused, “This ornery cuss is out to get me. “ Jack McCartie was seventeen and six feet one inch in height with broad shoulders, narrow hips and weighing in at 185 pounds. The thick curly auburn hair was in sharp contrast to his blue eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face. Sinewy hands and biceps that bulged under the cotton shirt revealed unusual strength for such a young man. In Paris or Rome, perhaps he would be a model for some artist; in North Carolina, he was only a farmer’s son.

Working the dusty red clay fields of the Piedmont since sunup, Jack as always looked forward to his moms' cooking and a cold glass of milk from the crock in the springhouse. He stood with the lines draped over his shoulder, while Red with head hanging and eyes closed, shifted from side to side.

As Jack contemplated lunch and a respite from the sun, a horse fly settled on his shoulder and drew blood. Swinging a hand to shoo the fly he accidently flicked the lines with a loud pop, across the broad rump of Red. The mule bolted pulling the lines from Jack’s hands.

Dad, will kill us both, thought Jack as he chased the mule across rows of destroyed corn. His dad appeared in the wagon at the edge of the field just as he grabbed the lines.

Bellowing like a wounded bull William McCartie was running across the field toward Jack. The veins in his neck pulsating like giant worms beneath the skin.

William ignored Jack’s attempt at an explanation. Instead, his dad was reaching for and unsnapping the trace chain from the harness, with the intent of landing a blow across the back of Jack. However, the force of William’s swing turned him around causing him to fall face down in the dusty field. Jack knew it was not funny but he laughed anyway. William got to his feet and swung again with more fury than ever. Being young and agile, Jack stepped behind the mule and Red took the brunt of the attack. Jack took off at a brisk pace toward the house and Red ran toward the barn destroying more corn as he went. William meanwhile was ranting about his son’s ineptness.

Arriving at the house, Jack drew a bucket of water from the well and started to wash the red dust from his face and hands. His mom, Belle, stepped out on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron said, “Lunch is almost ready.”  Shaking from anger and fear, he considered the incident in the field. He thought as he was drying hands and face. “Staying here is out of the question, I have to leave home, today.”

Taking the last bite of apple pie and gulping the cold milk, Jack heard his dad roaring with renewed vigor as he walked into the kitchen. Belle McCartie not saying a word came into the kitchen and looked with her piercing blue eyes at her husband.

William stopped, clenched his fists, and turned swiftly stomping toward the front porch swing, his usual place of retreat.

As was the habit after lunch, Jack did not return to the field but went to his bed in the loft. He knelt and pulled a well-worn knapsack from under the bed. Opening the large trunk, which held his belongings he began packing. Three pair of socks, three pair of underwear, two pair of pants, two shirts and several bandannas and his packing was completed.

Money, clothes, and jobs had really been scarce since October 24 of last year. The stock market crashed that day. A day we now call Black Thursday.

Downstairs he heard his mom and dad talking, Belle in a soft gentle voice and William rumbling like thunder through a hollow log. Without faltering, Jack walked into the room saying, “Mom, Dad, I need to go away.” “Where will you go,” asked Belle, a quiver in her voice?  “He is not going anywhere Belle, he is just a hothead like me,” said William.

Jack said, “Yes, I am like you, but it is time to see more than Cotton Grove. I think I will be going west maybe I will go to Missouri first. There may be work there and I know there is plenty to see.” Humph, said William, making a snorting sound through his nose.

Jack turned and walked from the kitchen, through the hallway and out the front door. Belle ran after him and said, “I do not want you to go, but I know you cannot stay home forever. Promise me you will write.” “I will Mom, I will,” said Jack hugging her.

Turning toward the road he heard his youngest sister say, “Bye, bye Jack, see you later.” Jack waved a hand but did not look back. He did not want her to see the tears welling in his eyes. His other four sisters were not at home and he was glad, they always asked too many questions. With long strides, he headed for Linwood and the rail yard hoping to catch the next train going west.

He had walked about a mile when he heard a wagon coming along the road. Turning, he was surprised and worried to see William McCartie driving his team of Belgians at a trot. Jack, unsure if he should run or stand decided on the latter.

William stopped the team saying; “Come on son, if you are leaving at least let me take you to the rail yard.” Jack climbed into the wagon; William slapped the lines along the flanks of the team and the wagon moved smoothly along the road. As was usually the case, neither Jack nor William said anything during the ride.

Arriving in Linwood, Jack jumped from the wagon and headed for the rail yard while William tied the horses. He found an empty boxcar and tossed his knapsack inside. Ready to climb into the car, he heard approaching footsteps, glancing back he saw his dad; hurriedly he ran to William and hugged him. His dad gave him all the money he had in his pocket, a dollar and a half. “Jack,” he said, “I am sorry and, in a broken voice said, I love you.” William had never said those words to him before that he could remember. The engine whistle blew and the cars started with a jolt, Jack scrambled into the open car, stood quickly, and waved to his dad as the train gathered speed.
Jack stood, watching Linwood and his dad fade from view. He turned from the door, shook his head, smiled, and said, “I am going west, thanks to an ornery red mule.”

 

 

Still-Hunting a Skill and a Thrill

Recently I saw a cartoon that made me realize still-hunting is a dying art. The cartoon was of a man with his deer rifle screaming at his hunting buddy “I don’t want Patience! I want to kill something,” Now days everyone wants to do things in a hurry. “Hunters” careen through forests, gouging ruts in every hillside on their All Terrain Vehicles. These so called hunters could not hear an earthquake much less squirrels chattering, a deer bleat or a quail call. I can truly say I feel sorry for the person who has never experienced still-hunting.

Still-hunting has always been a part of my life. One time especially stands out from the rest and probably the reason why it was my first time to hunt alone.

I will always remember the autumn I was fourteen. It was the first day of squirrel season. The clock on the mantle had just struck 6:00 and I was out of bed before the chimes stopped vibrating, as I had not slept very soundly during the night. I dressed quietly by the faint light from the fireplace, donned a soft flannel shirt, cotton twill pants, and wool socks. Walking noiselessly in my socked feet, I carried my boots to the kitchen. Sitting on the wood-box, I pulled on the boots and laced them tightly. My rifle and a box of cartridges I gathered from the gun rack. Taking a denim jacket from the hall tree near the back door, I threw it across my shoulder. Grabbing some ham and two biscuits from the warming shelf, as I passed the wood stove, I wrapped them in a clean dishtowel and stuffed them in my coat pocket.

I wanted to reach my destination before sunrise so I walked quickly to cover ground. The first lesson I had learned from my dad and granddad was, “always be ready for the prey by dawn. This is the time they are less likely to be expecting trouble.”

Now, I was squatting in the damp leaves of the forest floor with my back against the trunk of a large hickory, my eyes shifting from side to side as I scanned the grove of trees. The sun’s rays were streaking through the trees and a slight breeze was blowing. I hoped the breeze would give some indication of where the prey was hiding. My rifle lay across my knees ready for immediate action.

This had become a test of patience, whoever moved first was going to lose. I knew my dad and granddad had taught me well, but now it was up to me.

Catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, or did I? I shifted my focus to the left. Scanning the trees for the prey, I thought my eyes had played tricks on me, suddenly there it was, only a part of the head and ears exposed.

Letting out my breath carefully through parted lips and taking in another, I slowly brought the rifle to my shoulder. Aiming just below the ear, I squeezed the trigger. The gunshot shattered the stillness of the morning. There was a thud and the gray squirrel lay dead in the damp leaves. I knew others would be in the vicinity so I did not move.

The day turned into a profitable one for me. By noon, I headed home with a game pouch packed with gray squirrels. Granted I did not kill them all in the same grove of trees, but every one I took still-hunting.

What is still-hunting you may ask? It is not all sitting as one might think, but hunting in a quiet and methodical way. Walking slowly, taking care not to step on twigs or loose rocks, stopping often to listen to the sounds around you. Smell the musty scent of decaying leaves; notice of the plants and animals in the vicinity. Don’t just walk through the forest oblivious to everything. Use all of your senses, doze in sunshine filtering through the branches of a pine thicket. Absorb the noise of the forest the chirping birds, chattering squirrels, and the sighing of the wind through the trees. Enjoy all of the elements that are part of the sport of still-hunting.

Killing game is not the foremost object of still-hunting. It is to learn as our ancestors did to become one with nature and enjoy it. Many times, I have watched quietly as a covey of quail fed nearby, or a vixen played with her kits. Deer and squirrels have come within touching distance. Did I kill them? No! Still-hunting is foremost not a sport but a skill that promotes harmony and respect for the world of which we have been given guardianship.

Some persons will argue that hunters are people that get a thrill from killing any creature in the wild. Having been taught the skill of hunting by my granddad and dad both excellent hunters and woodsmen I will argue that true hunters are the primary preservers of the environment and wildlife that exist in the United States today.

If you are a hunter, take the time to teach a youngster the skill of still-hunting. The most memorable times of my childhood and teens are of the days I spent in the woodlands of North Carolina.

Horrors of Hazel

                   October 5, 1954 was proving to be one that eighteen-year-old Jim would remember for many years. A hurricane named Hazel had made landfall around 3:00 A.M. To make matters worse, it hit the Carolina coast on a high tide. Working since daylight to secure his skiff and nets among the gnarled oaks behind his cottage on Masonboro Sound, he now started across the flooded causeway to Wrightsville Beach. At Banks channel, he stopped briefly to watch the relentless waves buckle a cottage wall, the roof splintering and crashing to the sand. Salt spray and sand filled his eyes, nose and mouth as he fought against the wind. As he reached the beach, a section of tin roofing flew past with a whirring sound, making him dive headlong into a patch of sandspurs.

                   Jim struggled to reach shelter against the leeward wall of Mercer’s tackle shop. Opening the door he thought, “How long will this offer protection?” The room smelled of bait, beer, and tobacco. Frank, an old fisherman sat with hands folded over an immense belly and boot heels hooked in the top rung of his favorite chair, beside the potbellied stove, his grizzled beard permanently stained with tobacco. “Hey, Jim, sure is a heckuva time for a storm to hit, ain’t it? What with this here marsh hen tide an’ all.”

                   A marsh hen tide is the name given by old timers to a higher than normal tide caused by a full moon, which causes the marsh hens to leave the marsh grass. Jim, said, “That explains the storm surge over the causeway and the island. You see anyone else today?”

                   “Nope,” Frank said, “looks like we are the only fools out today.”

                   Jim walked across the room toward the pier. As he looked south, a monstrous wave erupted devouring more of the beach and returned to sea. Buildings, which had toppled, now wallowed in the raging surf. More waves thundered in, regurgitating furniture and other debris onto the beach as if from the bowels of some hideous beast.

Mesmerized by the din of the waves and the banshee-like winds, he stared. Near the end of the pier, something caught his eye. Was that an old man, yellow slicker flapping in the wind as he walked toward the tackle shop?

            As if hit by a gigantic sledgehammer, the pier shuddered violently and the black water washed over the man and he disappeared with a section of pier.

        “Frank, grab a line and life ring,” Jim shouted. He ran to the broken edge of the pier. He spotted the man clinging to a piling, the pounding waves dragging him over razor sharp barnacles. Removing his heavy boots, Jim jumped into the water and bobbed to the surface. Getting his bearings, he took a deep breath and dove beneath the waves. Coming to the surface under the man, Jim saw the life ring hit the water. With a swift strong stroke, he pushed his left arm through the ring and held on. The old man had a strong grip on the piling and prying him loose was exhausting and seemed like an eternity to Jim.

             Faintly hearing an engine over the noise of the sea the line tightened and Jim and the old man moved quickly toward shore. Only then, did he realize Frank’s old Ford pickup was providing the pulling power.

Reaching shore, Jim gathered the old man in his arms and reeled toward the tackle shop. He gasped for breath as he laid him on a heavy tarp. Finding a heavy wool coat Jim covered the old man and started to bandage his bleeding hands.

Frank entered the room and said, “Better get him warm, and fast.” He poured a mug of coffee from the pot on the stove and walked to a cabinet. “Come on Frank,” Jim said, “He needs coffee now, you can have a cup later.”

 “It ain’t for me, you dope!” Frank barked, “Let me add some whiskey for kick. Maybe it will help the old salt pull through.”

Cradling the old man’s head Jim poured in some of the strong hot brew. The old man gasped, his eyes opened, “What you trying to do? Drown me in rotgut?” Looking steadily at the two men he said, “I guess old Reuben owes his life to a couple of crazy men. Almost as crazy as I, and I ain’t got a lick of sense being out in a boat in this storm.

                   Jim stared and said, “A boat? You weren’t on a boat you was on the pier.”

     “Well,” said Reuben, “how do you think I got on the pier? Did anyone see me walk through here? The waves picked her up and set her on the end of the pier like sea foam, I jumped out, the boat flipped, and fell into the water. When you saw me I was trying to get in here to ride out the storm.”

“I’ve heard it all now,” Frank said, “but we better be looking for something with a little more protection than this place to ride out this storm.”

”I know where there is one of the old concrete bunkers, built during the war,” said Reuben.

Climbing into the pickup, the three headed north along the flooded roadway. The bunker was built into a large dune, the door facing inland. Leaning on the door, they fell against some crates. Reuben found a couple of candles in one and lit one with a match Frank pulled from an empty shotgun shell filled with wax that he had in his pocket. The match flared and the smell of sulfur stung Jim’s nose. The wick caught fire and a soft light made the bunker glow. Closing the door the only sound to be heard was their breathing. It is so quiet, was there really a storm out there, or was it just a dream.  Jim thought.

When the men opened the door, they were surprised by a whisper of wind through the sea oats. The picture they saw was both breathtaking and sad. Only the Lumina near the south end of the beach appeared to be intact. All else was destroyed or heavily damaged, including Mercer’s pier.

Jim, Frank, and old Reuben knew the residents along the beach needed help now the storm had passed. Cleanup and a return to normalcy for the coast would be a monumental task but if it could be done these New Hanoverians would do it. These people never looked at their losses as defeat but a temporary setback. Even as the three walked away from the bunker, people began to appear along the beach. Two men struggled to pull a body from the surf while others sifted through the remains of collapsed buildings for salvageable items, survivors or causalities.

Reaching the site where the Wilson cottage once stood, Jim heard a moan from a pile of rubble. Scrambling over twisted tin and broken timbers, Jim called frantically, “Where are you?”

From a point almost beneath his feet, there was a muffled reply, “Here.”

Studying the wreckage, Jim decided on the method of freeing whoever was trapped. He found a stout timber and worked it beneath a section of wall. Frank and three more men who offered to assist began to push against the lever; the wall creaked and slowly rose. Jim and Reuben wedged a large steel drum under it, the men allowed the lever to lower, the drum held.

Jim was chosen to crawl under the suspended section, being the youngest in the group. A flashlight in hand he wormed into the small opening and disappeared. He forced himself to move slowly as he heard the hysterical calls of “Over here! Over here!” from the victim. The flashlight revealed a young girl of about ten her eyes filled with fear about two yards away. “Hang on and we will get you out,” Jim said. “Can you move?”

The girl sobbed, “I think so but I’m afraid something will fall on me.”

”Listen,” Jim said, “I want you to do exactly as I say. Put your heels into the sand and push yourself toward me, stay on your back.” It took the girl about twenty minutes to cover the six feet before Jim could reach and pull her to him.

Sweat soaked his clothes as he and the girl edged out of the rubble. A hand reached past him and lifted the girl from his arms as he collapsed on the cool damp sand and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, he looked up at the wispy clouds floating by the full moon.

Rising to his feet, he looked up and down the shoreline at a surreal world. A lantern flickered here and there, a man’s voice croaked with fatigue, a woman cried. Yesterday this had been a beautiful beach tonight it resembled a war zone.

Jim thought as he trudged back toward the causeway toward his little cottage. “You may be gone but you won’t be forgotten, you demon Hazel.”

Mamie Belle

     As I looked at my grandma lying in the hospital bed, I knew her time on earth was slipping like quicksilver through a sieve. All she had meant to me in the 45 years I had known her filled my thoughts. As I held her hand, my mind leaped through the past to events and opportunities, which had helped shape my life. One particular time in 1960 stood apart from the rest.

     Mamie Belle Musgrave Bean wore her silvery hair braided and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her piercing blue eyes always twinkled beneath lids that drooped as if they were resting. Perched on the bridge of her nose, were a pair of thin silver wire framed glasses. Though old in years, her skin was smooth and glowed like a young girl’s. Strong wrists and muscular forearms, giving evidence of years of hard work, accentuated the hands with long slender fingers, the fingers of an artist. Her voice clear and as soft as a summer breeze; held a slight quiver like an oak leaf touched by the wind.

     As we sat in her kitchen, I realized this old farmhouse had always been a haven of comfort. The smell of fresh baked pies, simmering beans in a pot on the wood cook stove and grape leaf pickles in an earthenware crock permeated my senses. Leaning back in a chair and soaking in the warmth of the wood stove, I drifted in and out of consciousness as she told of by gone days.

     “It was in December of 1899, and I was nine, the weather was cold and snowy,” she began.  Her sentences chopped into small bites so they could be easily digested. As I listened to her voice, it was like reading a chapter from American history. The story continued through most of the afternoon. However, this did not mean Grandma wasted time while telling the story; she was preparing vegetables, frying the country style steak or rolling biscuit dough. In addition, she was arranging the coals in the wood stove, as a woman today would adjust the temperature knob on a range, to keep a pot from boiling over.

     That day I learned life was never a bore to her; everything was viewed as an opportunity to learn. Her love for literature and history became evident as she talked. Moreover, her thirst for knowledge made each visit an adventure for anyone who would take the time to listen.

     Always intelligent and industrious she was also thoughtful, with a wry sense of Scottish humor. The privilege of knowing someone who lived life to the fullest makes me feel grateful and blessed. Born just 25 years after the War Between the States, Mamie Belle will always be my heroine. She taught me to aim for the stars and the word “impossible” never existed in her life. As she loved to say, “You can’t hit a star by shooting down a well.” This is my first shot at a star.