In Armadillo Creek, in 1976, kindergarten was an all-day kindergarten. It was a part of the elementary school, but because the school system was getting low on classroom space, the classes were held in a little house across the street from the rest of the elementary school. The little pink house looked, from the outside, like the traditional one-room schoolhouses that were commonly seen at one time in country communities. The kindergarten had it's own playground, a fenced in yard, and two classrooms. When lunchtime would come, both classes would line up, single file, and cross the street, up past the gymnasium, and tromp over to the lunchroom shared by all the grades, from Kindergarten, all the way up to the graduating senior class.
The first and second grades were in an 'annex' building, attached to but not really a part of the old school building, which had been built back in the 1930s, back along about the time that Johnny's Daddy was starting school. The grade school annex building housed four classrooms, two for first grade, and two for second. In first grade, Johnny Miller's teacher still used Dick and Jane books, but also broke up the monotony sometimes by bringing in a television, where the entire class would watch Sesame Street and The Electric Company.
And in second grade, Mrs. Williams, a neighbor of Johnny's family, was the teacher. Back in those days, there, many people were connected to the world by telephone, but not individual lines. Rather, neighbors would share a "party line", with each house having a unique ring. At that time, Johnny didn't understand what that really meant, but later on, when he became a teenager, just before the party lines were removed, Johnny would learn that he could listen to neighbor's conversations, but also knew that he'd have been in BIG trouble if he was ever caught doing so.
Third grade was Johnny's first visit into the big elementary school made of field rock so long ago. His first day of third grade started out a bit on the troublesome side, with Johnny being called into the hallway. He was scared that he had somehow done something really bad, but as it turns out the school had to adjust class sizes slightly, so he ended up having the other third grade teacher instead of the one he expected. He had always heard how mean she was, too...
But he learned that as long as he worked hard, she treated him fairly, and he learned a lot. And one day, he raised his hand, and said, "Mrs. Mullens, say 'gee', say 'gee'." Finally she did so, and he answered her, just like on television, "No, GTE!" There had been, for a while there, a barrage of television advertisements for GTE... where all their innovations were discussed, and someone would say, "Gee..." and someone else would say, "No... GTE"
Third grade also introduced Johnny Miller to the principle's office. One day, on the school bus, Johnny somehow got ahold of a magic marker... and drew a little bit on the seat. Graffiti, in all it's forms, was NOT allowed. When Mr. Jones found the stains on his seat, he asked the kids to fess up, and Johnny, ashamed, did not. His brother's good buddy Anthony took care of the job, though. And soon Johnny was called into the principle's office, fearing the worst.
Forth grade, in 1980, in the small community of Armadillo Creek, was different. It was the first time that Johnny Miller had to split time between multiple teachers. Mrs. Long, in the morning, his homeroom teacher, sometimes was a little short-tempered. And although she did usually bite her tongue, his sharp ears actually heard her mutter a bad word once or twice. He didn't know teachers did that! But Mrs. Kennedy, the afternoon teacher, had a completely different personality. She was always calm and smiling and offered to help.
When fifth grade rolled around, Johnny Miller's classes were even more different. For as time went on, the school became smaller and smaller. That is, class sizes grew bigger, and expanded beyond the ability to house them in the old buildings that had been there forever. Johnny's homeroom teacher was in the classroom opposite to where his afternoon forth grade class had been housed, but in the afternoon, after lunch recess was over, the class again crossed the street, and attended class in a house next to the kindergarten. Fifth grade brought other changes, too. The girls started to get flirtatious, and Johnny became self-conscious of how different he imagined he was compared to other kids. This was the year that the Rubik's Cube became popular, and after recieving one for Christmas, Johnny would spend hours and hours playing with it, making futile efforts to solve the darn thing. One afternoon, two of the "good" kids were acting up, and Miss Smith pulled them into the other room, out of sight of the rest of the kids... and "WHAM... WHAM... WHAM..."
They came back into the room, stifling their mirth, pretending to cry... and she came after them, brandishing her big paddle. What she had actually done was whacked the floor with it, and told them to act as if she'd hit them, instead. For a few moments at least, the whole class believed... And although she didn't fool anyone for long, she did get her point across, and discipline was once again restored.
And sixth grade.... In ways, the final year of elementary school in Armadillo Creek, before the kids moved over to the high school building and started Junior High... In ways, it was like being in kindergarten again. For Johnny Miller's homeroom teacher, was the same teacher who had taught him in kindergarten. She was different, in sixth grade, but still, a great teacher. At this age, Johnny was already picking up his mother's habit of reading anything available, and took inspiration from a science fiction book that he had read, and wrote his own long (to him) story. He turned it in as an extra credit project, and his teacher gave him points for it, and lots of praise. Johnny Miller never got that story back and often in later years would wonder if she still had it....
The afternoon teacher... The day Johnny stepped into her classroom, she told him, "Oh... you're Tommy Miller's brother aren't you?" And when he said yes, you could almost see the dread in her eyes. Johnny felt he was badly mistreated by her for having this attitude when she didn't even know anything about him. But later in the year, she came to him, and apologized for being mean to him in the first part of the year. Tommy was a good kid, at heart, but never really cared to try very hard in his studies, and at times, following in his footsteps had proven a challenge. In this case, he won his teacher's heart by working extra hard to prove to her that he wasn't his brother.
After the sixth grade graduation ceremony, Johnny Miller moved on to the high school, where he would spend the next six years of his life. At home, things were changing, too. They no longer lived on the farm where he had always called home, but instead had moved into town. At eleven or twelve he was going door to door selling Grit magazines, and Christmas cards, and other things that an enterprising kid of the times could do to earn some cash and/or prizes.
The schools were changing, too. As Johnny entered his second year of Junior High, a new elementary was built across town, and Kindergarten through second were housed there for the first year or two, and eventually the entire grade school system. By the time Johnny graduated high school, the old fieldstone building where he and his Dad had gone to school was empty and abandoned, except for occasional use for storage and such.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
A Return
In the countryside around Armadillo Creek, at the end of winter, as spring took over, things began to turn green. Then quite before anyone realized it, Summertime had crept in. This return to summertime was a most pleasant time of year. School was out for a few months. The plants had been planted. Hopefully enough rain had come to make things grow. And it was time to relax a little, before having to go help pull the weeds, or do something else that seemed an awful lot like work.
Little Johnny Miller lived in the last house on the old dirt road, down the valley, before the National Forest took over. Often only one or two cars a day would pass by the old house, including the mail truck which would drive miles and miles of back roads to connect remote houses to the rest of the world. In the quiet, early summertime evenings, Johnny Miller would say, "C'mon Momma, it's time to go for a walk." If she wouldn't go, he'd usually find a brother or sister, or perhaps even Dad if he wasn't working on something....
And off they'd go. In one direction, they could walk up and over the Little Hill to the Big Hill. These summertime walks were pleasant, and they'd watch for deer out in the pastures, for tracks in the sand along the roadside, tadpoles and baby frogs living in the pools of water in the roadside ditches, which were constantly wet, fed by springs and pooling up before spilling into the culvert under the road and then under the fence into the pastureland beyond.
Or maybe they'd go the other direction, and walk down past the old House Place, where some person, long ago, had a home. Mimosa trees were in the yard of that old homeplace, growing along the road, and more growing up next to the stone foundations of what had once been someone's dream. Johnny Miller loved those big pink blossoms. They didn't smell as nice as some flowers... And he supposed they were messy when the flowers began to drop off into the yard. And hundreds of bees would often swarm around the trees, trying for their share of the nectar.
But the big pink and white blossoms would add color to his already colorful world. And once they were gone, the beanpods left behind would grow, and they made fun playthings... even if you couldn't eat the "beans" inside. These trees didn't grow that large, but were plenty large enough, and usually low enough, to be able to climb up into if Mom wasn't watching too closely.
Across the road from the old house place were two persimmon trees. These big fruits were edible, when ripe, although Johnny didn't ever spend a lot of time eating them. Edible didn't really equal tasty, although they were definitely something to try. When Johnnys cousins would be visiting, sometimes they'd stop at the old persimmon trees, and Johnny, or his brother Tommy, would talk one of the cousins into eating a green persimmon.
Now THAT was an adventure. Let's just say that if you've never had the pleasure of eating a green persimmon, you should really try it sometime. Or not. Green persimmons were about the mouth-puckering-up-est thing that Johnny had ever bitten into. They'd instantly turn your mouth inside out - or at least, it tasted like it.
Usually, after stopping at the mimosa trees, and maybe the persimmon trees, they'd continue on till the road really got up in the woods a ways... Where the hard packed red clay was perfect for leaving black marks with bicycle tires (which Johnny and Tommy had fun doing when they were a bit older). But there were other treats ahead, as well.
For just past the packed red clay, before and after you crested the hill, groups of huckleberry bushes stretched off into the forest. For the most part, Johnny, and if he came along, Tommy, would just pick the wild blueberries right off of the bushes and stuff them in their mouths. When the skins of the berries were a true blue color, sometimes a lighter blue but often such a deep blue that they appeared black, the taste was fairly sweet. But when they'd grab a berry not quite so ripe, either a deep purple or even still holding a reddish tint, the taste would be tart, and make their mouths warp a little, and they'd squint their eyes and grit their teeth as their taste buds went crazy with delight.
If they did happen to bring along a bucket to put the berries in, they could bring a quart of them back home, where Momma Miller could bake a nice pie for the family.... But usually, there was too much eating "at the bush" to even consider saving some for a pie... Such is the enthusiasm of youth - loving the here and now so much that the lure of that tasty pie would fade into oblivion.
Sometimes, Johnny and his Momma, or Johnny and Tommy, or Johnny and one of the older siblings - it didn't matter so much to Johnny who walked with him as long as he could go for a walk - would walk down the side lane, off the main road, down the hill and the rough, rocky road, to the creek beyond. Sometimes down here, they'd pause and pick blackberries off wild blackberry bushes. This was a tasty treat, but much different from the huckleberries.
The huckleberries were small in diameter from bb=sized all the way up to perhaps a quarter inch in diameter - and thus it took some time to pick enough of them to make a pie or something similar with. However, the wild blackberries tended to be much, much larger. Often, they'd be a half-inch or more in diameter, and would fill a bucket rather quickly.
These tasty treats, too, would be eaten right from the vine, but it was easier to get your fill of them and start hitting the bucket instead of your mouth. As a result, the Miller household usually saw more blackberry cobblers and pies than they did huckleberry pies. The only problems anyone had with the blackberries were that, first of all, the berries grew on sticker-bushes. That is to say, blackberry bushes, unlike the huckleberries, were covered in sharp barbs that would rip a kid's skin open if they weren't careful.
This didn't very much bother the Miller kids, since they'd just wipe off any blood onto their pants leg and keep on picking... But the really nasty thing they had to watch out for was chiggers. For some reason, these tiny little red pests, almost invisible to the naked eye, loved to lurk in the blackberry bushes, just waiting to jump on unsuspecting berry pickers and leave them with itchy red welps by the time they arrived at home, where alcohol or something similar, followed by a good scrub, could be used to kill them off.
When the days grew too hot for berry picking, and no one really felt like adventuring down the road very much, unless it was to the swimming hole in the creek beyond, sometimes Johnny and Tommy would play in the old dirt-floored shed, where their Dad's tractor would be parked. In the dirt and dust of the shed, Johnny knew that he could find treasures that would be missed by most kids.
There were creatures lurking there that most would never suspect. The only sign of their presence would be little trails in the dust, and cone-shaped depressions in the sand. Tommy taught Johnny to say:
Or they'd chant other version which went something like this:
The sound of their voices, and the push of their breaths above the delicate dust or sand walls of the doodlebug's burrow, would cause the sand to trickle down into the hole, alerting the tiny doodlebug that invaders were present. If they persisted, usually the doodlebug would stick his tiny pincers through the sand at the bottom of the pit, looking for prey (which should have been ants), and they'd talk to him...
If the doodlebug refused to come out, sometimes they'd grab a blade of grass, or a small stick, and poke around in the hole till the doodlebug was uncovered, and then innocently torment the poor thing. Eventually they'd tire of playing with the creature and return to other pursuits.
Another pastime that they could do for hours without ever leaving the yard, was to hunt locust shells. Johnny Miller's Dad called these creatures locusts... Many people refer to them as cicadas. All Johnny knew was that they lived there, in the zillions, and he could usually find the dried, crispy skins left behind by the insects as they molted and grew. He could spend hours lining these shells up and playing army with them, as if some monster army had been created from some murky nightmare. When the war was done, the combatants could be destroyed with just a few swats of his hand, the skins reduced to dust - but there was no loss there, because dozens more of them could be found in other trees around the yard.
It is true that around the Miller Homestead, and around the Armadillo Creek area, a return to summertime meant a fair share of work, what with cutting hay and raising livestock and vegetables and the like... But the best part of summer for young Johnny Miller was all the fun to be found in the out-of-doors on a hot summer day, without ever having to leave this place called home.
Little Johnny Miller lived in the last house on the old dirt road, down the valley, before the National Forest took over. Often only one or two cars a day would pass by the old house, including the mail truck which would drive miles and miles of back roads to connect remote houses to the rest of the world. In the quiet, early summertime evenings, Johnny Miller would say, "C'mon Momma, it's time to go for a walk." If she wouldn't go, he'd usually find a brother or sister, or perhaps even Dad if he wasn't working on something....
And off they'd go. In one direction, they could walk up and over the Little Hill to the Big Hill. These summertime walks were pleasant, and they'd watch for deer out in the pastures, for tracks in the sand along the roadside, tadpoles and baby frogs living in the pools of water in the roadside ditches, which were constantly wet, fed by springs and pooling up before spilling into the culvert under the road and then under the fence into the pastureland beyond.
Or maybe they'd go the other direction, and walk down past the old House Place, where some person, long ago, had a home. Mimosa trees were in the yard of that old homeplace, growing along the road, and more growing up next to the stone foundations of what had once been someone's dream. Johnny Miller loved those big pink blossoms. They didn't smell as nice as some flowers... And he supposed they were messy when the flowers began to drop off into the yard. And hundreds of bees would often swarm around the trees, trying for their share of the nectar.
But the big pink and white blossoms would add color to his already colorful world. And once they were gone, the beanpods left behind would grow, and they made fun playthings... even if you couldn't eat the "beans" inside. These trees didn't grow that large, but were plenty large enough, and usually low enough, to be able to climb up into if Mom wasn't watching too closely.
Across the road from the old house place were two persimmon trees. These big fruits were edible, when ripe, although Johnny didn't ever spend a lot of time eating them. Edible didn't really equal tasty, although they were definitely something to try. When Johnnys cousins would be visiting, sometimes they'd stop at the old persimmon trees, and Johnny, or his brother Tommy, would talk one of the cousins into eating a green persimmon.
Now THAT was an adventure. Let's just say that if you've never had the pleasure of eating a green persimmon, you should really try it sometime. Or not. Green persimmons were about the mouth-puckering-up-est thing that Johnny had ever bitten into. They'd instantly turn your mouth inside out - or at least, it tasted like it.
Usually, after stopping at the mimosa trees, and maybe the persimmon trees, they'd continue on till the road really got up in the woods a ways... Where the hard packed red clay was perfect for leaving black marks with bicycle tires (which Johnny and Tommy had fun doing when they were a bit older). But there were other treats ahead, as well.
For just past the packed red clay, before and after you crested the hill, groups of huckleberry bushes stretched off into the forest. For the most part, Johnny, and if he came along, Tommy, would just pick the wild blueberries right off of the bushes and stuff them in their mouths. When the skins of the berries were a true blue color, sometimes a lighter blue but often such a deep blue that they appeared black, the taste was fairly sweet. But when they'd grab a berry not quite so ripe, either a deep purple or even still holding a reddish tint, the taste would be tart, and make their mouths warp a little, and they'd squint their eyes and grit their teeth as their taste buds went crazy with delight.
If they did happen to bring along a bucket to put the berries in, they could bring a quart of them back home, where Momma Miller could bake a nice pie for the family.... But usually, there was too much eating "at the bush" to even consider saving some for a pie... Such is the enthusiasm of youth - loving the here and now so much that the lure of that tasty pie would fade into oblivion.
Sometimes, Johnny and his Momma, or Johnny and Tommy, or Johnny and one of the older siblings - it didn't matter so much to Johnny who walked with him as long as he could go for a walk - would walk down the side lane, off the main road, down the hill and the rough, rocky road, to the creek beyond. Sometimes down here, they'd pause and pick blackberries off wild blackberry bushes. This was a tasty treat, but much different from the huckleberries.
The huckleberries were small in diameter from bb=sized all the way up to perhaps a quarter inch in diameter - and thus it took some time to pick enough of them to make a pie or something similar with. However, the wild blackberries tended to be much, much larger. Often, they'd be a half-inch or more in diameter, and would fill a bucket rather quickly.
These tasty treats, too, would be eaten right from the vine, but it was easier to get your fill of them and start hitting the bucket instead of your mouth. As a result, the Miller household usually saw more blackberry cobblers and pies than they did huckleberry pies. The only problems anyone had with the blackberries were that, first of all, the berries grew on sticker-bushes. That is to say, blackberry bushes, unlike the huckleberries, were covered in sharp barbs that would rip a kid's skin open if they weren't careful.
This didn't very much bother the Miller kids, since they'd just wipe off any blood onto their pants leg and keep on picking... But the really nasty thing they had to watch out for was chiggers. For some reason, these tiny little red pests, almost invisible to the naked eye, loved to lurk in the blackberry bushes, just waiting to jump on unsuspecting berry pickers and leave them with itchy red welps by the time they arrived at home, where alcohol or something similar, followed by a good scrub, could be used to kill them off.
When the days grew too hot for berry picking, and no one really felt like adventuring down the road very much, unless it was to the swimming hole in the creek beyond, sometimes Johnny and Tommy would play in the old dirt-floored shed, where their Dad's tractor would be parked. In the dirt and dust of the shed, Johnny knew that he could find treasures that would be missed by most kids.
There were creatures lurking there that most would never suspect. The only sign of their presence would be little trails in the dust, and cone-shaped depressions in the sand. Tommy taught Johnny to say:
Doodlebug, doodlebug, come up and get a grain of corn.
Your house is burning up.
Or they'd chant other version which went something like this:
Doodlebug, doodlebug,
Come out of your hole;
Your house is on fire,
And your children will burn.
The sound of their voices, and the push of their breaths above the delicate dust or sand walls of the doodlebug's burrow, would cause the sand to trickle down into the hole, alerting the tiny doodlebug that invaders were present. If they persisted, usually the doodlebug would stick his tiny pincers through the sand at the bottom of the pit, looking for prey (which should have been ants), and they'd talk to him...
If the doodlebug refused to come out, sometimes they'd grab a blade of grass, or a small stick, and poke around in the hole till the doodlebug was uncovered, and then innocently torment the poor thing. Eventually they'd tire of playing with the creature and return to other pursuits.
Another pastime that they could do for hours without ever leaving the yard, was to hunt locust shells. Johnny Miller's Dad called these creatures locusts... Many people refer to them as cicadas. All Johnny knew was that they lived there, in the zillions, and he could usually find the dried, crispy skins left behind by the insects as they molted and grew. He could spend hours lining these shells up and playing army with them, as if some monster army had been created from some murky nightmare. When the war was done, the combatants could be destroyed with just a few swats of his hand, the skins reduced to dust - but there was no loss there, because dozens more of them could be found in other trees around the yard.
It is true that around the Miller Homestead, and around the Armadillo Creek area, a return to summertime meant a fair share of work, what with cutting hay and raising livestock and vegetables and the like... But the best part of summer for young Johnny Miller was all the fun to be found in the out-of-doors on a hot summer day, without ever having to leave this place called home.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Armadillo Country
The countryside around the small town of Armadillo Creek is broken up by scenic wonders. There was a large man-made lake, with some of the purest waters to be found in the United States, there for the enjoyment of the residents and tourists who flock to the area. All around this lake is "government land"... that is, public land controlled and managed by the US Army Corps of Engineers and the State Parks Department.
There are a few tourist areas, and resorts, and the sort, along certain parts of the shoreline of this lake, but primarily, there are little camping areas and day use areas sprinkled all along the hundreds of miles of shoreline. Since the lake had been built in the forties, following World War II, by the time Johnny Miller was growing up, the area was settled down and just "there".
But at the time the lake was created, there were several small towns whose residents were forced to relocate, or find themselves under water. And in the current day, there are still some of those same towns, in existence, below water. It's turned into a scuba paradise, in some ways, in addition to a great fishing area.
In addition to the large lake, there are miles and miles of national forest, which actually cover most of the surface area of the county. The population, in the eighties, of the county was less than eight thousand residents, spread out of a rather large geographical area. The number of trees probably outnumber humans on a scale of millions or billions to one.
The school districts, all three of them, were spread out, located in some of the larger (relatively speaking) towns, with the county seat of Armadillo Creek hosting the largest school, which at the time of Johnny Miller's graduation, had a graduating class of forty-three students. The smallest school had less than a dozen in its graduating class. Children were typically bussed for miles and miles, with many kids on the bus an hour or more, morning and night.
But the compensation for this inconvenience was the lifestyle that allowed these kids the chance to become one with the world around them. It was nothing for Johnny and his brother to go wandering through the woods near their home, in the wintertime finding patches of ice in the creeks to skate on, or in the summertime, wandering the wilderness looking for wild animals or caves or waterfalls or anything that took their fancy.
In those days, there was no fear of strangers coming along and taking the kids, or of the kids falling and breaking a leg, for that matter. It seemed like the kids were used to handling themselves, and somehow they seemed tougher than many kids of today, in more urban areas.
Driving through the countryside around Armadillo Creek, one would note miles and miles of forest, broken here and there by farms.... but these farms were typically "country farms" where a few cows or pigs or other livestock were left to graze, and various types of hay might be cut a couple of times per year.... So although you will find some "farming" it's mostly cow pastures with a stream or a few trees, not the extensive fields of corn or soybeans or cotton that are found elsewhere.
There's still many a dirt road in the area, although over the past few years, more and more of them are at least being paved through the end of where the houses are, then gravel/dirt on through the unpopulated forests.
In these areas, in the seventies and eighties, when Johnny Miller was growing up, there were many tracts of forest that would be clear-cut of trees, and reseeded with pine trees to begin a new layer of forest. But, over the years, through the eighties and on into the nineties, and beyond, the large swaths of land used for this purpose have gotten smaller and smaller, till selective cutting has replaced much of the older-style clear cutting.
Southern Pine Beetle infestations have killed off some percentage of the pine forests, and more hardwoods have stepped in to take their place. It's probably a restoration of the natural order of things, as the area was predominately hardwood when the white man first began to settle in the early eighteen-hundreds. Over the years, the wildlife variety has changed somewhat, too. Early in the twentieth century the black bear population, the coyotes and wild foxes and many other creatures were hunted to the verge of extinction, and the white tail deer and turkey population plummeted as well.
But by the end of the twentieth century, order had once again returned, and it's not unusual to drive down a dirt road and spot a road runner running along ahead of you, and flying up to sit on a fencepost and watch you as you drive past. To see a bear, or a fox, though still unusual, is not that uncommon. And, if you sit quietly at night, either outside, or with a window open, you can hear the coyotes singing their song in the still evening air.
There are a few tourist areas, and resorts, and the sort, along certain parts of the shoreline of this lake, but primarily, there are little camping areas and day use areas sprinkled all along the hundreds of miles of shoreline. Since the lake had been built in the forties, following World War II, by the time Johnny Miller was growing up, the area was settled down and just "there".
But at the time the lake was created, there were several small towns whose residents were forced to relocate, or find themselves under water. And in the current day, there are still some of those same towns, in existence, below water. It's turned into a scuba paradise, in some ways, in addition to a great fishing area.
In addition to the large lake, there are miles and miles of national forest, which actually cover most of the surface area of the county. The population, in the eighties, of the county was less than eight thousand residents, spread out of a rather large geographical area. The number of trees probably outnumber humans on a scale of millions or billions to one.
The school districts, all three of them, were spread out, located in some of the larger (relatively speaking) towns, with the county seat of Armadillo Creek hosting the largest school, which at the time of Johnny Miller's graduation, had a graduating class of forty-three students. The smallest school had less than a dozen in its graduating class. Children were typically bussed for miles and miles, with many kids on the bus an hour or more, morning and night.
But the compensation for this inconvenience was the lifestyle that allowed these kids the chance to become one with the world around them. It was nothing for Johnny and his brother to go wandering through the woods near their home, in the wintertime finding patches of ice in the creeks to skate on, or in the summertime, wandering the wilderness looking for wild animals or caves or waterfalls or anything that took their fancy.
In those days, there was no fear of strangers coming along and taking the kids, or of the kids falling and breaking a leg, for that matter. It seemed like the kids were used to handling themselves, and somehow they seemed tougher than many kids of today, in more urban areas.
Driving through the countryside around Armadillo Creek, one would note miles and miles of forest, broken here and there by farms.... but these farms were typically "country farms" where a few cows or pigs or other livestock were left to graze, and various types of hay might be cut a couple of times per year.... So although you will find some "farming" it's mostly cow pastures with a stream or a few trees, not the extensive fields of corn or soybeans or cotton that are found elsewhere.
There's still many a dirt road in the area, although over the past few years, more and more of them are at least being paved through the end of where the houses are, then gravel/dirt on through the unpopulated forests.
In these areas, in the seventies and eighties, when Johnny Miller was growing up, there were many tracts of forest that would be clear-cut of trees, and reseeded with pine trees to begin a new layer of forest. But, over the years, through the eighties and on into the nineties, and beyond, the large swaths of land used for this purpose have gotten smaller and smaller, till selective cutting has replaced much of the older-style clear cutting.
Southern Pine Beetle infestations have killed off some percentage of the pine forests, and more hardwoods have stepped in to take their place. It's probably a restoration of the natural order of things, as the area was predominately hardwood when the white man first began to settle in the early eighteen-hundreds. Over the years, the wildlife variety has changed somewhat, too. Early in the twentieth century the black bear population, the coyotes and wild foxes and many other creatures were hunted to the verge of extinction, and the white tail deer and turkey population plummeted as well.
But by the end of the twentieth century, order had once again returned, and it's not unusual to drive down a dirt road and spot a road runner running along ahead of you, and flying up to sit on a fencepost and watch you as you drive past. To see a bear, or a fox, though still unusual, is not that uncommon. And, if you sit quietly at night, either outside, or with a window open, you can hear the coyotes singing their song in the still evening air.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Angel Moon
Johnny Miller, at about three years old, was laying in bed one evening. He should have long been asleep, but instead, he was jabbering to himself, laying there, looking up and out the window, at the huge moon beyond the peach tree that lived there. He could see the leaves swaying up and down in the moonlight, and there was a bit of magic in the moment.
When his Mamma came in to check on him, to find out why he was still awake, he posed a question to her.
"Do you know how come that tree out there looks so purty, Mamma?"
"No, I don't guess I do..."
"It's because the angels came down and kissed it, that's why it's so purty...."
When his Mamma came in to check on him, to find out why he was still awake, he posed a question to her.
"Do you know how come that tree out there looks so purty, Mamma?"
"No, I don't guess I do..."
"It's because the angels came down and kissed it, that's why it's so purty...."
Friday, March 10, 2006
Armadillo Wanderings
When Johnny Miller was small, he always somehow felt "different". But, as it turns out, most kids probably feel "different" than their peers. Johnny did not know this, of course - he thought it was just him. But, he did still live in a carefree, innocent world, where he was expected to do certain things, his daily chores and going to school and all, but never too much to handle.
He was aware, from a very young age, that growing up isn't all it's cracked up to be. He'd lay awake some nights, at 9 or 10 years old, thinking about how he didn't ever want to grow up. It seemed to him that grownups had tons of burdens - things that as a child he was spared. He supposed most kids couldn't wait to be grown up and independent - and although he was more than willing to do the work of an older boy - even selling papers for a time, and mowing grass - he didn't really WANT to be an adult. He wished that these days could last forever, but somehow sensed that they wouldn't.
Some of those sleepless nights, Johnny would lay there in the bed, and listen to his older brother Tommy across the room in his bed, saying "Nymph umm phut... I don't care if... Muphhf lutt blauf," then rolling over in his sleep and settling into a deeper slumber.
One of the thoughts he'd think, this little boy, would be about what life would be like without his father. It seemed, in the wintertime, his mother would often get sick, mostly because of her allergies, and sometimes would get so "down" that she wouldn't leave her bedroom for days, except, perhaps, to visit the bathroom. Yet, in his mind, it was his father who would die first. It wasn't a happy thought, by any means, but it was there, nonetheless.
Johnny was the youngest child in the family. His Dad was in his forties when Johnny was born, and his mother entering her forties by the time he understood what "age" was. Of course, every birthday, his Dad would be nineteen again, and on hers, his Grandma would be twenty-nine. Little Johnny was sorely confused when his mother turned thirty-nine. Something just didn't quite seem right there, when Mom turned 39, Granny was 29, and Dad was only 19. It didn't take him too long to figure out there was a skunk in the outhouse somewhere there.
When Johnny was fourteen, his worst nightmares became a reality, and his father did indeed pass on to the next world, leaving this one behind. His father had always been the breadwinner in the house, and his passing left the family without a whole lot in terms of material possessions. They had furniture, and a truck, but they also still had possession of the family farm out in the country, and the houses in town his Dad had inherited.
His mother sold the two houses in town, and they moved back out to the country, paying off the truck and putting some money into remodeling the house. That money did not last forever, but Johnny soon found part-time jobs to help out, and his uncle came to live with them for a while till the family could support itself again.
This older Johnny was dramatically different from the younger one. He had always been somewhat reserved and now it became more so. He sank deeper into the world of music and books, and nature. He'd often go for walks out in the forest near the house. He'd go through an old garden spot at an abandoned homestead up the road, looking for arrowheads left by Indians many years ago, or just traipse off through the woods looking for nothing in particular.
One day, he left the road, crossed the rusty strand or two of barbed wire fence that separated the "field" (now a very densely grown up patch of woods) from the ditch, and headed into the underbrush. About a hundred feet from the road, seemingly from right under his feet, and certainly no more than a couple of feet away, a fawn jumped up and high-tailed it off through the woods. Johnny had thought there for a moment that his heart was gonna stop.
Another day, actually probably only a few hundred yards from the very same spot, Johnny came upon a clear area, free from underbrush, where he saw the signs of an armadillo's rooting around for grubs and things. As he was examining the holes in the earth, he heard a rustle nearby. Turning and looking, he spotted the armadillo - and then it saw him. Most folks probably don't know what armadillos do when they're scared, but to back up a moment, we'll explain armadillo road kill.
If an armadillo is crossing the road, it's small enough that many a pickup will be able to straddle it and never even touch it. But many of the beasts lose their lives despite this, because unlike the possum's habit of playing dead when frightened, an armadillo tends to jump straight up in the air. So, many an armadillo that could have lived to see another day has died on the highways by actually jumping up and hitting the underside of a car or truck and getting rolled in the process.
On this particular spring afternoon, when Johnny spotted that armadillo, and it spotted him, the armadillo did what they do when frightened. It jumped straight up in the air – seemed like it must have jumped at least a foot, maybe more... Then it tore off through the woods like it's tail was on fire.
This was another time when Johnny's heart felt as if it were going to stop. He was not afraid of an armadillo at all, but to be walking along, hearing an occasional chirp of a bird, a rustle in the leaves as a squirrel travels along it's own made-up trail, hearing the wind swishing through the treetops, this is the time when peacefulness would enter into Johnny's heart. The calm and serenity of the forest would heal the broken parts of his soul. To have this stillness disturbed by the sudden uprush of activity as the armadillo, or indeed, even the fawn, jumped up and ran through the woods was a rude awakening to a dozing soul. But once the adrenaline rush was over, and his heart calmed a bit, Johnny was happier than he'd been in days, or even months.
The teenage Johnny would often return home from these “wanderings” recharged and ready to face a new day. As he'd lay his head down on his pillow in the evening, listening to the sound of cicadas in the treetops seesawing along, and hearing the whippoorwill call in the trees just across the way from the homeplace, he'd dream happy dreams...
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Soggy Sawdust
Name: Johnny Arthur Miller
Found: February 20, 1971
Exact Age: Unknown
In Johnny Miller's family, each of the kids had a 'birth story'. They came up with the stories on their own, or with the egging on of their siblings. And depending on the child's imagination, at the time, the stories tended to be a little fanciful. But once adopted, the stories 'stuck' and although the details may have been stretched in the retelling, the basic story stayed the same.
For example, when Ann Miller, Johnny's older sister, was born, she was born a little black baby. Now, there was nothing wrong with this, black folks and white folks are all the same inside - but the Miller family was and had always been a southern white family. So, understanding this, the doctors picked little Baby Ann up, and holding her by the thumb and index finger, dipped her down in a big bottle of bleach. This bleaching did the trick, and to this day, Ann looks like any other child who was born white. Except. For one little bit of her. That bit where the thumb and finger came together, effectively pinching her as she was dipped in the bleach. In that one little spot, she was still dark colored.
Now, some kids would have just pointed out that they had a birthmark, but, who's to say which story was better? Who is to say that the bleach bottle story wasn't true? Certainly little Ann told it as if it were. Her baby brothers, Johnny and Tommy, thought it was true.
Johnny Miller had his own 'birth story'. In some ways, perhaps, it was not quite as fanciful as Ann's story, but, it was his story, nonetheless, and as true as could be. You see, when Johnny Miller was a baby, the sleepy little town of Armadillo Creek had two factories - a glove factory, and a shoe factory, in addition to the logging, farming, and mining. Out back of the old shoe factory was a huge pile of sawdust.
Johnny never could remember why there was such a pile of sawdust there, but it was there. And sometimes, people would go with a pickup and shovel in a load of it and haul it away for some purpose or other, to put on the fields, or something. Johnny Miller's Daddy did this one day, and as he was shoveling the sawdust from the giant pile, his shovel struck something semi-solid. He reached down and raked the sawdust off, and, lo and behold, there was a baby boy there, buried in the sawdust.
Well, as everyone knows a baby should be cleaned up and taken care of - Daddy Miller could not very well just ignore this child, so he loaded him up in the truck, and headed into the city the next county over, where the hospital was. The doctors and nurses there took great care of little Johnny. In his telling, Johnny recounted that they had gotten water hoses to clean all the sawdust off of him, and then, out of his head - and they'd stuck the end of one water hose in his left nostril, and blew sawdust and dirt out of his right earhole, and then they'd switch to the other nostril, and back and forth, till the worst of the sawdust was washed out of his poor noggin.
Once he was cleaned up, he was a right presentable little baby, and the Miller family brought him home with them, and he was a welcome addition to the family. There were already the three older kids, and Tommy, and last in line was little Johnny. Whenever he'd tell this story to wondering adults or other kids his age, he’d finish it up by shaking his head vigorously, and asking, “Did you hear that sloshing sound? There still some water and soggy sawdust up there….”
Found: February 20, 1971
Exact Age: Unknown
In Johnny Miller's family, each of the kids had a 'birth story'. They came up with the stories on their own, or with the egging on of their siblings. And depending on the child's imagination, at the time, the stories tended to be a little fanciful. But once adopted, the stories 'stuck' and although the details may have been stretched in the retelling, the basic story stayed the same.
For example, when Ann Miller, Johnny's older sister, was born, she was born a little black baby. Now, there was nothing wrong with this, black folks and white folks are all the same inside - but the Miller family was and had always been a southern white family. So, understanding this, the doctors picked little Baby Ann up, and holding her by the thumb and index finger, dipped her down in a big bottle of bleach. This bleaching did the trick, and to this day, Ann looks like any other child who was born white. Except. For one little bit of her. That bit where the thumb and finger came together, effectively pinching her as she was dipped in the bleach. In that one little spot, she was still dark colored.
Now, some kids would have just pointed out that they had a birthmark, but, who's to say which story was better? Who is to say that the bleach bottle story wasn't true? Certainly little Ann told it as if it were. Her baby brothers, Johnny and Tommy, thought it was true.
Johnny Miller had his own 'birth story'. In some ways, perhaps, it was not quite as fanciful as Ann's story, but, it was his story, nonetheless, and as true as could be. You see, when Johnny Miller was a baby, the sleepy little town of Armadillo Creek had two factories - a glove factory, and a shoe factory, in addition to the logging, farming, and mining. Out back of the old shoe factory was a huge pile of sawdust.
Johnny never could remember why there was such a pile of sawdust there, but it was there. And sometimes, people would go with a pickup and shovel in a load of it and haul it away for some purpose or other, to put on the fields, or something. Johnny Miller's Daddy did this one day, and as he was shoveling the sawdust from the giant pile, his shovel struck something semi-solid. He reached down and raked the sawdust off, and, lo and behold, there was a baby boy there, buried in the sawdust.
Well, as everyone knows a baby should be cleaned up and taken care of - Daddy Miller could not very well just ignore this child, so he loaded him up in the truck, and headed into the city the next county over, where the hospital was. The doctors and nurses there took great care of little Johnny. In his telling, Johnny recounted that they had gotten water hoses to clean all the sawdust off of him, and then, out of his head - and they'd stuck the end of one water hose in his left nostril, and blew sawdust and dirt out of his right earhole, and then they'd switch to the other nostril, and back and forth, till the worst of the sawdust was washed out of his poor noggin.
Once he was cleaned up, he was a right presentable little baby, and the Miller family brought him home with them, and he was a welcome addition to the family. There were already the three older kids, and Tommy, and last in line was little Johnny. Whenever he'd tell this story to wondering adults or other kids his age, he’d finish it up by shaking his head vigorously, and asking, “Did you hear that sloshing sound? There still some water and soggy sawdust up there….”
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Pork and Beans
All Johnny Miller wanted for Christmas that year was a can of pork and beans. Why is not important anymore, it's just that he had it in his mind that he wanted pork and beans. Preferably the kind that had a good chunk of pork and not just a tiny blob of fat.
It was their Christmas tradition to be at home opening presents on Christmas morning, but oftentimes the weekend before they'd go up to their grandparent's home near the city about a hundred miles from Armadillo Creek. This year, the Miller family did do that, but the official "family gathering" was at his Uncle's house - his Mom's brother's house. All the family was gathering there, for a nice big dinner. There were cousins running all over the place, and aunts and uncles, and, of course, his Grandma and Grandpa.
Uncle George went "away" for awhile, nobody knew where he had disappeared to. But he came back, he had a big grin on his face, and nobody knew why. Then when it was time to open the family gifts, everybody got a little something from everybody else, and even if it was only an ornament or a little gift, all the kids were having fun anyways. Except, Johnny. He really did have his heart set on those pork and beans.
Uncle George walked in and proudly handed Johnny a giant-sized can of pork and beans, with a nice red ribbon tied around the can. Johnny was ready to eat them right then and there, but his Mom wouldn't let him open it right away - he had to wait a few days till they were back home in Armadillo Creek.
When that day finally came, Johnny excitedly got ready to open his can, but - alas, his mother made him share the beans with everyone else. He pouted and argued, but to no avail. She was determined that he wouldn't make himself sick on such a large can of pork and beans. And, though he did get the biggest helping, everyone enjoyed them together.
Johnny learned that sometimes what we want most of all, isn't really what's best for us. Sometimes, maybe we want things that do not even really make much sense. When he was eating them, though, those pork and beans were perfect. But if he had eaten them all, no doubt he would have either become sick, or made those around him sick. So, sometimes, we have to share those things we want for ourselves with other people, in order for everyone to be happy.
It was their Christmas tradition to be at home opening presents on Christmas morning, but oftentimes the weekend before they'd go up to their grandparent's home near the city about a hundred miles from Armadillo Creek. This year, the Miller family did do that, but the official "family gathering" was at his Uncle's house - his Mom's brother's house. All the family was gathering there, for a nice big dinner. There were cousins running all over the place, and aunts and uncles, and, of course, his Grandma and Grandpa.
Uncle George went "away" for awhile, nobody knew where he had disappeared to. But he came back, he had a big grin on his face, and nobody knew why. Then when it was time to open the family gifts, everybody got a little something from everybody else, and even if it was only an ornament or a little gift, all the kids were having fun anyways. Except, Johnny. He really did have his heart set on those pork and beans.
Uncle George walked in and proudly handed Johnny a giant-sized can of pork and beans, with a nice red ribbon tied around the can. Johnny was ready to eat them right then and there, but his Mom wouldn't let him open it right away - he had to wait a few days till they were back home in Armadillo Creek.
When that day finally came, Johnny excitedly got ready to open his can, but - alas, his mother made him share the beans with everyone else. He pouted and argued, but to no avail. She was determined that he wouldn't make himself sick on such a large can of pork and beans. And, though he did get the biggest helping, everyone enjoyed them together.
Johnny learned that sometimes what we want most of all, isn't really what's best for us. Sometimes, maybe we want things that do not even really make much sense. When he was eating them, though, those pork and beans were perfect. But if he had eaten them all, no doubt he would have either become sick, or made those around him sick. So, sometimes, we have to share those things we want for ourselves with other people, in order for everyone to be happy.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
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
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
Thursday, December 08, 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.
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.
Friday, December 02, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, November 21, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, November 14, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, October 28, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, October 21, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, October 07, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, October 03, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, September 26, 2005
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?
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?
Thursday, September 22, 2005
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.
Monday, September 19, 2005
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.
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.
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