The Great Bee Chase [CCR]

There it was in the garage. I tripped over it and it reminded me of many good times growing up back home. I guess things were a little simpler for me then. Many people say the world is more complex, but I think the complexity comes from our loss of innocence as we create our own path in the world. When you move away from home you get to see a great many sights but you also see the full scope of life, both good and bad.

Mom and Dad had a simple trust of both me and just about everyone in our area. As such I had a lot of freedom to travel around, even if it were on a bicycle. Prior to my wonderful ten speed bicycle I had one of those “banana seat” bicycles with a speedometer. I would ride it over to the plant to meet Dad when he got off from work. Don’t tell him, but I would see how fast it would go down that hill just before you reached the gate. I wouldn’t dare guess the high speed now for sake of possible exaggeration, but it was plenty fast for a young boy. When Dad came out of the gate he would throw my bicycle in the back of our old 1951 pickup truck and give me a ride home.

Later Mom and Dad got me a ten speed bicycle. That bike took me on many trips through good and bad times, even in college. I had a water bottle and lights with a generator spinning in the spokes of the back tire. It was a wonderful bicycle that carried all around Cherokee until I got my driver’s license. I remember riding it to school at the end of my eighth grade year to pick up my report card. But more importantly was the transportation to the swimming hole down on the Natchez Trace in the summer. I would bike around Moody Lane and down North Pike and then down the Trace to the river. The swimming hole was popular in those days. Now when I travel down there on my trips home it seems I never see many people. I am not sure what happened. But I can remember the days when finding a parking place down there was a luxury. But with my bicycle I had no problems. I usually swam for an hour or so and then started the trek home. Riding home on the bicycle meant my cut-off jeans would be dry long before I would reach home.

My most memorable ride came on a whim. I would ride my bicycle from our house on Moody Lane to my Granddaddy Daily’s house at Mountain Springs. The trip seemed reasonable enough and I made the ride to Barton without a hitch. In fact the first leg of the trip down Mt. Mills Road was pleasant. I stopped at my great aunt’s house for water and a moment’s rest. Dad warned me to watch for rattlesnakes or copperheads. But he forgot to warn me of the one thing that made the trip a little more difficult than planned. I was more than halfway up the hill before the road to the fire tower when it found me. A bumble bee decided my sweat was either the perfect quench of his thirst or he just didn’t like my looks. Either way, I had walked up the steepest part of the hill, but now I was setting speed records down the hill with the bee right on my back. Somewhere towards the bottom I lost the bee. I climbed that hill twice in the summer sun that day. Later I would stop at my cousin’s for water just before I reached Mt. Springs Cemetery. After completing the trip Mom and Dad came to pick me up so I didn’t have to face the bee again.

In the past I have tripped over bicycles in the garage and sort of grumbled something about the kids and the way they left their bikes. But this time something triggered a memory of a bike, home, and many great rides throughout our end of the county. Rides where you never met a stranger, you could stop for plums or blackberries growing wild along the road, and you might even get chased by a bee.

Traveling West [CCR]

This weekend I returned from a rather lengthy trip out west that took me across the expanse of South Dakota. The trip included a close-up view of the interesting texture and color of the Badlands and the various rock formations of the Black Hills. But the sights came at the price of driving across the wide open prairie lands. Here I am driving through flat open land hoping the next bump in the road will awaken me when I came upon the one thing I least expected. That sight triggered my memories of home and a slight reminder that this was my first Fourth of July trip home I missed in many years.

The rocks of the Black Hills were rather interesting and evidently proves resourceful to carving since it hosts two of the three major mountain carvings in the United States, Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument. But have you ever taken the hike to the top of Red Rock? During my teen years we made several pilgrimages to the pentacle of Red Rock in western Colbert County. The visit offers sights of interesting rock formations and a rather nice view of the countryside. My last trip there was well over twenty years ago, but it is not forgotten. I am not quite sure who owns the property now, but if you can’t get access to Red Rock there are several areas along those hills that provide the same sights and sounds and beautiful scenery.

If you think finding a comparison to the Badlands in the Shoals would be more difficult then you haven’t taken a closer look at some of the rural routes. During my early years Colbert County underwent several road improvement projects that included the route from Barton to Mountain Springs now known as the Mountain Mills road. Those projects required a source of gravel and dirt for which there were two locations we called a gravel pit along the road. I am sure you may know of several others. Those areas might not have had the depth of the Badlands, but they had the variation of colors and even some fossils. Those pits included one of the special attractions you find in the Badlands. When parking at one of the rest stops on the Badlands loop road you see a sign warning of rattlesnakes. I guarantee you could find some equivalent rattlesnakes in those gravel pits, except the snakes in the gravel pits weren’t protected by the National Park Service and were subject to the wiles of our dog, Butch. You might recall Butch’s hatred for snakes.

The Badlands had a rather extensive exhibit of prehistoric life and fossils. Paleontologists probably find that a very attractive feature of the Badlands, but I can still find something near home that is attractive to paleontologists. I could always call up Bobby Stanfield and schedule a trip down to the Stanfield Worley Bluff Shelter, a famous local archeological dig in Colbert County. The University of Alabama maintains many artifacts from this site that span across 9,000 years of history. Of course the findings in the Badlands do dramatically predate the Stanfield-Worley artifacts, but you don’t drive 3,000 miles to see them.

Don’t mistake my intentions. If you have the opportunity to make the trip out west you will see some historic sites and wonderful geographical formations. But don’t forget that you have some wonderful places to explore right in your own backyard. And I know other people are hearing about our home and considering a visit. Why? About halfway across the open prairie is a large billboard proclaiming the beauty of Alabama, particularly focusing on the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail. That sign triggered a small sigh and a longing for the beauty of home.

Organic History [CCR]

This weekend I had to make a couple of trips over to the big box stores in the neighboring town to find some parts for my bathtub. In this store you find everything from lawn mowers to ice cream. Today it seems we try to stuff everything you can imagine into one colossal building. We did have stores with a variety of necessities in our rural Colbert County communities when I was growing up, but we just called them general stores. They may not have the super size and may not include the kitchen sink, but they had everything else and the other items were usually in a store on the same block. Harris’s General Store in Cherokee was a regular stop during my childhood when a general part was needed. Hoskins’ in Tuscumbia seemed to be the annual trip for getting the garden ready. Between Mr. Thompson and Mr. Malone you could get any groceries you needed in Cherokee. And the Davis family once ran the only stop in Mountain Springs but was later joined by the Andrews family.

My recent visit to the big box store found something that either we didn’t have or more likely didn’t label as such in the current fashion. They have an entire section purely devoted to organic foods. I reckon they tie that label to the idea of organic gardening. Have you looked at the premium you pay for those organic items? Back home I guess you might say we were organic when organic wasn’t cool to alter the phrase of a famous Barbra Mandrel song.

While my parents and a lot of people from earlier generations in Alabama can appreciate the work required just to get by, I grew up in a golden age. We probably had a lot less than my children, but we never knew what we were missing. And we had a lot more than earlier generations. I may not have had an electronic high definition video game with surround sound to play an automated football game, but I had a whole lot of the real thing. Unbeknownst to me the garden that consumed much of my time may have been necessary, but it did provide hours of entertainment that modern folks call organic gardening.

Dad usually used our pony to plow the garden after our old tiller chugged through a majority of the dirt chunks. Sometimes one of the local farmers helped out with their tractor since it only took one or two sweeps with one of their large machines. Most of the fertilizer came from the barn where our ponies and cows hung out. I suspect you don’t need further explanation, but you realize the fertilizer was only natural. I must admit we did cheat once in a while when one of the trucks passing slung out fertilizer into the ditch on the curve near the house. Dad would take the wheelbarrow up to the spill and pick up a little fertilizer to help the garden, but that wasn’t very often.

Bug spray wasn’t necessary. Yes, we had the bugs visit the garden. But Mom had the solution. She gave my sister and me an old can and a stick. Our job was to wander along the various rows of potatoes and other plants raking the potato bugs and other critters we found into the can. At the end of the row Mom would put a little fuel in the can and we burned the bugs. I bet those organic food companies don’t have a more natural method for bug removal.

After working in the garden Mom might fix a delicious dinner that included fresh garden vegetables, whole cake cornbread, and Southern sweet tea. Granddaddy may have picked up the corn meal fresh from the mill. We might top off the summer meal with homemade ice cream using milk fresh from the cow. Some meals might even include honey that either come straight from Daddy’s hives or even a bee tree we robbed. If that meal isn’t organic then I’m not sure what organic really can be.

I pass along the organic aisle in the big box store carrying various treasures found around the store including new school clothes and garden tools. I pause a moment and look at the organic fruits and vegetables. I can’t help but think trading all the wonderful times we had in that garden for hours sitting in front of a 60 inch high definition 5,000 channel flat screen mindless entertainment box. What have we done?

A Summer Breeze of Wisdom [CCR]

If you happen to travel down towards Cherokee, take the short trip out North Pike and just before you reach the Natchez Trace Parkway you will see a sign directing you towards Mhoontown Methodist Church. I’m not sure how many people know about this small but vibrant church located just a short drive into the shaded trees down Mhoontown Road. For me it is a beautiful drive I make on my July 4th pilgrimages home.

The area, the old church, and the cemetery adjacent to the church were named after the Mhoon family. Now I am quite sure my mother, our resident historian, could tell you far more details about the Mhoon family and their influence on the area. Looking around the cemetery you can see the foundations of the Mhoon family that includes burials prior to 1850 and memorials to family members laid to rest elsewhere many years earlier. The earliest memorial on record was for Moses Mhoon who died 1771, long before the Mhoon family settled there.

I highly suspect the Mhoon family was attracted to the area because of the spring located a short distance down the hill from the church. I haven’t been to the spring in years and couldn’t testify to its current condition, but a drive to the church and a walk through the cemetery will prove relaxing. Your tour through the cemetery will depict a panorama of the family names throughout the history of the area.

While the church has taken a somewhat modern look, it still has that feel of holding a history deep within its walls. Some of that history and the family names you will review include my own ancestry. Among the tombstones you will find Rev. William Jefferson Smith, born 1849 and buried in 1950, not long after celebrating his 101st birthday.

Rev. Smith was a circuit riding Methodist preacher who had become well known in our parts. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the term, a circuit consisted of two or more churches in a geographical area and the circuit rider rotated among those churches serving as the pastor. Today a circuit is known as a charge. But the fame of the Methodist circuit riders lives on in the South and Rev. Smith carried the reputation well. I must admit I am a little prejudiced to the fact since he was my great-great grandfather and the reason my older son carries the middle name of Jefferson.

Rev. Smith departed twelve years before my birth, but left a strong impression among his family. A family that is wide spread among the population of western Colbert County. So in my walk I pause momentarily at the foot of his resting place hoping he might find a way to divulge the recipe to his longevity. If my guess is correct his secret may include his own joyful conviction to his vocation, but it may also be found in a simpler form of life. Life where worries stand aside for the moment so we enjoy the cool breeze blowing through the green trees of summer. Maybe that is why he chose Mhoontown as the place where people can drop by to pay homage. In doing so they gain a small portion of that secret and hopefully leave with contentment.

The next time you have had a long day at work, miss an important deadline, or come across someone who delights in your dismay think about that little church in the woods. If it is a bright summer day, pack a picnic and take that trip down to Cherokee. You can stop off at Colbert Park on the Natchez Trace to enjoy a meal by the river and then head south for the first exit. Take a right towards Cherokee and you’ll see the turn about a quarter mile down the road on your left. After parking by the church step out into the cool shade of the trees, breath in the fresh air, and listen. You too may discover a vital secret. And if you happen to bring any of those troubles with you, drop them off. A lot of wisdom is there to help you rediscover the true substance of your life.

Gadgets and Conversation [CCR]

With my deep interest in computers and programming I have taken a special interest in gadgets, but sometimes I feel overwhelmed. The other night I was sitting on the couch with my laptop programming an automated packaging machine at one of my employer’s facilities. My wife was playing an online video game with people from all around the world. And my daughter was in her room watch a British television game show on her computer. She knew the answer to their trivia question and we discussed whether to call in and if they would send the money to the United States. We have an Internet telephone service that includes free calling to many countries. It just simply amazes me that all of this data is passing through one little box connecting me to the outside world. I often sit down and think where this world was 100 years ago and how many radio signals we propagate through the air that once lay silent. The world is certainly smaller.

Many reading this article well remember the crank telephones, the last of which left service in the United States in 1983. Those who didn’t experience the crank telephone probably experienced the party line. Our younger folks just don’t know what they were missing. If you needed to make a call you gently picked up the phone receiver to see if you were lucky enough to get a dial tone or if you happened to interrupt someone’s conversation. You then had to wait some random time and check the line again. It would simply drive my children nuts. I often have my own round of wrestling entertainment when they each want to make a call.

Most of us Alabamians enjoyed the simpler times when we often discussed life while sitting on the front porch rocker or swing. When the sun was sitting low we enjoyed the approaching cool air that would soon overcome the heat collected in the house. But until the house cooled we watched as the lightning bugs began their twinkling show and the evening serenade of the insect kingdom began. Unfortunately their serenade also included visits to our porch. But Grandmother would prepare a gnat smoke that kept the bugs clear. If you don’t know about a gnat smoke then you probably haven’t learned that the idea for those fancy citronella candles didn’t come from nowhere. Grandmother would take a large can or bucket and fill it with old rags. She then set the rags on fire, let it burn a short while, and then smothered the fire to a steady smoke. You then positioned yourself on the long front porch to miss the direct line of smoke while it built a fairly decent screen between you and the bug kingdom.

Now protected from the bugs we could talk about the events of the day or plan tomorrow. Maybe a neighbor would stop by and share a few moments and a few stories to help take you into the evening. For many of us a good Southern story outweighs a 40 inch color television any time. It was a Southern way of life that seemed to get lost in our cocoon of air conditioning and digital entertainment. As the night wore on the smoke and the visitors would soon disseminate. Grandmother would pour some water on the old can for safety and our evening was done.

I think the party line was the next best thing to transition from this front porch tradition. Many older folks found it more entertaining to share their neighborly stories from the comfort of the air conditioner. It was a free advance on the miracle of three way calling since most of your neighbors were on the same line. You could tell the story once and hit all eight people if your timing was right.

Yes, we have advanced. We each want our private line and expect nothing less. We then add the three way calling and maybe even dial into some fancy conference calling network. And in moments we are talking around the world with little consciousness to what lies between. The digital bleeps and blips pass as our new neighbors become someone in Spain, England, or Italy. But do you know the person in the next house down the road? Maybe we should have a day of no instant messaging, no telephone, no digital million channel television or compact disc player. Want to know your neighbor? Find an old bucket and some rags. Start a gnat smoke and invite the neighbors over for a chat and some iced tea. If they don’t call the sheriff you might find yourself enjoying the company of a new friend.

Open Space [CCR]

Growing up in rural Colbert County sort of stuck with me and set my mindset for many decisions I make, primarily where to live. It seems I am just not very adaptable to what one would call urban sprawl. Yes, there are times I had to adjust when living in the Atlanta area, but with a choice urban sprawl is definitely an aversion. Thus I find myself currently living in a more rural setting looking to return home some day while my work requires otherwise and I travel to the metropolitan masses. For comfort I turn to my memories of home and my occasional pilgrimage to my roots.

It was nice having the open space as a child. And we had some of the best people around to help us enjoy our area. Between our house and the river lay the Harris’s pasture. The Harris family has always been very nice to let us walk to the river or just fish the creek down the hill. My Dad was very adamant that we be good stewards of the land and show our appreciation, so we always had to leave the area cleaner than we found it. It was our way of showing appreciation. As such I found myself often walking down to the gate and then traveling the banks of Malone creek.

Just past the first hill in the pasture a huge tree rises to the sky. The last time I was home that tree still stood strong in the same spot, bigger than ever, so I suspect it still stands. That tree became my thinking spot very similar to Winnie the Pooh’s thinking spot. When faced with a big test or needing time to meditate I often traveled across that pasture and sat under the tree. Luckily the cows never seemed to hang around that tree or they were often in the other pasture. I could lay under that tree watching the leaves flutter in the breeze and the clouds pass their various shaped shadows across the land. I’m not sure Mom and Dad actually knew where I was at the time. I didn’t really divulge the secret tree to my Dad until I had left home. But they had taught me well and knew I would be fine.

Dad and I spent much time together in the woods either hunting, cutting wood, digging ginseng, or collecting pine knots. A lot of city folks don’t understand collecting pine knots, so I often explain how we heated our home with wood. The aged heart wood of the pine tree is a precious commodity for easily starting or building up fires. Many of these activities one might consider work, but later they formed themselves into memories that you use to forget the honking and yelling of the traffic jam while you sit waiting on the Long Island Expressway. I always wonder why they call such a road an “expressway”. In today’s sprawl there is nothing express about many city expressways.

So as I sit at a special light designated to signal my entrance into the “what’s my lane” game I remember when Dad and I took the old truck down to Mr. Buddy Malone’s pasture to cut wood. Mr. Malone kindly let us cut wood in areas where he planned to clear. As Dad began felling trees I had time to play or watch while staying clear of the danger until the trees were on the ground. I don’t think there was much danger since Dad would always tell the exact position where the tree would fall, a skill he learned growing up with my Granddaddy. After the tree was down my work began.

Dad would ease along the trunk of the tree cutting the limbs and various appendages away so we could collect the good wood. I took the brush or remains and stacked it neatly so it could be easily taken away or burned. There wasn’t much brush left because we collected any wood big enough to fuel our fireplace or heater. I would then begin loading the truck with rows of wood as Dad finished cutting up the tree. Once Dad finished cutting he would carry the larger trunk pieces that were too big for me. Dad would always pack the truck with every piece possible, often to the point I sometimes thought we may never leave. But looking back I realize each additional piece accumulated to save a future trip. But there was a balance to the load that allowed us to get back up the hill. And there were times that old 1951 Chevy had to make more than one try to make it up the hill.


Thus cutting wood became a method to relax and join nature. So much so I found myself volunteering to help a friend cut wood when I lived in Atlanta. It momentarily took me away from the urban sprawl and back to the open spaces I enjoyed as a child. I bought a home on several acres when in North Carolina so I could rebuild those memories. It was sad when work moved me away, but each move will be put me closer to the move that takes me home.

Many people have never truly experienced life among the trees. Yes, they may travel to national parks and think they feel the woods, but they haven’t experienced the full life within the woods. Now my time has gone and I haven’t even touched the memories of our ginseng digging or pine knot hunting. I guess I’ll save those memories to share another day. For now I must fight the Tampa traffic and catch a jet back to Ohio. I may be lucky enough to pass over home, look down, and once again think of all the good times I had growing up.

Home Cooking [CCR]

Once you leave home one of the biggest things you will miss is “home cooking.” It is my contention that we North Alabamians have one of the best cuisines in the country. My biggest problem is helping everyone else understand. Tonight I had my regular fried shrimp at Britt’s on Clearwater Beach, but I’ll take Tennessee River catfish any day over Florida Gulf shrimp. Do you think catfish was on the menu? Nope. I didn’t even have a choice of hushpuppies.

In the South we take our food as serious as our hospitality. The two traits grew together as a necessity to the hard work required for many to survive. Rarely do you go to a traditional North Alabama home without being offered something to eat. If you had grown up around my house your offerings would not likely include “junk food” either. Yes we may have had some available, but if you had eaten your regular meal you rarely had a hunger for junk food.

Growing up we ate fresh vegetables nearly every evening. At the time I think Mom and Dad thought it was a necessity to take advantage of our garden due to finances, but today what we had would be considered a luxury. I spent many summer afternoons hulling peas, shucking corn, picking butterbeans, or picking squash. We were guaranteed fresh vegetables and cornbread with true Southern sweet tea. But the advantage wasn’t limited to the summer thanks to our freezer. Mom did do some canning, but I think she was relieved to have the freezer to avoid all the work of canning. And little did she realize that freezer was locking in freshness. She did some canning by taking advantage of our grape vines, blackberries, and plums to make homemade jams and jellies.

Now I don’t mean to say other people have a bad choice, they just don’t have the best selection or their methods may need tuning. Have you ever noticed how they bread the okra with batter when you eat in some of the restaurants? It just doesn’t match up to the full flavor of Mom’s okra with just a light coating of cornmeal where you actually taste the okra. Some restaurants even abuse their squash in the same manner. In retrospect I should be thankful because I have found some places where you can’t get okra. It can be as scarce as sweet tea.

Recently I tried to talk my friends at work into a round of cooking fried green tomatoes. I wish I could share the look on their faces. I might as well have offered them road kill. Nonetheless you can’t find green tomatoes anywhere unless you grow your own where I currently live. And then I received a long discussion on the problem with grits. I didn’t even realize there was a problem with grits except in being able to locate them here.

Back in the late eighties I designed and programmed some production lines for Mobil in New Jersey. I was fortunate to stay at a very beautiful hotel in Panther Valley on the western side of New Jersey. On my first morning I wandered down to the restaurant worried about what a misplaced Alabama boy might find to eat. As luck would have it I found gold. On the menu was a “Southern” selection that included grits. I delightfully placed my order for eggs, bacon, and grits and in return I received a worried look. After some time had passed I inquired on the status of my breakfast. It seems they sent someone to the store to buy grits. On my many subsequent visits I believe they noticed me booking the room and purchased the grits in advance, because they always had my breakfast waiting. It would seem I did succeed in one effort to spread the word.

Unfortunately I still travel quite a bit and over the past twenty years I just haven’t found anyone that can match Mom’s cornbread, Grandmother Smith’s chocolate pie, or Grandmother Daily’s fresh fried chicken. Now you understand why we are very lucky and hopefully our young folks are learning the tradition from their families so we don’t lose the advantage of our special cuisine.

Goodbye Old Friend

It deeply saddened me to learn the upcoming fate for our friends at Occidental Chemical. I spent a few years working there after graduating from Auburn and enjoyed meeting many new people. It was nice to be among friends at a place where you spend so much of your time. While working at Occidental I bought my first home and married my wife. Unfortunately an irresistible opening with Mobil Chemical’s Machine Development Group lured me away from Occidental and I have not had the opportunity to move home since that time nearly twenty years ago.

The folks at Occidental taught me some very valuable lessons. After joining the group I couldn’t perform my job until I had “worn the shoes” of all the other roles in the plant. It was an effort to help me see the job from other people’s perspectives. I never will forget being at the top of a supply elevator one night changing a motor with the electricians. The elevator was swaying in the wind and it was rather cold. There was just enough room for the three of us on the platform. One of the guys laughed and asked how I felt knowing the elevator was installed on “low bid.” In other words, the engineer who designed the system probably chose the lowest cost supplier, which may or may not have been the case. The important point for me was understanding the need to install quality equipment substantial enough to withstand an industrial environment.

Another lesson took place the first night I got to wear the shoes of the night supervisor. In that role I had to visit every part of the plant and interact with everyone. It was a night that grew my sense of humor. When I entered the first area of the plant I was shown a very special trick. Here is where you find out that I am somewhat gullible. The secret was to drop a quarter off my nose into a funnel lodged in my belt. They demonstrated to me that it was quite possible so I had to show them I could do it as well. While balancing the quarter on my nose they politely filled the funnel with water. Unfortunately it was my first stop of the night and each of my future stops now had verification I was truly initiated. It was fun. I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell the secret, but I’m sure they won’t mind too much.

It was my good friend, Danny, in the Maintenance Shop who predicted I would end up marrying my wife. He watched as I first met Cindy and began my courtship. And then Danny told me that it was too late, I had the bug. Not many months later I married Cindy. Several of my friends from the Occidental attended the wedding.

Each day I would drop by the electrician’s shop near break time where I could listen to Paul Harvey, learn about events in the plant, and enjoy a little down time with the guys. Today I never listen to Paul Harvey without thinking of those guys and the daily ritual. It sort of broke the monotony. It was very rare that Mr. Hester didn’t have a story to tell or a smile to share. It was those times that prepared us for the long nights during a thunderstorm when I worked with the very same group as we recovered the electrical gear from a lightning strike. The crew at Occidental taught me a lot and proved to be very professional, knowing exactly how to handle the high voltage equipment.

On my trips home I drive by the plant and have many wonderful memories that I share with my children about the people I met there. Now there will be an additional touch of melancholy for the memories of those I met who may be about to leave or have already left. I hated to move away and leave my friends, but unfortunately my career led me to many other exciting adventures around our great country. It is good that I left with so many pleasant memories and friendships. While life does present changes, those changes will work out. I pray my old friends from Oxy are also able to enjoy many memories of the moments we shared at that meeting place in life.

Landmarks

It is always frustrating when traveling some place new trying to find your way around. That was my experience when I recently traveled to California to attend technical training and visit one of my company’s facilities. I actually left the hotel an hour early on my first day so I could find the way. Each time I successfully found the correct turn I quickly located something around me for a landmark. The remainder of the week would be much easier if I had familiar sights to mark the turns. The confusion came when all the buildings started blending together which can easily happen in crowded places. Trust me, it was crowded.

Many of us growing up around the Shoals Area are familiar with landmarks that became embedded our lives. Some of the more common ones include the now missing railroad lift bridge near O’Neal Bridge. Or even more memorable was the neon Coca-Cola sign or the WOWL owl that welcomed you to Florence once you crossed the bridge. They became subtly missing unless, like me, you don’t make it home as often as you would like. Then you are dramatically thrown off course in thought rather than direction. Some dated landmarks eventually fade in memory.

Granddaddy Daily had a knack for landmarks and a good portion of those passed to my Dad. As for me, the landmarks faded for most of these points were old home sites long abandoned. Driving along the rural areas of Colbert County we would pass the old Hester place or Denton place. Granddaddy would know the name and could tell you most of the details. He never got lost. Planning a deer hunt usually involved several names relating to landmarks for the best hunting spots. And, in those days I probably knew most of them. Sadly many have faded.

One that has not faded in my mind is the Blue Hole. The Blue Hole was our famous fishing spot early on the route of Buzzard Roost Creek. Now if you don’t know Buzzard Roost Creek then you probably haven’t traveled much in the rural areas of western Colbert County. If you don’t know the Blue Hole you missed out on a very good fishing spot. I haven’t visited the Blue Hole in years and, for my knowledge, it may be a victim of erosion or just time.

A more memorable landmark would be Bald Knob, a bare hill located off a dirt road near Mountain Springs. As Granddaddy aged he often enjoyed traveling with me in our old Jeep or Dad’s truck. He always said to never worry because any road always came out somewhere. On a particular rainy day he asked that I take him to Bald Knob. It would be a muddy trip, but I had the Jeep and he was very adamant that we go. At first the mud wasn’t too bad so I hadn’t “locked in” the front hubs on our Jeep. As I made that final turn before ascending the hill I noticed what looked like the entire Tennessee River flowing down that hill. It was too late to stop. The wheel hubs would not be locked but our fate was locked. We sped up that hill jumping and spinning while Granddaddy held on tight bouncing in his seat. If he had any pain you couldn’t tell from the laughing. Luckily we made it to the top and I stopped to wipe the sweat. Granddaddy, still laughing, looked at me and announced it would be his last ride with me and it was a great trip. He left us not long after that trip. Now when I pass the turn for that dirt road I can’t help but laugh with him.

Dad sold the old Jeep and replaced it with a new one that I dare not take on such a trip. The years have passed but the memory of that trip lasts forever and the road to Bald Knob has become an indelible landmark for me. The trip even made the collection of poetry I have written. Perhaps one day I will be able to take my son or future grandson on a similar trip that will create such a joyful lasting landmark of my contribution in their life.

California Music [CCR]

While visiting California I had the opportunity to drop off at the Spectrum Centre in Irvine. Folks, this place is one more highfalutin outdoor shopping center, entertainment complex, and just about anything a person might want or not want, depending on your state of mind. Personally it’s role for me lay solely in finding a place for dinner since it was on the way back to the hotel from my remote workplace. I literally wore blisters on my feet trying to find my way around this thing.

During the trip I stopped by one shop I thought would be worth checking. So I dropped in. Just my luck. These folks were playing Lynard Skynard’s Sweet Home Alabama. Here I am reminiscing about home. I browsed through the music and found some “old” CDs on sale. I guess they were right about old. I mean, can you imagine my kids do not know a world without a CD? Well, as far as that goes, they wouldn’t know how to exist with just a toaster oven instead of microwave. And I was lucky to have that toaster oven in my college days.

But to the point, do these folks out here in California really know the significance of what they are listening to? My inquisition to the young bubblegum popping gal at the register just returned a blank stare when I asked what she knew about the lyrics. Now I already have assumed the unofficial ambassadorship to the state of Ohio to explain the significance of my Alabama home, but now I find myself in the same situation in California too. Time was passing and so was my opportunity to obtain the dinner that awaited me just around the corner, but sharing the merits of home must take precedence. So as I proceeded through the story of Muscle Shoals history you have heard me discuss before. I must assume that the “kewl” and the puzzled look I got meant some of the discussion did register. Well, at least I had performed my ambassador duties whether it registered or not. Just what do these history teachers tell these kids out here?

After leaving the music store wondering if I had accomplished something, I ventured into the restaurant. I glanced down the menu starting with the fish. I am on the coast so the fish should be a safe bet. Once I glanced at the prices I quickly understand how they got this mall in such fancy shape. In fact now I understood how they paid for the giant Ferris wheel right in the middle of the mall. Folks, the cheapest things on that menu for a single entrée was more expensive than a three course meal with dessert back home. The waitress dropped by and asked me what I’ll be drinking. Water was the only logical choice as I was going to need to revive myself. She sees me staring blankly and asked if I was ready to order. I figured there was no sense in asking if maybe they had sweet potatoes or maybe even black-eyed peas. So I told her I was confused and wondered whether the salmon or steak would be better. This question was an obvious cop-out on my part to shift responsibility of my guilt. She made her recommendation and I placed my order.

When my meal arrived I found myself once again craving a home meal. But, seeing as how my company was taking care of me, I decided to mannerly partake of the meal. But, dessert was definitely off the menu. After completing my meal I politely paid the ticket. I use the word ticket lightly because most Alabama traffic tickets would be more reasonable. On the way out I found the answer to my questions. A sign by the door stated this place had the largest keg beer cooler in California. In fact it said a single person would take 79 years to drink all the beer they had in that cooler. The sign also stated they had the largest bar with the most taps, which I didn’t even see. Problem is I don’t even drink beer so that means somebody else was taking in my portion. But, now I understood the prices in there even better. Somebody had to pay for that oversized refrigerator.

Sunset on the Tennessee [CCR]

Tonight I am eating dinner at a restaurant on Laguna Beach watching the surf, sunset, and the kids playing volley ball. My company has me on the road again and most people think being here in California would be nice. And in a way it is, but for me it doesn’t match the sunsets and sunrises I’ve watched over Bear Creek or the Tennessee River. One of my favorite slides is a picture I took while at “The Point” near the Cherokee water filtration plant. My dad, uncle, cousin, and I had camped out on the banks overnight and had been fishing. I got up just before daylight and took pictures of the sunrise. The orange reflection on the soft ripples of the river accentuated the beauty of the lush woods around us.

I guess most of my memorable sunrises involved fishing trips. Of course growing up in the Shoals meant fishing was one of my more practiced sporting activities. On many summer Saturdays Dad woke me about four in the morning and we packed the boat with bait, drinks, and maybe even bologna sandwiches. We both knew the best fishing was over and done by ten so we had to get moving. Often we stopped at a fishing camp near the Riverton Rose Trail and bought a bucket of minnows to lure the crappie. At sunrise you would find us somewhere near the railroad trestle fishing. Nothing fancy. Our gear included a simple cane pole with a small minnow. Dad used a single boat paddle in one hand to glide us along the creek while holding his pole in the other hand. When the crappie began to bite we found little time to ponder the beauty around us, but it was there. I bet I could find some of these fine folks here in Laguna Beach to pay for that tour.

Sunsets were often spent in many other ways. Sometimes you may have found me back out on the water fishing but at other times I might have joined some friends and built a fire on the banks of the river. The ripple of the sunlight on the water was soon replaced by the firelight. The crackling of the fire as we roasted our marshmallows under the final glow of the day set the mood for a wonderful evening. We might be laughing and talking about the swimming and skiing that day or we might be in a small church group and strike up a few songs to close the evening.

The other light I often saw on the Tennessee River was the moonlight. During my teen years many fall evenings I would get a call just after sunset. Mr. Thompson would soon be dropping by to carry me on another coon hunt. Dad and I also often joined Mr. Maxwell and his son, J. D., on coon hunts. Some of those cool evenings would find us chasing the masked critters along the banks of the Tennessee. If the moonlight didn’t help us find the way a barge churning up the river might help by shining his light to see the commotion on the banks. Breathing in the cool crisp fall Alabama air brought refreshment because after the coon gave us a good run we recovered quickly after spying our prize hanging on a limb over the water. We might get home late, but we slept well and I made it just fine through school the next day.

As I wrap up my grilled salmon and the sun makes its final peak over the Pacific Ocean I can’t help but be a little homesick. If only these people really knew what they were missing they might soon book their trip. I guess I am a little hesitant on sharing our secrets here for fear of the crowds that would surely ensue. Take a trip down the Riverton Rose Trail this weekend and find a nice place along the banks near the mouth of Bear Creek. You won’t find any beachwear shops or ice cream stands. But if you watch the sun as it slowly slides below the horizon and provides its final glow along the water you will understand we don’t need the fancy shops or restaurants. You will then realize why I never really had to travel far from home to consider myself on vacation.

Grandmother’s House

As a small child I often spent time with my Grandmother and Granddaddy Daily who lived in the southern reaches of Colbert County, a fair distance from the larger metropolises of Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals, and Sheffield. Today it might be easy to find the old home place on Daily Loop, but then most of the roads were known only by landmarks. But Granddaddy had no fear and always enjoyed a long ride around the countryside. He always reminded me that every road must come out somewhere so we couldn’t get lost.

I’m not sure my children would easily relate to the way of life we had when visiting Grandmother’s house. Television really didn’t exist there except in years after my early childhood and then only in black and white with only two stations. We really didn’t have need for the television. I must admit I was lucky to have been born just across that famous line in a family’s history where, thanks to modern industry’s movement into the Shoals Area, children became a luxury rather than a necessity. But I was exposed to a way of life that my children will never be able to truly experience.

Many cold nights today we turn up the thermostat and wait for the heater to knock the chill off the room. But at Granddaddy’s house we stepped outside to get another log for the fire while Granddaddy took the iron poker to stir up the ashes for more heat. I would sit back while the fire popped and crackled until it settled into a slow steady burn. After stoking the fire Granddaddy might recede to his chair, pull out his shape note song books, and return to singing those comforting old gospel songs that stay with you for a lifetime. I would sit back and watch the fire dance while remembering the game of checkers Granddaddy had played with me earlier. Checkers was a definite favorite of his when work had ended and some time was available. His songs slowly lulled me to sleep until I wandered slowly into the back bedroom crawling under the stack of feather quilts and snuggling to the warmth they soon captured.

Now I am quite certain Grandmother had heard us pass away the late evening, but she had already gone to bed because her day always started early. I can only imagine it was a routine she developed long before I came into this world. For a working woodsman family breakfast was the meal meant to carry you through an entire day of hard work. Just before daylight Granddaddy might stoke the fire one more time or get a fresh log. Soon after Granddaddy had the fire going Grandmother would head to the kitchen where she prepared the main meal of the day.

Breakfast often consisted of bacon, fried eggs, and biscuits. However for me the eggs had to be scrambled. A little bacon grease always kept the iron skillet well seasoned. I never really took to fried eggs which is probably a missing part of my Southern upbringing. Rest assured I didn’t miss the biscuits, homemade all the way down to the sifted flour and the rolling pin. The smell couldn’t help but draw you out of those feather quilts no matter how cold the room. I quickly dressed and ventured into the kitchen where I joined Granddaddy at the table near Grandmother’s cooking. While I might drink a cold glass of milk, Granddaddy always had his concoction of coffee and sugar into which he would dip his biscuits. I always got the maple syrup. Jelly just wasn’t part of those breakfasts.

While many modern restaurants carry recipes that often mimic those breakfasts, none hold the true taste of home. That taste warmed my mornings and carried me through a day of adventure. That taste was honed through years of the necessity to carry many people through hard times and hard work. Those memories bring much comfort. Today we sit down to our microwaved precooked breakfast nuggets and watch the latest news or weather on our 140 channel cable or satellite connected color television. Hopefully we gain enough nutrition to make it through that traffic jam on the way to work.

Gone Fishing [CCR]

The carbide light is a true miracle. Most record books credit it for its contribution to mining and spelunking. But few people give the carbide light credit for its contribution to coon hunting and fishing trips. Dad’s carbide light accompanied us on many fishing trips to the various fishing holes located around Colbert County. That light gave off a low but constant glow that provided all the light one needed while hiding under a bridge in a light rainfall. Most people know catfish bite best when a light rain sets in after a long hot day.

After Dad got home from work we went to the green house to get our cane poles and a shovel to dig bait. Now you may be wondering why we would keep fishing items in our green house. Note that I wrote “green house” and not “greenhouse”. After Mom and Dad built our house they built a rather large shed behind the house. They painted the shed green and thus it inherited the infamous logo. Today it is painted barn red, but it is still the green house.

We took the shovel down to the lower pasture to find the perfect place to dig. Cool and damp dirt meant finding the perfect worms for the trip. We could run around the pasture to catch grasshoppers or turn over logs for grub worms, but our earth worms were best. And if we didn’t have enough cane poles Dad always knew a spot along the creek or along our way to the fishing hole where we could find the best cane.

After catching our bait Dad would grab his tackle box and we climbed into the old 1951 Chevy that took us on many adventures in my childhood. Mom would bring some sandwiches out with a jug of tea for our supper. If were lucky we had Vienna sausages or potted meat and crackers. And we might even find a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

By the time we reached the fishing hole it might be just around dusk. We often parked near a bridge. It might be Rock Creek, Mulberry Creek, Bear Creek, or Buzzard Roost, but Dad always had a hole spied for our evening’s adventure. After parking Dad would pull out the carbide light, start the water drip, and strike the flame so we could see our way down to the creek. We made our way around the side of the bridge and down to the bank where Dad would often warn us of getting too close. I don’t ever remember the bank caving in on us, but Dad told us stories that made us know to keep our distance.

Down at the bank of the creek we anxiously waited for Dad to help us get our hooks ready. While Dad unraveled the line on our poles we dug through the bucket to find the choice worm for our catch. Once the hooks were baited we sat holding the pole waiting for the float to jiggle. Dad knew our short patience so he always put a float on our line. Eventually we pried the pole in the mud to hold it. Some time after the sun set the rain would start.

We hid under the bridge and watched our floats dance in the light of the carbide lantern while traffic intermittently clattered across the bridge above. Once the rain started the poles would begin dancing. And as we admired our catch, Dad would place the fish on the stringer. Sometimes as a young child our attention span grew short and we might not be alert to the job. That didn’t stop Dad. He would run from pole to pole as he gathered our catch.

As the night’s adventure came to a close we gathered the poles and rolled up the lines. Dad gave me the stringer of fish and we trotted up the hill to the truck. Along the trip home we reminisced of the fun we had and anticipated the fish dinner to come. After getting home Dad headed out to the green house and patiently cleaned the fish while I either helped or, most often, watched. The cats found a feast from where Dad threw the leftovers into the pasture and we headed into the house, readied for bed, and dreamed of the tomorrow’s anticipated fish fry.

The Telephone

It seems we always hear “back in the old days” from anybody who has any age advantage on the listener. Well, I think the saying actually has a lot of meaning. For example, back when I was a teenager or even in college it was rare that a girl pursued a guy in some aggressive sense. Trust me, the world has changed.

For my younger years use of the telephone was not really a consideration since we were on a party line. Most of our younger adults have never dealt with a party line. In fact most young adults do not know a world without compact discs or mobile telephones. But many of you also remember when there were only a handful of telephones in town or even none at all. If my count was right we had as many as eight households on our party line. You pick up and hear a conversation so you hang up and wait. There was no “busy light” other than the senses of your ear. Fortunately somewhere back in my preteens the telephone system in Cherokee took a change and private lines became reality.

I do remember getting one telephone call that was real interesting. The person calling did not understand my tolerance to the risk he imposed was low. My Dad was sound asleep when the telephone rang. The person politely asked for Dad and I politely told them Dad was asleep. They told me that I should wake my Dad since he was needed at work. My best judgment concluded it was not possible for their need to be greater than the risk I would undertake so I denied their request. While I am not sure what really would have happened had I woke Dad, I must have chosen correctly because my backside didn’t suffer. But I remember the other person wasn’t happy. So most of my youthful telephone experiences could be labeled boring at best.

Last night the telephone rang after nine in the evening. A girl was looking for my youngest son. Now it seems to me the telephone rang all day with girls looking for my two boys. When did the roles get reversed? I thought I had fixed the telephone problem. Not long ago I installed a fancy computer network in the house. My telephone service comes from the Internet and I have an Atlanta telephone number. I do not have an Ohio telephone number and hoped long distance calls would help deter the problem. Nope. The telephone still rings quite regularly.

I’m not sure how many of you fine folks have met my daughter, but my wife and I got exactly what we prayed for in our little girl. An independent who is willing to stand up for herself. I didn’t have to answer the telephone for that call last night. My daughter ran to the telephone, picked it up, and provided some entertaining dialogue. “I’m sorry, he is not able to come to the phone right now. You shouldn’t be calling at this hour. You have gotten us all in trouble.” Here is where I look up from my computer with interest since I wasn’t involved yet. “Look, you should never call at this time of the night and don’t call back.” Then, without waiting for a reply, my daughter disconnects the call.

Now comes the part that really proves my theory. My daughter takes the telephone, which happens to be cordless, to her bedroom and quietly shuts the door. In a moment I notice the flashing lights on the concoction of equipment that connects my home telephone system to the Internet. I quietly set my laptop computer to the side, walk over to my equipment, and pull a wire. The lights stop blinking. I simply wait a moment and my daughter appears from her bedroom with a confused look. Things are never what they seem but it is comforting to know that when the world does change, it changes consistently. There is a very happy ending. I am now officially initiated into the “old fashioned club” with honor.

A Treasure Lost [CCR]

Someone told me something yesterday that has me really worried. They told me I had lost something that is very special to me. I have kept it with me since I was a young boy and it has been my constant reminder of home. It has been with me from the Boston Harbor to the San Diego coastline. It even traveled with me overseas. So now I am checking to make sure I haven’t actually lost it. It was the one definitive possession of my Alabama heritage.

Most people I meet find that I am proud to be from Colbert County. I take my portable disk drive of pictures with me wherever I go. I share photos from home and talk about the many adventures I had growing up. I have scanned many of my pictures and I am now seeking the best method for scanning my slides so I have a digital copy of my other vast collection of home.

As I show the pictures the discussion turns to the many fishing trips on the Tennessee or Bear Creek. People are amazed to see the pictures I have taken on the Riverton Rose Trail of the river and creek banks. Most cannot believe what they see. I show them pictures of Wilson Dam, the locks, and boats that slowly but surely push their cargo up and down the big river. We then turn to history and talk about the importance of the river and our area in almost every phase of our country’s development. In my travels I meet Civil War buffs who do know our area and enjoy hearing what I have learned from my Mother’s book research. For example, almost every political leader throughout history knew whoever controls the Tennessee controls the South.

A lot of people are really interested in our musical heritage and many know the important roll Muscle Shoals plays in the history of modern music. They walk into my office to hear me playing Sweet Home Alabama and see my computer wallpaper of Wilson Dam. Then I must spend time discussing our musical legacy and explaining our best kept secret, the Swampers. I then pull out the pictures of the old city limit signs declaring Muscle Shoals the “Hit Recording Capital of the World.” I tell them how we celebrate W. C. Handy and others who put us in the middle of entertainment history.

Others often hear where I am from and we talk about Helen Keller and how she brought the world’s attention to one girl who overcame disabilities to change the world. They know of the play, but now they want to see and touch the history. So I pull out the pictures and show how my home has kept her story alive.

But more important to me are the people. The people from my home are proud. We enjoy the hot summer sun and a cold glass of “sweetened” tea. Picking blackberries or hunting ginseng are traditions few people understand. And most people just don’t seem to realize that when we are fixin’ to get something done we are ready to start our assignment.

Now you see I am proud of my heritage and I do love my home. So to say I have lost the one piece of home I have carried with me everywhere over all the years I have traveled deeply disturbs me. My treasure was passed to me by my family and I have tried to hone it and keep it sharp for the moment. And now that I still haven’t found my way to move back home I must find my treasure if it is truly lost. I understand that living up here near the Great Lakes may make it difficult to find but I think they are mistaken. I think it is still there. And if it is truly missing I will find it again for I am going back home some day. This person said I had lost part of my true North Alabama pure bred home grown Southern accent. I truly pray they are wrong.

Summer Hardware [CCR]

Spring may have reached Alabama, but it is barely peaking over the horizon here in Ohio. While we enjoyed a rather warm day, tonight’s forecast includes the possibility of snow. So with the long cold spells up here my thoughts often turn to my Alabama summers to bring warmth to the soul.

Good weather here means work around the house which includes trips to that big box hardware store over in town. I walk through those stores and they have just about everything that a person might need and a whole lot of stuff you hope you never need. Folks here won’t believe me, but we had that convenience growing up in Cherokee. And it included a personal touch that just can’t be duplicated in large volume.

Most people born prior to my entrance into this great world might remember Mr. Harris’s cotton gin. It was located just north of town on Main Street. But, by the time I came along it had become the location for just about anything a person would need around the house. In fact, the very heart of the house I grew up in came from that place. Ralph Guthrie and Homajean Grisham bought the gin and it had become Grisham and Guthrie Building Supply, or at least that is how I remember the name. We just called it Grisham and Guthrie.

Just about any project around the house meant a trip out to Grisham and Guthrie. I always enjoyed wandering through the various nooks and crannies of storage finding what we needed. And most of those warm summer days Dad would buy me a Coke out of the machine that sat just outside the office door. Usually Dad would explain what he needed and Mr. Singleton or Mr. Long would take us around until we had either gathered or listed everything we needed. If it didn’t fit on our old 1951 Chevy truck then Mr. Long would gladly bring it out to the house on one of their trucks.

My Granddaddy Daily had made a living as a woodsman and was an accomplished carpenter. Dad learned many of those great carpenter skills from him and it seemed almost magical how Dad figured up what we needed for our projects. I guess watching his ease of figuring lumber is one reason I became fascinated with math and ended up with an engineering degree. But once we had the list then Dad and one of the guys at the store would carefully cull through the piles of lumber picking the best pieces in the pile. It just seemed natural.

Now if lumber wasn’t what you needed you didn’t have to worry. As a small boy it seemed half the buildings in Cherokee were at that place. And those buildings were filled with plumbing supplies, electrical wire, and even appliance parts. Our water heater had a gift for attracting lightning and we bought quite a few heating elements there.

Once the order was ready we proceeded to the office where Mr. Grisham or Mr. Guthrie always seemed to have a smile and story to tell while you rested in the air conditioning. It always seemed especially nice in there after loading lumber on a truck and wandering around that maze of supplies. And so the conversation continued as we figured up the bill on a paper invoice, personally written and ciphered without the use of a laser that would burn your eye out if you look too close. Once the paper work was done two copies came from the pad, the cash drawer rang, we paid our bill, and we were on our way to complete another project.

I imagine if I were able to live back home most people might know me in those big stores in town. But, here you have to run your stash across the register by yourself while a machine tells you how to pay the bill in a conveniently impersonal fashion. If you’re willing to pay the price and are lucky you can wander down to the grocery and may still find cola in a glass bottle. Take it home, chill it in the fridge, and sit with a friend in the warm sun. It’ll cool your body and warm your soul. But don’t forget to add the peanuts.

Green Kool-Aid [CCR]

Someone who had not lived in western Colbert County when I was growing up might claim there wasn’t much for a teenager to do around Cherokee. You couldn’t find the fun only if you didn’t look. In my case I was heavily involved in our youth activities at our church. And I understand that even today quite a few churches around home have some great activities for the youth.

We were very fortunate to have Doug and Mary Hester teaching our Training Union class. Now for those of you not familiar with the Baptist church, Training Union was our Sunday night youth group before the evening sermon. Mr. and Mrs. Hester were very appropriate teachers for our class because they had special energy and the desire to work with a group of overzealous teens. But the most fun came after the evening sermon. The Hesters would allow us all to gather in the church van and we would head to Muscle Shoals for pizza. Now folks contrary to what my sister, the doctor, would say, to this day I know for a fact that pizza is a necessity on the list of growth foods for teens. We used those evenings to cast away a little stress, bond with our friends, and prepare ourselves for the upcoming school week. I don’t know how the Hesters managed, but I never remember coming home disappointed or too late for being out on a night before school.

But with the bonds in that group also came many other great times that would build our characters and provide the adhesive for our ability to get through the years. We often had group outings, lock-ins, volley ball, and even some trips out of town. Mr. Windsor was brave enough to carry us to Birmingham for a group trip and I will never forget staying at the Holiday Inn, gathering at Samford University, or the window falling out of the van on the way home. It was a fun trip. But most people would find my most enjoyable memory strange at best.

Our parents were always kind to provide food and munchies for our gatherings. And at one fateful event Mrs. Wallace brought green Kool-Aid. Now folks, it is hard today to find green Kool-Aid. In fact I believe it was actually off the market for a short while. And I don’t think they provide it in any of those presweetened or diet concoctions. I’m not sure if the flavor was actually lime but it was good. And for some reason thereafter I always asked Mrs. Wallace if she was bringing green Kool-Aid. It actually became a running joke just between us for a long time.

Eventually I left for college, left the group, and moved away. But I still haven’t forgot the green Kool-Aid. I made a trip to our local grocery store the other day. I stumbled across the shelf with all the drink mixes. And there it was, packets of green Kool-Aid. It was a flashback moment. Not a bad moment. A good moment. Trips to Pizza Hut. Summers in Vacation Bible School. Singing in the youth choir. Learning what it was like to care for one another. And in the end we developed life long memories. Memories that I hope have helped carry many of my old friends through the bumps in life.

During those years I happened to have a camera that I carried with me. My daughter now uses it for her college photography class and is proud of her “manual” camera. But I love that camera and I took quite a few pictures of our gatherings. Many of those pictures are slides that are stored away in my basement. Its Friday and I’m about to head home. I think I will pull out the slide projector, wipe off the dust, pull out the slides, and show my teens what having a good time was all about in our little town of Cherokee. I might even order pizza and mix up a pitcher of green Kool-Aid.

Influences for Life

My experiences have taught me that you can never be quite sure when you are actually influencing someone and possibly sharing a life changing experience. Most people who know me know my love for music. My parents provided every opportunity they could for my exposure to various forms of music including piano lessons and guitar lessons. Mrs. Keeton was my piano teacher and I believe just about anyone my age in western Colbert County took piano lessons from Mrs. Keeton. She had that special patience to guide each of us into the world of music.

Later my interest turned to singing. While I may not be the next star on American Idol I have done my fair share of singing. But singing is a little different from the piano or the guitar. You must learn to hear the music. To sing harmony you must be able to find where you fit into the combination. Most of us growing up in Cherokee regularly attended church and most churches have some form of music. I happened to attend First Baptist in Cherokee where for some reason I was invited at a rather young age to sing in the choir. Mr. Brown, our music director, and the choir decided to let me join. To this day I still hold that there is a purpose for everything that happens in life and here is one of the finest examples. At the time I know I was the youngest member of the adult choir. Here is where I found the mentor that would teach me the fine art of harmony.

I joined the men on the back row of the choir and most Sundays I took my place right between Mr. Lyle and Mr. McManus. Mr. Lyle was my elementary school principal and a very good one at that, but I don’t think he realized where he would actually influence me the most. Each Sunday we would have our regular list of songs to sing and maybe the choir would sing something special. For some reason Mr. Lyle took an interest in sharing his book or sheet music with me. As we stood back there I could hear Mr. Lyle singing the bass harmony. While I knew about the various notes played together on a piano and I had heard the various instruments play their part in the bands, it was on that back row of the choir that I first learned how individual parts blended to become a song.

Mr. Lyle was quite patient showing me what notes we were singing in the books. Most people might not have noticed his guidance because we were in the back row. While I couldn’t necessarily reach the low notes that Mr. Lyle would, I learned to follow his lead and hear where we fit within the harmony. Now one of the most sung songs of our church was that famous hymn, “Just As I Am.” After singing it with Mr. Lyle I was soon able to sing the bass line for that song without even looking at the music. To this day I can sing the bass line for at least the first three verses totally from memory. In fact, it would be almost impossible for me to sing the melody since the harmony is so engrained in me.

From that time spent with Mr. Lyle I went on to enjoy other moments of song including a brief stint in the high school choir. My senior year I was the only boy in the school choir. I don’t think the other guys in my class realized the benefits. I keep telling my sons they should be so lucky. Every time a duet or male part was required I was the sole choice. That situation gave me the opportunity to sing quite a few songs with some of Cherokee’s finest young ladies. After that I spent time in various other choirs including the annual Christmas presentation of a portion of George Handel’s oratorio “Messiah” at the University of North Alabama. I also have taken leading roles in music at various churches as I have moved around the country.

I don’t think Mr. Lyle ever really knew what he actually did for me. I do know that Mr. Lyle’s actions had a more important lesson than learning about the harmony of music. Never forget to take time with the younger ones of our community. Be patient. Show them what you are doing whether it is singing, fishing, reading, or just mowing the yard. You will never know what flame that small spark actually created.

Alabama’s Best of Show [CCR]

Recently the sporting headlines included the famous Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. This show features what people consider the best of all dogs everywhere. Those people need to become a little more familiar with our Alabama dogs. It would probably be a sure bet that none of those dogs could meet the requirements for burial in the Coon Dog Cemetery. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against those dogs in the show. But, folks, we have a bit of our own “best of show” in Alabama.

When I was a fairly young child my Dad got us a dog that carried me through a good bit of my teenage years. Butch wasn’t one of those fancy looking dogs you see on the dog show. He did have a stub tail. Not docked. It just grew that way. He wasn’t a big dog, but he wasn’t exactly small either. Mom and Dad tell me that as a young child I loved to sneak up on Butch and stomp that stub tail. I guess Butch just knew I was a unknowing small child because he ignored it and never complained.

But just like most of us humans, Butch had one weakness. He loved to chase and tree other animals. That chase would include squirrels, raccoons, or whatever was available. And in our case we lived near cattle. Dad made a decision that was brilliant and filled the needs of everyone including Butch. Butch moved to my Granddaddy’s house in Mountain Springs. Our dog now had a cornucopia of critters to chase.

As most dogs who roam the woods around home you can imagine Butch had some run-ins with snakes. Rattlesnakes and copperheads for sure. I can’t recall when Butch first got bit. But, with exception to his annual rabies shots, my folks could take pretty good care of the pets. So Butch was nurtured through those first few encounters. That nurturing was very unfortunate for the snake population. Ever watch one of those shows when a fighter hits someone and the big guy just shakes off the hit? Well, Butch somehow got immune to those snake bites. All a good snake could do was make Butch mad. I couldn’t count the number of snakes Butch killed that we knew about and could only guess the number of ones we didn’t see. But, I can remember Butch chasing snakes to a hole and digging them out for their encounter. For many years the snakes in Mountain Springs lived in fear of the famous snake dog, Butch. If you were wandering into the local woods you wanted Butch in the lead. He always cleared the path.

Snakes weren’t the only fare on Butch’s menu. He joined us for just about every squirrel and deer hunting trip we made. At night he treed his fair share of coons and possums (that’s raccoons and opossums for the city folks). I can remember spending the night at Granddaddy’s house and hearing Butch make a run in the middle of the night. Granddaddy would wake me up, grab the old double barrel shotgun and we were on our way out to give Butch the satisfaction of completing the hunt. Granddaddy and Butch grew one of those special relationships where each knew what the other was thinking. Butch knew his place was not on the porch until Granddaddy went to bed. He then took his place on the wood box by the door to guard his family.

I can’t count the number of hunts Butch made, but he kept the pace all the way through most of my teen years. As he got older Granddaddy got Butch a companion, Guard, and Butch taught his apprentice the tricks of the trade. For a short while Butch held the top of the wood box and Guard lay at the foot of the box. Age caught up with Butch along with an illness he had carried since a pup that we just couldn’t fix. As a dog of about 15 years age Butch was having a very hard time getting around, but he always perked up when Dad or one of my uncles would take him out to the woods around the house. Then one day Dad took Butch out and Butch never came home. Guard took his place on the box as if it were a passing of the torch and he continued to guard Granddaddy’s house through the rest of Granddaddy’s years.

Now folks, you may not see Butch or some other kid’s local dog on that dog show. But I can bet each of us had a pet that we feel holds the “best of show” for us. I, for one, nominate Butch. If you make it out to Mountain Springs one evening in the summer take a drive around Daily Loop. Drive slowly and roll your window down. If you listen quietly you may hear old Butch giving a coon a run for his money. And then if you hear that old double barrel shotgun blast you know Granddaddy finished another hunt.

Sounds in the Night [CCR]

In my career I have moved around the country quite a bit. In each place I move I find different sounds in the night. Some are very helpful and send you into a deep sleep. Other locations, such as when I lived near the Atlanta airport, can be irritating at best. Nothing can be more disturbing than the approach of a jumbo jet combined with the modern sub woofer pulsing the air harder than a wave pool. Here in Galion, Ohio I live near one of the old railroad crossings of the Pennsylvania and the New York Central, now split between CSX and Norfolk Southern. So you can imagine the sounds of the night here, double tracks in four directions with multiple trains. But, I still travel out of town, look up at the stars, and remember the sounds of home.

Living near Cherokee meant living near the fertilizer plant, the river, and, of course, the railroad. Only a single train came each night on a regular schedule so the rhythm did not change the cycle of the night. On many nights you might hear a barge softly chugging down the river. The sound I miss most is the steam whistle announcing the shift changes at the fertilizer plant. Many people at home remember the days before the plant was built so that sound is not so deeply implanted. My parents built our house and we moved in when I was about six months old. As a child I could hear all the sounds of the plant and they became a part of my life. Can you believe I miss those sounds? Sometimes it seems it would still be comforting to hear the whistle mark the midnight shift change. And I never can forget the cycle of the afternoon whistles. When Dad moved to day shift I knew exactly which one meant he was near the end of his shift and which meant the day of work was done, unless he had to work overtime.

Nights at my Granddaddy Daily’s house had its own rhythm. In the summer you had a combination of two nightly sounds. First, the sound of the pumping station, Texas Eastern, which was also built prior to my entry into the world. For those that lived there before the station was built it probably initially disturbed their nights. But for me the consistent sound of that pumping station had multiple benefits. It could lull you to sleep but it could also mean finding your way home. If you were hunting at night you could locate the direction of the sound and find your way home.

But, for me the most compelling sounds at my Granddaddy Daily’s house were the various bugs or insects. It was a practiced pattern with a consistent beat. I’m still not sure how the bugs worked it out or maybe I just heard it that way. But it is a pleasant beat that accompanied me not only on my many nights at their house, but also on many of our overnight camping trips. Now for the bugs it meant they were looking for a girlfriend or boyfriend, but I never understood how that a single bug among the millions made himself or herself the more attractive.

Another special treat was the sound of the rain. A thunderstorm at my Granddaddy’s house meant a virtual day of relaxation and a cleansing of the air. In contrast, today it means you better turn off the computer and video games or you will be making a trip to the big box electronics store to check your credit line.

Recently, before winter set in, my wife and I took a trip out to visit my Dad’s first cousin, which means my second cousin, Ed Hodge. Mr. Hodge lives in the vicinity of the Daily home places so it took me back to those home sounds. On the way home we took the route by Granddaddy’s old house. I told my wife about the many stories Granddaddy shared on the subject of wandering home in the dark after a long day of work. Wandering mostly meant walking. So as we neared the top of the hill on Mt. Mills Road we talked about how it must have felt walking those trails at night with little light and maybe nothing more than the moon. So I stopped on the road, turned out the lights on the Jeep, and we just sat and listened. I guess the total darkness without the moon may have made it frightening, but there it was. Those sounds. Without the engine of the Jeep and the modern disturbance of the radio you could hear home.

Take a trip out one night to where the sounds of today cannot interfere with the special sounds of nature and listen. Folks, those sounds and sights are something our friends in the big cities such as New York and Chicago just don’t get to share in a natural fashion. The next time you go into one of those highfalutin electronic stores in the big city you will find a special gadget that can be very expensive. Turn the display machine on. You know what you get? Those sounds. The very sound you can get for free just by either living a few miles out of our local towns or taking an overnight trip. Need a mixture of the availability of civilization and those sounds? There are some awfully nice camp sites down at the Colbert County Park on Riverton Rose Trail that have openings all summer long. Then you too can share in the sounds of home.