By Dick Hinson
Two former offenders who were in the custody of the Dozier School for Boys during the mid 1950s have come forward with an amazing and sensational story. They allege they suffered cruel physical abuse from a group of guards while they were housed at Dozier.
This type of punishment was, they claim, standard operating procedure at the institution. However, that charge is equivalent to a slap on the wrist compared to the absurd accusation which follows. Are you prepared for a shock? "The sadistic torture of the boys progressed to concealed murders on a fairly large scale."
They didn’t offer an estimate on the body count, but shared speculation that unmarked graves were abundant. Some victims apparently received hasty and shallow disposals as evidenced by bare bones surfacing in farmland adjacent to the school. We can assume that there were no funeral services for the victims.
The pair of men bringing these allegations now appear to be in their sixties and are having problems finding local citizens old enough to verify their tales of infamous standards of that era. They invite the "good people of Marianna" to come forward and join the "300-400" former residents already recruited to complain. It is suggested that it is O.K. to remain anonymous if you so desire.
The duo of past offenders declares that their experience at the school was traumatic. A period of approximately fifty years was required for them to be able to come forward to talk about it. Now, speaking easily and freely, they also divulge that book and movie deals may be pending. This is no surprise. Lurid and sensational stories of this nature often find a ready market in certain classes of today’s media- including pulp magazines. They closed the press interview by urging any elderly residents (familiar with the earlier years of the "reform school") to come forward with their comments on the validity of their claims.
As a native of this small town and now in my 80s, I submit that I meet their criteria and do not elect to withhold my identity. In my opinion, the best single word to describe their story is, "Hogwash." Stay with me and I think you will agree.
The "Florida School for Boys" now, "Dozier" was formerly dedicated in Marianna on January 1, 1900. For over seventy years there was no perimeter fence around the expansive acreage. The interior streets, which served the buildings and housing, remained open to the public on a 24 hour basis. There were no check points or traffic controls. The superintendent and key staff members lived on the school premises with their families. Each year, Christmas displays erected by the boys drew thousands of people from the Tri-State area.
In the late 1940s, private picnic pavilions were constructed for the boys to use when they were visited by their families and/or friends. These occasions were totally unsupervised, permitting personal conversation. You can be certain that questions focused on the boys’ environment, welfare and conditions at the correctional facility. You can also be certain that the boy’s were aware of every rumor- fact or fiction- and of any degrading and severe abuse to any student. The mere hint of a murder on the premises would have resulted in family outrage. Protests would have been made from the Governor to the House of Congress. The local police and sheriff would have been confronted. It just did not happen.
If a boy had no immediate family members, there were two more back-up levels for detection of wrong doing. The second safeguard was the superintendant and his staff. I knew all who served long terms during the 1930s to the early 1980s. They were capable managers who were good at their jobs. Their network of gathering information from certain rank and file employees was such that no activities escaped their attention and control on a 24 hour basis.
If you can imagine the failure of the first two systems to detect the deadly tortures, there remains a third: the medical personnel who were on staff there. I have been acquainted with the doctors who served as medical directors since the 1930s, who also maintained private practices in town. The physician who served one of the longest terms until recent years was a close personal friend. I can assure you that his perception and skill was impressive. Any injury of an abusive nature would have immediately been recognized, reported and investigated. This man died several years ago.
Subject to these three safeguards, it is ludicrous to imagine the reality of a long term practice of abuse and secret burials by the night shift school guards.
When young, we "town boys" made frequent visits to the school, and considered it to be an interesting place. Athletic teams, marching units and a drum and bugle band were in action. We also couldn’t help noticing that the boys, about our ages, appeared to be well fed, healthy and well clothed. This was not the case with our own classmates, some of whom did not go barefoot by choice during those years of the Depression.
When I returned to Jackson County from World War II, The Dozier School was considered to be an extension of our city, churches and civic clubs. It does not deserve to be portrayed as a concentration camp sixty years later.
-Dick Hinson
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Reminiscing: Will Rogers, Where Have You Gone When Your Country Needs You?
6/26/08
By: Dick Hinson
In the depression years of the 1930’s, just about everything that could go wrong had already hit bottom. Multitudes of Americans were unemployed. Adolph Hitler was beating the Nazi War drums and across our nation our banks were going broke. Even the weather kicked in with record droughts and dust storms, forcing farmers to abandon their mid-west farms and take to the roads as homeless migrants. History will tell you that the stage was set for dangerous times. Not much to laugh about, was there?
Enter a cowboy named Will Rogers. Born in 1879 in Oklahoma Indian Territory, Rogers was the last of eight children. His parents were Irish and Cherokee Indian, a heritage he was always proud of. With little formal education, he grew up to earn his living as a working cowhand.
While riding and roping on ranches which ran thousands of head of cattle, he developed advanced skills with the lasso. This talent led him into Vaudeville, performing roping tricks from the stage. During some of these shows he began to tell jokes as he worked the rope. This was an instant success. He tried to find some humor in the common everyday difficulties faced by the average family, expressed in the simple words of a hard working cowboy.
However, behind those wry down to earth comments was a mind as sharp as a steel trap. As his influence continued to grow, it was only natural that he began to comment on political issues and politicians. He had a rare talent for summing up complex issues in a few well chosen words. His popularity expanded from local to regional to a national scale. People were no longer interested in his cowhand roping skills. They wanted to laugh at the wisdom and humor he directed toward government and unwise political influence. On a daily basis, people asked each other "Did you hear what Will Rogers said yesterday?"
In addition to being the highest paid newspaper columnist, he was at the top of the communication fields that existed in those pre-television days. He traveled the world, dining with kings and presidents and swapped jokes with other famous writers, actors and comedians. Through it all, he remained the Oklahoma cowboy and a family man.
Here are some of his typical lines and sayings in the 1920’s and 1930’s:
"I have not aligned myself with any party. I am just sitting tight waiting for an attractive offer." "There is one thing about a Democrat. He would rather make a speech than a dollar."
"Well you know how congress is. They’ll vote for anything if the thing will turn around and vote for them."
"I believe I have found out how to tell one party from the other. The Republican says "Well things could have been worse." The Democrat says "HOW?" "You know it takes nerve to be a Democrat, but it takes money to be a Republican."
"I tell you that war will never be a success until you do have a referee and they announce before they start just what it’s for."
"You got to be funny to be a Democrat. It takes more humor to be a Democrat than it does a Republican anyhow."
"There ain’t but one thing wrong with every one of us in the world, and that’s selfishness."
Meanwhile, Rogers had gotten interested in promoting aviation and its future. He flew with Charles Lindbergh. In 1935, he and Wiley Post, another famous pilot, planned a flight to visit several countries. All I recall from photos of Mr. Post is that he sported a black patch over a blind eye.
In Marianna, August 15, 1935 was my mother’s 41st birthday. She was a loyal fan of Will Rogers, and we had often listened to his broadcasts. As I approached our small frame home, I could hear her crying. This was a rare experience, and it frightened me. She was alone. Running inside to her, I asked "What has happened?" "Will Rogers," she sobbed, "Has died in a plane crash." Mr. Post also died as their small plane went down near Barrow, Alaska. Our entire country mourned the loss.
Many recalled a column he wrote in 1928, including this comment "This thing about being a hero, about the main thing to it is to know when to die. Prolonged life has ruined more men than it ever made." Whether premonition or coincidence, Will Rogers made his own exit from the peak of his work. He was 56 years old.
By: Dick Hinson
In the depression years of the 1930’s, just about everything that could go wrong had already hit bottom. Multitudes of Americans were unemployed. Adolph Hitler was beating the Nazi War drums and across our nation our banks were going broke. Even the weather kicked in with record droughts and dust storms, forcing farmers to abandon their mid-west farms and take to the roads as homeless migrants. History will tell you that the stage was set for dangerous times. Not much to laugh about, was there?
Enter a cowboy named Will Rogers. Born in 1879 in Oklahoma Indian Territory, Rogers was the last of eight children. His parents were Irish and Cherokee Indian, a heritage he was always proud of. With little formal education, he grew up to earn his living as a working cowhand.
While riding and roping on ranches which ran thousands of head of cattle, he developed advanced skills with the lasso. This talent led him into Vaudeville, performing roping tricks from the stage. During some of these shows he began to tell jokes as he worked the rope. This was an instant success. He tried to find some humor in the common everyday difficulties faced by the average family, expressed in the simple words of a hard working cowboy.
However, behind those wry down to earth comments was a mind as sharp as a steel trap. As his influence continued to grow, it was only natural that he began to comment on political issues and politicians. He had a rare talent for summing up complex issues in a few well chosen words. His popularity expanded from local to regional to a national scale. People were no longer interested in his cowhand roping skills. They wanted to laugh at the wisdom and humor he directed toward government and unwise political influence. On a daily basis, people asked each other "Did you hear what Will Rogers said yesterday?"
In addition to being the highest paid newspaper columnist, he was at the top of the communication fields that existed in those pre-television days. He traveled the world, dining with kings and presidents and swapped jokes with other famous writers, actors and comedians. Through it all, he remained the Oklahoma cowboy and a family man.
Here are some of his typical lines and sayings in the 1920’s and 1930’s:
"I have not aligned myself with any party. I am just sitting tight waiting for an attractive offer." "There is one thing about a Democrat. He would rather make a speech than a dollar."
"Well you know how congress is. They’ll vote for anything if the thing will turn around and vote for them."
"I believe I have found out how to tell one party from the other. The Republican says "Well things could have been worse." The Democrat says "HOW?" "You know it takes nerve to be a Democrat, but it takes money to be a Republican."
"I tell you that war will never be a success until you do have a referee and they announce before they start just what it’s for."
"You got to be funny to be a Democrat. It takes more humor to be a Democrat than it does a Republican anyhow."
"There ain’t but one thing wrong with every one of us in the world, and that’s selfishness."
Meanwhile, Rogers had gotten interested in promoting aviation and its future. He flew with Charles Lindbergh. In 1935, he and Wiley Post, another famous pilot, planned a flight to visit several countries. All I recall from photos of Mr. Post is that he sported a black patch over a blind eye.
In Marianna, August 15, 1935 was my mother’s 41st birthday. She was a loyal fan of Will Rogers, and we had often listened to his broadcasts. As I approached our small frame home, I could hear her crying. This was a rare experience, and it frightened me. She was alone. Running inside to her, I asked "What has happened?" "Will Rogers," she sobbed, "Has died in a plane crash." Mr. Post also died as their small plane went down near Barrow, Alaska. Our entire country mourned the loss.
Many recalled a column he wrote in 1928, including this comment "This thing about being a hero, about the main thing to it is to know when to die. Prolonged life has ruined more men than it ever made." Whether premonition or coincidence, Will Rogers made his own exit from the peak of his work. He was 56 years old.
Reminiscing
November 22, 2006
By: Dick Hinson
Early on past Thanksgiving mornings, local wives and mothers were busy loading kids, pies, and cakes into vehicles. Destination: "Camp Seclusion," about 20 miles south of Bristol. Their husbands had already been there for several days with their sons who where old enough to be safely left alone on a "deer-drive stand." What sort of place was "Camp Seclusion?" That’s not an easy question to answer…. Do you recall the long running television series "M.A.S.H.?" If so, you have a good idea of the mix of lifestyles and personalities within the members of the organization.
Started around 1960 by three or four Marianna friends, it grew to over 30 during the next 25 years. Like the TV series, most were military veterans. All shared a love and appreciation of the outdoors. Originally organized as a "Deer Hunting Club", the truth is that the taking of a buck deer came to be regarded as an unwelcome interruption of more favored pursuits. One of these enjoyable activities was a marathon friendly card game. A large round table in the dining shack seated eight, and members drifted in and out. Near the table, a C.B. radio base station blared in the background, providing estimated locations of two or three serious hunters, wandering members, and lost deerhounds in the forest. A wide fireplace provided comfort on cold nights. It was also a good spot for long talks and tall tales. The camp complex in Liberty County was on a leased acre. It was Flanked on the West by the Florida River, and the Apalachicola national Forest on the East.
Three crude frame structures had survived from the original use as a logging camp of the 1920’s. The workmen of that era used long cross-cut saws. Teams of oxen pulled the logs. The accommodations would be ranked as "Spartan." The "back-home" occupations of the members ranged from farmer to forester, preachers to physicians, and beekeepers to businessmen. Throw in a master welder, auto mechanic, teacher, public official, and an attorney. Few problems arose where you didn’t have immediate access to "expert advice." You could also become the victim of a sinister practical joke, so you had to be cautious. Back then, very little of the virgin timber on the island area had been harvested. There was no bridge across the Florida River. The area between this small river and the Apalachicola formed an island two miles wide and ten miles long.
The early loggers could only chip at the edges from one of the rivers. Our forester member said that the island contained one of the most impressive stands of mature trees in the country. Many were over 500 years old, living when Columbus landed on Thanksgiving Day, you can imagine how excited the kids were to arrive and be turned loose into this primitive playground! The dinner was bountiful. Venison and pork came with the turkey and dressing. The former oxen pen produced the biggest and best turnip greens ever tasted.
Much of the meat was cooked in our underground brick-lined pit, covered with bay leaves. Green hickory coals filled the pit bottom. Happy diners filled the shack, and spilled out to chairs around the nearby bonfire. It was a good time. There are a hundred stories of camp seclusion, and perhaps we’ll share another at a later date. Meanwhile, Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours……
By: Dick Hinson
Early on past Thanksgiving mornings, local wives and mothers were busy loading kids, pies, and cakes into vehicles. Destination: "Camp Seclusion," about 20 miles south of Bristol. Their husbands had already been there for several days with their sons who where old enough to be safely left alone on a "deer-drive stand." What sort of place was "Camp Seclusion?" That’s not an easy question to answer…. Do you recall the long running television series "M.A.S.H.?" If so, you have a good idea of the mix of lifestyles and personalities within the members of the organization.
Started around 1960 by three or four Marianna friends, it grew to over 30 during the next 25 years. Like the TV series, most were military veterans. All shared a love and appreciation of the outdoors. Originally organized as a "Deer Hunting Club", the truth is that the taking of a buck deer came to be regarded as an unwelcome interruption of more favored pursuits. One of these enjoyable activities was a marathon friendly card game. A large round table in the dining shack seated eight, and members drifted in and out. Near the table, a C.B. radio base station blared in the background, providing estimated locations of two or three serious hunters, wandering members, and lost deerhounds in the forest. A wide fireplace provided comfort on cold nights. It was also a good spot for long talks and tall tales. The camp complex in Liberty County was on a leased acre. It was Flanked on the West by the Florida River, and the Apalachicola national Forest on the East.
Three crude frame structures had survived from the original use as a logging camp of the 1920’s. The workmen of that era used long cross-cut saws. Teams of oxen pulled the logs. The accommodations would be ranked as "Spartan." The "back-home" occupations of the members ranged from farmer to forester, preachers to physicians, and beekeepers to businessmen. Throw in a master welder, auto mechanic, teacher, public official, and an attorney. Few problems arose where you didn’t have immediate access to "expert advice." You could also become the victim of a sinister practical joke, so you had to be cautious. Back then, very little of the virgin timber on the island area had been harvested. There was no bridge across the Florida River. The area between this small river and the Apalachicola formed an island two miles wide and ten miles long.
The early loggers could only chip at the edges from one of the rivers. Our forester member said that the island contained one of the most impressive stands of mature trees in the country. Many were over 500 years old, living when Columbus landed on Thanksgiving Day, you can imagine how excited the kids were to arrive and be turned loose into this primitive playground! The dinner was bountiful. Venison and pork came with the turkey and dressing. The former oxen pen produced the biggest and best turnip greens ever tasted.
Much of the meat was cooked in our underground brick-lined pit, covered with bay leaves. Green hickory coals filled the pit bottom. Happy diners filled the shack, and spilled out to chairs around the nearby bonfire. It was a good time. There are a hundred stories of camp seclusion, and perhaps we’ll share another at a later date. Meanwhile, Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours……
Reminiscing
December 27, 2006
By: Dick Hinson
If you haven’t noticed, the season of Christmas placed a lot of emphasis on fancy foods. That has been the case for a long time in this part of the South. When I was a kid, Santa Claus usually came through with some fruit, Brazil nuts, and a small bag of fireworks. These Holiday explosives were not regulated in power or composition. A single firecracker about the size of a shotgun shell would propel a syrup can 75 yards into the air. When the celebration really got underway, it sounded like a South American Revolution in progress. Now bear in mind that we’re talking about the depression days of the nineteen-thirties. You appreciated anything which came your way on Christmas morning.
Many gifts were homemade. Many years later, I heard a talk delivered by the late Pearce Harris of Atlanta. Until then, I would not have believed that a full-length sermon could be based on the consumption of a single orange. Dr. Harris came to a local church at this season of the year, and recalled his childhood as a member of a large family. His Father’s limited income permitted only one gift for each. In Harris’s case, it was the solitary orange! As he explained, just a bite or two of sweet citrus was a rare luxury. On this special day, Santa had remembered him. Such a treasure was not to be rushed, he took his listeners through Christmas morning by describing his careful removal of each strip of the peel….during the afternoon he began to separate each section, admiring the texture and aroma. As dark approached, he began to eat his gift. After finishing the prime sections, he ate each strip of peeling, and ended by chewing the seeds. By bedtime, no trace of the orange remained except the memory of a wonderful day…..
Early on, it was obvious where this presentation was going. However, in the hands of a skillful professional speaker, it didn’t matter. Pearce Harris was one of the best. There weren’t many dry eyes in the congregation. Later on, I couldn’t help wondering how my own little family might respond to "Santa" encountering a lean year. Would they properly appreciate five oranges!?! I never got around to putting them to the test. They probably would prefer a firecracker- Wishing each of you a safe and Happy New Year------
By: Dick Hinson
If you haven’t noticed, the season of Christmas placed a lot of emphasis on fancy foods. That has been the case for a long time in this part of the South. When I was a kid, Santa Claus usually came through with some fruit, Brazil nuts, and a small bag of fireworks. These Holiday explosives were not regulated in power or composition. A single firecracker about the size of a shotgun shell would propel a syrup can 75 yards into the air. When the celebration really got underway, it sounded like a South American Revolution in progress. Now bear in mind that we’re talking about the depression days of the nineteen-thirties. You appreciated anything which came your way on Christmas morning.
Many gifts were homemade. Many years later, I heard a talk delivered by the late Pearce Harris of Atlanta. Until then, I would not have believed that a full-length sermon could be based on the consumption of a single orange. Dr. Harris came to a local church at this season of the year, and recalled his childhood as a member of a large family. His Father’s limited income permitted only one gift for each. In Harris’s case, it was the solitary orange! As he explained, just a bite or two of sweet citrus was a rare luxury. On this special day, Santa had remembered him. Such a treasure was not to be rushed, he took his listeners through Christmas morning by describing his careful removal of each strip of the peel….during the afternoon he began to separate each section, admiring the texture and aroma. As dark approached, he began to eat his gift. After finishing the prime sections, he ate each strip of peeling, and ended by chewing the seeds. By bedtime, no trace of the orange remained except the memory of a wonderful day…..
Early on, it was obvious where this presentation was going. However, in the hands of a skillful professional speaker, it didn’t matter. Pearce Harris was one of the best. There weren’t many dry eyes in the congregation. Later on, I couldn’t help wondering how my own little family might respond to "Santa" encountering a lean year. Would they properly appreciate five oranges!?! I never got around to putting them to the test. They probably would prefer a firecracker- Wishing each of you a safe and Happy New Year------
Reminiscing
December 13, 2006
By: Dick Hinson
"For Sale": Tree Stands, Automatic Feeding Stations, Shooting Tents, Shelled Corn, Ear Corn, Salt Blocks, and Game Cameras!" If an old-time game warden could come back and see this advertisement, he would prepare to arrest every deer hunter in Jackson County. Nobody could convince him that it was now legal to bait the animals. For many years into the 1950’s, a whitetail deer was rarely seen in this area. The breeding stock had been decimated by various parasites, disease, and almost finished off by a long term epidemic of screwflies.
Most of the surviving animals stayed hidden in the remote river swamps, and were hunted by packs of deer hounds. However, even these "swamp-deer" were so few in number that the hunters would have probably helped the wardens jail anyone taking deer over bait! Everyone knew that passenger pigeons had become extinct, and they wondered if the whitetails were headed in the same direction. Now we may as well admit that, up to this time, the occupation of "scientist" was not considered to affect the activities of everyday life in Jackson County. They kept to their own arcane world. Practical results of many long-term experiments were difficult to identify. This was about to see a dramatic change!
In the early 1950’s, residents around the county began noticing numbers of small planes. Most were piper cubs, flying in wide, slow circles. Inquiries revealed that these operations were a result of research science in action. Male screwflies, sterilized by radiation, were being released from the aircraft. A scientist had determined that the female fly mated only once. Coupled with the short life span of the insects, both would die before the next breeding cycle….At least, this was the theory from the secret world of the unidentified scientist…..
Back on the grounds of the cattlemen, farmers, and hunters in Jackson County this news was the topic of every conversation. There were legions of skeptics and various jokes. Not all, however. Some said that nothing else had worked, so "give it a chance, as crazy as it sounds." As they say, the rest is history. As time passed, it became evident that the screwflies were disappearing. Not only locally, but throughout the south, the scourge had been lifted. Cattlemen no longer had to locate and treat a newborn calf within a day or two after birth to save them. The fawns could now survive, and the deer herds began to recover.
Their numbers were so small that it required almost a half-century to reach our present proximity to overpopulation. A milestone was established. For the first time, the average citizen of Jackson County gained a respect and appreciation for the practical application of science! As we deal with current problems such as conserving the future quality of our water supply, this lesson should not be forgotten.
By: Dick Hinson
"For Sale": Tree Stands, Automatic Feeding Stations, Shooting Tents, Shelled Corn, Ear Corn, Salt Blocks, and Game Cameras!" If an old-time game warden could come back and see this advertisement, he would prepare to arrest every deer hunter in Jackson County. Nobody could convince him that it was now legal to bait the animals. For many years into the 1950’s, a whitetail deer was rarely seen in this area. The breeding stock had been decimated by various parasites, disease, and almost finished off by a long term epidemic of screwflies.
Most of the surviving animals stayed hidden in the remote river swamps, and were hunted by packs of deer hounds. However, even these "swamp-deer" were so few in number that the hunters would have probably helped the wardens jail anyone taking deer over bait! Everyone knew that passenger pigeons had become extinct, and they wondered if the whitetails were headed in the same direction. Now we may as well admit that, up to this time, the occupation of "scientist" was not considered to affect the activities of everyday life in Jackson County. They kept to their own arcane world. Practical results of many long-term experiments were difficult to identify. This was about to see a dramatic change!
In the early 1950’s, residents around the county began noticing numbers of small planes. Most were piper cubs, flying in wide, slow circles. Inquiries revealed that these operations were a result of research science in action. Male screwflies, sterilized by radiation, were being released from the aircraft. A scientist had determined that the female fly mated only once. Coupled with the short life span of the insects, both would die before the next breeding cycle….At least, this was the theory from the secret world of the unidentified scientist…..
Back on the grounds of the cattlemen, farmers, and hunters in Jackson County this news was the topic of every conversation. There were legions of skeptics and various jokes. Not all, however. Some said that nothing else had worked, so "give it a chance, as crazy as it sounds." As they say, the rest is history. As time passed, it became evident that the screwflies were disappearing. Not only locally, but throughout the south, the scourge had been lifted. Cattlemen no longer had to locate and treat a newborn calf within a day or two after birth to save them. The fawns could now survive, and the deer herds began to recover.
Their numbers were so small that it required almost a half-century to reach our present proximity to overpopulation. A milestone was established. For the first time, the average citizen of Jackson County gained a respect and appreciation for the practical application of science! As we deal with current problems such as conserving the future quality of our water supply, this lesson should not be forgotten.
Reminiscing
December 6, 2006
By: Dick Hinson
The steam locomotive pulling the "Railway Wild West Show" puffed to a stop in Sneads. Circus roustabouts unloaded horses and covered wagons. Indians, cowboys, and an older man with a white beard waved to the crowd. The handbills advertised that "Buffalo Bill Cody" would present his astounding show the following afternoon. In Faraway Europe, World War I was starting. As the show began the next day, a local teenage cowboy sat in the bleachers with his father. The family owned a large spread of land along the "Big River" east of Sneads. Virgin pine timber, a turpentine still, and a herd of half-wild cattle were included in their operations. The boy could be described as a young giant, lean, and 6 feet, 4 inches in height. He had grown up in the saddle. After "Buffalo Bill" had driven the Indians away from chasing the pioneer wagons, it was time for the trick rider to perform. An assistant had dropped small cotton bags around the inner edge of the circus tent ring. The rider entered the arena at top speed. Leaning sideways from the saddle, he swept the bags from the ground as the horse dashed by.
One by one, he did not miss….The spectators applauded the skills of both the rider and his horse. It was a good show. The boy leaned over to his father and said. "I think I could do that." On the way back home the boy made his plans. He currently had the best mustang cowhorse he had ever seen. Well trained for roping and bulldogging, the animal was strong and fast. In addition, he seemed to have a sixth sense of which direction a running calf was going to swerve. The rider was kept close to his target. For weeks, he practiced grabbing objects from the ground. With his long arm, this was no problem. However, there was the main secret that he hadn’t yet shared with anyone. The young Pebble C. Stone intended to catch a wild turkey from horseback! Even an overconfident teenager knew that he had better keep quiet. He didn’t want to be known as the "village idiot" of Sneads. For more that fifty years, the eventual outcome was known only by the immediate family and employees. Now, fast forward to the 1970’s. The teenage rider is now an elderly passenger in my Ford Bronco II. We were members of "Camp Seclusion" in Liberty County, and were returning from a River Styx fishing trip. We had known each other lifelong. Suddenly, a young wild turkey ran across the sandy road ahead of the vehicle. "When I was young," He said, "I caught some turkeys about that size." "What kind of trap did you use", I asked… "No Traps," He replied, "I caught them from horseback." I continued to drive, thinking I might have misunderstood. "Peb" was known among all the club members as a "straight arrow." He was respected as being a serious man, 100% truthful. Unlike some others, he told no "tall tales." While he had a dry sense of humor, he would always end such remarks by saying, "Now I’m just joking." That coment did not come. "Peb," I said, Did you say you caught them from Horseback?" "I did," he replied, "And I want you to understand I’m bragging on my horse!" I’m not a turkey hunter, but over the years have seen quite a few. Without exception, they were alert, had great vision, and were as fast as greased lighting….
Now, I was about to hear about an adventure that had been kept quiet for over fifty years! "Tell me all about it," I said…. He told me about the circus and the trick rider, followed by practice with his own mustang. He was satisfied. All he lacked was a wild turkey. Weeks passed into spring. One morning, as he was on his way to work the cattle, he noticed a large windfall pine. In falling, the tree had created a spacious cavity in the ground. He saw movement…a turkey hen was raising her brood in the protected area under the root system. Peb kept his distance from the nest and rode on. At suppertime that night, he told his parents that he was going to need an enclosed pen in the backyard. His mother agreed to have a turpentine still worker build the cage. As the turkeys grew, Peb continued to ride by. The nest adjoined an open area of several acres, which was the feeding space for the flock. The birds did not associate the horse as a source of danger. At this point, some of my own experience kicked in: any wild creature almost disregards the rider. They concentrate on the horse, which they don’t fear nearly as much as a human. The dominant scent of the horse is also a major factor. Pioneer hunters knew this and used horses whenever possible. When seeking large game. Peb was ready. Everything now hinged on one question: Would the mustang accept a running turkey as his target? Nobody had the answer.
On the appointed morning, he pulled a tight cinch on the girth strap, and rode along on his usual path. He knew the feeding timetable, and the young birds were spread out over the meadow. Seeing one turkey which had fed into an isolated area from the group, he reined the horse to point directly at the bird. The "catch" signal and his spurs were suddenly applied. The mustang leaped forward…to his amazement, the horse "locked in" on the running turkey just as though he was a fleeing calf! As the bird swerved to a straight path to gain speed, the little mustang passed alongside. Pebble swung his big hand to the ground. The rest is history. He straightened in the saddle with a struggling wild turkey caught by one wing! Bird #1 was deposited in the new pen. Peb’s mother was delighted… On following days, turkeys #2, #3, and #4 were collected. It became apparent that the mother hen placed a higher priority on the sheltered den and adjacent food supply than the number of her brood. The young bird’s which had not been chased still had no fear of the horse. Their memory span did not extend from one day to the next. This was an ideal scenario for Peb Stone. He finally placed nine birds in the pen. His mother prepared and cooked the tender turkeys. After finally telling about this long ago experience, Pebble could sometime be persuaded to tell the story again…
Occasionally, a listener not aware of the man’s reputation would say that he didn’t believe him… Peb had the same remark each time: "If you don’t believe me, ask my mama!!" Hearing this and seeing that Peb Stone was obviously into his 80’s, the doubters decided that he had lost his mind. What they didn’t know is that he was born when his mother was sixteen. At this time, Mrs. Stone was close to 100, in good health and mentally sharp. Nobody ever had the nerve to contact her for verification of her son’s honesty!
By: Dick Hinson
The steam locomotive pulling the "Railway Wild West Show" puffed to a stop in Sneads. Circus roustabouts unloaded horses and covered wagons. Indians, cowboys, and an older man with a white beard waved to the crowd. The handbills advertised that "Buffalo Bill Cody" would present his astounding show the following afternoon. In Faraway Europe, World War I was starting. As the show began the next day, a local teenage cowboy sat in the bleachers with his father. The family owned a large spread of land along the "Big River" east of Sneads. Virgin pine timber, a turpentine still, and a herd of half-wild cattle were included in their operations. The boy could be described as a young giant, lean, and 6 feet, 4 inches in height. He had grown up in the saddle. After "Buffalo Bill" had driven the Indians away from chasing the pioneer wagons, it was time for the trick rider to perform. An assistant had dropped small cotton bags around the inner edge of the circus tent ring. The rider entered the arena at top speed. Leaning sideways from the saddle, he swept the bags from the ground as the horse dashed by.
One by one, he did not miss….The spectators applauded the skills of both the rider and his horse. It was a good show. The boy leaned over to his father and said. "I think I could do that." On the way back home the boy made his plans. He currently had the best mustang cowhorse he had ever seen. Well trained for roping and bulldogging, the animal was strong and fast. In addition, he seemed to have a sixth sense of which direction a running calf was going to swerve. The rider was kept close to his target. For weeks, he practiced grabbing objects from the ground. With his long arm, this was no problem. However, there was the main secret that he hadn’t yet shared with anyone. The young Pebble C. Stone intended to catch a wild turkey from horseback! Even an overconfident teenager knew that he had better keep quiet. He didn’t want to be known as the "village idiot" of Sneads. For more that fifty years, the eventual outcome was known only by the immediate family and employees. Now, fast forward to the 1970’s. The teenage rider is now an elderly passenger in my Ford Bronco II. We were members of "Camp Seclusion" in Liberty County, and were returning from a River Styx fishing trip. We had known each other lifelong. Suddenly, a young wild turkey ran across the sandy road ahead of the vehicle. "When I was young," He said, "I caught some turkeys about that size." "What kind of trap did you use", I asked… "No Traps," He replied, "I caught them from horseback." I continued to drive, thinking I might have misunderstood. "Peb" was known among all the club members as a "straight arrow." He was respected as being a serious man, 100% truthful. Unlike some others, he told no "tall tales." While he had a dry sense of humor, he would always end such remarks by saying, "Now I’m just joking." That coment did not come. "Peb," I said, Did you say you caught them from Horseback?" "I did," he replied, "And I want you to understand I’m bragging on my horse!" I’m not a turkey hunter, but over the years have seen quite a few. Without exception, they were alert, had great vision, and were as fast as greased lighting….
Now, I was about to hear about an adventure that had been kept quiet for over fifty years! "Tell me all about it," I said…. He told me about the circus and the trick rider, followed by practice with his own mustang. He was satisfied. All he lacked was a wild turkey. Weeks passed into spring. One morning, as he was on his way to work the cattle, he noticed a large windfall pine. In falling, the tree had created a spacious cavity in the ground. He saw movement…a turkey hen was raising her brood in the protected area under the root system. Peb kept his distance from the nest and rode on. At suppertime that night, he told his parents that he was going to need an enclosed pen in the backyard. His mother agreed to have a turpentine still worker build the cage. As the turkeys grew, Peb continued to ride by. The nest adjoined an open area of several acres, which was the feeding space for the flock. The birds did not associate the horse as a source of danger. At this point, some of my own experience kicked in: any wild creature almost disregards the rider. They concentrate on the horse, which they don’t fear nearly as much as a human. The dominant scent of the horse is also a major factor. Pioneer hunters knew this and used horses whenever possible. When seeking large game. Peb was ready. Everything now hinged on one question: Would the mustang accept a running turkey as his target? Nobody had the answer.
On the appointed morning, he pulled a tight cinch on the girth strap, and rode along on his usual path. He knew the feeding timetable, and the young birds were spread out over the meadow. Seeing one turkey which had fed into an isolated area from the group, he reined the horse to point directly at the bird. The "catch" signal and his spurs were suddenly applied. The mustang leaped forward…to his amazement, the horse "locked in" on the running turkey just as though he was a fleeing calf! As the bird swerved to a straight path to gain speed, the little mustang passed alongside. Pebble swung his big hand to the ground. The rest is history. He straightened in the saddle with a struggling wild turkey caught by one wing! Bird #1 was deposited in the new pen. Peb’s mother was delighted… On following days, turkeys #2, #3, and #4 were collected. It became apparent that the mother hen placed a higher priority on the sheltered den and adjacent food supply than the number of her brood. The young bird’s which had not been chased still had no fear of the horse. Their memory span did not extend from one day to the next. This was an ideal scenario for Peb Stone. He finally placed nine birds in the pen. His mother prepared and cooked the tender turkeys. After finally telling about this long ago experience, Pebble could sometime be persuaded to tell the story again…
Occasionally, a listener not aware of the man’s reputation would say that he didn’t believe him… Peb had the same remark each time: "If you don’t believe me, ask my mama!!" Hearing this and seeing that Peb Stone was obviously into his 80’s, the doubters decided that he had lost his mind. What they didn’t know is that he was born when his mother was sixteen. At this time, Mrs. Stone was close to 100, in good health and mentally sharp. Nobody ever had the nerve to contact her for verification of her son’s honesty!
Reminiscing
November 15, 2006
Dick Hinson
The mid-term election is over. You probably won some and lost some, which puts you in the same boat with everybody else. Now, we need to grin and bear it, and move on. As the curtain closes on the current political season, I close this series with a story from our sister state of Georgia. From the years of The Great Depression and into the 1950’s, the political power of the Talmadge Family was legendary. The leader of the clan was Gene Talmadge, who rose to the Governor’s office and stayed there. Other family members occupied state and national elective offices. It was a dynasty…
At a period when Georgia was ruled by rural votes, "Old Gene" campaigned in shirt sleeves and suspenders. He ridiculed his "city slicker" opponents to the delight of his supporters from the small farms. Years later, this story came from a member of the Talmadge family, and there is little doubt that it’s true.
Talmadge was up for election to another term, and made his customary personal visit to every courthouse in Georgia. An advance team preceded him, made current inquiries, and advised Talmadge on the best person to represent him in the county. This time around, the advisors chose an elderly man known as "Uncle Bud." A native of the small County in Southeast Georgia, Bud spent a lot of time hanging around the little courthouse, and was well known and liked. "Governor Gene" greeted him in a private courthouse room. After getting acquainted, he said, "Now Bud, I don’t tend to other people’s personal business, but I can’t help noticing that you look like you might be a little ‘down’ on your luck. Could you use a good part-time state job?" Uncle Bud nodded in agreement. "How about Tag Inspector?" Talmadge suggested – "Oh Yes," Bud said, "That would be just right!" "Do you have a way to get around?" the Governor asked. Uncle Bud replied that he had an old pickup truck which still worked. "Then the deal is done" said Talmadge. "I’ll be watching the returns…When we win, come to see me in Atlanta the next day." The two men shook hands and parted.
For weeks, Uncle Bud worked night and day, covering the county. Gene Talmadge received a record winning vote.
The following morning, the old man put on a pressed shirt, his best pair of overalls, and brushed his black felt hat. He climbed into the truck and pointed it toward Atlanta….
Arriving at the capitol, he had hoped to be greeted by Talmadge instead, he was met by a security guard who finally escorted him to a large room filled with people. He didn’t recognize anyone. Uncle Bud sat and waited all day and well into the evening. At last, a guard told him that it was his turn to meet with Governor Talmadge---
The Governor came from his desk to embrace him. "Uncle Bud," he said, "I have the returns from your county before me. What a great job you performed! I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough for your good work!
They discussed the campaign at length, along with the weather and local crop prices. The old man decided to get to the point. "Governor Gene," He said, "I know you’re very busy and have a lot on your mind. I need to know what job you picked out for me. Tag Inspector would be fine, but I’ll work where ever you say."
Talmadge was silent. His expression became serious. "Uncle Bud," he asked, "Did you look over that crowd out there?" Bud nodded. "Well, I promised a state job to every single one of them. It turns out that I miscounted. There aren’t enough jobs to go around." The Governor rose from his chair and walked in front of his desk. "Come to me, and let me put my hands on your shoulders." Bud did as he was told – "Now, look at me. When I PROMISED you a job, I told you and OUTRIGHT LIE!"
The ancient truck limped back to the remote Georgia village. After a day or two, Uncle Bud met with his cronies at the coffee shop. His friends applauded as he approached the table. "Well Bud, we’ve been waiting. There’s no use for you to check our truck tags. They’re all up to date! Ha! Tell us when you start!"
"Boys," he said, "I reckon I got disappointed. I didn’t get a job."……..
"What!?!"…."Are you telling us that you did all that work , hauled all those voters, and now you get nothing!?! That lying sneaking old rascal ought to be horsewhipped!" Uncle Bud considered that verdict for a few moments, but then said "Now hold on boys, and let me say this: Old Gene has his faults, but when all is said and done and it comes down to the end, that man will put his hands on your shoulders, look you in the eye and tell you the TRUTH!"
Dick Hinson
The mid-term election is over. You probably won some and lost some, which puts you in the same boat with everybody else. Now, we need to grin and bear it, and move on. As the curtain closes on the current political season, I close this series with a story from our sister state of Georgia. From the years of The Great Depression and into the 1950’s, the political power of the Talmadge Family was legendary. The leader of the clan was Gene Talmadge, who rose to the Governor’s office and stayed there. Other family members occupied state and national elective offices. It was a dynasty…
At a period when Georgia was ruled by rural votes, "Old Gene" campaigned in shirt sleeves and suspenders. He ridiculed his "city slicker" opponents to the delight of his supporters from the small farms. Years later, this story came from a member of the Talmadge family, and there is little doubt that it’s true.
Talmadge was up for election to another term, and made his customary personal visit to every courthouse in Georgia. An advance team preceded him, made current inquiries, and advised Talmadge on the best person to represent him in the county. This time around, the advisors chose an elderly man known as "Uncle Bud." A native of the small County in Southeast Georgia, Bud spent a lot of time hanging around the little courthouse, and was well known and liked. "Governor Gene" greeted him in a private courthouse room. After getting acquainted, he said, "Now Bud, I don’t tend to other people’s personal business, but I can’t help noticing that you look like you might be a little ‘down’ on your luck. Could you use a good part-time state job?" Uncle Bud nodded in agreement. "How about Tag Inspector?" Talmadge suggested – "Oh Yes," Bud said, "That would be just right!" "Do you have a way to get around?" the Governor asked. Uncle Bud replied that he had an old pickup truck which still worked. "Then the deal is done" said Talmadge. "I’ll be watching the returns…When we win, come to see me in Atlanta the next day." The two men shook hands and parted.
For weeks, Uncle Bud worked night and day, covering the county. Gene Talmadge received a record winning vote.
The following morning, the old man put on a pressed shirt, his best pair of overalls, and brushed his black felt hat. He climbed into the truck and pointed it toward Atlanta….
Arriving at the capitol, he had hoped to be greeted by Talmadge instead, he was met by a security guard who finally escorted him to a large room filled with people. He didn’t recognize anyone. Uncle Bud sat and waited all day and well into the evening. At last, a guard told him that it was his turn to meet with Governor Talmadge---
The Governor came from his desk to embrace him. "Uncle Bud," he said, "I have the returns from your county before me. What a great job you performed! I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough for your good work!
They discussed the campaign at length, along with the weather and local crop prices. The old man decided to get to the point. "Governor Gene," He said, "I know you’re very busy and have a lot on your mind. I need to know what job you picked out for me. Tag Inspector would be fine, but I’ll work where ever you say."
Talmadge was silent. His expression became serious. "Uncle Bud," he asked, "Did you look over that crowd out there?" Bud nodded. "Well, I promised a state job to every single one of them. It turns out that I miscounted. There aren’t enough jobs to go around." The Governor rose from his chair and walked in front of his desk. "Come to me, and let me put my hands on your shoulders." Bud did as he was told – "Now, look at me. When I PROMISED you a job, I told you and OUTRIGHT LIE!"
The ancient truck limped back to the remote Georgia village. After a day or two, Uncle Bud met with his cronies at the coffee shop. His friends applauded as he approached the table. "Well Bud, we’ve been waiting. There’s no use for you to check our truck tags. They’re all up to date! Ha! Tell us when you start!"
"Boys," he said, "I reckon I got disappointed. I didn’t get a job."……..
"What!?!"…."Are you telling us that you did all that work , hauled all those voters, and now you get nothing!?! That lying sneaking old rascal ought to be horsewhipped!" Uncle Bud considered that verdict for a few moments, but then said "Now hold on boys, and let me say this: Old Gene has his faults, but when all is said and done and it comes down to the end, that man will put his hands on your shoulders, look you in the eye and tell you the TRUTH!"
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