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Pearl Street War Games

It was not the stickiness of the honeysuckle bush that I hated so much, it was the vicious bumblebees that called it home. They would come in droves when the bush bloomed and so we usually avoided it like the plague. We wanted nothing to do with them ever since Dennis’ cyclops incident at Uncle John’s cabin in the woods of northwest Arkansas, but that is a story for another day.

Today, I was brave and perhaps more than a little stupid because the buzzing bush made the perfect hiding spot. “No one will look here,” I thought to myself as I slowly and carefully scooched underneath the fragrant over-having branches. The bright yellow bush was enormous and I baby crawled backward as far as I could until only the tip of my barrel was exposed.

It was the perfect vantage point with an unobstructed view of the yard. Ensconced among the branches, I could have remained there for days without being noticed. Even the permanent residents with their rhythmic, vibrating buzz ignored me. But I knew they were there, and I kept a close eye on them, their fat little bodies with stark yellow and black stipes are hard to miss.

It was a dangerous hiding place no doubt, but the perch was worth the prize, I told myself. As long I remained silent and still, I would avoid the wrath of the bees and my opponents too. The last thing I wanted was to be stung and shot at the same time!

The battle lines had been drawn along the usual boundaries, from Gladys Street on the west to Trails End on the east and from D Street on the south to E Street on the north. Within those boundaries we were free to wage war, and we did! Innumerable battles were fought over that hallowed ground, it was our home turf and we defended it with vigor, against all enemies, both foreign and domestic. Okay, okay, I know, we were full of ourselves, after all we had just watched back-to-back episodes of Combat and Rat Patrol and our adrenaline was running high.

We were a rag tag bunch of Chat Rats for sure running barefoot through the yard in our cutoff jean shorts. My brother Dennis and I were the team leaders, and we were joined by Marlon Alsbury, Barry Stinson, Randy Jackson and David Creason. It was three against three and I won the toss, so my team got to hide first. I chose Marlon and David; we were the Shirts. That left Dennis with Barry and Randy and they were the Skins.

Marlon Alsbury was perched high up in the Cottonwood tree as our scout. David Creason was hiding behind the forsythia bush across the street in the Wilson’s yard. (I can still see the grin on Harold’s face when he came onto the porch and saw what we were doing. He just chucked and said, “You boys be careful!”)

Once we were all set in our hiding places, Marlon whistled loud and here came the Skins. It only took a few seconds. They were scouring the yard and scanning the trees, their BB guns cocked and ready, they were crouched low to avoid being seen and shot. Dennis was hugging the wall of the house, duck walking around the foundation on the south side, about 40-yards away.

Like a good squad leader, he took the point just like Sgt. Saunders would have done. He established a defensible firing position behind the hose reel and then waived his team onward as he laid down covering fire. I am not sure what he was shooting at, but it looked good.

Barry and Randy raced past their squad leader and ran into the backyard, as they broke around the southeast corner of the house, they instinctively hit the ground full-stride and rolled a couple of times before coming upright behind two trees. “These guys have been watching too much TV,” I thought to myself.

I think it was Barry who caught sight of something blowing in the wind and yelled, “I see them!” He took off like a rabbit and Randy followed right behind; they were chasing shadows as they headed for the old shed in the northeast corner of the backyard. Dennis yelled, “Wait!” But it was too late, so he jumped up and raced after them. He had just rounded the corner of the house when I took the shot. He was only 30-yards away. Perfect placement, center of the bullseye, right between the shoulders. He screamed like a banshee as his head flew back and his feet flew off the ground.

We had received Daisy Powerline 880 air rifles for Christmas, and they were nearly worn out already. Those coveted pump action BB guns were the envy of the neighborhood; they were so powerful that they could penetrate both sides of a full Coke can if you pumped them the max of 10 times. But we had rules for BB gun war because no one wanted to be the first human Coke can. You were only supposed to pump your gun three times; but I had pumped mine four times that day. Hey, who would know, right?

His scream only lasted a second and then gave way to silence as his body hit the ground hard exhaling all the air from his lungs. His fingers lost their grip as he fell, and the blue metal barrel of his Daisy 880 glistened in the sun as it fell beside him. He lay motionless; flat on his back, covered in mud. It had been raining for days, but not today, today was the perfect day for war.

Suddenly, chills ran down my spine as my mind raced away wildly, awash in thought. Syncopated images flashed before my eyes like a monochromatic View-Master. The image of him taking flight flashing over and over again before my eyes. “Was he dead? Had I killed him?” Seconds passed like hours, but I stayed hidden, deep in the fragrant underbrush of that wild honeysuckle bush in full bloom. Surely, he was just playing possum. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pumped it that fourth time,” I thought to myself.

Just then, one of those pesky bumblebees buzzed by my nose breaking my trance and my gaze returned to the battlefield to find that nothing had changed. He was still not moving, and it had been a couple of minutes at least. My pulse quickened. From my vantage point, I could not tell whether he was breathing or not. “I better go check on him,” I thought to myself. And with that, I squirmed out of my hiding place very carefully and sprinted across the yard to where he lay, with a few angry bombers in tow.

I was about halfway there when the real terror set in, full force. Like an ice water bath, it hit me hard. Shockingly awake now, I was fully alert, and the thought flashing through my head chilled me to the bone. Faced with the consequences of my actions, I suddenly realized “Mom is going to kill me!”

Out of breath, gasping for air, I finally made it to his side. By now there was a crowd around him. An immediate cease fired had been declared and Shirts and Skins alike were standing there. “Are you alright, they said as they shook him.” But no response came, that is until I spoke. When he heard my voice say, “Bub, are you alright,” that is all it took. He sprang to his feet with fire in his eyes and it did not take a genius to know that retribution was coming. He had been laying there in wait like a fox; he knew I would come and check on him. And when I did, he seized the opportunity.

I headed for the front yard like a world-class sprinter, but hey everybody knows I ain’t that fast. I could hear him pumping in the background; one, two, three, four, five. Oh, crap! I made it about 20 feet before Daisy caught up to me. Yep, you guessed it, bullseye! Let’s just say that even Grandad Ben’s Prince Albert tobacco wasn’t enough to remove that stinger. Sure glad I chose Shirts!

That was it, the cease fire was over, and it was all out war now, at least until supper time!

Life at 511 North Pearl Street was exhilarating and fun for kids like me who grew up poor in the 1960’s and 1970’s. We learned to make our own fun, always outdoors, and yes it stung a little bit sometimes. But I would not change a thing. Yes, this is a true story, we actually played war games with BB guns, often. And more than once we did so with pop bottle rockets too, but hey we drew the line at roman candles, those things leave a nasty mark!

I realize our games might be considered too rough for today’s standards, but those were the good old days in my books, the days before iPhones, social media and video games. The days when friendships were forged in the dirt, where scars became badges of honor and where memories are emblazoned forever.

Yes, we played hard. But for the members of the Chat Patrol, First Platoon, it was all in good fun and no one was every seriously injured. Picher was an awesome place of wonder to grow up, and I would not change a single thing about my childhood. It was a key part of making me into the man that I am today; loyal, adventurous, fearless and yeah a little rambunctious too.

Heads, you win. It’s your turn to pick first! Shirts or skins?

 

 

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Rollin, Rollin, Rollin…Hang On!

We could always count on Marlon to come through with a big fat one when the time came. We never knew where he got them, but he always seemed to find one when we need it. They were the kind that gave you an amazingly dizzy, head-spinning rush after the ride. In fact, they were so good that we often fought over who would get to try them first. Just one roll left you dazed and confused, but eager for your next turn.

Not many folks could remain standing after their turn, at least not without wobbling. In fact, most ended up on the ground, on all fours, shaking their noggin and snorting like a bull trying to clear their head. The rides were so good that few people knew where they were afterward. It was like the old dizzy bat game, only at warp speed. It was mind-bendingly addictive and great fun to watch.

It usually started after school toward the end of the spring semester when the days grew longer and the air became warmer. Good weather just seemed to make everything roll much smoother. But you still had to watch the landing, even on warm days, because it could be really rough, if you weren’t prepared for it. I’ve seen more face plants than I can count, and it’s not a pretty sight to see, especially when the landing zone is a pile of chat.

On this particular day we were joined by our cousin Russell Anderson, or Russ for short. He was several years younger than us and liked to tag along on our adventures when he came to visit. We often had him in tow when his parents visited from Miami and today was one of those days. Miami was the big city in Northeast Oklahoma back in the day, and it was home to a massive BF Goodrich tire plant. Marlon’s dad worked at “The Plant” and we suspected that was where the big ones came from, but we were never sure and it didn’t really matter as long as they kept coming.

Marlon dropped by early in the morning that day and he had a real beauty with him. A big fat one that was almost as tall as he was! We were playing catch in the yard with Russ when we saw Marlon coming down the road with it. It was huge, and we became giddy just looking at it. Everyone wanted to try it, but no one wanted to be first. It was that big!

It had to be from a tractor or an earthmover or something huge. That inner-tube was so fat that we could hardly wrap arms around it. It was made of thick, heavy-duty industrial rubber and it had a metal valve stem that came out about an inch before making a 90-degree turn to form a perfect L-shaped handle. Yes sir, we were in for a big day, I thought. “I sure hope mom has plenty of band-aids, we’re going to need them tonight,” I said rather jokingly. Thinking to myself, “Just not the ones with mercurochrome, they suck.” The little red gauze patch in the middle would make the toughest of the tough cry.

It took us a good half-hour to get to the top of the Sooner chatpile, even though it was only a few hundred yards from our house on North Pearl Street. It was gigantic, it covered two square miles at least and it stood nearly 25-stories tall. When we reached the top, the whole gang started to get a little weak in the knees. Looking downhill from the peak, we could see the big mill pond at the end of the run and it looked like a postage stamp from up there. We also saw dozens of crevices and bumps along the run that made for a thrilling ride in the winter when the chatpile was snow covered, but not today. Today the tube would be upright not flat and each of those bumps and crevices would be like a ferocious kick from a wild bucking bronco, creating a massive challenge for the rider to stay saddled.

I looked at Marlon and swallowed hard. “You go first,” I said. “Are you crazy,” he shouted back at me, “I bit through my lip the last time I rode a tube down this hill! I’m not going first, you do it!” Oh, that’s right, how could I have forgotten about that. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the image of him taking flight after hitting one of the biggest bumps on the hill. Somehow the momentum flipped the tube in mid-air and Marlon face-planted into a nearby snow drift. We rolled on the ground in laughter until he extricated himself and turned around. His teeth were intact, they were just in the wrong place. Three of them were protruding through his bottom lip. I’m not sure how I could have forgotten about that. “Yeah, you’re right I said. Let’s get Dennis to do it.”

I turned to Dennis and he wouldn’t even make eye contact with me, he remembered too. Then it hit me, “Barry will do it, he’s crazy!” I pivoted to Barry but he already had both hands up in protest, even before I said a word. Barry Stinson lived one street over from us on Gladys and he was Dennis’ best bud, aside from me of course. Dennis and Barry were constant companions and Barry was usually just as fearless as we were, or even more so, but not this time.

“Well, someone has to try it,” I argued. “We didn’t drag this darn tube all the way up the chatpile for nothin.” That’s when I saw Russ standing behind Marlon and it hit me; “we’ll make Russ do it!”

Russ looked up to me and Dennis (risky I know) and we quickly learned that he would do almost anything we told him to do. Besides, he wasn’t around for Marlon’s last ride, so he didn’t know what to expect. We took a vote and it was unanimous, Russ would go first. What, you don’t believe me…of course it was unanimous, Russ didn’t get to vote.

We stood the tube upright, with the L-shaped valve stem facing slightly downhill at about three o’clock on the dial. Dennis stood on the left side and I stood on the right. Marlon and Barry stood uphill, behind the tube ready to give it a shove. Ignoring his protests, we loaded Russ into the saddle (the center of the tube), facing downhill. He grabbed the valve stem with both hands, like we told him to do. He wasn’t wearing gloves and we could see that his knuckles were white. He had a death-grip on that valve stem and his eyes were as big as grapefruit. He sat Indian-style in the saddle with his legs crisscrossed; his right foot dug into the left side of the tube and his left foot did the same on the right side. His body was all neatly tucked inside the center of the tube with his back and neck arched like a crescent moon. Perfect form!

This would be Russ’ first roll and I remember giving him explicit instructions, just like they did at Six Flags! “Keep your head down and your elbows tucked in tight. Keep your hands and arms inside the tube at all times, hang on tight, and enjoy the ride!” Or something like that, at least.

Then we gave the tube a big push down the hill before Russ could dismount! That big beautiful tube took off slowly at first but gained speed with every revolution. She wobbled a bit at first then momentum took over and the tube straightened up and raced down the hill. Shooting off the crevice walls like a Tilt-a-whirl at the county fair the tube bounced higher and higher with each successive bump. It was a thrilling, off-the-rails roller coaster ride, and it was the best show on earth. We hooped and hollered like fans at the National Finals Rodeo. Russ hung on for dear life, like a true world champion, but with a little less style. His head bobbed out one side and then the other while his left arm flailed away in circles just like a real bronc buster trying to keep his balance. It was a belt buckle winning performance, until it wasn’t!

I’m not sure if it was inertia or fear that kept him in that tube, but he made it two-thirds of the way down the hill before dismounting, involuntarily. When his hands released the valve stem he came flying out of that tube like the unluckiest of cowboys, head-over-heels. He must have rolled a dozen times before ending up face down in the chat…just like Marlon, but without the snow. “Oh no!”

We raced down the chatpile as fast as possible. Our heels sinking into the sandy soft spots of the chat as we ran down, leaning back and zig-zagged to avoid falling and tumbling down head-over-heels ourselves. He was still face down in the chat when we arrived. In a raspy out-of-breath voice I managed to say, “Are you alright?” The rest of the gang had arrived now and they all stood around him in a circle, hands on their knees, as they leaned forward to catch their breath. We waited anxiously for Russ to turn around, Marlon’s knees trembled a little as his hand instinctively went to his mouth in remembrance of that fateful day the winter before.

Russ coughed hard several times to clear his lungs of the dust he ate, then carefully pushed himself up onto all fours. He stayed that way for what seemed like an hour before raising fully upright on bent knees. That’s when I got the first glimpse of his face and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Oh, there was plenty of chat embedded into his skin, but nothing was broken and he still had all of his teeth! No doubt he would need a band-aid or two for sure, but we had plenty, especially the special “healing” kind with the red gauze pad in the middle…

We retired Big Blue after that and she now stands enshrined in our Hall of Fame. Oddly, no one wanted the next turn, not even Barry. Climbing in the chute with that beast was more than anyone wanted, no matter the size of the buckle. To this day, as far as I know, Russell Dean Anderson still holds the world-record. He was the first and last buckaroo to go the full eight on Big Blue.

Next time you see Russ, raise glass, he still has bragging rights on Pearl Street. Tell him I said hello; he doesn’t come round much anymore. Can’t imagine why…

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Once Bitten, Twice Shy!

“Look out!” I shouted at him, but it was too late. He doubled over at the waist immediately like a diver touching his toes after leaving the springboard. Then in the blink of an eye he contorted and thrust his whole head, shoulders and arms through his legs and grabbed on with both hands and then he started squeezing with all his might. Almost turning himself inside out in so doing. He was screaming like a banshee. I was laughing like a hyena.

It was and odd scene and I was both terrified and entertained, all at once. I wanted to race to his aid, but there were others around and I didn’t want to end up like him too. So, all I could do was watch, and try not to laugh, but that wasn’t working at all. Yeah, I would pay for that later, but dang if it wasn’t the funniest thing I had seen all day.

It was a hot summer day and we had been riding the hogs again, or Bacon Bustin as we liked to call it. We had been to the Miami Rodeo at the fairgrounds the weekend before and the Bronco Busters got me thinkin. I remember leaning over to Dennis on the way home and saying excitedly, “Hey, we can do that with Suzy Q!” His eyes opened wide and he quickly agreed.

Suzy was a sow, literally. She weighed at least 600 pounds and we had been trying out our rodeo theory all afternoon. We hadn’t mastered it yet, but hey we had all summer. Mom and dad were at work and the beautiful Wanda Walton was inside, probably on the phone, but hey who cares, we had the prettiest babysitter on the block that summer.

Anyway, we were pretty dirty after spending all afternoon chasing the pigs around the pen trying to catch a ride (we hadn’t perfected the A-Frame technique yet). As usual in the summer, we were wearing nothing but our cutoff jean shorts and we were so tanned the dirt didn’t usually show. But not today, today we looked like Special Forces soldiers navigating the jungle in camouflage and we had mud all over us. We spent twice as much time on the ground as we did on the hogs that day. And well, it was a pig pen we’re talking about here.

Suzy had a litter of pigs about 10 weeks-old, so we always had to keep an eye out for their protective momma. Not only was she unhappy about us trying to catch a ride with her, she didn’t want us anywhere near those piglets either. I don’t know what she was worried about, they weren’t even big enough to ride, yet.

Anyway, Suzy and the other pigs, including her litter, we joined in the pen most of the time by a pair of geese. I’m not sure where they came from or where they went too when they left but they were there in the pen much of the time. I guess they were too domesticated to migrate, so they hung around the pen and ate the stray corn scattered all over the place by the messy hogs. As it happens, the female goose was a new momma too and she was even more protective of her little gaggle.

We had gotten too close to her nest on more than one occasion that day and each time she came at us like a bald eagle descending on a salmon run. Standing tall with her neck stiff and wings fully spread out, she rushed at us several times to scare us off. But she was only a goose, so we paid her no mind. Until she wasn’t!

“You boys better hose off,” Wanda yelled from the back porch. “Your mom and dad will be home soon.” So, after two more unheeded attempts, Wanda finally gave us the two-minute warning and we gave in. Closing the gate on another exciting day, we made our way from the pen to the faucet to execute our daily routine. I always went first, because I’m the oldest and I was always the biggest, even back then. We didn’t need shampoo; you could see our scalp through the short burr haircuts. But we did need soap, so we always kept a bar of Lava outside for just such an occasion. And, we certainly needed exfoliating that day…

I had just finished drying off my face and looked up in time to see it. Dennis was bent over washing his hair with the hose and he had no idea what was about to hit him. I barely had time to shout a warning before she struck. She caught him mid-thigh, just under the frayed edge of his cutoff jean shorts, in the tenderest part of the leg, and she clamped down hard with her beak. It’s good that geese don’t have big teeth, or he would have a chunk of his leg missing today. That momma goose was twisted off and she was dead set on letting us know that our presence in the pen was not welcomed.

She latched onto him and he executed the flawless acrobatic maneuver in a millisecond, tops. Even the Russian judges would have given him a 10. Dropping the hose like a hit poker, he reached through his legs and grabbed that goose by the neck in one fluid motion, as if it had all been choreographed by Béla Károlyi himself. He had her now, surely, she would let go, but the harder he squeezed the harder she bit. She locked on to him like a loggerhead turtle and she wasn’t letting go! I know he had to be silently praying for lightning!

He was screaming and yelling all kinds of unintelligible things and I’m not even sure all of it was in English. Eventually I was able to make out a gruff and guttural declaration, “I’m not letting go until she does!” And with that the dance began. Around the yard they pranced for what seemed like an hour. Her wings flapping and his legs wobbling, it looked like Napoleon Dynamite meets Staying Alive.

I tried to help, but that’s impossible to do when you’re rolling around on the ground laughing. I’m not even sure how he did it; butt in the air, feet on the ground and his entire head and shoulders tucked in between his legs, facing backwards. He squeezed that gooseneck like he was trying to force a bowling ball through a garden hose.

Eventually she let go and so did he, but not before she had exacted her not-so-proverbial pound of flesh. He had a golf ball sized goose egg on the back of his leg for a week and while he might have won the battle, the momma goose won the war. So, we steered clear of her and her goslings for the rest of the summer, from that point onward.

The encounter with Mother Goose left an indelible impression on us; well, at least it did on one of us! From that point on, I can’t hear Great White singing on the radio without thinking about that hot summer day on North Pearl Street. Once bitten, twice shy, baby!

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Bobcat Squall

Okay, I admit it, I’m a story topper. I know, I know, I know.  No one likes a story topper. But I can’t help myself, storytelling is in my blood. I’m not trying to one up anyone, I just love telling stories. Sometimes, when the dialog really gets rolling, I find myself moving closer and closer to the edge of my seat, like a cliff diver waiting for the right opportunity to take the plunge.

I come by it honest. My family tree is filled with storytellers, on both sides. Take for example my grandfather, Benjamin Franklin Glover. Now he was a master storyteller. Dennis and I would sit at his feet for countless hours listening to captivating tales about his life. Grandad Ben, born on leap day in 1908, grew up in the wild and rugged Boston mountains of Northwest Arkansas and his stories were so vivid and realistic they sucked us right in, just like Jumanji.

Grandad had truly seen it all and we loved to hear about it. He was born into a world without electricity and indoor plumbing where wagons and trains were the common mode of transportation. He first learned to drive with a team of four draft horses pulling heavy loads across rough terrain, while he was still a boy. He harvested timber by hand with a double-headed axe and drove thousands of railroad spikes with a huge 20-lb sledgehammer. We saw him forge and shape steel with his own hands from red hot iron fired in his own kiln in his homemade blacksmith shop. Shoot, he even smoked hand-rolled cigarettes made from homegrown tobacco in those days.

Life was hard for him growing up poverty-stricken in rural Arkansas, and it wasn’t much better as an adult after moving to Picher during the boom town era. But he never complained about it, not even once. It made him the man he was. In fact, I don’t think he even considered himself poor. His family always had everything thing they truly needed. And, if they couldn’t farm it, raise it, trap it, hunt it, make it or fix it, then they didn’t need it.

Grandad’s big hairy arms were strong like the steel he forged and cut like chiseled stone. They were formed from decades of hard, physical labor. He could swing an axe like no man I’ve ever seen, before or since, and he could split timber easier than a hot knife goes through butter. He honed those axe heads himself, by hand, with pride and a peddle-pumped grinding wheel. Finishing them off with a well-worn, crescent-shaped whetstone. The razor-sharp, mirrored edges glistened in the sunlight like a prism as he raised the axe from the ground and fully extended his arms behind him. Then, like a catapulting guillotine, the axe split the air like a flash of lightning and landed with a thundering boom that shook the ground under our feet. It was a sight to behold, but he paid it no mind.

I have no doubt that he could have crushed diamonds with those hands and stopped bullets with those arms. It was fascinating and humbling to see him work, but he thought nothing of it. It was his life; the only one he knew. Yes indeed, Ben Glover was a man’s man, in every way.

When he stopped to rest, which wasn’t often, he would tell us stories, and my brother and I would sit there captivated by them. Leaving school after the eighth grade, his vocabulary was sometimes too limited to convey the meaning he desired. So, in those instances, he would add the most fantastic sound effects that you could imagine. I’m telling you they would have made George Lucas jealous. And, if I close my eyes and put on my listening ears, I can still hear that famous bobcat squall right now; in crystal-clear, high-fidelity, stereophonic sound. It was so realistic it sent shivers down our spine every time he did it. What a sight it must have been for him to see; two scrappy young boys perched on one of his fallen logs with our chin in our hands and our elbows affixed to our knees, looking up at him with full-moon eyes and canyon-sized open mouths.

I remember hearing a real bobcat squall once while we were visiting Uncle John’s cabin just outside of Mountainburg, AR, where our Grandad was raised. The isolated old house, about halfway up the hill at the end of a long and muddy road, was surrounded by thick woods. Dennis and I were outside playing, and he had done something to annoy me, again, so I was chasing him around the house. Then I heard something that stopped me dead in my tracks and turned my blood cold. Our grandad was inside, but that squall wasn’t!

Instantly, I knew it was all true. The story of Grandad’s bobcat encounter rushed through my mind like a Netflix movie streamed at 10x. I glanced over at Dennis, who was frozen in mid-stride like Hans Solo in carbonite, and his ashen face said it all. We bolted for the door without saying a word and for the first time in my life I think I actually beat Dennis to the door!

Try as I might to emulate it, and I have repeatedly, my squall will never be as good as Grandad’s was, nor will my stories be as grand. He was the Leonardo da Vinci of storytelling and there will never be anyone else like him. I only hope, that in some small way, the stories you read here will prolong his legacy and preserve his craft, for posterity.

Oh, how I wish he had written down those stories for us, even if it had been scribbled out with his flat carpenter’s pencil, in jagged penmanship and broken English, on the back of a ten-penny nail sack. We would have stored them in Fort Knox to safeguard them, if we had too. But sadly, that never happened before the beast came and robbed us of this priceless treasure. He was the first to succumb to it, or at least that’s what we thought.

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