AS I RECALL my boyhood years in Alabama
going barefoot was a memorable event in my life.
My grandfather, Rufas Whitt, was the main
person who initiated the practice. While my mother worked at a cotton mill to
help support her five kidlets, my grandfather remained head of the household.
He also stood firm in his convictions: no comic books and no shoes.
To save wear and tear on the annual pair of shoes, I accepted the practice of
going barefoot with no questions asked. And, yes, I do remember walking
barefoot to school through the powdery and light coating of snow that sometimes
blanketed the winter. It wasn't all up-hill, however.
The pair of shoes purchased early in the year had been readily outgrown anyway.
At least my younger brother, Bill, got some use out of them. They were rugged,
ankle-high brown brogans that could have survived most boyhood scuffles. Sadly,
I was not able to give them that opportunity.
After my mother remarried, my stepfather moved us all out to the country.
Heflin, Alabama was a dramatic change for me. Plowing with mules or chopping
tree stumps and removing debris from sunup to sundown were my routine six days
a week. Getting around barefoot was still a side issue accepted and not
questioned.
Sundays, our only day off, were spent picking blackberries and blueberries and
pitching horse shoes. Those briar patches of berries were bad on the feet. When
playing horse shoes I maintained a safe distance from the thrower's arc.
A rain storm became a welcome relief from the bathing in the old bathtub. We
kids shucked all clothes as we could get away in doing and danced and played in
the rain. Sometimes we took a bar of soap with us.
A barefoot boy at a country school was the norm back then.
[i]
Those old, wooden floors were hazards,
however. Splinters from old planks seemed to jut up unexpectedly and bring
damage through the tough calluses of the feet.
I sustained many splinter wounds, abrasions and other cuts to the feet during
those early years, but none matched the incident that follows.
Finding life unbearable with her husband, Miff, Mom shored up the courage and
determination to leave him and move back to Alabama City, the hometown of my
grandparents. That determination came to a head after Miff threatened to kill
me if I did not return home from the country store with a can of Prince Albert
tobacco for him. Instead of returning to the closed store, we immediately left
the house while Miff slept.
We raced over countless rows of plowed acreage in the hopes of reaching a
neighbor, our only sanctuary
1
available. A week later, Mom packed our belongings and rented an old stake-bed
truck and its driver. Once again we were on the road to a new place and a safer
haven.
Finding a small, wood-framed rental house Mom returned to work at the cotton
mill in Anniston. Behind this house were acres of undeveloped land and a
perfect playground for a young boy.
Normally, the land was waist-high with field grass, but a summer fire had
reduced it to blackened ash one year. Countless six-inch-high grass stalk
stubbles were everywhere, protruding upwards in menacing half-arrayed
starbursts.
In my rambunctious play as an Indian warrior, decked out with breech-cloth, bow
and arrows, war paint and one turkey feather banded to my head, I encountered
one of those star bursts of grass stalks. It upset my whole day.
The exact moment that led to the horrendous, gaping wound received from one of
those clumps of grass stalks is unknown. I can only recall the excruciating
pain and bloody mess that followed.
I managed to hobble home to "Doctor Mom." She remained coolheaded during the
ordeal of cleaning and dressing the wound. A visit to the local emergency
hospital was out of the question because family health insurance for us in
those days did not exist.
Several boring weeks of healing later, I donned a fresh pair of ankle-high,
brown brogans that had been gathering dust in a closet. I had been waiting for
this event with relish and revenge.
Venturing toward the field of half-foot grass stalks I marched toward the Place
of the Wounded Foot, as an Indian might proclaim it. For an hour filled with
gleeful retribution, I crushed as many of those stalk menaces as possible.
Feeling the crunch of grass stalks under those thick-soled shoes was an
exhilarating and emotional celebration mixed with a determined sense of closing
an event in my life.
Nothing since has equaled the feeling of completeness that I held the day I got
even with the menace in the field.
[i]
1948-1952
1
This "sanctuary" turned out to be home to one of my step-father's moon-shine
friends. Miff learned of our whereabouts, arrived and had gotten in a nasty
argument with Mom. He had thrown a knife at her as she was scrambling away from
him up a slope toward the house. As she accidentally fell to one knee in her
haste to get away, the knife sailed inches over her head. The blade broke when
it made contact with the base of the house.
GERONIMO LAUGHED TOO
by
GREG BRUORTON
Exiting the C141 jet, I twisted like a corkscrew.
Harness and nylon rope
attached to my parachute wrapped around my neck as cloth to a mummy.
“Must've been a helluva wind shear we went through,” I said loud
enough for the other soldiers floating nearby to hear. Of course, up there
with nothing but a few birds investigating us intruders in their space, a voice
can carry easily. I heard similar comments from my fellow troopers, some of
which were unprintable.
This was just one of the few times I
“jumped the C141 jet” during my
paratrooper days at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Unlike exiting the C130
aircraft, the only thing necessary was to fall out the jet's door when the
green light came on. The thrust of the aircraft took care of the rest. If I
were to energetically jump out as if it were a C130 cargo aircraft, I'd either
land in the jet engines or get slapped silly or dead against the outer skin of
the plane.
Upon feeling the gentle tug of the parachute's opening, I managed a view
through the wrapping harnesses and rope to insure the canopy had blossomed all
the way. With its full deployment, I began to untangle myself from those
wrappings. I felt like a spinning top on an invisible table, an experience new
to my jumping career.
Grateful for this
semi-Hollywood
jump (no rifle, radio, backpack and ammunition) I began to enjoy the descent
and the sights below, but, the dark and light green rectangular shapes of earth
surged upward. Twenty or thirty feet above the ground the wind ripped through
and twisted me again, wrapping the nylon ropes of my parachute around my neck
and upper torso. I was in for another unique experience.
Assuming the Parachute-Landing-Fall position, I prepared myself for the worse.
Hitting the packed earth hard as usual, I leaped to my feet and ran to deflate
the silk canopy because the nylon ropes that had encircled me prevented a
quick-release at either shoulder buckle.
Just as I had a hand on the silk, the wind picked up, the chute inflated, and
off I went, belly down onto the drop zone's crusted sand. On a few more
occasions, I was able to spring to my feet and attempt to deflate the canopy,
but the wind decided to play games with me. I was up, then down as a yoyo.
The drop zone was no cleaner than the side lines to a football game aftermath.
The wind dragged me over shrapnel, rocks, small ravines, old smudge pots used
for drop zone markings, and an occasional discarded jeep tire. My uniform began
taking on an appearance of a green sieve.
Finally, I stopped. The wind died, my canopy deflated with me on top of it,
and the tree stump stopping me almost senseless remained firm, unyielding.
Relieved, I unhooked the parachute harness and let it fall to the ground.
Wrapping the silk in the figure-eight requirement, I vigorously stuffed it into
the parachute bag and then looked to the horizon.
I was well over five hundred yards from the rest of the troopers who patiently
waited and watched from the rally point. The best and the worst were over. Or
could I be mistaken?
Laughing was the only thing to do, because the rest of the troopers were doing
the same. I was a walking chunk of debris. Dirt and sand fell out of my
helmet as I trudged forward. A tree limb pierced my fatigue pants and seemed
to hang onto me with a nagging vengeance until I managed to dislodge it.
Laughter that steadily grew wafted to me from the rally point. With binoculars
in hand, the jump commander was relaying information as he witnessed the
unfolding events about me.
But it was a good jump. All is well anytime a paratrooper can get to his feet
and walk off unaided from the drop zone with the parachute bag slung over his
shoulder. Maybe our unofficial mascot, old Geronimo, was laughing, too.
I also carried the biggest smile possible.
***
THE GUITAR STUDENT
by
GREG BRUORTON
Beyond the savings on long-distance
phone calls between my wife and her
daughter, my moving to Louisiana held expectations for me. I wanted to return
to teaching guitar again—a pastime and avocation that brings intense
pleasure.
Not long after the dust settled in our
relocation, and through his grandfather,
I learned of a 14-year-old boy's wishes to take guitar lessons. With
arrangements worked out, I began teaching one of the most withdrawn teens I'd
ever met. When he came for his first lesson, he appeared disinterested as if he
had better things to do, maybe out playing ball. My first inclination was to
send him home. I had seen more enthusiasm in students attending a professor's
boring lecture.
My objectives soon accelerated. I'd teach the boy everything he could take
regarding the guitar, but first I had to reach inside and find what motivates
him. “What type music would you enjoy concentrating on—Rock, Country,
Rap?”
He sat my office chair hunched over his solid-body electric and grinned at my
reference to Rap music. “I dunno,” he shrugged.
Strike one
.
“What do you like to listen to when you're at home or elsewhere?”
Garrett looked around the room and slightly swayed in his chair as if it might
generate the answer he wanted. “Oh, Rock, I guess. Some Country 'cause Dad
listens to that all the time.”
“I'd expect that, given where we live,” I said. “Probably the
best thing for us to do now is to begin with some basic chord formations. They
work in all types of music. Would you like that?”
He shrugged. “Guess so.”
Strike two
.
I had the urge to send him packing, but my own stubbornness kicked in. I had to
reach him somehow and I decided then I will find whatever it is that motivates
the boy. To demonstrate how useful the chord of G was to a guitarist, I played
several contained melody lines while strumming the chord. I thought I detected
a glimmer in his eyes and assumed his watching and listening to my short
exhibition would capture his interest.
With many students, I refrain from showing off my skills, figuring such
demonstrations would quickly deflate their willingness to move on. I force
myself to show only what is most important to them. I quickly reverted back to
the lesson itself. Reaching a point over his struggling with a G chord I broke
the spell.
I refused to honor a strike three. “Tell me of your dad. What does he do
for a living as we know it?”
Garrett kept his focus on trying to keep his little finger in place at the
third fret. The boy bunted to left field. “He's in the Reserves; they're
heading to Iraq this month.”
“Does he play guitar, too?”
He looked up at me and then refocused on his chord positioning. “Naw. He
listens to the radio; drinks beer.”
He stole second base. “Oh.” I dropped the subject and then helped to
position his fingers on the fretboard.
The first lesson felt awkward, forced. I had to do better the next time.
Afterward, I discussed the lesson with my wife, Liz, and she suggested I try to
get him to talk more.
I held up my hands in surrender. “That's what I've been trying to
do,” I shot back. “There's only so much chatter I can make that
doesn't relate to his lesson. He's got to show something from this ten-dollar
visit.”
“Well, maybe we both can draw him
out after each lesson you give him. He
certainly is a self-contained boy,” Liz said.
“You got that right! There's always next week; maybe his second lesson
will go better.”
Garrett Taylor's life was a familiar one, however. Living life with a mom,
but seldom with a dad was something I grew up knowing well. His father, a
reservist in the 525
th
Combat Engineers Battalion, had received his notice to join the unit for
deployment to Iraq. Father and son got along as to what I determined, but his
mother held the knack at bringing out the unsaid words and emotions he kept
hidden.
I felt he needed another male role-model in his life and I tried to be that for
him until his dad returned from overseas.
The subsequent lessons with Garrett slowly began to show fruit. With each
visit, his chats increased during the lesson and later with Liz while slipping
his shoes on to traverse the red mud outside. He shrugged less and grinned more
as we progressed from chords to music theory.
The boy had taken to the guitar as I had done in my youth. I told him at the
onset that to play guitar, you have to live, breathe, even sleep with the
instrument to form that crucial bonding needed. His mother confirmed the impact
of that very admonition to the boy.
In a telephone call she said, “I can't believe the change in Garrett since
he began taking your lessons. Although a bit withdrawn with others, his whole
attitude has changed for the better.”
“How's that, Mrs. Taylor?”
“Why, he came home from school today bragging about his Composition Class;
something he has never done before.”
“I'm happy he's into composition; I wish I had taken more of it when I was
in school.”
“Me, too,” the mother shot back, “but with Garrett, it's taken
on special meaning. You see, he had a class assignment to do this week about
the good things and the bad things in life he encounters. Let me tell you this,
Greg, that boy said nothing of the bad things in his written report; only about
his guitar and his teacher.”
“I'm flattered. I guess I got through him somehow. I told him he had to
live guitar if he wanted to play the thing.”
“Live it is right. He's doing it every day. Going back to his
assignment—not only did he get a straight A in it, he earned extra points
in his English class as well when he stood up before the class and presented
his report to them.”
He'd hit a resounding homerun. “That makes me want to bust a button off my
shirt,” I said. “I'm very happy for him. How is he doing with his
father gone?”
“He e-mails him a lot, telling him about his guitar playing—and you.
You've done wonders for the boy and for that, I thank you.”
“It's been my pleasure, ma'am.”
Whatever the reason, Garrett's lessons ended after 17 lessons of steady
progress. Finances may have been part of the equation, but he was experiencing
growing pains as well. School studies, extracurricular activities, and girls
probably occupied his mind right along with guitar playing. His last lesson
remains with me.
We had just finished recapping chords, their progressions, and the importance
at staying with music theory. He looked over at me, his shock of curly, brown
hair trimmed and pushed away from eyes now bright, expectant. “I'm gonna
join the Army when I graduate.”
The casualness of his statement caught me off guard. “You are? That's a
worthwhile pursuit, if I might add.”
“Yeah, and I'm gonna be a paratrooper, too.”
I scanned his chunky frame and wondered if he'd be ready at the time.
“Well, son, that's a whole new ballgame. You've got to be in the best of
shape; running, pushups, pull-ups, and willing to take on a grueling six-week
course to wear those wings. They don't come cheap.”
“Oh, I know that. My dad has told me some stuff about it. He's not a
paratrooper, but he says he knows some guys who are.”
“Do you know any paratroopers yourself?”
Garrett grinned, his mottled freckles broadening across his nose. He looked
over at my desk, a focus strong on the pen set that I received from my buddies
when I left the 82
nd
Airborne so many years ago. Standing there in bronze, next to my ink pen, is a
paratrooper, all decked out in combat helmet, parachutes, rucksack, and covered
with dust. I ignored the small spider making her way upwards on silvery thread
from the helmet to the nearby corner.
“Yeah,” he said, “you!”
I had heard accolades of my guitar playing through the years, but this was
different. Anybody can learn to play guitar, but not everybody can qualify as a
paratrooper. All I could say was, “Thanks.”
The next I heard from Garrett was when he visited to secure a recommend from
me. He wanted to join a school group destined for an excursion to Germany,
courtesy of the school district. Later, I learned it had been a successful trip
with warm experiences gained.
When his father returned from Iraq,
one of the first things he had done for
Garrett was to bring him his own acoustic guitar. The boy could hardly wait to
show it to me.
He is in his sophomore year at this writing. I don't hear from him as often as
I want, but I feel confident he is doing well for himself, the bat held ready
to swing.
Now, I keep a feather duster nearby, and several times a week, whether needful
or not, I brush the cobwebs and dust from my 82
nd
paratrooper that rests silently, resolutely on the desk.
* * *
SAMMY JO
by
Greg Bruorton
Casually, I walked around the swimming
pool one morning just before leaving for work. I had not taken my usual
morning swim so a cursory inspection was in order.
The Tucson daybreak came early and I reveled in the morning calm that was
interrupted frequently by cooing quail and mourning doves—even the
piercing calls of the blue jays was the norm.
Then I saw it. Protruding slightly out
from the pool's skimmer area a dark and matted object caught my attention as it
floated ever so still. Thinking the poor animal might be a rat, and possibly
near death, I fished it out from the skimmer opening with my long-handled net
and immediately headed for the back alley.
I wasn't quite sure what species the animal was, but my best course of action
was to drop it off in the alley. There, it could dry in the Arizona sun and
soon fend for itself unless a wandering coyote found it. I headed back toward
the house.
Liz, my better half, came out on the porch, and noticing what I had been doing,
asked, “What was that you took to the alley?”
“Don't really know. A baby rat, maybe. Could be a skunk. You know we got a
lot of them around here. I found it in the skimmer. Why?”
“You go get that baby! I'll get some towels and we'll dry her off!”
Dutifully, I retrieved the little tyke and placed it in the toweling Liz held
for me. There was life and there was hope for the little rascal. That was when
I noticed the small tuft of white on her head. A spotted skunk!
We padded a laundry basket with old towels, found our old “Baby Ben”
alarm clock, and set the baby close to the ticking clock. We hoped that it
would feel a little secure, thinking its mother was near.
Baby On Board
.
A week passed, and with the constant bottle feeding Liz administered every few
hours, our 'new baby' showed more signs of life. Liz had used a small milk
bottle on George, our tomcat, in the same way so she was quite adept at the
feeding technique.
Neither of us knew the sex of the little spotted skunk, so I named it
Sammy Jo
. Either way, the name could fit once we learned the gender.
I found myself anxiously awaiting the time to clock out from work and hurry
home to my baby. Soon, I had her on the living room rug. I would trace my
forefinger around on the rug and she'd follow it unerringly. Tiring, she then
sought out a pocket of my baggy lounge pants to climb into and nap.
Our friends, the Estradas, and their two
children, often visited the baby. Playtimes for Sammy Jo meant sitting on the
floor, feet touching the others, and have the little stinker scamper from one
to the next person. Exhausted, she'd then head for my pocket to escape the
excitement.
Final bonding came one evening between Sammy Jo and me. Standing with my back
to the fireplace, I placed the baby on my shoulder. If she wasn't bonding, she
marked her territory instead. I felt the warm sensation of her urine running
down my back.
As much as I wanted her near me I thought it best that she continue sleeping in
the laundry basket. We did, however, take naps on the couch with her on my
chest.
Liz and I planned on having her scent pack removed as soon as practical. I had
told her of the skunk my first wife had for a short period of time back in
1973. That pet had been unscented but still carried the definite aroma
associated with skunks.
Once, when Liz got angry with me about something she started jumping
repeatedly. I burst out laughing because her jumping reminded me of our North
Carolina skunk as it became irritated. The skunk would slam its front paws
down hard in front while backing up. Liz stayed firmly in place, however,
never to back up when becoming irritated with me.
Major Heartbreak
.
As usual, Liz coordinated most everything for us. After her chat with our
veterinarian to plan the surgery she immediately telephoned me with bad news.
To our dismay, we learned that a federal law exists precluding not only
performing surgery on skunks, but the actual ownership of them. Based on
inherent rabies genes in skunks, and the high probability of subsequent rabies,
we were forbidden to keep Sammy Jo. Not only would the vet be fined a hefty
$10,000 for performing the surgery, but we also would be fined $10,000.
Sadly, we had to do the only right thing. Liz contacted an authorized licensed
woman who nurtured and cared for young, wild creatures. Once the animal was
healthy enough, the woman would release it into the wild, normally up on Mount
Lemmon, which was thirty-five miles north of Tucson.
Final Farewell
We were allowed a few short visits only, and that was for the purpose of saying
our goodbyes.
Liz was aware of how special Sammy Jo was to me. I have had many pets in my
lifetime, but none that meant as much to me as this little spotted skunk.
We had moistened eyes long after the return trip home. We felt grateful that
Sammy Jo would forget before we ever
could.
SAWDUST AND DOODY-TAW
by
GREG BRUORTON
We shared a run-down house in Gadsden, Alabama
for three months during 1952.
Mom eked out a living at the nearest textile mill and by baking and selling
cakes. Her wages were barely enough to sustain us so the Salvation Army
supplemented the household with bags of food.
There were only three of us kids that Mom
had to care for then. The oldest
sister, Barb, had married at the age of 14, and Sandy, had returned to Vermont
to finish high school. That left Norma, me, and brother Bill in that respective
age grouping.
Time for play.
A sawmill filled the acre across the street. After the workers left for the day
and on the weekends, my brother and I roamed the back lot where mountains of
sawdust beckoned for exploration. Diving and jumping from the top of the hills
into the thick sawdust on the lower levels became our favorite pastime.
On the opposite side of the sawdust lot,
and across the railroad tracks, sat
Colored
town as it was known then. I noticed the movement first and pointed toward the
far side of the mill. “Hey, Bill, looky yonder.”
Bill strained his eyes at the approaching party. “Looks like two black
boys and a dog.”
“Sure is. Figure they want to play?”
Bill grinned over at me. “Sure! Why do you think they're headin' this
way?”
I began to laugh at the sight. “Look at that dog. He's sure dirty lookin'
to be a white one!”
“Yup,” Bill replied. “Let's hide and surprise 'em when they get
near.”
“Sounds good,” I shot back.
Just as the visitors began to climb the hill upon which we hid, we sprang
toward them, but stopped just shy of making contact. “Wanna play?” I
asked.
“Yeah,” the older of the two said. “We saw you from a long way
off.”
Bill and I never learned the names of the boys, but we well remember the
moniker of the mutt that kept barking at us. We four boys played
King of the Mountain
in the sawdust and wrestled the days away. We slid down the mountains of
sawdust, burrowed our way through them in surprise tactics, and engaged in all
sorts of rough and tumble play.
And time for fighting
. Naturally, when boys play, a good fight follows. With a lot of arm and leg
pulling, shoving and a few good punches, Bill and I often came out on top.
Our hard play drenched us with perspiration and soon our entire bodies were
coated with sawdust. We delighted in the sawdust activity, but as soon as our
fights started, the black boys immediately called their little, dirty white dog
forward. As if rehearsed, they cried out in a unified, singsong taunting chant,
"Sic 'em, Doody-taws"
Doody-Taw was an average, terrier-sized mutt and cautiously stayed beyond arms
reach of the boys. Agile and quick, the dog could circle them three times
before they finished one of their
"Sic 'em, Doody-taws"
taunts.
For all his size, he made a continuous racket of barking as he lunged at Bill
and me, snapping at our bare ankles. I connected once or twice with the little
mutt but usually he was able to avoid our kicks.
Our adrenaline surging, we did the only thing boys must do: fight harder and
try to kick the hell out of that little, dirty white dog of theirs!
As the sun began to set, the boys and Doody-Taw eventually retreated back to
their side of the tracks until the next day. At every opportunity, Bill and I
ran through the sawdust lot, and hearing the noise we'd make, the black boys
and Doody-Taw soon made their appearance.
As if in a time continuum, the scene of wrestling, fighting, and taunting
ensued. One advantage of playing in sawdust is that bloody noses clot fast.
I have to imagine that like with Mom, the mother of those boys must have
dreaded wash day. Every evening, Bill and I hosed the sawdust from us when we
got home, but we could not remove all of it from pockets and cuffs.
The good ole
days?
Fortunately, there were no electric washing machines in those days for us to
clog. We had the attached handle-wringer mechanism and the four-legged tub.
That was a step up from the large, black pot that sat in the back yard over a
fire. Hot, scalding lye-soapy water bubbled away while Mom or Norma stirred the
clothes around with an old broom handle. At each washing cycle, a half-foot of
sawdust rested in the bottom of the washing tub.
I have been around a lot of dogs since those sawdust fights and names given to
dogs had always been
Rover, Rex, Lassie, Lady, Spuds, Killer
and the like. I have yet to see, or hear of a dog named Doody-Taw, except for
that little, dirty white one that lived across the tracks near the sawmill in
that farming and timber community.
Somewhere, perhaps, in a small Alabama town today, sits an old black man on his
wooden porch, whittling away on his newly formed cane with his favorite
jack-knife. Childhood memories must often come to mind as he sits alone and
fashions his new creation.
With a smile and moist eyes, he has to wonder what ever happened to those mean
white kids he and his brother wrestled who relished in trying to kick his sweet
dog,
Doody-Taw
. Rest his soul.
