Staton Master-book (excerpt)

Crawfishing

 

 

“Oh! Simple times; loving space; saintly friends; angels---all!”

 

 

Age, or, at least, one’s perception of that space-void within time, practices a subtle manner of confusing the past. What was real? Or, imagined? Wished for? Fleeting? Lasting? Irrelevant? Pertinent? Were things actually more simple, then? Indeed! In retrospect, seems as though they really were. Perhaps, that is because kind human nature tends to fondly remember only the “Good”, desirable recollections, negating the unpleasant, obfuscating any insult to sacred-purity.

Time and space offer Life! Each individual lexicon determines the conclusion through choice.

Good times were certainly easy to come by, back then; in the “Good old days”, when we enjoyed that freedom known as childhood; that time when “problems” fell to the realm of adults and life for children was sweet, fresh, curious, friendly. Our family held an easy purpose about it. Fun just happened. There was very little money; that which did exist was for necessities like food, housing, clothes, gasoline for the car. The nearest television, that newly-invented escape to fantasy for a five year old, resided across the street at a neighbor’s house, a man who had done quite well in the business world and displayed generosity with his wealth.

The benefactor had taken his elderly maiden sister into his household and kept a full-time housekeeper who took a liking to the urchin from across the street and delighted in the tow-headed boy’s love affair with “Howdy Doody”, Buffalo Bob, Clarabell and the T.V. gang.

Our family had few “extras”. Being “non-affluent” meant creating our own entertainment; apparently, we were pretty good at it; upon close reflection, there were no truly “bad” times. It seems, now, “Happiness” is more a condition of attitude, rather than of any supposedly accepted celebrity. Upon reflection, everybody actually occupied the same boat.

Five individual members inhabited our immediate family; mom, dad, a sister, brother and, me.

A rented house provided shelter; only one bedroom, unless the living room counted when the sofa-sleeper was pulled out and made-up for sleeping accommodations. Cool-aid, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches along with a fair amount of bologna provided adequate, and, good, sustenance. But, supper time offered delectable meals of perfectly prepared pork chops, golden brown, roast beef, steaks of various cuts, hamburgers and hot dogs, sometimes pork sausage, always with potatoes, mostly mashed, gravy, and, the most unappetizing, vegetables. Such grand fare on a regular basis was well beyond the financial reach of our crew, but, grandpa and grandma lived on a farm and they provided much needed, and, much appreciated, food values.

And, Oh! Yes! Mom’s delicious southern golden fried chicken---everyone’s very favorite!

One Sunday noon meal, usually evening supper presented the main meat entre, but the Sabbath changed that routine as the entire family was home and church had just concluded; such schedule left the afternoon free for various activities without the intrusion of a late meal. Such circumstance can be of the utmost importance to a curious growing boy. Those unplanned, vacant mid-days afforded trips to the farm and Fox Lake, two of my very favorite venues.

As we sat around the kitchen table enjoying mom’s delicious presentation, she was an awesome cook. I found difficulty swallowing the peas, so I deftly pushed the cursed green chokers off my plate and under the rim, away from purview from dad. Of course, he didn’t miss much, luckily for me, he was a kind man. Still, he had a way of making his point, when necessary; this seemed to be one of those very “necessary” occasions.

“People in China are starving,” he announced, looking at me. “They’d be glad to have some peas to eat.” Then, he paused, waiting for me to begin choking on the vile little green vegetables.

Being nine, at the time, and feeling my oats, at least, they weren’t peas, his eldest son, pride and joy to the master (actually, only near-equal to my younger siblings), took a dangerous stand.

“Do you think we could send those starving Chinese my peas?” I blurted.

Such insolence had been cause on numerous previous occasions to warrant a severe verbal chastisement, and, on too many to count corrections, belt leather applied to a tender backside.

But, the old man had a sense of humor. The priest had somehow managed not to insult dad’s sensibilities, that Sunday, and he was in a pretty good frame of mind. So, he smiled, allowing a tiny chuckle and resumed eating. No more was mentioned, that day, of his son’s ill manners.

Dad hunted and fished and this added to our diet. In those endeavors, he taught each of us to love and respect nature, her ways, her bounty, and to give back in some way. Proudly, I have been privileged to plant something well over ten thousand trees through my time and space; that enjoyment done in tribute to dad’s reverence for Mother. I did learn a few worthwhile things!

And, I guess little boys fall in love with their mothers; this one surely did so. She was a beautiful lady, inside and out. And, talented! Wow! Mom could do everything. As mentioned, the lady could cook anything and make it delectable. Superb! Each of our parents were good entertainment whether it was tag, baseball, football, trips to the park, Meramec Springs in Missouri to visit the state trout farm, or, to our grandparents farm or Fox Lake or the woods.

At the lake I learned to fish the secret pools for spawning Red Ear hybrid bluegill and to anchor downwind of the crappie bed we had created in January laying weighted down with concrete blocks discarded Christmas trees bundled together on frozen ice where they would sink a the thaw and create spawning beds for the “Paper mouths”. The woods provided a bounty of squirrel, rabbit and quail along with tasty delicacies of wild Morel mushrooms. Delicious!

Our aunt and uncle, their kids, our cousins, the grandparents and great-grandparents, myriad friends, grandma’s cousin from St. Louis and his wife and two sisters-in-law rounded out our little group on these adventuresome forays. At full-blown family reunions, Christmas, birthdays, the occasional funeral, a lot more bodies would be present. But, the odd-dozen, or so, that usually did things together provided good fun through inviting entertainment for all including an extended family in a friendly atmosphere. I fully appreciated the exemplar atmosphere afforded.

Pets were an integral part of our family life which added considerable sentimental value to the memories. Several dogs at various times; a few cats; occasionally a bird. And, by accident, sort of, on purpose---Horses! As a kid, my favorite animals which pleasure have carried over through my entire life. The work horses, Billy and Tommy, on Grandpa’s farm had retired from hard labor plowing tough clay soil, year after year, having been replaced by the green and yellow John Deere tractor. The pair found themselves relegated to the comfortable wood barn where they were well-fed receiving ample attention from the children. And, gentleness surely ran deep in the blood of this fine family; Great-Grandpa could not bear to part with the beasts; neither could his son, my Grandfather who was a kind and considerate man to all. These adults, each were saintly.

So, the horses became a part of the landscape; permanent pets which were fed and cared for just like they had been for many years even though they no longer managed to contribute to the farm economy. A price cannot be placed on love, whatever form it may take.

And, Oh! Boy! What a bonus! A real treat for a Midwest kid who adored horses. Too many cowboy movies, I suppose. The Lone Ranger and Tonto, Cisco and Poncho, Range Rider, Dick West and on and on. But, perhaps it runs deeper than that; our girls love the noble beasts, also.

That naïve kid dressed up in jeans, chaps, blue western-style shirt resplendent with pearl buttons down the front and western-cut pockets on the chest, a black cowboy hat with long chin strap, a gleaming silver buckle adorning his two gun-holster and white pearl-handled pair of six guns fully loaded for action with acrid smelling rolls of popping caps, the ensemble complete with black cowboy boots inch and a half heels.

He would take an old rope, or any piece of one which he could find available, climb the weathered four-board wood fence of the coral, hang one leg over the top rail, just like the movie cowboys he loved so dearly whom he watched at every opportunity on the neighbor’s T.V. while riding the desert plains with heroes like Hoppy and Wild Bill and Lash LaRue. The smell of the horses and their nearness as props, allowing him to actually pet one or the other on the neck, added reality to the vivid fantasy. It was shear magic, then---wild times imagination! Slightly  limited only by the far horizon boundaries of his own outrageous mental ramblings. Pure heaven!

Little boys seem never to grow up; just aging gracefully until a wayward youth finds himself imprisoned in an old man’s body, still feverishly flirting with a romance of time and space. Some, undoubtedly lose the inertia of fantasy; these are designated “grown-ups”. I fear that I have not achieved such transition, much to the self-satisfied delight of a rebel, rascal, rogue destined to enjoy the journey and hell-bent on savoring every nuance of pleasure from the ride; also, in stark fairness, such transgression against the natural order of things must be necessarily disconcerting to those who must live amongst those such. Justice prevails, however: Such a dichotomous sword slices in both directions, if such irreverence might be truthfully voiced.

For now, though, many decades after myriad adventures, those sacred memories of people, places and nature, both real and imagined, offer comfort, satiate warm, tender stirrings within a loving heart, fulfilling a haunting need for solace among the creatures of the vacant forest grove where often, solitude with the past is sorely missed. In the end, however, life, like love, is where one finds it. Once the fear evaporates and reality is challenged, the obvious prize is already won!

Perhaps we were “poor” back then; if so, such was not an evident distraction. Maybe the adults knew it, understood the reality, but, no one seemed to dwell on the circumstance or worry about such things. There was only time for flat out---Living the adventure! Too many good times to be had; numerous, and varied, people to enjoy through observation and interaction; too many memories to build. A transgression would have been to ruin any of it…no one ever did, not in the least manner. Thank God! For that blessing accommodation---and, for all of it. Simplicity!

If one has never experienced the peace of a family outing indulging in the pure pleasure of crawfishing, those “deprived” persons ought to take the plunge. Yes! Indeed! It’s imperative.

For the affordable price, even for “poor” people, of fifty cents which bought a couple of pounds of beef liver from the butcher down at the local I.G.A. grocery store and an investment of ten minutes to cut some five foot springy willow poles along the creek bank to which a seven foot length of string was tied to each, then a strip of fresh “bait” fastened to the end of the line. With such a set-up, a family could have a full afternoon of merriment. Since the poles were free for the taking, the bait inexpensive, participants could utilize two or more rigs at a time.

Above the murky creek, lines were gently slung out over the sluggish water and plopped into the stream. Very shortly, the line would go taught as a big two-pincher tried to drag the bait into deeper water for a feast. Delicately using the pole, the “fisherman” would slowly and carefully raise the bait from the muddy bottom while pulling the line toward shore, keeping the end of the line well under the surface so as to not alert the crawfish which would relinquish its hold once it sighted daylight. Dad would gently slip our small mesh dip net under the bait; when it reached the surface, the crawfish would let go, trying to escape, and be caught in the net which he would then empty into a bucket to keep the catch fresh. Almost always, there would be two, three or more of the freshwater shellfish hanging tightly to the bait. Some of the braver and more experienced shunned use of the net; these “pros” chose rather to swing the line over the bucket, shaking the catch off the line.

One of the group seemed to be a purist when it came to the serious business of fishing. Ole Marg, short for Margaret, refused to partake of the childish antics of catching crawdads, preferring to utilize a cane pole complete with bobber and earth worms for bait to fish for bluegill in the tepid water. Her eyesight was lacking, but her spirit for enjoyment left nothing to be desired and the woman had the patience of Job. She would stand like a statue for long minutes waiting for a bite, staring at the red and white cork.

Always the prankster, Dad would slip up behind her and toss a small pebble to the side of where the lady painstakingly fished. Sure enough, as soon as the “plop” of a wily bluegill “jumped” near her, Marg would raise the line and insert her trap right where the fish had been.

Today, I find myself wondering if anybody ever told that poor old soul the truth of it.

Refreshments abounded with soda for the youngsters and chilled adult beverages for the oldsters; mom’s golden fried chicken could be found in abundance along with chips and fresh bread for snacks. A feast fit for kings thankfully relished by festive peasants.

After three or four hours and several buckets filled with fresh shellfish, the partiers would retire to a home of any one of the group where the abundant catch would be boiled, then served hot with butter sauce. Sometimes the treat would be garnished with a bar-b-que concoction spiced with red pepper flakes for those few willing to try their luck. Hot stuff!

Such became the poor man’s lobster dinner. These “crawfish” outings occurred two or three times a year. Of course, other get-togethers took place on a regular basis like regular trips to the farm and to Fox Lake, bar-b-ques at various state parks. Sometimes, they even amazed me with the simplicity of created entertainment. In the fall, we would gather up the clan in a caravan of vehicles and head south for about thirty miles where dad knew a farmer who had pecan trees growing in abundance on his property. Paying the man a dollar for the privilege, we would trek out to his field and the members of our little brigade would gather the nuts by the bushel basket full. Back at grandpa’s farm, we’d gather ’round the huge kitchen table and shell pecans and walnuts gathered from the barn lot there at the farm. Stories would be shared of the “old” days.

It was a time! A good time! A simple time! A time and space of “Love!”

Always, anybody and everybody was made to feel “Welcome!” Family and friends alike.

Ages ranged from a few days or months to over ninety years; each treated as an absolute equal. The great-grandparents went along, refusing to miss a single trip. Me, too!

“Good times” were often; fun was always; “Love” lived perpetual! What a great life!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sweet Taste of Liberty

 

Fathom where ferments individual character foundation

Independent tested informed-logic thoughtful education

Unique love produce pure truth display in Deity adoration

 

 Giza pyramid quad-triangle sided towers

Generate awesome celestial god-powers

 

Faith! Anchor in the necessary Trinity salvation charm

Family! Focused affection promised redemption warm

Freedom! Resultant sacred liberty cannot justice harm

 

Sculpt infant clay for good purpose or another

Shape love-tender hands of father and a mother

 

For dawn portends a promise of sun-comforted fresh day

Past noon high to languish lazily upon soft third-bloom hay

Robust attempt in evening work through night-time whisper say

 

Cupid arrow pierce young love to make

Errant angry omen-word fondness forsake

 

On, then, mighty Warrior to richer fields of emerald swaying grass

For full life awaits as youth refuse admission that soon it all might pass

Satiate a saddened heart to fill the void of broken-love’s eternal lost lass

 

Vengeance exact! Yet, revenge chokes bittersweet

Then: N’ere again shall innocent true lost love greet

 

When time-cooled mold at last is split to now-formed man revealed

Blindfold removed prompts Justice-sight resolution true annealed

Fate cannot be easily denied as holy Providence at last is sealed

 

But, within the timeless tumult of life’s capricious wind

Light sparks and glimmers, a glow begins, denies the end

 

In gifted span sometime from where to here and then beyond

With only worthwhile memories quiet comfort soft and fond

Rite of passage in a sacred good of body, soul and spirit bond

Amen!

A Liberty Happy Birthday! Mom

(June 2, 2011)

In 1791, Adam Dale, a Revolutionary War hero, built a mill on Smith Fork Creek; that tiny settlement has budded into the thriving metropolis of Liberty, Tennessee. Population: 367!

I have found reason to visit this quaint village on numerous occasions. My dear Granny and Granddaddy are interred in the local Baptist Church cemetery along with other ancestors; Mother’s cousin, Francis, owned a farm east of town above the river surrounded by the hills of beautiful central Tennessee which I first saw as a child. Liberty is the childhood home of mom and her family. A return there, for me, evokes a comforting emotion of: Home!

This tidy little village is bounded on the north and to the east by limestone bluffs abutting the solid rock bottom crystal river. Westward opens into a long valley leading the way to another town, Alexandria, also home to ancestors in my lineage. A splendid view to the south takes in tall, rounded peak hills, almost like ice cream cones turned upside down. Liberty is a powerful, sacred, spiritual location; I can actually “feel” my roots there. The pleasant atmosphere is warm and invitingly comforting. In emerald spring, Liberty is beautiful! In summer, it is very hot!

I can just imagine rag tag ancestors swimming in the cooling river on humid summer days.

Highway U.S. 70 from Lebanon to the west brings visitors to the edge of the town where a new elementary school has recently been constructed on the south side of the road. Across the street sits a little white house sporting a front porch across the front; that is the property where my mother lived as a child. Oh! What adventurous times she must have experienced! It is a beautiful sight to these old eyes of mine; a warming: Welcome Home! Wayward son!

On the eastern border is a bridge over the river; on the bluff above, she spent many childhood days at her cousin’s farm just a stone’s throw up Bluff Road where she honed her rifle shooting skills. Mom can tell some awesome tales about such things and, to this day, she still is a great shot with a .22 rifle. I guess there isn’t much that lady can’t do---Perfecrly!

That old house down by the highway has seen better times, but it still rings with laughter; the homestead glows with the abundant love of a family doing its best in hard times in a hard place while managing a fine contribution to life and future generations. What a proud, fantastic legacy!

I can still smell Granny’s homemade cornbread which she baked in an old, heavy, cast iron skillet, secreted here, in this fertile imagination. ’Mmm! ’Mmm! Such vacant conjuring of pleasant enjoyable recollections is made easier by impressionable memories of childhood times spent in Nashville at Granny’s table; no one ever entered there, un-welcomed, or left, hungry. These were “country” folks of impeccable manners reflective of their “Love” for God and man.

That sacred home-ground in Liberty produced a fine family from the seeds sown there. Resultant progeny are God-fearing, God-loving, God-adoring people exemplifying values and virtues which are true, generous, kind, considerate and loving to one another, thankful for their children and appreciative of their earthly treasure. Here are: “Good” people, past and present!

As I pen this essay, one sibling turns ninety-two! Happy Birthday! Brother Charles! Brother Randell lives in a mansion in Mt. Juliet, Tennessee, he is a saintly man, my Uncle Randell is. Sister Oleta passed a few years ago. And, Mom? She’s just fine, living in Branson, Missouri.

Mother is a saintly woman, always displaying compassion and kindness. Like my Granny, she welcomed everyone, seeing to it that all were well-fed. An immaculate housekeeper, Mom could prepare gourmet food better than any trained chef. Family is her life; treats us like Royalty. In retrospect, I might have reciprocated---Better!

You always made my life easy, taking care of us and “fixing” our mistakes. Oh! Yeah!

All is treasured in my heart. I cherish the old times. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world!