Return to the Land

them home proud of my catch and Pa would dress the fish and Ma would fry them on the wood stove and Pa thought they were delicious. I didn’t think they were so good. One day while Mary and I were fishing we waded into a deep hole and I was wearing short pants. Mary, being the good watchful chaperon, grabbed my short trousers to keep them out of the water while I continued fishing. Unfortunately Mary pulled my pants a little too high thus squeezing my “little weenie” and I suddenly jumped and startled her. I was embarrassed and Mary became tickled and laughed for an hour. That didn’t daunt our great friendship and we continued to fish for several more summers. During the summer on the creek I’d often find myself at Clara’s kitchen table for lunch. She would give me a glass of milk and a hot buttered biscuit with home made apple butter. The Faulkners showed me kindness and friendship when I was an impressionable young boy. They were relatives through marriage but I considered them as part of my family. Clyde Faulkner, the father, was born with a cleft palate and lip and it was often difficult to comprehend his speech. But, I quickly learned to understand him and he would tell me stories about the wild animals. I thought this family was special. I soon met other families that lived nearby. They were also Dad’s relatives. The Fayette Faulkner family lived to the north of us. Uncle Willie Wright, Grandmother Miller’s brother, lived to the sout h. Uncle Willie’s family included Eugene “Gene” and Minnie Wright. T he Walker Shawver family lived to the northwest. All of these families had children near my age with whom I played during those carefree summers. My great-great-grandfather and his son David Oliver Wright had owned much of our valley and gradually the land was divided between the Wright heirs including my Dad’s farm. Pa took me under his wing as I became older. While he farmed I stayed at the house but when the other chores were done I’d f ollow him like a puppy asking countless questions. Often when the horses, named Bob and Mack, were hooked to the wagon Pa would set me beside him on the seat and he’d put his arm around me and with the other hand control the horses’ reins. He was now of the age he’d reminisce about his past and would tell me stories for hours. Once Pa was heating an iron in the fireplace to bend it and as soon as the metal was hot he brought it outside and threw it on the ground, looked straight at me, pointed his finger and said, “Don’t touch that.” He didn’t tell me it was hot and as soon as he turned away I attempted to pick up the metal rod. That was a good lesson for me because I did what Pa told me after that. During the summer months wood had to be stock piled for the winter and the local saw mills were running full force in the 1940’s during the war. We would purchase slab wood from those mills and I’d watch Pa split those slabs with his sharp axe. He had great precision with the ax and I’d watch him put up a slab block on it’s end, hold his left foot on it to steady the piece and with a powerful and swift swing of the ax he would slice the slab into small pieces for the cook stove. This was known as stove wood. Well, I wanted to be like Pa so one day I picked up the ax, while barefooted, put my left foot on the slab and proceeded to cut a piece of stove wood. I didn’t have the precise control as Pa did and down came the ax. Unfortunately, I amputated the distal joint of the first toe of my left foot. Realizing a great calamity had occurred I walked on

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