Hot Wheels Daredevil Crash Track Set

TALES OF AN OZARK BOY

Growing up in the country....

Clyde (as he was known - professionally) Emmett (to his friends) Douglas, had a great knack in telling stories. He would regularly regale our family and friends with story after story. As a kid, and as an adult, I would listen intently as he told a story. It didn't matter whether I was hearing it for the first time or had heard it a hundred times - I was always fascinated. It's not the story...it's the story teller.His kids started asking him to write down the particularly fascinating stories of his boyhood about thirty years ago. He was always too busy and never did. His daughter, Diana, finally got him to tell her the stories - as she tape recorded them. After she had transcribed them, my father did take the time to edit them to the final form as presented in this collection.Although he died in 1999, hopefully, he will be looking down from Heaven smiling as you read these true life tales.My sisters and I hope that you will enjoy them as much as our family did ...

An Exciting Game

As an eight-year-old boy living on a remote, rocky little farm in the Ozark hills, I had but few friends and I treasured them. One was Spot, my beagle hound, another was Billy the kid goat. Then there was my younger brother, Jack, and my near constant companion and friend, Jack the mule.

Sometimes Jack the Mule was hardly recognizable as a friend, or even as a mule. Often he did not act as one, but more like a mischievous leprechaun. In truth, at times Jack didnt even look quite like a mule because of positions he got himself into and the facial expressions he adopted.

Jack was a young thirteen-year-old when he came to live with us - or off us. He was the senior partner of the team. His partner was an equally large female, much younger, and quite handsome. She was more docile and a much better worker than Jack. Of course, almost any creature on our farm was that.

My first real recollection of Jack was horrifying. As I was arriving home from school I heard the pounding of hooves and then I beheld this huge brute with his large long cars laid back, and his great yellow teeth bared, chasing my little six-year-old brother across the orchard as he came to meet me as I returned from school.

My brother was running toward the fence near me as fast as his pigeon-toed little feet could carry him. This great monster was jumping and bucking along behind him. My brother Jack just managed to roll under the barbwire fence out of harms way just before his pursuer caught up with him.

Imagine my amazement a day or two later when this identical drama was again played out before my eyes! And again a day or two later! By The third day I began to realize that this whole scene was a game between a tiny boy and a huge mule. This little boy had discovered another lonely soul, and had come to understand that this great animal was a harmless tease who had no intention of getting near enough to hurt his little playmate, but who seemed truly to delight in seeing his victim scamper along before him.

Grandma Crosses the Ford

Grandma was always old and ever young in my eyes. An indomitable spirit filled her short, plump, energetic body. None of her daughters could dance an Irish jig like Grandma. One of my earliest memories is of her teaching me to sing My Blue Heaven and When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. If her singing Irish heart felt discouragement - as often it must have had ample reason to - she rarely let it be known.

Life with Grandma was an adventure. She seemed to know no fear, even when she and her two young grandsons were scraping out a meager living on a little. rocky Ozark farm with little help from anybody. Her adventuresome spirit prompted her to strike out into the unknown, and sometimes with nearly disastrous results.

One morning when chores were done she had me harness Ol Jack the mule and his partner and hitch them to the wagon. The anticipation of a day of playing with someone besides my seven-year-old brother, Jack, was enough to hurry me through the task.

Grandma climbed into the wagon, settled her ample self firmly onto the spring seat mounted across the wagon bed, clucked at the team and we commenced our six-mile journey.

Even Ol Jack seemed relieved to break the monotony of the backwoods farm, for he set off down the lane at a reasonably brisk pace, that is, for Jack. Bouncing along a rocky road in an iron-tired wagon with no springs is a bone-jarring experience, let me tell you. In six miles of such travel there has to be no less than about 5, 000 such bone-jarring. teeth-rattling experiences. However. we were tough, and quite innocent of comfortable transportation, and so endured the discomfort without complaint.

The friends we were to visit lived across the St. Francis River from us. To avoid a three mile longer trip to cross the river on the bridge, Grandma chose to ford the river near the little town of Chaonia. This we did without mishap. Fording the river was pleasant as well as profitable. The water was a little over two feet deep at the ford. The river was clear and cool. Ol Jack and his companion delighted in stopping to drink their fill. We dallied in the middle of the gentle stream for about ten minutes to let the wooden wheels absorb the water. This caused them to expand and make the iron rims fit more securely. My brother and I relished the opportunity to splash our bare feet in the sparkling flowing water.

Too quickly, we were again banging along toward our destination. Too quickly, also, we were having to abandon our infrequent playmates and head for home to do the interminable chores before dark. By hurrying, and, of course, bouncing, a little more than before. we could just about make it home before sunset.

To our dismay, as we arrived at this same gentle ford which we had crossed in the morning, we discovered that the river had risen during the day from rains upstream. The muddy, swirling water was at least four feet deep. Grandma made some quick mental calculations and realized that going around by way of the bridge would get us home way after dark. Doing chores around a farm after dark - after the snakes come out - is even more dangerous than usual. Her Irish spirit rose to the challenge and she vowed, We can make it!

You can say a lot about a mule, and many have - much of it uncomplimentary - but one thing you must say, they have more horse-sense than any horse, and also. about half the people I know. Ol Jack clearly was opting for the longer, safer road via the bridge. With great and obvious reluctance he responded to the determined urging of Grandma. He responded even more so to the smarting of the ends of the long leather reins across his haunches. Inch by slow inch, Jack and his mate forced their way into the racing river. My brother Jack and I had our hearts in our throats. In a few seconds the water was over the wagon wheels and flooding the wagon bed. With scared yelps we clambered onto the seat beside Grandma and held onto her comforting bulk for dear life. The mules were struggling to maintain their footing. The wagon slipped downstream a foot or two. At that Grandmas eyes widened noticeably. and she increased the volume of her encouragement and instruction to the laboring team.

While my practical nature informs me that Ol Jack was concerned only with saving his own tough old hide, my romantic nature encourages me to believe he also had some concern for his frightened charges. At any rate, with truly great effort - and, I insist, valor - Jack and his faithful mate overcame the powerful thrust of the deep racing waters and hauled us all to safety upon the other side.

I do not recall any words being spoken from there all the way home. As I unhitched, unharnessed, curried and fed Ol Jack and his partner, I found myself frequently patting my old buddy, and scolding him in more gentle tones than usual.

A Battle of Wits

Grandpa was sort of grumpy, especially when he was tired. Most of the time when he had to work with our old mule, Jack, he was grumpy, because pretty soon he was sick and tired of working with Jack.

Since we lived in a great forest, the logs for our wood staves were always readily available; available, that is, after they were sawed or chopped down, trimmed and cut into logs, and either snaked in or hauled in on a wagon. Logs were snaked in by fastening a heavy chain around the smaller end and dragged into the woodyard by the mules. Smaller poles were piled onto the wagon and pulled in by the team.

On one occasion, Grandpa got a little too ambitious and piled a big load of poles and logs onto the wagon. When he yelled giddap! to the mules, Ol Jack tentatively leaned against the collar and quickly decided that the load was just too blamed heavy. He slowly straightened his great bulk and became firmly rooted to the spot. My grandpa probably never went beyond third grade in school, but when it came to working mules he had developed a vocabulary that I doubt any college professor could match. As the air rapidly took on a distinctly blue hue and Grandpas ruddy complexion grew more so, Ol Jacks roots just held fast.

At last. in utter exasperation, Grandpa paused for breath. and then, with a devilish twinkle in his old blue eyes, he began to heap up dead leaves under Jacks belly. Striking a match upon his rancid old corn-cob pipe, he quietly set the pile of leaves on fire. As the leaves caught fire and the flames began to leap up onto Jacks tender belly, the stubborn old fellow came alive. He snorted and lunged forward against the collar, as did his fellow-worker. In less time than it takes to tell, Jack and the wagon was moving again.

Grandpa grinned a big smug grin, but quickly his grin disappeared as the wagon came to rest squarely over the now crackling good fire. As Jack leered back at Grandpa, it was evident he had stopped to see the fun. With mounting fury, Grandpa scrambled to rake the flaming leaves from under the scorching wagon.

I risked a licking by rolling in convulsive glee upon the ground, while Jack continued to gloat over his triumph. Grandpa finally regained his composure and without a word motioned me to help him unload a substantial part of the load. When this was done, he gently flicked the line and said, Giddap, and Jack and his helper headed for the house.

I Get Hitched Up to Jack

As I sat in the shade of the forest edging the field in the valley, my eyes followed old Grandpa as he stumbled along the freshly-turned furrow. The team of great Missouri mules plodded slowly ahead of the walking plow, which sliced a strip off the hard-packed earth, turning it upside down. I savored the pungent sweetness of the loosened dark-brown soil, and counted the crows and other birds as they followed the primitive earth-moving machine in search of surprised worms.

For several years I had been blessed with my share of chores on our little Ozark farm. I had also spent long hot days hoeing weeds, digging potatoes, picking beans, etc. Yet, the real work of handling the team of mules had not been entrusted to me, for I was just barely nine-years-old.

Grandpa left the mules standing while he ambled across the field to visit with a neighbor walking through the forest. At that turning point in my young life my enthusiasm for adventure outweighed my good judgment. (This seems to have been true any number of times since then.) Upon impulse, I seized the opportunity for adventure and quickly ran to the plow and mules, I glanced toward Grandpa to see that his attention was still diverted. Placing the reins around my waist, I proudly and nervously grasped the curved handgrips of the wooden plow handles and quietly called giddap to the mules. Somewhat to my surprise they responded to my command. I watched in fascination as the shiny curved plowshare bit into the earth. A generous slice of soil slid smoothly back along the plowshare and quietly inverted upon itself.

I strode forward through the newly exposed furrow like an explorer of a new land - for about ten feet. Then the plow popped out of the earth and I was flung sprawling. Frantically I yelled Whoa! whereupon lazy, Ol Jack, the senior partner of the team, stopped. Anxiously I looked to see if Grandpa was yet aware of my predicament. I could have sworn I saw him looking in my direction, and momentarily expected to hear an angry bellow. To my surprise, he seemed not to have seen or heard me, for he continued his conversation with his friend as though I were invisible.

With some effort, I righted the plow and replaced it into the furrow. Again I set forth upon my adventure, but with considerably more caution and less aplomb than before. With increased respect for the task at hand, I managed to negotiate a quite slow and most erratic turn around the field. Despite the many botches in the effort, I was pleased to observe that I had managed to turn over two strips of earth, each nearly five hundred feet long, varying in width from four to twelve inches. Somehow I had succeeded in controlling - after a fashion - two great mules so as to achieve this gratifying result.

As I could spare a hasty glance in Grandpas direction, as I stumbled along behind the plow, I confess to some puzzlement at his apparent lack of awareness of my rather bold adventure. Slowly it dawned upon me that Grandpa was fully aware of my daring feat. Naively, I surmised that he was viewing my skill with pride akin to my own.

Grandpa magnanimously allowed me to try my hand at another turn around the field - and then another, and another. This marked the commencement of my life as a man, for from that fateful day forward I was privileged to make a hand in the fields. Indeed, I went on from there to bigger and better things, like plowing new ground - that is, land newly cleared of the forest. But that is another story.

The Houdini of the Barnyard

Jack was indeed a lazy scamp when it came to honest work; he just never caught the spirit of it. However, he was never lacking in energy if something came into his tricky mind that he wanted to do. Indeed, he was quite enterprising at times, especially if the scheme he was engineering promised a delicacy for his belly.

Padlocks were never heard of on our little Ozark farm. In fact, Im sure there wasnt a lock as such on the place, including the old weather-worn house. Two gadgets in our simple life ordinarily served well to keep our gates and door closed. One simple device was the button, which consisted of a rectangular block of wood nailed adjacent to the edge of the barn door or crib door with the nail in the approximate center of the button. When the button was turned at right angles to the door it fairly effectively locked the door to prevent its being opened. The other lock was the iron ring off a wagonwheel hub. When this ring - usually about eight inches in diameter - was placed over a gate post and the adjacent picket of the customary picket gate, it kept the gate closed until the ring was lifted off.

Now, none of the animals on the farm apparently ever thought about what kept the barn door, the corn-crib, or the garden or yard gate closed, much less how to open them - none of them, that is, but Jack. Whether he simply observed how the two-legged critters turned those buttons and lifted the iron rings off the gates, or whether he figured it out himself, I dont know. One thing I do know, he learned to use those huge rubbery lips to twist the button so the door would open and to nudge the gate rings off the gates.

Grandma was busy as usual in her lean-to kitchen one day when she heard the unmistakable sound of huge hard hooves on her kitchen floor. She whirled about and in amazement beheld the front half of a great mule. With great interest Jack was smelling the dinner on the stove and gazing longingly at the freshly-baked loaves of aromatic bread on the table. Never daunted, my short, pudgy Irish Grandma grabbed a broom and flailed away at the great intruder into her domain. With a force that threatened to dislodge the ceiling, Jack jerked his huge head with a mighty bang against the ceiling and retreated with alacrity.

For a while, at least, we added a baling wire safeguard to the yard gate lock.

I Harness Jack

The top of my head reached to a point about ten inches above Jacks belly. He stood about sixteen hands high at his shoulders. A hand means the width of an average mans hand, or four inches, so sixteen hands means that at his shoulders Jack was about sixty-four inches tall. He was a big Missouri mule, weighing about 1, 600 pounds.

Despite the quite formidable difference in our sizes, it felt my lot to assume the presumptuous role of Jacks master. In retrospect, I now discern that Jack was possessed of a certain natural nobility. He endured my exasperated commands with patience and gentleness, and yet he showed his irrepressible spirit and good humor.

Naturally if I was to exact any use from this great animal, I had to somehow attach to him, and his teammate, the heavy leather and chain bretchen harness. Bretchen was a reference to the breeches, a heavy leather strap across the back end of the animal. As far as I then knew, it served no useful purpose, but merely added to the weight of the harness.

The putting on of this harness was enough to tax all the strength and ingenuity of this mules small master. I first had to drag the great cloth and felt collar pad from its place on the wall and fasten it over the shoulders of the mule. Then the even heavier and bulkier collar itself had to be placed over the pad. Following this, the heavy hanes and harness had to be lifted from the rack, dragged across the stall, and then up onto the manger, from which vantage point I was able to lift it with truly great effort onto the great backs of the mules. The buckling and adjusting required that I scramble upon and down from the manger several times, as well as under the bellies of the mules.

I was a bit more careful in my working with the female, for - as gentle as she was - I never felt as assured that she wouldnt hurt me as I did with Jack. Yet it was always Jack that gave me the most trouble in the arduous process of harnessing. Most of the year, I was barefoot twenty-four hours of the day. On numerous occasions, as I was intent upon adjusting and buckling the harness onto Jack, he would quickly, and yet gently set his foot (always one of his front feet) upon my small bare foot. There I would be trapped between Jacks hoof and the bedding and manure on the floor. Only after I had pushed him and pounded his huge bulk with my fist and yelled at him would he relent and lift his foot. Not once was my foot really hurt by the great oafs teasing.

The putting on of Jacks bridle was one task I almost dreaded. It required that I climb into his feed trough on the top of the manger and drag the bridle with me. I then had to pull and fuss at Jack to stand close enough to put his bridle on. The first step was to put the bit into his mouth. His mouth was almost as big as my head when he opened it to bray, as he often did. Yet one would have thought each time that I tried to insert the bit that he had lockjaw. To make matters worse, he would hold his long head up so that his mouth was out of my reach. Invariably when I was almost ready to beat him with a pitch fork, he would literally take the bit into his mouth and hold perfectly still as I slipped the bridle over his long sensitive ears.

After each harnessing session, I felt that I had won a major battle in my never-ending war with my friendly enemy, and Im sure Jack must have enjoyed himself thoroughly throughout each trying session.

The Howling Banshee

Despite great provocation from his usually impatient small master, hard, hot work and great suffering from monstrous horseflies, I cannot remember that I ever saw Ol Jack do a really mean thing. He endured much without even an outward show of irritation. Still, he truly was a prankster, and seemed to delight in his mischief.

One day following dinner, which was always at noon at our house, the mules and I reluctantly started from the house back to the field. We were being accompanied by a jaunty, overgrown hound pup, who trotted gaily along right in the path of Jack. The pup seemed greatly pleased with life, for his long straight tail stood upright and wagged vigorously.

Now it so happened that that long wagging tail was directly under Ol Jacks nose. Indeed, it was practically dusting the lip of his long nose at the end of his long face. Without warning, Jack reached down and gently closed that great mouthful of long, yellow teeth over the pups tail. He picked the pup up by his tail and shook him quite gently.

Such howling you have never heard as issued forth from that utterly amazed and horrified canine! Before I could get my mouth closed enough to even yell at Jack, he released the pup. It is doubtful that that pup could boast of any greyhound ancestry. but he truly would have done credit to such ancestry, if he had had any. Perhaps I have seen a dog move faster in my life, but I am sure I never saw that particular dog ever again cover ground so fast as he did in the next half minute.

What kind of a racket a screaming banshee makes I dont know, but that pup yelped and screamed like one, Im sure, as it practically flew from where Ol Jack dropped it until it disappeared under the house as a yellow blur. Until the pup zipped under the house a hundred yards away, Ol Jack stood stock-still and watched the rapidly disappearing dog. During all this time an unmistakable huge grin stretched his great mouth. No doubt about it, Ol Jack, at least, thought he had pulled a clever, hilariously funny, stunt.

The Manger Scene

Grandma, my brother Jack and I were on the little Ozark farm without Grandpa once for a few months. One day while Grandpa was away, I arrived home from school to find my usually good-humored Grandma in a terrible dither. She was out by the barn looking most distressed as I ran toward the barn to discover what monster was creating the horrible din inside the barn. As I neared the barn, I began to suspect that Ol Jack the mule was the source of the great thumping and the frightened bawling which issued from the old barn.

Grandma started to warn me to stay out of the barn, as Jack might hurt me, but before she could stop me I dashed into the barn and there beheld a most amazing spectacle. There lay Jack inside the manger, flat upon his back, with legs flailing like crazy, and his big mouth and eyes stretched wide in fright.

The old scamp had gone just too far in his efforts to reach the hay hanging down through an opening in the haymow, or hayloft, Obviously, as he had clambered up into the manger he must have tried to stand upon his hind legs and stretched his long neck and head to reach the hay, when disaster struck. He had lost his balance and sprawled upside down the length of the manger.

Grandma excitedly instructed me to get Doc Davis, our nearest neighbor about a mile away. Doc Davis hurried back with me, but brought no block and tackle or any other equipment with which to extricate my old friend from his trap. Doc quite calmly surveyed Ol Jacks plight. Boys in that day were slow to offer suggestions to their elders, but I did offer to get the sledge-hammer so that Doc could knock the boards off the manger to free my devilish old friend. Doc grunted, We wont need to do that.

Very nonchalantly Doc picked up a couple long pieces of handy baling wire and folded them once to make a long whip. He said, Stand back, boy. With that he began to sharply whip Ol Jacks exposed tender belly with that crude but effective whip. Inside myself, I was crying out in protest against such useless cruel abuse of my old friend. Before I could get a word out, I swear that Jack began to levitate himself straight up from that manger. How he did it I do not know, but it appeared that he lifted his great bulk by the top of his head and his tail. In less time than it takes to tell about it, Jack bawled a great protest and sprang upward from his supine position and landed upon his four feet in the stall.

Seldom did I ever see Ol Jack wearing a contrite and ashamed expression, but this was one time he did. He quietly stood with his head lowered and seemed to sigh in relief to be freed from such an embarrassing predicament. Doc Davis tossed the makeshift whip aside and, without a word, trudged toward home.

Jack Eludes Work and Seeks Food

In many respects, Jack the mule was much like many boys in that he hated work with almost a passion and loved food greatly, especially if he could steal it. Half of my energy, and most of my attention, I was forced to devote to the great lazy oaf as I struggled to do the work I was required to do.

If Jack had simply done his half of the pulling as dutifully as his long suffering female companion, his lot in life would have been much easier - to say nothing of mine! Whether the team was hitched to the walking plow, the wagon, the harrow, cultivator or a roller, the story was always the same. In just a very few minutes Ol Jack was lagging back a step or two, and his end of the double-tree was nearly rubbing the wagon wheel or some part of the equipment to which he was hitched.

It was, I truly believe, a matter of principle with Jack. He surely must have believed that it was truly his duty to express his deep resentment to such servitude. I think that as a free spirit that he was in the vanguard of the army of civil protesters.

Unfortunately, for him and for me, as a nine or ten-year-old boy, I had to elicit a certain amount of energy from his massive frame or else answer to Grandpa.

Grandpa had to work with Jack occasionally - too occasionally from my point of view - so he was willing to make certain allowances in my production, in light of my misfortune in having Jack as a working partner. It was not that I wasnt sympathetic to Jacks aversion to being hitched to the plow, or whatever. I really was, for I often felt that I was also hitched thereto. Still, life was tough all over, and had to go on. And so did Jack and his mate, and I.

Jack was endowed with a fertile brain which was always figuring out ways to escape the drudgery of work, or else to reach food, especially forbidden fruit, or for that matter, food of any kind.

It was even more difficult to return to the field for an afternoon of work, while the noon meal was heavy upon the stomach. Jack literally had to be driven - coerced, forced from the house to the field. I always stopped the mules at the water-trough on the way to the field to let the mules drink the cold, pure water which flowed from the spring. It seemed that Jacks thirst was always insatiable at such times, for he seemed never to cease his drinking. Each time he lifted his great head from the trough and I started to pull him away to go to the field he would immediately, thrust his mouth into the water and start again to drink and to swallow. For quite a number of times I stood there patiently, allowing him to drink time after time. However, on one occasion, as I observed his sipping and swallowing closely. I also became observant of the level of the water in the rather shallow water trough. Then I discovered that the level of the water was not changing one bit. The old trickster was merely pretending to drink, even to the pretension of swallowing. I hate to confess it, but Ol Jack was smarter than his little master in a lot of ways.

I have mentioned that Jack figured out how to lip open the latch buttons on the corncrib and to lift the iron ring off the yard gate to get into Grandmas delicious smelling kitchen. He also discovered how to get into the corn field to feast upon the tender corn. Since he was a true disciple of laziness, he would never have expended the great energy to leap over the four strands of sharp barbwire stretched tightly around the field of corn. Instead, he devised a devilish plan for gaining entry without such unseemly leaping. He would go to the approximate center of one side of the field and lean upon the barbwire with his tough old chest. When the pain from the barbs became too intense he would back off for a few minutes. Then he would renew the attack. Repeatedly Jack assaulted the fence until the staples holding the wire to the fence posts would pop out and the slack in the barbwire would be gathered to the point of pressure. After the two top strands were finally snapped loose he would carefully plant one great front foot upon the wires and press them into the ground. Whereupon the old scoundrel would casually saunter into the cornfield and collect his hire for his labor.

Jack never ate so much that he endangered his health or life by such over-indulgence. Upon some occasions I must confess I had regretted that he exercised such restraint. His mischievous and destructive scheme to gain entry into the cornfield enabled the cows to also enter the field. They were not so wise as Jack and would have eaten until they died if we hadnt discovered them in time.

I am sure, if Jack ever gave any thought to this slight problem, it bothered him not at all. While Jacks life had its share of hard work, he religiously embraced the philosophy of seeking pleasure where he could find it and avoiding as well as he could anything that interfered with that pleasure.

Jack Plays Hide and Seek

The two little creeks which flowed gently through our little Ozark farm were generally an adequate source of water for all the inhabitants of our farm. For us two-legged creatures, the cold sweet water that bubbled from the spring at the foot of the great hill upon which we lived gave a constant supply of water.

Of course we - meaning mostly me - had to transport this constant supply up this big hill to the house. My water toting started at about age five, when a half-gallon pail with a thin wire handle was just about all I could manage to carry up the hill.

Once, when the rains failed for several months in the summer, the creeks and the spring ran dry. It became my added daily responsibility to take Jack the mule and his mate to the river so that they could drink. The river, the St. Francis, was about one and a half miles from our house.

On one of our daily trips on the way back home, I was stopped by a boy I knew who lived beside the road. He wanted me to admire his new .22 rifle. Like most ten-year-old boys, I was fascinated as I fondled the shiny new rifle.

As I perched carelessly on top of Ol Jack, I took careful aim at a fence post, and squeezed the trigger. The last thing I recall about that rifle was the satisfying kerplunk as the bullet bit into that fencepost. In that same instant I comprehended with a shock that Jack could move quickly, as he leaped forward fully fifteen feet. When I descended from my elevated position atop of Jack, the bony hard surface of Jacks back and rump had been replaced by the rocky road.

Without taking time to diagnose my condition, I dashed after the two mules which by then were disappearing into the nearby forest. which was rapidly darkening because of sunset. My anger at my stupidity and at the mules refusal to heed my frustrated yelling gave me added energy. I was able for awhile to keep them in sight as they galloped along the rough rocky road. Then Jack decided to play games, for he led his willing conspirator off the lane. By then darkness had covered the thick woods, and I was forced to track the brutes by the sound of crackling underbrush.

As usual, I was barefoot. The thick calluses on my feet were reasonably adequate protection against the rocks, but now I was forced to wend my way through the blackberry thickets and whatever else lay in the way. Up hill and down the chase continued for about three or four miles. Ol Jack s pace slowed just enough so that I could manage to keep their thrashing and tromping within earshot.

Two quite strong emotions drove me on in my efforts to catch up to my devilish old friend: fear of my grandpa for letting the mules get away from me, and great fury at both myself and the elusive beasts I pursued. While the forest was filled with poisonous snakes and even some bear, wolves and bobcats, I gave little thought to danger from them. Familiarity does breed contempt, and I had lived with this danger for years. Secondly, I realized the monstrous noise of both the mules and my own futile bellowing was enough to frighten away sensible denizens of the woods.

After more than an hour of plunging along through the blackness, I began to hear more welcome sounds commingling with the trampling of the mules and my own panting. I recognized human voices and then knew I was approaching a house. As I stumbled out of the thick forest into the clearing I was vastly relieved to discern the dark outline of my mules standing docilely at the water trough. The farmers sons had caught and tied up the mules just before I had arrived.

I gasped out my thanks to my friends, crawled astride Jack, and headed back into the woods for home. All the way home I busied my over-wrought imagination by devising a series of tortuous reprisals upon Jack for the bad time he had given me.

When at last I had shut Jack and his generally innocent companion into their stall, I was content to threaten them with horrible consequences for any like future escapade. I was glad just to stumble off to bed, and to find a quick ending to what was not my most favorite day.

Jack Runs Away to the Doctor

Ol Jack was the mischievous old mule I had the misfortune of trying to get work out of as a youngster. Young Jack was not as fascinating a character, but he was a much better friend. Of course you would expect that, since he was my brother, two years my junior.

When I was about seven Jack and I were supposed to be picking up chips in the barn lot. Chips, for you uninitiated, are chips of wood resulting from cutting up poles or logs into stove-wood with an axe. After a half-hearted attempt to find a sufficient supply of chips lying about, I decided that it was much more interesting to create chips than to took for them. Despite Jacks protests, I took in hand the ancient worn-out pole-axe which Grandpa had left lying next to the giant oak tree which he had just felled in the barnyard. A pole-axe has but one cutting edge. It is shaped like a wedge. The end opposite the cutting edge is an inch or so wide, and is usable as a sledge hammer.

The handle of that particular axe was crooked from misuse and exposure to the elements. This crooked handle caused my inexpert whacking on the big log to be even more erratic. The axe was so dull that my efforts to produce chips caused only bruises in the bark of the log. I doubled my puny efforts to make a respectable impact upon the log. I swung the crude old axe through what I imagined was a mighty arc. Just as the axe descended toward the log, I heard Jack instruct me to Cut here, Buh. Horrified, I caught a glimpse of my little brothers right index finger lying upon the log, precisely in the path of the axe. I could do nothing to avert the impending tragedy. Sure enough, I cut right there.

Jack howled and ran as fast as his little pidgin-toed feet could carry him to the house to announce in great clarity and volume the most recent of Buhs misdeeds. I was in deepest anguish, for I dearly loved my little brother, and I was distressed beyond words for his grievous injury. I had cut off his right forefinger at the middle joint, and it hung by a mere piece of skin.

At the same time, I believed that for my horrible deed that the punishment which was to be meted out to me, guilty wretch that I was, would be awful beyond imagination. So, I did the only logical thing - I hid behind the smokehouse. There I cringed in misery and remorse at each wail of my poor brother.

At long last Jacks howling subsided. but I was comforted not in the least, for I was struck by the dread thought that he had died. I heard Grandpas shouted commands to Ol Jack the mule as he hastily hitched the team to the wagon. Grandmas calling to me became increasingly frantic. Screwing up all my courage. I forced myself to meet my awful fate, and joined Grandma, Grandpa and Jack at the wagon. To my surprise they simply ordered me to get into the wagon. Jack was bravely stifling his crying. Grandma held him upon her lap as she sat next to Grandpa upon the spring wagon-seat.

The teen-age son of Doc Davis. who had been working for Grandpa, joined me in the back of the wagon. Grandpa yelled Giddap and stung Ol Jacks rump with the leather reins. To my amazement the team of mules seemed to catch the fear and excitement of their passengers. In moments Jack and his mate were in a full gallop along the rough, rocky lane. I had never experienced such an exciting rough ride in all my life. Ol Jack ran like Old Nick himself was after him.

The neighbor boy was taking a gallon bucket of milk home with him. He was barely able to hold onto the bucket as the wagon bounced at such an alarming pace. His home was halfway between our house and the little town of Chaonia, where the old doctor had an office. Despite Grandpas frantic tugging on the reins and his shouts of Whoa! the team refused to slow their breakneck plunge along the road. The Davis boy had to leap from the hurtling wagon, milk-pail and all. This daring maneuver proved disastrous, for he rolled head over heels, and the milk all over him.

Little brother Jack was as excited and entertained by the wild ride as I was, and, to our shame, we both laughed in glee at the spectacular dismounting effort of the neighbor boy.

Incredibly, the team slid to a roaring, screeching halt directly in front of Docs little house and office. Oh! It was more breathtaking than a real wild-West movie! But then we all faced real-life again. Jack suddenly remembered why we had stopped - and I did, too.

I was only too glad to stay outside, and Jack would have been, too. The old doctor was so unnerved by Jacks howling that he finally had to call his son, who was home from medical school, to reattach Jacks finger: and this without any anesthesia, local or otherwise.

To the astonishment of us all, the reattached digit made a healthy recovery, excepting that the middle joint remained stiff and the end of the finger was a little bit curved. Rarely did it bother Jack. However, once in a while he was caused to remember his curved finger and Buhs misdeed. This at times occurred as he played shortstop on his local baseball team when, after many spectacular catches, he occasionally threw the ball to first base, in a stunning curve.

Typical Day in One Farmboys Life

It has been said that many farm boys attain success in life because they have to learn to be a self-starter. Im not sure that my self-starter got much use in my early years on our Ozark farm. Our farm came equipped with two very effective starters - my grandma and grandpa.

On most days my first starter - grandma - didnt start me up until 4:30 A.M. However, when the blackberries ripened in the woods my days started before 4:00 A.M., Grandma and I left the house at earliest dawn. By the time we had dragged our big buckets across the dew-laden pastures and meadows we were soaked nearly to the waist.

Before the rose-tinted Eastern skies gave birth to the sun, the bottom of our pails were covered with great shiny blackberries. As the dim light pierced the tangle of briars where I sought the plumpest berries, I occasionally found myself reaching for the same luscious fruit that a big black snake coveted. In every such instance, the snake had no real competition for that particular berry, or even that general section of the berry patch.

An hour of industrious picking, and unavoidable scratching from the thorny vines, usually yielded four large buckets filled to the brim with great juicy berries. By the time Grandma and I had trudged our way to the top of the great hill where we lived, we were dried of the dew, but wet from sweat.

When we arrived home there were many chores to be done while Grandma busied herself preparing breakfast. My brother Jack, two years my junior, and I had our assigned chores. Mine included feeding the hogs. This involved carrying a five gallon bucket of slop - refuse from the kitchen - from the house to the hog trough. As this bucket weighed over fifty pounds, I had to improvise a special method of swinging that bucket in a forward and backward manner so that the greater forward swing helped carry me along by its momentum.

Chores included cleaning out about four stalls in the barn. Since we had no straw with which to cover the earthen floor of these stalls we had to use cornstalks, as bedding for the mules and the cows. Naturally, the cornstalks were most tangled and covered with what comes naturally in such places.

A dozen or so cows had to be fed and milked by hand. Some of those old Holsteins developed huge teats. Milking them taxed all the strength of my small hands. In the summertime, in addition to being liberally besmirched, the cows were tormented by a horde of huge flies. In their desperate attempt to be relieved of the attacks of these great insects they kicked and stamped, swung their heads and flailed with their tails. The tail of an angry cow, matted with cockle burrs and manure, is nearly a lethal weapon. Despite my valiant efforts, the milk pail was occasionally overturned by the powerful kick of a cows hind leg.

After the milking was done, the milk had to be separated. The milk separator was a basically simple machine which separated the cream from the milk by means of a series of circular discs shaped like funnels. You know that when anything is whirled around in a circle. the heaviest parts are thrown away from the center by centrifugal force. When our separator was turned by means of a handle, the heavier milk ran out the bottom of the stacked discs and the lighter cream was forced to the top and out through the cream spout. Sometimes Grandma would run the separator while I harnessed the mules.

The team of mules had to be fed, curried and brushed. A curry was a metal serrated brush. Then the quite arduous task of harnessing remained as a challenge to a rather small boy, but thats another story.

Feeding the chickens, carrying in the days supply of firewood, husking the ears of corn for the animals, and feeding the remaining inhabitants of our farm, such as the goats and cows, were but a few of the remaining chores.

By this time we had all developed a ravenous appetite; at any rate, I had. Grandmas call to breakfast - or any meal was always a delightful sound. My brother, Jack, and I generally responded to this welcome call by simultaneously dashing to the wash basin, hurriedly dashing a bit of water upon our hands and then wiping some of the grime off upon the towel.

Breakfast was a banquet compared to most such meals today. In retrospect, I wonder where I stored two or three fried eggs, a slice or two of ham and bacon, biscuits, milk gravy, milk, and, frequently, cherry, blackberry or peach cobbler.

Before 7:00 A.M., my reluctant co-workers, the team of mules, and I, their reluctant master, were trudging back and forth across one of our fields. Our little farm consisted of forty acres until Grandpa purchased an adjoining forty acre. The original forty contained about twenty or so acres of fair river bottom land. The rest was hillside covered with rocks, brush and some timber, with the frame house, barns and other buildings, orchard and garden atop the hill.

Forgive my digression. Anyway, the mules and I cooperated - I use the term loosely - maneuvering some antiquated, worn-out, obsolete piece of farm equipment back and forth across the field. The crops which we hoped to coax from this none too productive soil were either corn, soy-beans, or timothy or redtop hay.

The soil was half clay in places, rocky in others, sandy in spots and, in a few places, deep in rich black loam. In some portions of the fields the flat bottom land gave way to rolling drop-offs which had to be used. At times the soil was hardpacked. This happened when the river had flooded over our land. and then the sun had baked it dry. When that had happened the plow turned up great clods of earth as large as a washtub. While plowing such soil my efforts, as a ten-year-old boy, to keep the plow upright and in the soil caused me to stumble from one side of the furrow to the other constantly. so that about the only time I was in the furrow was as I crossed it.

I could break, or plow, about two or three acres a day with the walking plow. The day in the field started between 6:30 A.M. and 7:00 A.M., and lasted until 6:00 P.M., with an hour break for dinner (lunch to you). Walking behind a plow for a day meant walking about sixteen miles a day. However, my erratic meandering back and forth as above described added considerably to my mileage.

Once the great stone-like clods of stubborn soil were made to clutter the landscape in the wake of my plow there remained the overwhelming task of pulverizing them into some degree of usability. Three tools were available to me for this formidable undertaking: a disc, a homemade log roller, or a harrow. If the soil was reasonably tractable all that was required was a double-A harrow. This equipment was made of large wooden beams six inches square and several feet long. Two large A-shaped structures were formed, with one A about one foot larger than the inside A. These two As were bound together with six by six beams. Then great steel spikes, like railroad spikes were driven through the center of these beams, so that the spikes protruded from beneath about five inches, about ten inches apart. The objective was to rip apart the clods over which it was dragged.

When the clods were huge and very hard even this fearsome instrument would bounce across the boulder-like surface. In an effort to add to the cutting force of the spikes, I would boldly - foolishly - stand on top of the contrivance as it flounced along this rugged terrain like a raft shooting white water. Just as I thought I had gained my sea-legs, my team, my chariot and I dropped down a fairly steep slope in the field. Simultaneously, the harrow was tossed into the air as it struck a great hard lump, and I was pitched head-first forward between the mules. Before I could scramble free the monstrous harrow had been pulled over me. How very glad I was that Ol Jack so thoroughly understood and responded with such alacrity to the shouted command of Whoa!.

There I lay with my whole body crumpled underneath the harrow, which weighed about three hundred pounds.

My immediate thought was that I was inevitably impaled by several of the long, sharp spikes. I admit to being puzzled that I could not hear my lifes blood gurgling forth. A few loud screams for Grandma leaped from the dusty throat of a frightened ten-year-old boy. It was soon apparent that Grandma in the house on top of a high hill a quarter of a mile away could not hear. I discovered that I had escaped injury except for a few bruises and began to dig my way out of my trap. The work had to go on, but this time I loaded the harrow with a few big clods - instead of one little clod hopper, namely, I me.

Fun on the Farm

Life on the farm surely involved a great amount of hard work, but there was time and opportunity for fun.

Kids have always been able to have fun with a simple device and a lot of imagination. In this day of personal computers, power-operated toys and unlimited gadgetry, children are often left with little need for imagination. My brother Jack and I invented many games and activities on the little rocky hilly farm hidden away in the great forest of the Missouri Ozarks.

Some of these activities which two active preteen boys enjoyed I will try to briefly describe.

Climbing Trees

Mountain climbers often explain their hazardous sport by explaining that they climb mountains because they are there. So it was that I could not resist climbing trees, and certainly in the great forest trees were an important part of our lives. The challenge of this sport was ever present.

Grandma and Grandpa, with whom we lived on the farm, must have been spared much anxiety concerning my safety simply because they did not know of the risks to which I exposed myself in trees.

It was exciting to play Tarzan by scrambling from the upper branches of a big tree into the limbs of its neighbor.

There are probably a few old trees on or near our old farm which are still leaning as the result of my brothers and my bending them when they were but young saplings. I thought it fun to climb to the top of these slender young trees and then to leap out as far as possible while clinging to the topmost part of the trunk. Often I would misjudge the resiliency of my host tree. This would at times leave my feet dangling precariously many feet above the rocky earth. Jack was quite daring, and imitating his big Buh, he at times was left dangerously high above the ground. This required that I scramble up the tree and bend the tree with my added weight closer to earth. At times Jack didnt wait for me to join him as he bailed out, and his big Buh (about eight) was left high and dry.

As we grew older and more experienced in this sport of tree climbing we each became more bold and daring. I must admit that Jacks tendency to take risks out-stripped that of big Buh. He would dare to stand upon a tree limb fifteen feet above the ground and jump across and down to a limb some distance, catching it with his hands. The more I declined to assume such risk, and strove to dissuade Jack, the more determined he was to outdo his Buh. His most daring such flying leap - and last - proved very painful and nearly disastrous. Jack s hands grasped the limb which was his target. but the leap was too far and he fell the fifteen feet to the ground. landing upon his back. Fortunately he was not seriously hurt, as I discovered when he regained consciousness.

Oh! I tell you! It was great fun! Mostly.

Six Boys and Six Flying Squirrels

Visiting our nearest neighbors in the Ozark Mountains forest was very enjoyable to all of us. Grandma and Grandpa loved to have company and in turn enjoyed being company. My brother Jack and I could hardly wait to arrive at our neighbor Morris home. The four young Morris boys were friendly and made us feet at home.

As soon as dinner (the noon meal) was finished, the Morris boys told us excitedly of a surprise in their smokehouse. When we all crowded into the small building. Jerry. the oldest teenager, very carefully reached into a wooden box and suddenly grasped something, Quickly he withdrew his hand and closed the lid. My eyes popped open in amazement as I saw a wriggling hall of fur and teeth squeezed firmly in his hand. This was my first close-up view of a baby flying squirrel. The tiny handful of chattering fur, little as it was. was almost intimidating.

Jerry skillfully and quickly transferred his captive to one of his brothers. He then captured another of the mad little creatures for another brother and repeated the process until each of us, including me and six-year-old Jack, my brother, squeezed one of the small animals in our hands.

For about one minute all six of us enjoyed holding onto our squirming little protesters. They were so soft and beautiful! Then Jack squealed, He bit me!, and at the same moment his tiny captive landed upon my bare neck and nipped my neck quite painfully.

Talk about your chain reaction! I instantly forgot about my own little plaything as I knocked my furious furry mite away. In far less time than it takes to tell about it. those two infuriated mighty mites attacked two other of their tormenters, and then the other two boys.

Im sure that there have been more chaotic retreats recorded in the annals of war. but never have I personally experienced such an ignominious defeat. All six boys were trying to escape from their six little monsters. All six of us were yelling in pain and in fright as we jammed through the one opening in that old smokehouse.

Probably we played other games that Sunday afternoon, but nothing we could have done could have compared with that one highlight of our visit at the Morris farm.

Jack and His Ponies

When Jack and I heard the great news from Grandma that Aunt Ruth and her children, Carroll, aged about five, and Jimmy and Donnie, were really coming to visit us we were truly excited. Few visitors ever came to our Ozark farm home, and this was the first time Aunt Ruth and her children had ever been to see us.

Jack was very pleased that a cousin near his age was coming to play with him for several days. He asked Grandma to be sure to tell cousin Carroll that he had a lot of ponies all tied up ready for Carroll to rise when he came.

As soon as Jack was able to drag Carroll from the midst of the hubbub after the guests arrival, he whispered to Carroll, Do you want to ride one of my ponies? Even though I was then only eight-years-old or so, I was most curious about what was about to happen. At the mention of ponies, Carrolls eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He ran to catch up with Jack who had dashed out of the house to show off his stable of horses to his cousin. I ran along behind Carroll to observe his reaction to Jacks great gift to his cousin. I heard Jack call out to Carroll, You can have any pony you want! Our little guest was truly excited. His face was quite aglow with the keen anticipation of having his very own pony. Carroll continued to cast his eyes all about to discover where all those ponies were.

As Carroll was thus occupied, his gaze centered upon Jack. What puzzlement clouded Carrolls face when he saw Jack leap astride his favorite pony tethered to the fence! When Jack expertly backed his pony from the fence and cleverly and tenaciously mastered his furiously bucking mustang, I saw bitter disappointment and fiery anger flash across Carrolls face. Indeed, for just a moment I feared that Carroll would vent his hot emotions by clobbering Jack with one of the other dozen or so ponies still hitched to the fence.

My happy generous little brother noticed that Carroll was not yet mounted. but in his excitement and joy of sharing his treasured stable Im sure he never saw the disappointment written all over his cousins face. Instead, he happily and successfully maneuvered his still wildly bucking bronco up to where Carroll was rooted to the earth. In true glee Jack shouted, Carroll, you can have any of my ponies, but this one is the best of the bunch which I got just for you! Whereupon, Carroll looking quite chagrined - slowly - stepped astride that particular stick and he soon was infected with Jacks overflowing enthusiasm. In a few moments both young daredevil rough-riders were shouting with glee as they proved to themselves and each other how very well they had mastered their powerful mounts.

A Close Call

At least half the scrapes I got myself involved in as a boy (and even later) I would have avoided if I had used even the brains God gave a goose. Still, if I had sensibly resisted the impulse which got me involved my younger years would have been much duller.

Even as I could hardly resist climbing trees, so I often was tempted to clamber to the top of buildings and other heights simply to jump off. I am certain that I did not intend to injure myself in this action, and measured the height, assessed the degree of hardness of the landing site, and tried to calculate my chances of not breaking a bone. As best I can recall, the maximum leap I ever made upon solid earth, intentionally, was about fifteen feet.

My little brother, Jack, was endowed with more sense than I, at least in his refusal to deliberately try to break his legs. However, in his quest for fun or excitement, or just to out-do his Buh, he did some things which impressed me. Once when we were in the hay loft, Jack spotted a rabbit sitting still just outside the barn. Surely Jack didnt think he could capture the rabbit, but in his excitement he jumped down through a hole in the floor of the hayloft. This opening was no more than two feet square.

I stood there in amazement at his daring feat. It was miraculous that he had not caught his chin on the edge of the opening. If he had, the blow would surely have broken his neck! How his body had managed to miss the manger and feed trough below was astounding. When Jack observed how greatly impressed Buh was by his impromptu stunt he dared me to duplicate his jump. When I declined, he enjoyed his victory even more. He even offered to make his jump again, and was - I believe - relieved that Buh would not let him.

Jack discovered another stunt he could do which his Buh was unwilling to do. I was well aware that Jack was one pretty tough little guy. Still, when he asked me to Watch me, Buh I stared in surprise as he ran toward the old wooden corn crib. When he was about four feet from the crib he threw his body head first against the crib. He did not break the impact with his hands, as I thought he surely would. Instead, his unprotected head crashed against the corn crib. Before I could reach him, Jack had bounded to his feet. and, apparently unhurt. he challenged me to follow suit. I think that it was good sense and cowardice which caused me to decline Jacks taunting invitation.

Fall in the Spring

Wild grapes grew in true profusion in our part of the Ozark foothills. The great vine, which stretched from the earth to the top of many trees, bore great similarity to Tarzans mode of transportation through his jungles - at least in my fertile imagination. In late summer as I passed such a vine in its host tree I saw the possibility of making a swing of this vine. Since I had been clearing new ground nearby I was carrying an axe.

When I cut the vine off about three feet above the ground I was able to pull the free swinging vine up the steep hill. By running down the hill a few feet and holding firmly to the vine I launched myself into space. As I looked down at the ground I saw it drop away rapidly. The hill was so steep that the rocky ground was more than fifteen feet beneath me at the apogee - highest point above the earth - of my swing.

For a while I enjoyed swinging on my own Tarzan-like vine. My exhilarating swinging, coupled with my Tarzan yodeling, was great fun. I almost imagined that I heard in the distance the responsive trumpeting of my friends the elephants, as they were answering my summons. In truth the only sounds my Tarzan calls aroused were the grunts of a small herd of razorback hogs. Remembering that chore time was near I abandoned my vine swing and ran on to the house.

The following spring as I was walking past this same tree and vine I happened to see the vine, hanging just as I had left it. I hurried up the steep rock-strewn hill to take up my Tarzan game. Grasping the vine I climbed the hill as far as I could go and still hold the vine. Then I rushed headlong down the slope and with a great leap I swung into the space. Just as I reached the highest point above the hill, the entire upper structure of the vine entwined with the upper limbs of the tree broke. With the vine itself severed - by my trusty axe - the always fragile branches had lost all strength and snapped like rotten matches. My fall to the pile of rocks beneath me was bone-jarring and terribly bruising.

One would think that as experienced as I was in falling that I could have chosen a softer place upon which to fall. I count myself most fortunate to have escaped with relatively minor bruises. The Bible does say that the Lord shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. (Psalms 91:11) It is a lucky thing for me that I had at least two angels assigned to keep watch over my rather reckless way of life.

Stirring Up a Hornets Nest

John Fair was my closest friend in the Ozarks, excepting my brother Jack. He came to spend a Sunday with us. Two boys can think up twice as much devilment as one, but three boys can contrive at least five times as many schemes as one.

Since John was my guest I thought that it was my responsibility to entertain him. Nothing can relieve boredom more quickly than a bunch of red wasps, and I knew where these little d evils lived.

We gathered a supply of corncobs and took up the battle with the wasps behind the hay in the loft of the barn. With our first volley, we struck at least two of the large nests of wasps. Such an angry buzzing immediately filled the hay mow! Emboldened by our early success and deluded by the safety of our hiding place, we threw our red and white missiles with increasing excitement. In the flush of victory, we advanced upon our toes, grabbing up fresh ammunition as we went.

Soon our enthusiastic foray was turned into ignominious flight. The three of us scrambled out of the battle area with great haste, glad to take refuge from our furious little foes in the nearby corn crib.

As I recall, I was the fortunate one to escape without a sting. Since I was the one who had proposed the great fun which turned out not too funny, the second episode of fun occurred shortly thereafter.

Grandma called me and told me to go to the spring at the bottom of the high hill upon which we lived. John and my brother Jack agreed to accompany me as I went to fetch a pail of water. Indeed, in looking back, I think that they almost insisted upon going with me.

After I had filled the pail at the spring we three commenced the quarter mile climb back up the hill. About a third of the way up the hill, there was a large hornets nest hanging in a white walnut, or butternut tree. Just as we drew abreast of the hornets nest, I saw Jack and John bend over. I immediately knew what they planned to do, so I started running up the path to avoid the impending barrage of small but near-lethal missiles which was about to ensue.

I should have set my bucket of water down instantly and taken refuge in the bushes. Instead. I opted to try to salvage my bucket of water by running out of the danger zone. I had run nearly a hundred yards up the hill and thought I was out of harms way, but I was very wrong. One of the hundreds of hornets which had been stirred up and enraged by Jacks and Johns rocks had spotted me running up the path. It had pursued me and in top flight had nailed me behind my left ear. In all truth, the force of the impact and the pain knocked me sprawling. At that point, I suddenly lost interest in my water (which, obviously, now was spreading over the rocky path), and sought refuge in the shrubbery.

Still the water had to be delivered to Grandma. I could hear John and Jack laughing with great glee, from their hiding place. When the air cleared a little - of hornets, that is - I slipped around the hornets nest and refilled my bucket.

While my buddies would not admit it, I suspected that they had taken their revenge for my having embroiled them in the equally hopeless battle with the wasps.

Grandma scolded me a little for having taken so long to fetch one bucket of water. If I had thought of it - and had dared - I would have told her that it is hard to remember that you are there to drain the swamp when youre up to your backside in alligators.

Of course, I wasnt that smart - or bold - so I simply told her a hornet had stung me.

A Dangerous Toy

I was six when Grandma and Grandpa went to St. Louis and left Jack, my four-year-old brother, and me at our Ozark farm home in the care of Ethel and Frank. a young married couple. When I had finished eating supper, I left Jack lying on the bench upon which we were seated. Jack was sound asleep.

The young newlyweds were so engrossed in each other that they were unaware of what we boys were doing. When I wandered into the adjoining room, I had very little to attract my attention. There was no television, no radio, no books, magazines or newspapers. I take that back; there were newspapers, but they were pasted onto the walls. They helped keep the cold winds from blowing through the cracks between the boards.

The one place in that room which held some interest for this six-year-old boy was the top drawer of the tall dresser. A chair nearby put that drawer within my reach. In addition to the drawers relative inaccessibility, I was attracted to it because I had seen Grandpa hiding a little book in it. Indeed, he had smiled a little as he glanced at it, had looked around as if to see if anyone was looking, and then tucked it under something.

I soon dug out this little book and curiously leafed through it. It contained no pictures. and few words which I could read. I could read the title of the book: The Two-Holed Privy. Since I was ignorant of what Privy meant, the books dark secrets were lost to me.

As I returned the book to its place I nearly fell off the chair when I saw the handle of the biggest pistol I had ever seen. Of course I knew that touching that gun was wrong, even though I had never been warned about guns. Naturally, I gingerly picked up the gun. It was surprisingly heavy. The blue sheen of the long sleek barrel fascinated me. Both common sense and fright should have compelled me to quickly abandon this venture, but what little common sense I may have had departed, and my fright melted away in my burning curiosity.

I was still standing on the chair and was within inches of the heavy solid plank door. Just as I was about to return this fascinating toy to the place where I should have left it, it suddenly exploded with fire and smoke, and with a deafening roar. When it did, the gun was no more than six inches from my face. In the instant of this stunning explosion, a great sliver ripped out of the heavy wooden door - from the top to within inches of my face.

I could not comprehend how the door was splintered in the very moment that the gun was fired. Indeed, I didnt understand why the gun had fired, but, obviously, my exploring fingers had touched the trigger.

When the gunshot rang out Ethel and Frank must have jumped out of their skins. They for the first time saw Jack stretched out on the bench on the other side of the table. Each of them then jumped to the conclusion that Jack had been killed by the gun. To their vast relief, of course, they discovered that he was just a very sound steeper.

I was still frozen by shock when Ethel and Frank rushed to where I was standing - with the smoking gun still in my hands. They put the gun away and lifted me off the chair. When they saw the huge splinter in the door they realized that this dumb little kid was twice-blest. First, that the upward bound bullet missed my face, but just barely, and second, that the bullet had penetrated the ceiling, then apparently had ricocheted off a spike nail or metal reinforcement plate and headed back toward me, splintering the door and stopping inches from my face.

To the best of my knowledge that was all both times I ever fired a handgun - my first and my last. I figured I had already used up all my luck with handguns.

I Get a Kick Out of You

Grandpa often carried his 12 gauge shotgun around the farm, and once in awhile brought home a Jackrabbit or a few quails. Sometimes he would spot a hawk attacking the chickens, whereupon Grandpa would hurry to take his shotgun from the large nails above the living room door. Usually the hawk was out of range by the time Grandpa again arrived on the scene.

Despite the futility of his efforts to shoot a marauding predator, Grandpa always kept shells in his shotgun. I had a great desire to fire the shotgun, but of course knew better than to ask Grandpa to let me do so.

When I was about nine or ten, Grandpa and Grandma had occasion to go into the little town of Chaonia to shop. I was given some work to do, and off Grandma and Grandpa went to town. I could hardly wait until the wagon was far enough down the forest lane so that they were out of ear-shot. When I thought they were, I took the shotgun off its rack, and carried it outside. My brother Jack, about seven or eight, was almost hysterical when he saw me do this. He pleaded with me to put the gun back. I must confess, Jack had more sense than I at times - many times.

I told him that I would fire the gun just once, but Jack was truly frightened. He could have run behind the house to a place of safety, but he chose to remain in a place of grave danger, that is. his big Buh and that horrid gun, trying to talk me into putting the gun away.

I looked about for a target, and spotted a lone walnut hanging in a tree about a hundred feet away. Jack was trembling. I promised him again that after one shot I would put the gun away. Carefully, I laid the end of the gun barrel upon a fence post, took aim and squeezed the trigger. In the instant that the gun fired my body started to roll head over heels backward. No one had ever told me about the powerful kick of a shotgun, and of the need to press the butt of the stock of the gun firmly against ones shoulder before firing.

This unexpected occurrence scared the wits out of Jack. While I was indeed shocked by my having been bowled over, I was excited by the whole experience. I jumped to my feet and saw that my target, the walnut, was no longer hanging in the tree. Elated by my success in striking my target, I happily retrieved the gun and was satisfied to return it to its rack. Jack was vastly relieved to see the ordeal over. Some sixty-five years later I can still hear my sensible little brother pleading with his dumb big Buh: Put it back, Buh! 0h, put it back!

You Learn to Live with Them

I was fortunate when I lived in the great forests of the Ozark Mountains of southeast Missouri I never knew what happens to someone - especially a small child - who is bitten by a poisonous snake. Since our home was at least a hundred miles from a hospital where some small measure of such treatment was available, there would have been no chance for survival. Especially so when the fastest means of transportation we could have found was a mule-powered wagon.

My brother Jack and I were barefoot at least three-fourths of the year. I believe that our guardian angels were kept busy much of the time keeping us from stepping on snakes. Oh, we had many encounters with these denizens of the forest and fields. Many of the deadliest of snakes lived in that part of the country: rattlesnakes, copperheads and water moccasins were the most venomous.

One evening just at dusk, I was picking up wood-chips and kindling wood in the woodlot. Just as I was reaching for what I thought was a stick, Grandma, who was helping me and was standing a few feet away, suddenly yelled, Emmett! A snake! I jumped backward at least six feet. Sure enough, a three foot long copperhead crawled rapidly away. Grandma told me that copperheads emit a sickening sweet odor just before striking.

I developed a real hatred for snakes as I learned to cope with the near constant danger of snakes. As I review my years of dealing with these dangerous creatures, I am ashamed that I killed as many of them as I did, The very fact that I was so exposed to them for so many years. and vet without suffering even one bite, is rather strong evidence t hat most snakes will choose to flee from a human being unless they are actually stepped on or cornered.

One sunny day as I was running along a wagon trail on our farm I met a Blue Racer, a harmless, rather beautiful snake. My first reaction was to grab a rock or clod and throw it at this Blue Racer. Immediately, the snake turned and darted ahead of me in the road as fast as it could go. I followed the Blue Racer in hot pursuit, throwing whatever rocks or clods of hard dirt I could find along the trail.

However, suddenly this big Blue Racer stopped stock-still, as did I. Abruptly this weird snake started to crawl toward me fast. I had no weapon at hand, no stick, or rock. The snakes bold maneuver startled me, so I did the first thing that came to mind, I started to run. Away! That snake was chasing me!

Suddenly my Irish temper asserted itself. It made me mad to realize I was running from this snake which wasnt even poisonous. I stopped and whirled about to face this smart-aleck little phony! When I stopped, it stopped. Believe it or not, that little devil had the nerve to start crawling toward me again.

I still had no weapon in hand. Quickly, I grabbed a couple little chunks of dirt and started running toward the snake, throwing the clods as I ran. When the Blue Racer saw me running toward him, he seemed to lose heart and slithered away in earnest. I thought it wise to quit this unnatural combat while I was ahead.

At Breakneck Pace

Riding my mule Jack could never qualify as joy-riding.

When I could increase Ol Jacks gait to a jolting trot, that lazy old mule never exceeded six or seven miles per hour. Of course, if one should add to that speed my rapid up and down bouncing with Jacks ungainly lumbering I suppose, I was zipping along at about fifteen miles per hour.

Never had I had the opportunity to ride a horse and certainly not a fast horse. So when a neighbor rode over to visit our farm and by circumstances needed someone to ride his horse back to his farm, I eagerly volunteered to do so. The facts strongly suggested that that was not a very good idea; that is, that I was only ten-years-old, had never ridden the horse, or any horse, that the horse was not saddled, etc. Of course, I saw no compelling reason to voluntarily divulge any of the negative factors, and no one asked me to do so.

Since the owner of the horse seemed quite indifferent to both his horses safety or well-being - and mine - I scrambled aboard the horse and quickly left behind the neighbor and his mule-drawn wagon. Fortunately for me, the horse was well-behaved and quite responsive to my demands. It was a great thrill for me when this swift sleek animal struck an easy canter or gallop. I was delighted at how easily I could maintain my seat, that is, with a minimum of bouncing.

This horse must have been quite intelligent. He was able to glide along easily despite my lack of direction. In the five or six miles journey, I became almost intoxicated with the excitement of this delightful experience. My confidence in my expertise mounted. Indeed, I urged this long-suffering creature to accelerate his speed along the rocky and rough wagon trail.

While I cannot realistically estimate the speed of my mount, I know that this strong animal was galloping at truly a breakneck rate. I was unfamiliar with this road, having been along it perhaps once before, and that in a wagon. What I did not know was that the place that this horse called home was fast approaching. This animal was possessed of a good memory. As the rapidly galloping horse came to a narrow brush lined path which led to his home, he most abruptly tried to veer off the road into this obscure little path. When he set his feet into the rocky road, he drastically cut his speed in half. My problem was that my body failed to slow one whit, and thus I flew over the horses head and landed upon the rough rock-covered road several feet in front of the horse.

As I commenced rolling rapidly along the road, I was able to glance upward each time I rolled over. Each time I was horrified as I saw this great animal rearing up upon his hind legs with his steel-shod front feet lifted high above me. Surely I must have slid and rolled along this pile of rocks euphemistically called a road for almost forty feet or more. No less than ten times I thought that this plunging creature would crush my head or some part of my body with his forefeet as he pounded the road just inches from my still sliding and twirling body.

As I came to rest upon the road, the horse set all four hooves into the road and slid to a hall, not more than one foot from where I lay. I have no doubt whatsoever that that noble creature had risked serious injury to himself in order to avoid trampling me.

With some difficulty I crawled aboard this remarkable animal and we - he and I as one - walked sedately on to his home. With deep gratitude and tender care I curried and brushed my four-legged friend.

Backward Cowboys

When three or more boys combine their minds for mischief, the results are quite predictable. One Sunday afternoon several of my friends and I were casting about for something exciting to do. As we lazily lolled about in the thick shade of a big oak, we watched a few yearling calves playfully running and jumping about in the sheer delight of life.

One of us felt an idea germinating and challenged the rest of us to a contest of calf-riding. All of these calves were husky one-year-old animals. Each of us gingerly approached an unsuspecting animal. A couple boys successfully leaped upon their trusting victim. With a great whoop the youthful bullriders slapped the flanks of their frightened mount. In about three leaps, the bawling yearlings ran at full speed into the low-hanging limbs of nearby trees. In less time than it had taken the boys to mount, they were unceremoniously scraped off their bucking broncos by the limbs of the trees. It was most fortunate that the luckless riders escaped having their brains dashed out.

Ill admit to you what I didnt dare admit to my buddies:

I had suddenly lost my enthusiasm for this sport. Yet, I still had to rise to the challenge which my daring friends had thrust upon me. Frankly, I rather hoped the calves had run away and concealed themselves. No such luck. Those dumb animals had short memories and they had stopped to graze in full view fifty yards from us.

I managed to quietly walk up to one of the larger yearlings. As I proffered a handful of sweet grass to this forgiving (or forgetful) creature. I quickly leaped astride it backward. That is, with my legs wrapped tightly around its neck and both of my arms gripped around its flanks. My logic - such as it was - was that as this calf attempted to scrape me off its back that my less vulnerable end would receive the worst of the beating.

This hardy young animal perhaps was not very smart. Still, he was not the dummy being beaten by the underbrush and tree limbs. However, my posture did provide me some degree of protection. My bellowing victim had bucked and dashed about for several minutes as I clung tenaciously to the heaving sides of the frightened calf. As I could occasionally catch a glimpse of where I had been it dawned upon me that this poor animal was going to hurt itself by failing over the many rocks or gullies,

Since I could not see the terrain ahead, I could not know upon what hurtful rock or object I might fall, but I knew I could not continue this escapade. Throwing caution to the wind, I simply threw my body away from the calf. I was far more fortunate than I deserved, for I managed to terminate that reckless tomfoolery with a minimum of harm to myself and to my innocent victim.

Adventures on the St. Francis River

The mood of the St. Francis river could change quickly and even quietly. Heavy rains up river could raise the level of this river two or three feet in a few hours. The placid pale green color of its fairly clear water then rapidly turned to brown.

This small river in the dry seasons still provided food in the form of a variety of fish, including great catfish. These occasional giants, which weighed as much as ninety pounds, probably strayed from the Mississippi River into St. Francis, a tributary of the Mississippi.

Grandpa had his fishing line broken by a big catfish, and had a big heavy hook bent by the same fish, apparently. These encounters with Grandpas personal Moby Dick culminated with Grandpa being dragged ignominiously into the river by the same creature. At that juncture Grandpa dispatched me to the blacksmiths shop in the little village of Chaonia with explicit instructions to the blacksmith to make the biggest fishhook Ive ever seen. This hook was six inches long and was a quarter of an inch in diameter.

Grandpas pale blue eyes almost flashed in anticipation as he set off to the nearby river with a few big chunks of meat, a strong quarter inch clothesline, a float and his hook. For most of the day he sat patiently on the edge of the riverbank. expecting momentarily to engage in battle with his own personal Nemesis.

All to no avail. Grandpas worst fears were realized when he went to town a few days later and the topic of conversation was about the remarkable feat of a neighbor a couple miles from us who had caught an eighty pound catfish. This fish was still bearing one of Grandpas fishhooks in its mouth. Grandpa was hard to live with for a few days.

In those days of freedom from regulations and licenses, hunting and fishing was an integral part of harvesting. Much of the food on the tables of the mountaineers and farmers was fish and game. No one thought of needing licenses to hunt or fish, and trot lines and seines were widely used, and probably still legal. A trout line was a strong line which was strung from our river bank to the other side of the river, bearing at regular intervals a short line with a hook on it. The hooks were of course under water and were baited, then left with the hope that an unwary fish took the bait - or, rather, the hook.

Grandpa let me accompany him on his fishing once in a while. On one such occasion Grandpa became greatly agitated as a big snapping turtle persisted in stealing the bait and avoiding the hooks. At last Grandpa declared war on the intruder into his - Grandpas - private fishing hole. Grandpa baited a hook and dropped it into the river. In a short while Grandpa jerked his line with great force. and there was the turtle, with the hook in his mouth. My brother Jack and I were amazed at the size of the turtle. It was over a foot in diameter. With great vigor Grandpa slung the offending turtle onto the river bank and flipped it onto its back. Naturally the turtle drew its snapping mouth and head into its shelf. Grandpa had to exert great effort to pull the creatures head back into view. Quickly Grandpa slashed at the turtle with his hatchet which he had brought with him, and beheaded the turtle. He then slung the poor critter about fifty feet out into the river.

Jack and I were aghast at what we had just beheld. We were both standing at the edge of the river and gazing at the spot where the hapless animal had disappeared beneath the waters. In a moment or two, we were startled as the headless body of the turtle reappeared. When the body commenced to vigorously swim we were amazed and when it struck out - seemingly purposefully - directly toward where we were standing the hair literally stood up on the back of my neck. This preternatural apparition vigorously left the water and started up the riverbank directly toward Jack and myself. Simultaneously, we unfroze and each of us leaped away from the frightening spectacle. We created our own new path through the underbrush. I do not know where the creature went when it reached the spot Jack and I had occupied, but I do know where Jack and I went. We went away!

Adventures on the River Continued

When my brother Jack, two years younger than I, and I lived in the Missouri Ozark mountains, some two-thirds of a century ago, we were free to explore with very little restrictions, excepting when we were charged with certain chores and other work. As I have revealed elsewhere in this little book, my free time was drastically limited at about age nine when Grandpa concluded that I could do such work as plowing, harrowing, cultivating, baling hay, etc. - and there were a lot of etceteras. Notwithstanding, Jack and I had much freedom to roam the forest and hills, and to investigate the wondrous secrets of the St. Francis river. The river was about three-fourths of a mile from our house and less than a quarter of a mile from the edge of our little farm. Neither of us could swim and we had enough sense to stay out of the river. Yet we were able to fish from the riverbank, dangle our bare feet in the cool water in the summer, and enjoy the wealth of animals and birds which lived in the forest through which this enchanting stream meandered.

Upon a rare occasion I was sent to the little town of Chaonia, about one and a half miles from our home, to get something at the store, Jack accompanied me once in awhile. If we were not instructed to hurry back we sometimes could manage to go to the ol swimmin hole. This strictly male gathering place was in the St. Francis River at the edge of town. All the members of this club wore the same style swim suit - their birthday suit.

In the summertime it was delightful to splash about in the shallow cool water. Unlike most ten-year-olds today, I could not swim. All I could do was mud crawl; that is, walk about upon my hands in the shallow water while my body floated along behind my arms. My inability to swim attracted the attention of some older fellows. A couple of them grasped me by my arms and legs, swung me back and forth and flung me unceremoniously about fifteen feet into the middle of the deep part of the river.

As my head finally popped above the water I tried to yell, but I instantly sank. In sheer panic I simulated a swimming stroke as I attempted to reach the shallows. With vast relief, I began to scrape the bottom of the river with my feet and at long last I gained my footing and scrambled out of the water. Truly I thought my tormentors had tried to drawn me. However, as I finally caught my breath and looked about I saw two young men running toward me. Immediately, I surmised they were the two who had thrown me into my watery grave - so to speak. I tried to get away from them but they assured me that they meant me no harm.

No harm! You almost drowned me! I yelled. We just wanted you to learn to swim, they insisted.

Im glad that they had not found me at the edge of a cliff at the moment they wanted to teach me to fly.

In all honesty, from that day I could swim, after a fashion. After the fashion of a dog paddling, actually. Never have I been much of a swimmer, but I did learn to dive fairly well. A great tree grew beside the ol swimmin hole. This tree had branches extending out over the water, one about twenty feet above the waters surface and another some thirty feet above the water. Both branches were nearly parallel to the water. From a limb higher up hung a strong rope with a handle at the lower end. It was exciting to pull the rope up the bank and swing out as far as possible over the water before letting go. We younger boys descended feet first with a great splash. As we became more bold we attempted to dive head first from the swing. Such efforts were rewarding even when less than graceful.

Eventually, most of the older boys dived from the highest limb. I finally dived head first from the lower limb. As is natural, I grew bolder as I repeated my derring-do. In the excitement of a game of duck and turtle - a game resembling tag - I was being hotly pursued by the boy who was it. I ran up the inclining tree trunk to the higher limb. Without thought I dived into the current. When I hit the water the fairly strong current twisted my body and put great pressure upon my lower back. As I was twisted, a sharp pain seized my lower back, and I suddenly realized that my legs were completely paralyzed. Fortunately, I was only about thirty feet from the riverbank, and my upper body still functioned. With some effort I was able to pull myself to the edge of the water.

Of course, no one knew of my problem. I held onto the edge of the bank for about fifteen minutes. Slowly the pain began to subside as did the paralysis. At last, I was able to dress and start the long walk home. For several weeks, my back reminded me of my carelessness. Because of my regimen of exercise - in my ignorance I called it hard work - my injured vertebra repaired itself after a fashion and my musculature held the vertebrae where they belonged. X-rays many years later revealed that a facet, or small part of a vertebra. was fractured but healed.

Again, I had managed to keep my guardian angels reasonably busy.

Place of Peace

The ordinary usually holds no lasting interest for us. Too often we take for granted those things and even persons that we are with constantly. So it was that I too seldom appreciated the great beauty of many aspects of the simple life on our Ozark farm.

As I remember those years, I lived in the Ozark mountains I recall the riotous splashing of autumns gorgeous colors which overran the vast forests in which we lived. Many times in my adult life I have gone to considerable trouble and expense in traveling to feast my eyes upon the autumnal glory of those same forests. Oh. I did relish their beauty when each October Jack Frost visited our land with his magic palette filled with red, orange, gold and yellow paint. Yet familiarity does breed contempt, or at least one can became sated and indifferent.

As I cast my mind back to that humble little farm and see again in my minds eve the display of natures wonder, I truly recall the awe I felt many times as I gazed upon natures artistic creations. One such scene indelibly imprinted upon my mind is the ice storm which covered everything in the land. When at five oclock one cold morning I dragged myself - with some help from Grandma - out of my warm bed into the midst of this icy scene. I was amazed by the billions of diamonds which leaped and sparkled before me. The full moon which was gloriously reflected in every branch, post. woodpile and tree in sight made a fairyland of our common little home.

The snowstorms which covered our land upon occasion erased all the ugliness of the barnyard. Several times each winter, the untracked fresh-fallen snow revealed in the early morning moonlight transformed the earth with its glistening purity.

While I well remember the hard work involved in planting a garden or a field of corn or wheat, I just as clearly recall the excitement of seeing the developing tiny plant pushing its head through the soil, just as real are my memories of baby chickens, pigs, goats and calves, and wild animals too.

Nature in all its myriad forms was ever before me and I began to ponder at times this matter of life and creation and the meaning of it all. One particular place to which I would often go to enjoy solitude and relaxation was the hay mow in the old barn. The roof was tin and when rain beat upon it all other sounds were totally muffled. This place of peace was sort of like a rustic chapel or sanctuary. I spent much time there daydreaming of foreign exotic places to which I would someday travel or of great things I someday hoped to do. Although most of those daydreams never came to pass, I remember with much fondness that rude retreat. It contributed to my resolve to at least try to change some circumstances in my life. And that - the resolve to try to do ones best - ties at the very core of each of our accomplishments.

Brush Arbor Revival

Recently, I attended an evangelistic crusade in Phoenix. It was attended by about 15.000 people each night, each of whom was provided an upholstered chair. The amenities were impressive, the sound system overpowering. and the temperature near perfect. This new enclosed arena attracted many to come just to inspect the great new structure.

In the long ago there were no such facilities available for any such gathering. While small unpretentious church buildings were to be found in most little villages. many revival meetings were held in simple, rude brush arbors. Such structures consisted of poles set about the periphery. upon which a lattice of poles were fastened, with brush laid on top for shade. The seating was equally crude. being nothing more than benches of the roughest sort, often the flat side of a split log set on rocks or stakes driven into the ground.

The very nature of the structure guaranteed that the congregation for the most part were sincere seekers of truth, or some equally worthy objective, such as a spouse. Few fell asleep. despite sometimes lengthy or less than stirring sermons.

Revivals were usually held after the corn was laid by and before the hay was headed out. Laid by means after the last cultivation before the corn matured. Headed out referred to the maturing of the wheat, oats, or other hay, when the heads (containing the new grain) became ripe.

There was a brush arbor beside the St. Francis River, just a little less than one mile from our house. Our house was on the top of a big hill, with nothing between it and the river except flat river bottom land. After supper it was pleasant to sit in the yard and just rest after a busy day. The big mosquitoes were a great annoyance. Grandma tried to discourage their presence by burning old rags in an old pan. I endured the mosquitoes for as long as I could. and then Id stand in the midst of the smoke. In about two minutes, I had to abandon my smoke screen in favor of breathing.

In the time when the insects and smoke were both blown away, we were treated to the beautiful strains of Amazing Grace, When We Gather by the River, On Jordans Stormy Banks, and several other great old hymns. The source of this music was the congregation in the brush arbor. Some nights the music was louder and clearer. Grandpa said the higher humidity made this so.

I tried hard to understand the words of the songs. While I could catch a word or two from the old-fashioned preacher, I never heard more than a brief snatch of either the songs or the sermons. Still, my heart was stirred by the music. Grandma knew parts of many of the songs the people sang and she sang along softly with the distant singers. I felt moved by the words which Grandma sang in concert with the distant choir.

I did not understand the message of the words, and I was confused. One thing I knew and that was that the glorious nature which I observed and experienced about me day after day was surely the result of some intelligent force or Being. I wanted to find some answers to the many questions which crowded into my mind.

Going to Church

After the Brush Arbor Revival I began to ask Grandma if I could go to Sunday School in the little church in Chaonia. Grandma seemed pleased that I wanted to go and encouraged my brother Jack to go with me. We hurried to finish our chores early the following Sunday morning, washed ourselves more thoroughly than usual - which isnt saying much - put on our best overalls and shirt and trotted off to church, barefoot.

Frankly, I cannot remember any of the Bible I was taught or any of the people which I met in the various times I attended Bible class and preaching, except for my Sunday School teacher, Grandma Petty. Grandma Petty was old and plump and white-haired. She was also a beautiful person. I do recall that her face seemed pretty to me. but her beauty was more in her personality, which was warm and loving, not unlike my own Grandma when Jack and I were on our best behavior.

Almost every time I went to town I would stop by Grandma Pettys unpainted, unpretentious little house to sit and visit with her awhile. While I cannot recall specifically any of our conversations, she in all probability talked to me about the Bible and Jesus.

Not long after Jack and I started attending Grandma Pettys Sunday School class, the church invited an evangelist to preach a series of sermons. They called it a revival. This preacher captured my attention with his eloquence, and, more especially, his drawn illustrations.

Somewhat to my surprise. Grandma and Grandpa gave me their permission to attend evening church services, and Jack, also. We set out through the forest with our lantern that Sunday night. I was even more fascinated by the preacher and his message. So much so, that several nights that week I traveled alone the one and a half miles to church. Jack was only eight and was rather bored with the whole proceedings.

Much of the preaching and the illustrations dealt with the events of the last days, that is, with the rapture of the church and the Great Tribulation, and the Second Coming of Jesus. While, of course, I knew nothing of these matters, I was deeply impressed by the apparent knowledge of the Bible which the preacher exhibited. His obvious sincerity and his love of Jesus touched this ten-year-old boys heart. I did not comprehend the reason for my emotion and desire for something beyond myself. Years later, I learned that the only thing that could satisfy that longing, that emptiness, was Jesus. However, no one in the crowded church building observed my state of conviction or understood any more than I did. God. of course, was totally aware of who I was and where I was, and had another evangelist even then in readiness for my appearance and need, but that is another story.

A Tragic Day

Grandpa entrusted me with many responsibilities during the years when I was nine, ten and eleven years of age, Still, he recognized that there was much that I could not do. such as driving the corn planter in a straight line from one end of a field to the other end. He watched me try to do this once and then quickly - and quietly - reassumed that job. I do recall his saying to me with tongue in cheek, Emmett, you can plant twice as much corn in a row as I can. My first response was a flush of pride. until I realized that that was his kindly and humorous way of telling me that my row looked like a snakes crooked trail.

So, to spare me some work as well as himself. Grandpa entered into a verbal agreement with another farmer to sharecrop part of our farm. This was an arrangement whereby the other farmer would work the land and as compensation would receive a certain share of the crop.

Grandpa never said much on the subject but I believe that he wanted Jack and me to get an education and thought that the sharecropping would mean that I could go to school more regularly.

I was eleven-years-old when this particular sharecropping field was ready for harvesting. It was a relief to me that, as October arrived, I could continue in school without having to be out of school to harvest the corn crop.

Before the noon recess someone beckoned, Mr. Garrison, my teacher, and called him out of our classroom. In a moment Mr. Garrison returned and asked me to step outside. He told me to go get my brother Jack, and when I returned with Jack a neighbor told us that it was very important that we return home with him. All he would tell us was that Grandpa had been hurt in a bad accident.

Grandma came to meet us as we arrived. She was grief-stricken and had difficulty telling us that Grandpa had been shot. I realized that he must be lying in the yard as three or four people were standing in a group in the yard. I ran to where Grandpa lay and instantly knew that he was mortally wounded by a shotgun blast full in his face. He was surely unconscious and died within the hour.

After Grandpas burial Grandma had the burden of settling the matter of the harvest in the fields, and selling the livestock. etc. Little of all this do I remember. When we were ready to take the train, Grandma Petty invited us to spend our last night in the country with her.

Possibly some inquiry into the slaying of Grandpa was held. but I was never told that that was done. The sharecropper said he had shot Grandpa in self-defense in a dispute over division of the crop. My sense of justice was outraged, in any event. One result of the death of my Grandpa, and my belief that the law had failed to bring the killer to justice, was that within a few months thereafter that I resolved that I was going to become a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, but I planned to devote all of my energies to prosecute the guilty. and especially those who had wrongfully taken a human life.

It was this resolution which drove me in quest of my goal. While I was able to achieve my ambition, I had by then somewhat modified my specialty, for I never became a fiery prosecutor. Indeed, the only murder case in which I have been involved was as the lawyer for a man who had shot and killed a highly respected innocent lawyer. This man had tried to defend himself, had been found guilty, and had been sentenced to die in the states gas chamber. I appealed his case to the Arizona State Supreme Court, and then to the United States Supreme Court. We persuaded the U.S. Supreme Court that my client was not sane. and had the sentence changed to life sentence in a mental institution.

Surely I have digressed. I suspect Grandpa. if he is aware of my goal and my digressions, has smiled ruefully as he repeated. Emmett. you surely have planted a lot of corn in that row.

Jacks Last Farewell

As I said before, following Grandpas tragic death Grandma had to sell the livestock along with other personalty. This was a depressing time for Grandma, of course, but, also. for my brother Jack and me.

While friends and neighbors came to offer words of comfort, and helped Grandma in practical ways as they could, there were others who came to seize the opportunity to purchase things at rock-bottom prices. As I recall, much of the property was sold at an auction which was held in our barn lot. It was a strange experience to have so many strangers on the place.

When I heard the auctioneer call out the next item to be put on the auction block as he put it, my grief overwhelmed me and I had to run away from this distressing scene. The next thing was the team of mules, my friendly enemy, Jack the Mule and his mate.

When at last I could control my weeping and returned to the auction, the team of mules was gone. And I had not even said goodbye to Jack. I felt so sad, so sorry and guilty. When I heard that the stranger who had purchased Jack and his mate had the reputation of being cruel to his animals, I was truly grief-stricken. Of course, I know that I was helpless to do anything to help Jack. but I could have at least told him goodbye.

At long last this terrible day ended and I fell asleep. Children are usually blessed with the ability to sleep soundly, so I slept through the night. The sun was not yet risen, but the dawn was breaking when I awoke. I remembered that there were no chores to do, no cows to feed and milk, no pigs or chickens waiting impatiently for their breakfast no mules to feed and harness.

I was again saddened as I thought of Jacks situation. As I was dressing I heard a subdued braying which stood on end the hair on the back of my neck. It sounded just like Jack! It was scary to be imagining I was hearing Jacks ghost or whatever calling for his breakfast. In a flash, I was out the door and there. big as life. stood Jack! He snorted and kicked up his heels when he saw me. I nearly knocked the yard gate off its hinges as I ran out to embrace that big old ugly Missouri mule. Jack was clearly happy to be with me. He brayed loudly as if to proclaim to the world that he was home again.

Jacks loud announcement of his homecoming brought Grandma and my brother lack running out of the house. As we examined Jacks condition it was obvious that he had not traveled back from his new owners farm by the road, but by the direct route straight across the river, fields, barb-wired fences, etc. He was wet. muddy and scratched.

Of course there was nothing to do but to take Jack back to his new home. I fed him, curried and brushed him, and brought him to Grandma and brother Jack so that they could give him a parting love-pat. In the long seven mile return journey, I let Jack walk at his own slow pace while I had ample time to talk to him, to try to explain to him why things were as they were.

At long last, we arrived at the home of Jacks new master. I believe that dogs and kids are instinctively pretty good judges of human nature, and Im glad to say that I saw in this new master of my friend real evidence of kindness which belied the rumor I had heard of his meanness. He greeted Jack and me in a kindly manner, offering me lunch and leading Jack to the water trough.

I was still sad as I said my last farewell to Jack, but we truly had had that good time together to really say goodbye.

On the long walk back to our farm. I remembered many experiences with Jack. Many of them not so good, but all of them memorable. My old friend was a survivor, with an indomitable will, and worthy to be described as a noble being.

The Stealth Bomber

You probably concluded from all the foregoing that all my life until age eleven I had lived in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri. In fact about half of that time Jack and I had resided in St. Louis. Because of various circumstances we moved somewhat frequently; indeed, we changed schools twelve times before I graduated from junior High School.

This changing of residences and schools was difficult for both of us, but harder upon Jack because he was two years younger than I. He was more sensitive than I and a little smaller than most of his peers at that time. As I have indicated in some of my accounts of our adventures, Jack was always a very nervy little guy, even a little tougher than those of his own age. and spunky enough to not back down from bigger and older boys.

While most of the time Jack avoided serious fights, there were instances in which he got involved with bigger older fellows and, as is often the case, bullies who took advantage of their size to hurt younger boys. When Jack was about six - and I eight - Jack came home with a bloody nose. He told me that a boy, who lived about three houses down the street had hit him and for no reason, Buh! This neighbor boy was at least twelve years old, and big for his age. I was aware of this kids tough-guy attitude and already I didnt like him. Certainly he was wrong for hitting a child half his age. I determined that this bully must pay for his misdeed. However, I was realistic enough to know that I was not able to best him in an open encounter.

All the houses in our neighborhood, as with most neighborhoods in St. Louis at that time, had a shed in the back yard along the edge of the alley. This was the old-fashioned woodshed or coalshed. A path ran along the edge of the shed and, of course, the shed door was beside the path.

I studied this neighbor boys habits of coming through the back gate, past the shed and into the back door of his house. I knew when he went out and about when he arrived home. A few minutes before this boy was expected to arrive home, I took my position inside his coalshed at the edge of the shed door. As usual I could hear this malefactor whistling as he approached his alley gate. His whistling stirred my righteous wrath, as I thought of Jacks bloody nose.

As I heard his whistling when he entered his back yard, and peeked through a crack in the door at its hinges, I perfectly gauged this big bully s position, and the length of my arm. At the right moment I swung my knotted fist with all my strength and my fist landed with great force, precisely upon the tip of that jaunty nose. I took only momentary pleasure in the instant supply of blood which issued forth. While my victim was still seeing stars, I beat a hasty retreat, even as he was stumbling up his back steps, and all the while wailing loudly and long, in a most satisfactory manner.

This particular troublemaker at all times thereafter looked for victims other than Jack and myself. With grim satisfaction, I stared boldly at this boy whenever he got close enough to me for me to see his eyes - and his nose.

Struck by Lightning

While it is not true that I went about looking for trouble, I have not avoided trouble as well as I could have. Yet at the one time, when I was on my best behavior, big trouble seemingly sought me out. Indeed, at this particular time of trouble I was in bed and sound asleep.

Grandma, brother Jack and I had been living in Kirkwood, Missouri, a western suburb of St. Louis. for about two years since leaving the Ozark farm. Grandmas daughter and her husband, Carroll, my beloved Aunt Ruth and Uncle Carroll, had shared their home with us for some time. Jack and I had our bed on the screened-in porch.

During a severe thunderstorm as Jack and I were sound asleep on this porch, a bolt of lightning struck a good-sized tree which was a few feet from where we lay sleeping. The bolt of lightning then ricocheted from the tree and struck me where I lay in bed. Of course I know nothing of this event excepting what I have been told, for I was instantly rendered unconscious.

For about thirty-six hours, I was unconscious. My mother and sister who lived in St. Louis arrived shortly, as did a doctor. My hair was burned to a frizzled ash, my back was burned, as were other parts of my upper body. It was a most fortunate wonder that Jack was not harmed in any way. Heck, he didnt even wake up. I told you he was a sound steeper.

The doctor told my family that if I lived that I would be an idiot and that the family ought to pray that I die. Im told upon good authority that my sister Kate, then about twenty-four years old, berated the doctor and told him that he was the idiot, and if he couldnt give any better advice than that that he could get out. She has always been pretty feisty, and very, very good to Jack and me.

After a few days, I was apparently recovered from my encounter with the bolt out of the blue, or wherever lightning comes from. Subsequently an eye doctor informed us that in a few years I would lose sight in my left eye. This did come to pass. When I was eighteen I tried to enlist in the U.S. Air Force but was rejected because of loss of vision in my left eye. Still, sixty years later, I can be grateful that God gave me two eyes. I am also grateful that God chose to prove my said first doctors prognosis to be wrong - or at least mostly so.

From Death Into Life

When I was fifteen years old, we lived with our wonderful petite mother. Willie Lavada, and her husband, Earl Smith. Earl and Mother owned and operated a modest little country store and service station beside Highway 45 four miles north of Louisville, Illinois. My brother Jack and I were happy to live with our mother and a kind, good man like Earl.

Jack was attending a rural school and I the Louisville High School. My little brother for the first time in our somewhat nomadic lives really felt that he had finally come home for the first time in his life. He really liked the kids in his school. and had already fallen in love with Leah Mae, a very pretty little girl of ten or eleven. In fact, he is still in love with her, and they recently celebrated their 51st wedding anniversary, as did my wife, Judy, and I.

Occasionally Jack and I went to church at a typical little church, Second Little Prairee Baptist Church, not far from our home. A revival service was held in this church, and Jack and I went one night. Jack went because Leah was going to be there, and I went because it was someplace to go.

That night Jack and I sat near the back of the church. After some singing, the visiting preacher preached. I havent the vaguest idea as to what he preached, but I do remember that the longer he preached the more uncomfortable I became. He concluded his sermon by inviting those who wanted to accept Jesus as their Savior to walk up to the front of the church. All in the church building were asked to stand. I spent the balance of the service gripping the back of the seat in front of us. At that time I did not really understand why I was so distraught. Finally, the meeting was concluded and Jack and I left as quickly as possible. I promised myself that I would not put myself through another session like that.

However, I was almost surprised the next night to find myself and Jack seated again in one of the back seats of this church. Again during all of the sermon that night, I was in the same miserable state. I knew by then, at least in part, the true cause of my unhappy condition, for I realized my spiritual lostness and could not deny that Jesus Christ could be the only source of peace. Nevertheless, my obstinate sinful nature continued to rebel throughout the service that night until the invitation was at last ended.

Quite a number of my friends and others responded to Christs call that night. The preacher invited all who would to come forward to greet those who had made decisions. I would gladly have exited the building through the only door in the rear - or even a window - to avoid having to walk in that line of people to the front of the church, but I was too self conscious to make myself conspicuous by doing so. So I stumbled along in the line to the front of the church and past those who had made decisions. I say stumbled, for I was blinded by my tears - tears of grief for my sins and my misery. Still I would have blundered out into the darkness of the night and my sinful state had not the preacher been sensitive to my need. When he took my hand, he held onto my hand and spoke gently, asking me if I did not wish to just turn my life over to Jesus. He led me to the side of the room and knelt with me there.

Never can I forget the oppressive blackness that seemed to fill my mind, soul and body that moment. I felt so lost, so miserably worthless, so far from God, and terribly confused. Satan I know was battling for my very soul and life. The preacher gently told me that Jesus had died to pay the price for my salvation, that all I could do was to repent of my sins, to believe that Jesus had died to pay for my sins and had risen from the dead, and that I must confess my sins to God and to just turn it all over to Jesus. As I pondered my condition, I realized that intellectually I believed that what the Bible taught of Jesus was true. Certainly, I was emotionally stirred and was most aware of my sinfulness. Still, there was a third aspect of my self that was obstinately opposing and resisting the preachers prayerful plea and the moving of the Holy Spirit upon my life. That part of me was my will. I just did not want to yield my will, my life, to God.

My ambition for my life, which had urged me on through difficulties seemingly insurmountable, was my determination to become a lawyer. I just did not want to yield at this point. I found myself angry toward God, because I knew He surely knew what I desired to be, and now, as I believed, He was trying to make me a Baptist preacher. Even as I thought this, I recognized how foolish I was, for I really believed that God could save me and give to me an endless eternity of life, and joy, and yet I was doubting that He could provide me with a full and rich life for sixty or seventy years on earth. I knew that I just had to trust God, to entrust my all to Him.

So in a most humbling, stammering prayer I did just that.

God, of course, knew how in the many years of trial which were to follow I would need to have the assurance of the reality of my conversion hour. For in the moment I cried out my sinners plea, my total being was flooded with a bright light. Although my eyes were gripped tight - and I knew that all this was happening just within me - it seemed that 10, 000 watt light both had been turned on inside my mind and even my body. Such a joy flooded my soul and a peace poured through me that I know a miracle had happened to me. The terrible burden that had been so real as to be physical but the moment before had been lifted, and I felt as though I could float from where I knelt.

How very grateful I am that blessed preacher, Clyde Sinclair, was used of God to introduce me to Jesus. Truly I am happy that, at the very moment of my finding Christ as my Savior, I remembered my younger brother still seated all this time at the back of the church. All I could do was to find him and to take him to theher who led him also to Jesus that hour.