THE COMPANY FARM

We moved all of our things into the old, gray three-room bungalow house in November, 1945. The first order of business was to get the heating and cook stoves up and going. Being wood burning, they needed stovepipes. Considerable amount of bending and fitting had to be done so they’d fit well. My Daddy didn’t want any smoke or sparks from the fire floating around in the house. “This old place will burn down in minutes,” he said. This was a meticulous job, and always caused him a great deal of frustration. Once this was done, things fell into place rather quickly.

The front of the house faced due west. The dense forest commenced just a few feet in front of our yard. The only real open space was a little field to the north of us. It ran about a quarter of a mile before hitting the tree line. Angling off to the right of the yard was the horse lot and barn. We were at least a mile from where we could see another neighbor. The General had been right when she said the only way you can see was straight up

We got the furniture moved and the stoves up and going in record time. We had tied the milk cow on the back of the wagon when we moved the furniture. We returned to the old house to catch the thirty laying hens that were our egg supply, and moved them to the chicken pen that was out behind the house. We’d been smart about that and closed the door on them the night before while they were roosting. We’d never lived where the chicken pen had been fenced in before but it soon became obvious why this one was. Two ol’ red foxes paid us a visit the very first night. One of them kept Ol’ Pal busy while his friend ran off with a fat hen. Our farming implements were the last things to get moved. Once we got them put away we were ready to take on our new life.

I was very excited, at the tender age of twelve, to be living at such an enchanting place. I could sit in the porch swing and look right into a mysterious, dark, ominous jungle.

In the winter, the rains came. Cache River carried the runoff from the nearby hills until her banks overflowed. She then flooded out covering everything but the little ridges where the hickory nuts grew. One could take a boat and travel, following the swamplands, for miles. We were going to become rich growing hogs in these woods, so we turned our attention to getting breeding stock. My Daddy bought three young female pigs, which we hoped would soon be sows. We bought a little male from a neighbor. “He’ll be a big old boar sooner then you think,” the feller said that sold him to My Daddy. We then turned them out into the woods to fend for themselves. Every day we’d carry a big sack of corn to where they were and feed them. “This will keep them somewhat tame and give us a chance to keep up with them as they increase in numbers,” MY Daddy explained. We developed our own little whoooooppiiigggeeee call that would bring them a running.

My Daddy worried about us getting lost in the woods. He said, “If a feller gets lost in there he’ll probably die. They're so deep no one would ever find you. When someone gets turned around in the woods they just walk in circles. They can’t ever go in a straight line,” he warned. There were three fields on the ridges we were going to farm. We identified them by the number of acres in each plot. There were the 13, 3, and 8-acre fields. I didn’t stray too far from My Daddy or the beaten path those first few months as we would come and go. In a few weeks, I could travel to the fields by myself. By the end of the first year, I felt quite at home and traveled about freely. In time, I knew every little pig trail and cow path on the southeast side of Cache River.

The woods teemed with all manner of wild life. Birds chattered constantly. Woodpeckers incessantly pecked holes in the old dead trees with their beaks. Owls hooted day and night. The woods were so dense, and the branches of the trees so close together, you couldn’t even see the sky. When the winds blew, the big sweet gum and oak would sway, and their leaves would sing in the wind. As they swung to and fro, touching each other, they looked like living things greeting each other in perfect harmony. The leaves covered the ground in the fall and on through the long winter. You could hear the rustle of the leaves from a considerable distance when a man or animal moved around. The ground was covered with acorns that the hogs fed on. Underneath the big hundred and fifty foot hickory nut trees, you could see the remains of empty hickory nutshells where the evasive gray squirrel had hulled out the meat. The hickory nuts, not bothered by the squirrels, lay in bushels on the forest floor. I scooped them up in the tote sack I’d used to bring corn to the hogs. Later, I’d crack them with a hammer and pick out the kernels for the General to make cakes and candies.

Ol’ Pal and I spent every waking hour possible in the woods. I always had my 410-gauge shotgun with me and it gave me a feeling of comfort to know I had firepower. The woods could be a very frightening place. The deep darker parts gave me a feeling of danger, and at the same time of exhilaration. For that reason, I loved to be there the most. I’d pile up a big pile of leaves, lie down and look up into the big, tall trees. I’d imagine they were telling me of the Indian hunts of my ancestors and the many battles fought here.

There were Indian graveyards scattered about at different locations. “Indian warriors buried their causalities at the site of their battles. They had no way to carry them the long distances back to their camps,” My Daddy had explained to me as we walked on one of our many hunts. I loved to walk on the mounded-up graves where the soft green grass was growing. I always found them to be laid out in neat orderly rows. I would listen to the sound in the trees and try to imagine what had happened here long ago. I’d normally encounter them on little knolls or hickory ridges.

One of my favorite spots was what My Daddy called the deer lick. This was an area in the middle of the woods where nothing would grow. It was absolutely barren and free from even a hint of vegetation. “The earth is too salty here for anything to grow and the deer like the taste of it when they lick the earth.” My Daddy told me. Why this area was in the middle of this black swampland was a mystery to us. This may’ve been an Indian campsite or ceremonial ground,” My Daddy speculated. It seemed so out of place deep in the forest. Something had happened here long ago, but what? Why was this land barren. It seemed sacred in some strange way and we would fall silent as we walked across the open space.

Ol’ Pal would run through the woods tearing into old rotten logs, ripping them to pieces with his teeth. The smells seemed to delight him. Big red ants would get on his nose. Watching him try to use his paw to get them off would make me laugh. There were times he’d drag out an ol’ opossum. They’d go sulky and lie lifeless on the ground. This was a great defense, and I’d discourage him from killing or pursuing them. They weren’t much good for anything, as far as I could see. Rabbits ran from seemingly every old fallen tree trunk lying about. I discouraged him from giving chase. A sudden, unexpected jump would trigger his hunting instinct, and he’d dash off after them. I’d give my whistle that I’d developed just for him and he’d come flying back.

We were always on the lookout for the gray squirrel. We paid little attention to what the law said about hunting seasons. We didn’t kill in the spring, as there might be babies waiting in the nests for their mommies. In the fall, when the trees were bare, you could see the hundreds of nests in the high treetops. I’d often shoot into the nest, and a squirrel would come tumbling out onto the ground. More often than not, though, it would be empty and the price of shotgun shells prohibited me from making this a common practice. Ol’ Pal had a keen sense of smell, and sometimes he’d give me a look to let me know he smelled something. Well, it was worth a crack, if we’d not gotten our quota of four. “We need at least four to make a mess,” the General said.

I’d little interest in school or church. I felt quite at home there among the trees. I lived as a loner with few friends. I’d often strip to the waist, and paint my face with the juices from wild purple pokeberries. I’d become an Indian of long ago. I could feel the excitement for the hunt. I could feel the warrior blood rise up in my body. I could feel the desire to be brave and fierce. I’d protect my people with my life. I’d die on the field of battle, and they’d sing of me around the campfires. I’d practice for hours walking silently in the leaves. I’d crawl into the thick undergrowth just to be near the earth. I wanted the smell of it inside me. The wind in the trees would tell me to move quietly, observe and not disturb my surroundings. My spirit was one with the soul of the forest. She was a part of me. I moved and breathed with her.

It was about ten in the morning, and I was going around a small pool of water. I was trying to stay on the high ground while making my rounds. My black gum boots came up to my knees. I didn't want to get my feet wet. It was a very cold January day. Cache River had overflowed and water was everywhere. I felt more than I saw, a movement to my right. I turned toward the movement, and looked straight into the eyes of a black panther. His eyes were a bright yeller. They glowed like coals of fire. He was about the size of a German Shepherd. His tail hung down and curved up on the end. Fear paralyzed me. I couldn't even move my little finger. My warrior blood had temporarily frozen. A warning noise started deep down in his throat and worked its way out. He lowered his head, looked to the right and moved out and away from me. I looked around for Ol’ Pal. “Where is that damn dog when I need him? A bigger gun, yes, I’m going to need a bigger gun. This 410 just won't cut it. I’d have shot him, you know. I just didn’t want to make him mad,” I said to myself. I'd had enough for one day. I headed to the safety of the General's kitchen.