2005 Year in Review

After returning home from a family reunion back “home”, in August 2005, I was a little down. Up because I saw an aunt there who I had not seen in several years, and up because I renewed some old family acquaintances that I had not seen in quite some time. But I was down, because here I was back in my daily routine, knowing that sooner or later I’d “forget” the important stuff, yet again. I don’t so much “forget” but put it on the back burner for a time.

There were other thoughts on my mind, things at work and in life that were pulling me down, and that thought – that image, of my Dad and my uncles sitting on the old front porch of my uncle’s home, or sitting out on the lawn chairs in front of our house, rolling Prince Albert cigarettes and whiling away the hours telling stories about when they were young.

There are bits and pieces, here and there that I can remember. Like, down past the old homeplace, where the road always crossed through the creek (until a year or two ago, when the county finally put in a bridge over those waters), there are still the few remains of a wooden fence that stretched along the bank, between the creek and the road.

In my childhood, this creek was the home of many an hour of wading, and searching for crawdads, running from snakes and finding all sorts of other adventures. Here and there along the way we’d find a tree that might have fallen over the creek, and we could pretend to be explorers, crossing a raging river by balancing ourselves as we slowly walked across the trunk of that tree, over the waters of the creek (and, truth be told, the water was only a few inches to a few feet deep – and no way we could have drowned.. but that truth would have spoiled the adventure – it was much more fun to pretend that we were crossing a deep ravine with a wild river running underneath).

But, in their childhood, that fence, whose few remaining slats are separated by inches of space as the boards have slowly shriveled and disintegrated over time, served a different purpose. In their days, the creek beyond was wider and deeper than now. The area beyond the fence was a bathing area, a swimming area. The fence served as a privacy fence while family members bathed. I could almost close my eyes and imagine the fence, with no space between the boards, with clothes hanging off it as the ladies bathed and the men waited, or vice-versa.

A little ways up from there, a tree had fallen over the creek, but partially down in the water. The stories were told that over time, the waters rushed under the log to cut out the bottom of the creek, making quite a deep hole – I think they called it the “blue hole”. By the time I came around, that blue hole was no more, but we had our own adventures.

I don’t “remember” their memories. I don’t even remember most of their stories. It’s been 20 years, this past November, since my Dad passed on, and only another year or two until my Uncles were all gone, as well. I was 14 when he died, and one of my regrets is that nobody ever took the time to record those stories. The voices are still now, but memories remain. Mine. Somehow, that doesn’t seem to be enough.

As an adult, I had the best of intentions – to “interview” my grandparents and mother and get them to tell some of their stories on a video camcorder, and have those memories forever. But, we never quite got around to it, and a couple of years ago, my Grandfather was taken to meet his Creator, and another source of memories was gone.

But, back to the present. After returning home from our family reunion, with these thoughts and others causing so much turbulence upstairs in my noggin, I had the thought that I should start doing “something”. Somehow, I decided maybe I should start writing down my stories. I didn’t want to tell them – naming names – in a way that other people’s feelings were hurt. I decided to make them anonymous. I am not sure where the names of Armadillo Creek or Johnny Miller came from - they just sounded "right".

At first, I didn’t tell my friends, or family. I just started to write. After a while, I mentioned the site where I was posting these stories to on my “regular” blogging site, but that was the only mention I made of it to anyone. Over time, a few new “friends” have been found who like the world presented here, and for that, I am thankful.

Only now is my family becoming aware that I am the author of these tales. I am creating a “2005” version of these, in a Word document format, for those members of my family who are not “online”, like my Grandmother and Mother. As the new year comes, I do plan to continue occasionally adding stories to the site, and maybe, next year, I can do a “2006” document/book.
I hope you enjoy these tales, as much as I have enjoyed writing them. I do hope that anyone who is intimately familiar with my childhood realizes that these stories are not completely accurate – but rather just represent my memories as I remember remembering them. That is, I tried to capture the thoughts and emotions of the time – rather than my later memories. This is hard to do, because as we grow older we “learn” things that slant our views and perceptions and now we look back and see things in a different light. I have tried to capture the innocence of the moment as much as possible.

I hope that maybe, somewhere, someone else may be inspired to tell tales of their younger days. There IS an audience out there, of young ears that want to hear, to know, what life was like "back in the day".

I hope everyone has had a wonderful 2005 Christmas Season, and I wish you a Happy New Year.

Uncle Ed
Dec 29, 2005

December Ice

One year, in Armadillo Creek, autumn lingered long. The days grew shorter and shorter, but it turned into an Indian Summer, where the days stayed warm, and the nights were cool, but not cold. After Thanksgiving, some storms moved through the area. Then, in the first week of December, it began to rain, and it rained, and it rained, and even when it stopped, a little while later, it would rain some more.

After a couple of days, all the old wooden, one lane bridges on the dirt road leading out from the state highway, through the valley and out to the Miller homestead, were under water. The creek, which meandered down through the valley, crossing the road in several places, had swollen to the point where you could no longer see the bridges, or even the roads leading up to them, on either side.

On the side lane, leading down past the Miller farm, the road dipped through a creek - no bridge had ever been built there, and there was only one family living back down that way, so the county never cared to spend the money on it. But the creek went over its banks so much that it ran several hundred yards up the road, till it reached the base of the hill upon which the Miller farmhouse sat. The Miller farmhouse was up on high ground, and nowhere near the creek, but the lower pastures, down by the creek, were all covered in water.

It was the most water Johnny Miller had ever seen. Later, he'd see pictures of what it was like in town, in Armadillo Creek, where the river running through the edge of town had moved beyond its banks, too, and swallowed up a little grocery store, and the lumberyard, and several other businesses. Where the main highway had to be closed for a day or two, as people simply could not go through.

The good side to all this wet chaos, for Johnny Miller, was that the Armadillo Creek Schools had no choice but to shut down for a day or so, and even after they started up again, the school bus could not even begin the trek down the dirty, muddy road, and past the washed out bridges, to the Miller farm, so he and Tommy had a few more days off, just as good as snow days!

But, it was December, and reality, sooner or later, had to catch up. Because, toward the tail end of the storms, when things began to clear up, and the flood waters receded, it started getting colder, and colder, and colder. Johnny and Tommy Miller finally had a few days of school, and then, it started to rain again. This time, glazed ice was everywhere. Thick, glazed ice. The trees were beautiful, with icicles hanging from evergreen leaves. But, with the loud "pops" out through the forest as the sap within the trees froze, causing the trunks to split, it began to sound as if artillary fire were coming from every direction.

Once again, roads were impassable, but this time, it was due to ice. Once again, school was closed, and Christmas break was right around the corner. Since the flood waters had finally receded, the neighbor kids, who lived down the side lane, would come over and while away the days with the Miller kids, and there were many a paper airplane battle and other indoor fun that happened. Jigsaw puzzles were done, and games of marbles, and dominoes, and Yahtzee. And, at times, the kids bickered, or were just bored, or spent time outdoors exploring.

After a few days of this deep, bitter cold, Johnny and Tommy found that they could go "ice skating" on the creek, or even the pond. They didn't have skates, but if they got a running start, they could, at least, slide across the ice. That ice, after a few days, was so thick that they couldn't make it crack, no matter how hard they tried. If it had, chances are they'd have been hurting pretty bad, as it was quite a walk back up to the house and warmth.

Since the family had been shut out of town, most of the time for a week or two prior to the ice storm, supplies were already low. But, there were always beans, pinto beans. Many songs would be sung, around the house, about "Beans, beans, musical fruit..."

The other problem was that the Miller family wasn't quite prepared for the sudden cold snap. There was firewood, but, before the ice started to melt, the wood supply was getting low. Johnny's Dad, and Johnny and Tommy, piled into the truck and went off down the road, slipping and sliding just a bit, to some deadfalls next to the road in the edge of the National Forest.

Johnny, at seven or eight, was not afraid to carry an armload of wood, from where it had just been cut, to the tailgate of the truck, or to climb into the truck and start stacking the wood, neatly, while his older brother carried it to him.

But, with a few sticks of firewood, or not, that ice was treacherous, and there was more than one bruised behind, and skinned elbow, by the time the load was complete. Then, when the truck was loaded up, they went back to the house, with enough firewood to last through the rest of the cold snap, until the roads cleared enough to get out and forage for more.

This was one December, where the Christmas Holidays were almost a drag, after having already missed a large chunk of the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas due to weather conditions. But eventually, the winter chill would recede, and springtime would bring renewal.

Life Saver Angels

Aunt Tabby, and Uncle Roger lived in a house in town, in Armadillo Creek, when Johnny Miller was very young. They had a couple of acres, fronting Elm Street, and had built two houses, one that they lived in, and the other that they rented out for extra income. Back behind the rent house was a garden area, edging up to the woods at the base of the mountain. Come spring and summer, they'd spend quite a lot of time growing - just not on the scale that they used to when they lived out on the farm.

Johnny Miller would go with his family over to their house frequently. There were little things about the house, different from the old farmhouse that Johnny lived in. Like, no matter the time of year, there was always the faint, acrid smell that accompanied the pilot light on the propane heater. The walls were covered in wood paneling. There were three bedrooms, and a small bathroom. Johnny was not allowed to flush the toilet, there, unless it was really needed, because it "wasted water". Back on the farm, they had a well, but here in town, water had to be paid for. On the back part of the house was an "add-on" room, with lots of windows, where Aunt Tabby would do all sorts of crafts.

One of Johnny's earliest memories was of coming over to their house, and Tommy and he were allowed to try out Uncle Roger's gun. It was a Daisy BB Gun, and they'd sit on the porch, and shoot at an old Prince Albert can tacked onto the young sycamore tree in the front yard, after first ensuring that no cars were coming by. Another time, he and Tommy were allowed to go along with Uncle Roger to Hap's Grocery store, over along the main highway through town. Uncle Roger gave them each a half a piece of gum, but young Johnny quickly chewed his up and swallowed it, and there was no more given.

The food at their Aunt and Uncle's house was always good, and there was always plenty there for them. One favorite was the fried pies, with a thin layer of dough on the outside, and a fruity filling in the middle. There was nothing quite like a homemade fried pie. On one occasion, in the evening following one of the annual family reunions, there was a pineapple served, and even though he had eaten like a pig of both real food and desert, Johnny just had to have a rather large share of the pineapple. It didn't last too long - that night, all the food together created an explosive situation!

One of his favorite things was to go along with his Dad to cut down Aunt Tabby's Christmas tree. At home, Johnny's family had an artificial tree, and that worked, too. There was tradition there, pulling that old tree out of the box, and putting the various limbs into the holes in the wooden stem of the tree, until the tree was put together, and then stringing the tensil and lights around and around till the whole thing was as pretty as a real one.

But Uncle Roger and Aunt Tabby would have the fresh one. Tommy and Johnny's Dad would go and cut a fresh tree, somewhere, and by the time Christmas day rolled around, Aunt Tabby would have it decorated with lots of goodies. From strands of popcorn or something similar, to the traditional decorations, and something Little Johnny never found elsewhere. Something special for the kids. Life Saver Angels.

She would take the little tubes of life savers, 5 or 6 life savers in length, and make decorations. She'd glue felt around the outside, either red, or green. Then, using pipe cleaners or popsicle sticks, or similar items, create arms, legs, wings, whatever was appropriate, for both the Life Saver Angels, and Life Saver Reindeer.

Looking back, Johnny Miller would one day regret that he didn't keep some of them, but in that simple day and time, it sure was a treat to finally pull them apart on Christmas morning, and eat a red, or orange, or his personal favorite, a green lifesaver.

Giving Thanks

In Johnny Miller's childhood, there were a few times a year when they'd leave the countryside around Armadillo Creek and go somewhere else. Sometimes, it would simply be a weekend trip to his Grandpa and Grandma's house, over across the state line. A couple of hours to their house, and then be with grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins for the next day or so, and then return home to normal life.

The big trip, however, typically came the day before Thanksgiving, and lasted through the Sunday following. They'd drive over three hundred miles, out of the mountains of his childhood, across the flat delta land, with its rice and cotton fields, across the big river, and into more of the same kind of country. They'd usually get off the big highways and follow the smaller two-lanes across the countryside. Their destination was their Aunt and Uncle's house, and Aunt and Uncle who were more like Grandma and Grampa than aunt and uncle.

Johnny and Tommy Miller couldn't hardly sit through their classes until noontime when school would end on that Wednesday, or on the years where school didn't let out early, their parents would come in and sign them out anyways. Then they'd hit the road. Once in a while, when they had a little extra money saved up, they'd stop at Wendy's in the city they had to pass through on the way - boy those burgers, even if it was only every couple of years, were something to remember. Johnny didn't get to eat out very often.

There were memories from those trips that would last through the years, burned into Little Johnny's consciousness, becoming threads in the fabric of his being. Even little things. From the sight, year after year, of sharecropper's shanties, looking like they were about to fall down, in the delta country, with, sometimes, a big Lincoln or Cadillac parked in the driveway. Johnny would forever wonder how it was that someone that couldn't afford to have a nice home could afford such nice cars. Another time, they were flying along in his Daddy's pickup, passing traffic that was crawling along, when all of a sudden, the motor stopped, right almost at dusk, in the middle of nowhere. They coasted over to the side of the road, and sat there. After some tinkering, and finally a couple of smacks against the electronic "brain" of the truck, it restarted and they continued on to their destination, where his Daddy would do an emergency repair as soon as an auto parts store opened.

Once they reached their destination, there were all sorts of interesting things to do. Their older cousin, who still lived at home with his Mom and Dad, had tons of Archie comics, and Johnny and Tommy would spend hours reading the comics. And, when things were quiet, they'd watch the Thanksgiving Day parades on TV (which was a treat since at home, the TV didn't come on before the five o'clock news!) They'd ride bikes up and down the road between their Uncle's house and their other cousins' homes. Sometimes, they'd even ride up the other way, past the big field with the pond and the pecan trees, to the small elementary school, and play on the playground, or even go out behind the school, and "explore" in the dumpsters. You'd never believe all the cool stuff that they found!

Probably the most memorable activity that would happen, for Johnny, at least, was just sitting on the old front porch. The porch had a wooden floor, and it was wide, and two or three feet up off the ground, and open underneath. The columns were wide, and Johnny could sit on the edge of the porch and dangle his feet off the front, while kids and/or dogs would run underneath the porch, and chickens would cackle out across the yard, or maybe he'd lean back against one of the columns supporting the wide roof overhead, and close his eyes, and breathe in the smoke of the Prince Albert cigarettes that his uncles and his Dad would roll, and listen to all the tales they told of times gone by.

And, somewhere before the weekend was over, they'd have a big feast, giving thanks for all that they had, and of those things, the most important of all was family. On Sunday, they'd pack up all their stuff and head for home. The drive home was never quite as fun and colorful as the drive to see family. They'd know that within the next day or so, they had to return to school. And they were so tired after all the non-stop playing and fun and family, that oftentimes, they'd doze a good bit of the way home.

Life in Armadillo Creek was good, but these occasional trips to another place were great, too. Being with family, during those special times every year was a wonderful thing. When Christmas would come, a month or so later, Johnny Miller's family would usually spend it at home, and although maybe they didn't get a whole lot of things, they did get love. And they'd always have the memories of the Thanksgiving that had just gone by.

Trick or Treat

In Armadillo Creek, trick-or-treating always happened on Halloween. Not a day or two before, like in some places, but the evening of Halloween, all the little Rooster Cogburns, and Darth Vaders, and other fellows would be marching up and down the streets, going door to door.

There were stories on the news of "tampered candy", and razor blades being stuck into apples, and things like that. In Armadillo Creek, however, parents didn't worry about such things too much. Of course, they'd check the candy out, but it was more because the 5 o'clock news told them they should. Johnny Miller and his brother Tommy always loved to go door to door. They'd make their rounds all around the town, loading up huge bags of candy.

Often, in those days, people would hand out fresh fruit, like apples, or popcorn balls, or some other homemade goodie. And, some of the more memorable candies were the sweet tarts, the rolls of smarties (take your pills yet?), and candy bars of any sort. In their house, candy was fairly rare. Their parents didn't forbid it, it just was an "extra" that they couldn't always afford.

One memorable Halloween evening, Johnny and Tommy got home from school, and started trying to figure out what they were going to "be". Mom decided, since she had some wigs from somewhere, that they'd go as girls. Only, two countrier girls there never were.

Johnny and Tommy had pipes that had once belonged to their Uncle Roger stuck in their mouths. They had painted on freckles, and lipstick, and boots and skirts. They made their rounds through the town, stopping eventually at Mrs. Smith's house. Mrs. Smith happened to be a teacher at the school, who had daughters, the youngest one of which was Tommy's age, just a little older than Johnny.

When Mrs. Smith answered the door, she made a comment about how pretty the young girls looked, and the daughter said, "Mom!!! They're boys who ride our bus..."

Johnny and Tommy could have both crawled under a table and died, and felt better about themselves than having to deal with that embarrassment, but, life went on. They went on to the next house, and the next, and by the time the evening was over, and candy being eaten at breakneck pace, they had quit worrying about what other people thought.

Years later, they'd chuckle about being "girls" on Halloween night, but it was an experience neither cared to repeat.

Friendship

The folks living around Armadillo Creek are about as country as country can get. In some cases, families have lived there for generations - the town and outlying communities in many cases were settled in the early 1800's.

Johnny Miller's family had migrated to what would later become the United States in the late sixteen hundreds and early seventeen hundreds, prior to the Revolutionary War. Indeed, some parts of the family had been here for hundreds or maybe thousands of years, as members of the Cherokee Indian tribe. Some of the patriarchs were colonists in Virginia who fought for independence in the War.

Over the years, as the family grew and spread, roots were laid down in Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee, and the family continued to move westward. In the mid eighteen-hundreds, one branch of the family put roots down in the forested valleys outside of Armadillo Creek. This same, or similar stories, could be told for many people who would someday settle down in the beautiful hills around Armadillo Creek.

By the time the Civil War broke out, at least one of the members of the family, Johnny's great, great, great Grandfather Riley, fought in the state's infantry division. Riley's mother was a Cherokee Indian, and eventually, he would marry another. And their kids would stay and farm the lands and raise children here for many years.

The homesteads that were settled in those years between eighteen-fifty and nineteen-hundred would stay in the family for generations, before gradually being sold, as people moved on to new adventures, or the depression and drought forced them to find jobs elsewhere.

By the nineteen-seventies, when Johnny Miller was born, the town of Armadillo Creek had been through boom-times and bust-times, and had survived it all rather well. The folks were friendly. For the most part, they were "settled". There were new people moving in, gradually, as industry moved into the bigger towns nearby.

Johnny went to school with a lot of other kids, but they all knew each other. The Armadillo schools were the largest in the county, but to qualify that, his graduating class was only forty-three people. The smallest school had only about a dozen. Some of his classmates included cousins. Most of them probably were related in some form or another even without knowing it. Such was country life.

In early elementary school, Johnny's best friend was Clifton. Clifton lived almost all the way over in the next school district, and eventually, would change schools. He lived with his elderly grandparents, and always fascinated Johnny with his colorful language. Not the "colorful language" of today, which consists of many vulgarities, but a color born of being raised by old fashioned country folks. He would say, "Gosh darn it, that there tree root is in the way of our cars," as they made "roads" in the dust underneath a huge, old spreading cedar tree with their matchbox cars. The tree's tangled roots were wonderful place to drive their cars during recess, because some of the roots would stretch above ground for a ways, before gradually sinking into the dust and dirt. The possibilities were endless, with roads around the roots, under the roots, and in some places, over the roots.

Later, after Clifton moved away, a new kid moved into the area. James was a good kid. Quiet, but smart. Johnny and James became best of friends. They'd share thoughts and stories, and by this time, had outgrown the matchbox cars. They'd discuss books they had read, or comics, or ... pretty much anything that crossed their minds. Neither was too athletically inclined, and by the time they reached junior high school, neither cared to play sports, although they did the mandatory PE classes - as they had no choice in the matter.

Later in their school years, they would be joined by a younger boy, Bill. Bill, too, was a quiet, but smart, kid. By the time Johnny Miller and his friend James were in the tenth grade, and Bill was in the ninth, they were always together when they had the chance. They'd spend many an hour discussing books and music and movies and anything that they could think of. Sometimes, they'd talk about girls, but all of them were too shy to actually approach one with anything besides "friendly" intent.

The bonds of friendship forged in those days would last for many years, as each of the boys grew up and grew apart, and went his own way in the path of life. One would one day join the military and move far away. Another, would become a writer, and move away for a while, then return. And the third would move across the state to live in a bigger city where more opportunities existed. Through all the lifestyle changes that each encountered, this thread of friendship would bring them back together when times were tough.

A Good Man's Love

Armadillo Creek is like many small towns across America. It has older folks who have been brought up in "country ways". Sometimes this could be bad, as old habits, old traditions, old stereotypes are taught. But, usually, there's a sense of goodness that exists in people who love and are loved by their families, both the close and extended members. There's faith and values and traditions that are handed down through generations that somehow seem to be lost in the bustle of city living.

For Johnny Miller, one of the highlights of his young life, was time spent with his Grandpa. As anyone who knows Johnny's Grandpa would realize, he was often silly, and full of fun, with a huge heart. One of the many funny little sayings, which might not have any meaning to anyone outside the family, but a reaction of, "WHAT?!?!", is:

"You great big, stand up in the corner, and cry for buttermilk."

He'd tease the kids with that one... in his loving and friendly way. Over time, the kids would learn to roll their eyes, and just keep on going, but the younger ones always lapped this stuff up. He was the one "older" person who would do this - take the time to talk to them as if they were his whole world.... Even if what he said was a little silly.

Another of his sayings was "It'll feel better, when it quits hurting."

This is a very true statement. True, you might roll your eyes at it's obvious nature. But, stop and think about it. Most pains... Most ills... Most wrongs in this world, will feel better... When it quits hurting. In other words, time can heal a lot of things. Time, love, tenderness. Grandpa was the holder of all these things.

Another of Grandpa's sayings, and probably the one that "stuck" with most of the kids, was:

"If you don't quit, you're going to keep on...."

Silly, yet, when they first heard it, it made the kids do a double-take, because they'd think they were about to get in trouble, and instead of a threatened punishment, they got something funny. Yet, the point was made, and if the kids were just playing, they'd continue to play, and if they were doing bad, they'd usually stop before it did get serious.

Life was good, in Armadillo Creek, as little Johnny knew he would always be loved.

Bad Behavior

In the sleepy town of Armadillo Creek, kids had a lot of freedom to be kids. They were often allowed to roam around to neighbor's houses, or wherever they wanted to go, pretty much. This independence sometimes was a good thing. It taught them a little about self-esteem and self-worth - to be trusted to do things on their own without an adult nagging them about every little thing. And, at times, boys did what boys did, and got into trouble.

Johnny Miller was probably a good boy. But, like most other kids of his age, he didn't always behave the way he should have. One time, while they were out in the yard, taking a break after doing some yard work, his mother said, "Why don't you go fill up my coffee cup?"

It might have been a question, but it wasn't so much the words, it was just... Johnny felt he was being put upon. This one time, instead of minding, young Johnny yelled at his Momma, "I am not your slave. I am tired of doing everything for you."

And he ran away. That is to say, he ran around the house and out into the field for a while. He found a quiet place, where it was just him and God, sitting on a log in the edge of the woods. After he had some time to think about it, he walked back up to the house, and apologized to his Mother for being so rude, and ... went and fixed her a cup of coffee.

Like most kids of the day... and yes, even today... Johnny was occasionally a bit lazy, but mostly just tired of parents who took him for granted. He had no doubt that his parents loved him, very much. And, walking into the house, and pouring a cup of coffee for his Mother was no big chore. She had probably been working hard for him and the family all day, and no doubt did not feel appreciated either. But he was at an age, a pre-teen, where the world was often just not quite right. And, he'd blow off his steam in some way or another, and get it out, and be a decent boy again, for a while.

One day he would come to realize that parents made many sacrifices for their kids, and they felt "put upon" when the children did not listen or behave properly. But in that day and time, Johnny lived, day by day, as good as he could, and although he would occasionally have a "bad" day, most days were good.

There was another time when his temper would flare up - only this time was different. It was the only time in Johnny's childhood when he really did something he considered terrible, and he was consumed with guilt and shame afterwards - even though no harm had befallen anyone.

His Daddy worked with tractors. There were lots of times when Johnny's brother Tommy, who was a year and a half older than he was, would get to "go" with Dad while Johnny had to stay at home, with Mom. This too got old, sometimes. It just didn't seem fair, somehow, for Tommy to get to go and do all those neat things - whatever they were.

This particular day he begged and begged to go, but to no avail. He just wasn't big enough to tag along, and so he got left behind, once again. He studied on his situation, and decided he'd get back at them for being so mean to him. He found some nails out in the shed, and took them back to the place where the tractor was parked, and lined them up behind the big old rear tires. The nails were several inches long, and might, or might not, have pierced all the way through the big tires.... but the fact remained, that Johnny had done this thing, and with ill intent.

His Daddy spotted the nails, and came looking. This was one time, where the "spare thy rod, spoil thy child" proverb from the Bible came into play. The child was not spoiled! But, at the same time, although he did receive his well-deserved punishment, it was not overboard, and Johnny would never again intentionally try to harm someone or someone else's property.

Take Me Home

In his younger days, Johnny Miller did not know all about diseases and famines, hurricanes and wildfires. All he knew about was that he lived, day by day, in a home where he was loved and taken care of, and as long as he did his fair share, he had no worries about what was going on "out there". The small town of Armadillo Creek was nestled in the mountains, a protected area, where tornadoes were uncommon, floods never too severe, as folks had enough sense to build their houses on high ground, and famine was just something you caught a glimpse of on the nightly news.

His parents didn't much encourage a lot of television watching, but he did have just a few favorites. There was, of course The Waltons. The show, it seemed to him, was set in a much simpler time and place. The Walton family did not even own a television set. And, if anything, the family was larger than Johnny's own. In a lot of ways, the Walton Family was like the Miller family. There was Walton's Mountain, so named because the family had been in the area for so long that they were a part of the country. Near Johnny Miller's family farm, there was, similarly, Miller Mountain. Miller Mountain was on land owned by the US Forest Service, and so not a part of the family property, but the fact remains that the Waltons and the Millers had been in their respective areas so long that even parts of the countryside was named after them. They really did have some things in common.

Johnny Miller's favorite television show of all time was The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams. In this show, a man accused of a serious crime escaped to the mountains, where he learned that he had a natural affinity for animals. They somehow trusted him, without inhibition, and he would do his best to fix their problems, mend broken wings, or whatever was required. He befriended and adopted a baby bear cub, named Ben, and they lived together in a cabin deep in the forest.

Johnny always dreamed of being able to forage through a forest, untouched by the white man. He somehow felt that he had been born into the wrong world - and instead should have been living a couple of hundred years ago and able to explore the remote wilderness, with nothing but animals for companionship. There was something magical about this idea, and the show gave him a glimpse of what he had missed, by being born into this modern era, full of mankind, and his farms, and cities, and highways, and dams.

He memorized the lyrics of the theme song, and would sing along... It was his anthem:

Deep inside the forest there's a door into another land.
Here is our life and home.
We are staying here forever in the beauty of this place all alone.
We keep on hoping.
Maybe there's a world where we don't have to run.
Maybe there's a time we'll call our own, living free in harmony and majesty.
Take me home.
Take me home.

Back in those days, there were no fears of AIDS or other blood-born diseases. When Grizzly Adams, and his Indian friend Nakoma became blood brothers, Johnny and Tommy Miller and their cousins thought that they needed to become blood brothers, as well. And although, in reality, they did not slash their palms open with a hunting knife, and bind them together with leather straps, they did try.

And the bonds of friendship and brotherhood formed between the brothers and cousins would live within them for the rest of their days. And when things got bad, later on in life, they would always know that they had a place to call home. No matter where they would lay their heads, their family would always be there.

Walkabout

Did you ever go for a walk through the woods, all alone? Not on a marked trail, but, rather, just roaming, exploring new paths, or old logging roads that are grown over now? To walk through a stand of young trees, and have a "Bambi" jump up and run away, shrieking, seemingly from right under your feet?

One hot Saturday afternoon, Johnny Miller decided to go for a "walkabout". In the years when he lived in town, in Armadillo Creek, his parents trusted him and his community enough that he was allowed to roam quite a bit, and sometimes he took those liberties to extremes. On this particular day, he just needed to get away for a little while. He didn't tell his Mom where he was going, but he took the time to tell his brother that he was going to climb the mountain behind the house, maybe even walk out to the old family cemetery on the road out to the farm, a few miles away.

So, he crossed through the garden, over the fence and into the woods, and started climbing up the mountain. A little while later, he found himself up on the ridge of the mountain, where many years ago a logging road had been cut through, and he followed that faint path down the ridgeline to the highway, going out of town, heading toward the south. He walked a mile or so beside the highway, then took an old dirt road out past some farms, till they stopped by a creek.

He had remembered, as a little boy, hearing his father and uncles talk about how, years ago, they'd cut across this way on their walks into town, cutting a few miles off the journey. On this particular hot day, Johnny found a shallow part of the creek, and waded across, and on the other side, now, was fields full of mixed breeds of cattle. He walked up the trail through the fields, and out to the road that went back down to the old Miller Homestead, and next to the gate leading into those fields from the main road, was the cemetery.

He walked around there a bit, looking at tombstones, curious about his ancestors who were buried there. There was his Dad's father, known locally as "Turkey Jim" for having been such a turkey hunter as the area had never known. It was said that he could sneak up on a flock of turkeys before they even knew he was there. Turkey Jim had passed away before Johnny was born, and it made him sad to think that he had missed such a character, and the stories he must have been able to tell.

Later, he made his way to Turkey Jim's father's gravesite, and his father's and his, up to Riley Miller, who had been in the state's infantry unit during the civil war. Seeing so many generations of his family, in one place, but laid to rest, was sobering to Johnny, and after he left there, and started trudging his way back through the fields, heading home, his thoughts were lost somewhere up in the atmosphere.

As he crossed one narrow patch of woods, between two fields, but before the creek crossing, Johnny noticed another trail heading off into the woods, at an angle to the one he was following. It was a road less traveled, obviously not used in many years. But, something called to Johnny, and he thought, "Well, how about I go down just a little ways and see what's there?" And, so he started down the new trail. He had been walking for quite a while, when he got to the edge of the woods, and found a clear-cut area. It was a place where the Forest Service had authorized a logging company to come in and harvest the timber, some time in the fairly recent past. The faint trail through the woods, here, turned into a little more well-defined road, through the clearing, and that little voice inside Johnny kept whispering, "Keep going... You can always turn back later...."

About halfway across the clearing, there was a trickle of water crossing the road, a stream, of sorts. Johnny squatted down and took a long drink of water from the creek. He noticed, with a smile, that there was a minnow there, in the shallow water, trapped by the stream, which was drying up in the hot summertime. He reached down and scooped up the little fish, and it squirmed there, in his hands. He then put it down in a broader, deeper part of the stream, where it might have a little better chance of survival.

Johnny crossed through the remainder of the clearing, and came to a well-maintained gravel road. From here, he had an idea of where he must be, back behind the mountain that ran behind the old Miller Homestead, and, in his mind's eye, he thought it was only a couple of miles back to town if he just kept on going, and went out to the highway running out of Armadillo Creek to the east.

Unfortunately, it had been some time since Johnny had been down this road, and riding in a car that someone else was driving seemed to take a few miles off of every journey. A few hours later, Johnny walked into his home, just as darkness was falling, and the television show Airwolf was on. From the point where he had hit the gravel road, until he got home, the journey was almost fifteen miles. All told, he had walked probably about twenty five miles or more that day.

But the story wasn't over, for when he had not come home for supper, his Mom had sent Dad, and his brother Tommy, to look for him. Since Tommy had been the last person to see him before he started his walkabout, and knew that maybe he had gone out to the cemetery or something, they had decided to look around there. They had stopped at the gate, next to the cemetery, and went on down into the farmer's fields, looking for signs of his passing (and they did not find any). But, while there, his Dad got their truck stuck in some mud, and Dad and Tommy walked out of the fields, and back to the owner's house.

The owner of the farm brought Dad and Tommy back home, as it was getting too late in the day to start digging the truck out, and they had to get a ride back out the next day, to go and pull the truck out of the mud with a tractor. Johnny never even remembered if he got in trouble for his adventures or not. Certainly, he probably got a lecture, but the day had been filled with overwhelming happiness, a boy, on his own, exploring a wild and remote countryside.

He went to bed that night, eyes filled with stars, head filled with dreams of a fish that had been in his hands, if only for a moment, and all was well in the world.

Theopholous Phifter

Courtesy of Johnny Miller's Grandfather. He was full of funny stories and quotes and tongue twisters. This one may not originally be his, but Johnny Miller had never heard it anywhere else before. So, as a young boy, after conquering the age-old Peter Piper, Johnny Miller learned to quote this one, as well:

Theopholous Phifter, the Thistle Sifter, sifted a sifterful of unsifted thistles in his thistle sifter.

But, if Theopholous Phifter, the Thistle Sifter, sifted a sifterful of unsifted thistles in his thistle sifter,

Where's the sifterful of sifted thistles, that Theopholous Phifter, the Thistle Sifter, sifted in his thistle sifter?

Pieces and Parts

When Johnny Miller was about three or four, he loved to go into the living room, which was paneled in an off-white paneling, a picture or two on the wall, the small black and white television set across the room, and climb up into his Daddy’s lap, over in Daddy’s chair.

His Daddy would ask him, "Do you know what this is?" And point to Johnny's elbow.

He'd say, "This is my elbow."

And Daddy would say, "That's your 'elbone'".

Daddy would ask, "What's this?" And he'd point to Johnny's eyes.

Johnny would answer, "Eyes," and Daddy would say, "These are your eyeballs, and your eyeballs are in your eyeball socket holes."

Next would be the ears, which were “earball socket holes”, then his head, which was his “noggin” with the “fuzz” on top.

Inside his mouth were his “tushes” or teeth. And you can guess what his “snot horn” was. And that “flapper” inside his mouth would someday get him in trouble, when he’d talk too much. Johnny’s stomach, according to his daddy, was his “punch,” and he knew it was so, because Daddy’d been in the hospital one time and told the nurse that he had an upset stomach, and the nurse wrote down, “nauseated paunch”.

Like his “elbones”, Johnny also had “kneebones”. And what he wore on his feet were, of course, his “horseshoes”.

Later on in life, Johnny Miller would look back at those conversations, and know that his Daddy was being silly, but also remember some of the happiest moments of his life. He’d not be able to recall exactly what all of his body parts were, other than the “ordinary” names, but he’d always remember the feeling of sitting in his father’s lap, laughing and loving and playing and learning about his pieces and parts.

There were some lessons that book learning could never teach a young boy.

Chocolate Gravy

Description:
Johnny Miller's family used to have "special occasion" breakfasts... times when family members from out of town came to stay, usually. But sometimes, just because. Usually, biscuits and gravy were served, along with, maybe, eggs and/or bacon. The "special" part sometimes came with the addition of Chocolate Gravy. This was something that some folks just don't get.

But, if you could take your biscuits, and add a little butter, and jelly... or sausage gravy, then why not chocolate gravy? It was quite a treat for the kids, and even the parents.

In young Johnny's mind, there was nothing quite like the magical taste, of a hot, fresh, homemade biscuit, with a little dab of butter melted, and then just the right amount of chocolate gravy poured on top. The melted butter would come up through the chocolate, a little stain of yellow in a brown puddle. Then he'd take his fork, and cut into the biscuit, and eat, and the taste was good enough to last a lifetime.

When done right, chocolate gravy has a consistency similar to white gravy, not too watery, not too thick. Different folks prefer to cook it different ways. This recipe is for Chocolate Gravy like Johnny's family used to eat. The amounts for the basic recipe are wide-open - you can cook for a crowd, or for just a couple of folks. His Momma didn't much go for measuring spoons, it was a little of this, a little of that. And, of course, the family would eat white gravy or sausage gravy, or even just jelly, with biscuits, too, but this was a treat that they could eat on those special occasions. Thanks to Momma Miller for the recipe.

Ingredients:
equal parts of:
cocoa
sugar

half that much or a little more of flour
a shake of salt

water

Or (for one/two persons)
2Tbs Heaped High Cocoa
2Tbs Heaped High Sugar
1Tbs Heaped High Flour
Shake of salt a time or two
Water

Some people add a little vanilla or cinnamon to "enhance" the flavor. Also, some folks substitute milk for all or part of the water, but Momma Miller doesn't. This simple, basic recipe has done the trick for years!

Directions:
Mix all the dry ingredients. Add enough water to make a paste and gradually add water till it's thin (but not watery). Heat it up slowly. Add more water as needed (a little bit at a time) until you get the desired consistency. Cook at a soft boil (medium high) at least ten minutes (depending on amount and consistency). It will thicken up a little bit after you remove it from the heat.

Hint: Add hot tap water to it to reduce cooking time.
You'll have to tweak the recipe a little bit to make it taste the way you want it to.

Preparation Time:
Approximately 20 minutes


Author's note: This has turned into one of my most "popular" stories. If any of you like this recipe or have memories of a "special" breakfast now and again with chocolate gravy, or have variations on this recipe, I'd like to invite comments on the article.

Yankee Dimes

When his Granny and Poppa used to come to Armadillo Creek and stay for a few days, Johnny Miller was always excited. They had an old blue and white VW bus that they used to drive everywhere in. When they’d pick up the boys, Johnny and his brother Tommy would go willingly, wherever they took them. Tommy would tend to doze off, as the quick chugchugchug of the engine got loud up long hills, then would wake up when they started downhill, and the sound faded.

They’d sometimes go over to the next county, where Poppa’s family had lived when he was young, to visit older relatives that couldn’t get out and about too well anymore. On the way there or back, they’d stop at Buttermilk Springs, not named for the buttermilk that flowed out of the ground – but almost. For when they’d drive up the old dirt road, and pull off, and walk up the trail to the springs, in those days, the water was so pure, and cold, that you could see down into it to the bottom, and the bottom of the hole was rock, or clay, or a mix, that was a pale, pale off-white color, almost exactly the shade of buttermilk. And, at a glance, it did look as if buttermilk were flowing out of the ground there.

When they were little, their Poppa would come and he’d tease all the little ones, so playfully and fun, he’d carry them on his shoulders, and play with them like no other adults anywhere did. He’d take his false teeth, and, with his tongue, force the uppers down, and the lowers up, and make them clack together in the most silly of ways. Or he’d walk up to them, and stick his finger in their ears, for no apparent reason at all. And, when they’d go back for a fork, often their plate would be missing when they’d return to the table. He’d play, and all the kids loved it.

Granny was different. She, too, played with the kids, but would scold Poppa when he got too ornery with them. She was as full of love and life as her man of many years was, but she had a Grandmother’s lap, where a skinned knee or bruised anything could go and get comfort. She’d bring blackberry jam, made from berries gathered during their trips up the road, in the wild bushes.

Indeed, all the kids loved the pair of them. Johnny Miller was a thinker, and thought long and hard, about what was the biggest possible amount that there could ever be. He didn’t know too much, then, about pounds, and miles, and other units of measure, but he could think of what had to be the biggest anything there was….

And the next time his Granny came, the one who loved him so dearly when he needed a hug, who gave him “Yankee Dimes” for little jobs done – and how he loved those little kisses. The next time she came, he said, “Granny, I love you….. From the top of God’s head, to the bottom of the devil’s feet.” And, he gave her a big hug.

Then, he turned to his Poppa, who was always teasing him in such a loving and playful way, and whom he loved just as much, and told him, holding his thumb and forefinger just a little ways apart, “Poppa, I love you just about this much!”

Reading Crusoe at Age 4

Long before he went into kindergarten, which at Armadillo Creek elementary school has always been an all-day program, Johnny Miller would read. Like his mother, he would read just about any book he could get his hands on.

He used to go to the old bookshelf, just inside the hallway, and pick up one of his favorites, like Robinson Crusoe, and start to read. When he had been a toddler, his Mommy always read to him and his brother, often reading whatever it was that she'd be reading, whether a western or a sci-fi story, or whatever. The stories she told intrigued him - they were a window into another time and place - another life.

He developed a liking for all kinds of words. Books and stories called him somehow, and listening to the tales would liven up his imagination. The shipwrecked man, stranded on a desert island, somehow making do with the little that he had, and even making a nice life for himself, after he had been stranded with pretty much nothing but the shirt on his back and whatever had washed up on the shore.

And, although, at four, he couldn't read all the words in Robinson Crusoe, he could pick up the book, and starting in the early pages, he could read the numbers at the bottom, or tops, of each page. One, two, three, ... up to ten, then, "Mommy, what's this word?" "Eleven," she'd say. And then, "Eleven, twelve, ... Mommy, what's this word?" "Thirteen."

And, before long, he could count to a hundred, even more. And, so, long before kindergarten he was reading books like Robinson Crusoe, one page number at a time.

Family Stories

One time, years ago, when Johnny Miller's Daddy and Uncle Roger and Aunt Tabby were living out on the farm, long before the kids had come, a pig got loose, out of the pig pen. The old homestead was nestled in a valley between two mountains. Out the valley, past the farm, was nothing but deep, deep woods. The farmland itself was situated on rolling land, which had once been planted with cotton.

There was at no point on the property where you could see all of it, there being way too many dips and rises, and one good-sized creek ran along the back edge of the fields, and another, smaller one, up toward the front of the land.

This pig was nowhere to be seen. The family spread out, and were calling him. "Whoooieeee, whoooooiiieeeeeee!!" they'd call. Finally, out of sight of the others, Aunt Tabby caught a glimpse of the runaway pig, and yelled out, as loud as her lungs could carry, "Thar he is... He's a runnin' yonderways!"

Which did not help the others atall.

When Johnny Miller was born, he had a brother a year and a half old already, Tommy, and the next kid up the line was his sister Ann, who was ten. About a year up from her was Randy, and another year or so up was Robert, the oldest.

They were growing up in the hill country of a southern state, where there weren't too many people unlike themselves anywhere around. Armadillo Creek was not a particularly "racist" community, but, it had always been an area, settled prior to the civil war, with most of the original families still living there, where white folks lived.

Johnny Miller, and his brothers and sister, were brought up to respect folks that were different from them, but at the same time, when you only ever saw people who were "different" on television, or on trips to the city, well, it was hard to relate to them.

Long before Johnny was born, his Momma had taken the older kids into the city, shopping. As she carried little Randy in her arms, with Robert walking along beside, across a busy street, he saw a black couple walking the other way, pushing a baby carriage, in which a beautiful baby was laying, so innocently.

Randy saw that baby, and thought it was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. He asked his Momma, "Momma, can we get one of them chocolate babies and bring it home?"

Now, he didn't mean any harm by the question, but it did embarrass his mother to no end. For years and years, she'd tease him about it, but at the time, she had shushed him up rather quickly.

When Johnny was a baby, his Mother was Mommy, but his sister Ann, being older, was a second Mommy, and he developed the habit of calling her Mama Ann. This was fine and dandy around the house, and everyone accepted it as a normal thing.

Occasionally, out in public, however, it turned into a source of embarrassment for his poor sister. At a community fish fry, held at the Armadillo Creek Fairgrounds, sponsored by the Farm Bureau, Ann was assigned to watch little Johnny.

Of course, she was a young teenager, and he was a toddler, and as they sometimes do, he tended to say what needed to be said without thinking twice. As she stood there, talking to her friends from school, Johnny was dancing and prancing next to her. Finally, he blurted out, at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying over the rustle of the crowd, “Mama Ann, Mama Ann, I gotta go pee!!”

Mama Ann was not happy. There's no amount of talking that can erase the words spoken by a toddler.

Hound Dog

When Johnny Miller was little, his Daddy had a number of jobs - anything to keep food on the table. While he'd grow vegetables in the spring and summer, and cut wood in the fall and winter, he also had other jobs. For a time, he worked in the next county over, at a lumber mill. He and his cousin would ride up together, in the afternoon, and come back, in the early morning hours.

Country living was nothing new to Johnny's Momma, but, sometimes, even with the kids, two younger, and three older, around, things would happen that unsettled them. One evening, the old black and tan hound dog (whose name was Hound Dog), who usually laid around the yard doing nothing much at all, kept barking and barking. Obviously, something had him spooked. It was early evening, getting dark already, but Mom stuck her head out of the front door, and listened to the evening air.

In front of the house, the sidewalk ran out, though the gate, to the driveway next to the road. Along about where the fence was, was a tall post, with a light bulb attached to the top. It wasn't much, as far as streetlights go, but, it was what they had. Inside the yard, several feet from the post with the light bulb dangling off it, was a rosebush, all grown up thick and thorny, with a ton of leaves buried down next to the stems. And in this mess of leaves and thorns and such, an ominous rattling sound could be heard.

Johnny's Momma went inside, and got the old .22 rifle, which had a chamber that held sixteen bullets, and brought it outside. The kids were told to stay inside, and, shaking slightly in fear, and, probably, rage, at this invader, she walked across the yard, to within a few feet of the rosebush, and proceeded to empty the rifle into the darkness, at the source of the rattling sound, until all the bullets were gone, and all the rattling had stopped. She was shaken, no doubt, but had succeeded in quieting the beast which had disturbed the hound's sleep.

The next morning, when it was light enough to see by, Johnny's Daddy went out to investigate. What he found there, in the tangled, thorny stems of the rosebush, was the remains of a rather large rattlesnake. They were able to count at least fourteen separate wounds in the carcass of that snake, and that was one snake would never again invade their yard.

The old hound dog was almost like a burglar alarm. Burglars were not known there, in those days, but if anything was amiss, Hound would tell them about it. Living at the last house on a country road, that continued on into the forest, well, it was good for the soul to be so near nature, but at times, when someone had cut through the forest road, and almost run out of gas, the Miller place was the first place they’d come to.

Once in a while, gas would be gone from the gas tank, Hound or not. On one particular evening, Hound kept acting up, like something was going on. Gas had disappeared a couple of times, recently, and Mr. Miller was getting tired of it. He’d have gladly given some gas to anyone who was stranded, but to have them come up in the middle of the night and just help themselves wasn’t right. He went outside, and listened for a few minutes. And, in the field opposite the house, behind the wild roses that climbed the fence there, he thought he could almost hear rustling, in the grass.

He went back inside, and not knowing if it was somebody, or a wild creature, or his imagination, he got the old 12 gauge shotgun, and stood out on the front porch, and unloaded that gun into the air, once, and then twice, over the heads of whoever might be there. He called out and said, “Whoever you are, if you need something, come on in, otherwise, go back where you came from…” No one ever answered, although, a little while later, a car could be heard, firing up, a half mile or so up the road, and it drove past in the blackness of the night.

A few days later, in Armadillo Creek, Johnny’s Dad was told that someone had heard the rumor that nobody had better be found out that way, at night, sneaking around, because they were liable to get shot at. Somehow, that struck everyone’s funny bone, because the last thing the Millers would do is hurt someone over something so small, but, at the same time, it was nice to know that nobody would be around, stealing gas in the middle of the night. And, never again was it a problem.

Challenges

Armadillo Creek Public Schools consisted of an elementary, which ran from kindergarten up through sixth grade, and a high school, which was seventh on up to twelfth grade. Junior High was seventh through ninth grades, and Senior High was the upper three grades. The high school, Junior and Senior, was all housed in the same building, with the exception of any agriculture and shop classes, which had their own building.

Johnny Miller was in his ninth grade English class on the morning of January, 28^th, 1986. Pencils were scraping, stories being told, lessons being taught. The teacher told a story of being at home, alone, just out in the pool, playing with herself, (and at this point, the classroom erupted into fits of giggling as dirty-minded ninth graders purposely misinterpreted her memories). The rest of the story was unremarkable, and at a few minutes till eleven, there was a soft tap on the door, and the English teacher was called out, into the hallway, by the high school principal.

When she came back in, she was pale, trembling, and had to find a seat to steady herself, before she addressed the class. “The space shuttle…. is gone.” Although Johnny’s class had not watched the liftoff, they all knew it was time for a historic flight, and the first school teacher ever was being taken into space, as part of the "Teacher in Space" program, aboard the Space Shuttle Challenger. Christa McAuliffe’s name would be forever etched into Johnny Miller’s memory.

In the hours and days following, Johnny would hear many hours of continuing coverage, watch the footage as the space shuttle lifted up, almost out of sight, and then, two, then three plumes of smoke drifted apart in the sky. At first, there was hope that survivors would be located in the Atlantic, somehow, but soon, that hope was given up.

Johnny Miller was happy, living in a small town. He had never really dreamed of being an astronaut, although the notion was a good one, and he rather thought he’d enjoy it. This event had a sobering impact upon his classmates, for a day or two. The hallways were abuzz with talk of the explosion, and what it might mean to them, someday.

But, following so closely upon his own father’s death, by only about two and a half months, it must have had a lasting impact upon his future personality, making the older Johnny Miller a more sober one, less eager to laugh at nonsense, or to play silly video games. He was at a point in his life, where the odd jobs he had always somehow found – well, they were putting some food on the table, now. He would still spend some, here and there, upon himself.

But the events of the past few months, along with the fact that he was growing physically, would transform Johnny Miller from the innocent youngster of his childhood, into a more sober person, who identified much more quickly with older people, instead of those his own age.

By the time he was in the eleventh or twelfth grades, he was working after school, and on weekends, and didn’t stop too often to just “have fun”. He would miss his high school prom, not having a girl friend and not really feeling like going “stag”. He would continue to do well, academically, in school, although probably not up to his potential, and when his high school class eventually graduated, he was fifth out of forty-three students.

Springtime

Johnny Miller was once a toddler. As a toddler, stumbling around the farm, there were lots of times where the family worked out of doors, and he loved gardening, and letting his little toes wiggle in the fresh-turned dirt, after his Daddy finished plowing, when the seeds were being planted.

They had a strawberry patch, and he'd go pick nice, big, juicy strawberries and eat them, there, no thoughts of washing them ever crossing his mind. Other fruits and vegetables were abundant, too, and he'd watch his Dad cut up a big, red, onion, and eat it as a side with a bowl of pinto beans. Johnny couldn't handle the spiciness, too well, but he'd try his best to eat them, too.

In the warm spring and summer evenings, along about the time that Rockford Files was coming on, Little Johnny would go grab his Mommy's hand, and tell her, it's time to go for a walk. Later, he would grow to like the Rockford Files, but for now, the thoughts of people shooting people and stuff like that, just didn't much agree with him. He’d much rather go walking.

They'd walk up the road, he barefooted, helping his Mom look for "flat tires", which would be pieces of baling wire, or nails, or old rusty horseshoe-halves, anything that could puncture a tire. If they left the house and went one way, there was an old "house-place" where some long-ago relative had once lived, but which was now just a rock foundation, and across the fence, the peak of the roof of an old barn, barely sticking up out of the leaf-covered patch of woods.

The house-place was one of Johnny's favorite places. As the first sign of spring, there'd be tons of daffodils, which had once lined someone's yard. There were also bushes of different sorts, and a small pond, where there was nothing but small, Punkinseed Perch, which were fun to catch with a fishing pole, once he was a little older, but which weren't big enough to keep.

On past the house-place, where the woods started getting thicker, wild huckleberry bushes grew, right next to the road, and they'd spent quite a bit of time picking them. These, like the strawberries at home, were delightful, the blue juice dribbling down his chin and staining his fingers, as he picked them and ate them by the handfuls.

Going the other direction, from the house, where the road was at a low spot, there was a broad, shallow ditch, and in the springtime, he could go down, day by day, and watch as the strands of jelly-like frog eggs turned suddenly into tadpoles, which, later, started growing legs, and losing their tales, and magically, became little, tiny frogs.

The frogs would liven up as darkness grew near, and for a few hours each evening, they, in conjunction with the locusts, which he would later learn are called cicadas in some parts of the world, would create a musical symphony that'd drown out all other sounds. And, as they quieted down, the whippoorwills in the treetops nearby would call out in the still night air. And if you sat outside, when there was a breeze, it'd rustle through the treetops, a constant, roaring sound which grew deeper as the breeze grew stronger. It sounded for all the world like cars on the highway, but there were none of those, anywhere near.

Armadillo Creek

Armadillo Creek is located in a mountainous region, abundant with trees and creeks and rivers and lakes. Many, many miles of National Forest surround the town. The population of Armadillo Creek, in the 1980 census, was right around a thousand, give or take, which was slightly less than the decade before.

Armadillo is the county seat, and its largest town, at the heart of a county full of some eight thousand residents. There are three school districts in the county, and the largest is the one in Armadillo, whose graduating class often boasts forty or more students, and the smallest is in Donner, and usually has less than a dozen.

Every May, the three schools have a May Day competition, where sixth graders from each school meet at the boy's camp, along Silver Creek, between Armadillo and Donner. The kids go and play and have a grand time. When it came Johnny Miller's time to go, his class loaded up in a school bus, and drove the fifteen miles or so to the camp. After they got there, there were activities planned, things to do for all day long. Some of the highlights were a sack race and an egg toss. Luckily, the egg toss came at the end of the day, and although Johnny was never too athletically inclined, he and his partner did well that day. That is, until the kid next to his partner got off-target, and the egg landed smack-dab on the top of Johnny's head. Once that happened, as the egg dripped down his forehead, well, the egg toss was over. Johnny's next toss just went straight up into the air, and ended up nowhere near his partner.

Armadillo Creek, it's said, once had its own movie theater, where kids could go for a nickel, and buy a popcorn and a giant candy bar and a coke, and watch John Wayne or others. It once had its own Ford dealer, so they say. Back then, logging was still going strong, and there was a glove factory in addition to the shoe factory of today. Now, many jobs had been lost over the years, and many of the businesses of the past had gone by the wayside.

When Johnny was little, he could still buy a coke, or more often, a Pepsi, out of the coke machine for a quarter, and the kids'd often go around to the neighbors and gather bottles, and take them back to the store for a refund of the deposits. At a nickel each, they could make a dollar or two in a short amount of time.

The elementary school in Armadillo Creek had been built in the thirties. Johnny's Dad had gone there, as a child, and told him stories of things done, long ago, on that same playground where Johnny played. His first grade teacher was an icon in the area. Miss Marilyn had been teaching for as long as anyone could remember, and she still taught well. She taught lessons that went beyond the Dick and Jane storybooks, and "Electric Company" on the television set.

Her husband owned the town drug store, which his family had founded years and years ago. You could still walk in and buy a fresh-squeezed lemonade (with a little cherry flavor), or a strawberry shake, at the soda fountain, which had been there forever. Across the street, in the "square", the old courthouse stood, a building as old as the elementary school, housing all the county offices.

The post office was a couple of streets over, housed in an old, small church-house that had been outgrown by the church, years ago. Between the post office and the school, a block or two away, stood the First United Methodist Church, and for years, its bells had been tolling tunes every hour, and half hour, and even longer at noon.

Over behind the library, there, in town, on a dead end street, lived the Junk Man. No one seemed to know his name - at least, not the kids Johnny knew, and it didn't really matter - he was just, the Junk Man. The Junk Man had tables and tables full of interesting goodies, and if you were on a budget of a nickel or a dime, you could often find something interesting, and the kind old man would usually give you something extra, just for coming there.

On the edge of town, off toward the lake, and the city beyond, was the county fairgrounds. Each year, a "fair parade" started in the heart of town, by the old abandoned glove factory, and would wind it's way past the courthouse square, down past the Dairycream, out to the fairgrounds, where there'd be some small carnival company that would come in and set up for a week or so. At the fair itself, there were buildings full of displays, and all the kids, sooner or later, were bound to win a ribbon for their artwork, done in the classroom and proudly displayed by the teachers. The judges would get to taste cookies, and apple pies, and salsa, and everything between. On Friday night would be the rodeo, followed on Saturday by a crash-up derby, where folks would smash their way to victory in old cars, pieced together from parts out of the junk yard.

Winters in Armadillo Creek were generally mild, but sometimes, brutal. There'd be winters where only a couple of dustings of snow fell, all winter, and others where an icestorm or a snowstorm would come through and stay for days. Spring and fall were always nice. There'd usually be plenty of rain, but not too much, although there were years where all the rivers and creeks flooded their banks, and it was impossible to even get into town because the one-lane bridges would be feet under water. Summertime was hot, but not too humid, and usually mild, although some years there'd be weeks without rain, and others, a little too much.

If it can be said, truly, that “you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy…”, then this description would fit little Johnny Miller well. Although he would travel, in his childhood, going to see relatives, and later, as an adult, far away, he would always keep within him the memories of a simple time, a simple place, a simple life, in Armadillo Creek.

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

When Johnny Miller was small, he lived on the old family homestead, several miles out of Armadillo Creek and down a winding dirt road. They'd often come into town, and stop at his Great-Aunty Tabby and Uncle Roger's house on Elm Street. Aunt Tabby and Uncle Roger were actually brother and sister, and had raised Johnny's Dad as if they were his parents.

Visiting them was always fun. They had air conditioning - a window unit in the living room, and a television set where Johnny could watch cool shows like The Price is Right. At home, the television did not come on until the five o'clock news, with the exception that often, on Saturdays, it came on at 4pm for Hee Haw.

Aunty Tabby would have dinners at her house, and would cook for a crowd. There was nothing at all like the wonderful aromas, as she served the platters of pot roast, gravy boats full of brown gravy, the mashed potatoes, with little pieces of skin still in them, sweet potatoes, baked in the oven, covered in butter, wrapped in foil, and home-canned green beans, and rolls. And if all this were not enough, there'd be fried pies for desert.

The annual Miller family reunion would usually be hosted at their house, and family would gather around from several states. A lot of the closer family would come out to stay at the farm where Johnny called home, and they'd line the kids up, wall to wall, on the floor, and the extra adults would sleep on the sofabed, or on a pallet on the floor like the kids.

Johnny, and his brother Tommy, who was a year and a half older than him, would run around with all the cousins, playing with kids their own age, for a change. They'd go into the old shed, sided and topped with rusty old tin sheets, which had a peaked roof, but was open just under the peak, and climb up, and lean out of the opening, pretending to hold guns and shoot at the brothers and cousins that were running wild, outside. They shot many a cowboy or Indian, or shot at Japs (who knew what they were... just somebody you were supposed to shoot at!)

By the time he was nine or ten, Johnny Miller had moved to town, and life was, well, different. He still went to the same school, even still rode the same old school bus, Number 3, driven by Mr. Jones. The house that they had moved into was inherited by his Dad, when Aunt Tabby and Uncle Roger got into a car accident, and were hurt bad enough that they'd spend most of the rest of their days in a nursing home.

The Millers still maintained a small garden there, and Johnny learned he could sell Christmas cards, to the neighbors, or indeed, around Armadillo, for extra money. He saw an advertisement for Grit Magazine, and started selling those, door to door. He did this for quite some time, and would spend time out in front of the grocery stores, as well. He had a hard time keeping the money there, though, as those Nestle Crunch candy bars inside were an awful temptation.

It seemed that every five weeks, the folks at Grit would send him four weeks worth of cards to account for the magazines with, and after a while, finally Mom declared an end to it. It had been a nice business venture for Johnny, and he earned a little money, and won a prize of a pocket knife through his sales, which, unfortunately, was soon lost in a tromp through the woods, never to be seen again.

In Armadillo Creek, even when he wasn't selling cards, or papers, he could mow grass for the neighbors. Aunt Florence, who wasn't his aunt, if she was related at all, but an elderly neighbor who was always close to the family, would let him come over and while away the days with her. They'd putter around the yard, pulling weeds out of the flower beds, or he'd mow her grass, or trim some bushes. He'd often, during the right time of year, eat handfuls of plump, juicy mulberries off her tree in the back yard. When she could, she'd give him a dollar or two for his "work", which he promptly spent on something or other, probably a coke and a candy bar, or a book.

Even if she hadn't paid him for his troubles, he'd have come anyway. He loved hearing her stories of a time gone by. Her husband, and others, used to go grade the streets and roads, long before the county took over. They might use mules, and heavy bars, to do what the road graders of today did, but they got it done as a community, not just somebody coming out once or twice a year from the county. And he learned that even Armadillo Creek had once had a movie house, although it had been closed now for many years.

Becoming a teenager changed Johnny. Not only was he in a new world, where there were other kids his age running around town with him, building snow forts in the winter, and riding bikes in the summer, but there were new "things" to be had as well. Johnny's family still didn't have a lot of money, and he'd have given almost anything to own one of those new, fancy gaming systems - the Atari.

Eventually, when the new wore off, and the better off kids were getting new gaming systems, Johnny got ahold of an old Atari at a yard sale, and spent many an hour playing Pitfall, and Pac Man, and lots of other games. Although this took up a little more of his time, Johnny never gave up on books, and reading. His mother taught him a love of westerns, and science fiction, and anything in between that was worth reading.

Some of his favorites ranged from the stories of the Sackett family by Louis L'amour, to Star Trek novels by various writers. Both worlds intrigued him. One, the voice of the past, told of a family that through generations stayed close and together and fought for goodness and freedom. The other, the voice of the future, told of a world where all of mankind stood together in peaceful brotherhood, along with their pointy-eared friends. The first told him of a past that was similar to his own background, where family and love of nature were so important, and the other whispered to him of what the future could be, beyond the troubles of the cold war and the world he was living in.

Armadillo Creek was a place where all of the good in life was there to be had, for anyone willing to accept it. And in a few short years, Johnny grew into a different person than the child from the farm. When he was fourteen, almost fifteen, someone knocked at the door of his classroom, calling him out.

His sister Ann's husband, Donald, was there, and told him, as gently as possible, that his Dad was gone. Just like that, out of the blue. As they rode, in silence, back to Johnny's house, thoughts kept whizzing through Johnny's head. Like, "I wonder how bad the truck was wrecked?" He couldn't imagine what else could have taken his Daddy away... but as they pulled into the driveway, the truck sat there, unscratched.

It seems that many years of smoking, and occasionally, drinking, and working long, long days, had taken their toll on his Daddy's heart, and it just up and quit, out of the blue. Johnny would be haunted for years by dreams of his Dad coming back in the middle of the night... of it being a 'hoax' or something, like the stories he had heard of Hank Williams or Elvis Presley not really being dead, after all.

Although the carefree days of his early teen years were gone, life did go on. Johnny's uncle came to stay with them for a time, and they worked on the old home out in the country, and moved back there, to his roots, selling the house in Armadillo Creek. Johnny would spend the remainder of his days as a teenager in that house, listening to the call of the wild, the whippoorwills singing in the evening air, and occasionally the distant sound of yipping from coyotes. Being back in the home of his childhood brought peace back into his heart, even though he never could quite find that part of him that was missing with his father's absence.

Working and Playing

Johnny Miller spent the first eight years of his life "on the farm". The Miller family had homesteaded several plots of land back in the last half of the eighteen hundreds. Over the years, as the family grew up and grew apart, the original homesteads were sold to other folks. Johnny's parent's land was the last of the original homesteads still owned by Millers.

When he was very young, the Millers had a milk cow and a few other cows and calves. Once in a while, one of the Momma cows would go off and hide in the thicket with her newborn calf, and the family would have to search, sometimes for hours, to find where she was hidden, and make sure the calf was all right.

Of course, over the years they also raised a few pigs and chickens. Back behind the old house, inside the fence, they had built a chicken coop. It was divided into two sections. An old sheet-metal nesting box out of a chicken house somewhere had been placed there for the chickens.

At one point, they got some ducks, and placed them in the other side of the pen. Johnny's favorite was a small, gray duck, with twin yellow stripes. He named this one "Super Duck" for the cape running down its back. The ducks spent most of their time nesting in the old chicken coops, and one morning Johnny had gone into the coop to feed them, and found that his little Super Duck had gotten caught under a bent up piece of the sheet metal, and his back was torn open and bleeding. It was pretty bad!

Johnny was very upset, and kept asking his Momma if Super Duck was going to be all right. She'd not say that he was, she just said that they'd do what they could and let God do the rest. She cleaned the cut as best she could and Super Duck made a complete recovery and life on the farm was good.

The Miller family used to grow lots of crops in their gardens. Johnny's Dad dug an area down a few feet in the corner of the garden, and built a greenhouse of sorts out of rough cut 2x4 lumber and plastic sheeting. He could start growing tomatoes here and they'd be ready to sell early in the season. One late spring night, after the tomatoes had been planted, a late frost came in. The whole family got into high gear, looking for old tin cans and such to cover the young plants with. They'd take a large tin can, and tap a single hole in the center of the top, and place it on one of the young plants. Most of them survived the late frost, and one more source of income was preserved.

Johnny's Daddy also grew watermelons. He'd plow up the end of the field over by the old sweetgum tree, plowing first one direction, then across it, making large squares of fresh-cut earth. Johnny and his brothers and his sister would walk barefooted through this fresh-turned dirt and poke holes in the tops of the mounds, and plop a seed in, several to a mound. It was always fun to go out and watch for the first sign of the plants coming through the dirt, and even more fun when the watermelons were ripe and ready to pick! Dad would tap on the outside of the melons, listening to the hollow-sounding thump, and say, this one's ripe, or, not yet.

His Dad would load them up in the truck, and head to the farmers market, or make rounds, door to door. He'd sell many tomatoes and watermelons in those years. Whatever was spoiled, the boys or Dad would toss over the fence and let the cows, or the pigs, eat their fill.

There was a lot of work for the whole family in those days, but as hard as the family worked, they'd also take time to play. On rainy days, the marble board would come out. It was an eight-sided piece of painted plywood, with patterns of holes cut around the sides, and, of course, home rows to get your marbles to. The first one to get his marbles home would win.

Hours and hours of dominoes were played in the evenings. The kids would build towers in the living room with an old set, while the parents and other family members who happened to be there would play the real game in the dining room.

When weather was nicer, and the work all caught up, the family would take sandwiches up the old forest road and over the mountain to an old CCC project area that was now a forest service picnic area. The Springs had a pavilion, with a concrete floor and wooden roof and a couple of old picnic tables, set in the middle of the forest alongside a creek.

The best thing about this site was the blast of water which would come out of the ground just below the picnic table but above the creek. The water was pure and cold, and had been coming out of that hole for many, many years, and, no doubt, will continue to do so for many more.

Even when the family owned no television, there was little time for boredom. Whether the family was working together, playing together, or he was just reading a book, alone, Johnny had plenty to keep him busy.