A JOG DOWN MEMORY LANE

Forty-five years later I returned to the spot where we’d fought the Acarus Scabei. It was a warm summer afternoon and I decided I would go jog over near where we lived when I was a small boy. I drove my pickup to the old house site and stepped out. Waves of nostalgia overwhelmed me as I stood on the sacred ground where I had so many times walked, ran, and rode Ol’ Gray. I leaned over to tie my shoe and the warm Arkansas sun brought forth little beads of perspiration to my forehead. Suddenly, I felt a great connection to the earth and my surroundings. I stood up, leaned on the truck, and took a good look around.

The big two-story house once stood right here in front of me. It had long since burned to the ground and only an empty lot now remained. The crop line threatened to wipe out even a hint that at one time happy voices of my family had rang out here. I looked north. Right over there, about a hundred and fifty yards, was where the little two-room house stood and my first memories begin. I remember the fight under the table and the General saying that one bad word. One room was the kitchen and the dining room. The other was the bedroom and living room. Two iron bedsteads stood there. One was for my beloved brother and I. The other was for the General and My Daddy. There was also a big chair to sit in and a radio sitting on a library table. The General was quite fond of that library table and it was still in the house when I left for the Navy. I wonder where it got off to?

I heard a scream and it chilled my blood. Such a fright it put through me, I’ve seldom experienced. I can still feel it to this day when I think about it. It was a wailing of one in great pain. There was a great suffering in that sound. I’d heard it before when an animal was about to be slaughtered and it begged for its life. I’d heard it too, when our neighbor's little girl died, and they told her mommy she was dead. A great dread came over me. “Oh, Dear Jesus in Heaven, what is that sound?” asked the General. “That's a panther and it's real close," replied My Daddy. He got up and went to the door. “They sound just like a woman screaming,” he added. The door was solid wood. He pulled up the latch and opened it. Bright, crimson red light lit up the room, and danced on the rose-colored paper. Then that blood-curdling scream came again. “My God,” said My Daddy, “Grandma and Grandpa Dulaney's old log house is on fire.”

I looked to the northeast and saw where I was dragged crying and sobbing to the Bear's on my Day of Judgment. It still makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I turned around and looked up the road that leads to the now paved blacktop highway. “I better get too moving. It’s a good five miles to the house. I'll get someone there to bring me back here to pick up my truck,” I said, as I started off in a slow jog. I looked to the southwest. I could see, in my minds eye, the old unpainted house in the field where Mr. George and Ol’ Queeney lived. I could hear her whine in anticipation of my affection as I approached her. I loved that old long-eared hound. She was my friend, Pal's granny, now that I think about it.

I increased my speed. I’ve driven here several times in the past few years. But you can't really get the feel of a place until you travel it by foot and feel the kinship with the earth that comes from living on her and feeling her breathe. Gosh, this is so familiar. These side ditches are where I used to catch crawdads. The General would cook up their tails for me if I caught enough of them. I’m coming to the road that goes back to the right, leading west. Granddaddy came out of retirement at the age of 67 and went down there about a mile and a half and started farming again. That was some feat for an old one-legged man. “Just got tired of not doing nothing useful,” he said. The mud was so deep on that old road that a wagon drawn by two horses would often bog down in the rainy season. I remember Granddaddy called one of his old mares, Ol’ Toots, mixed with other favorite adjectives of his.

Coming up here on the left is where Mr. Levi Foster had a little store where he sold a few things. It was an old log house with a breezeway that connected two rooms. There was usually a couple of ol’ dogs resting in front of the door. My Daddy said that’s why everyone called that style of log house a dogtrot. Mr. Foster had built another house out back and moved into it when he opened the store. I’m now remembering being in there one time when I was real young. He had this old balance scale with pans on each side. He had put weights on one pan and something else on the other one. I remember being fascinated when it tripped. Why on earth would I be remembering that do you think?

The first tobacco I ever smoked was from his store right here by this old bridge. My cousin, Manny Moore, was working for My Daddy. He was about sixteen years old at the time. One day he asked my beloved brother and me if we wanted to smoke. “Bet your boots,” my brother replied. The General said that a lot. We sure did want to try out them cigarettes. Looked right grown up like to us. He went right up there and bought a big sack of Bull Durham smoking tobacco and some OCB rolling papers. The Bull Durham had this wonderful gold string that closed the mouth of the bag. The papers were folded in a hard black cardboard wrapper that held them in place with a little glue on one side. Sure was great looking and colorful. Sin sure was fun. We smoked it all up, too. I couldn’t have been more than seven at the time. My cousin, Manny, kept waiting for us to get sick. He'd have to wait a long time, as I remember, it didn't happen. Great stuff that Bull Durham and affordable too.

Here on the right, as I pass the store, and move on down the road was an old two-room log house. I’d forgotten about that. Yeah, now I remember. We’d lived here once. I remember a hog had got under the house and was scratching and the whole house was shaking. The General boiled up some water and poured it down through the cracks of the floor. I remember the sound the pig made when the water hit her. “It’s an ol’ gilt under there,” The General said. I didn't know at the time, that’s what one calls a young female pig that’s never had piglets. I’d heard the General witnessing for the Lord, and she had often spoken of guilt. It had something to do with evil. The General always had a way of dealing with the devil. She could drive out guilt, too. I was a while getting it all sorted out.

We're now passing where I was born. They’ve moved the old house over near the road where that ol’ stud horse almost killed us. Lord, it is no wonder I didn't become a horseman. I loved Ol’ Gray, but she was different. Nice brick house sets here now. My Granddaddy Poe once owned all this land on both sides of the road. The old house where he and Granny had lived is still here. It’s located right straight across from where I came into this world. How grand that must have been for everyone. My first memories of this place is when My Uncle Cleo Poe, the General's brother, lived here. They moved to Egypt, Arkansas when I was about seven. Things changed a lot after that.

Now, I’m coming upon highway 412. This was known as Highway 25 in those days. I look to the right and see two little white houses. The bigger one was where Jimmy and Jackie Ballard lived with their mommy and daddy when I was growing up. They were about the same ages as my beloved brother and me. The General always wanted us boys to be more like them. They were always clean, well dressed, and polite. She always held them up as model children from a good Christian home. Guess they never almost got killed by an old stud horse, or helped break no ol’ red mules, either. That makes me smile, as I remember my Granddaddy Poe and his colorful vocabulary. I sure wouldn't have wanted to miss out on any of that. But I'd almost bet the little Ballard boys never knew that the first thing you got to do when you train an ol’ red mule is to give him a good cussing. I laugh when I think about it.

I’m now on 412, heading for Light. It was the village of my youth. I plan to take you there to have some cotton ginned later on, if I can. Now, here about one eighth of a mile on the right, heading east, is the old Ira Land's house, as it was known to us. I’m not really sure of the spelling of his first name. The General had gone there one time to help out when he was sick. Several other ladies were there too. All the kids were playing around and running in and out of the house. Suddenly, he had a stroke and started convulsing. At that, we children were all run outside while they summoned the doctor. Lots of running and scurrying inside the house was going on, and I heard someone crying. The porch swing was right next to the window. I crawled up under it and looked into Mr. Land's bedroom. I could see him lying there.

I maintained my post, and in a short time the doctor arrived and ran into the house. As I watched, he jumped right upon the bed, grabbed Mr. Lands by the head and tried to hold it steady. White froth was running out of his mouth and his face was cherry red. Apparently, he was chewing on his tongue. The doctor rummaged in his bag and pulled out something that looked like a safety pin. With that, he stuck it right through his tongue and pulled it out of his mouth. I'd had enough and turned away. A short time later, Mr. Lands was pronounced dead. I never pass this house without remembering that. Wonder if that was an effective way to keep the tongue from being chewed off?

Coming up here, on the left, is the Old Carl Moore house. That’s where Don and I watched the arrival of the big black army car carrying the bad news about my cousin. As you remember, he was killed in Germany. They were having a fierce battle. He had reached an old farmhouse, and they were trying to hold it. The official report said it was right near the Rhine River. He was inside talking on the radio calling for reinforcement when a mortar round blew it to pieces. My Aunt Roxie had begged him not to go back, but he said he wanted to be with his men.

It’s hot now. Slowing down, I pass the lane where we took the shortcut to my Aunt Ruby's. A feller should be careful around ol’ stud horses. This old house coming up on the left has new white siding on it now and looks nice. We knew it as the old Sturkie house. I went there with My Daddy when my Granddaddy Messer died. He was 57 and had a stroke. I was quite young, but I remember entering the back room with My Daddy to view the body. He was holding my hand and I was really scared. He held me up to get a better look at my Granddaddy lying there. I was not thinking of My Daddy. I was thinking how strange my Granddaddy looked. I was pulled back to reality with the sound of a mournful cry and was surprised to see My Daddy had covered his eyes with his hands and was crying. It’s one of my most painful memories.

When I terminated my jog on that warm summer afternoon I felt as though I’d just had a tour down the corridor of time. I decided that one day I’d sit down and try to record my memories for my children and grandchildren to read.