Steve and Bobby

". . . to go beyond is as wrong as to fall short."
Confucius

He was climbing down out of a loggers truck when I first saw him.  I was later to learn that he got to school every day by hitchhiking in to town from his home in a small farm community on the western edge of the hills.  Cache Valley consisted mainly of a half dozen large farm families, a one room school, and a Missionary Baptist church.  It was a farm community that tractors had yet to invade; "horsepower" meant something other than the size of a gasoline engine.

Daylight was just breaking and the truck's headlights still brightened the street in front of one of the two "general" stores in the village.  Pollard, at that time, was a busy farm village, boasting of two stores, a grist mill, a blacksmith shop and an auto repair shop.  The railroad still existed, although it's primary reason for still being was to transport the bales of cotton from the cotton gin to market. We had our own doctor and two service stations, one on either end of town, just an easy rifle shot apart.

Steve seemed a little tentative as he crossed the street, glancing back at the truck's dim illumination. which revealed his jeans, faded but clean and the nondescript short sleeved shirt that he wore.  He was about five foot six and was a bit chubby.  Not obese, but still carrying some of his "baby fat" in the demeanor of a well fed teenage farm kid.  Weighed maybe 190. He carried  neither lunchbox or books, and stood a little off to the side of the small group waiting for the decrepit old bus for transport to the high school in the manner of one who wanted to fit in but lacked the skills to do so. The modified pickup truck bringing a half dozen or so kids from the flatland communities to the north had just unloaded it's cargo, so, in total, there were perhaps fifteen or twenty passengers for the aging vehicle.
 
It was in the shortening days of early December, 1947. The bus, of faded vintage at least ten years prior, finally made its noisy arrival, "Tadpole", a 260 pound senior guard on the school championship football team, at the controls.  His years of handling farm vehicles qualified his skills and his size and demeanor assured his position; he took no crap.  The bus was not terribly old in terms of mileage, but ten years of gravel roads had taken their toll.  It had four seats, benches actually, each running the full length of the bus.  Already seated on the rightmost bench nearest the front door was a smallish, middle-aged lady who we knew only as "Miss Hazel".  She was a teacher at the elementary school in the county seat.

Miss Hazel lived with her widowed mother on the family farm a couple of miles west of town. They made no attempt to farm the eighty or so acres, but lived off their small garden, the rent from the tillable land and, of course, Miss Hazel.'s salary, meager though it was.  She routinely parked her 60 hp, faded blue prewar Ford sedan in the village near the bus garage and rode the bus to her job, a gas and money saving habit no doubt derived from the wartime days of gas rationing.

The bus was quickly loaded and grumbled its way out of town and began its gravelly progress eastward on US 62 toward school.

There was never any dozing since sudden stops often cause the passengers to slide forward on their bench. We had to stay somewhat alert and anticipate the stops.  One of these stops precipitated an idea in the mind of one of the passengers.  Bobby Brower, a couple of years older than Steve, was an overly mischievous second child of a sometimes Baptist preacher and was living validity of the generally accepted  axiom  "preachers' kids are the orneriest". Bobby circulated among the rearmost passengers, mainly male, suggesting that, on the next stop, they should all push a little harder in their sliding forward.  This  proposal was directed especially to those seated on the bench upon which Miss Hazel sat.  Some were even recruited from the other three benches and persuaded to change their seating so as to be in position to add to the effort.  Steve, being relatively new to the group and wanting badly to "fit in" went along with the plan.  What harm could a little push like that do?  He had misjudged both the force that could be generated and the damage it could do, or maybe he just wasn't thinking at all. 

He was, however, about to learn  something about people

When the time came and the bus brakes provided the opportunity for the inertia to cause the bodies to press forward on the seat, Bobby took a running start from the rear of the bus and slammed himself into the mass of sliding students in an effort to exert the maximum amount of available force on the teacher.  His real motivation remains a mystery.

She didn't exactly scream, it was sort of a huge exhaling, a grunt and a rather large whimper.

The bus stopped.
 
She sobbed.

There was a silence punctuated only by the erratically idling motor.

Tadpole took in the scene; he had caught the unusual movement in his interior mirror, even though his attention had been on the road and the reason for the sudden stop.

Bobby, standing now in the rear, started a laugh and stopped abruptly when no one joined in.  His grin deteriorated to a sheepish grin.

Tadpole's gaze would have frozen tap water.  "You'll stay on the bus with me", he said and sat back down behind the wheel. 

Bobby's grin evaporated.

Steve tried to become invisible.

As everyone but Bobby unloaded at the school's double front doors, Tadpole collared me, "Go fetch Mister Thorndike", he growled.  I stared at him.  "MOVE!", he said.  I did.

We heard later that Miss Hazel had been taken to the local hospital, examined, and given a good supply of aspirin and taken home.  She was hurt, battered and bruised, but thankfully, no bones were broken and no internal injuries noted.

She lost several days' work.
 
Bobby was seen being escorted into the superintendent's office, and later leaving by the rear door of the auditorium as Mr. T held the door open.  We assumed that the incident was duly reported and thoroughly investigated; Bobby was not seen in school for a few weeks.  Steve was identified as one of the perpetrators. 

It would be a wonderful ending if we could say that Steve learned a valuable lesson here which went on the guide him the rest of his life, but, alas, if this was true, it was not apparent to anyone at the time.  He was simply terrified.  Having come from a one-room farm country school where punishment had been doled out with switches, paddles and/or belts and an assault on a teacher was considered an act on par with that of a traitor in wartime, and having just recently been through the school's customary subjecting of freshmen boys to a gauntlet of belt wielding upper classmen known as the "belt line", he had no clue as to what might be his fate. 

He went into low profile, fearfully awaiting a sentencing. but mercifully suffered no further attention over the matter. It was not discussed.

But no one recalls Bobby's ever being a passenger on the bus again, and, other than a subsequent firearms "accident" in which another student gained a flesh wound in a leg, was not much about him was seen or heard.

And no one remembers whether or not he completed high school.

Ab

for Dessie

. . . I'm sure she remembers.

There  are  only three things that  can kill a farmeer: 
lightning,  rolling  over in a tractor, 

and  old age.                             Bill  Bryson                                      



 Splat!   A huge drop of \water hit him in the middle of his forehead.   He opened his eyes slowly and tried to turn over onto his left side. The pain was like a knife, whichever muscle the tried to use.                                                                                                                                                                                       

Drip!  He looked up and only saw the underside of the rough boards that made up the bottom of his wagon bed.  The water was oozing slowly through a crack between two boards and forming the drops which had awakened him.  He moved aside just before the next drop fell.  By rolling painfully back until he was lying on his right side, he was able to look out on the rain soaked area that surrounded him and his farm wagon.  He stared for several minutes in absolute astonishment and disbelief.

*******

It all began early that morning. Ab had risen early as usual, assessed the coming day as he tended to the morning chores of feeding and milking.  He had determined that it was going to be a fine sunshiny day, and the cornfield he had planted two weeks earlier at the Fox Pond, would be needing its first plowing. There had been only a little rain and that several days ago; the ground would be just right.
After breakfast, Ab stabled the mules, curried and brushed out the worst of the dirt in their coats and put on the harness getting them ready for a full day's work.  He went in, had his breakfast, picked up his lunch and returned a half hour later to hitch the mules to the wagon.  He tied the one-row, mule -rawn cultivator on behind the wagon and set off for the Fox Pond.
Ab had two forty acre blocks of land.  The home forty where the house and barn were located and the Fox Pond, another forty acre block located a little over a half mile to the west, as the crow flies, but almost a mile by road.  The sun was only about an hour high when Ab parked the wagon in the grove of trees on the north side of the forty and hitched the mules to the cultivator.
The sun was warm on this early spring day, the soil was just right for plowing, otherwise the morning was uneventful.  When Ab judged the sun to be directly overhead, he stopped for his dinner, unhooked the mules took them to the creek for water, and fed them corn from the bag in the wagon.  He noticed a number of smallish clouds drifting leisurely up from the western horizon; they seemed to be generally a little bigger as the day wore on. Not unusual for springtime; no problem unless one got really big.
Mid afternoon found the plowing going well; he could complete the field by sundown if all went well.  As the sun slipped further toward the horizon, it became more and more cloud covered; eventually becoming covered by the clouds.  Ab kept a wary eye on one large dark cloud and made a mental observation that he might have to finish tomorrow.
He looked to the west as he turned the rig into another row.  The cloud was very dark and suddenly the wind changed markedly.  It had been blowing softly west to east; now it came briskly from the east.  He knew the signs, he stopped, unhitched the mules, and, leaving the cultivator in the field, drove them briskly to the shelter of the trees and his wagon.  It would hopefully be only a passing shower and maybe he would be able to finish today after all.  He tied the mules to a nearby tree and slipped under the wagon to check what might be remaining in the lunch pail.
The roar of the approaching precipitation was louder than usual; it hit hard, balls of ice the size of marbles or bigger.  The hailstones beating on the tree leaves and sometimes on the mules surprised and alarmed the mules, who snorted and tried to bolt.  Ab knew they were securely tied, so he didn't worry.
Suddenly, the air became charged. It almost crackled in the manner that makes one's hair stand on end.
Then there was a blinding flash and an unbelievably loud crash. Ab lost consciousness.

******

Now he was awake and peering our from under the wagon upon a scene he would never forget.  The tree where he had tied the mules lay split from top to bottom and lay in two pieces.  On either side, each with his own half of the tree, lay the mules.  They were quite still, and a tiny wisp of smoke creeping upward from one of the collars.The rain had dwindled to just a pattering of drops; hailstones littered the ground, the tree was split, and worst of all, the mules appeared to be dead.  Ab crawled painfully out from the wagon, found that what he had suspected with regard to the mules was entirely correct.
"lightning" he muttered, "damn".
He stood stone still, staring, for a long time. 
He looked to the west where the clouds were beginning to break and a small patch of blue was visible.
Well, he thought, it's a long walk home and it's getting on to feeding time. 
I'll come back tomorrow.

He picked up his lunch pail and started slowly for home.

He did not look back.

Coon Hunt

for Jim and Marty

". . . sing your sweet song for me,

throw your sweet voice to the wind . . . ."

                                                                Darren Haverstick;   "Pearl"
                                                                                              sung by Cedar Hill

Coon hunting is an activity peculiar to particular parts of the country and practiced by small minority of the population, mostly males, who love the outdoors and enjoy the quiet and companionship of friends and their dogs, in pursuit of the small furry animals.  Since the racoon is primarily nocturnal, the hunt is, of necessity, at night, which is when most of the spare time for farm communities exists.

Ingredients for a coon hunt include a campfire, coffee (and/or other liquid refreshment), food of some description, a light source, a weapon or some other means of getting the coon out of his tree. And, the most important item, a good coon hound with which to find the object of the operation.  The light source would usually be a carbide lamp of the type used by miners. It produces light by means of an open gas flame located in the center of a metal reflector.  The gas is generated by a controlled flow of water from a small tank into a container of carbide chunks, the chemical reaction of which produces a flammable gas which is directed to the nozzle in the center of the reflector which is then lit and burning to produce light. I am no chemist, but I know it works. How much light it produces is quite another matter.

Harvey announced to his friends at the Wednesday prayer meeting that he had acquired a new dog.

Said he was just a pup, 'bout a year and a half old, but from good hunting stock.  "He does rabbits and squirrels OK, but I want him to learn about coons.  Think I'll take him back in the Overcup one night and see what we can find."  "How about tomorrow night?"" says E E, "come on up after dark and we'll go."

Now Harvey and E E are both in their teens and have completed the first eight grades of school.  E E has gone on to high school and Harvey is still at home helping his father on the farm.  E E traps and supplements his spending money with the sale of hides.
Thursday night finds the boys and Harvey's dog, Blue, entering the wetlands to the North of E E's father's farm. The land is flat, wooded and interspersed with areas of ankle deep water. At some distance to the North lies the part where deeper water exists and where a huge five pronged cypress tree provides the only real landmark in the area.  They find a relatively open area on relatively dry, low ridge, and are able to start a small campfire.  Blue watches, with his eye on the knapsack where he suspects there is food.  Harvey looks at Blue:  "Blue, go find something".  Blue looks puzzled. "BLUE--RABBIT, FETCH"  Blue got up, stretched, and trotted off into the woods. "dumb dog," Harvey says under his breath.

By now the coffee is hot and the snacks have been consumed and the boys are enjoying the quiet of the night in the light of the dying fire and the last quarter moon overhead.  The carbide light is lit and burning on low flame.  Peaceful, Nice.

The silence is broken by the sound so well known and so dear to the hunter - the melodious long notes of the hound on a trail.  "He's got something" says Harvey, "listen to that, ain't that beautiful?"

They listened quietly to the music as it moved farther to the North then changed to a more intense flurry of shorter notes and did not move further.  "He's treed him, LET'S GO!", and they were off.  Harvey in the lead with the knapsack on his shoulder and the carbide lamp firmly attached to his cap, leaving E E to bring up the rear - in the dark.

E E arrived a few minutes later than the rest.  He was amazed.  In the dim light of the carbide light's open flame, he saw a small oak tree, maybe three inches in diameter and perhaps 25 feet high. Blue was on his hind legs, bracing his forefeet on the tree and speaking fiercely and loudly to what appeared to be the world's largest coon, who was perched precariously in the fork of the tree, about 15 feet up.  Harvey was observing from the other side of the tree.  " Wish I'd brought my 22," says E E.  "No problem," says Harvey, " it's a small tree, I'll just shake him out - Blue will take care of him".  and proceeded to do just that.

The coon hit the ground with a resounding thump and a fierce snarl in Blue's direction. Blue stared in quiet disbelief; he had never in his young life seen so large a rabbit. Coon snarled again; Blue considered the situation-for about two seconds then chose discretion over valor and quickly left the scene.  He was  not seen again  that night.  Coon, sensing his window of opportunity, leaped on top a fallen tree trunk and sped north to freedom with all possible haste.

"He's getting away" says Harvey, "if he makes it to the deep water and the big cypress, we will never get him."  And with that he charged off in pursuit, leaving E E in the dark again. E E is attempting to follow but being hampered by underbrush and deepening water underfoot.  Suddenly the sound of Harvey's pursuit is interrupted by a thump, a grunt, a splash and then silence. And darkness.  "HARVEY, YOU OK?"  A splash.  muttering. "Yeah, I'm OK".  E E found him, and tripped over a root and went down too.  "Coon got away", says Harvey.  "and the light's out", says E E "where's your matches?"  "Right here in my bib pocket, I keep them there so they won't get ---"  he stopped ---wet". he said, now holding a handful of soaked matches, which he threw into the water. "You got a lighter?"  "Don't smoke", says E E.  "Shit!", says Harvey.

Apparently they had been closer to the deep water than they thought.  Harvey had tripped over a submerged cypress knee* and tumbled headlong into water up to his chin.  E E had followed suit and now both are soaked.  They are also near the middle of the Overcup with no light, no food, no compass and the moon is going down.

"We better get home," says E E. "Which way is home", says Harvey.  "Look, says E E, There' the big dipper; and the North Star, we just go the other way and we should come out in Dad's north forty."  Harvey looked at the stars of the big dipper, hanging just over the dim outline of a huge cypress tree, then turned the other way and headed South.

Plodding through ankle to knee-deep water, crashing through underbrush that was felt, not seen, and beset by regimental strength flights of mosquitoes, they broke into open fields just as the moon was setting.  "I know where I am now," says Harvey, "I'm as close to my house as we are to yours, I'll just go home from here".

Another half mile and E E was out of his wet clothes and into bed, with the full knowledge that in about two hours, he would have to be up to help with the feeding of livestock and the milking of cows, before having breakfast and hitting the road for school.

* Cypress trees almost always grow in or near water.  The roots around the tree sprout upward appendages which extend up to three or more feet above solid ground.  These "knees" may or may not extend above the surface, depending on the current water level.  The water was obviously high at the time of this incident.

Epilogue

Harvey stayed on the farm, until he was drafted into the Marine Corps.  He lost his life in the landings on Iwo Jima.

E E finished high school, got drafted, learned to be a bombardier for the Army Air Corp, married his high school sweetheart, and, after the war, left the Army as a 1st Lieutenant.  Since his two major skill areas
were farming and dropping bombs, and there no longer being any demand for bombardiers, bought a farm.

Blue became a loyal family pet and guardian of the farm, chasing an occasional rabbit and identifying snakes, etc.

As far as we know none of the three ever went coon hunting again.