DarbyStoriesBBC5

DARBY BY BILL

Nellie's Walden Pond

Henry David Thoreau lived at Walden Pond from July 1845 to September 1847. His experience at Walden Pond provided the material for the book Walden, which is credited with helping to inspire awareness and respect for the natural environment. Because of Thoreau's legacy, Walden Pond has been designated a National Historic Landmark. This place, Walden Pond, is considered the birthplace of the conservation movement. And should we really care about the rumor that Henry David's mother brought him his dinner while he was there being mesmerized by this unearthly beautiful piece of God's green earth? I think not. And why not? Read on.

Jimmy Johns and brother Bill were doing as boys have done for untold centuries; we were exploring. We wanted to know the boundaries of Grandmother Nellie's 60-acre farm. As we plowed through the underbrush and woods, we came upon a fairly good-sized pond. One of us caught a large yellow-and-red grasshopper and tossed it into the middle of the pond. About two kicks later, the grasshopper disappeared in a swirl of water. I remember it still, just as if it had been yesterday. A hole opened up under that unfortunate grasshopper right about the size of a ten-quart water bucket. We looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Let's go get the poles".

PART TWO

That had to be the granddaddy of all Largemouth Bass. I don't care if the world record at that time was 20 lbs. plus, this one just had to be bigger. Twenty-five easy. And we were going to catch it. Say your prayers, Mr. Bass; you've had the course; bought the farm, adios amigo. But that fish didn't get that big by being stupid. He was smart alright. Lucky for him we had to move later. His name was destined for the Hall of Fame along with the Johns brothers. We tried, Lord knows we tried. No telling how many cans of worms drowned in the attempt. We managed to catch several of his brothers, but never the trophy, the keeper, the eternal, from-now-on bragging rights, all-time biggun'.

Many happy hours spent in the attempt. Too many? There's no way to fish too much. One's life can be wasted working too much, but never by fishing too much. Something elemental about this. Men were created to fish and fish were spawned to be caught. And that's the end of that. We managed to catch many a mess of War-mouth Perch under those half-submerged logs around the pond's bank. Those Catfish just begged to be caught. They'd bite as long as one cared to keep feeding them bait; same with Perch, same with Bream. But Old Granddad stayed just out of reach. Sometimes late at night as I lay there in bed listening to the Whippoorwill's call, I could just see Old Granddad swimming close to shore and laughing at our feeble attempts. He's probably gone now. That's been over fifty years. But his grandchildren and great grandchildren and on down the line, surely they're still there. And, no I'm not going to divulge just where that pond's located. There's still a trophy-sized fish there, there must be, just has to be. And it's mine and Jimmy's fish. We earned it. It belongs to us. All the rest of you supposed-anglers forget about it. It's ours. And I intend to see to it that it becomes ours, no question about it. Case closed...NEXT "GRANDMA'S WELL"

COMMENTS IN RESPONSE TO CAMILLE'S LETTER OF 7-30-02:

I do remember coming home one evening from a church service and swigging down about a half-pint of milk before I could stop. Don't remember if this milk resided in an ice box or refrigerator. That milk was far past its prime. The first experience we had with electricity was on the corner of Rome and Waters Avenues in Tampa. I was in the fourth grade there. We were in Darby during 1947 when I would have to have been 10 years old. (Mrs. Miller's 1948 Chevrolet) I do recall Mart riding a tricycle wildly about the living room near Grandma's fireplace and losing it on a turn and breaking a pane of glass in the front door. That must have been either decorative side panes on the side of the front door, or else the doors were made then with bottom-to-top panes. I do remember Mart getting cut with the broken glass. Doors aren't made with top-to-bottom panes anymore, probably due to safety factors involved. Can't remember any injury any more serious than that during our "Darby Days". The severe drought is recounted in my story about The 'Hood. (COMING SOON) Was by the one-room school house just a few short years ago. It became a dwelling house. Quite a story involved with the man who refused to follow his wife into town but opted to stay there with the "Schoolhouse/house". My hat is off to him. More as more bubbles up from the past. Love to all ya'all, Brother and Uncle Bill

GRANDMA NELLIE'S OPEN WELL

The person responsible for setting up the facilities on Grandma's farm had just about thought of everything. Instead of three bedrooms and two baths, we had more like three bedrooms and a path. It worked. One quickly developed the habit of taking care of the necessaries rather quickly during cold weather. Other than that, the Sears and Roebuck catalogue for uplifting literature, the things dreams were made of, and for other purposes and time stood still. Never seemed to present an insurmountable problem. There was always the woods for the less-squeamish. But the open well was a stroke of genius.

After over fifty years, I still marvel at the obvious labor involved in digging that well. The top of the average water table was many feet below ground. And whoever did the digging didn't stop short. The well's bottom was many feet below the average water table. Why, I never learned. I'm sure it wasn't just for the love of digging deep narrow holes in the ground. The water was always cool, even during the hottest days of summer. Many a liberated watermelon chilled in Grandma's well. By liberated I don't mean we grew them; rather we, "found them growing."

Someone had suggested putting a couple of catfish in the well for mosquito control. We did, and it apparently worked. Never a wiggletail in the drinking water. Someone had also suggested bailing out the well to let it "refresh" itself by refilling with "new" water. I don't recall who'd been the author of all of these sage suggestions, but I'd be willing to bet it wasn't the person doing the bailing. We eventually found bottom. A deep, dark, mysterious hole-in-the-ground. Three tired well mechanics slept well (no pun intended) that night and woke up to a refilled well next morning. We performed that operation just once. My brothers and I had proven that it could be done and that was close enough for us.

Young adventurous boys are rarely ever accused of having good sense. We fit that criteria perfectly. If it were even remotely possible to be done, then it was our duty to do it. "Don't dare me brother. I'll show you." We never got the courage to allow ourselves to be lowered down into that well but it was discussed more than once. If you can't bring the boy to the well, then bring the well to the boy. I would, even on the coldest frosty morning of winter, run out to the well in my shorts, pull up two buckets of water, dump them over myself, drop the bucket and run back in the house for a quick drying-off and the warmth of that fireplace or Grandma Nellie's Home Comfort kitchen range. Never a case of pneumonia there to my recollection. Perhaps a runny-nosed cold on occasion, but no worse.
Were we poor? Not that I remember. As a poem I once wrote relates:

A PRAYER FOR WEALTH
Oh Blessed Lord-
Curse me not with an easy life,
Bless me with great strength
Curse me not with simple answers,
Bless me with great knowledge
Curse me not with easy solutions,
Bless me with great wisdom
My survival begs for food, clothing, work, rest,
Friends I love who also love me
I seek all of this treasure,
If so gaining, I'm wealthy beyond measure
M.T.Hedd

That brief period of our lives spent there on Grandma Nellie's farm fulfilled that prayer better than any period of our lives before then and, speaking for myself only, better than any period since. Thank you so much Grandma Nellie.

Daisy Belle Miller and The Yellow Rose of Texas

A one-room schoolhouse, not conducive to learning? Believe this if you will, but you didn't have the pleasure of making Mrs. Daisy Belle's acquaintance. Mrs. Miller may not have been a world-traveler; may not have spent hours on end attending the opera; visiting museums; getting gussied up in fancy ball gowns. But Mrs. Miller could do one thing and she could do it well; Mrs. Miller could teach. And Mrs. Miller was bound and determined to bring culture to us little ragamuffin country children.

We learned music. And not all of that high-falutin' stuff either. Daisy Belle had a favorite: "The Yellow Rose of Texas." Every day, same thing, eight o'clock sharp, salute the flag, pledge allegiance, may have been a rendition of The Lord's Prayer in there somewhere, and then sit down and prepare to sing The Yellow Rose of Texas. We may on occasion have sung some other less-worthy songs but I don't remember. Mrs. Miller would sit down at that old upright piano and give a short introductive chord. Then be prepared to belt it out. Never heard the neighbors across the street, The Sessoms, complain. Two of the Sessoms boys were in school then. And a school marm carried an awesome amount of power in the community. You have a problem with the school marm? You just thought you had a problem. By the time that school marm finished with you and your parents and the rest of the community found out about it, you were the one with a problem, not the school marm.

Grades one through six. The big seventh graders had to ride the school bus all of the way into Dade City and attend Pasco High School. San Antonio didn't have a highschool then, as I recall. Would have been closer but progress takes time. St. Leo College, right close at hand. As a matter of fact, this is where the actor Lee Marvin attended school. But I digress. That little one-room school house was where the learning took place. Mrs. Miller did her best to instill good learning habits in us young ones. Seems like I remember the board of education residing right there in her top right-hand desk drawer. Pretty effective tool. One session was usually enough. A teacher can't do that now. Two different ways of looking at corporal punishment; but back then and under those circumstances, it worked.

Mrs. Miller had an ability about her to let a child explore and learn on their own. Where else would a child be allowed to mark off the hour sun-shadows as they marched across his desk and design his own personal sundial. Defacing school property? Not in Mrs. Miller's book. This child was making real-world scientific observations.

Mrs. Miller's son was in the military. Seems like I remember the name of Alfred; it's been a long time now. But Mrs. Miller managed on her salary to purchase a brand new 1948 Chevrolet Coupe. Blue in color and the chrome bumpers had become available by then; not the way it was at war's end. Really pretty car for that time. Solid blue in color and an in-line Chevvy six engine. Alfred, I'm fairly sure his name was, sent his mom a speed governor for her car. Mrs. Miller brought it to school and let us future mechanics have a look. Part of the approved curriculum? Mrs Daisy Belle approved and that was good enough.

Aunt Billie and Uncle Ernest had their share of domestic problems. The neighborhood grapevine usually picked up on such with amazing rapidity. The internet transmits packets of information sandwiched between spurts of voice communication. But while the internet information is being transmitted, it travels at around 186,320 miles per second over the communication wires. The speed of light. The neighborhood grapevine seems not to be constrained within technical limits. For getting information disseminated, give me the grapevine every time. Mrs Daisy Belle had gotten a whiff of Auntie's and Uncle's problems. Six little Johns children with twelve little ears, surely a veritable treasure trove of information. Start with the youngest and work up. "No'm, I don't know nuthin'." "You don't know anything, anything!" "Yes'm, and that's a fact." Rally around the flag and dummy-up; every last one of us. Only time I ever remember the grapevine being thwarted.

THE HOOD

During the time we lived in Darby, the expression, "The 'Hood" was a totally alien expression to us. But the generally accepted meaning of this expression fits the bill perfectly. This place nurtured us, gave us adventure, protection by many pairs of observant neighbor's eyes, a good place in which to grow and learn. And as subsequent events have proven, a safe haven. During our all-to-brief sojourn there, life-lessons and experiences were becoming indelibly engraved and ingrained in our individual and collective psyches; lessons for a lifetime.

One incident that occurred while we lived in the neighborhood made an impression that we've never forgotten. Someone had broken into a house. The whole county was upset about this. This event was almost totally unheard of. I don't recall that much, if anything, was taken; don't recall extensive property damage. But all of that was secondary in importance to someone having violated the sanctity of another person's home. The attitude expressed in the general conversation throughout the community let us young ones know just how low in regard such an activity was held. This small community of Darby, FL wasn't in the business of raising juvenile delinquents, and we all sensed this in the very core of our being.

As has been stated previously elsewhere, to get to Grandma Nellie's farm, one left the hard road at McKendrie's (sp?) General store, traveled about four miles down a washboard (extreme small-bumpiness) road, turned left onto a dirt road after crossing a cattle gap, and continued on past Uncle Ernest's place to Grandma's place. This last leg probably consisted of a half-mile or so. As the old saying goes, getting there was half the fun. But once we'd reached our destination, a certain feeling of belonging, a feeling of peace descended over us. And this was all part of not just Grandma's farm but included the community at large.

I remember when we lost our paternal grandmother, material wealth was in short supply but community support shown brightly as ever. I still recall the stricken look in my dad's eyes. The minister came over and gave him a ride to town so he could catch a bus to Okeechobee. I'm not too sure where the bus fare came from--kids weren't privy to such information back then--but I seem to remember that a little bit more than simple transportation to town was provided. Money was always short. We survived most of the time while we were there (a family of nine) on $20.00 weekly. But we survived.

Boys could be more-or-less turned loose in the community and allowed to explore and learn. We'd experienced one of the periodic droughts while we lived there. We'd moved from Grandma's place and had rented an old house near the single-lane bridge across the creek. A pond across the road from where we were living had dried up from perhaps 10 or 15 acres to about a quarter-acre mud hole. We boys got the bright idea of going to catch the edible fish and to throw the gar fish out on the bank. These gar fish, commonly known as Alligator Gar, look like an ancient part of creation and are generally considered trash fish. While engaged in this endeavor, I felt another one, got my hands under it and gave a mighty toss. This one bent in the middle and both its head and tail stayed under water. I was perplexed for about two seconds before I saw that Water Moccasin raise its head above water to see what had just happened to it. An immediate alarm was raised and we gave the mud-hole to the snake; albeit temporarily. Common sense would have dictated letting the snake have the hole, mud, gar fish and all. But we're dealing with young boys here, not common sense. We managed to chase that snake down and dispatch it. We got another snake about the same size from that same mud hole before we were finished. I remember being about 5' 10" then. I held the snake out at arm's length and noticed its head dragging the ground. Big enough.

One doesn't necessarily have to believe in guardian angels to somehow sense a protective spirit about Darby, FL and places like it. We all managed to not just survive but thrive there in that environment and the protective spirit inherent in the place.

THE LOG CABIN

Living on Grandma Burdett's farm was the closest we would ever come to re-living the pioneer days-Okeechobee doesn't count because we moved while most of us were still very young--and my brothers, our cousin Norman Franks, and I intended to make the most of it. Log cabin days: we read about them, we heard about them and we intended to duplicate them as closely as time, materials, and boys' energies would permit. Behind the fenced portion of the place was growing a pretty stand of slash pine. So much for materials. Next came the tools: one axe. Next came the time: all of the time in the world; childhood lasts forever. We set to work and felled several trees; stripped the limbs off; chopped the trunks into suitable lengths, chopped notches into the log ends; laid the foundation course of logs; and we were on our way.

Folks, our pioneers were superhuman. Right about half way through the second course of logs, energies were flagging. By the end of the second course, energies were flagging badly. Before the end of the third course, energies had evaporated. Fall back and re-group. This pioneer stuff was hard work. We decided to stop for a breather and re-evaluate, re-engineer, re-think; tomorrow was another day. We did manage to carry the tools (one axe) back to the house. We decided to attack the project the very next day. The following day for sure. Tomorrow never came. Other duties intervened. Even with a willing (once we ran her down) mule for snaking logs, this project had rapidly grown to gargantuan proportions. Those folk who settled this nation of ours were either possessed of superhuman strength or were in league with the devil. From that time forward we never looked at American history in the same manner.

Never thought of a childhood whim as a history lesson, but this one was. Never thought of a brief sojourn on Grandma's farm in the country as an education in history, geography, survival, farming, foraging, engineering, cooperation, mechanics, carpentry, fishing, health, science, community responsibility. But it became all of this and more. From that time forward, we never looked at those people in those dusty oval-framed photographs in the same manner, ever again either.

All of that helped whet a life-long curiosity that is still being played out with the help of the internet. And to all of you long-lost cousins and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles, etc., etc., welcome to the family and let's hear your part of our family story. Our quest to find out why we talk so much; why our love for mechanics, art, literature, music. Who wore those wooden shoes I saw as an eight-year-old on the trip to Ohio with Grandma Nellie? And many other questions, too numerous to mention.

Every last one of us has a talent. Philip Dubose and his penchant for family names and addresses, and phone numbers. Virginia Baxter and her mission to document family history, her innate ability to absorb and use technical data. Those among us with a love for documenting and reporting, never a job but always a joy. Others with their writing, story-telling, artistry, craftsmanship. Barb Burdett/Slaughterbeck and her tireless research. What a debt of gratitude!

See all ya'all the second Sunday of November for the annual Family Clan Gathering. We've got a tremendous amount to discuss. See ya' then.

DARBY 2002

Dear V., May it please you to know that the Darby schoolhouse now has a screened porch all the way across the front and across the right side as viewed from the front. It has an antique looking exterior siding of some sort. Looks really good. The present owners have been there about four years. The gentleman's name is Austin Gade. (That's with two dots over the a and a hard e.) They have a lot of people stopping who knew about the school house and claim not to mind. Said the original owner after the school house duties were over lived there for many years and wasn't married. So the story about the man who refused to follow his wife into the big city--as in Dade City-and opted to stay in the old one-room schoolhouse may just have a ring of truth about it.

Uncle Ernest is now 95 as of July 9, 2002 (Kim's birthday) and claims to feel fine. Doesn't know of any medical problems. Does admit to being hard of hearing and not being able to see too well. Wife Alma will be 88 the 19th of September. She did have some work done on some skin cancers on her legs and said they are doing fairly well.

Doug and Annie Mae Bellamy are both gone now and daughter Ruth lives in Tampa and goes by the name of Mrs. Douglas Farr. Helen Miller, Daisy Belle's niece, is gone now and Mary Alice is the sole survivor from that family. Homer, Doug's brother and wife Francis Bellamy live just up the road from the old school house. That would be east of the school house near where Daisy Belle lived, but across the road. The two boys, Howard-born Feb 2, 1946 and David-born Sept. 16, 1950 have made Doug and Francis really proud. They are successful country music performers.

For those who care about technicalities, Bellamy Brothers Boulevard (Darby Road) lies in a generally north-south direction. Ernest Croft Road lies in a westerly direction when viewed from Bellamy Brothers Blvd. A compass reading shot down the center of Ernest Croft Road while standing on Bellamy Brothers Blvd. gives a reading of 280 degrees, which is 10 degrees north of due west. A compass reading taken of the shoulder paint stripe of Bellamy Brothers Blvd. facing approximately north from the same location gives a reading of 358 degrees, which only deviates from magnetic north by 2 degrees. That's close enough for most purposes. In short, Bellamy Brothers Blvd. runs approximately north-south and Ernest Croft Rd. runs approximately east-west.

Alma first saw Uncle Ernest In a workman's comp line waiting for his $15.00 for the week. She heard that he always worked when work was available, talked it over with her mom, and accepted his proposal. They've now been married more years than most people have been alive. Wish now I'd written down the dates. And that's about it on current news from Darby. Oh yes, Alma and Ernest may attend this next reunion if Cheryl (daughter of Ernest & Aunt Billie) will drive. Alma said she will not drive in Tampa any more. (To be 88 years old the 19th of September) Can't say that I blame her. Love ya', Bill

THINGS WE LEARNED AT DARBY

We learned that one teacher, with the community firmly behind her, could teach six grades at once while six teachers without proper support have much difficulty trying to teach even one grade. That singing "The Yellow Rose Of Texas" over and over won't stunt your growth. That if you're really sincere about learning, a teacher will allow you to get away with carving an operating sun dial on your desk top and will bring all six grades around for you to explain to them the principles involved in measuring time with a sundial.

We also learned that an old country gentleman can act with as much dignity during trying times as royalty and without nearly as much pomp and circumstance and ceremony.

We learned that an old open well can chill watermelons as effectively as any modern refrigerator. That on a still, dark night, if one listened very carefully and held one's breath long enough, Chinese could be heard being spoken somewhere way down that open well. We also learned that if three boys spelled each other off and bailed for most of one day, the bottom could be reached. But we were never really sure of this because we were all too afraid to be lowered down that bottomless hole to find out. We also learned that if two buckets of chilly well water were poured over a young boy, he wouldn't freeze to death.

We learned that our mom could go to an empty cupboard and prepare a meal for seven hungry kids. That the fish you catch taste better than the fish you buy. That turtles are good to eat. That just about anything is good to eat if it doesn't eat you first. That blackberries are harder to pick on the ground than mulberries are from up in a tree due to thorns and fear of snakes.

An old Fordson steel-wheeled tractor magneto can still deliver a good healthy jolt, even if the tractor no longer runs. An almost two-mile walk to and from school every school day will not kill you; it just makes your bare feet tough and your leg muscles hard. And your skin turns dark brown during the summer. We learned that we wouldn't always get everything we wanted. Quite often, the big one does get away. But we learned that if we aimed for the moon; even a miss was still out of this world. We learned that it is possible to fish for an entire day and still be ready to go back for more the very next day.

We became attuned to the sights and sounds and smells of nature. We learned that a rattlesnake will warn of its presence; that it would rather be left alone than to fight; that it even exudes an odor similar to a goat's odor. That honeybees will fight if molested. That in the average honeybee-vs-boy fight, you're on your own; your two older brothers have enough problems of their own right then. That a Magnolia tree in bloom is one of the prettiest smells in all of nature.

We learned that one mule has more common sense than three young boys all put together. That a mule knows better than to even try to cross a cattle-gap, even if prodded and pulled and encouraged by three dumb young boys. We also learned that even a patient mule can get enough. A couple of smart bucks will unseat even the most tenacious trio of boys all at one time. And a sandspur patch is just as good as the next place. A mule will, if asked, try to help the Wrong Brothers launch a home-made airplane. Even if the mule already knows that the contraption won't fly; not only that, it won't even fit through the gate.

We learned that turtles are so good to eat that feeling for one under-water with one's toes is a reasonable risk. One can survive quite handily living down a long dirt road even if this dirt road is reached by first traveling down a 4-mile-long rough washboard road. Good neighbors really do care about you and will look out for you and are willing to help when needed.

We learned that we could never slip anything past our mom. She must have had more than the standard set of eyes in the back of her head. We learned later in life that yes, as a matter of fact, water moccasins can bite under water but guardian angels must always be close when it concerns reckless young boys. We found out that building log cabins is a whole lot of work. That we had the best grandmother who ever lived and we're prepared to offer evidence to support this position.

THE HONEY TREE & OTHER STORIES

My brothers and I discovered a large old tree near the sinkhole with wild honey bees going in and out of a knothole about 25-30 feet up the tree. So far so good. Leave those bees to their nectar-gathering and honey making and all will be right with the world. Not to three callow youths. To keep the earth turning on its axis and all the planets properly aligned something just had to be done about the bees. We'd already learned about the labor involved in cutting trees down; that's too much like hard work. Our next option involved seeing just which one us could come the closest to hitting the knothole with a pine knot. Jim, being strong of arm and fleet of foot, scored a direct hit. Now, bees aren't supposed to react like hornets. Usually. Those suckers had tolerated just about all the temerity they could stand. Don't remember which one of us detected a change in pitch and volume of the bee's buzzing first but we all noticed a war party headed in our direction. I decided that if my two brothers would just keep those bees entertained, I'd run and get help. I left. Hurriedly. Mart and Jim must have had the same idea as mine. They both passed me. They both managed to set new world records for the 100 yard dash and in rough terrain in the bargain. The bees, probably figuring we weren't worth keeping even if they caught us, soon broke off the chase and went on back to beehive duty. My brothers and I, already knowing about discretion being the better part of valor, decided to leave those bees alone. Lucky for those little fellows that we decided sixty acres were room enough for us all.

Part of our survival lore consisted of being watchful for serpents. The Rattlesnake is an unusual creature in that it believes in the philosophy of live-and-let-live. It will try to avoid confrontation if given the option. It doesn't mind sounding a warning if one intrudes into its "comfort zone". We'd also learned that it will exude an odor very similar to a goat's. Empirical evidence has borne all of this out. While exploring near the "Log Cabin" fiasco, I detected this distinctly goat-like odor. Sure enough, a large rattler was doing its best to hide and avoid confrontation in some tall weeds along a fence row. And boys being boys, we kept the snake contained long enough to get a weapon and to dispatch the snake.

I've changed my philosophy about snakes in the intervening years. Every thing I don't fully understand doesn't necessarily deserve to be sent to the happy hunting-ground. Rattlesnakes are efficient rodent predators and rodents are, in turn, bad news for humanity. Rodents played a large part in decimating the world's human population beginning around AD 1346 / 1348. Within the next 10 years, nearly one-third of Europe's human population had fallen prey to and died from the Bubonic Plague. Flea-bearing rodents had distributed this dread disease. While nothing is hardly ever all black or all white, except to some extremist religious cults, rats are bad; snakes are the good guys. The serpent has its place in the grand scheme of things.

THE MAGNOLIA TREE

The large Magnolia tree near the sinkhole on the farm deserves honorable mention. This tree looms large in memory. It may not have been nearly as large or smelled nearly as sweet as memory dictates; but even if only half as large and half as pungent, this tree would still remain a shining facet of the jewel that Grandma's farm became.

Jenny, The Balking Mule: Brothers rarely ever work together in unison and harmony. The Johns brothers were, except for a few notable exceptions, classic examples of this rule...
Mart had managed to arouse my ire over some trifle. Mart, being a couple of years older and a few pounds heavier, was my physical better. If you can't out-man your opponent and are unwilling to just let things be, then try out-thinking him. Mart was driving Jenny the mule and pulling a load of wood for the fireplace. I'd managed, and as rare as this was, to get my butt on my shoulders. Quite a physical feat but I managed. Knowing that Mart was loathe to leave the mule driver-less and that the mule didn't quibble over who was issuing commands, I started calling out, "gee!, haw!, whoa!, giddap!" After a few of these commands and Mart's counter-commands, Jenny wisely decided to balk until we got our differences settled. I ran off and watched results. Jenny held her statue pose for about a half-hour. Mart's anger lasted just about that long. I gave the mule and the brother a wide berth for a prudent length of time. And mules are the ones accused of being mule-headed.

Stepping on a turtle: One fine spring morning, I had business to attend to at the sinkhole. Probably some fish with my name on them. We'd experienced heavier rains than normal for that time of year and the field was under water. I was wading purposefully toward my intended destination when I stepped on a bump. Strange bump. I had to know. Feeling carefully with my toes-didn't wear shoes regularly until I was fourteen-I explored. I felt carefully and determined which was the business end. Satisfied as to where the biting end resided, I slowly reached under water and got a firm grip on the turtle's tail. This one incident was really nothing out of the ordinary--we three brothers had become efficient foragers--but this one sticks in my memory.

To say that we were poor would be missing the point of our Darby days entirely. In things that really mattered, we were some of the richest kids I've ever known; and all due to the behind-the-scenes endeavors of our Grandmother Nellie.

GIRLS

While my two brothers and I were busy exploring, foraging, teaching ourselves mule-skinning, (that's not as bad as it sounds; it denotes mule-handling) log-cabin building, wild honeybee mismanagement, mud-bogging with Grandma Nellie's car, all of these guy things, and more, there was a part of our family that had us badly outnumbered: our four sisters. While we boys were engaged in getting into trouble, our sisters were usually engaged in staying out of trouble. They were always ready and willing for a good fishing trip too, provided one of the grungy brothers dug the worms and kept the hooks baited.

Hard to forget the time Reatha hung a fair sized fish at the pond and fought a fair sized battle to see who was going to stay on the bank and who was going to stay in the water. I would have bet good money on the fish. Looked like an imminent "forward gainer" into the pond, fishing pole, fishing girl and all. But with much encouragement, shouted advice, the cliff-hanger was soon over. The fish lost. String that one up and go catch another one.

Virginia's first fish, what a whale! What a laudable act! Well, it was; considering the comparative size of the fish and the person on the dry end of the pole. There's only one first fish per person per lifetime. And I don't even remember my first fish. Memories of such usually grow larger with time. I expect mine to show on the radar screen any year now.

The nearly two-mile trek one way to school five days a week was accomplished not only by Mart, Jim, and Bill. There was also a Reatha, Martha Nell, Geraldine, and Virginia. One of the few activities I remember the girls passing on was the time one of the local farmers had a load of turnips that needed to be washed for market. Somebody came up with the clever idea of dumping those turnips off the foot bridge we crossed on the way to school. We boys bailed off into that murky water, caught those turnips as they floated down-stream, washed them and tossed them out on the bank. Good sport and we got paid for the effort. And let the snakes look out for themselves.

Boys are genetically predisposed to learn the hard way. The Olympic Motto: Citius, Altius, Fortius-Latin for Faster, Higher, Braver-is generally accepted to mean Faster, Higher, Stronger. This motto became our own. No well too deep, no tree too high, no forest too forbidding. And a dare was incentive enough to cause anyone of us to jump right in, head first, worry about the consequences later. Younger sisters were generally possessed of much cooler, wiser heads. Have wondered many times why we brothers escaped our Darby days with our persons intact, not one broken bone, not one case of irretrievably scrambled brains. Guardian angels? Probably so. And with the help of four younger sisters.

While we three brothers were engaged in chopping down trees, terrorizing snakes, attempting to molest wild honeybees, our sisters were always available as faithful fishing buddies, mule riders, sled riders, berry pickers. Believe it or not, girls can fish. Boys are blessed, or cursed as it were, with a need to tear down, take apart, rearrange, to learn only after numerous mistakes, if indeed they learn at all. While girls seem to be blessed with an innate ability to assess, to reason, "will it work", not "can we force it to work?" This must be an inborn thing.

Why can't I remember being taught one single hymn in school or in church and after attending school and two different neighborhood churches while living at Darby? Many years later these hymns were part of my general knowledge. And just how did they become ingrained as part of my unconscious? They were becoming part of my "building up" while I was concentrating on learning my "tearing down" skills.

We seven children were blessed with a wise, all-knowing mother and grandmother. We three older boys were blessed with four special younger sisters. And I'm afraid our four younger sisters were cursed with four older, reckless, unthinking brothers. Of course, the sisters can speak for themselves. Be kind, girls.

LIVING ON GRANDMA NELLIE'S FARM AT DARBY, FLORIDA

In regard to Grandma Burdette's 1925 Buick Coupe, I remember that Mart, Jim, & I--Bill--(Norman Franks may have been with us, but I'm not sure of this) drove Grandma's car on the shore of one of the local ponds. While trying to get the car un-stuck, we managed to break one of the rear axles. This, to the best of my recollection, fairly well finished any useful life for the car due to non-availability of parts. I don't remember the ultimate disposition of the car. One other thing, the Buick had some sort of vacuum-assisted fuel pump or fuel delivery system. What brings the unusual fuel system to mind was octagon soap being used to seal a leak in the vacuum tank under the car's hood. This must have been circa 1947-48.

I also remember one of the steel-wheeled Fordson tractors being there under the Mulberry tree in the front yard near the gate. I don't remember the tractor ever running during the time we were there. There was a 55 gallon drum of tractor fuel there. Dad would siphon the fuel and mix with gasoline for the old panel delivery truck he drove. There was an old mechanical stump puller there also. I don't remember anyone ever putting it to use. I do have vivid memories of the wild blackberry bramble to the south and slightly east of the log barn on the place. We picked blackberries from the bramble and mulberries from the front yard tree and Mom would make cobblers for us. We also caught fish from a sinkhole to the north of the house and across the north pasture near that giant (as my childhood memory saw it Magnolia tree. We also caught bass, perch, bream and catfish from the pond through the woods further north on the 60 acres. Favorite memory: The fish were biting so rapidly on one occasion that one of the girls, I think it was Reatha or possibly Martha Nell scrambling to catch a fish that had flopped off the hook and got finned in the derriere by another fish being pulled in before they could capture flopper # 1.

I also remember that the one-room school house was a little closer that 2 miles from Grandma's house, consequently we got brown as little Indians (Mom's words) from walking to school and back. Mom also made the observation that our calf muscles got hard as rocks from all of that walking. This would have been on the route for the syrup bucket lunch pail saga. Mrs. Bellamy, wife of Doug Bellamy, "Uncle Doug" to the current Bellamy Brothers singers would have been our bus driver if we could have made the case for Grandma's house being 2 miles or further from the school house. Speaking of the Bellamy Brothers, Martha Nell was in the neighborhood years later and went by to see Mrs. Bellamy, mother to the singers who were Ruth Bellamy's cousins. Ruth was the school bus driver's daughter. See? Anyhow, as Martha Nell was walking up to the house, the hounds started barking as hounds are wont to do. Mrs. Bellamy called to her sons and asked who was coming. One or the other of the sons said that it was probably just one of their fans wanting an autograph. Martha Nell, ever the tactful one, told this impertinent young man that "I didn't come to see you BOYS, I came to see your mom." These BOYS are known all over the western hemisphere for their music. 'Nuff said.

Other than two of the Sessoms brothers (lived right across the dirt road from the school house) marrying two of the Sinkfield sisters, that's about it in re: Grandma's 1925 Buick. There's actually more but it's late and I'm going to bed. Good night and love ya', Oh, did I forget to mention the two catfish, so little they could be fried and eaten, bones and all, the two buttermilk biscuits and the glass of milk I had for breakfast one time because that was all there was. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.

In about 1948-49 Grandmother wanted to give me her old Buick, but my mother said no. I don't know what happened to it. It was probably the one she had at Darby, a place I never got to visit. I'm sure the Johns kids had a lot of fun with it.
Philip

DARBY BY VIRGINIA

I was five and six years old when we lived on Grandma Burdett's farm in Darby. We caught and ate a lot of fish from the creek and ponds. One time some of the family was out in the side yard where the well was, and they were skinning catfish. There were catfish heads lying around on the ground, and I became curious about them. I picked one of them up, and I was studying it when it clamped down onto my finger and stuck, and there were teeth in there. I shook my hand and screamed, but the head stuck. I don't remember who got it off my finger or how, but its being there is filed away in my memory, the stuff of nightmares.

We ate a lot of what would later be labeled "soul food"; collards, cornbread, catfish, turtles and their eggs, grits, beef "organs" such as brains and liver. I remember the vile odor of tripe (cow stomach) cooking, and almost nobody in the house would eat it. After they told me that what was scrambled up with the eggs was cow brains, that became the first and last time I ever ate that. To this day I love grits and collards.

PART TWO

We would catch scarab beetles, which we called tumblebugs, and we would mark a line in the sand, another one further off. We would put our tumblebugs down on the first line with their balls of dung, and the first bug to reach the second line with its ball was the winner. I remember one time there were lots of tiny chicks in some sort of low barrier/fence in front of the fireplace in the winter, the fireplace screen between them and the fire. One chick got out of its pen and darted around the edge of the screen and into the fire. The fire was roaring, and we knew it was dangerous and futile to attempt to grab it back as it was already fatally injured. I watched, heartsick, as it twitched and jerked and burned. They told me it was already dead, and the motions were just the nerves dying.

Uncle Ernest Croft had great big Brahma cattle with humps on their backs, the "sacred cows" of India (or their descendants). He called them "bremmer" cows. After I grew up I learned that the Indians allowed us to import them after we promised to never breed them with domestic cattle and to never eat them. Since the plan all along had been to breed domestic/Indian cattle for the hardiness of the Brahmans no sooner had we imported them than we began to breed them with impunity. And to eat them. I think the Americans promised the Indians that we would keep and worship their cows. One time I began a walk to the store for candy, and partway there I was confronted with several of the huge cattle. I turned and ran all the way back home.

I caught my first fish in the "sinkhole" back behind the home site. Everybody raved and told me what a great fish it was (the way we praise and encourage babies, but even as a baby I knew it was a puny little fish.) We were cautioned to never go there without someone older with us as it "had no bottom".

PART THREE

I began my formal education at the little one-room Darby School. The first day of school I sat beside my sister, Martha Nell. There were six of us from our family in that one room. Mrs. Daisy B. Miller would call, "Sixth Grade," and then the sixth graders would go up front to do their lessons with her while the rest of us did paper work at our seats. Then, "Fifth Grade," and so on until she got to us, the first graders. Sometimes I would listen to her giving the older kids their lessons, and I would find that I knew the answers because of listening to them instead of doing my own work. One time I was completely engrossed in the lesson some higher-grade kids were doing up front, and when Mrs. Miller asked, "Is Asia a country or a continent?" I blurted out, "A continent!" Everyone else in the room froze as though they expected to see a public execution, and my own situation - first grader who was supposed to be doing paperwork at the desk - flooded back. Mrs. Miller simply stared at me for a couple of seconds and then went back to the lesson for the older kids.

Mrs. Miller tried to address some issues which were close to home. She put up a poster which had a blown up picture of a fly on it. No text, just the awesome fly with all of its scales, hairs and chilling fly parts shown in detail. Every time she spoke of cleanliness, of keeping food free of germs, I looked at that picture and understood. She arranged for the county health worker to come talk to us, and that worker gave us toothpaste, toothbrushes and charts to keep of how faithfully we brushed our teeth. She collected books to use in making a little library for us in the back of the room. One time the first-graders' math lesson consisted of calculating the year we would finish high school.

At the end of the school year I was the only student in the school to get a perfect attendance certificate. I earned that because my brother, Jim, had told me that I couldn't miss school because the teacher would beat me and give me an "F" if I missed.

We attended the church near the school. There were some interesting characters there. One old couple had a young adult, retarded daughter named Stella. They were quiet people, and I sensed a silent, dignified love flowing from them to their daughter. They would bring a little cushion for her in case she needed to lie down on the church bench. We heard after we moved away that the parents had died, and we never knew what became of the daughter.

An enormous church lady was named Missus Tucker. Her son, Joe, was in the first grade with me. Joe was a smart, good boy. Missus Tucker had many fat rolls, and she would hold several of her babies at the same time during the interminable sermons. The nursing infant was uppermost, and then there were several more of them lying on individual fat rolls. As the preacher held forth through the heat of the afternoon Gerry and I, the two youngest of us, fell asleep on the unyielding church bench with our heads on either side of Mama's lap. She would notice if we had dirty necks or ears, and she would, mama cat-like, dab her tongue with her hanky and give us a discrete spit bath. As an adult I have wondered if this early conditioning with sermons, heat and soothing spit baths is why I have avoided going into management, knowing as I do that I cannot stay awake during those endless, droning meetings that managers seem to attend.

We moved to Thonotosassa during the summer when I turned seven, and that became more my psychological home than Darby did. Even so, Darby remains a vivid, happy memory, a place of rest and healing for us after some earlier hard times. A place that looms larger than the short time we lived there.

ALTA'S JOKE

Uncle Ernest Croft and Everett Ernest Johns did not always get along very well. I don't know much about their disagreements, but I do remember that Mama, Aunt Billie and Grandma regarded most of the bickering as trivial and simply territorial in nature. One time Mama (Alta) told Aunt Billie and Grandma a joke in which the punchline was, "Two worms fighting in dead earnest." Mama then told her mother and sister about the latest bickering between Ernest Croft and Everett Ernest Johns, and then she added, "Two Ernests fighting over a dead worm." Years later I realized why they all three threw back their heads and laughed that way.

IT by Virginia

When we lived at Darby I was five and six years old. We had no TV, video games, movies, computers, musical instruments or "store bought" toys. Therefore we made our own entertainment. We trained the animals to do tricks, carved objects out of wood and told stories. A common sight was that of scarab beetles (also known as "dung beetles"---we called them "tumble bugs") who would roll little balls of manure around after having laid their eggs in the dung. We would capture the beetles and their dung balls, draw a line in the sand, put our beetles down at the line and then draw another line further off. The first beetle to reach the second line with its ball was the "winner". Another method of entertainment was the time honored favorite game of Hide and Seek in which one player is designated as "It". It closes her eyes, counts to a hundred while the other players run to hide. It has to hunt the others and try to "tag" them as they run for "home". As I recall, the first player tagged is It for the next turn. Various methods are used to decide who is It for the first turn. My brother, Jim, had an interesting method to determine this choice. Since we almost never wore shoes, we would stand in a closely-knit circle and stretch one foot out into the middle of the circle. Jim would hold a quart jar full of water over our extended feet with the intention of dropping the jar or appointing the first player to pull back her foot as It. It may be obvious by now that I have referred to It as "she", and that is because I was almost always the first player to jerk back my foot. Sometimes I would manage to tag someone, and I recall that once I waited for someone to find me for such a long time that I fell asleep, and everyone forgot me until supper time.

THE DARBY STORY

AS TOLD BY REATHA,BILL, GERRY, VIRGINIA,
MARTHA NELL, JIM, LOIS, Barb ,Philip

SCROLL DOWN FOR INDIVIDUAL STORIES

NEWER MATERIAL ADDED TO BOTTOM OF COLUMN

http://www.markt.no/bjorn/Bellamy_Brothers.html
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/country/artistdb/bellamybrothers.shtml

THE DARBY STORY

AS TOLD BY REATHA,BILL, GERRY, VIRGINIA, MARTHA NELL, JIM, LOIS, Barb ,Philip

SCROLL DOWN FOR INDIVIDUAL STORIES

NEWER MATERIAL ADDED TO BOTTOM OF COLUMN

http://www.markt.no/bjorn/Bellamy_Brothers.html http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/country/artistdb/bellamybrothers.shtml

AS TOLD BY REATHA,BILL, GERRY, VIRGINIA,
MARTHA NELL, JIM, LOIS, Barb ,Philip

http://www.markt.no/bjorn/Bellamy_Brothers.html
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/country/artistdb/bellamybrothers.shtml