I think I was born with an adventurous heart and a mischievous character. As a young boy I would wander off by myself and explore the surroundings at hand: woodlands , fields, streams and lakes. While I craved companionship, I was just as happy to wander by myself for hours and there were times the solitude was as problematic as though I were in a riotous crowd . Like many young boys, I had no problem getting into some sort of trouble, although I prefer to call it mischief.
My earliest memory was when I was maybe 2 or 3 years old and I was staying with Granny and Grandpa Riggan. Grandpa raised pigs and being a young kid baby pigs were fascinating, cute and cuddly and I wanted to touch them. There was a special pen out by the barn where a sow with a litter of pigs was kept and one day I followed Grandpa into the paddock. While he was feeding the other animals I wandered over to check on the sow and her piglets. The piglets were basically newborns and as they were sucking on mamma pig I reached out to touch one of them, the next thing I remember, I was laying on an examining table with my hand wrapped in gauze. I am now 65 years old and still carry a 3/4" scar on the back of my right hand and I have a healthy respect for pigs.
Over the coming years my yearning to see what was on the other side of the road got me into several jams, nothing so serious as to warrant hospitalization or jail time. Many times my adventures resulted in a good whipping and at the very least my memory banks were emblazoned with a healthy respect for some critter or object ( note to self - do not walk barefoot along the creek bank as snakes do not like to be stepped on ).
I think a lot of my mischief was perpetrated when I was left in the care of my Grandparents, especially up to about the age of 11 or 12. This is probably due to the fact that they were old and I was fast, or more likely because Grandpa Riggan considered my escapades as just being a boy. I am certain that he felt differently when I set several acres of hay on fire while playing with matches. Like most boys I was fascinated with matches or fire, so when Grandpa sent me to the house to get him some matches and drinking water I had to stop and light a few matches. How was I supposed to know that dry grass would burn so quickly? You would think that a quart mason jar full of water would be enough to extinguish a small fire.
I know that Grandpa and Granny were both really pissed off about that, they were both in their early 70's and there was no fire dept. so they had to soak feed sacks in rain barrels and beat the fire down. This was the only time I can remember Grandpa moving fast. You would think this would warrant a major beating of life threatening caliber but nothing ever came of it. According to Grandpa, I was just being a boy.
My next bit of mischief was when I was staying with Granny and Pa Wade in Casey , Illinois. I was down the street playing with some other kids and I threw a rock which happened land in the front seat of a dump truck after passing through the windshield. Don't ask me why I did it. Granny asked me why and I couldn't tell her the reason. I gotta tell you, that was one pissed off truck driver! Those windshields cost a lot of money back then. I think I got a whipping but it was nothing compared to Dads whippings. Granny was more interested in putting the fear in me than inflicting pain.
You would think I would learn from my mistakes but then Mom always said I was hard headed. While spending the summer with Granny and Pa Wade in Missouri. I watched in wonder as big black ants crawled around and in a hollowed out oak tree . I don't know why but I started chasing those ants with lighted matches. Soon the smoke started coming out of the top of the tree. Seems that the tree was hollow in the center and reacted like a chimney. I grabbed a garden hose and was trying to put it out when Granny saw me and determined that a fire truck was needed. Again no whipping, but then the stern look on the fireman's faces sufficed. That was thankfully my last escapade with matches.Years later these incidents were a fond memory to an aging grandmother, when she told the story she would have a smile on her face.
When we lived on Colonial Circle, Pat and I got a 3 speed English racer bicycles for Xmas. They were the neatest things because you had 3 speeds and hand brakes and we were the only kids who had them. They were fast and could out run everybody else, but there was a slight flaw. First gear was for starting off nice and easy or going up hill without working so hard. Second gear was the build up between first and third, sitting down pedaling and gaining speed fast. Third gear was for flat out hauling on flat stretches. I could stand up and pump my legs faster and faster. I would have to squint my eyes to keep the bugs out and then it would happen - just as I was leaning over the handle bars really pumping ,the chain would slip off the sprocket and having no resistance my feet would spin out of control ,come off the pedals and my crotch would slam hard on the cross bar ( emphasis on hard ). Pain, like I could never imagine, started in the testicles and shot up through the body, all I could do was lay on the ground and wither in excruciating agony. The really dumb thing is, that as soon as could stand, I would put the chain back on the sprocket and climb back on. Mom always said I was hard headed. Till this day I swear that was the reason I didn't have kids until after I was thirty. It took that long for the swelling to go down.
Now I was maybe 10 when Dad came home for lunch one day in a particularly good mood. Dad had a maroon 49 Chevy with the stick shift on the column. For some strange reason he decided it was time I learned to drive. Mom didn't even know how to drive but Dad was going to teach me. We climbed into the car and I listened intently as he explained the operation of the clutch, gear shift, gas and brake pedals.Now I got the car started, my toes were holding the clutch down and applying pressure to the gas pedal and then it happened. My left foot slipped off the clutch as my right foot pushed against the gas pedal. The car bucked and jolted and the engine raced. Dad yelled for me to hit the brake but by this time I had slipped down under the stirring wheel and turned to the left at the same time. The car went , in reverse, up the hill and crashed into Mr. Walker's prized privet hedge nearly ripping one of them out of the ground. Dad had to get back to work and left Mom to deal with Mr. Walker who silently used foul language while repairing the hedge. I was almost 17 before I got behind the wheel of Dad's car again.
One weekend while visiting Grandpa Riggan, Pat, myself, and cousin Charlie saw a couple of apple trees that were in a field and they were full of apples. The main problem was that the trees were surrounded by rough furrows of freshly plowed earth and it had been raining the day before. I think that I was the one who determined that the field and trees were hidden by a huge privet hedge so we would not be seen and if we stepped on the grassy side of the turned earth then we would not get our shoes muddy. There we were sitting up in the apple trees gorging ourselves when we heard Dad and Uncle Ray calling for us, we were doomed. Hoping to sneak back thru the hedge, we jumped down from the tree and ran thru the field trying our best to step on the grass. When we showed up with muddy shoes there was no excuse. Dad grabbed Pat and Uncle Ray grabbed Charlie and the beatings began. When Dad was through with Pat he reached out for me but Granny already had me on her lap and wouldn't let go, so Dad said he would get me when we got home. Granny told me to let her know if I got spanked at home as she would take care of Dad later if need be. I think that was the only time I got out of a spanking.
We lived at this one house in Donaldson that had a steep back yard and at the bottom of the hill was a dry creek bed maybe four feet across. My younger brothers and friends were playing in the creek bed one day when I got a wild hair growing on my butt, and decided to scare them a little. One of my brothers had a small bicycle which I climbed on and went like a bat outa hell down the hill towards them. The general idea was to race up to the edge of the creek bed and then slam on the brakes, spin the rear wheel around and spray them with dirt ( Granny was right, idle hands are the Devil's work shop ). Don't ask because I don't know what went wrong, but when I got to the bottom I didn't hit the brakes but kept going and wound up jumping the creek and wrecking on the far side. My right hand swelled to about twice it's normal size, it wasn't broken, just sprained. For two weeks I got the best grades in school, I would bring all of my homework to the kitchen table and Mom would write the answers for me but only the correct answers regardless of how long it took me to come up with them.
All of this (and more) by the time I was 11 years old.
When we moved to Mt. Juliet, my adventurous soul almost burst with all of the possibilities. We were in a country setting surrounded by fields with cedar trees, hills filled with big trees and brush, Cedar Creek, and Old Hickory Lake.
I found out that if you crawled under the low hanging branches of a cedar tree on a cold day you would be warm because the foliage was so thick and low to the ground the cold was kept out. This was good to know as it was better to hang out under the cedar tree than go back to a house with four siblings getting on Mom's nerves.
I had a bicycle that was made up of several bikes and I rode it everywhere, down to the main highway or out to Whisit's boat dock and even around to Langfords Cove. I rode thru the woods on old logging trails and made a few trails of my own. One of the neighbors told Mom he had been out hunting and thought a bear was coming thru the brush and just as he was taking aim I whizzed by him on my bike.
I did my own repairs on the bike and that turned out to be hazardous. After working on the brakes, I was roaring down a hill on the blacktop road when a car pulled out in front of me forcing me to hit the brakes but they didn't work. When I got home and changed shorts I figured out where those leftover pieces fit ( note to self, if you take a part off it has to go back on ). As I said before, my bike was made up of several bikes but it worked fine. We boys used to go to an area in the subdivision where they dug out fill dirt for construction, there were mounds of dirt that made great ramps for jumping the bikes. We would pedal like hell and hit the dirt mounds with such speed that we could get 2-3 feet in the air. While performing one of these daring feats I was surprised to see my front wheel had never left the ground and was rolling to one side - didn't need brakes this time because when the front forks of the bike dug in to the dirt I came to an instant stop. This was another reason I didn't have kids until after I was thirty.
One night when Dad and I were on our way home from work, he pulled in to a small store at the bottom of Scott's Hollow Hill and got a coke. As he pulled out he put the automatic transmission in low and floored the gas pedal. The little 283 in the '58 Chevy screamed all the way to the top of the hill. When Dad finally shoved the lever to drive we were doing 75 mph, he looked at me and said he was going to teach me to drive but if he ever caught me doing anything stupid like he just did he would kick my ass. Thus began my driving lessons.
Dad had a john boat built and purchased a 12 hp motor for it. I was going fishing early one morning with my friend Donnie Odum. Dad let me use the car to carry the motor and gas can and fishing rods to the boat. Everything would have been alright if I had stuck to the plan but I had the car all to myself and nobody was on the road. This was too irresistible. I went for a joy ride, out to the main highway down to Langford's Cove and over to Donnie's house - then the car died. Donnie's dad took me home and took Dad back to the car. Dad was pissed . I was grounded - no fishing nor ball game that night. Probably the only thing that saved me from a whipping was that Dad had to go to work and that night he chose to go see his bootlegger friend before coming home. Seems the fuel gauge would not register less than 1/4 tank and as Dad was the only one who drove the car he didn't tell anyone about the gauge. Sure would have made a big difference had I known.
Over the next couple of years I was typical teenager straining at the bit for the day I turned 18 and could do anything I wanted. I rebelled to some degree and got whipped for things like not cutting the grass, getting caught smoking or getting bad grades. One night Dad let me walk down the road to visit with a friend and Pat went to see a girl who lived across the street from my friend, " be home by 10:00". When the time came to go home , I went to get Pat who was not ready and we wound up being late. On the way home Dad pulled up in the car and told us to get home. Dad was waiting and Pat was the first thru the garage door. Then Dad grabbed me and slung me against the brick wall of the house. He reared back with his fist and threatened to beat hell out of me. Dad backed off when I told him I would be gone by morning, from that time on there were no more whippings or threats to be sent to reform school. That seemed to be my rite of passage into manhood. I was 17.
To be honest, I was a lousy student and barely got thru school. Actually I did not graduate from high school - I missed it by 2 points in Physics. I did pass my GED with flying colors a couple of years later. Linda insisted that I get my diploma before we were married and if getting my diploma was what it took to make Linda happy it was a small price to pay.
Fast forward another year. I turned 18 - the world was at my feet and I could do anything I wanted as long as Dad said OK. The times were changing daily in 1965 but my future was limited to :
1. Go to college - I had enough of school, besides no diploma and no money for tuition.
2. Run away and become a hippy - that just wasn't me.
3. Run away to Canada to avoid the draft - that was not for me either.
4. Wait to be drafted - that meant being a ground pounder in the army, no thanks.
5. Join the service of choice.
I chose # 5. The Air Force had been around school and I had performed very well on their aptitude test so they wanted me bad, but dad wanted me in the Navy. His wisdom was put in the form of a question " If you are flying along and the plane quits, how far can you fly ? Now if your ship starts to sink how far can you swim ? ". His logic was sound - no matter how hard I flapped my arms I couldn't get off the ground but I could tread water and swim for miles. I joined the Navy and although it worked out fine I have always thought the Air Force would have been better. After my first night in boot camp I determined that this was not what I had in mind when I turned 18.
The Navy was fun and exciting and it took me to four foreign countries and twice to the Vietnam War. While it was interesting to visit places I will never see again, the best part of the Navy was meeting Linda.
Linda was 17 when we met, I was 19 and drunk, neither of us knew then that we would be blind dates a few days later. I showed up sober and proceeded to charm her and her Mom ( her Dad took the next 40 years). We married a year later.
Just because I was considered a grown man and married did not mean my troubles were over. Seems as though I had a hard time developing roots, always looking for the pot of gold. My quest for something better took us around the country . Four times we lived in California, twice in Florida and Georgia, once in Kansas and Tennessee. Looking back now, I think we would have been better off taking a pass on a couple of the offers to relocate, but then I did promise Linda she would not get bored.
The last 45 years have had their ups and downs, but Linda and I weathered the storms and bathed in the sunshine. Thru it all we produced two handsome boys who are now grown. I couldn't be more proud of them or love her more.
The past is now a series of memories flowing in and out of my mind at the whim of a sound , smell or recollection of a simpler time. Do I have any regrets? I think everyone has regrets of the past and I am no different. I should have been a better husband , father, son and brother, I should have gotten a better education and been a better provider. Shudda, wudda, cudda, it's all water under the bridge now but if I could would I do it all over again? Only if the remake occurred in the same era as the first time around. Keeping up with the changing times of today is exhausting, I long for the " good ol' days."
When we moved to Mt. Juliet, my adventurous soul almost burst with all of the possibilities. We were in a country setting surrounded by fields with cedar trees, hills filled with big trees and brush, Cedar Creek, and Old Hickory Lake.
I found out that if you crawled under the low hanging branches of a cedar tree on a cold day you would be warm because the foliage was so thick and low to the ground the cold was kept out. This was good to know as it was better to hang out under the cedar tree than go back to a house with four siblings getting on Mom's nerves.
I had a bicycle that was made up of several bikes and I rode it everywhere, down to the main highway or out to Whisit's boat dock and even around to Langfords Cove. I rode thru the woods on old logging trails and made a few trails of my own. One of the neighbors told Mom he had been out hunting and thought a bear was coming thru the brush and just as he was taking aim I whizzed by him on my bike.
I did my own repairs on the bike and that turned out to be hazardous. After working on the brakes, I was roaring down a hill on the blacktop road when a car pulled out in front of me forcing me to hit the brakes but they didn't work. When I got home and changed shorts I figured out where those leftover pieces fit ( note to self, if you take a part off it has to go back on ). As I said before, my bike was made up of several bikes but it worked fine. We boys used to go to an area in the subdivision where they dug out fill dirt for construction, there were mounds of dirt that made great ramps for jumping the bikes. We would pedal like hell and hit the dirt mounds with such speed that we could get 2-3 feet in the air. While performing one of these daring feats I was surprised to see my front wheel had never left the ground and was rolling to one side - didn't need brakes this time because when the front forks of the bike dug in to the dirt I came to an instant stop. This was another reason I didn't have kids until after I was thirty.
One night when Dad and I were on our way home from work, he pulled in to a small store at the bottom of Scott's Hollow Hill and got a coke. As he pulled out he put the automatic transmission in low and floored the gas pedal. The little 283 in the '58 Chevy screamed all the way to the top of the hill. When Dad finally shoved the lever to drive we were doing 75 mph, he looked at me and said he was going to teach me to drive but if he ever caught me doing anything stupid like he just did he would kick my ass. Thus began my driving lessons.
Dad had a john boat built and purchased a 12 hp motor for it. I was going fishing early one morning with my friend Donnie Odum. Dad let me use the car to carry the motor and gas can and fishing rods to the boat. Everything would have been alright if I had stuck to the plan but I had the car all to myself and nobody was on the road. This was too irresistible. I went for a joy ride, out to the main highway down to Langford's Cove and over to Donnie's house - then the car died. Donnie's dad took me home and took Dad back to the car. Dad was pissed . I was grounded - no fishing nor ball game that night. Probably the only thing that saved me from a whipping was that Dad had to go to work and that night he chose to go see his bootlegger friend before coming home. Seems the fuel gauge would not register less than 1/4 tank and as Dad was the only one who drove the car he didn't tell anyone about the gauge. Sure would have made a big difference had I known.
Over the next couple of years I was typical teenager straining at the bit for the day I turned 18 and could do anything I wanted. I rebelled to some degree and got whipped for things like not cutting the grass, getting caught smoking or getting bad grades. One night Dad let me walk down the road to visit with a friend and Pat went to see a girl who lived across the street from my friend, " be home by 10:00". When the time came to go home , I went to get Pat who was not ready and we wound up being late. On the way home Dad pulled up in the car and told us to get home. Dad was waiting and Pat was the first thru the garage door. Then Dad grabbed me and slung me against the brick wall of the house. He reared back with his fist and threatened to beat hell out of me. Dad backed off when I told him I would be gone by morning, from that time on there were no more whippings or threats to be sent to reform school. That seemed to be my rite of passage into manhood. I was 17.
To be honest, I was a lousy student and barely got thru school. Actually I did not graduate from high school - I missed it by 2 points in Physics. I did pass my GED with flying colors a couple of years later. Linda insisted that I get my diploma before we were married and if getting my diploma was what it took to make Linda happy it was a small price to pay.
Fast forward another year. I turned 18 - the world was at my feet and I could do anything I wanted as long as Dad said OK. The times were changing daily in 1965 but my future was limited to :
1. Go to college - I had enough of school, besides no diploma and no money for tuition.
2. Run away and become a hippy - that just wasn't me.
3. Run away to Canada to avoid the draft - that was not for me either.
4. Wait to be drafted - that meant being a ground pounder in the army, no thanks.
5. Join the service of choice.
I chose # 5. The Air Force had been around school and I had performed very well on their aptitude test so they wanted me bad, but dad wanted me in the Navy. His wisdom was put in the form of a question " If you are flying along and the plane quits, how far can you fly ? Now if your ship starts to sink how far can you swim ? ". His logic was sound - no matter how hard I flapped my arms I couldn't get off the ground but I could tread water and swim for miles. I joined the Navy and although it worked out fine I have always thought the Air Force would have been better. After my first night in boot camp I determined that this was not what I had in mind when I turned 18.
The Navy was fun and exciting and it took me to four foreign countries and twice to the Vietnam War. While it was interesting to visit places I will never see again, the best part of the Navy was meeting Linda.
Linda was 17 when we met, I was 19 and drunk, neither of us knew then that we would be blind dates a few days later. I showed up sober and proceeded to charm her and her Mom ( her Dad took the next 40 years). We married a year later.
Just because I was considered a grown man and married did not mean my troubles were over. Seems as though I had a hard time developing roots, always looking for the pot of gold. My quest for something better took us around the country . Four times we lived in California, twice in Florida and Georgia, once in Kansas and Tennessee. Looking back now, I think we would have been better off taking a pass on a couple of the offers to relocate, but then I did promise Linda she would not get bored.
The last 45 years have had their ups and downs, but Linda and I weathered the storms and bathed in the sunshine. Thru it all we produced two handsome boys who are now grown. I couldn't be more proud of them or love her more.
The past is now a series of memories flowing in and out of my mind at the whim of a sound , smell or recollection of a simpler time. Do I have any regrets? I think everyone has regrets of the past and I am no different. I should have been a better husband , father, son and brother, I should have gotten a better education and been a better provider. Shudda, wudda, cudda, it's all water under the bridge now but if I could would I do it all over again? Only if the remake occurred in the same era as the first time around. Keeping up with the changing times of today is exhausting, I long for the " good ol' days."
No comments:
Post a Comment