SON OF THE DARK CORNER

Baseball and Other Diversions

Baseball was played with a ball made of the ravels of worn-out wool socks. If a small rubber ball could be found, the worn wool threads were wound round and round until the ball was built up to the size wanted. Of course it was sewed up with needle and thread to keep the wrapping in shape. As other evidence of progress, solid rubber balls came down our way about the time the school house was painted. Boughten bats had not yet arrived, but the peeled butt of a small sapling produced many a hefty swing.

Marbles was another standard game. The best shooters always wanted to play "for keeps", so the less skilled were soon crowded out of the game. The real top experts had their favorite "taw", in the fashion of a squirrel hunter and his favorite rifle. Marbles were not always made of marble. Rather, glass and clay were the favorite materials. Some marbles were highly painted, but a few days use on the hard sands erased much of their coloring.

Special programs were frequent. In the absence of any organized community activity, the parents were pleased to have some opportunity for a get-together. On these occasions, the children became actors and took part in little plays. Someone might memorize and recite a short poem, or perhaps a declamation eulogizing the righteousness of the Lost Cause. Jeff Davis and General Lee were glamorous heroes and Old Abe was still a dark-bearded villain.

Another favorite Friday afternoon favorite was the spelling bee. Two leaders were named, and they took turns in selecting from among the pupils those they considered the best spellers. As each name was called, the pupil would become part of a line, one of which stood along the walls on two sides of the room. When all had been chosen, the seats, of course, were empty. The teacher pronounced the word. If the pupil spelled it correctly, he retained his placed in line, but if he missed, he returned to his seat. In later years, neighbor schools might have a spelling contest something in the manner of current athletic extravaganzas.

A social event that could get out of hand was the Christmas tree at the school house. A holly bush, with red berries and big, green, prickly leaves would be stood upright in the big room. Popcorn on long strings was twined up, down, and around the tree. Bright red, and dangerous, tallow candles were always a fire hazard. All part of the everyday world of today's youngsters, the then rare treats of oranges, long striped stick candy, apples, and dolls were set beneath it. After the presents were all distributed, came next the pie festival, each being auctioned to the highest bidder. As the better part of the prize, the buyer became entitled to have the cook join him in the enjoyment of it. Rival swains thus vied with each other, and hot tempers and flushed faces lighted up many a downy beard. On occasion, the contest would be carried on after the show -- with all the backwoods tools of the fistic trade. The contest was especially bitter if the successful bidder happened to be a newcomer or someone from the "outside".

It gets cold in south Arkansas with frost, ice, and occasional snow. So the traditional barefoot native is not seen during the winter. In warmer months shoes were something that many could get along without. We could pack ours away on Easter, and simultaneously the long underwear could be laid aside, washed and made ready for next fall. One time my folks bought me a pair of new brogans, heavy rough leather with brass hooks for the laces. There was also a loop of leather securely stitched to the rear of the shoe to help pull it onto the foot. I was very proud of this gadget, and would sit on the bench at school with legs crossed and a finger in the loop. Some of the cousins observed these goings on, and on the way home from school ganged up on me and cut off the helpful loops. I was terribly mad about it -- sore as a newly altered pup.

Corn Shucks

Feed for cows became very scarce in late winter. Several times I recall that my father would take an ax and go into the woods and cut down small trees of the evergreen variety. Holly was preferred, notwithstanding the sharp spikes on the leaves. Cotton seed was good. Farmers hauled the lint to Warren, 25 miles distant, and then hauled seed home for feed. The next in line emergency was the husks of corn. We would go to the crib in which corn was stored and shuck enough corn to make a basketful of the husks and scatter them for the cows. Food value was small, but they did give some comfort to empty stomachs.

Once, I was sent to prepare a basket of shucks. When I stepped out of the crib, hogs rushed the basket and spilled the contents in the muddy field lot. I was frightened, grabbed a heavy stick and threw it with all my might. As luck would have it, I hit the choice young pig in the entire brood and broke its neck. It fell in its tracks, dead as if done by a Winchester rifle. I screamed in terror and the folks came running to find out what had happened. Since I was in no wise injured, merely frightened, the next step was the disposal of the pig. No better use could be suggested than for it to be eaten. And so it was. It was dressed and in the oven becoming roast pig in no time -- a welcome change from smoked midlings.

A Near Move

In the fall of 1896 we almost moved to a community on the east side of L'Aigles creek, now called Ingalls. My father agreed to trade our place on the Warren road to W.L. Callaway for one owned by him in that area. We went so far as to haul one or two loads of corn to that place. Before the removal could be completed, we sold the place. I think it went to a young physician who wanted to start practicing. So having sold the Callaway place without ever having occupied it, we had to have some place to go to. We moved about two miles south, to a place than owned by one Creede, and on which they had built a log house with a lean-to. They had cleared a small field --- perhaps fifteen to twenty acres. It was located about one-half mile south of the Moro-Johnsville Big Road and one and one-half miles east of the old Marsden school. My sister Neppie, two years younger than me, started to the new place from school. We trooped along with neighbor kids until we came to the point where the turn-off to our new place left the Big Road. By chance, we met our parents there in a one-horse wagon en route to the new castle. They had a load of final clean-up of assorted tools and furniture. Also there were a few bushels of sweet potatoes loose in the wagon bed. Sister and I followed along back of the wagon, holding onto the tail gate. The house was one-fourth to one-half mile off the Big Road.

Brothers and Sisters

My brother Arnold⁹  was then a two-year-old. At that time, my mother had borne six children, three having died in infancy. Four more were to follow, making ten in all. There were two sets of twins, Neppie and Horace, and Clay and Ray¹⁰.

Road's End

If there was any semblance of a road south of our new home, it was a mere trail -- in places no more than trees that were blazed to indicate the passageway. The nearest neighbor was out on the Big Road, but with the dense growth, there was nothing to indicate human habitation. All was quiet. By day a few birds sang their songs or crows cried for food. At dawn in the springtime the wild turkey gobbled down in the swamps. At night, hungry wolf packs howled their doleful melancholies. It was lonesome --- the end of the road. It was no place for the faint-hearted.

Clearing New Lands

It took about ten years to bring the tillable lands on this place into cultivation, and it then remained the family home until the death of my mother in 1925. She had lived just short of thirty years on this little farm. My father did most of the clearing himself. He used a double bit ax. One blade was kept on keen edge for chopping the larger trees; the other, for shrubs. A few acres would be brought into cultivation every year. The small underbrush was cut and piled into heaps for drying and later burning. Some of the larger trees were worked into rails for fencing, firewood, or perhaps cut into lengths that could be handled by a group of neighbors in a log-rolling.

The men "swapped work" or 'courtesies', as the custom was also called. A group of fifteen or twenty neighbors would congregate and go from place to place, piling logs in huge piles for burning. This was hard, back-breaking work, but a holiday spirit prevailed, songs, rough jokes, and thoughts of the big dinner ahead lightened the load.

Seldom were all the larger trees removed. Many were girdled and left to die. They would remain standing and rotting until a heavy windstorm finally felled them. It was an annual clean-up job to dispose of the fallen trees, bark, and limbs. As the new grounds were readied, fences had to be revamped so as to include them. Seldom were the woodlands fenced prior to the time of clearing. When the lands were all cleared, back fences would stretch alongside the woods that stretched unbroken to the Ouachita and beyond --- miles of unrelieved wilderness.

Wild creatures of the forest found the cornfields to their liking. Squirrels, coons, possums, and crows all foraged on the woods-bordered fields. An occasional flock of wild turkeys would invade the pea fields. I killed a young turkey about the size of a hen with a .32 Winchester rifle. I was not expert with the gun, and was as much surprised as the fowl when it fell from a limb of a pine tree. One Sunday, my father killed a gobbler just a few hundred feet from the house. Cotton, corn, potatoes, melons, and sorghum were staples of production.

Sorghum 'Lasses

No farm family could "make do" without molasses, and the easiest kind to come by were made from sorghum. When the plants matured in late summer, the leaves were stripped from the stalks. A paddle with sharpened edges was the tool used for the job. Next, the heads were cut off and became good food for the livestock, which would later be turned into the field and act as gleaners. The cane was cut with a sharp hoe, piled, and later hauled to the mill and vat. The early mills were horse powered. The horse was hitched to a long sweep, and walked round and round in an endless circle, generating the pressure needed to squeeze the juice from the stalks. Fed into the mill by hand, the cane was pressed between upright cylinders. The juice was caught in tubs and carried to the boiling vat. The copper pan was about ten feet long, and divided into compartments six to eight inches in width. The raw juice was poured into one end of the pan, and as the cooking process continued the juice moved from one compartment to the next, so that when it arrived at the last compartment all the water had boiled away. All that was left was the fragrant golden syrup --- sorghum molasses. Sopped on hot biscuits or corn bread, the syrup was something to remember.

The Woodpile

To keep enough wood on hand to feed both fireplace and kitchen stove required a lot of chopping. The fireplace was big, and would accommodate logs up to four feet in length. Many times have the New England poet's lines come to mind, wherein he told in detail of the fine art of laying a successful fire. Big log in the back, smaller in front, and filled between with curious art the ragged brush. Best for the fireplace was oak or hickory, but the kitchen stove preferred ash or pine. The intense heat of the hardwoods tended to burn out in the innards of a light firebox. The wood for the stove was split and stacked under shelter to dry. The fireplace could handle a wet, green log as it was fed an additive in the form of pitch pine. The pitch in addition to spurring on the hissing logs on the red coals provided a bright blaze for the circle about the hearth. In the early evening, fuel was placed alongside the fireplace in such amount as to last until bed time, but it was nice to leave a nice solid piece, almost charcoal, covered with ashes and held in place during the night --- ready to flare up with authority when uncovered the next morning.

Fireplaces and chimneys were built of clay taken from the immediate yard. Grass was worked into the clay as a binder. To build the chimney, a framework of heavy timbers was set up. Onto this, light riven palings were secured, spaced a few inches apart. It was this framework that supported the mud clay lots that were piled somewhat in the fashion of bricks. Because the clay chimney wall stood immediately adjoining the wooden wall of the house, great care had to be taken to build the chimney walls sufficiently thick to insulate the house from the heat.

Swimming in February

It is unusual for old king Sol to arouse from his winter lethargy before the official date for him to start the six-month journey north to Cancer. When he is in this mood, the whole earth wakes up with him, the birds, the bees, the grass, the swollen buds, the fragrant flowers. Young blood likewise flows faster and warmer, and seeks any available outlet for the throbbing new energy. On one of these warm, windless Sundays I went with two neighboring boys on an exploration of the cane breaks along Mill Creek. The creek flowed slowly. It had not yet absorbed the new life of approaching spring. So the urge to crawl out of the winter-worn longies overcame any thought of the calendar. We stripped as though it were a "September Morn" and in we went. A brisk dash through the splashing waters soon raised the goose pimples and left no doubt of the mistake that had been made. We were soon glad to be back on the bank trying to dry ourselves enough to slip back into the comfort of the longies. The daredevil indiscretion may have contributed to a fatal illness, for one of the boys was stricken with pneumonia and died a short time afterward. The other participant lived to maturity, but has been dead many years. This is written sixty-five years after the incident. It is doubtful that any of the parents were ever told what had taken place.

Bow and Arrow

If they were to have recreation, country kids had to devise their own. The idea of a recreational director is both modern and "citified". If you wanted to play or enjoy a game, part of the fun was to set up the game and the rules -- even create the equipment required. In the process of growing up, nearly every country boy had a bow and arrows. This was not a store "boughten" device, but was the handiwork of the owner, with perhaps an assist from his dad or an older brother. After finding a suitable piece of hickory or oak, the Barlow knife was sharpened and the process of trimming and shaping the bow, then scraping it with a broken bottle, was meticulously carried forward until a balanced springiness was achieved, and all minor imperfections in the carving were scraped and smoothed away. Deerskin formed the favorite cord. All deer killed were skinned, and their hides tanned locally. Well-worn brogans were laced with strings of deer hide, so there was always an ample supply for the bow.

A good arrow could be made of cypress or pine, and all good arrows had their points encased in rifle shells, either .32 or .38 caliber. A dangerous refinement of the arrow was to remove the cap or primer and into the base of the shell insert a metal spike. A nail made a first-rate spike. I had an outfit of this kind. Handled carelessly, such a weapon could be hazardous. I recall only one incident of excellent marksmanship --- or of luck --- carrying though on the law of averages. One Sunday afternoon with a couple of other preteens, I went with bow and spiked arrows to a nearby spring branch. Such places were favored homes of water moccasins. Walking carefully along the bank of the little stream, we soon spotted a big fellow sunning on a blanched log. Disturbed, it slithered off the sunny couch and dropped into the water and out of sight. We knew he would soon be compelled to poke his head up for air, so all remained still and quiet. As expected, there was soon a break in the water near the opposite bank and immediately a pied head popped up and held perfectly still. I was first to let go with the spiked arrow. It went straight to the mark, the spike completely piercing the head and remaining in place throughout the writhing death agonies of the viper.

Probably I remember because I was not an expert and usually the others were much more likely to hit the mark. I once had a similar piece of unexpectedly good luck with a rifle. I was out in the field expecting to shoot a red-headed peckerwood. Suddenly a wild hen turkey with a brood of young flew out of a patch of peas and lit in the tall pines just outside the fence. I banged away, and to my surprise down tumbled a young turkey big as a hen chicken. We dressed and enjoyed a fine turkey dinner. There was no closed season on such game, or if there was we had not heard of it. Game wardens were unknown in the Dark Corner.

Got a Gun

When we relocated the fence to include the new ground just cleared on the west side of the draw, a few patches that had not been made ready for the cultivator were also enclosed. One of these parcels was tucked into the crook of an elbow of the little waterway that twisted from north to south across the field. Dry except after heavy rains, it was a small pocket, something like a town lot, maybe a little larger. I told my daddy that I would clear it up, make it ready for the plow if I could have as my own the crop grown on it the first year. That seemed a good deal, so when I had a bit of time that was free from the main farm jobs I worked in the corner, cutting up the dead logs that had fallen, then grubbing and burning all the undergrowth. We planted it in cotton -- King Cotton. Today, the poor old king has lost his crown and no longer holds the cotton belt as a fiefdom.

When the cotton was picked each sack grown on my corner was weighed, and a record kept. It took lots of cotton to make a little money in 1900. When my cotton was sold, the money, a little better than $5.00, was given to me. It was enough to buy a .22 Remington rifle, and a box of shells. Two of the neighbor Garrett boys also wanted guns. All three were ordered from Sears Roebuck's mail order catalogue. All three rifles were sent to us in the same package, and we picked them up at the little store¹¹.  I don't think there was parcel post that early, so they were likely sent freight to Warren and then hauled aboard a wagon delivering supplies for the store.

The fall was a favorite time of year for coon hunting. This was thought to be good fun. At night, a party of a half dozen or more would go into the woods with a pack of dogs. If luck was good, the dogs would soon pick up scent and begin to bark. As the trail grew warmer, the clamor of the dogs increased. With several hounds of different voice crying out on a hot trail, the chase became exciting. If the varmint was not able to elude the pursuers, it was forced to take refuge in the high trees. This escape from the dogs only provided a temporary reprieve. As the hunters came up to the sheltering tree, a bright torch would be lit. This kind of light was something new to the coon. Lying snugly in the fork of a big tree, his curiosity was excited by the flashing light, and he seldom could resist taking an occasional peep at it. And that was the fatal mistake for Mr. Coon, for his bright eyes reflected the light and showed up like twinkling stars. Then the anticlimax, the boom of the gun, the smell of powder, the thud of poor Mr. Coon as he tumbled from his supposed safety in to the sharp jaws of the frantic dogs.

Once in awhile you would tree a sly old fellow who had heard the old adage that curiosity killed the cat. Being wise in the ways of the world, he had figured that what was bad for the cat might likewise be fatal for the raccoon. Having so decided, he would just hold tight to a strong limb, and play possum. No amount of teasing with the flare would cause him to blink. So, there were no eyes to be seen and no shooting to be done. But smart as he was, the coon was not safe, not yet, at least. There still were two hazards ahead of him. One of the hunters might climb the tree with a long prod, find his limb, and frighten the coon so much that he either fell from the tree or decided to jump and run for his life. If the tree was not easily climbed, the hunters would attack it with a sharp ax, an essential piece of gear on any coon hunt. By taking turns wielding the ax, the hunters would soon bring down the tree. The coon would ride the tree as it crashed down, limbs and underbrush cushioned its fall, and quick as a flash Mr. Coon was away and gone. He was seldom able to elude the dogs or to run off and leave them, so in due course of the events of the hunt, the coon was again forced to take to the timber -- with the procedures repeated until he paid the supreme sacrifice.

Now the new .22 comes back into the picture. On one of these hunts I was with the neighbor boys. They had their dogs, and I had ours. The dogs were not very good friends. So, on this occasion when the coon fell from the tree, the dogs rushed pell mell to cover him, but in the excitement engaged each other. My dog was getting the worst of the free-for-all, so I rushed in to help him. The only offensive weapon at hand was my rifle. I banged one of the dogs on the head with the butt of my weapons, and the coupling of the wooden stock to the barrel snapped and there my beautiful new gun lay dead among the bushes, broken completely. Sadly I took the two pieces and headed homeward, crushed by the enormity of the catastrophe. Despair was not eternal. My uncle Frank Hickman¹²  operated a blacksmith shop in Warren. The two broken portions were taken to him and he was able to quickly refit stock to barrel, and rivet strong metal supports that made my rifle sturdy -- and again ready for adventure in the land of the hunt.

Edited by:  Gerald J. Hickman

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