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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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!"
Reminiscing
November 1, 2007
By: Dick Hinson
One day back in the late 1930s, my father was having a conversation with an elderly friend in front of his business location on Jackson Street. A farmer drove by on a wagon pulled by a pair of extremely small mules. The old man smiled and said, "I haven’t seen a team that size in over thirty years. A pale, skinny kid drove them to Collin’s Grist Mill in Graceville one morning. The mules, wagon, and corn all ended up in the millpond!" "What happened?" my dad asked. "I never knew," his friend answered, "We were all talking inside the mill house, but I sure felt sorry for the kid, whoever he was." "Well, my father said, "I can answer that question. You’re standing here talking to that boy!"
It’s doubtful that anyone will ever forget the first time they were turned loose to make a solo drive in a motor vehicle. No matter how short the distance, the sensation of control and power was a rite of passage toward adulthood. In the era prior to use of cars and trucks, a similar test of growing maturity was to be allowed to take a buggy for a date, or a wagon on a farm errand. Totally unlike our times, adolescence was considered to be a demeaning disability to be cast aside as soon as possible.
Actually, not many options awaited our new local "grownups" other than the challenges of making a living on their own small farms. Unless you lived within walking distance of the schools in Marianna or Graceville, your formal public education usually ended with the ninth grade. It should be noted that many curriculums included both Latin and mathematics during this truncated period. Augmented by further self-education, some motivated young people developed advanced skills and vocabularies, even with the absence of the added formal education.
Meanwhile, young boys noticed that long pants and shoes were being worn more often by their peers. These were sure signs that boyhood was being left behind. The "holy grail" of maturity was within reach. . .
My father went on to tell his friend that at the time of the millpond accident, he was living with his grandfather on a few acres west of Campbellton. Each crop year, a portion of the harvested corn was taken to the grist mill near Holmes Creek to be ground into meal. This was a full day’s journey in the wagon. For the first time, the trip was going to be entrusted to the youngster. On the appointed day, my father arrived at the mill and drove his team of mules to take their position in line. A narrow road ran along the top of the dam to the mill house. As the wagon ahead was being unloaded, my dad tied his bridal lines to a spoke in his wagon wheel and walked to the mill house to mingle with the "other men." This proved to be a bad mistake.
More time had passed than he realized. Back on the dam, the little unsupervised mules were growing restless, stepping back and forth. With a long surge forward, the wheel spokes rotated to sharply pull back on the reins. The confused animals bolted in panic, tumbling down the steep incline with the bouncing wagon and the load of grain. As the mules surfaced from the water and struggled to swim downstream, men from the mill house ran along the shore to intercept them. The soaked and shivering animals were not injured. Both the wagon and harness required some emergency repairs. The corn was gone, along with the driver’s self-confidence.
Back at the farm, it doesn’t require much imagination to envision grandfather slowly walking over, expecting to inspect sacks of freshly ground meal. The old man’s reaction to the empty wagon bed is also predictable. My father’s first solo flight into adulthood had ended in failure. I suspect that he was stripped of his hat, long pants, and shoes.
By: Dick Hinson
One day back in the late 1930s, my father was having a conversation with an elderly friend in front of his business location on Jackson Street. A farmer drove by on a wagon pulled by a pair of extremely small mules. The old man smiled and said, "I haven’t seen a team that size in over thirty years. A pale, skinny kid drove them to Collin’s Grist Mill in Graceville one morning. The mules, wagon, and corn all ended up in the millpond!" "What happened?" my dad asked. "I never knew," his friend answered, "We were all talking inside the mill house, but I sure felt sorry for the kid, whoever he was." "Well, my father said, "I can answer that question. You’re standing here talking to that boy!"
It’s doubtful that anyone will ever forget the first time they were turned loose to make a solo drive in a motor vehicle. No matter how short the distance, the sensation of control and power was a rite of passage toward adulthood. In the era prior to use of cars and trucks, a similar test of growing maturity was to be allowed to take a buggy for a date, or a wagon on a farm errand. Totally unlike our times, adolescence was considered to be a demeaning disability to be cast aside as soon as possible.
Actually, not many options awaited our new local "grownups" other than the challenges of making a living on their own small farms. Unless you lived within walking distance of the schools in Marianna or Graceville, your formal public education usually ended with the ninth grade. It should be noted that many curriculums included both Latin and mathematics during this truncated period. Augmented by further self-education, some motivated young people developed advanced skills and vocabularies, even with the absence of the added formal education.
Meanwhile, young boys noticed that long pants and shoes were being worn more often by their peers. These were sure signs that boyhood was being left behind. The "holy grail" of maturity was within reach. . .
My father went on to tell his friend that at the time of the millpond accident, he was living with his grandfather on a few acres west of Campbellton. Each crop year, a portion of the harvested corn was taken to the grist mill near Holmes Creek to be ground into meal. This was a full day’s journey in the wagon. For the first time, the trip was going to be entrusted to the youngster. On the appointed day, my father arrived at the mill and drove his team of mules to take their position in line. A narrow road ran along the top of the dam to the mill house. As the wagon ahead was being unloaded, my dad tied his bridal lines to a spoke in his wagon wheel and walked to the mill house to mingle with the "other men." This proved to be a bad mistake.
More time had passed than he realized. Back on the dam, the little unsupervised mules were growing restless, stepping back and forth. With a long surge forward, the wheel spokes rotated to sharply pull back on the reins. The confused animals bolted in panic, tumbling down the steep incline with the bouncing wagon and the load of grain. As the mules surfaced from the water and struggled to swim downstream, men from the mill house ran along the shore to intercept them. The soaked and shivering animals were not injured. Both the wagon and harness required some emergency repairs. The corn was gone, along with the driver’s self-confidence.
Back at the farm, it doesn’t require much imagination to envision grandfather slowly walking over, expecting to inspect sacks of freshly ground meal. The old man’s reaction to the empty wagon bed is also predictable. My father’s first solo flight into adulthood had ended in failure. I suspect that he was stripped of his hat, long pants, and shoes.
Reminiscing
June 7, 2007
By: Dick Hinson
I visited a place known as Kissingen Springs only once, but came away with two vivid memories: one comical and one sad. Let’s begin with the funny one. Attending college on the post WWII "G.I. Bill", the year was 1947. I had become acquainted with a fellow student, a young lady from Bartow. We began to meet more often than by chance. Invited to come to Polk County during a cool spring weekend, my girlfriend said "Let’s go swimming!" "It’s too cold", I replied. "Oh, come on", she urged, we’ll have a good time!" she directed my drive to the springs, a short distance to the southeast.
The entrance was open, but the grounds were deserted. There was a large turn of the century frame pavilion, with decks extending to the waters edge. The primary spring came from a wide sinkhole, blue and clear to a sloping depth of some thirty feet. A beautiful place surrounded by ancient cypress trees, the stream flowed into the nearby Peace River.
Walking out of the dressing room in swim trunks, I found my date shivering under a beach towel at the water’s edge. "You go on in", she urged, "and I’ll wait for a few minutes". I swam for thirty minutes. She never got wet…a year or two later, I asked my wife why she insisted on watching me swim that frigid morning. She was ready to confess: "My wise old grandmother had warned me to never become seriously interested in any man who had a tattoo. I knew about your navy service, and suspected that you had one or more!" meanwhile, I had been inspected like a beef animal at an auction market. So much for the workings of the female mind…
Now comes the sad memory…Three years later, Kissingen Springs was a dry hole. A phosphate mining operation in the general area had cut off the water flow to the springs. Similar in relative location to our Blue Springs, Bartow and Polk County had lost their primary recreation facility. The public reaction was intense. State, County, and City officials all expressed dismay and scheduled hearings and investigations. The phosphate company joined in the apology, but was apparently operating within the authorized engineering guidelines. It was obvious to everyone that the guidelines were not adequate. With ample funds available, how do you go about restoring a spring? It came as a shock to some that the gift of nature was gone forever. The phosphate company moved away.
Charles Wright, a friend who lives near Blue Springs, told us that large crowds were enjoying the water. Vehicles had overflowed the facility and were parked along the highway in recent days. If Blue Springs is ever lost under our existing requirements for aquifer and/or pollution protections, we can safely predict the largest gathering on record at an emergency meeting of our elected officials. Now, who will step forward to explain the mistakes to the angry crowd? If you don’t mind, I’ll pass…
By: Dick Hinson
I visited a place known as Kissingen Springs only once, but came away with two vivid memories: one comical and one sad. Let’s begin with the funny one. Attending college on the post WWII "G.I. Bill", the year was 1947. I had become acquainted with a fellow student, a young lady from Bartow. We began to meet more often than by chance. Invited to come to Polk County during a cool spring weekend, my girlfriend said "Let’s go swimming!" "It’s too cold", I replied. "Oh, come on", she urged, we’ll have a good time!" she directed my drive to the springs, a short distance to the southeast.
The entrance was open, but the grounds were deserted. There was a large turn of the century frame pavilion, with decks extending to the waters edge. The primary spring came from a wide sinkhole, blue and clear to a sloping depth of some thirty feet. A beautiful place surrounded by ancient cypress trees, the stream flowed into the nearby Peace River.
Walking out of the dressing room in swim trunks, I found my date shivering under a beach towel at the water’s edge. "You go on in", she urged, "and I’ll wait for a few minutes". I swam for thirty minutes. She never got wet…a year or two later, I asked my wife why she insisted on watching me swim that frigid morning. She was ready to confess: "My wise old grandmother had warned me to never become seriously interested in any man who had a tattoo. I knew about your navy service, and suspected that you had one or more!" meanwhile, I had been inspected like a beef animal at an auction market. So much for the workings of the female mind…
Now comes the sad memory…Three years later, Kissingen Springs was a dry hole. A phosphate mining operation in the general area had cut off the water flow to the springs. Similar in relative location to our Blue Springs, Bartow and Polk County had lost their primary recreation facility. The public reaction was intense. State, County, and City officials all expressed dismay and scheduled hearings and investigations. The phosphate company joined in the apology, but was apparently operating within the authorized engineering guidelines. It was obvious to everyone that the guidelines were not adequate. With ample funds available, how do you go about restoring a spring? It came as a shock to some that the gift of nature was gone forever. The phosphate company moved away.
Charles Wright, a friend who lives near Blue Springs, told us that large crowds were enjoying the water. Vehicles had overflowed the facility and were parked along the highway in recent days. If Blue Springs is ever lost under our existing requirements for aquifer and/or pollution protections, we can safely predict the largest gathering on record at an emergency meeting of our elected officials. Now, who will step forward to explain the mistakes to the angry crowd? If you don’t mind, I’ll pass…
May 30, 2007
May 30, 2007
By: Dick Hinson
If you venture into some very remote places in nature, the resident wild creatures will find a way to remind you that it’s their territory. There is one important reason for this unusual attitude: almost all such areas that remain are under federal protection. The animals have never seen nor heard a firearm or any other weapon. In other words, without your gun, the wildlife regard you as just another animal, and a clumsy one at that. In effect, the time clock is turned back to prehistoric ages and is almost guaranteed to trim down your ego as a homosapiens. The largest expanse of unspoiled wilderness in our part of the country is the Okefenokee Swamp, a national wildlife refuge. I have been there on three canoe trips, paddling a total of one hundred and forty miles. Except in a single island location, nights are spent on small elevated platforms. Covering about 400,000 acres, the swamp supplies the headwaters for both the Suwannee and St. Mary’s rivers. You lady readers should know that a woman is credited with persuading President Franklin Roosevelt to bring the area under Federal ownership in 1937. She protested rail lines being built into the swamp for the logging of cypress trees. There are three official entrances to the refuge near Waycross, Folkston, and Fargo. All multi-day canoe trips are by reservation only. On the last trip to a different trail in the swamp, I made a mistake in the compass reading and got lost.
My two companions followed in their canoes. Just before dark, we found a small island and planned our trip back to the Fargo landing the next day. During that day I would have the strangest experience with wildlife that I ever encountered. The weather was fair, and by afternoon our three canoes were entering "Billy’s Lake". This oblong body of water is about two miles in length, bordered on both side by long banks of lily pads. My friend "Sonny" commented on how good some fried fish would taste. "Ed", our senior partner agreed. Our food supply was about gone, and they knew I had a bream pole and a few worms. Perhaps the fish would earn their forgiveness for getting us lost, so I let the canoe glide into the edge of the pads. No Luck. The fish had a case of "Lock Jaw". Ready to quit I put a long earthworm on the hook and flipped it out into the deep open water…the cork plunged out of sight…hoping for a supper-saving bass, I delayed setting the hook for a few seconds. When set, I knew the fish was heavy, but there was a bad sign. He began swimming slow and steady at the same depth…these were the tactics of a blackfish, a torpedo-shaped throwback to a million years ago. Often thrown away if their sharp teeth didn’t cut the line, this one would grace our supper table…with no landing net, the only chance to land him was to allow the fish to tow the canoe until he was exhausted and floated to the surface. He pulled the canoe for over a hundred yards through the open water. He was tiring, and I had found pliers to lift him by the jaw. As the blackfish surfaced, the canoe lifted as though a strong wave was passing under the hull. In the same moment, I was pulling the fish into the canoe. Something else shot up inches behind him! The snout, jaws and head of a full grown alligator!
As I tried to throw the fish into the water, it fell at my feet inside the canoe. I couldn’t believe what was happening… the gator did not submerge, using his tail to remain upright. The thick base of his neck leaned against my hip as he looked for the blackfish…empty-handed and scared, I yelled some names at the creature which can’t be printed…without fear, the gator stared at me and slowly slid down underwater. My partner, "Ed" was some distance away. He didn’t know what had happened, but called out "What are you cussing about?" I shouted back, "You’ll understand when I tell you." That night, as we ate the blackfish filets, my friends approved of my bad language. If the old gator had let me climb out on a log, he could have had the blackfish, the canoe, and anything else he wanted, with my blessing. A year or two later a fourteen-foot gator was pointed out in "Billy’s Lake" by a tour guide. He looked familiar…..
By: Dick Hinson
If you venture into some very remote places in nature, the resident wild creatures will find a way to remind you that it’s their territory. There is one important reason for this unusual attitude: almost all such areas that remain are under federal protection. The animals have never seen nor heard a firearm or any other weapon. In other words, without your gun, the wildlife regard you as just another animal, and a clumsy one at that. In effect, the time clock is turned back to prehistoric ages and is almost guaranteed to trim down your ego as a homosapiens. The largest expanse of unspoiled wilderness in our part of the country is the Okefenokee Swamp, a national wildlife refuge. I have been there on three canoe trips, paddling a total of one hundred and forty miles. Except in a single island location, nights are spent on small elevated platforms. Covering about 400,000 acres, the swamp supplies the headwaters for both the Suwannee and St. Mary’s rivers. You lady readers should know that a woman is credited with persuading President Franklin Roosevelt to bring the area under Federal ownership in 1937. She protested rail lines being built into the swamp for the logging of cypress trees. There are three official entrances to the refuge near Waycross, Folkston, and Fargo. All multi-day canoe trips are by reservation only. On the last trip to a different trail in the swamp, I made a mistake in the compass reading and got lost.
My two companions followed in their canoes. Just before dark, we found a small island and planned our trip back to the Fargo landing the next day. During that day I would have the strangest experience with wildlife that I ever encountered. The weather was fair, and by afternoon our three canoes were entering "Billy’s Lake". This oblong body of water is about two miles in length, bordered on both side by long banks of lily pads. My friend "Sonny" commented on how good some fried fish would taste. "Ed", our senior partner agreed. Our food supply was about gone, and they knew I had a bream pole and a few worms. Perhaps the fish would earn their forgiveness for getting us lost, so I let the canoe glide into the edge of the pads. No Luck. The fish had a case of "Lock Jaw". Ready to quit I put a long earthworm on the hook and flipped it out into the deep open water…the cork plunged out of sight…hoping for a supper-saving bass, I delayed setting the hook for a few seconds. When set, I knew the fish was heavy, but there was a bad sign. He began swimming slow and steady at the same depth…these were the tactics of a blackfish, a torpedo-shaped throwback to a million years ago. Often thrown away if their sharp teeth didn’t cut the line, this one would grace our supper table…with no landing net, the only chance to land him was to allow the fish to tow the canoe until he was exhausted and floated to the surface. He pulled the canoe for over a hundred yards through the open water. He was tiring, and I had found pliers to lift him by the jaw. As the blackfish surfaced, the canoe lifted as though a strong wave was passing under the hull. In the same moment, I was pulling the fish into the canoe. Something else shot up inches behind him! The snout, jaws and head of a full grown alligator!
As I tried to throw the fish into the water, it fell at my feet inside the canoe. I couldn’t believe what was happening… the gator did not submerge, using his tail to remain upright. The thick base of his neck leaned against my hip as he looked for the blackfish…empty-handed and scared, I yelled some names at the creature which can’t be printed…without fear, the gator stared at me and slowly slid down underwater. My partner, "Ed" was some distance away. He didn’t know what had happened, but called out "What are you cussing about?" I shouted back, "You’ll understand when I tell you." That night, as we ate the blackfish filets, my friends approved of my bad language. If the old gator had let me climb out on a log, he could have had the blackfish, the canoe, and anything else he wanted, with my blessing. A year or two later a fourteen-foot gator was pointed out in "Billy’s Lake" by a tour guide. He looked familiar…..
May 24, 2007
May 24, 2007
Dick Hinson
I once had an elderly friend, a businessman and banker, who said "Nobody can fairly judge how far a person has come in life unless you know the point at which they started!"
Over a long period of years, anyone in the business of dealing with the public will become acquainted with a multitude of people from all walks of life. A few individuals will prove to be unique and memorable. A man known as "Ducky Johnson" was in that rare category. Stocky and muscular, he closely resembled baseball legend Pete Rose in both appearance and personality. By 1974, I had been acquainted with Johnson, his wife Carolyn, and most of his family for a long time. A native of the Grand Ridge area, His business of moving houses and buildings was well known in the Tri-States area. Beginning as a helper at an early age left little time for formal education, which he regretted in later years. However, he had accumulated a broad amount of experience. By the time he established his own family operation, his track record of completing complicated jobs was already well known.
In the summer of ’74, Ducky and I were examining a two-story frame dwelling on the site of the current Regions Bank Headquarters on Downtown Green Street. To go south through the center of town with a house height of 40 feet was not a simple matter. There was a complex of state-owned traffic lights, 143 utility wires, the main telephone suspended trunk line, and the L. & N. Railroad communication lines to name a few. None could be lifted high enough to allow clearance. Public entities and utility companies are natural enemies of people who want to move large structures, and multiple meetings and permits were required. Current regulations are more restrictive, especially on height.
Finally, the house had been vertically cut into two sections. Brick chimneys serving six fireplaces were intact, braced under the foundation floor. The move was scheduled for the next morning. Ducky and I gazed up at the truncated structure. "How much", he asked, "Do you think it weighs?" I felt like a first grade kid being asked to summarize Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. My honest answer was "Who needs to know?" "The State Road Department," he replied. "We have to file the weight calculated from the jack calibrations." "The rear section weighs a hundred and forty tons, and the front section ninety tons. Tomorrow, 230 tons will move. And it did, with the assistance of various utility work crews and police traffic control. The house has been "Home" for 32 years, and is now 101 years old.
Nobody could observe such an operation, from start to finish, without seeing that complex engineering skills were being carried out. Over a wide area, Johnson’s capability for successful completion of very difficult jobs became know. His services were sought by many. In recent years, his contracts included moving space missiles of gigantic height and weight on government bases in other parts of the country…a long distance from Grand Ridge, in more ways than one… Regardless of personal talent, the old schools of hard knocks, trial and error and self-education have passed into history. A degree or two is now often required before your ability to do the work is even tested.
However, you have to admire anyone who can overcome the handicaps of the "Old School" to demonstrate unusual talents in his field. I remember Ducky Johnson as a friend and a man of his word. His hometown will remember him as their former Mayor. How far had he come in life? Remembering the old banker’s benchmark of success, or however you choose to measure: it’s a long, long journey from a small structure behind an old pickup truck to moving spacecraft.
As "Ducky" might say, "It wasn’t easy." He was one of a kind, and the mold has been broken…
Dick Hinson
I once had an elderly friend, a businessman and banker, who said "Nobody can fairly judge how far a person has come in life unless you know the point at which they started!"
Over a long period of years, anyone in the business of dealing with the public will become acquainted with a multitude of people from all walks of life. A few individuals will prove to be unique and memorable. A man known as "Ducky Johnson" was in that rare category. Stocky and muscular, he closely resembled baseball legend Pete Rose in both appearance and personality. By 1974, I had been acquainted with Johnson, his wife Carolyn, and most of his family for a long time. A native of the Grand Ridge area, His business of moving houses and buildings was well known in the Tri-States area. Beginning as a helper at an early age left little time for formal education, which he regretted in later years. However, he had accumulated a broad amount of experience. By the time he established his own family operation, his track record of completing complicated jobs was already well known.
In the summer of ’74, Ducky and I were examining a two-story frame dwelling on the site of the current Regions Bank Headquarters on Downtown Green Street. To go south through the center of town with a house height of 40 feet was not a simple matter. There was a complex of state-owned traffic lights, 143 utility wires, the main telephone suspended trunk line, and the L. & N. Railroad communication lines to name a few. None could be lifted high enough to allow clearance. Public entities and utility companies are natural enemies of people who want to move large structures, and multiple meetings and permits were required. Current regulations are more restrictive, especially on height.
Finally, the house had been vertically cut into two sections. Brick chimneys serving six fireplaces were intact, braced under the foundation floor. The move was scheduled for the next morning. Ducky and I gazed up at the truncated structure. "How much", he asked, "Do you think it weighs?" I felt like a first grade kid being asked to summarize Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. My honest answer was "Who needs to know?" "The State Road Department," he replied. "We have to file the weight calculated from the jack calibrations." "The rear section weighs a hundred and forty tons, and the front section ninety tons. Tomorrow, 230 tons will move. And it did, with the assistance of various utility work crews and police traffic control. The house has been "Home" for 32 years, and is now 101 years old.
Nobody could observe such an operation, from start to finish, without seeing that complex engineering skills were being carried out. Over a wide area, Johnson’s capability for successful completion of very difficult jobs became know. His services were sought by many. In recent years, his contracts included moving space missiles of gigantic height and weight on government bases in other parts of the country…a long distance from Grand Ridge, in more ways than one… Regardless of personal talent, the old schools of hard knocks, trial and error and self-education have passed into history. A degree or two is now often required before your ability to do the work is even tested.
However, you have to admire anyone who can overcome the handicaps of the "Old School" to demonstrate unusual talents in his field. I remember Ducky Johnson as a friend and a man of his word. His hometown will remember him as their former Mayor. How far had he come in life? Remembering the old banker’s benchmark of success, or however you choose to measure: it’s a long, long journey from a small structure behind an old pickup truck to moving spacecraft.
As "Ducky" might say, "It wasn’t easy." He was one of a kind, and the mold has been broken…
Reminiscing - Webbville Revisited
February 21, 2008
Dick Hinson
My late cousins, Jeff and Cecil Rhyne, were two of the earliest researchers of Jackson County history. During the 1930s, they made several field trips to search for the exact location of "Webbville" within the square mile of Section 16, Township 5 North, Range West. In later years, Jeff told me that they never discovered satisfactory evidence to pinpoint the location of the several stores and structures which formed the center of the pioneer settlement. We all know that Webbville’s petition to Congress contained a critical roadblock. The 16th Sections in each township was reserved for the use and benefit of public schools. While a partial exception was hastily approved by the Webbville supporters, the delay in final congressional approval proved to be fatal. Congress adjourned before acting. By the time that Webbville was approved in 1828, Marianna had seized both this initiative and key defectors from Webbville. However, the territorial council was careful to avoid offending Congress. They directed the courts to begin meeting in the town of Marianna but to avoid using the term "county seat"! That’s the way it remains today.
Over 25 years ago, I noticed that the Florida road maps showed only two national features in Jackson County: Florida Caverns State Park and Webbville Spring! I had two older friends who were also interested in finding the spring: Slade West and Pebble Stone. Slade was the son (not grandson) of Dr. Theophilus West, a surgeon in the Confederate Army. Pebble was from a pioneer family and related to Lackland Stone, a storeowner, postmaster, and founder of Webbville. Lackland was also a key defector to Marianna, where he had purchased some property. To round out the search party, my wife, Ann, and three-year-old granddaughter, Melissa, were included in the crew.
Section 16 is not difficult to find from SR 73 North. A stand of oak trees marks the junction of the old Union dirt road winding north in the direction of Waddell’s Mill. According to Dr. Shofner’s research, the pioneer village of Webbville was situated in or close to this junction. Named in honor of James Webb, a residing attorney, the business district included four stores along with medical and law offices.
Where were the private dwellings located? We hoped that Webbville Spring might provide some evidence. From the dirt road junction, looking east across some 150 acres of empty cultivated land, we could see a head of tall wetlands trees extending into the edge of the field. Have you ever drawn drinking water from a dug well? If so, you will probably agree that the taste leaves a lot to be desired when compared with fresh water from a natural flowing spring! Before the days of electrical power and deep drilled wells, these shallow wells were dug by hand. Lined with wooden flanks, they reached only into the standing ground water level. You cowered and ranked up one bucket at a time . . .
In contrast, a spring was a treasure for any community, and a special luxury for a dwelling adjoining a spring.
Making our way across the field, we pushed our path through a wall of brush. Webbville Spring was displayed before us, about fifty feet in diameter. More than a century of farmland silt had drained into the spring floor, reducing the depth to some five feet. However, the clarity of the blue water clearly showed that the flow still continued under the silt. We estimated that the depth to the bottom was at least eight to ten feet when Webbville was established. Using metal detectors and shovels, we found arrow points, hinges, hand-forged nails, and many plow-broken pieces of dinnerware. There apparently had once been a number of dwellings in the currently cultivated field.
Adjacent to the spring, fine sections of painted English china were discovered. These were later identified as being from British manufacture dating from about 1800 A.D. We guessed that the first Webbville founders built their homes adjacent to the spring. Webbville had been rediscovered!
This seems to be the end of this story, always, there is the unexpected, and biggest surprise yet to come. As we walked further around the area toward the adjoining field, a burly young man appeared out of nowhere. "Well," he shouted at me, "I’ve finally caught the battery thieves!" I stood and stared at him, waiting for more information on his problem. His batteries, he said, were being stolen from his tractor which he sometimes left in the field overnight. When he finally stopped complaining, I told him that we had permission from this spring owner to be there and that we had no interest in his battery. I couldn’t help thinking that if I ever caught a battery theft gang which included two elderly men, a grandmother and a little girl, I would be more inclined to make a donation than an arrest. The confrontation ended with the frustrated stranger stomping away.
During the drive home, we all agreed that the man’s protest went far beyond all reasonable bounds. Something didn’t add up, but that ended our discussion. Within days afterward, the mystery was solved. The newspaper article reported that spotter planes had detected a "pot" growing operation in the area . . .
A trip back into history had collided with modern times and a mix of different problems. On balance, the day was full and memorable. We will leave one puzzle unanswered: "How did such an ancient and isolated place find its way into current highway maps?"
Dick Hinson
My late cousins, Jeff and Cecil Rhyne, were two of the earliest researchers of Jackson County history. During the 1930s, they made several field trips to search for the exact location of "Webbville" within the square mile of Section 16, Township 5 North, Range West. In later years, Jeff told me that they never discovered satisfactory evidence to pinpoint the location of the several stores and structures which formed the center of the pioneer settlement. We all know that Webbville’s petition to Congress contained a critical roadblock. The 16th Sections in each township was reserved for the use and benefit of public schools. While a partial exception was hastily approved by the Webbville supporters, the delay in final congressional approval proved to be fatal. Congress adjourned before acting. By the time that Webbville was approved in 1828, Marianna had seized both this initiative and key defectors from Webbville. However, the territorial council was careful to avoid offending Congress. They directed the courts to begin meeting in the town of Marianna but to avoid using the term "county seat"! That’s the way it remains today.
Over 25 years ago, I noticed that the Florida road maps showed only two national features in Jackson County: Florida Caverns State Park and Webbville Spring! I had two older friends who were also interested in finding the spring: Slade West and Pebble Stone. Slade was the son (not grandson) of Dr. Theophilus West, a surgeon in the Confederate Army. Pebble was from a pioneer family and related to Lackland Stone, a storeowner, postmaster, and founder of Webbville. Lackland was also a key defector to Marianna, where he had purchased some property. To round out the search party, my wife, Ann, and three-year-old granddaughter, Melissa, were included in the crew.
Section 16 is not difficult to find from SR 73 North. A stand of oak trees marks the junction of the old Union dirt road winding north in the direction of Waddell’s Mill. According to Dr. Shofner’s research, the pioneer village of Webbville was situated in or close to this junction. Named in honor of James Webb, a residing attorney, the business district included four stores along with medical and law offices.
Where were the private dwellings located? We hoped that Webbville Spring might provide some evidence. From the dirt road junction, looking east across some 150 acres of empty cultivated land, we could see a head of tall wetlands trees extending into the edge of the field. Have you ever drawn drinking water from a dug well? If so, you will probably agree that the taste leaves a lot to be desired when compared with fresh water from a natural flowing spring! Before the days of electrical power and deep drilled wells, these shallow wells were dug by hand. Lined with wooden flanks, they reached only into the standing ground water level. You cowered and ranked up one bucket at a time . . .
In contrast, a spring was a treasure for any community, and a special luxury for a dwelling adjoining a spring.
Making our way across the field, we pushed our path through a wall of brush. Webbville Spring was displayed before us, about fifty feet in diameter. More than a century of farmland silt had drained into the spring floor, reducing the depth to some five feet. However, the clarity of the blue water clearly showed that the flow still continued under the silt. We estimated that the depth to the bottom was at least eight to ten feet when Webbville was established. Using metal detectors and shovels, we found arrow points, hinges, hand-forged nails, and many plow-broken pieces of dinnerware. There apparently had once been a number of dwellings in the currently cultivated field.
Adjacent to the spring, fine sections of painted English china were discovered. These were later identified as being from British manufacture dating from about 1800 A.D. We guessed that the first Webbville founders built their homes adjacent to the spring. Webbville had been rediscovered!
This seems to be the end of this story, always, there is the unexpected, and biggest surprise yet to come. As we walked further around the area toward the adjoining field, a burly young man appeared out of nowhere. "Well," he shouted at me, "I’ve finally caught the battery thieves!" I stood and stared at him, waiting for more information on his problem. His batteries, he said, were being stolen from his tractor which he sometimes left in the field overnight. When he finally stopped complaining, I told him that we had permission from this spring owner to be there and that we had no interest in his battery. I couldn’t help thinking that if I ever caught a battery theft gang which included two elderly men, a grandmother and a little girl, I would be more inclined to make a donation than an arrest. The confrontation ended with the frustrated stranger stomping away.
During the drive home, we all agreed that the man’s protest went far beyond all reasonable bounds. Something didn’t add up, but that ended our discussion. Within days afterward, the mystery was solved. The newspaper article reported that spotter planes had detected a "pot" growing operation in the area . . .
A trip back into history had collided with modern times and a mix of different problems. On balance, the day was full and memorable. We will leave one puzzle unanswered: "How did such an ancient and isolated place find its way into current highway maps?"
Reminiscing “Ole Man River”
By Dick Hinson
The local recent headline: "Chipola River Floods" made some Old-timers ask: "What flood?’’ Now, we all admit that any depth of floodwater is a major problem if it happens to be in your yard. However, it’s nowhere near as frequent nor as deep as Chipola flooding was in the past. Something has changed. What was it?
Look at a map: The river is formed by the Junction of Marshall and Cowarts Creek, not far south of SR # 2 and the Alabama state line. This area of the upper Chipola is in the middle of a vast acreage of fertile farmland, heavily cultivated since the era of the old plantations. For over a century, the native woodland has been cleared.
During those early years of cultivation in this area, with the passage of time, topsoil was lost to erosion. If terraces were ever considered, the idea was soon discarded. Motorized equipment had not been invented and land was cheap and plentiful. The owners simply cleared additional new ground for the plows.
Meanwhile, deep gullies soon formed on the slopes of the barren, abandoned fields. Heavy rainfalls were quickly funneled into the upper Chipola. The leading edge of this rapid accumulation of water formed a crest which was far higher than the levels we now occasionally see. That was the cause of the downstream high flood levels around the Chipola in that era. By the 1930’s, the loss of critical topsoil had gotten the attention of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Across the South, a program was put in place for terraces and heavy equipment rentals. However, these efforts were slowed by the depression years and sidelined during WWII. In the late 1940’s, after the end of the war, some terracing was being done.
Also at this time, a new cost-share program was begun for the planting of pine trees. Thousands of acres of worn-out farmland were converted to tree production. Within a few years, this new cover served to control rainstorm run-off. The downstream floods were less severe. While the pine planting wasn’t intended for flood control, it turned out to be a great side benefit which Marianna was glad to have!
Until recent times, our town didn’t have a river height gauge. The current device measures flood stage at "19 feet", which it reached a few days ago after a downpour exceeded six inches. However, U.S. 90 and major city streets remained open to traffic.
In the "old days", we considered a "flood" as a river height which placed U.S. 90 underwater from the Elks Lodge to the intersection of Noland and Lafayette Streets. To the north, the caverns highway was impassable from the Kelson Street intersection.
During these floods motorboats operated in the area now known as "Riverview Subdivision". Only the hill elevations remained dry. Fortunately, the water quickly receded after the crest passed through the area.
According to some pioneer citizens, the highest Chipola flood in memory occurred in 1929. An old man once showed a photograph which he had taken (from his boat) of the U.S. 90 bridge. The construction was similar to that of the abandoned Bellamy Bridge, with an elevated framework of iron girders. Only the top half of the iron beams remained above the water. The elderly eyewitnesses recalled that, to the west, the river extended to the lower elevations of the current Winn-Dixie parking lot.
It is obvious that our present flood gauge, like the bridge roadway, would have been somewhere about 8 feet under. As late as 1948, during flood periods, sections of major highways were closed. It was necessary to detour through south Alabama and Georgia to find an open road leading to central Florida. Additional rivers to the east were also involved in that particular problem.
Marianna, the only town on the river, has always been closely tied to the Chipola. The founders were not bashful in suggesting that the stream was "navigable" to the Apalachicola River, a valuable asset in the 1820’s. For heavy barges, this would have only been possible when the downstream shoals were covered in high water. However, during the period of the 1850’s, a significant number of barges loaded with cotton floated down the Chipola to the Apalachicola markets.
Meanwhile, if you live anywhere close to the river and your house stays dry: remember to thank the pine trees!
The local recent headline: "Chipola River Floods" made some Old-timers ask: "What flood?’’ Now, we all admit that any depth of floodwater is a major problem if it happens to be in your yard. However, it’s nowhere near as frequent nor as deep as Chipola flooding was in the past. Something has changed. What was it?
Look at a map: The river is formed by the Junction of Marshall and Cowarts Creek, not far south of SR # 2 and the Alabama state line. This area of the upper Chipola is in the middle of a vast acreage of fertile farmland, heavily cultivated since the era of the old plantations. For over a century, the native woodland has been cleared.
During those early years of cultivation in this area, with the passage of time, topsoil was lost to erosion. If terraces were ever considered, the idea was soon discarded. Motorized equipment had not been invented and land was cheap and plentiful. The owners simply cleared additional new ground for the plows.
Meanwhile, deep gullies soon formed on the slopes of the barren, abandoned fields. Heavy rainfalls were quickly funneled into the upper Chipola. The leading edge of this rapid accumulation of water formed a crest which was far higher than the levels we now occasionally see. That was the cause of the downstream high flood levels around the Chipola in that era. By the 1930’s, the loss of critical topsoil had gotten the attention of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Across the South, a program was put in place for terraces and heavy equipment rentals. However, these efforts were slowed by the depression years and sidelined during WWII. In the late 1940’s, after the end of the war, some terracing was being done.
Also at this time, a new cost-share program was begun for the planting of pine trees. Thousands of acres of worn-out farmland were converted to tree production. Within a few years, this new cover served to control rainstorm run-off. The downstream floods were less severe. While the pine planting wasn’t intended for flood control, it turned out to be a great side benefit which Marianna was glad to have!
Until recent times, our town didn’t have a river height gauge. The current device measures flood stage at "19 feet", which it reached a few days ago after a downpour exceeded six inches. However, U.S. 90 and major city streets remained open to traffic.
In the "old days", we considered a "flood" as a river height which placed U.S. 90 underwater from the Elks Lodge to the intersection of Noland and Lafayette Streets. To the north, the caverns highway was impassable from the Kelson Street intersection.
During these floods motorboats operated in the area now known as "Riverview Subdivision". Only the hill elevations remained dry. Fortunately, the water quickly receded after the crest passed through the area.
According to some pioneer citizens, the highest Chipola flood in memory occurred in 1929. An old man once showed a photograph which he had taken (from his boat) of the U.S. 90 bridge. The construction was similar to that of the abandoned Bellamy Bridge, with an elevated framework of iron girders. Only the top half of the iron beams remained above the water. The elderly eyewitnesses recalled that, to the west, the river extended to the lower elevations of the current Winn-Dixie parking lot.
It is obvious that our present flood gauge, like the bridge roadway, would have been somewhere about 8 feet under. As late as 1948, during flood periods, sections of major highways were closed. It was necessary to detour through south Alabama and Georgia to find an open road leading to central Florida. Additional rivers to the east were also involved in that particular problem.
Marianna, the only town on the river, has always been closely tied to the Chipola. The founders were not bashful in suggesting that the stream was "navigable" to the Apalachicola River, a valuable asset in the 1820’s. For heavy barges, this would have only been possible when the downstream shoals were covered in high water. However, during the period of the 1850’s, a significant number of barges loaded with cotton floated down the Chipola to the Apalachicola markets.
Meanwhile, if you live anywhere close to the river and your house stays dry: remember to thank the pine trees!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)