'BACK PORCH SITTIN'

          For a lot of us what live out in the country, one of life’s simple pleasures is sittin’ out on a porch in either a swing or a rockin’ chair and enjoyin’ life at a bit slower pace. Whether it’s visitin’ with family or friends or simply just sittin’ in the shade and enjoyin’ a good book, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more relaxin’ place to while away an afternoon.

On the Jennings Farm, Momma and Daddy’s back porch is the place to hang out. Twelve foot by twenty foot, screened-in; a picnic table at one end, porch swing on the other, and wooden rockin’ chairs in between. It’s where we catch up with one another; tell what’s happenin’ in our lives and what’s goin’ on with the kids, and pass along the latest gossip from down at the post office or farm supply.

The swing… my brother built. It was a gift many, many Christmases ago. A couple of old throw pillows at one end, it’s where my Daddy takes his afternoon naps. Many’s the time I’ve seen him sit there and whistle a call to draw in Bobwhite Quail, just as his Daddy used to. How funny to watch two, and sometimes three, quail scurryin’ around the backyard, dodgin’ the cat and tryin’ their darnedest to find that girl quail that keeps a callin’ to ‘em.

The picnic table is another past Christmas gift. It’s where simple meals of fried squash, peas, sliced t’maters, green onions, and cornbread are eaten on pleasant summer evenings, and where the little kids, my nieces and nephews, spend hours playin’ dominoes with their Nana.

From the porch, we can see the cows out in the pasture, their calves stretched out in the grass, soakin’ up the warm sunshine; laugh at poor Gypsy as she tries to keep up with that new colt of hers as it races down to the pond and back, then up to the road, then back down to the barn; and then, just before dark, you can watch the chickens, one at a time, fly up into the old cedar tree to roost.

          It’s on the back porch that we sit and snap and string the green beans and shell the purple hull peas that are brought in from the garden; all the while marvelin’ at the aerobatics of brilliantly hued hummin’birds, as they zip around the feeder hangin’ from the eave.

          We sip sweet tea, solve the world’s problems, and generally just enjoy spendin’ time with one another. We laugh and talk; Daddy catches me up on what’s goin’ on with this uncle or that aunt. We talk about Brother Charlie’s sermon from last Sunday, how much calves are bringin’ at the sale barn, this week, and I fill Momma in on my datin’ life. LOL

          It’s the perfect place for a quick afternoon nap; it’s where the whole family congregates after Sunday dinner; and it’s a great place to sit late of an evenin’ and watch the kids runnin’ around, catchin’ lightnin’ bugs out in the yard.

Yep… I do believe a person’d be hard-pressed to find a more relaxin’ way to while away an afternoon than back porch sittin’.

'GO MAKE SOME MEMORIES WITH A KID'

          A sunny summer day; a good-looking All-American boy, his light-colored hair a comfortable mess; wearing only a pair of board shorts and a big smile; he sits on the end of a well-used kayak, with a bag of FUNYUNS in his hands and a bottle of Orange GATORADE on the ground between his bare feet; a fishing rod lies in the boat behind him.

          I love this pic, partly 'cause it’s of my 11-year-old grandson and partly because it speaks to me of summers past, spent as a young boy, shirtless and barefoot, tanned brown as a li'l Indian; a hand-me-down ZEBCO fishin' rod, grasshoppers and earthworms, and them ol’ red and white plastic bobbers; fishin' the nearby creeks and local farm ponds with my friends. I also recall that we, too, enjoyed the same snacks; although for my generation, the GATORADE was the original Lemon-Lime flavor instead of Orange.

          The day I snapped this pic, we were floatin' a 3 1/2-mile stretch of the Conasauga River, up in Polk County, Tennessee. It was his first time on a 'yak by himself. In no time, he's sayin' "Hey, Paw", and I turn to find him standin' up on it, paddlin' along with nary a care in the world. That day, he learned to fish a new lure... a swirly-tailed jig, while I got to hear all about his recent trip aboard a cruise ship to St. Thomas, San Juan, and the Bahamas. Smart beyond belief, he can comprehend an amazin' amount of things on an adult's level and is constantly learnin'; yet, he's still an 11-year-old boy, and keeps me in stitches with some of the things he can come up with. And best of all is how I feel after spendin' the day with him. Normally, I'm exhausted when I get off the river, havin' paddled all day in the hot sun.... but not when I'm with this young'un. Yeah, the tired muscles are still there, but time shared with him actually recharges my spirit.

          My daughter says that he "has the best time with me", and that he's "blessed to have a Paw like me". Well.... I don't know about all that.... but I can tell you that that boy means the world to me. He is, without a doubt, my 'best-est bud'. Heck, at times, I think I learn as much from him as he does from me. If nothin' else, though, he helps keep me young.... or at least, rememberin' when I was. LOL

          Just a bit of friendly advice, people.... take a kid fishin', play dress-up or Barbies, or just go skip rocks across a creek or pond; it makes no matter. Just go make some memories with a kid, spend time listenin' to 'em as much as, if not more than, you do talkin' to 'em. I guarantee you'll not regret it, and they.... will never forget it.

'GOOD BYE, MY FRIEND'

          Growin’ up, there were three of us… Marty, Tony, and myself. If you saw one, chances were you’d see the other two, as well. To say that we were good friends is an understatement; we were closer than brothers even.

Marty Harrod
1969 - 2014

          Once grown, life took each of us in different directions, and as oftentimes happens; we got busy with our own families and adult lives. No longer did we spend spring afternoons together at Mason’s Lake reelin’ in hand-sized Bluegills or the first Saturday in September huntin’ doves together on opening-day. Yet, still… the bond between us was still there, the memories we shared from our teenage years were still strong. When we did get to see each other, it was obvious by the big bear hugs and ear-to-ear grins that the ties between us were still strong, and for the next half hour or more, time would stand still as we caught up on what was going on in each other’s lives. And over the past quarter of a century, during the toughest times of our lives, we’ve always been there for one another.

1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme convertible

          I have never, in my entire life, been so stunned as I was, on Saturday, when I got the call from my youngest daughter, telling me that Marty had died that morning. He’d had a heart attack, she said. My own heart instantly broke. I had to get off of the phone. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I told her that I had to go, and she understood.

          A hundred things flooded my mind all at once… immediate concern for his family… his wife of 20+-years, their daughter, who is just a year or two behind my own… oh, and, Lord… how that li’l boy of his absolutely worships the ground his Daddy walked on. How will he take it? How will any of them? My heart literally ached for them.

Marty dancing with Ms. Cleveland (1987)

          And then came the memories… how we’d first met, at church it was, back in the 8^th grade; about the time we rolled the school guidance counselor’s yard at the behest of our drafting teacher; and how Marty had actually slow-danced with the principal at our Senior Prom. I thought of our gettin’ to hunt doves over at the Ridleys’ that one year; it turned out to be THE BEST dove hunt any of us ever had. And I remembered the night of our high school graduation, when afterwards we celebrated together at the Hungry House and stuck Mr. Presley, our drafting teacher, with the bill. Marty’s ’69 Cutlass convertible with its white interior and white soft top; it’s still one of my favorite cars of all time. That beautiful old Fox double-barreled 12-gauge that was handed down to him; he could make some of the darnedest shots you ever did see with that ol’ scatter gun. And how could I ever forget how, on my 19^th birthday, that big lug snuck up on me from behind, bear-hugged me, told me ‘Happy Birthday’, and gave me a peck on the cheek, then ran like the dickens to get away. The only time I’ve ever been kissed by a feller. LOL  Yes, I remembered. I remembered so many things from ‘back-in-the-day’, and even through the tears and hurt, my heart grew warm and I had to smile. They were good memories.

          Soon after, Marty’s sister-in-law called me and asked if I would let our friends know. I told her, of course, I would. It was late that afternoon when I finally reached Tony by phone. My voice broke as I informed him of our friend’s passing. He took the news much as I did; he was stunned, shocked into silence. On my end of the conversation, the tears flowed steadily as we eventually began reminiscing about old times and the three of us.

          A part of me is at peace, because I KNOW without a doubt where Marty is, now. He’s in Heaven. And, I’m sure his Daddy and his Granddaddy Dennis were waitin’ at them pearly gates to greet him with big ol’ back-slappin’ hugs. And, Lawd… just think of how Marty’s face must’ve lit up when he saw Grandmother Harrod, again.

          Yep… I miss my friend already. Regardless of where we were or what was goin’ on or who was around, it never would do him to simply shake my hand, he insisted always on bear huggin’ me, instead. I’m gonna miss that… that, and that big ol’ infectious grin of his! My friend Marty was the kind of person that could brighten up any room by simply walking into it. He never met a stranger, and to the best of my knowledge, he was a friend to all. He genuinely cared about folks and was always tryin’ to show it. I wish I was half the man Martin Ruffin Harrod was.

          This evenin’, I go to say ‘goodbye’ to an old friend; one that, although we didn’t get to see one another as often as we might’ve liked, is still very dear to my heart. It will not be an easy task. The loss of a friend never is. But two things do bring me comfort this day… the first, that the Good Lord has promised that I WILL see my friend again one day; the second, that I have enough heart-warming memories of those three boys to last me ‘til we’re all back together, again, smilin' and laughin'.

'TYBEE'

One of Tybee Island's most familiar landmarks

             It’s the middle of January, and the temp outside is a balmy 30-somethin’. So, here I sit in front of my warm heater, thinkin’ ‘bout what else?? Summertime and the beach, of course! But, not just any beach, have you. Having grown up with our family vacationin’ down along the Gulf coast, primarily at Gulf Shores or Panama City Beach, I have, in the past decade, become quite partial to Tybee Island, the northernmost of Georgia’s famed Golden Isles. No, the beaches on Tybee don’t offer sugar-white sands (although they are still so very beautiful), nor do the waters of the Atlantic come close to comparin’ to the blue of those of the Gulf of Mexico, but the historical romance and natural beauty of the Georgia coast more than make up for all of that.

            Close enough to Savannah for one to enjoy that beautiful old city, yet far enough away that there’s actually a small-town atmosphere about the island. Tybee is one of those rare places that makes one daydream about someday movin’ there and livin’ happily ever after. There’s no place else like it that I’ve yet to find.

Little Tybee's pristine beaches stretch for miles

            From the salt marshes that extend as far as the eye can see, at times seemingly barren, laced with empty, muddy creek beds devoid of any visible life, at other times absolutely beautiful with twisting, turning waterways rippling under the bright sunshine and teeming with fish and birds of every kind; to the island nature preserve of Little Tybee, an area that can only be accessed by boat, offerin’ empty expanses of pristine beach that stretch unbroken into the distance.

One of the boardwalks along the North Beach

            Boardwalks bleached gray from the weather; sea oats swayin’ in the breeze; the taste of salt on the wind as the surf rolls up onto the beach, leavin’  bits and pieces of seashells of every shape and size upon the sand as it goes back out again; dolphins breaking the surface in lazy arcs as they frolic just off shore; pelicans flyin’ in formation, then droppin’ out of the sky like Navy dive-bombers, plungin’ headfirst into schools of fish; and the hundreds of gulls and terns, ever-present with their incessant chatter.

            Historical landmarks, such as an old military installation, Fort Screven, in use through the Second World War; the oldest and the tallest lighthouse in Georgia, distinctly marked with none other like it in the U.S.; and a giant anchor, salvaged from a sunken wreck of an old wooden sailing ship discovered off of the island’s north shore.

A Tybee Island sunset

            Beach houses, vacation homes, and rental units of every size and style conceivable; there are huge, gnarled oaks, with gray beards of Spanish moss blowin’ in the gentle breeze, tall palmetto trees, prickly yucca plants, and azaleas galore. On Tybee, bicycles outnumber cars, electric golf carts and buggies are legal to drive on the city’s streets, and parking is at a premium.

            Postcards four for a dollar and sunglasses two for ten in the shops along Tybrisa Street, the heart of ‘downtown proper’, and across the street is DOCK’S BAR, where the locals hang out and the ‘weekenders’ are welcome; you can get fried conch with homemade remoulade sauce served dockside at AJ’S, where the sunsets are utterly breathtaking; a pound of fresh shrimp on the patio at STINGRAY’S, amid the thump-thump of a live band; or a huge platter of Low Country Boil under light-draped oaks out’n amongst the marshes, at THE CRAB SHACK.

Sunrise on Tybee

            A soft, linen shirt, with khaki shorts and barefoot; a frozen concoction of the sort that Jimmy Buffet sings about, in-hand; strollin’ along the beach late of an evenin’ with the tide washin’ the sand from around my feet as it rolls back out to sea washin’ my cares away.

                 A familiar island sayin’ warns visitors that once they get Tybee sand ‘tween their toes, they’ll forever have an urge to return. Well, it's the truth... for I'm ready to be there now, myself.

'CHURCH MICE'

          Now, back in the day, when we were growin’ up, me and my brother Terry weren’t allowed to take toys to church. Yeah, I know… nowadays, folks don’t think nothin’ about it, but back then, it just wasn’t allowed… especially for us, the children of the church’s Minister of Music and Youth. So, it ought to go without sayin’ that the Sunday mornin’ we did decide to break that rule stands out as a most memorable one, for sure.

          The day before, while over in nearby Meridian, Daddy had bought us a couple of realistic-lookin’ mice made out of rabbit fur. We loved ‘em. They were so life-like, right up a couple of 9 and 11-year-old boys’ alley, and the following mornin’, into our dress pants pockets them li’l mice went, church-bound.

          Now, at that time, in the Southern Baptist churches that we grew up in, the fifteen minutes between when Sunday school lets out and the church service starts, as the congregation filed in and made their way to their seats, folks would quietly visit with one another. Well, back over ‘bout midways back on the right side of the church is where our friend Beth Lindley and her folks sat, and me and Terry were in the pew behind her, showin’ off our furry li’l prizes. Now, Beth’s momma was busy visitin’ with the adults in the pew ahead, payin’ the three of us no mind. She should’ve known better. The three of us were always into somethin’. Yeah… you see where this is goin’, right? Like I said… Ms. Lindley was payin’ us no mind at all, even when Beth set one of them furry li’l mice on her dear momma’s shoulder.

Suddenly, the organ sounded, indicatin’ that church was about to start, and that was the Jennings boys’ cue that they’d better be sittin’ up on the front row when their Daddy and the preacher and the choir came out, or they’d be in big trouble. Our fear of not bein’ where we were supposed to be overrode any need whatsoever to have that mouse in-hand, so we left it with her, and made a dash for our seats.

Well, just about that time, Ms. Lindley shifted in her seat, causin’ that li’l ol’ mouse to fall off’n her shoulder and right smack-dab in the middle of her lap. Well, folks… lemme tell ya; she let out a holler that caused everybody in the sanctuary to twist ‘round in their seats

to see what all the commotion was.
            Now, Ms. Lindley, the very quiet and well-reserved lady that she is, quickly regained her composure and sat there all sheepish and red as a beet, embarrassed as all get out for havin’ drawn attention to herself. Yet, there were three in that big ol’ church sanctuary that were not about to turn and look thataway, sittin’ stock-still with eyes-front, visibly shaking with repressed laughter, though; which, was a dead give-away as to whom the three mischievous culprits were.

In walked the preacher and Daddy, followed by the choir, and luckily… Daddy and Momma were none the wiser, for Ms. Lindley was a good sport and after a good laugh, never said a word about it. Plus, thanks to Beth swiftly and deftly catchin’ it up when her momma had thrown it from her lap, we got our mouse back.

So, needless to say… that broke me and Terry from sneakin’ toys into church. That was our one and only time to do that. From then on, we sat our li’l hineys on that front church pew and were quiet as a couple of li’l church mice.

Okay… maybe not THAT quiet, but I think you get what I mean.  J

'A SIMPLE, YET VIVID, ACCOUNT'

Two Medicine Lake and Rising Wolf Mountain

            "In the morning an early start was made, and evening found us away up on the Medicine River, where the first pines grow. The next noon we went into camp on the shores of the lake, our lodges being pitched in a grassy little bit of prairie on the north side. Back of us rose the long, high pine and quaking aspen ridge, which divides the deep valley from the plains. In front, across the lake, was a long cliff-topped mountain of gray sandstone, its slope densely forested with pines. The grand view was to the west. First, but three or four miles distant, a huge, heart-shaped, snow-patched mountain, which I named Rising Wolf, in honor of the greatest plainsman of us all, my friend Hugh Monroe. Beyond that, hemming in a vast amphitheater of lake and forest, rose more mountains, cliff-faced and needle-pointed, forming the divide of the great range. Rose and gold they were in the rising sun, jet-black when silhouetted against the evening sky. We never tired of gazing at them, their shifting colors, the fleecy clouds of a morning banding their splendid heights.

Blackfeet camping at Two Medicine Lake

            The campsite selected. Ashton and I jointed the rods he had brought out from the East, set reels, strung lines, and attached the moistened leaders and flies. Then we walked down to the outlet of the lake, only a hundred yards or so distant, followed by every one in our camp, including the children. I had talked about the pleasure of fly-fishing. The Indians were anxious to see this, to them, new phase of the white man's arts. Ashton made the first cast, and his artificial flies were the first that ever lit upon the waters of the Two Medicine. The response was generous. The placid water heaved and swirled with the rush of unsophisticated trout, and one big fellow, leaping clear from the depths, took the dropper with him in his descent. The women screamed. "Ah-hah-hai'!" the men exclaimed, clapping hand to mouth. "Strange are the ways of the white men. Their shrewdness has no end; they can do everything."

An older Schultz with
fly rod & stringer of fish in-hand

            The big trout made a good fight, as all good trout should do, and at last came to the surface on its side, exhausted. I slipped a landing net under it and lifted it out, and again there were exclamations of surprise from our audience, with many comments upon the success of it all, the taking of so large a fish with such delicate tackle. Trout we had in abundance, rolled in yellow cornmeal and fried to that delicate brown color and unsurpassed flavor which all true fisherman appreciate.
            Thus the days passed in peace and happiness."


            The above excerpt is from My Life As An Indian, one of my favorite books by one of my favorite writers, James Willard Schultz. It's a simple, yet vivid, account of a trip back into what is now Glacier National Park, in Montana, where the author and a close friend were the first to fly-fish the pristine waters of Two Medicine Lake. Though the story takes place sometime in the early 1880's, the adventure and romance the telling of it conjures up still speaks as clearly to the outdoorsman of today as it did when it was written more than one hundred years ago.

Apikuni talking over old times with his
old friend Bobtail Chief of the Bloods tribe  

            If'n the Good Lord's a willin', one of these days, this here coon's headin' to Montana to hike and fish and camp amongst them same mountains, and with me I'll be takin' a couple of ol' Apikuni's books to read by the fire of a night.

            "Who is Apikuni?", you say. Why... Schultz, of course. That's the name the Blackfoot Indians gave him when he married into the tribe, means 'Spotted Robe' or some such. Come on... you know... Apikuni, the white Indian?
            Good Lord! Where have you been? I thought ever'body knew who Apikuni was. Why, back in the day, boys and men alike eagerly awaited his latest stories to be published. They couldn't wait to get their hands on 'em. Through his stories, they could travel the Great Plains, hunt buffalo, venture into the mountains, and know the free life of the Blackfeet.
            Say the name still don't ring a bell? Well, I declare! Friend, what you need to do is get yourself a James Willard Schultz book and dive right in. I guarantee ya... you won't be disappointed!

Two Medicine Lake, Glacier National Park, Montana, USA

            "I will travel the well-worn trails, cast flies on famed waters, witness nature's breathtakin' beauty with awe and appreciation, and make my bed under the Heavens, brilliant with a blanket of stars; and late of an evenin', as the temperature starts to drop and the shadows grow long, then deepen, I will rest by the fire and recall the stories of the old ones." - Barry D. Jennings