They say that only mad men and Englishmen venture forth in the midday sun.
74 degrees in a tree stand is not my idea of a perfect day hunting. It's languid and hot in the mountains this year. The squirrels have taken to wearing sunglasses as a result of the unusually warm weather. Thinking about putting the bow away this week and practicing my roll cast on the Cheat River. Given the sultry conditions this season, I have managed to spend a great deal of time "visualizing" the completion of my on going face-lift of the mule. It's only been eleven months into the carb swap. Gotta be a "Mud" record or something.
With all this time on my hands I find myself "wandering". It's not the aimless wandering that Danny takes medication for, this is important stuff, childhood memories and such. Like the summer Granny taught me to shoot.
"Fetching" water was an adventure of epic proportion. I always "volunteered" to accompany the unlucky buccaneer chosen to "fetch a pail" for Captain Ahab. The well house was "round back" of the main house and sat squarely behind an immense "shag bark" hickory tree. It was soundly built out of some unidentifiable wood that had weathered to an ancient and time worn grey. An eight inch steel pipe protruded about two feet out of the hard packed clay and was crowned with a rusting and dented coffee can. The barely legible "Folgers" was still somewhat decipherable but would be a distant memory the following year. I found the singular act of removing the Folgers can from the well pipe and sending the long cylinder shaped draw bucket down deep into the well, a marvel of Archimedean achievement. I would stand in open mouth wonderment as the well handle spun rapidly and the long rope played out falling limp as the draw bucket found the bottom of the well. On one of my first forays down to the well house, I quickly and painfully learned not to stand too close to the handle as it spun unforgiving around the inside of the wooden structure. A goose egg size knot was a throbbing reminder that "City kids ain't got no sense". Risking another "badge of ignorance", I would heft and grunt as I "assisted" my uncle(s) turning the handle round and round until the bucket had cleared the well pipe. It was my sole responsibility to "pull the trigger" once the bucket was placed over the empty and waiting pail.
I would stand precariously on the wooden bench opposite of the handle and with an approving nod from my uncle(s), I would pull the trigger and delight as a cascade of cold clear water filled the one gallon pail. Totting the sloshing pail back to the house was another matter. My one and only attempt that summer to haul the water to the kitchen door had not gone well. I had inadvertently trailed the contents of the pail from the well house, through the yard and up the steps only to arrive with a quarter of the original contents. Meeting us at he screen door Elenor patted me gently on the head and cast a foreboding and ominous eye at my hapless uncle . Bill, accused of "knowing better", was promised a customary "cuffing", to be administered at some distant and future time , for allowing me to carry the liquid cargo and sent back to the well house to "Fetch a proper pail of water".
Bill's memory would prove to be long, unforgiving and mischievous.
"Take this two dollars and run down to Roberts Store and tell Mr Roberts you want a brick of 500". I reached for the two one dollar bills not fully comprehending exactly what Granny Eleanor was saying. Yet, despite my misunderstanding, I had grown to trust implicitly anything Granny had to say. Besides, I may have been a city kid but, I had watched my uncles test Granny Ahab's resolve on more than one occasion only to find insubordination, however small, was not tolerated on the Welch farm.
Roberts store really wasn't a store in the true sense of a modern store. In 1966, Roberts store was a market, Post Office, service station, delicatessen, hardware store, haberdashery (if denim and flannel were your accouterments of choice). You could buy needles and yarn, gum balls and ice cream, canning jars and lids, cast iron skillets, soap, fresh produce in season (if you needed it), Tomato stakes, seed corn and the largest assortment of Cracker Jacks this side of Glenvillle. It was a commissary for country folk, a "Sears and Roebuck" of the west-fork. You could buy bait, tobacco, flour (Hudson Cream), ammunition, check your game tag and have a flat fixed all in the same morning. It was an Oasis of merchandise and a routine gathering spot for the residents of Five Forks.
The store was approximately half a mile door to door from the farm. An adventure befitting Marco Polo for a six year old. Despite this vast distance I was duty bound and honored to be given the grave responsibility of retrieving a "brick of 500" for Elanor. She had entrusted me specifically to carry out this task. I could only surmise the grave importance of such an undertaking and vowed to give it my best effort. I did however, puzzle over the daunting task of delivering "500 bricks" back to Granny's porch, and I was a little puzzled over the numerical significance of 500. How would I know if I actually had 500? My math skills at hat time peaked at a lowly 100. I would simply have to trust that Mr Roberts would be able to cipher the numbers to the required degree of competence and send me, merchandise in tow, back to the Farm. After all, he was an adult and surely was capable of counting to 500. Wasn't he?
I recalled with growing unease, the cuffing uncle Bill received for his inability to reason through an assigned task. Surely Granny would take into account my limited kindergarten education and give me a reprieve should I only bring back a mere thousand zillion or so bricks....
As I cleared the front steps and headed toward the gate , "Uncle Bill" met me at the gravel road. He had been idly malingering in the kitchen when Elanor entrusted me with bringing back the bricks. I am sure he was there to give me additional guidance and helpful advice. However mischievous ole Efie might have been, he was the only family member who had taken the time earlier that year, to gravely warn me about the "black and white spotted Dairy snipe".
Incontestably, the WV species of Dairy Snipe, was a particularly vicious and ill tempered beast with a voracious appetite for sluggish city kids. These wretched creatures apparently had the ability to impersonate an ordinary dairy cow, right down to the udders. Clever beasts indeed. It's not every kid who is fortunate enough to have such a thoughtful Uncle. I would be forever grateful to Bill for warning me about the Dairy Snipe as my newly acquired knowledge would soon be put to the test.
Filling my lungs with air and steeling myself for the snipe infested gauntlet that stretched out down the dusty road before me, I steeped off at a sprint.
"WAIT"!!!!!......Thinking I had missed the tell tale sign of a lurking Snipe I skidded to a dusty halt. Afraid to move I turned to see my uncle Bill starring wildly back at me. "You are going to need protection. Wait right here and don't move", He warned. Frozen statue like at the side of the road I waited skittishly as my small heart thundered wildly inside my chest. Minutes later he returned. "OK, come back over here behind the apple tree so the Snipes don't see me giving you the Big Medicine" he said in hushed tones. "Medicine? I gotta take medicine" I replied wrinkling my face. "This aint like castor oil is it? I hate that stuff", I said as my resolve began to fade....This trip to the store was starting to sour by the second. "No Dummy" uncle Bill assured me. "This is Big Indian Medicine, I got the recipe from a book about Daniel Boone. This will keep the Snipes and bad spirits away".
"Spirits? What spirits" I mumbled. My mother had failed to warn me that Calhoun County was plum filled with all manner of diabolic and fiendish creatures. I made a mental note to "educate" her upon my return home.
"You know, Indian spirits. The Indian spirits are mad as hell on acount'a Pocahontas show'en the white men all the Indian secrets" he said waving his arms over his head in muted exclamation. "Pocahontas? What's a Pocahontas" I questioned as my resolve flat-lined in utter despair.
Oh never mind dummy, It's don't matter none on account'a I got the Big Indian Medicine right here" he proclaimed pointing to the coal hod bucket that normally sat by the big stove in the living room and a large hickory axe handle from the tool shed. Reaching inside the coal hod he remove a large bottle of calamine lotion, a red bandana, five or six chicken feathers and a lump of coal. "First we gotta make sure the Dairy Snipes wont recognize you" he said reaching for the lump of coal. Taking the coal over to a large flat rock he ground it down into a fine powder with a nearby stone. Next he dipped a cupped handful of water from the ditch and made a black slurry like paste. "OK, come here, this part is ready" he said. I approached cautiously as he scooped up a handful of the black paste. "OK, now shut yer eyes" he directed and twirled the paste in his palm with the tips of his fingers. He rubbed the black gummy plaster around each of my eyes and made several long diagonal marks across my cheeks and forehead. "Hhhhmmmm" he mumbled studying the artwork unfolding on my face.."Take off your shirt. We need to add some medicine to your body. Dairy Snipes is clever..We need to make sure noth'en can see ya. Them snipes got great big eyes and can see better'n a mile or more" he announced as I peeled off my t-shirt. Taking the remainder of the "coal Medicine" he made large gaping streaks across my stomach and back. Reaching into the coal hod he withdrew the large bottle of calamine lotion. He shook the bottle vigorously before uncapping it and pouring the thick tan liquid into his hand. He apportioned the additional medicine by applying large palm sized streaks of tan to my face and torso. Satisfied, he stepped back to study his work ....
"OK, now for the big Indian medicine" he announced. Removing the bandanna and chicken feathers from the hod, he tied the rag tightly around my forehead and inserted the chicken feathers at various point around the newly fastened headdress. Slowly walking around me, he surveyed my appearance as he reached for the recumbent axe handle. "One last thing, if the big Indian Medicine don't work you'll need somethen' to fight of the spirits" he proclaimed handing me the axe handle. Gratefully accepting a handle I placed it over my shoulder and nodded solemnly at uncle Bill. "Now there's just one last thing. You have to run as fast as you can and yell louder than you have ever yelled in your whole life. OK?, Yellen confuses the snipes and fools the spirits into thinken' yer another indian spirit", he said gravely as he placed a hand on my shoulder. "You ready" he inquired. I could only nod. "GO!! he bellowed.....
"Yaaaaaaaa, yaaaaaaaaa, yaaaaaaaaaa, yaaaaaaaaaa, yyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, yyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" Barely two hundred yards into my sprint I came to a wheezing gasping halt.
Dragging the axe handle behind me on the ground I stumble forward in the hot afternoon sun. My heart still thundering in my chest I surveyed the wood line on my left and the broken pastures on my right. Nothing! Ha, this Big Indian medicine was working great!!! My uncle Bill had to be the smartest kid in the world. I made a mental note to thank him for showing me the way's of the Dairy Snipe and the Indian Spirits when I returned with Granny's 500 bricks...Seeing nothing more than a grasshopper and a few buzzing June bugs I slowed my pace and found my lost confidence. After all, what snipe or Indian spirit would dare tangle with a kid adorned and appointed with the "Big Indian Medicine"?
My journey was almost complete, Roberts store was in sight and I had seen nary a snipe or a spirit. A long bellowing blast turned my fortitude to liquefied watery fear. "Mmmmmmeeeeeeoooowwwwwwwwwww" thundered to my right...
An adrenaline surge coursed through my veins igniting my heart into a thundering chorus that echoed inside my chest. Whirling around I was face to face with a black and white spotted Dairy Snipe. A mere ten feet separated me from certain death at the hands (hooves?) of this bawling monster . No doubt he had been crouched down in the tall weeds and was ready to spring over the fence at any second.
Swinging the axe handle wildly over my head, I ran in concentric circles screaming at the top of my lungs. My internal compass was spinning out of control and failed to send my wildly pumping legs a principle direction in which to flee. My feet, not waiting for the signal from my brain and having no patience for my legs, found the pavement and kicked up small clouds of dust as I thundered down the road toward Roberts store. Yaaaaaaaaa! Yaaaaaaaaa! Yaaaaaaaaa! YYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
Panting heavily, I bound up the wooden steps at Roberts Store. My near death encounter with the Dairy Snipe had left me sweating and out of breath. How had the Snipe seen me? Maybe I needed more big medicine for the return trip. I was sure that Mr Roberts would have an equally effective ointment somewhere within the cavernous confines of his store. I mulled over the possible difference in a store bought poultice and the genuine recipe my uncle had gleaned from his Daniel Boone book. Concluding that a store bought remedy was better than none at all I determined to ask Mr Roberts if he had something that he could lend me. I did not want to endure another fence line confrontation with the Dairy Snipe. I had outsmarted and outrun the dreaded bovine masquerading snipe, but it would require a new potion of proven worth and my undivided diligence if I was going to carry 500 bricks back to he farm.
Resolute and determined I pushed my way through the large screen door into Roberts Store. A small bell over the door announced my arrival. Taking a breath of courage I moved slowly across the well oiled wooden floor to the face of a large glass cased counter. Distracted by the penny candy selection I had not noticed Mr Roberts at the end of the counter. "Hello Chief" he said from somewhere to my left. Immediately the adrenaline stored up from my headlong dash to the store reignited. "Yaaaaa"! I yelled and spun mid-air in the direction of the voice. The sudden movement dislodged my chicken feathered headdress as it fell down on to my tan and black infused face covering my eyes. Dropping the axe handle on the wooden floor, I fought to remove the bandanna. With both hands I managed to pull my head through the hand tied turban as chicken feathers reigned down around my feet. "I thought choo was a Snipe or and Indian Spirtit" I said fighting to catch my Breath. I just outran a Snipe out by the fence line just down the road. Big one to! If I didn't have this big medicine my uncle Bill gave me I probably be dead right now" I exclaimed as I bent down to retrieve my wooden "Spirit persuader".
"Uncle Bill? Bill Welch"? "Bill Welch is your uncle" he inquired cocking an eye brow and stifling a smile. Unable to contain the details of my odyssey, and still twitching from the adrenaline, I exploded with a litany of facts, observations and my theories on the dangers of un-escorted travel in this part of the world. "Yes sir, You know my Uncle Bill? He knows all kinda stuff about Dairy Snipes and Indian Spirits. He painted me up with all this Big Medicine on acount'a how dangerous it is for slow city kids to walk around unprotected from the Snipes and Spirits. The spirits want all their secrets back cause Pocahontas gave em to the white man.
Whats a Pocahontas?
All these things happened just the way I described them. Anyway, that's the way I remember it.
job later.
