F.L. Jennings
Bronze Member
Paul Abrams, an old friend and co-worker told me the following story; He had a friend that lived in Sharp or Stone County here in Arkansas as I remember it. Paul drove up to visit the fellow one time, but could only get to within about a half mile or so of his house. He parked near a dry Ozark stream bed and hiked the rest of the way. His friends house was built on a hill side, since mostly in the Ozarks that's about all you have. The back of the house was a foot or so off of the ground and the front porch was about eight feet up. You've seen em' in photos.
Paul went inside for a visit and as they were sitting there talking, a great uproar commenced to take place under the remote hill side cabin. The man had a bunch of hounds that dwelled mostly in the space under the Ozark high riser, and they had gotten into a serious disagreement of some sort. As the fight intensified, wavelets of dust began to waft up through the floor boards. There were large cracks between the boards, and soon the whole place was sort of hazy looking. There was quite a war going on under the house, so Pauls friend slowly rose up from his seat, still talking to Paul, and sauntered over to the corner where an ancient rifle of unknown caliber was leaning.
Picking it up he moseyed over to a place where the crack between the floor boards was wide enough to receive the muzzle of the rifle. A crack, no doubt, that had been used before for the same purpose. He fired off a couple of rounds into the maelstrom below, and that quickly helped to generate even more dust as the hounds, chickens, Turkeys and other assorted creatures that dwelled below escaped pell mell in all directions, out fand away from their unfriendly wooden sky.
The man then shuffled back over to the corner and placed the gun back in its place, having never stopped his laid back conversation with Paul or shown even so much as the least bit of excitement. When telling this story, Paul was about to choke with laughter at the remembering of it. Paul's gone now, but the memory of him and that story will always be new. I invited Paul out to eat with Martha and I way back before the Lord sent any of our children. I had killed a bunch of roosters I had been raising for the freezer and Martha cooked some up for a Sunday dinner. I can always recollect Paul saying from time to time "man those were sure good roosters and gravy"!
Selby Strebeck, a WWII bomber pilot verteran from Camden was quite a character himself, recounting stories of bombing missions over Germany, and flying back to England with the plane and crew members shot up and damaged from shrapnel and fighter attacks. He was from Camden, Arkansas and told of an old hermit that lived in the Ouachita river bottoms in a huge, hollow butted Cypress. He built a wooden platform on the inside of it to sleep on and to hold his stuff. When the river came up, the platform would just float up with it inside the tree! Selby said you would see this old eccentric bearded river rat coming into town every so often to trade or buy goods. He made his entire little existence from hunting, fishing and trapping. He was perfectly content living alone in those remote swamps and river bottoms. When Cottonmouths crawled onto his floating domicile he would just toss them back in the water.
Those huge swell butted Cypress are for real. When my wife and I first married we lived on my folks place on hwy 161 adjacent to Ink Bayou between North Little Rock and Jacksonville. Ink Bayou is an ancient channel of the Arkansas river that has grown up in Cypress and Tupelo Gum. It is about one quarter mile wide and two miles long. I used to roam and hunt in that beautiful place wading through the duckweed covered dark waters and easing cottonmouths out of the way. Squirrels lived out in the swamp and they flocked to the native Pecan trees along the banks in fall time. There was an old cabin there on the west bank that once was home to an ex slave. A giant Hickory had grown up in the cabin yard adjacent to the swamp. I have no idea how many squirrels I killed from that tree. You just found a good seat and waited for squirrels to come in from the swamp. Sometimes I got a real scare after sitting down next to a coiled cottonmouth. Out in the swamp, those huge swell butted trees served me often as impromptu duck blinds. Some of them were ten or twelve feet in diameter and you could usually ease inside through an opening in the base of the tree. Once inside you had to watch out for the center though, mostly the bottom just dropped off and I have no idea how deep the water was under those old patriarch trees. There was usually three or four feet around the edge to stand on. If I stepped backwards with hip boots on and drowned inside one of those swelled butts my body could never have been found.
I miss the old timers and their stories of old time adventures, and am amazed that I have grown old enough to take their place. So life goes.
Frank
Paul went inside for a visit and as they were sitting there talking, a great uproar commenced to take place under the remote hill side cabin. The man had a bunch of hounds that dwelled mostly in the space under the Ozark high riser, and they had gotten into a serious disagreement of some sort. As the fight intensified, wavelets of dust began to waft up through the floor boards. There were large cracks between the boards, and soon the whole place was sort of hazy looking. There was quite a war going on under the house, so Pauls friend slowly rose up from his seat, still talking to Paul, and sauntered over to the corner where an ancient rifle of unknown caliber was leaning.
Picking it up he moseyed over to a place where the crack between the floor boards was wide enough to receive the muzzle of the rifle. A crack, no doubt, that had been used before for the same purpose. He fired off a couple of rounds into the maelstrom below, and that quickly helped to generate even more dust as the hounds, chickens, Turkeys and other assorted creatures that dwelled below escaped pell mell in all directions, out fand away from their unfriendly wooden sky.
The man then shuffled back over to the corner and placed the gun back in its place, having never stopped his laid back conversation with Paul or shown even so much as the least bit of excitement. When telling this story, Paul was about to choke with laughter at the remembering of it. Paul's gone now, but the memory of him and that story will always be new. I invited Paul out to eat with Martha and I way back before the Lord sent any of our children. I had killed a bunch of roosters I had been raising for the freezer and Martha cooked some up for a Sunday dinner. I can always recollect Paul saying from time to time "man those were sure good roosters and gravy"!
Selby Strebeck, a WWII bomber pilot verteran from Camden was quite a character himself, recounting stories of bombing missions over Germany, and flying back to England with the plane and crew members shot up and damaged from shrapnel and fighter attacks. He was from Camden, Arkansas and told of an old hermit that lived in the Ouachita river bottoms in a huge, hollow butted Cypress. He built a wooden platform on the inside of it to sleep on and to hold his stuff. When the river came up, the platform would just float up with it inside the tree! Selby said you would see this old eccentric bearded river rat coming into town every so often to trade or buy goods. He made his entire little existence from hunting, fishing and trapping. He was perfectly content living alone in those remote swamps and river bottoms. When Cottonmouths crawled onto his floating domicile he would just toss them back in the water.
Those huge swell butted Cypress are for real. When my wife and I first married we lived on my folks place on hwy 161 adjacent to Ink Bayou between North Little Rock and Jacksonville. Ink Bayou is an ancient channel of the Arkansas river that has grown up in Cypress and Tupelo Gum. It is about one quarter mile wide and two miles long. I used to roam and hunt in that beautiful place wading through the duckweed covered dark waters and easing cottonmouths out of the way. Squirrels lived out in the swamp and they flocked to the native Pecan trees along the banks in fall time. There was an old cabin there on the west bank that once was home to an ex slave. A giant Hickory had grown up in the cabin yard adjacent to the swamp. I have no idea how many squirrels I killed from that tree. You just found a good seat and waited for squirrels to come in from the swamp. Sometimes I got a real scare after sitting down next to a coiled cottonmouth. Out in the swamp, those huge swell butted trees served me often as impromptu duck blinds. Some of them were ten or twelve feet in diameter and you could usually ease inside through an opening in the base of the tree. Once inside you had to watch out for the center though, mostly the bottom just dropped off and I have no idea how deep the water was under those old patriarch trees. There was usually three or four feet around the edge to stand on. If I stepped backwards with hip boots on and drowned inside one of those swelled butts my body could never have been found.
I miss the old timers and their stories of old time adventures, and am amazed that I have grown old enough to take their place. So life goes.
Frank
