Lewis Butler's Stuff

Odd Life Experiencces

2011-01-03T12:50:00.001-06:00

I have had some odd encounters during my days: most of them appear in this blog site. They have made my existence unique to say the least. If I ever had a best friend when I needed one is was Bill Moore. Bill was my classmate through our elementary, secondary schools in Carthage, Tennessee. We were college roommates at Tennessee Polytechnic Institute from 1958 through 1962: learning to become band directors.

I needed a summer job after my freshman year at TPI and Bill assisted me in joining the survey crews working out of the Tennessee Department of Highways. We traveled all over the state each summer performing surveys on how much traffic certain roads received, discerning the probable exits and entrances for the interstate highway system yet to be constructed and weighing trucks to monitor their use and need for repair for existing highways. We did the data collection and smarter folks interpreted the data. It was this period of time that inspired me to develop this anecdote.

Our first two summers were spent conducting surveys and counting cars on rural roads in West Tennessee. We worked the gravel roads way out in the boonies. And once in a while we worked in the larger towns such as Hornbeck, Sharon and Gleason. At least these streets were paved. One memorable encounter came when I was recording traffic flow in Huntingdon.

I was sitting on the steps of a Baptist church when a curious young lady joined me wondering what I was up to. Most of the shifts counting traffic flow were totally boring, to say the least, so I was glad for her interest. We discussed the usual things such as what I was doing and her rendition of what kind of town Huntingdon was.

I was in the habit of getting the Memphis morning paper to break the monotony of counting cars. The more we talked and the more I looked at my companion, I felt that I had seen her or had seen her picture somewhere. As it turned out her picture had been in the Memphis Commercial Appeal about two weeks prior.

She relayed the following story.
She was getting out of her shower when she heard a strange noise and sensed that there was someone in the kitchen. She toweled off somewhat and hearing more movement she retrieved the double barreled shot gun from behind the bathroom door.
The door crashed open and she had the shotgun up and ready to fire when the intruder came through the door wielding a butcher knife from her kitchen. She aimed at the intruder and pulled the triggers: nothing happened. The hammers were not retracted all the way back to the firing position.

She was in a fight for her life dodging the knife when she could and trying to break his grip on the shotgun. He viciously stabbed her and she dodged and ducked until he had stabbed her twenty–two times. There was blood everywhere and she was failing fast when a neighbor came in having heard the commotion and the assailant decided to run for his life while her life force was ebbing.

An ambulance and the authorities were called, and she was sped to the hospital where she recovered. The intruder was caught later that day by an enraged sheriff along with his staff. The assailant was literally treed. He was tracked by the county bloodhounds and was trying to conceal himself by climbing a tree. I don’t recall what transpired, but if my memory is sound he was known as a notorious violent offender and still in possession of the kitchen knife making threats to the sheriff. He would not surrender and was summarily dispatched.

She showed me a few of the scars that she was destined to live with. She had been stabbed in her arms, shoulders and in the scalp. Evidently she had been agile enough that her internal organs were undamaged. I didn’t need to see any others. She had recovered very well and was going on with her life when we met. I admired her fortitude. And I wonder if she remembers telling me her story on that warm day in Huntingdon.

Designing with heart - timesfreepress.com

2010-12-28T12:04:00.000-06:00

Designing with heart - timesfreepress.com

Judy Butler Science Scholarships

2010-09-03T17:56:00.000-05:00

Judy Butler was an award winning educator, naturalist, artist, and journal writer. She served in leadership roles at Williamson County Schools and as president of Dragonfly Enterprises. She raised millions of dollars in grant funding for science education especially for students who are not traditionally found in these careers. In the last weeks of her life as she faced ovarian cancer she helped to organize two college scholarship funds as her legacy. Please send your tax-deductible scholarship contributions to honor and continue Judy’s passionate dedication to education for all students. 100% of your donation goes directly into the scholarship funds for these future scientists.

a. Judy Butler Scholarship for STEM at TSU
Two $500 scholarships will be awarded each year to students majoring in STEM areas at Tennessee State University. Preference will be given SEMAA graduates. The NASA Science Engineering Mathematics and Aerospace Academy, or SEMAA, is a national, innovative project designed to increase participation and retention of historically underrepresented K-12 youth in the fields of science, technology, engineering and mathematics, or STEM.

Contributions may be mailed to:
Tennessee State University Foundation
3500 John A. Merit Boulevard
Campus Box 9542
Nashville, TN 37209
Att: Betsy Jackson

Make check payable to TSU Foundation with Judy Butler Scholarship in the memo line or donate online at www.tnstate.edu/contributions at the Judy Butler Scholarship link.

b. UM-NARL Judy Butler Student Scholarship
One $1,000 scholarship will be awarded each year to a student for research training at the University of Montana Native American Research Lab (NARL) who has demonstrated interest in pursuing an advanced degree and research in Astrobiology or other space-related sciences with a dedication to Native American science education. The mission of the Native American Research Laboratories at The University of Montana is provide American Indian undergraduate students and graduate students with “hands-on” research opportunities in basic sciences and biomedical sciences in a culturally-relevant cross-disciplinary and cross-cultural environment.

Contributions may be mailed to:
University of Montana Foundation
P.O. Box 7159
600 Connell Avenue
Missoula, MT 59807-7159
Att: Kelley Willett
Make check payable to University of Montana Foundation with Judy Butler Scholarship in the memo line.

For more information about these scholarships contact:
Todd Gary at TSU tgary@coe.tsuniv.edu
Michael Ceballos at UM rmichael.ceballos@umontana.edu
Susan Kuner skuner@gmail.com

Thank you for supporting the Judy Butler Scholarships

God's Speed Judy Pie

2010-09-02T19:47:00.002-05:00

IF I COULD TALK, I’d tell about the redhead sitting in the second row of the 1970 summer institute. I had just been hired by The Southern Regional Media Center for The Deaf at UT Knoxville. We hosted fifty teachers of hearing impaired students for a six-week, immersion experience into the technologies then available.

That Thursday I was giving a presentation on photography when I noticed the cute redhead in the second row. I didn’t give her much more thought until on Saturday, I found her seated at the picnic table at KFC. I sauntered over with my lunch to visit.

I ate the chicken and she ate the bones!

We struck up a cautious conversation and I suggested showing her around. I found that she was from New Orleans and most recently from Baton Rouge. We rode down to the overlook at Loudon Dam. Sitting on the hill above the dam I leaned back to give her a good once-over and the thought came to me: This girl is not like anyone I have ever encountered.

SHE COULD BE BIG TROUBLE!

The institute continued and we found each other’s company agreeable, so we became a couple. Then the day came when the institute ended and we all parted ways with many “well-done's” and “see you around:” etc. I thought, Oh Well. Back to the new job and then who knows what?

Three weeks later, who rings my doorbell but Julia Alta Faye Graythen, announcing that she had enrolled in the Master’s program at UT in Deaf Education! I was amazed, but thought little of it. (Oh how stupid I was!)

A year later we were wed in a glorious ceremony. It was a splendid affair: we received the license and went to the Halls Methodist Church for the nuptials with the preacher, his wife and the church secretary in attendance. Then we went to Big Ridge State Park to grill a steak and have some wine. Our honeymoon consisted of a ride on the Octopus at the Anderson County Fair.

Our wedding song came on the radio on our trip back to Knoxville: it is

“I just want to celebrate another day of living!”
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Judy began the UT Master’s program, and given her abilities, pretty soon she was selected as a faculty person in the Department of Special Education and Rehabilitation.

Two years later Judy and I returned to Indiana University: I, to complete my Education Specialists program , and Judy to start a doctorate in Hearing and Speech. Then we had a major distraction!

Judy tested positive to being pregnant! And all our priorities changed! She told the IU folks to take a hike, and she devoted all her days to welcoming Kelly Dee Butler into the world.

Kelly arrived in October & we moved to Nashville in December 1974. We were stuck in an apartment in Hermitage and Judy was experiencing postpartum depression. I went out of town to a convention in Minnesota, and Judy bought a house! This was the second time she had taken upon herself to commit for a house while I was out of town. We have loved our home all these years and we call it the Butlerossa.
After stints at Vanderbilt University and Belmont, Judy launched herself on Williamson County schools.

Judy became the coordinator of the program for gifted students. Judy thought BIG and sought an environmental grant from Saturn. She received a grant to establish the Harpeth River Environmental and Educational Project. That project resulted in over ten thousand students being involved with evaluation of water quality and in almost a million dollars in grants to support the projects in Williamson County.

Judy was recognized as The Environmental Teacher of the year by the Tennessee Conservation League. She received an international award from Project Green as the Teacher of the Year!

Our relationship has been based on moving forward.
Now you and I have to say goodbye to one of the sweetest souls on the planet! She took after her mother in that aspect. Judy was always supportive in helping those around her to achieve greater things. The other day, I told her, “Let’s not wait so long to find each other next time around!”

God’s speed Judy-Pie!

When loyalty was severely tested.

2010-08-07T21:52:00.000-05:00

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The three main rascals of Fisher Hill in Carthage in the forty's were Tommy Moss, Sonny Apple and Lewis Butler. These three played, ran, fought and otherwise associated with each other daily. Other male members of the neighborhood were allowed to associate with this unholy trio on occasion, but Tommy, Sonny and Lewis could always be counted on to be at the center of an occurrence of most any kind.

It was either Tommy or Sonny who owned a BB Gun. Lewis was never allowed to have one! His mother always gave the standard answer for not allowing him to have it:, "NO. You'll shoot your eye out!" (The movie, "A Christmas Story" just about says it all on this point.)

At the top of Fisher Hill, Fisher Avenue dead-ends at what was once a circular drive for the Antebellum home at the top of the hill. Fisher Avenue is lined with old Sugar Maple trees that stand 10 feet from the curb on each side, but they are so large that their limbs intertwine above the street. It becomes a fiery, golden tunnel in the fall. In fact Fisher Avenue and Main Street in Carthage in the fall are often spectacular.

On this particular occasion the Trio was seated at the end of the Moss sidewalk, taking pot-shots with the BB gun. Little if anything escaped their attention: the telephone pole, the nearest maple tree, a wandering dog, or a bird perched high above on a power line. It was late in the summer afternoon and the sun had just about set. In the half-light before dark the lightning bugs were beginning to appear and the katydids had begun their songs, when Chicken Mc Clanahan came driving up Fisher and made a turn on-to Cullum away from the seated Trio.

Author’s note: Almost everyone in Carthage in the first half of the century had a nickname. There was Booger Mc Cormick, Slicker Snake Huffines, Rubber Dick Huffines, Hog Liver Key - the Huffines family had all the best nick names, and a hundred others.

Tommy was seated between Sonny and Lewis and at that moment, and Tommy was in possession of the BB Gun. Chicken made the turn away from the group. Tommy raised the gun and glanced a BB off the rear window of Chicken's car. Tommy dropped the BB Gun in front of all three of us and said, "DON'T TELL HIM WHO DID IT!"

Chicken was mad! Livid is probably a more appropriate word. He jumped out of the car and shouted, "WHICH ONE OF YOU BOYS SHOT MY CAR?"

Now this is the point where loyalty was severely tested! Sonny, Tommy and Lewis were not very mature, probably nine and ten years old respectively, but they were smart enough to know that this episode could rapidly turn into a period of substantial and sustained pain if not handled with proper aplomb and decorum.

The Trio knew that Chicken had a temper and it was possible that he had had a "drink". (It is true that you can't trust most men who won't take a drink, but it is also true that you'd better look out for some people when they do take one! Chicken was a member of both categories.)

At the split second, in the blink of an eye, and as quick a hick-up, Sonny pointed right and Lewis pointed left: Tommy was caught between points! The Trio received an appropriate, and well-deserved, tongue-lashing from Chicken which was all quickly forgotten except for the part about their parents would be told if they ever did such a thing again.

The Trio's loyalty had been tested and overcome by expediency!

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Military Man

2010-08-03T19:58:00.001-05:00

Some years ago I was playing pool with a friend at The American Legion. He asked, "Were you ever in the military?" Then not long after I got some promotional literature from the same organization asking me to join if I could verify that I'd been in the military for only one day!

I was in the army for one day, one day only, and that was ENOUGH!

Actually my military career began in college, at Tennessee Polytechnic Institute – later renamed TN Tech University. In 1958 every freshman and sophomore was required to take ROTC, (pronounced "rot'c" which stood for Reserve Officer's Training Corps.) or, he took physical education. The T.P.I. "Corps of Cadets" was a Signal Corps Regiment, Battalion or Group or something: I never learned just which exactly!

Being legally blind in one eye I suspected that I would never be accepted in the military. And none of the guys I knew were in physical education, so we all took ROTC whether we were serious about killing people or not. I haven't had to kill anyone yet, but if I ever do I know the ROTC training I had will serve me well.

Every music major was automatically placed in the ROTC Band. The commander was in cahoots with the band director, and most of us would rather have been in the band than being screamed at by company commanders and platoon leaders: seniors and juniors who were inordinately intent about being in step and "dressing up that line." We band guys knew how to march and stay in line.

The Freshman year was OK: We learned small weapons' maintenance, positioning of a mortar and sighting in the target, but most of all we learned posturing! It was 1958, and there were many upperclassmen who took their R.O.T.C. "Rank" seriously. They had also seen every movie ever produced which showed just how rough it was getting through the military training program. Therefore they tried to emulate the toughest of the Drill Instructors that Hollywood had conjured up. The worst of the lot were the officers in the Pershing Rifles, TPI's award winning drill team.

So on Thursdays, “Drill Day,” between 3:00PM and 5:00PM the "Officers" would attempt to make life a living hell for the underclassmen! During our Sophomore year the R.O.T.C. Band had decided as a group not to attend the Military Ball. To the officers of the Pershing Rifles, this was an unbelievable affront! After all, the proceeds from the Military Ball went directly to the Pershing Rifles! How could we sniveling, trouble makers dare challenge the omnipotent Pershing Rifles?

An inspection of the ROTC Band was demanded and granted by the military faculty. We had been promised that the inspection would be particularly rigorous. The Officers were solemn and strict and dispensed demerits to all concerned. Demerits had to be "worked off" prior to next Thursdays drill: One demerit meant one hour cleaning rifles, sweeping or some other onerous task.

We in the R.O.T.C. Band knew that if you went to the armory to work off a demerit on Friday or Monday or Tuesday the Sergeant Major in charge would make you clean some M1 Rifles, etc. But if you went in a group on Wednesday afternoon about 3:00 there was nothing to do.

So we worked off our demerits late on Wednesday afternoon by one guy pulling down the window shades and the next guy raising the window shades. It took about ten minutes. The Sergeant Major knew all of us and got a great laugh out of our demerit problem.
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Moving ahead four years:
The USA was fervently providing "assistance" to the Republic of Vietnam in 1963. We had had advisers there since the late fifties, but by 1963 we were getting our guys killed! I received my notice to report for my physical exam in the spring of 1963.

Stripped to our underwear with our valuables in a drawstring bag we sat or stood in line to pee in a bottle, and have our hearing, vision and reflexes tested. Being legally blind in one eye, I knew that I was not a candidate for induction. However the "shave-tail" doctors who were administering the tests wouldn't listen and couldn't verify my damaged cornea and optic nerve. Then to top it all off they stamped my papers "Inductee" instead of "Pre-inductee" as they should have been stamped: I was on my way to Fort Polk Louisiana the very next day!

I finally got some older doctor to listen to me and he signed me in for the night to be examined by a "Downtown Doctor" the following day. That evening I and the real inductees were in the United States Army! The evening meal was beans and potatoes: two kinds of beans and two kinds of potatoes. An army travels on its stomach, you know. After supper we were required to police the area. That's Army Talk for pick up trash which in this case was cigarette butts. There didn't seem to be anything to gain from fighting the order, so we went about policing the area.

We were encouraged to hit the sack early. It seemed appropriate since there was absolutely nothing else to do. I was aroused in the middle of the night by someone rummaging through my locker. When I sat up in bed the perpetrator vanished and the bunk of black boy two bunks over was bouncing. I arose and found that my single dollar was still in my wallet. I then spoke a vow to whoever was interested about all manners of physical consequences that would befall anyone who attempted to repeat the deed.

The next morning I was examined by a "real doctor" who spotted the malady. As it turned out he had trained the eye, ear, nose and throat specialist who had played a big part in my personal miracle of not losing my right eye! I returned to Macon County and to band directing without being required to serve another day.

EARTH DAY

2010-04-19T21:11:00.001-05:00

This year, 2010, we celebrate the fortieth anniversary of Earth Day. On the first Earth Day I was walking among the displays of concerned students and faculty at Indiana University. It was an almost-cold, dank Indiana spring day.

The main display area was at Dunn Meadow where a series of momentous gatherings took place in that year of civil unrest. Dunn Meadow is a lawn at the west end of the main campus, across the Jordan River from the IU Student Union Building.

We first gathered at Dunn Meadow to protest the Kent State Massacre.

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"Kent State massacre" Wikipedia

Kent State shootings
John Filo's iconic Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of Mary Ann Vecchio, a fourteen-year-old runaway, kneeling over the body of Jeffrey Miller after he was shot dead by the Ohio National Guard.
Location	Kent, Ohio, USA
Date	May 4, 1970 12:24 PM^[1]
Target	Kent State University students
Death(s)	4
Injured	9

Memorial to Jeffrey Miller. Taken from approximately the same perspective as John Filo's famous photograph.

The Kent State shootings, also known as the May 4 massacre or Kent State massacre, occurred at Kent State University in the city of Kent, Ohio, and involved the shooting of unarmed college students by members of the Ohio National Guard on Monday, May 4, 1970. The guardsmen fired 67 rounds over a period of 13 seconds, killing four students and wounding nine others, one of whom suffered permanent paralysis.

Some of the students who were shot had been protesting against the American invasion of Cambodia, which President Richard Nixon announced in a television address on April 30. Other students who were shot had been walking nearby or observing the protest from a distance.

There was a significant national response to the shootings: hundreds of universities, colleges, and high schools closed throughout the United States due to a student strike of four million students, and the event further divided the country, at an already socially contentious time, about the role of the United States in the Vietnam War

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Our next gathering at Dunn Meadow was a gathering to listen to Jerry Rubin who was protester in the Chicago Seven riots and trial. It turned out that Jerry was soliciting funds to pay for his lawyer’s fees.

From Wisegeek.com

When the Democratic party announced plans to hold its national convention in Chicago, key leaders of these various factions urged members to hold rallies outside of the facility. The results were horrific. Protesters and law enforcement officers clashed violently, and Chicago's mayor, Richard Daley, ordered in National Guard troops to restore order. When the smoke cleared, eight men identified as leaders of the protests were charged with conspiracy to incite a riot. They became known originally as the Chicago Eight, later the Chicago Seven.

During the trial, the eighth co-defendant, Black Panther member Bobby Seale, was improperly denied his attorney of choice by 74 year old judge Julius Hoffman. Seale's heated protestations caused Judge Hoffman to order him bound and gagged while in court. Hoffman later separated Seale's case, leaving seven co-defendants: Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, David Dellinger, Tom Hayden, John Froines, Rennie Davis and Lee Weiner. Although their associations before the convention were often vague or non-existent, these men became inextricably linked in the media as the Chicago Seven.

Of the Chicago Seven, perhaps Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin were the two most recognized faces. Both were members of the Youth International Party, or Yippies. The Yippies were notorious for suggesting outlandish acts of sabotage or civil disobedience, but rarely carried out these extreme plans. During the Democratic National Convention, the Yippies gained media attention by nominating a pig named Pigasus for president.

While in Chicago, both Hoffman and Rubin met with other leaders of counterculture groups such as the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) and the National Mobilization Committee (MOBE). Other defendants, such as David Dellinger and Rennie Davis, attended these meetings as well. Unbeknownst to participants, the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) had already placed undercover agents at many of these meeting sites.

The Chicago Seven were charged with violating a recently enacted federal Anti-Riot Act, which gave law enforcement officers more legal teeth against protesters. The trial of the Chicago Seven became a media circus, with some of the defendants arriving in black robes or openly defying the authority of the court. Judge Hoffman's questionable pre-trial decisions also hampered the efforts of defense attorneys William Kunstler and Leonard Weinglass. Potential jurors could not be asked questions pertaining to their knowledge of popular counterculture entertainers, for example. This exclusion allowed federal prosecutors to seat a jury largely unsympathetic to the Chicago Seven's political and social culture.

Despite the theatrics and occasionally heavy-handed tactics used by both sides during the trial, the jury found two of the Chicago Seven, John Froines and Lee Weiner, not guilty of the charges. Weiner and Froines were considered peripheral characters, accused mostly of using their skills to create non-lethal stink bombs. The other five members of the Chicago Seven were found guilty of violating the Anti-Riot Act of 1968 and were given various sentences.

Judge Hoffman did not stop at that point. He also sentenced all of the Chicago Seven and their attorneys to several years in prison for a number of contempt of court citations. The Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals overturned these sentences in 1972, based on Judge Hoffman's behavior during the trial and the excessive length of the sentences.

Following the Appeals Court decision to overturn their original sentences, members of the Chicago Seven resumed their lives during the 1970s. Some returned to academia, while others remained politically active. Tom Hayden eventually became a congressional representative from California. Former radical Jerry Rubin decided to become a mainstream businessman in the 1980s.

David Dellinger, the oldest member of the Chicago Seven, continued to participate in civil demonstrations until his death from a heart attack. Abbie Hoffman, arguably the most impassioned member of the Chicago Seven, tried to reinvigorate the counterculture movement through media events and several books. Disillusioned by the apparent apathy of American society in the 1980s, Abbie Hoffman committed suicide in 1989.

We “protested” the Kent State tragedy by “marching” from our various dorms and apartments to Dunn Meadow. There were to be speeches and announcements and a protest rally by thirty thousand angry students! We were told that there could be ‘police riots’ such as those that occurred at the Democratic Presidential Convention that the Chicago Seven disrupted.

As it turned out there were only about ten thousand un-angry students milling around the ‘Meadow.’ The police were held in place at intersections about three blocks away in case there was trouble. They were never called to quell our riots.

It was a rather quiet event with one speech by the Student Body President; a young man of color who had a very vigilant cordon of body guards in case there was a sniper in the trees or on the roof of the student center.

Our ‘protest’ was reported in the Bloomington and Indianapolis papers. There was a picture: is seems that some jerk with a flag from North Viet Nam had jumped in front of the march just as the pictures were snapped. I was mortified!

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Back to Earth Day

The whole Instructional Systems Technology Department was opened for assisting students who wanted to create displays for the ‘meadow.’ I was assigned a junior student who wanted to make everyone aware of the problems caused by over population. I was stuck in the dark room for five hours, making two hundred prints of a picture of a four person family. The display had all those same pictures stapled and taped to a backdrop and a large wooden frame: no one I saw was impressed: I certainly wasn’t!

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It is fun to remember those days of ‘teach-in’s’ in the dorm on how we got into the Viet Nam mess and how we were manipulated into a situation that poisoned our country. It all seemed both surreal and important at the time. It was a great time to be alive, really alive; or so we thought!

GRAND-THEFT, PICKUP TRUCK:

2010-04-13T19:37:00.003-05:00

Technically we did not steal the Ligon Electric Service Company pickup truck..... John Ligon's son, Alec had given permission for Bill Moore, Tyrone Pointer and Lewis Butler to retrieve the keys from above the driver's sun visor and take the truck to basketball games away from Carthage. Never-mind that Alec did not have authority to give permission to loan the truck!

Bill was the only member of the group with a driver's license, but Lewis had instigated the operation, and he drove most of the time. It should be injected here that the truck in question was taken to only a few games. Twice, to be exact!

Once in Gordonsville, the cross-county rival: Parking was so dear that almost everyone was wedged-in and without drastic action one could not leave until vehicles in front and behind moved to let trapped vehicles out.......We were trapped! We could not allow John Ligon to see his truck in the parking lot! So, we were required to do something drastic!

There were always several guys near the front door of any sports event, smoking ready-rolled and roll-your-owns and slipping to the car for a "sip." We recruited four of them to help us physically move cars and pickups that had us blocked. At least six vehicles were moved: Some into positions that would require considerable gyrations to avoid scraping other vehicles.

We made it back to Carthage without mishap and before anyone else. So we were not seen. This arrangement was going to be great! (Or so we thought.) And so ended episode one.

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We were eager to go to the next away game at Watertown. As it turned out it was one of those, all too common, Tennessee Fall-Winter nights with just enough rain to make the road " lose its tooth. " As usual we arrived at the High School just after the team bus left, retrieved the keys and were on our way.

We were thirsty by the time we got to the "L-Rancho" motel and restaurant on the east side of Lebanon so we wheeled into the parking lot to get Cokes. Fortunately we spotted John Ligon's car in the front parking lot, and since the truck we had "borrowed" had Ligon Electric Company painted all over the racks we wheeled around the drive in front of the rooms and made a hasty exit toward Watertown.

It began to drizzle-rain on the way to Watertown and pickup trucks are known for a lack of road-holding abilities. The road into "Watertown proper" turned to the left at about 60 degrees. The road surface was gravel with multi-, multi-sprayings of tar. By the time Lewis, Bill and Tyrone saw the turn it was too late, we were going way too fast but Lewis attempted to make it anyway.

There was a narrow shoulder then a drop of about 20 feet on either side into a creek on one side and a muddy corn field on the other. Lewis hit the brakes (having never had any experience with wet roads) and control was lost immediately. The pickup began a very fast 180 degree spin, and it was plain to all on board that there was to be no way out of this mess!

Lewis did the only thing he could, given the circumstances: HE YELLED AN APPROPRIATE FOUR-LETTER EXPLETIVE AND SHUT HIS EYES AS TIGHTLY AS POSSIBLE AND HELD ON FOR DEAR LIFE! What Tyrone and Bill did will await their own renditions of the event, but you can imagine that a certain portion of each boy's anatomy was puckered-pretty-tight!

When Lewis opened his eyes the truck was on the Watertown road, in second gear and under control. That was one time that our guardian angels earned their keep.

The boys were more careful in parking the truck this time and were able to leave without manually lifting vehicles out of their way. They left early enough not to have to hurry home, but since the Chevy pickup had "80 mph" on the speedometer why not do 80? Besides, the roads had dried considerably.

So, exiting Lebanon at high speed and in high spirits the trio headed toward Carthage. About one-third of the way Lewis noticed a car catching up quickly even while the pickup was doing 80. The car passed the boys going up the hill by Johnson's Rest Home and turned on a siren. The boys slowed wondering what could be wrong!

Since Bill had a license he and Lewis changed places. While they were doing that the pursuer was getting out of his '47 Olds with a pistol that looked to be about a foot long! He had Civil Air Patrol license tags on his car so the boys determined that he was an over eager constable out to make trouble for we completely innocent teenagers!

Bill "ground" the Chevy pickup into first and we were off again. The Constable fired at the rear tire twice as we passed and once at the truck from behind as we were going over the hill. We asked each other about getting onto a side road and hiding, but decided just to stay on Hwy-70 and go like hell!

Believe it or not the Constable didn't come after us! But believe this also we did not linger longer to give him any more opportunities to catch us!

We made it back to Carthage and were physically, mentally and emotionally shaken by the whole experience. The Ligon Electric Truck remained parked henceforth and forever more!

My Musical Highlight(s)

2010-03-22T20:19:00.005-05:00

When I was a mere tyke I knew that I would become a brass band director. In our home we had a hard bound catalog of jewelry, silverware and musical instruments. My dad and I, seated in his lap, would go through the book marveling at the 'bling' printed on slick paper with richly colored red and blue backgrounds. It was captivating. My dad would point out the various brass instruments and tell me stories of his days in the Brown School Band. His uncle Willy Butler was the director of the Brown School Band. When one went to a particular school back in the early 1900's one played in that band all the rest of his days.

I majored in BAND in high school: nothing else meant very much to me. Perhaps some of my classmates thought otherwise since the phrase "Don't wake me unless it's a woman" was entered by my senior picture in the Smith County Annual in 1958.

We held a Spring Festival every year that culminated the fund raising drive for the music program budget. The school board did not provide significant funding for band programs. My Junior year I performed "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" at the Spring Festival. My knees were shaking so badly that my mother thought that a breeze was blowing my pant legs. It was the time of the "White Sport Coat and Pink Carnations." My coat was white linen and my pants were black: my mom would have nothing for me if not the best.

My college experiences were not remarkable for the most part. I was playing a Baritone, also known as a Tenor Tuba or Euphonium. It serves the lower end of the horn voice: just below the French Horn and just above the Tuba. It is assigned the counter point to the higher brass and the woodwinds. The Baritone was occasionally given a significant part such as in the works of Gustav Holst. (Suite in E flat for Military Band for example)

In my freshman year I was just beginning to come around to the facts that one needed to exert a modicum of effort to succeed in college. We were trying to master a difficult band piece by Jenkins: sorry I can't remember the title but I do remember the difficult baritone part. Our band director was holding "section practice" to see who could play their parts. I had practiced and 'aced' the session. My compatriot, a senior, did not do very well.

All things changed at TPI the following year and we struggled through the next eighteen months. Then my senior year began.

We were involved in student teaching in the elementary and high schools around Cookeville, TN. I loved every level and every experience with the young students. We were also involved in 'teaching' on the college level. I sub'd for the Music Appreciation Professor and for the Putnam County High School Band Director. We were also required to make arrangements for and to conduct the TPI Band as well as the chorus in concert. My penchant for self destruction emerged I guess, since I chose the most obscure and difficult pieces I could find.

The highlight of my senior year was the performance by the TPI chorus of a piece by Strauss that had to do with the lyrics; "Swirl out the canvas favoring winds." It was a soaring piece that could be done with piano or without: I chose a Capella! My instructor, Dr Walter Wade and my peers were surprised because it was a big risk.

We were performing in the Derryberry Auditorium that had just been renovated: we had been practicing in a band room. The acoustics in the auditorium were much superior. and the 'live' auditorium enhanced our sound. The chorus 'got to feeling it!' They exceeded everyone's expectations, and I was thrilled with their performance. The audience gave us a wonderful round of applause, and I was pleased as were the chorus members.

I cannot relate the euphoria of that brief moment. I could have done a back flip off the podium. It was the highlight of my college experience. It's still a great memory even after fifty (yes - fifty) years!

Fowler G. Stanton

2010-03-07T08:00:00.000-06:00

The memorial service was held today for Fowler Stanton a special mentor of my high school days. Let's think about; a fellow from a curve in the road in the edge of Putnam county who is named ' Fowler!' Now give me a break: a Fowler is a guy that trains and uses birds of prey for hunting. He was destined to do great things with a name like that!

It was a great service; complete with a wind ensemble, a 40+ choir, a piper (Amazing Grace, of course) a flag ceremony and a Dixieland Band as the service ended. WHAT A MEMORIAL SERVICE!

I was able to speak with Sarah Smith (sister of Sam and Daughter of Ervin, our beloved principal) the Amonette Brothers; Jackie and Billy Jolly (finer trumpeter's never came our way). I spied Elane Wilburn, saw Carl Ballinger (I think) in the choir.

Fowler Stanton was a special guy. Who knew about his military record? He was the 'song flute' KING. We who became band directors should have followed his example.

Little did I know that there was no budget for band at Macon Co!

The event caused me to decide on a set of themes for my life, so far:
On aging: "Don't Blink" a Kenny Chesney song
On living: "Gimme Three Steps!"
On changing: "I'm Still Crazy After all These Years"

Here's the Obituary

SMITHVILLE -- Memorial services for Fowler G. Stanton, 88, of Smithville, will be held Saturday, March 6, at 2 p.m. at First United Methodist Church in Smithville. The family will receive friends today, Friday, March 5, from 4-8 p.m. at the C.F.C. building of the church. Mr. Stanton's wishes were for his former students to arrive at the memorial service one hour early for a special tribute in song. Mr. Stanton died Thursday, Feb. 25, 2010, in DeKalb Community Hospital. He was born Sept. 17, 1921, in the Gentry Community of Putnam County to the late Della Starr Sanders and George Mizell Stanton.

Fowler began his musical career at the age of three when his mother and aunt taught him how to play the piano and various string instruments as well as singing. Since that early age he grew up to respect and appreciate all kinds of music. He graduated from Baxter Seminary and enrolled at Tennessee Technological University in 1940. The war interrupted his schooling, but he returned after the war to TTU and received his B.S. in music education in 1950 and obtained a Master's Degree from Peabody College in 1952. He continued in studies, more specifically in the areas of voice with the famed vocalist instructor Constance Ohlinger of Germany, and American voice teacher Jean Taylor at the Chicago Conservatory. After his studies, Fowler began his teaching career, organizing, developing and directing a number of top-rated bands at Jackson, Smith and DeKalb County high schools that represented the State of Tennessee at the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington, D.C., Disneyland Centennial in Orlando, Fla., various state and local parades, athletic events, dedications and community events. His teaching experience extended from all grade levels through senior college. In later years he helped with the organization and judging of the annual Smithville Jamboree each year.

Fowler served in the Navy during World War II as an aircraft turret gunner, and during one three-day stretch, his crew flew 55 missions while participating in the battles of Luzon, Leyte Gulf, Mindoro, Mindanaro and Manila Bay, until their badly shot up aircraft had to leave the battle zone managing to fly back to and make a crash landing on their home aircraft carrier. The original citation recommending the Air Medal was lost during the fierce battles and records were reconstructed later and Gunner Stanton was awarded the Air Medal in June of 2002, some 57 years after the fact. In addition to the Air Medal he was awarded the American Campaign Medal, Asiatic Pacific Campaign Medal with three stars, Navy Occupational Medal, China Service Medal, Philippine Liberation Medal, Philippine Presidential Unit Citation and the World War II Victory Medal.

In 1970 Mr. Stanton was united in marriage to Oleta Robbins from Byrdstown and they made their home in Smithvillle, where they were both members of First United Methodist Church of Smithville. His family includes his wife, Oleta Stanton of Smithville; a sister, Evelyn Harding of Lebanon; two daughters and sons-in-law, Melody and Dr. Tim Foster of Old Hickory and Sonata and Randy Rayburn of Nashville; a stepdaughter and son-in-law, Donna Jane and Pat Clements of Nashville; a stepson and daughter-in-law, Harold Edward and Vicki Copeland of Cookeville; two granddaughters, Lauren and Katie Foster; and three grandsons, Duke Rayburn and Ethan and Braden Copeland. In addition to his parents, he was preceded in death by a son, Tommy Stanton. Memorial donations may be made to the music department of the schools where he taught: Jackson County High School, Smith County High School or DeKalb County High School. Bro. Terry Little and Dr. John Purdue will officiate the services. Bass Funeral Homes, Carthage Chapel, is in charge of arrangements.

Dr. GENE

2010-01-29T16:30:00.005-06:00

I was sitting around enjoying my upgraded audio/video system last night listening to our Macon County High School Band CD from 1967 and the TPI, Raphael Mendez concert at the Ryman in 1960. It crossed my mind that maybe the professors from TTU who stuck with us in those trying days may still be alive and kicking. I was listening to "Tulsa; Portrait in Oils" when I found the phone number for Dr. Eugene Steinquest. So I did what I always do, I called him.

It was a real treat to get reacquainted with Dr. Gene. He was our woodwind and string instructor back in the early '60's. He was only eleven years older than we were. I thought he must have been older. Dr. Gene was the music theory and the woodwinds instructor. The flute and piccolo were is fortes, and he played bassoon as needed. Dr. Gene was a master of the brief pun, and was genuinely supportive of our success. I was honored to attend a "Gator Bowl" college basketball game with him as we were in Florida on our way to the Tangerine Bowl.

It was tough at TTU (then TPI) after Jay Julian left to take the band job at UT Knoxville. They became the "Pride of the Southland Band" though they were so mis-named prior to Dr. Jay’s move.

A large contingent of ‘students’ followed Dr. Jay. These guys had been professional musicians in the US Air Force. They had come to TPI (later TTU) on the GI Bill that paid for their college instruction. We who stayed were faced with providing student leadership and fulfilling our commitment to 'TECH.'

I was not a serious student during my early years at TPI. But I finally started to wise-up during my late Sophomore, and Junior year. I started opening the textbooks, and I was helped greatly by studying with my two best friends, Bill Moore and Carl Ballinger: classmates from Smith Co High School. Dr. Steinquest and James Marks, out brass instructor, were plunged into the positions of carrying the program forward with a "B-Team" of students.

I decided that I had a lot to learn and a short time to get it done. So when the most rigorous opportunities arose my hand always went up. I filled in for the band director at the local high school when he went out of town. Then in my senior year Dr. Gene occasionally asked me to take his Music Appreciation classes when he went to conferences. That was the most fun: no preparation was involved. I just went in and asked what questions they might have. The whole hour was filled with answering very easy questions.

Dr. Gene was supportive beyond the call, and he proved it by bringing his wife to our spring concert in Macon County TN after graduating as a full fledged band director. The concert was my first and was unremarkable except for the first year students (5th grade band). Dr. Gene's comment was that he saw some promise there.

We lost contact with our professors and fellow students over the years. Most of the guys who entered TPI (now TTU) either went to UT-Knoxville, or dropped out of music all together. A few fellow grads became band directors: Carl Ballinger went to White Co., Bill Moore went to Wilson Co. and then to Franklin High School and finally back to good old Smith County High School. Jay Flint and Lynn Morelock went into the Metro-Nashville system and each taught 30 years there.

Our entry into the milieu of higher education in the late '50's was on the cusp of an era of drastic change. Thereafter followed integration of the public schools, the first Earth Day, the opposition to the conflict in Viet Nam, the trial of the Chicago Seven and The Age Aquarius. I was minimally involved with the ' anti-war movement' (demonstrations) and enjoyed the Age of Aquarius while at Indiana University.

I am constantly amazed that the guys who most influenced my life were in the process of arranging their own stabs a maturity. I am much better off having been in their/our world.

*************************************************

For the blog reader: TPI (Tennessee Polytechnic Institute) was the name for the college in Cookeville, TN. It started out as Dixie College in the early 1900’s, and the name became Tennessee Technological University (TTU) after my undergraduate days there. ‘Tech’ has always been a bright spot in the Tennessee Higher Education System: never the biggest but always one of the best in the state.

TTU is currently the premier engineering and music performance/education program in the South.

Uncle Miltie

2010-01-19T22:07:00.004-06:00

Mr. Milton Dickerson passed this week. He was a teacher at Smith County TN High School in Carthage during my teen years there. He was an all round great guy and coach, but not so much a great teacher, but that was the way of life back in the day.

Milton, better known as Monk Dickerson did some auctioneering and real estate marketing, a little coaching and occasionally ‘called’ a basketball game. He was ‘available.’ When someone needed to be away, Monk was available to fill in until the person in charge returned.

As if ‘Monk’ wasn’t a bad enough nickname we students in the Chemistry course at SCHS in 1957 renamed Monk, ‘Uncle Miltie’. Those were days when the Milton Bearle Show was the most popular show on TV, so it was just going to happen that Monk became Uncle Miltie.

We were going through the motions and following the adopted text through the Chem. course. It wasn’t particularly difficult and I did my ‘best’ to participate on a serious level for a change. But I was lazy and easily distracted: not to mention having a history of being the class clown for the past ten grades.

I was having a terrible time grasping the concept of chemical equations. It was not clicking in my head. Johnny Capalenor spent a full fifty minute period in study hall repeating, “it has to be the same on each side.” Over and over and over, Johnny just said the same phrase until all at once I got the concept. The hard parts were the atomic weights and valences.

We were drilling for a big test on the chemical symbols, atomic numbers and valences. I spent several nights and study halls memorizing all the chemical symbols and other stuff on the periodic table. I had it down pat on the day of the test.

Uncle Miltie gave the test by calling out the element and we were to put the symbol, the atomic number and the valence in rows going down the page. I was clicking along without a bit of uncertainty. When the test was finished we were to pass our papers to the person behind us. Uncle Miltie proceeded to call out all the correct information so that our classmates could check our data.

It was going well and I was feeling really good. Finally the girl who checked my work was to report my score. Her answer was …………………… “all correct” ……………………”except” ………………………………………”all the chemical symbols are left out!” I got a ZERO on the test! I had worked hard, and I was devastated!

I was given a chance to bring up my grade by making a graphic of the “tree of coal.” The tree of coal is a big tree with little labels of all the stuff that is made from coal. There were hundreds, and since I am compulsive about this type of project I made a tree of coal that was suitable for framing!

I was employed at Fred Cleveland’s Pharmacy after school and on weekends when Uncle Miltie’s birthday came along. Fred Cleveland’s Pharmacy had been existence since the beginning of the Twentieth Century. We had stuff in our cabinets and display cases that most folks never heard of.

Did you know that Paregoric that is used to stop vomiting is opium and camphor? Citrate of magnesium was sold as Pluto Water. Condoms were kept out of sight in a very special drawer, and there were hair products in quart sized cans.

Glossy Pomade was a heavily scented concoction designed to straighten curly hair. The primary consumers were assumed to be our citizens of color, though I never sold any Glossy Pomade to anyone.

Uncle Miltie was well along in the process of losing his hair. We often gave him a hard time about it. On his birthday there appeared a nicely wrapped present on his desk as a token of our regard and best wishes for many more to come.

Uncle Miltie opened the package and was having fun showing Glossy Pomade all around the class when he called Runt Poynter to the front of the class. He turned Runt toward the class and proceeded to massage a whole hand full of Glossy Pomade into his hair. What a mess; what a site and what fun. Runt knew who brought the pomade, but he kept quiet and endured the event.

I’ll bet Uncle Miltie used that can of Glossy Pomade for many years afterward: probably on hinges and axles.

Christmas in the Country

2010-01-10T19:03:00.002-06:00

Did you ever stand close to the fireplace to warm your blanket then wrap it around your shoulders and run, run, run upstairs to an ice-cold bed? That's what we used to do at my grandparents house at our Christmas eve family gathering.

You'd snuggle down with a cousin and grand ma would come and tuck us in the feather tick. Then we would wait for sleep to overtake us. We'd lie there and hear the "house sounds": the wind blowing that loose roof shilgle, Grandpapa's yawn, "Ho, Ho, Hummy" resounding throughout the old house and in a very few minutes the sound of a steady stream hitting the bottom of Grandpapa's "slop jar."

My grand father and grand mother had eight children: four boys and four girls. When they all gathered with their offspring at the home place next door to the school in Gordonsville it was an experience to be remembered and treasured.

The ceilings were about ten feet high, but invariably the tree, always a cedar, was always too tall. There was never an angel adorning the top so we thought it only natural that the tree bent over at the top.

On Christmas eve everyone gathered around the piano and my Grandpapa snatched up his fiddle: carols and hymns were robustly sung. Aunt Daisy always sang the soprano along with aunt Linnie and my mother Anna and aunt Nellie took the alto along with Grandma. The men just sort of sang the melody or chimed in a base line.

I never saw my Grandpapa play the fiddle except at Christmas, but when he played I sat so near his feet, he was trapped. I was charmed! I still have his fiddle and played it in college: I got an A!

After all the carols were sung all the kids would warm their blankets by the fireplace and race upstairs to snuggle within our feather beds. The sheets were always cold but the blanket made us warm until our warm bodies began to warm the feather tick.

The tick rose high above our faces and bodies, and with the weight of three or four quilts on top we were "snug as a bug in a rug."

Then on Christmas morning we were coaxed downstairs from our warm beds to see what the "Jolly Old Gentleman" had brought. The socks (we didn't know anything about stockings) were filled with an assortment; usually an orange, an apple and two or three small toys. Of course, there was always something special under the tree.

I thank God for those rare times and for the wonderful family I was lucky enough to be nurtured within.

There is something about getting older, your yawns get louder and more expressive. I've noticed lately that mine are much like my Grandpapa's. When a yawn comes upon me I find that Ho, Ho, Hummy feels just right. After all, I’m a grandpa now!

Lewis Butler's Stuff: GETTING EVEN

2010-01-08T19:04:00.000-06:00

Lewis Butler's Stuff: GETTING EVEN

GETTING EVEN

2010-01-08T18:59:00.002-06:00

You know your children will interact with their classmates, their neighbors of nearby age groups and with adults in their world. Some of those interactions will be positive and others….well some will be less than hoped-for.

Most of my personal interactions were positive, thanks to the good will of folks who were acquainted with my family: father, mother and older brother. I was one who tended to believe and to act, as if everyone had my best interests at heart. But as the Indian chief in the movie, “Little Big Man” said, as he went out of his tepee and stretched out a hide on which he would lie down to pass on to the happy hunting ground. Just as he got settled the heavens started pelting him with big wet drops of rain. He arose after a few drops and proclaimed, “Sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn’t.”

I barely remember an interaction with a family who were related with the Chambers who lived in the old Cullum Mansion at the apex of Fisher Hill. That family consisted of a father, mother and little girl who was my age peer: five years old. I was visiting with the father and daughter on the back porch of the mansion and evidently holding my own with in repartee with the father. He gave me a coke – the old eight ounce bottle -- and continued engaging me in conversation. Every few minutes he would want me to shake his hand. I did so and continued to visit and enjoy my Coca Cola that I did not have to share with anyone.

I was always pretty naïve and have never gotten over it. So I was always “up” for whatever idea an acquaintance had. Two neighborhood peers thought up a really fun thing to do. They were out front, on Fisher Ave. as I came around the house. They called and mostly beckoned me over to our neighbor’s front yard. I sallied forth and when I approached they each spat a mouthful of saliva they had been saving up right in my face. I was at a total loss as to what to do, so I ran home and tearfully told my mother what had just happened.

Mom patiently cleaned me up and was internally fuming at my circumstance. When I was calmed and cleaned sufficiently, mom handed me a sturdy wooden rod much like those used by teachers to point to items on the ever-present maps on the rolls in the front of all elementary classrooms: she was a substitute teacher when needed. She suggested that I conceal the rod and approach the ruffians with purpose and stealth and whale the crap out them with as much verve as I could muster: in other words, of course.

I approached them and evidently they thought I was going to be cowed and whiny when I laid into them with my rod of vengeance and sent them home wailing and crying with good reason. I never had another run in with them from that day on. They, no doubt, have forgotten about our altercation, but I never forget anything!

A Boy's First Beer

2009-12-10T22:15:00.008-06:00

I grew up in a home that was about learning nursery rhymes and being a young gentleman, going to church to Sunday-School, hunting and fishing with my dad, and most of all …tolerance. Carthage, Tennessee in the middle of the 20^th century was a place that valued these attributes, in the Butler house especially. My mother, Anna Dalton and my dad, Huber Butler handled the curricula.

My older brother, Buddy was the model child evidently! He brushed twice every day and excelled in football, baseball and basketball. He was always the president of his class and was revered by all who knew him. He was always good to me.

I did not follow in his footprints! Evidently my lot in life was to test the waters, so to speak: all waters. But this anecdote is about a boy’s first taste of beer, so let’s get down to it.

Enameled metal signs were all over the place extolling the brews available and all were evidently delicious. There were Falstaff, Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Country Club Malt Liquor, Budweiser (The King of Beers) and the local favorites, Champagne Velvet and Sterling.

I was about twelve years old and endeavoring to become a model Boy Scout of America. Part of our duty involved the pursuit of various merit badges by performing activities that added something valuable to our knowledge base. We did some knot tying and some first aid, but mostly we preparations for an ‘Indian dance’ to be performed at the statewide Boy Scout Expo at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds. All the scouts from Middle Tennessee were engaged in making rattles and various Indian costumes for the program. There must have been 400 of us who learned our routine and performed for about two minutes on the dirt floor of the Women’s Building at the fairgrounds. We all received merit badges in Indian Lore for our efforts.

Scouts were all about camping. Camping involved setting up our camp by erecting our army surplus pup-tents and digging a trench so that rain water would flow around the tent and not through it. We had to dig a latrine that I don't remember anyone ever using more than once, and we learned about Team Sports such as 'Capture the Flag.'

We were encamped across the Cumberland River in the woods near Piper’s Ford on the Caney Fork River. It was early summer and we were enjoying our adventure by playing capture the flag, learning knot-tying and attempting to cook our meals. On the second night we learned that one scout had purloined a can of Country Club Malt Liquor from his dad’s stash. We were instructed to silently gather after dark to sample the mysterious, forbidden elixir.

The days were pleasant and the nights rang with the mating calls of tree frogs. It was on such a night when we sneaked out of camp to taste our first beer.

We navigated the lower terrain around our camp without lights, but when we arrived in the Hackberry brambles and other assorted vines and briars we were forced to use our flashlights. We finally reached a clearing where we were to have our taste.

The single eight ounce can of Country Club had been smuggled into camp in a backpack and had been well agitated on the trek up the hill. We all trained our lights on the mysterious can and someone asked, ”Who has an opener?” Well, none of us did but everyone had a scout knife with a hole-punch: no sweat!

In those days beer cans were steel plated with tin. A guy who could crush a can with his hands was someone to avoid messing with! There were no pull tabs and the cans were very sturdy. There were several attempts to puncture the can but it just danced around at each attempt. Finally one mighty blow punctured the exact center of the can, and finally, we got our taste of beer.

The little can erupted in a fountain that showered all us stalwart scouts. The only taste I got was the droplet that ran off the end of my nose. We reeked of Country Club as we returned to camp, but our scout masters didn’t notice since they had been off somewhere sampling similar beverages.

We were breaking camp the following day, loading onto a big truck to go back four miles to Carthage. I missed the truck! I don’t know why, I just didn’t get on it. There was nothing left to do but to walk home. I walked across a hill going due north out of camp rather than backtracking to stay on the gravel road. Then I found the railroad tracks through South Carthage. They led to the highway that led to the Carthage Bridge. No one offered me a ride, probably because I wore a scout uniform.

It was a trek of about three and a half miles, and around noon on that Sunday I was mighty glad to get home. Anna and Huber were somewhat amazed at my stupidity and at my hard headed determination to take such a hike. As it turned out this adventure was just the first in a long line of doing things the hard way: .........such is life – mine anyway.

KUDZU

2009-12-06T17:09:00.001-06:00

I submitted a letter to the Editor that did not get published. It was just after we had invaded Iraq, and I thought it was funny and hoped that it made a point or two. Here it is.

February 4, 1991

Editor

Nashville Tennessean

1100 Broadway

Nashville, TN

I've come up with the ultimate in biological weapons for use against the outlaw nation of Iraq! These weapons will so frustrate the Iraqis so that their plans to perpetuate mayhem will be thwarted.

Let me get right to the point: We should use saturation bombing of the Tigris and Euphrates river valleys using Kudzu bombs: Little pieces of Kudzu vine packed around half-gallon jugs of home brew. The home brew would get warm as it falls, explode and spread Kudzu sprouts all along the river banks. Then we use our large tanker-sprayers, once used for Agent Orange, to spray Miracle Grow on the sprouting Kudzu. Can you just see all that Kudzu spreading out from the river banks to completely engulf the countryside, the roadways, the oil wells, even penetrating Saddam's Hunker-Bunker?

Then we could drop Water Hyacinth in the headwaters of the rivers. Pretty soon it would completely cover the rivers' surface. Just to make sure that water traffic would be completely stifled we could drop Milfoil along with the Water Hyacinth! The Milfoil would attach itself to the bottom and shoreline and would hold the Hyacinth in place. Pretty soon, what with all these water plants and Kudzu taking over the land and water, nothing would move anywhere; especially if we keep on spraying Miracle Grow!

Finally, —I realize that this may be going entirely too far— we could trap about ten million Starlings and release them in the Kudzu! There are no thickets for their roosts, so they'd have to inhabit the Kudzu. What a sight! What a racket! What a mess!

Well, on second thought perhaps we'd better stick to bombs and shells and stuff. Iraq would just surrender one day, and the United Nations would have us over there trying to clean up the mess. We all know that is impossible.

Lewis Butler

Note to blog readers: The plants and animals mentioned are all exotic imports here in the USA. They are ongoing problems.

SOUTH OF THE BORDER, DOWN MEXICO WAY

2009-11-26T11:09:00.009-06:00

In 1954 the traveling Butlers struck out for the west. The Butler’s never needed an excuse to travel, but Buddy and wife, Pat were stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. That served as reason-enough and the summer of ‘54 seemed a good time to go west and south of the border into Mexico.

These were the days before interstate highways, and the main road west was US Highway 70 which ran past Carthage along the river bluff. It was just a matter of crossing the Cumberland River and we were on our way.

We arose at four in the morning, gulped down a cup of instant coffee and commenced our southwest adventure. We stopped briefly for bathroom breaks, but meals that mom had prepared, fried chicken, biscuits, apples, and bananas were consumed on the go.

I was fourteen and did not yet have the overpowering urge to drive, and dad would not ride while Anna drove. So, we “made time” with dad at the wheel.

Highway 70 was a two lane paved road that sometimes had a shoulder but more often did not. Being a main thoroughfare there was always oncoming traffic. Granted, it wasn’t traffic like we see today with huge rigs speeding coast to coast, but the driver had to be ever alert. We drove and drove for fourteen hours in our fifty-one Chevy until darkness fell and dad’s fingers refused to bend. We found ourselves in Texarkana, Texas looking for a tourist court.

In 1954, motels had not been invented. Howard Johnson and Holiday Inns came on the scene somewhat later, but back then travelers stayed in tourist courts that usually consisted of an office with several small bungalows. They usually had a bed or maybe two, or a couch that made a bed, a bathroom, usually with a door but sometimes just a curtain hanging from a rod. Some would advertise the type of heat, either steam or electric, and the cleanliness of the rooms. Television, in-room phones, and air conditioning were nonexistent.

I loved going into the restaurant for breakfast and getting anything I wanted to eat. After all, “We were on vacation!” This was my first experience with the small, tourist court soap, the extremely thin wash cloths and towels, and ice machines. That little bar of “French Milled” soap that refuses to lather is still available on the road.

Wherever we stayed, dad would send me to get a bucket of ice. Nothing tasted better after a long day on the highway than several glasses of ice water. It was all new and wonderful to me.

About noon on the second day of our journey we “made” San Antonio. When the ‘Butler’s’ traveled we would “hit” St. Louis on one trip and we “made” Jacksonville on another. We visited for a day or two and saw the army base and ate at a Chinese restaurant. On the third day we all set out for Old Mexico crossing the border at Laredo.

The Mexican customs agents were polite and asked a few questions. An agent placed a decal on our window indicating that we were “Touristas” and bid us Adios. We crossed the Rio Grande and were immediately aware that the whole world had changed!

We had entered a world of desert indians and old school busses careening down the narrow road with people and baggage hanging all over. Where we would have erected wire fences, the Mexican farmers’ fences were one or two strands of barbed wire strung on scraggly tree limbs stuck in the dry earth. We stopped at a house that had crafts for sale and were immediately surrounded by little dark skinned children. They knew one English word, almost: They asked for “nikk-ees” meaning nickels. We distributed coins all around and went on south.

Monterey is one hundred-fifty miles into Mexico. We were about halfway there when we spotted a young man in the right lane in front of us driving a cart full of fire wood pulled by a Burro. We pulled alongside to make his picture. Evidently he did not want it made and attempted to use his donkey whip on my face. I took his picture anyway in the midst of his angry swing. He missed.

We arrived in Monterey and were immediately lost with no idea where to go for lodging and site seeing. While stopped at one of the few traffic lights in Monterey, a Mexican approached my dad and asked if we needed a guide. He had a cap to distinguish himself from other persons on the street, and he had on a clean white shirt. Well, we did need a guide: Dad shifted over, and we were in the hands of a local guide, Carlos.

We had been taking it easy looking at the buildings and carefully crossing intersections. Carlos took off like a dragster and careened around Monterey’s streets. When approaching an intersection he just blew the horn and sped on through. The theory was that “he who blew first had the right of way!”

We visited shops that had impressive silver jewelry and beautifully tooled leather bags, saddles and belts. We visited a Catholic Cathedral and a large jewelry production factory. Our guide Carlos with the Butlers in tow were welcomed inside. While there I met a young Mexican about 18 years old who was learning the silver engraving trade. I had a signet ring with the initial missing. This young Mexican craftsman-in-training took my plain ring and expertly carved my initials on the flat surface. I gave him a fifty-cent coin, and he could not stop thanking me for my generosity. That fifty cents, American, was many Pesos in Mexico.

Our guide took us to the best hotel in all of Monterey. It was very nice with a beautiful pool. However, I was advised not to go swimming there. We were totally unaware of the problems with the Mexican water: Montezuma’s Revenge.

That night we went to the penthouse of the hotel to a high class supper club with a small stage band and a lady singer: professional musicians who worked hard for a very small audience. My older brother, Bud asked the band to play The Anniversary Waltz because mom and dad’s wedding anniversary was eminent. That was the first and last time I ever saw my parents dance.

Everyone got the Mexican Sampler except me: I ordered the hamburger steak with fried potatoes. The other Butlers hungrily eyed my supper because the hot peppers, cumin, and coriander on the sampler were just too much spice. Growing up in Middle Tennessee for the first half of the century they had never come close to any of those tastes, and they did not like them! We did not starve in Mexico, but we ordered carefully.

There were vendors on every corner selling slices of water melon and other tropical melons and fruits. Some sold flavored ice drinks. There were open air markets with stalls selling things that we had no idea what they might have been. None of this was appetizing to us, and we were not tempted to eat anything from the street vendors.

I wore white buck shoes on this trip, and there were boys my age who were constantly after us to let them shine our shoes. The only colors they had were brown and black, so there was no way I was going to get a shoe shine. Dad and Bud dutifully got their shoes shined: a ‘Photo opportunity.’ Just as we were getting loaded into the car for our return trip a particularly persistent youngster raced up to me waving a jar of white shoe polish. I got my shoes “shined” after all, and he got a fifty cent piece and we both went away happy.

The car was loaded and we were saying goodbyes to the hotel staff who had befriended us and watched over us. Even Carlos came by to wish us a happy trip home. He seemed pleased with his twenty dollar reward for services rendered.

Bud got in to drive with Pat in the middle and I took shotgun. Dad got in back and we pulled out. We had to go down the street to make a “U” turn and pass back by the motel on our way north. It seemed longer, but about forty-five seconds after we passed the hotel dad asked, “Aren’t you going to pick up your mother?” She was standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel with a concerned look on her face when we came back for her. She was too glad to be reunited with the other Butlers to be angry. We laughed about that for years. I have often thought how I would have felt in that situation.

We altered our return somewhat and drove up the Gulf Coast to Corpus Christi. We played in the surf on a barrier island one late afternoon until ink-black, jelly fish showed up in the rolling surf. A local resident surf fisherman told us that they were dangerous and that the poison in the tentacles would make one very sick and sore. We whacked a few helpless jelly fish that were stranded on the shore out of curiosity: an unrewarding endeavor.

I have been fortunate to have traveled with my parents and during my college summers. Since becoming more or less gainfully employed I have had the opportunity to travel over most of the country and in every nook and cranny of Tennessee. There are places here where the tourist courts in remote areas are refurbished and the signs along the roadside proclaim such amenities as “D D PHONES” which means ‘direct - dial’ phones. I always look for a place with “D D PHONES!”

SLEDDING

2009-11-21T12:49:00.004-06:00

The winters of the 1940's were cold and snowy in Middle Tennessee. The Cumberland River froze the year I was born, and a Model-T Ford was driven across under the Carthage bridge. The great freeze visited Tennessee in 1951. It was a massive snow and ice storm. I was ten years old and relishing the opportunities to slide, pellmell down Fisher Hill.

At it's very top Fisher Hill involves a sloping left curve then a hard right turn to the hill-proper which is a descent of about 300 feet in about one eighth of a mile. It makes for spectacular sledding. Since we lived near the crest of Fisher Hill, we were involved in all the winter happenings.

There would be any combination of configurations going full tilt around the curves and down the incline: single sledders, two or three on a sled either sitting toboggan fashion or piled on top of each other. Sometimes a linear linkup was attempted where the toes of one sledder would be hooked into the front of the following sled. This arrangement could grow to seven or eight.

Ramps were constructed for jumping, and old tires were burned near our home on Cullum Street to warm the sledders. This was especially important at night when the temperatures plummeted.

There were the usual mishaps when the sharp curve would be missed and the hapless sledder would clobber a maple tree. He'd soon learn to roll off the sled and dig into the snow with his toes when a crash became eminent. A sled-train would be zig-zagging down the hill when a jack-knife would cause all the sleds to pile up.

Once an older fellow sledder was flying down the slope just about to make the hard right onto the steep hill when he encountered a pickup from Waggoner's Grocery coming up the hill. The sledder performed the correct exit-the-sled maneuver and proceeded to body-slide under the truck with head ducked and tucked!! Trucks and cars were considerably higher off the roadway then than they are these days.

On one particularly cold morning Sonny Apple and I were at the bottom of the hill when Sonny decided that he did not want to pull his own sled up the hill and was imploring me to pull it for him along with mine. I was responding negatively to his incessant whining and was just turning around when Baxter Key Jr. plowed into my shins going full tilt. He hadn't yelled a warning and neither had anyone else.

I was knocked into the air and landed directly on top of my head. I remember my brother, Buddy, picking me up, but then I was out-cold for about three hours. The doctor had been summoned, and I was diagnosed as having a concussion. Every year for about twenty thereafter, a large, sore, pump-knot would arise on my shins to remind me of the Baxter Key encounter.

It was a great life to live at the top of Fisher Hill.

Radio Flyer

2009-11-21T12:09:00.001-06:00

As a youngster in the 1940’s I was fortunate to live near the top of Fisher Hill in Carthage, TN. There were sledding parties on snowy winter days and nights and other ways to descend the three hundred foot avenue during the warmer months.

It was exciting to descend the hill in a wagon. Usually I and Buddy Stilz were involved since he had the wagon. We would start at the bottom pulling the wagon up the hill as far as we dared. After the climb we would be seated one after the other with each holding the wagon back with a foot firmly planted on the pavement. Then the count began: “One!, Two!, Three!” The feet would be lifted and we were off down the street.

Successive trips were made at ever higher points. The thrill and our fears were tempered by experience. Finally the decision was made to go from the top! That meant that we would climb the hill past the intersection of Fisher Ave. & Cullum St. to the top corner of Walter Moss’s yard. So we were about four hundred feet up the street around two descending curves.

A successful trip required an immediate left turn followed by a sharp right to the main down-hill. By the time we reached the down-hill section our speed was as fast a Radio Flyer with eight inch wheels would go: about 25 mph. From then on it was just a matter of keeping the front wheels straight and praying that a car wasn’t coming up the hill! Braking and swerving were not options.

Buddy and I were making the maximum run, and no cars were ascending Fisher Avenue. We had a clean shot and the ‘Flyer’ was smoking! By the time we passed Papa Gore’s (Senator Albert Gore’s parents) house half-way down we were experiencing several emotions, the primary one being abject terror!

We were almost to the bottom of Fisher Ave. just past Frank Powell’s and in front of Ma. Chisom’s house when Buddy loosened his grip on the tongue, and the front wheels skewed to the side. The wagon flipped forward and we exited the Flyer. We sailed through the air like two rag dolls and sprawled on the pavement dazed and shaken! It was late fall and we both had on our warm coats so the bruises and scrapes were minimal. We figured that our wagon adventures had been satisfied. We were destined to satisfy our future needs for speed in other ways.

PEANUT: BIRD OF PREY

2009-11-19T19:33:00.003-06:00

There are a few experiences that are so rare in life that they are special to all who hear of them. Our experience with Peanut was one of those experiences never to be forgotten.

Mid‑Summer in the early eighties found me replacing the brick patio. The brick needed a base of eight inches of gravel and three inches of tamped sand. Twelve tons of crushed limestone had been delivered to the front drive, and I was engaged in moving it by the wheelbarrow load to the patio around back. This was probably when my lower back problems began.

On Saturday afternoon my wife, Judy and daughter, Kelly were in the front yard near the pile of gravel when they were "attacked" by a "vicious" bird! The "dangerous creature" had swooped and dived at them as they played on the gravel mound. The crazed bird dived toward their heads and then he would light on a low limb to shriek loudly right in their faces. He was a relatively small bird sitting on the limb. But when he took flight, his size increased dramatically due to his oversized wings. It turned out to be an injured, starving "Sparrow Hawk.”

The bird was squawking and was unafraid of us. I surmised that it was hungry and maybe accustomed to humans. When hamburger meat was produced, the Sparrow Hawk lit on my hands. Seeing him up close showed me that one leg was not being used because of an injury. We named him Peanut.

While Peanut fed on my hand I made high pitched whistling sounds, something like the screeching Peanut made while he was attracting our attention. I hoped that he would associate my whistling sounds with the food. Peanut flew off my hand several times, but he returned until he was finally satisfied. When Peanut was fed, he retired to a tree in the front yard still unable to put both feet down.

Early the next morning I took some hamburger to the front yard and whistled for Peanut. I tried to match his shrieks from the day before. He was out of sight but it wasn't long before I heard him answer! When I finally did see him, he was coming fast, very fast! He flew from a long way down the street and alighted immediately on my hand to feed. His flight was fluid, and graceful, and his stop was abrupt. He extended his wings and used them like a parachute to slow to landing speed. What a thrill it was to have such a wild creature approach when called.

During the following week we were checking books and articles to learn just what Peanut was and what should be done for him. It turned out that Peanut was a Kestrel, not a hawk. A Kestrel is a Falcon: The only true Falcon indigenous to the United States. Their diet is usually large insects and an occasional field mouse. Our reading indicated that Kestrels and Hummingbirds are the only birds that can truly hover. Kestrels can be trained to hunt from the fist like hawks and falcons. They can often be seen hovering over the interstate median in search of prey.

We learned that The Cumberland Science Museum would take any injured, wild creature and if possible, nurse it back to health without charge. We captured Peanut in an old sock which had the toe cut off to keep him quiet on the way to the museum. The vet determined that Peanut had been shot with two BB's in the leg joint. He had no broken bones and would be good as new about three weeks after removal of the BB's.

When he had fully recovered, we brought Peanut home for release. I whistled the next morning and fed him by hand that day. He returned to sit on a limb but without feeding on three other occasions. I saw Peanut in a tree down the street a few days later but haven't seen him since. I like to think that he has since gone on to do whatever it takes to make Kestrels happy in their lives.

We are not fond of the neighborhood boys who come into our yard attempting to kill any bird in sight. I guess all boys go through that stage of life: I did and became a pretty good shot. In fact I think that a BB gun is a good tool in learning to shoot.

I am reminded of the few times I killed a bird with a BB gun. I realized quickly that holding a dead bird in my hand did not provide any degree of satisfaction. In the space of a split second, a living, vital entity thriving and striving to procreate becomes a lifeless bit of trash, fit only to be cast aside. I regret that sometimes beautiful creatures have to be sacrificed in order for boys and men to learn lessons.

TEEN FISTICUFFS

2009-11-16T21:28:00.005-06:00

Fights

During the 1950's the motion picture industry recognized the American adolescent as a source of new revenue. Up to that time the movies were oriented toward adults; musicals, mysteries or comedies that appealed to various audiences. The predominant Hollywood, adolescent fare became drag race and "Rumble Movies" where one gang would clash with another. Someone would get "killed" or hurt badly, and the whole situation would get resolved usually within an hour and a half. Needless to say we were influenced by these movies. "Rebel Without a Cause" was the primary influence of the era.

We Carthage "men" carried the pride of the community along with our exploits, or so we thought. "Carthage" rumbled occasionally with Lebanon, Gainesboro and most of all Gordonsville.

On a balmy Saturday night in 1956, Dooty Ballinger and Slop Bucket Turner and I were crossing Main Street in front of the Smith County Courthouse when a carload of Gordonsville rowdy's passed in front of us and uttered the phrase, "Son of a Bitch."

Whether or not it was meant for us was not the question: This behavior was not permitted on the "North side of the river"! The perpetrators were confronted at the entrance of the movie theater and admonished concerning their careless language. I did the talking with back-up, that was questionable in the extreme, by Dooty and Slop Bucket.

Each group, they being surprised by our bravado and we, also being surprised by our bravado went our own way. We three ‘Knights from north of the river’ were swaggering around, otherwise known as cruising, feeling our oats were individuality but silently wondering just what would happen next.

The Gordonsville group was chafing at being so blatantly confronted, and at about 11:00 PM at the Rock City Truck Stop, ten miles west of Carthage we were confronted by the Gordonsville contingent which had grown considerably in number and had a Golden Gloves Champion in-the-fore! (Golden Gloves was an organization which promoted amateur boxing. None of us knew the new guy and only found out later of his boxing expertise.)

Since I had made the original overtures I was encouraged to watch my "ass" by the front-man of the Gordonsville contingent of thugs. To which I asserted that whosoever was thusly inclined could do a much better job while kissing it! Other conversations ensued, but I do not recall the content. We Knights of Carthage retired to a table near the pin-ball machine and nursed our big orange sodas and greasy burgers while covertly watching the Gordonsville thugs.

Upon our attempted exit from said truck stop we were challenged by the Gordonsville contingent with the Golden Glove Champion in the van! Having had a few seconds to reflect upon the potential, forthcoming circumstances I decided that it was time for someone else to take the lead, and Dooty Ballinger was evidently willing to do so. Dooty was bigger than I and one year older, so I figured he knew what he was doing.

The Golden Gloves Champion stepped out in front of the Gordonsville group. Dooty attempted to match his practiced fighting stance and prepared to deliver a telling blow. The Golden Gloves Champion was too fast for Dooty and landed two quick left jabs to Dooty's nose. Dooty took two more fists to the kisser and went down. I and my compatriots advised Dooty to retain the prone position, partially beneath the rear bumper of a Buick. Dooty did so, and just then a waitress came forth with the news that "The cops have been called and they are on their way"! Carthage was about ten miles away, and we could have settled some more hash, however all present made hasty retreats without anyone else becoming involved with fisticuffs.

The Rock City Truck Stop was shrouded in a cloud of dust and flying gravel. We Champions were glad to be out of those circumstances without any significant loss of blood. Our loss of dignity was quickly forgotten, and Dooty’s nose was none the worse for wear.

On a Wednesday evening not far thereafter the Carthage contingent decided to pay a not-so-social visit to the Gordonsville contingent. The Carthage contingent was made up of the usual stalwarts, but on this occasion there were two additional persons of the very large persuasion by the last name of Bowman. It just so happened that these boys relished animated physical contact. These gentlemen were included in order to handle the Golden Glove Champion encountered previously should he be in attendance. And in any case they were included in order to teach the Gordonsville thugs a lesson.

There were a few “sucker-punches” thrown: the Golden Gloves Ringer was not there. No one was eager to engage the Bowman Boys in any extended rhetoric or physical contests.

The Gordonsville bunch was "out-thugged" this time, and since real blood was spilled the fights between towns ceased; Somewhat reminiscent of the Hollywood version. Hindsight also reveals that most of both gangs discovered "girls" soon thereafter and enthusiasm for running in gangs and engaging in fisticuffs waned! Those who maintained a propensity for physical violence usually spent at least thirty days in a restricted environment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One final altercation may be worth mentioning here though the writer was not involved. Gainesboro, Tennessee is in the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains of Middle Tennessee. The country is rough and so are lots of the people. There are many contingencies in being accepted by the local populace of this and other very rural areas. Outsiders are not accepted, and Carthage boys were welcome least of all.

Sonny Apple and Tyrone Pointer continued to attempt to visit girls in Gainesboro, and Sonny's car was well known in the area. One late summer evening Sonny and Tyrone ("Runt") said goodnight to their dates and began their drive back to Carthage. A Gainesboro vehicle passed them and stayed in front and in sight for the next few miles. Sonny and Runt were descending a long hill to a narrow bridge when they spotted the Gainesboro vehicle athwart the bridge.

Two Gainesboro thugs were getting out when Sonny and Runt pulled up. They quickly saw what was afoot. The Gainesboro ruffians wanted to make sure that there was no misunderstandings and admonished Sonny and Tyrone not to come to Gainesboro again. For various reasons Sonny and Runt were not amenable to the suggestion.

Sonny had on a new shirt of which his mother was particularly proud, and he proceeded to remove it before the fisticuffs commenced. However, the Gainesboro toughs seized upon his momentary entrapment and proceeded to box his and Tyrone's ears and to reduce his shirt to tatters. When sufficient blows were struck the way was once again clear and Sonny and Tyrone were allowed to exit. Sonny never told his mother what had happened to his shirt. In fact she was forced to request the information from Sonny's former Gainesboro, girlfriend. But I don't think Mrs. Apple ever found out the truth for sure.

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You Can't Go Home!

2009-11-15T19:01:00.001-06:00

"You can't go home again," is not original as the reader well knows, but it is absolutely true; You can't go home again.

I left home at age eighteen to go to college, but I always reappeared when my clothes needed washing. My mom spent many a Saturday afternoon with the old ringer-type Maytag getting me ready to return to Tennessee Polytechnic Institute. I attempted my own laundry on occasion, but it was never the same for some reason, and the schedule of a T.P.I. music major was extremely tight.

I had a chance to finish an advanced degree and took it. I didn't go home between the time I finished the first advanced degree and the beginning of the second. However, when halfway through the Specialist in Education from Indiana University I had a couple of weeks and no place to go other than HOME!

IU had a Department of Instructional Technology in the College of Education that required three years experience in the field before conferring an Ed. S. Degree. I had the prospect of a position at The University of Tennessee in Knoxville, and I was awaiting the "word" from them. In the meantime I was stuck at home, ...in Carthage, ...with no money, ... in my parents living room, ...all alone, ...with my mother ... giving me the big-eye!

She didn't have to say a word, and didn't, but the message was loud and clear. Had she voiced it, it might have been, "Now what?"

I soon left; first to Memphis to do nothing more than to get out of Carthage; then on to Knoxville to assume my new position as the Audio Visual guy. Things worked out well after that, and I haven't had to go home again out of necessity, YET!

Actually, never going home particularly applies to going back to your old high school when they are in session and you are waiting for your first college semester to start. I think it is a ploy between your old high school and your new college to stagger the starting times just to humiliate the, soon to be, college freshman!

You're sitting around with nothing in particular to do, just waiting for the day when the college dorms open, and you see all the cars covering the hill at the old high school. You think how great it would be to go over and visit a few minutes with all those "jolly juniors" and "silly sophomores" who will, no doubt, be ecstatic to be in your presence again!

Oh, the temptation, the allure, the irresistible magnetism of it all; it's just too much, TOO MUCH! It is absolutely the smoothest seduction one can perpetuate upon one's self. The outcome is, of course, totally devastating. Those, once "old pals" have now staked out their own turf, and you are a non-entity in everyone's eye. No one has any time to speak to you, and some even show disdain at your presence. Well, I didn't stay long: I'm a fast learner!

There are some who can go back to the old high school and pull it off. They make a grand entrance, determined to make the biggest possible splash! Sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn't!

An old girlfriend of mine wanted to make a big splash going back to visit good old Smith County High. She had thought of herself as a big fish in that small pond, and she was determined to dazzle the old crowd.

She arrived driving a white Mustang convertible accompanied by two extremely large, long nosed, Russian Wolfhounds. She was "dressed to the nines" in a white sweater and a very-mini, white skirt, four-inch heels, and a short, white, fur coat; A little warm for the season but image was everything, and it is important to make a fashion statement without becoming a slave to fashion, is it not?

A stunning entrance was made to the main building. She traipsed, strutted and proceeded to overwhelm everyone within visual range. Wolfhounds cavorted and entangled themselves in the throng of students going to their next class. She passed from one group of "admirers" to another with ultimate panache, seemingly oblivious to the smiles and stares.

She went down to the new band room to visit her former, most intimate old friends where another grand entrance was made. Spotting a fully assembled clarinet, her own instrument in past days, she reached down to the case open on the floor to render a timely ditty. While bending over and attempting to escape from an entanglement of leashes, one of the wolfhounds "cold-nosed" her right in the tush! Evidently the crotch panel of LEGGs pantyhose offer insufficient insulation from the ice-cold nose of an inquisitive wolfhound!

The response was extreme to say the least: She let out a “WHOOP” and she would have climbed the concrete block wall had it not been newly painted with a very slick epoxy paint.

Going home? Some times the magic works and sometimes it doesn’t.

LEWIS THE ENTERTAINER

2009-11-14T17:56:00.003-06:00

My Mother, Bless Her Heart, thought I ought to be an entertainer!

She made me "tap-dance" in the living room even though I knew absolutely nothing about tap-dancing. Thank God I never had to "tap" in front of anyone. Ann Robinson took tap dancing lessons and danced at every opportunity. I would never have been caught dead "tapping!" However when I was a Junior in high school Betty Ann Kemp (Moore) asked me to the Home Economics Square Dance and we won second place because I quickly saw Jimmy West doing a "buck step" and it was very much like tap dancing.

When I was twelve mother insisted that I enter the talent show at school. I had been in the band for two years and had a harmonica; evidently that was sufficient criteria! I played "O'Suzanna" on the harmonica and "Taps" on a rubber hose that was used to drain water from our Maytag. I didn't win the five silver dollars for first place in the ten to twelve category, but I did get a silver dollar for participating. You know it's strange that you never hear any, really good Maytag drain-hose played any more. I guess I was ahead of my time.

With that auspicious beginning I was launched into the world of musical entertainment. I played in the Smith County High School Band, "The Pride of the Upper Cumberland", from grade seven through high school.

Band trips: Ah yes those forays into never never land! I viewed these trips to remote locales such as Lebanon, Lafayette, Cookeville, Livingston, Sparta and Watertown as opportunities to explore the "environment," i.e. GIRLS!

The band bus was a place for singing and cheering and getting "up for the game.” Where in the world did the song, "Salty Dog" come from? Another band bus favorite was "Do Lord." The Majorettes knew all those songs and always led the singing.

On the way home the band buss was a place for demonstrating one's smooching technique! Sophomore girls would kiss the freshmen boys to find out what it felt like since they had never been kissed by anyone. I never really learned how to kiss very well on the band bus. Come to think of it I didn't learn to sing or do anything very well on the band bus!

Da Blues

2009-11-11T18:56:00.001-06:00

Here are the fundamental rules for The Blues.

1. Most Blues begin with: "Woke up this mornin'..."

2. "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."

3. The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes - sort of:

"Got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher and she weigh 500 pounds."

4. The Blues is not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch ... ain't no way out.

5. Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft and state-sponsored
motor pools ain't even in the runnin'. Walkin' plays a major part in the Blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die.

6. Teenagers can't sing the Blues. They ain't fixin' to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.

7. Blues can take place in big cities like New York , but not in Hawaii or anywhere in Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle is probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Memphis, and N'awlins are still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the Blues
in anyplace that don't get rain.

8. Breaking your leg because you were skiing is not the Blues. Breaking your leg because an alligator be chomping on it is.

9. You can't have the Blues in an office or a shopping mall. The lighting is all wrong. Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.

10. Good places for the Blues:
a. highway
b. jailhouse
c. empty bed
d. bottom of a whiskey glass

11. Bad places for the Blues:
a. Starbucks

b. gallery openings

c. Stanford
d. golf courses

12. No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be an old person, and you slept in it.

13. Do you have the right to sing the Blues?
Yes, if:

a. you're older than dirt
b. you're blind

c. you shot a man in Memphis
d. you can't be satisfied

No, if:
a. you have all your teeth
b. you were once blind, but now can see
c. the man in Memphis, and alive
d. you have a 401K, 403b, or trust fund

14. Blues is not a matter of color. It's a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods cannot sing the Blues. Sonny Liston could have. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the Blues.

15. If you ask for water and your darlin' gives you gasoline, it's the blues. Other acceptable Blues beverages are:
a. cheap wine
b. Glenmore bourbon
c. muddy water
d. black coffee

The following are NOT Blues beverages:
a. Perrier
b. Chardonnay
c. Snapple
d. Latte or espresso

e. Single malt Scotch

16. If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shack, it's a Blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die. So are the electric chair, substance abuse, and dying lonely on a broken-down cot. You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.

17. Some Blues names for women:
a. Sadie
b. Big Mama
c. Bessie
d. Fat River Dumplin'

18. Some Blues names for men:
a. Joe
b. Willie
c. Little or Big Willie

d. Sam Cooke

19. Persons with names like Michelle, Jessica, Jennifer, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis . Add Tiffany to this.

20. Blues Name Starter Kit:

a. name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame, etc.)
b. first name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Kiwi, etc.)
c. last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, etc.)

For example: Blind Lime Jefferson, Pegleg Lemon Johnson or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc. (Well, maybe not that last one.)

21. No matter how tragic your life is: If you own a computer, you cannot sing the Blues, period.

Now, if you'll excuse me; "I hear that whistle blowin'... "

Going Fishing

2009-11-04T21:40:00.003-06:00

Center Hill Lake

Construction of the dam is a part of my early memory: 1945, I can remember a group of men coming to my grandfather's house in Gordonsville for some first aid! It seems that the group had "been-a-drankin" prior to attempting to cross the dam. Permanent guard rails had not been installed, and the driver was engrossed in the sight of so much water when he veered to the right a little too far and proceeded through the temporary barrier to roll the old Ford over and over down the earthworks side of the dam.

The cars of that day were heavy gauge steel bodies over formidable steel frames. By the time the doors were wrenched off the occupants were probably attempting to crawl under the seats. With the doors removed, the fenders severely rounded, and covered inside and out in dirt and mud, retrieval was questionable.

This unplanned voyage had taken its toll: All three were pretty well sobered up by the time the car came to rest at the side of the river, approximately 350 feet below the top of the dam. And one of the passengers had split his forearm from the wrist to his elbow.

Someone had seen the mishap and rushed the victims fifteen miles to Dr. William Barton Dalton's house in Gordonsville. Dr. Dalton, my Grandpa, proceeded to use a clamps somewhat akin to a "hog ring" about every two inches along the cut. Then he sewed the fissure together between the clamps. All this was not a pretty sight, but I watched most of it until I was shooed away by concerned aunts and parents. The three daredevils survived to live other days.

My Grandpa was the archetypical white haired, country doctor. In his youth he had a shock of brilliant red hair and a red handlebar moustache: A dashing fellow to say the least. The Daltons, William Barton and wife Adi Bertram, with eight children in tow, had moved to Gordonsville floating their possessions down the Obed and Cumberland Rivers from Lillydale to Gordonsville Tennessee. Their’s was a happy household that revered the local Methodist Church, education for the eight children, and provision of high quality medical service to Southern Smith County.

Grandpa served as a leader of the medical community in Tennessee in the early 1900's. Oftentimes he was paid in part in produce or livestock for birthing babies and calming fevered brows. My mother had a son, Buddy, aged nine when she experienced a specific discomfort that had been diagnosed as a possible tumor. But after describing her “tumor” to her father, he said, ”Go home: You are pregnant!”

Going fishing with my dad during the late forties and early fifties was a two day ordeal. The afternoon before the fishing trip we would drive "up the creek" to a settlement known as Pleasant Shade to seine minnows. If a fishing trip was to be productive one was required to have a good stock of live, Tuffy minnows.

We seined minnows on many occasions with varying degrees of success. A few trips were memorable when we had to seine a deep hole filled with half-grown bass and perch jumping high in the air avoiding our net. One time my dad stepped on a rusty wire that pierced his rubber boot right into his instep to a depth of about two inches. The glass iodine stick went all the way in when I administered it. We went right on with our planned trip. He suffered the injury without comment because a day fishing was not to be altered.

Preparations for one trip involved the usual seining trip to Sanderson's Branch. Upon arriving we couldn't see anything but the black creek bottom. We decided to give the net one pull anyway just in case there may be a stray minnow about. What we got was a seine absolutely full of beautiful Tuffys! The bottom had been covered with minnows so that we only thought we were looking at the flat rocks below.

The minnows had to be preserved that night by immersing them in a flowing stream near home then quickly retrieved the following morning. We arose before dawn and collected the minnows. I placed the bucket between my feet and another within easy reach.

Quick access was necessary since we were required to stop at every ford of every roadside stream to freshen the bait water. With even as many as four or five stops during the hour and fifteen minute drive attrition would be great.

The drive was always long in the '51 Chevy and the water sloshed over my feet, but in all the excitement nothing mattered. The only word that comes to mind when attempting to describe the feeling within a youngster when participating in a real, lake, fishing trip with a boat and outboard motor and everything is THRILLING!!

As we neared the lake a fluttering feeling arose in my chest. It was fed by my dad's proclamations about the day, the weather, the water and/or the stories he passed with our usual companion, Bridges Read. Uncle Bridges was a character who loved stories and, jokes, and me. I loved him too without knowing it until later. (It was customary for favorite non-family members to be called “Uncle” or “Aunt” pronounced ‘ain’t’ in Middle Tennessee.)

Uncle Bridges was a “Dough Boy” in World War I and survived in the trenches when “The Hun” (Germans) attacked with chlorine gas. Anyone who has had even a remote experience with tear gas will never forget the occasion. The effects of a chlorine gas attack resulted in Uncle Bridges becoming unable to perform strenuous tasks even after a long period of convalescence.

The gas caused extreme pain for months and even years, and the only treatment for the symptoms was morphine. Uncle Bridges had become addicted to morphine and was covertly ridiculed for it. I only knew how Uncle Bridges delighted me with his sense of great good humor and his apparent love for me.

Forever it seemed we’d be winding our way along the Caney Fork River then suddenly climbing up the side of dam. Sight of the dam was and was awesome and terrible! Suddenly, as we broke out on top into the bright, fully risen sunshine there it was....... ENDLESS sun splashed water. My heart leapt when I saw it! Usually the sky would be a deep vivid blue; the sun sparkling the surface. As we drove on, the view of the water would be blocked for long seconds by trees growing along the road, but in another instant there it was, so blue, so vast, so exciting! I could not get enough!

It always became impossible to take a deep breath. There would something like a tingle or an itch in my body that would make my chin quiver as if I were freezing. If I tried to speak the words became a giggle with an imbedded hiccup. The air would rush in, and the words would get caught in my throat. So, most of the time I just tried to be quiet, do what I was told, and to stay out of the way while the heavy, wooden, rented boat was loaded and the outboard motor manhandled onto the transition.

Once underway my awareness of everything would progress outward from my seat in the boat: From attempting to steady its rocking while Uncle Bridges pushed off and got aboard, to the bow wave and the glint of the sun on it. Then there was the breeze and the sound of the outboard and the smell of its blue-white, smoky exhaust; then the froth on the wake as we picked up speed. I would look back and wonder why the stern was so low and I was sitting up so high. It always amazed me that the water wasn't fast enough to sink the rear of the boat. And when we slowed to a stop I watched for the wave behind to cascade into the back. But it never did.

Finally the craft would plane off and we would really be making time, or so it seemed. The 18 horsepower Johnson outboard made the boat positively glide on the lake surface. That old wooden boat with all the gear, and the three of us aboard probably never got up to 20 miles per hour, but it was exhilarating.

The wind was cool and the sun searing bright, and at this moment when the sensations would be too exciting to endure, dad would lean forward and open the home-made minnow bucket to assess their condition. I calmly watched but my thoughts were, "Oh NO!: What if we ran over something or ran into another boat, or capsized or something while he's looking in those buckets?” Well, we seldom saw another boat and never hit anything of any size. And my distance perception abilities had not matured.

Finally we would be fishing: It would usually be mid-morning, the wind disappearing as we'd pulled into a cove where willow trees stood in the water with tops above the surface. We stuck minnows onto hooks and dropped them down beside the boat, and everyone grew absolutely silent...watching the red and white floats...for a long time...............a very long time. The once warm sunshine became hot, and the refreshing breeze was no longer evident.

There would be an occasional wave against the side of the boat and perhaps on the shore nearby there was a ground hog or small gray squirrel to watch. Often there would be large birds of prey, either large hawks or an eagle and always buzzards to spot.

Soon my perceptions would turn back to myself with thoughts like: "This plank I'm sitting on is hard and hurts my posterior. I wonder when we eat lunch, and what will it be, and can I have a whole Coke by myself. I wonder what would happen if I dangled my hand in the water or maybe my foot would be better. Where am I going to Pee?"

Usually a few bass or crappie would be on the stringer when dad would announce that it was time for lunch. "Oh Boy, Oh Boy", my heart would leap because there would always be those Devil's Food Cookies that had a chocolate center covered completely by a white layer then a solid layer of chocolate! - My Favorite -!

But what came before the cookies was always a mystery. I remembered Vienna Sausage or Baloney (is it really spelled Bologna?) from past trips, but for my most memorable lake-lunch dad had brought yellow cheese warmed by the sun, a pack of saltines, a small jar of pickles, cookies for dessert, Cokes and two cans of Opossum Sardines: TALL BOYS!

I wasn't sure just what sardines were, and I had never tried one.

I looked closely when the can was opened and found that they were fish: Fish without heads that were too large to use for bait and too small to keep. They looked gross and strange and crumbled when manipulated onto a cracker with the large blade of a scout knife.

They were packed in oil and looked positively ...(What's the appropriate word here? What would a 10 year old use to describe the sight of his first Opossum Sardine on a saltine?) ...DESPICABLE!!! (That's probably not THE EXACT WORD, but...) AND, dad expected me to eat that!! Well, I ate them and did pretty well. No gagging or retching or violent regurgitations or anything. As it turned out, what little taste they had wasn't all that bad. However Opossum Sardines aren't a household staple to this day, but they often appear, somehow mysteriously, on fishing trips! That old pocket knife is now in my tackle box.

We would usually catch a respectable number of two pound or smaller large mouth bass or a good number of crappie. On a few trips we "LOADED THE BOAT", or "WE SLAYED 'EM TODAY". (These are nautical terms familiar to all Mid-South fishermen.) I even got my picture in the Nashville Tennessean Newspaper one time with a string of bass. And I remember the greatest trip of all was one were we had a stringer of crappie of twenty fish and weighed forty-two pounds. That's what you call a “Stringer of Slabs"!

Going fishing has changed considerably since those days in the ‘40's and ‘50's; and I can’t say for the better. I know that you can’t go back to simpler times, but in my mind I’ll be fishing on a quiet Center Hill cove with my dad and Uncle Bridges Read.

North to Alaska

2009-11-02T20:33:00.005-06:00

We had an inkling that we were onto something different when we passed over the mountains in southeastern Alaska at midnight at 41,000 feet. On any other usual evening we would be contemplating a night's repose. But here we were at nine p.m. in Alaska, midnight in Nashville, an almost-set sun lit the snow covered mountains. We weren't the least bit sleepy. "Wide eyed" would be a more appropriate description.

We picked up our rental car not far from the Anchorage airport and attempted to navigate Anchorage in the lingering twilight. The sun had just gone below the horizon but as it turned out not very far below. It never did get fully dark during our nine days there.

We arrived at our bed and breakfast late because of a wrong turn that took us twenty miles in the wrong direction. I wasn't satisfied with doing it wrong once so we retraced our incorrect route a second time before encountering semi-intelligent life where we got our bearings.

Our room was on the third floor of a private home. The rooms were great and we slept with the windows wide open. We noticed later that none of the dwellings had screens. Since we had heard of monster mosquitoes in Alaska we wondered where the screens were. We were never bothered by mosquitoes during our vacation.

We used this Anchorage B & B as our "home base," and it proved to be a great decision. The family who ran the B & B were the Eidems, Mary and Jerry: both are retired teachers. Mary is a potter and Jerry is a commercial and charter fisherman during the summer and a heavy equipment operator during the cold months. Mary served salmon quiche and various muffins for breakfast. Jerry oriented us to Alaska and to the Keni Peninsula, that he called, “Alaska's essence.”

We "did" Anchorage the first day to get oriented to the state and to get used to the time difference. In years past Alaska and especially Anchorage was choked under a five-inch blanket of fine volcanic ash. The ash was still evident along roadways and in gravel parking lots. We went to the Alaska State Museum and were astounded at the exhibits and art work. We did a few other tourist things, and in the meantime we discovered Ship Creek on the northern edge of town near the harbor.

People were fishing this little creek and soon we spotted what they were after: Salmon were moving upstream; Big salmon; hundreds and hundreds and more kept coming! It was easy to spot the Sockeye. They had turned bright red except for their heads. The pinks and chum were harder to spot because their colors had not changed. The Sockeye were about fifteen pounds and the others were about six pounds each.

Judy got on the phone to try to get reservations on the ferry to Valdez, but she was unsuccessful. A change of plans was in order. Jerry Eidem, being a fisherman contacted a buddy of his in Homer for a charter trip two days hence. We were to stay at his "camp" the night before our big fishing trip. So it was off to Homer after two nights in Anchorage.

It's difficult to miss your road out of Anchorage: There is one going North and one going South! We went south. Leaving Anchorage toward Seward and Portage a mountain range marches along your left side. It has Tanaina Peak, O'Malley Peak, Flattop Mtn., and Suicide Peak. Then along the Turnagain Arm of Cook Inlet a mountain range appears topped with snow fields and lingering clouds. We were awestruck by their beauty and we used lots of film on these “Porcupine Mountains.”

Tidal fluctuations in Alaskan waters are extreme: twelve to sixteen feet, twice per day. On The Turnagain Arm there are warnings to stay off the tidal sands because some are treacherous quicksand. We were also warned that Cook Inlet is also subject to "Bore Tides": A raging flood tide: a wall of water up to six feet high moving upstream at 40 miles per hour. It’s a fact that sometimes the tide comes in so fast that some hearty folks surf on it!

We went through Tunnel, Snoring Inn and had lunch at a most beautiful spot, Moose Pass. We found a small motel with a restaurant that was superb! We stopped there coming and going.

Turning west at Moose Pass and wending our way through the mountains of the Keni Peninsula through mountain valleys we spotted fast flowing, cold mountain rivers, migrating salmon and FISHERMEN! There were people fishing in tiny rivulets and in mighty rivers. There were people fishing in jet powered boats, oar powered boats and in canoes and kayaks. Most of all there were people fishing in boots standing in the streams attempting to attract salmon. It is called "Alaskan Combat Fishing!"

There are strict limits on how one may catch salmon and how many one may catch. The salmon are not that easy to catch because they have other priorities at this time of year like spawning! There are enough caught however to make the effort worthwhile.

You must like salmon or learn to like salmon if you are to live in Alaska. In downtown Anchorage the offshore netters were giving salmon away rather than sell it at a cheap price to the wholesalers and processors. We heard that one day's give away totaled fifteen thousand pounds. It's hard to pay for a fifty thousand-dollar fishing boat doing that.

We turned south along Cook Inlet and arrived at Homer: "The End Of The World." Alaska has the distinction of having two most famous locations: The Middle of Nowhere and The End of The World. Any number of interior locations could be the Middle of Nowhere, but Homer, Alaska is absolutely the End of The World.

We arrived at our fishing "camp" to find our "crew" busy filleting the day's catch of Halibut. One of the fish weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. The others were just small fish in the forty to sixty pound range. Well, that was the good news: The bad news was that we were to stay in a tiny trailer, a mini-RV, with no water available. The other bad news was that the "crew" would be cooking the crabs caught that day on the stove in our RV. Oh well, we thought it would all be worth it if we were going to catch fish the following day and have Dungenous Crab for supper. We slept fitfully but were ready to go at first light.

We headed out into Cook Inlet about twenty miles to a drop off where the bottom was about one hundred and twenty feet down. The fishing rig was a heavy deep sea rod and reel with three pounds of lead for a sinker. We later found out that a three pound sinker was not enough. When the tide changed it was so fast the bait would not stay on the bottom! The boat swung around on its anchor rope and we were riding a twenty knot tide!

It was a great day: The sun was out and the wind was dead calm. We were in the Gulf of Alaska with Mt. St Augustine, dormant volcano, twenty miles off the stern, glowing pink in the sunrise.

The fishing method was to find the bottom and bounce the herring bait off it. We got bites that swiped our herring, but finally Judy and Kelly each hooked a fish. It was an ordeal reeling up the lead and the darting Halibut, but they each landed their fish. Each weighed about twenty pounds and was rejected by the boat captain as too small. Judy and Kelly hated to see those fish go back in the water, but they continued to fish.

My first fish was a Ling Cod weighing about four pounds. I had made cod for supper about a month before and the smell lingered in the house for days. We kept this one for bait. Kelly and Judy each caught more fish that were returned to grow up. They were frustrated, to say the least. Then finally we began catching "keepers." It seemed fish less than thirty pounds was too small. The crew told us that the object of the day was to catch sufficient fish so that the tourists arms grew so tired that they could no longer comb their hair or scratch: Well, that was us all right!

We kept sixteen fish that averaged forty to fifty pounds each. We caught a great deal of Halibut, but we only brought home to Nashville the filets of six fish. The filets weighed fifty-seven pounds. In all, we caught over five-hundred pounds of Halibut, three large Cod and one huge Stingray. A three-hundred and twenty-five pounder was caught that day by another boat.

Halibut is a flatfish without scales somewhat like a Flounder. Its skin is tough and smooth. Halibut is white on one side and brown on the other. Like a Flounder they start with eyes on each side of their head, but as they lie on the bottom the left side turns white and the eye migrates to the brown, right side. Halibut and Flounder are always white on the same side: the left side.

We could hear Russian fishermen talking on the boat’s radio during our ride back to Homer. We saw Puffins and many other sea birds. Sea Otters drifted on the surface cracking urchins on their bellies and the biggest surprise of all was that a Minike Whale surfaced right beside our boat. He was looking Kelly right in the eye for a split second! What a thrill! What luck?

We had our Halibut processed at dockside and it was flown to the Anchorage airport the day we departed. I worried that our expensive filets would thaw during the flights and layovers in Seattle and Detroit. We worried for nothing: the two-pound hunks were as hard as frozen bricks all the way home.

We declined a second night in the "camp" and climbed a ridge above Homer to a fantastic B & B called appropriately, "Ridgetop B & B." This was our second B & B and like the first we were greeted by a note on the door inviting us to go in and set up since no one was at home.

This place was spectacular! A balcony facing south allowed us to view fields of the last of the summer's Fireweed blossoms along with tall pine spires and the mountains, glaciers and snow fields across Kachemak Bay. Many years ago a glacier pushed a "spit" down Kachemak Bay that became land's end. The Homer Spit is approximately a mile long housing "Spit Rats" camping in one and two-man tents, RV Parks, night clubs, a large marina and port. From our vantage point the spit appeared to be just a spit of rock jutting out into the bay. We were so far away that nothing man-made was visible.

At six p.m. the bright sun was at two o'clock, and the only sounds were the screeches of hawks looking for rodents in the Fireweed and the tall Yarrow. It was a pleasant afternoon of rest in the sun with the world's most wonderful view.

The sunlight there in early August is diffused and pale and reminds you of a sunny winter day in Tennessee. We had four straight days of sunshine, and we learned that on those days Anchorage had set new high temperatures at seventy-four degrees. Cloudy skies are the norm for most Alaskan days because of the clash of the Japanese Current and the Arctic winds.

Clouds made their expected appearance on our drive back to Anchorage. Seeing the mountains from the opposite direction made our spirits soar again: We had missed the grandeur of the snow spotted mountains.

We headed for The Portage Glacier: whatever that was! The clouds scuffed the tops of the six-thousand foot mountains where we turned onto the Portage Access road. We were "all eyes" because of the color of the ice cold rivers, and because not far along the way we spotted our first glacier. Great hunks of blue ice hung on the cloud shrouded mountains. A torrent of murky blue water cascaded down the mountain side. The glaciers grind the rock to a fine powder known as rock flour. All the rivers and streams had varying quantities of rock flour.

We cleared a small rise and before us were icebergs floating on a lake! We parked and promptly donned warm clothing: The air coming down the valley was right off the Portage Glacier, and the icebergs kept the area very cold.

We were struck by the quiet of the area since it was covered in travelers. Like us, they were probably awe struck by the scene. Low clouds obscured the tops of the nearby mountains; the glaciers of blue ice hung in the mountain valleys; the rivulets of glacial melt cascaded down; the ice bergs lolled and tumbled in the lake: and the river was grey-blue made up of thousand-year-old melting ice and ground rock. Like so much of what we had seen in Alaska, this area was unique and spectacular.

We returned to Anchorage to "home base" and rested from our Keni adventure. The next day we took the other road out of Anchorage, North to Healy and Mt. McKinley. We found our B & B in Healy and were greeted with another note welcoming and inviting us in.

Our hostess in Anchorage being a potter, had asked Judy if we would bring some Healy clay. Our Healy hostess supplied a pail and shovel and we were off to the Healy "outback!" We took the road to the Healy landfill. We soon ran out of paved road and passed by a coal processing plant that supplied power to the consumers in Healy.

We could see the clay deposits from the track and we soon spotted a pristine deposit. We put the Jeep into all wheel drive and proceeded through the soft sand over to the clay deposits. The five gallon pail was soon full, and we started exploring the area.

The surface was a conglomeration of rock debris pushed around and ground down by glaciers. The rock flour had long since blown away in the constant winds. What was left was sand and stone of various colors, chunks of marble and granite and other types of rock. We also saw recent evidence of moose in the area; moose-poop. (We later saw moose-poop jewelry and even moose-poop for chapped lips: "It doesn't cure the chapped lips it just keeps you from licking them!")

The next day we had an early ticket for an eight hour bus ride in and out of Denali Park. I had envisioned comfortable tour busses with good seats and large windows for viewing Mt. McKinley. What showed up was a school bus from the Anchorage school system with small windows and with hard-hard bench seats. As it turned out we got no closer than 35 miles to Mt. McKinley. Fortunately, the clouds surrounding the summit parted for about three seconds, and it shown majestically in the sunlight for just long enough to snap one picture.

The track (no-way this could be called a road) was narrow and wound between hills and valleys until it reached the Polychrome Mountains. There it became a very narrow trail four hundred feet up on the side of a precarious incline. It was hard to grip that hard plastic seat with your butt, but Judy did it! The trip was interesting, in that, we saw moose, wolves, ptarmigan, and marmot (Alaskan groundhog).

We transferred to a returning bus after three hours and drove back to Anchorage so that we would have ample time to prepare for our departure and to let Judy attend a training session at the University of Alaska at Anchorage. Kelly and I completed our trinket purchases, and we all looked forward to getting through the "red-eye flight" back to Nashville.

We left at one-forty AM and arrived in Seattle at sunup. We were on the ground about an hour. We took the opportunity to spread out and attempt to nod-off. I was amazed at the number of avid Salmon fishermen getting on the plane to Seattle: They had heard that fishing was better in Washington!

Then it was six hours to Detroit. Neither of us had had any sleep in the preceding 24 hours. We were grounded in Detroit for three hours, and Kelly finally got some sleep. We arrived in Nashville at six PM: walking was a challenge. It is difficult to work out the time changes, but it seems that we lost a whole day somewhere.

It was a great trip: A once in a lifetime trip. There were many other great things we experienced just by pure luck. Judy did all her Christmas shopping at our "home base," and we got some of the most spectacular pictures you can imagine.

I guess the best part of the trip will be our memories of the clear cold ocean water, the temperatures in the sixties and seventies while over one hundred back home, the "Combat Fishing" while fifteen thousand pounds of salmon are given away in the middle of Anchorage every other day. But most of all we were enthralled by the ever-present mountains, rugged, foreboding and cold.

The Good Deed

2009-11-02T19:22:00.003-06:00

On weekends I could be found "a'courtin" up the country. Going up-the-country meant that I had to traverse the road to Defeated, TN via a narrow, winding, ascending, descending, creek-bottom, mountain-top, barely two-lane road! The road to Defeated passed such place-names as, Turkey Creek, Tater Hill, Devil’s Elbow (both elbows actually), and Hog Town. Outside Carthage just beyond the present turn-off to the Cordell Hull Dam site there is a place along Turkey Creek where a few hardy souls homesteaded many years ago. Some of their decedents never managed to leave.

On a fine spring afternoon I was making my usual trek along that stretch of road when I came upon a black '47 Chevy stopped in the road at a house along the way. The road was narrow with a creek on the left side and a steep hill on the other. A small frame house perched above a set of stone stairs on the hill. The walkway began at the roadside with a large flat stone bridging the narrow ditch.

As I approached in my '55 Chevy I noticed that an elderly gentleman was getting out of the car ahead. Evidently the driver thought I was in a hurry and pulled away from the departing passenger as he attempted to "slam" the door. The old man's heels were off the side of the stone footbridge, and his arms were frantically flailing the air in an attempt to regain his balance! But it was not to be.

The old gentleman plopped backwards into the ditch that was just deep enough to hide him forever had I not seen him. He was hopelessly trapped with his arms crossed in front making them useless. He was a pitiful sight, and I recognized his dire circumstance!

I stopped the car and got out to help. It took considerable pulling to free the old gentleman from his confinement, and when he finally came loose I noticed a terrible odor! It was a long time ago, but I recall his words, he groaned saying, “Lord-have-mercy, I took a dose of Black Draught this morning,' and I think I'm in a mess!” He may have been an old man with lousy balance and an uncooperative bowel, but he sure knew a mess when he had one in his overalls!

I got him started up the stone steps and noticed that he had managed to crap all the way down both overall pant-legs and into both shoes! He was definitely in a mess. Well, at least he was no longer confined to the ditch with no bones broken, and he was at home. Things could have been worse.

You know, bad things happen to good people, and two hundred years from that day no one will know what happened. If it had been me I’d have ditched the shoes and overalls and just sat in the creek for a while!

BB Guns:

2009-10-31T21:21:00.001-05:00

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Tommy Moss had one! Sonny Apple had one! Slop Bucket Robert Turner had one! Buddy Stitz had one! But Lewis Butler did NOT have one! Oh ,No! "I would shoot my eye out if I had one!" Guess who was the only kid in Carthage, Tennessee to lose an eye: Lewis Butler, that's who, BUT IT WASN'T DUE TO A BB-GUN!

Well it's just as well. I learned to shoot later in life; probably better than all those guys who had BB guns did anyway! In fact I still hunt every Fall for deer and squirrel because I like to eat them. Venison roast and chili and squirrel breakfasts are my downfall, especially when the champagne flows and the crowd is full of good cheer!

In front of my house on Fisher Hill in Carthage there was a street light probably hung there during the "twenty's". It had an enameled, fluted, reflector and a naked 200 watt bulb. The light it gave out was harsh, but it was at a street light "of that day." If a BB was glanced off the reflector the enamel would flake-off leaving a black spot. If the bulb was hit it shattered.

One day all the "guys" were assembled around the street light in front of my house. Someone said that we were all lacking in intestinal fortitude (the term “chicken” was then coined ) if we didn't shoot the street light out. Of course all the "guys" who owned BB Guns gave the first opportunities to those of us who didn't own a BB gun. We took turns taking "pot-shots" at the light, and when it came my turn I skillfully avoided hitting the bulb because I knew that it would get me into trouble!

Just as my shot glanced off the enamel reflector making an elegant black spot, my mother walked out the front door calling my name and requesting my presence. Mother played a "tune" using a belt on my behind and I accompanied her with appropriate vocalizations much to the amusement of my cohorts in crime! Mother was a skilled musician!

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LEARNING TO LOVE YOUR WALKER

2009-10-31T11:02:00.004-05:00

On April 10, 2000 I had both knees replaced. I hear they have less drastic procedures now than I endured. I used a walker for about three weeks.

LEARNING TO LOVE YOUR WALKER: A Sequence of Experiences

LEVEL ONE: Walker Awareness

You’ve seen walkers in various settings: at Kroger, on a cruise ship or at Tunica on your way to the 5:00 P.M. seafood buffet. You wonder why the walkers don’t get along faster and let you proceed. The walkers take up too much space. They are just a general nuisance. You never considered that a walker would play any part in your life.

LEVEL TWO: Walker Denial

You have visited with your doctor and scheduled your orthopedic surgery, and you appear at the pre-operative orientation session. You find yourself seated in a room with a team of Physical Therapists and other orthopedically oriented hospital personnel. They are all discussing the exercises and assistive devices that you will need after your surgery: They show you how to use all the equipment along with how to use YOUR walker!

You haven’t considered needing a walker much less a “sock tube,” or a pajama-grabber, or a shower bench. You are listening to all the specialists, and you still hesitate to commit to the idea of needing these devices. (That’s why it’s a good idea to bring the person who will be assisting you during your recovery to the training session!) You are in Walker Denial.

LEVEL THREE: The First Walker Encounter

You will not need your walker until the second day after your surgery. (You read that last sentence and you understand what it says, but you still do not get it!) It says that you will be using your walker on the second or third day! Yes, you - up - standing up - on your feet using your walker!

The second day after surgery: LEVEL FOUR

You are lying very still trying to get reasonably comfortable when the Physical Therapists (PT’s) arrive at the door. One of them has a long belt over his shoulder, and your walker at the ready! You are about to get up! You think, But...but...but...I’m not ready for this. The PT’s have their own agenda. The belt goes around your chest, and the next thing you know you are UP - facing the business-end of your walker.

With the help of the PT’s you will get up and take a few steps accompanied by much grunting, gurning, groaning and heavy breathing. (Gurning is the making of grotesque facial expressions.) During the second session you will walk a little farther. You will be drained and disappointed each time, but the second session is a little easier than the first. In two more days you will double your distance and speed: Three minutes to get to the hallway, five minutes of rest, and four minutes getting back to the bed.

LEVEL 4.5: Walker Mastery (The Walker Becomes Your Friend

You “enjoy” the rehabilitation sessions and after a few days you are on your way home. It is a surprise that your house is not walker friendly. You have steps at every entry door, there are narrow hallways and tight turns, but with time and use you overcome all these obstacles. You realize that you could not get around without your walker, your new best friend.

You will have reached LEVEL FOUR with your walker when you can put more weight on your legs and less on the walker. You still need it for balance, but you are getting around well.

LEVEL FIVE: Full Use of Your Walker

You are using the walker less and less and only for insurance inside the house. Pretty soon you feel spry enough to go get the mail. You are at the mailbox and you realize that your pajamas have no pockets, so you stuff the mail into the waistband of your PJs. Alas, the mail applies more stress than your waistband can handle. Just imagine yourself standing at the mailbox with your PJs around your ankles, and you with nothing to hide behind except your N.E.S. bill, and your walker!

NEVER CARRY ANYTHING IN YOUR HAND WHILE YOU ARE USING YOUR WALKER. Most ladies will want to hang a decorated basket on their walkers: Most men just hang an old grocery bag on the front. Of course there is the household handyman who insists on duct taping a milk crate to his walker.

LEVEL SIX: Your Walker’s Other Functions

Before you know it, you will be forsaking your walker and venturing forth with nothing but a walking stick. Chances are, you are still using your shower bench. In that case the walker can become your new towel rack. As Martha Stewart ages you can bet that she will be including a walker decorating section on her morning program. Perhaps she will share the pattern for a Walker Cozy with her viewers

Best Wishes for your speedy and complete recovery.

Lewis Butler

Assistive Technology Consultant

Tennessee Department of Education

Bilateral Knee Replacement on April 10, 2000

The small print: You will need a modern walker that can be easily adjusted: NOT your Grandma’s with the rusted adjusting buttons. You will also need the shower bench. Don’t skimp here, because the bathroom will become a dangerous place, and you will be using it after you have retired your walker. If you will be alone for extended periods, you will need the sock tube. (Your feet will get cold! Colder than you can imagine.)

Long and short legged jersey workout pants with elastic waistbands will be helpful. They are easier to get on by yourself than PJs.

Practice your exercises before the surgery. Go way beyond the minimum. The stronger you can make your connective structures the easier your rehabilitation will be. After surgery you must continue the exercise routine long after you think you need to. Otherwise you will become stiff. Isn’t that what we are trying to get rid of?

RADAR

2009-10-30T21:25:00.003-05:00

Radar was a dog, of that you can be sure! Trying to discover his pedigree would have been a formidable endeavor. His mother was a Bull Terrier that belonged to the J.B. Gore family, our back-side neighbors at the top of Fisher Hill in Carthage, TN. His father was from parts-unknown and Radar was made of parts unknown.

I was ten years old when we got Radar, or Radar got us. I thought at the time that I must have been the luckiest boy in the whole world: We got a television and I got a dog in the same year, Boy, was I lucky, or what?!

His tail was bobbed, and I worried about that a lot. Didn't it hurt an awful lot to get one's tail cut off down to a little nubbin? I just knew it did!

Radar was not really his name: I named him after the Middle Tennessee State Teacher's College Normal School, Raiders; Nathan Bedford Forrest's band of intrepid fighters of Civil War fame. I got tired of explaining his name to people, and I just changed it to Radar. Funny but no one ever asked about Radar as a name.

Raider was a sweet, cuddly puppy and loved being held and petted. The first night he came to live with us I insisted that he sleep nice and warm beside my bed. I fixed him a box with a soft piece of old bed spread to keep him warm. At bed time I gently put Raider into his cozy box and settled myself for a contented night's sleep. Ah, life was so sweet.

That's when Radar started to whine! It was not really a full blown whine. It was more like a closed mouth, high pitched, pitiful, lonely, groan. When it began I ceased my dozing and jumped up to comfort poor, little, puppy, Raider. He stopped whining when I held him and started to go to sleep, so I, very gently, placed him back into the box. When he hit the bed spread he started to whine again. Two more try's and "Radar" was on his own!

Radar whined off and on all night long. During breakfast I was internally debating the rewards of having a puppy. Mother assured me that something could be done. So we placed a warm water bottle and a wind-up alarm clock in the box with Radar. He thought it was his mother sleeping next to him, I guess. It was great: I got to sleep and so did Radar until the water battle got cold, and the alarm went off about 1:00 AM! We both did pretty well the third night, but Radar slept alone in the kitchen that night.

Radar grew and frolicked and played like all puppies. He was a lot of fun. You could hunker down on the grass and whine as he did on those nights, and he'd go crazy trying to lick your face. A good face-likkin' always cheers me up.

He'd sit on your folded legs on the ground, and when least expected he'd leap and hook his sharp, canine teeth into that piece of your nose that separates your nostrils. Boy did that hurt!

At age fourteen I was forced to discover girls: the very last thing I intended to do! We'd pair up on MYF hayrides in the back of Tuley's furniture delivery truck. Some old mattresses softened the truck bed and blankets were available that the girls had thought to bring.

We took off one cold evening and started north out of town toward Defeated. Radar was in pursuit. I saw him running and was sure that he'd get tired soon and go back home, but Radar was a dedicated dog. We must have gone about three miles when I finally got Bill Tuley to stop to get Radar aboard. He was one happy dog. From then on Radar enjoyed all our "hayrides."

Radar knew intrinsically when the Butler's needed something: He brought home a shag, bathroom rug, and the freshly washed, business end of some one's dust mop. We used that rug for years and years.

Radar thought he was a hunting dog. He'd get in the woods smelling all these interesting smells and did not have a clue about what to do to find their source. I saw him run, slap-dab over a sitting rabbit one time.

Usually in the fall we early-teens would strike out on a "hunting expedition" with Radar in attendance. He would circle off to the side and front. You wouldn't see him for a while and he'd bust through the midst of your column from the rear at a dead run.

One time we were crossing the draw on the other side of Battery Hill when Radar spotted some chickens in the farm yard off to our left. No amount of calling, whistling or threats would deter Radar from those full grown layers. My dad got a call that night demanding payment of a dollar a piece for two dead, laying hens. Radar didn't eat them he just killed them.

We arrived at Minchey's pond one hot summer's day and Radar plunged in. The pond was a cattle pond that had been frequently used to cool the legs and bellies of the Herford beef cattle and the Guernsey milkers. The bottom had been churned into about three feet of mud with a half-foot of water on top. When Radar returned to our vicinity he coated us with the muddy mixture by shaking as only a wet dog can.

Just as in the comic strip “Red and Rover,” Radar met me everyday at recess much to my embarrassment. After all, I was preoccupied with attempting to impress all nearby females, and here would come this terribly ugly dog wagging his butt. If he'd had a long tail he'd probably broken someone's leg.

He loved me even though I was mean to him occasionally. I would send him to his box or make him look ashamed just show someone what he'd do, but he never knew why he was being punished. He was disciplined with a rolled up newspaper, and it worked without hurting him.

Radar was a dog: he did what dogs do. So I wasn’t surprised when Radar was reported to be running with a pack of cur dogs after a female. He came home one night having been shot with a .22 that went clean through his leg. But this time I didn't see him for several days, and I learned later that he was killed along with some others of the aforementioned pack.

Radar was a dog. He taught me a lot about just being a kid by being my dog during the luckiest time of my life.

Welcoming the President

2009-10-25T19:31:00.002-05:00

Welcoming the President

I was the band director in the mid-sixties at Macon County High School in Lafayette, Tennessee. We and approximately fifty other middle Tennessee high school bands were to have the rare opportunity of welcoming the President of the United States to Tennessee!

President Lyndon Johnson would be “reviewing” the bands of Middle Tennessee on his way into to town from the airport in Nashville. I met with the publisher of The Macon County Times and it was reported that we were going to play Castle Gap March, a selection of great significance to the President; since it was named for a landmark in west Texas.

We boarded the buses at dawn in great high spirits and made our way to Murfreesboro Road in Nashville. As the sun rose it turned into a clear but icy-cold day. As we stood awaiting Lyndon’s “review” the wind grew stronger and the temperature descended steadily. The wind whipped the brand new flags that had been donated by the Lafayette Jaycettes. Tears began to stream from our eyes, and our cheeks and noses were becoming numb!

We waited,.................. and waited, .....................................................and waited in our sparking new uniforms until we were all thoroughly chilled. The barelegged majorettes could do little more than hug themselves and bounce up and down trying to stay warm. The increasing wind played havoc with our new flags and the color guard was forced to re-furl them. We turned our backs to nature’s assault and stamped our feet trying to regain feeling.

Lyndon was late,......................... very late! Then very faintly in the distance we heard a shrill siren, then another and another until there must have been sixty sirens all rising and falling in pitch at different times. Motorcycles and police cars were zipping by at what appeared to be sixty miles per hour, conducting their siren contest! The Lincoln convertible with the president waving his Stetson was right in the middle of the melee.

We barely had time to get our tribute started when Lyndon was gone over the hill. The enterouge went by so fast he never heard the first note of Castle Gap, nor did he see how attractive our majorettes were, nor did he enjoy the beauty of our crisp, new uniforms. Castle Gap March was carried on the wind far, far away to somewhere south of Murfreesboro Road.

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Well those were different times, and seeing "The President" was a really big deal then. It wasn't long after that, that Lyndon picked up his beagle hound by his ears, and later on showed his gall bladder scar to one and all. I, for one, by then had already seen all I wanted of Lyndon Johnson.

Duck Hunting

2009-10-24T15:32:00.000-05:00

Growing up in Carthage, TN in the 40's and 50's meant that hunting was one of the things you did. I had been initially introduced to hunting and fishing by my father, Huber Butler.

Hunting with my father was safe, serene and usually productive. But the trips were rare because he was a barber, and the business was booming until the late sixties when 'Beatle Cuts' became popular. Dad went on one bear hunt, a few "possum" hunts (for what reason no one ever knew!) but mostly fishing was dad's number two avocation: Checkers was his first!

Hunting with my brother, Bud, was decidedly different, and once or twice was enough! I was about 12 when Bud decided to do me the favor of teaching me all the fine points of Duck Hunting in Tanglewood Bottom west of Carthage. The temperature had been well below freezing for some days and was near freezing when we sallied forth. The mud in Tanglewood Bottom was wet, sticky, and frozen in many places. It was hard going, but I was determined to keep up the pace. Bud and I hunkered down in a clump of trees after a long cold walk.

We eased over a rise in the rutted corn field and heard some duck-like commotion in a low spot with about four inches of semi-frozen water. What we had heard turned out to be three or four wood ducks. We could barely make out their squawking and splashing. We needed to get closer. We began slipping closer, crouching and sliding in the cold mud when all at once the they all took off flying in every direction.

Within that flight of ducks there was one very unlucky duck! Bud hit it. The duck fell about thirty yards out in the flooded field. We had no dog to retrieve the wounded fowl, and we had no hip-boots. What we had was a twelve year old "volunteer " who had no idea how cold the mud and water was! I should have thought of the temperature because there was a thin, clear sheet of ice on the first few feet of water, but it was thin ice! Following instructions from my elder brother who was sworn to provide good and wholesome instruction at every opportunity, I removed my shoes and socks and proceeded to retrieve the wounded duck.

The almost knee-deep water was unbelievably cold so I hurried! HOWEVER the flooded field was full of short sharp stalks of mowed weeds, and it was too slick to get traction. Pretty soon I was unable to feel my feet anyway. So I just slipped my way out to retrieve the hapless foul. The duck saw me coming and resolved herself to be uncooperative by flopping toward the center of the field.

We had failed to notice the bunch of pigs that had made their way into the fringes of the flooded field and were following our efforts with much interest. In the midst of my foray with the quacking, struggling duck in hand at-last, we discovered that the pigs had made off with my shoes and socks and muddied up my gun trying to root it up!

Well, there was nothing else to do but to give chase and get my shoes back. I chased the grunting swine through the weeds and briars, but it was almost as muddy as the flooded section. I could not raise my feet high enough to keep the dead weed stalks, briars and seeds from eating the flesh from the tops of my feet and from between my toes. Perhaps I would not have run so hard had I had feeling in my feet!

It probably was a sight seeing me in hot pursuit of one or the other pig with my brogan in his mouth. Bud did help get my shoes back, and he would have been more help had he not been laughing so hard.

I finally retrieved both brogans by wrestling a couple of porkers to the ground . Evidently my socks had comprised a tasty pig-treat. By the time we made the walk back to the car I was shaking uncontrollably. The car heater gave relief to the rest of my body, but my feet felt the sting of the receding cold. The pain of the cuts and scrapes from the briars and brambles came much later. I eventually located the gun and it cleaned up pretty well.

That was my last duck hunt. My mom was none too happy with my condition, but she figured these experiences were just another little lesson in my life. I never cared for duck anyway.

LEWIS THE ATHLETE

2009-10-24T11:14:00.008-05:00

Do you hate stories that begin with a digression: NAAAH, me neither.

Lewis' brother, Buddy Butler was a real athlete. In fact Bud played as a high schooler when he was in the eighth grade. I remember seeing him and Tommy Jellicourse, Ara Phelps, Jim Eatherly and several others play sports in the ‘40's at good old Smith County High. Even after this group had graduated, they played on a regular basis in a pick-up game.

There was a traveling, professional female basketball team who advertised that they would whip anybody's "pick-up" team, in any town. The Arkansas Readheads came to Carthage.

The Carthage amateurs had played together all through high school and thereafter because the school gym was left open to anyone who wanted to use it. These guys could shoot and guard, they knew each other's moves. They had speed and strength sufficient to block out the Redheads. About two-thirds through the game the ladies stopped the game and complained about how things were progressing: they were behind. No one said anything in rebuttal. The game continued but the ladies were frustrated in their performance and humiliated by being defeated in this little "hick-town"! The Arkansas Redheads never returned to Carthage.

I did not follow in my brother's footsteps. I went out for basketball in the fifth grade and "played" through the eighth grade. I was on the team because anyone who "came out" was given a spot on the team.

There were eight or ten kids on the team and during these years, competition for playing time was not an issue! My classmates were earlier developers than I; in fact they had strengths and agility -- “moves” –I would never have. Mac Pelham and I were the "subs." Since we were excluded from the practice scrimmages, we occupied our time by playing marbles, making jokes and paper airplanes. When Mac and I were put into the game you could be sure the game was on ice.

We were so far ahead of Brush Creek on one occasion that the coach's instructions to the team were to let Lewis and Mac do all the shooting. The opponents were of diminutive stature and we were cruising. It was my first chance of the season to play. I took the in-bound pass and dribbled down the court on the right side. I crossed the center line and let the ball fly. It was a one-hand push shot that was actually heading toward the basket! Sometimes you know its going in, you just know it! I knew it was going in this time.

The brown rubber orb was launched in a near perfect arch with a moderate backspin. What a beautiful sight it was speeding toward the back-board seemingly in slow motion. The gym grew totally silent and the crowd became motionless in anticipation of the string music in the Carthage Elementary School Gym. A quiver of anticipation went through the crowd. Every 'pucker string' was cinched-up tight. There was one lady who, in wild anticipation, momentarily lost control of her bladder..................... (One may ask how I could have been aware of all these things during the brief time of this basketball shot:............... just hold your head down until the felling passes!)

This in not a "Casey at the Bat" story: The ball banged into the backboard and went through the hoop. I knew it would, and I was "back-peddling" to get back on defense. The bench went wild with laughter; I wondered why, and the coach was red-faced and was shouting something unintelligible!

The few years of my basketball career yielded either 6 or 8 points..................... That's all ............................Eight points,.................................... it was eight, ...........................................OK?

The BEAST OF CARTHAGE!

2009-10-22T21:32:00.001-05:00

Growing up in a small town in the 1940's meant the frequent use of your imagination. Television where "everything" is seen and heard in high fidelity, stereo sound and high resolution video was just an idea whose time was far away. You listened to the radio, such as it was, and you listened to stories told by others. The listener painted the scenery by powers of imagination.

Carthage, Tennessee in the forty's was a unusual sleepy southern town. All the news was gleaned from the local papers, the radio and the Movietone News shorts shown at the Princess Theater. General George Patton's Third Army was there on maneuvers making preparations for war with the Germans. Our 1937 Chevrolet Touring Sedan was stolen by some of Patton's soldiers, making my family even more isolated from the surrounding world. No domestic automobiles were produced during the war so we walked until well after World War II ended.

It was in those days that the Beast of Carthage was abroad upon the land!

Carthage was/is a river town situated on the Cumberland. The town rests on the slopes centered between Battery Knob and a river bluff each being several hundred feet in height. Battery Knob occupies the north side of town. It was there in Civil War days that artillery batteries of the Union Army controlled Cumberland River traffic. The "Rebels" were ensconced along the river bluff on the opposite side of town and the river approximately one mile away. History says that the opposing forces fired at each other on occasion, however the strategic significance of Carthage was never relevant to the outcome of the Civil War. The ground works on Battery Knob were still evident where the field guns were situated just below the crest.

Battery Knob was a haunt of persons interested in rabbit hunting or walnut gathering or hunting red foxes with hounds. Other than those, no other worthwhile activities occurred up there until the Beast of Carthage appeared!

It all began in the summer of 1944. On the warm summer evenings most of the population of Carthage was outside on a porch or on an old quilt out on the lawn enjoying the night’s cool-off.

On a still, summer’s eve the Beast announced his presence! He howeled with a low, grating, growl followed by a series of fiendish, raucous moans. Thereafter there was an outright roar lasting several seconds! No one in the town could avoid hearing the howls and roars, and the town was all atwitter with speculation about the beast.

The tale of the Beast of Carthage was reported in The Carthage Courier, the Nashville Tennessean and The Nashville Banner. Even The Washington Post reported the phenomena. The Beast of Carthage was bringing notoriety to the sleepy, country village.

The Beast made his presence known every night for a while, then intermittently, but always on warm moist evenings when the night air was utterly still.

Everyone had forefathers who remembered the Panthers that roamed the woods. For those of us who have heard the scream of a Bobcat in the predawn dark can verify that there are few other sounds on Earth as terrifying!

Each growl lasted for two or three seconds. The low pitched moans lasted longer than the higher pitched screams. The concert of growls and moans would sometimes persist for many minutes carrying in the moist evening air. The screams and groans resounded and echoed off the surrounding hills and river bluffs. Most believed the Beast to be moving around the crest of Battery Knob.

Men who hunted all sorts of wild animals were expected to be less frightened than I, a five year old boy, but they were as big-eyed as everyone else when the beast roared. Each hair would attempt to stand straight in its follicle. I know one little boy who always watched his father’s eyes but reached for his mother’s arms.

All daytime conversations centered on the identity of the beast. Some thought it was probably a rogue bear. There was no consensus. As the summer twilight faded and evenings began to fall the whole town became quiet... Utterly quiet, awaiting the return of the Beast.

The beast moaned and growled for enough nights until enough wives had "encouraged" enough husbands to warrant action! Thus, a group of stalwart fellows herein known as the Heroes of Carthage was formed. Their mission: To seek out and end the reign of terror of the Beast.

Various townsfolk had mixed reactions to the scheme. To them it seemed less than prudent to have a bunch of excited, armed men traipsing around Battery Knob in pitch darkness. Knowing the roster of heroes also failed to assure this portion of the population of the impending success of the group.

The Butler Barber Shop was the gathering place for the stalwarts of Carthage in those days, and plans to take action were at long last, made. The action planned was to gather at the Butler house before dark with firearms of various descriptions, to go to nearby Battery Knob, find the hideous creature, and end the reign of terror. And so the Heroes of Carthage proceeded with their mission.

The heroes sallied forth, but alas, the first excursions were fruitless. Tensions mounted. The beast was heard at close range once on each foray, but the heroes could not make contact with the beast. The sound at close range was fearsome indeed, and it made the heroes quake in their boots! It was suspected that some had taken to fortifying their courage by the use of fermented spirits.

Finally an assault was secretly planned whereby the heroes would go out separately and execute the planned foray with great stealth and cunning. The heroes traveled to the base of the knob by secret routes, and proceeded upward without lights in silence. Finally the heroes came together to wait on an outcrop of limestone, sitting among wild blackberry briars, saw briars, cedar and hackberry scrub.

The night air was still except for whippoorwill calls and lonely screech owls. Soon the first roar of the beast blared on the nearby knob! The Heroes of Carthage were at first afraid, and some felt the urge for immediate flight down the knob through the brambles. But as with all groups, there were those with resolve, courage and perhaps a little inside information.

The plan was to spread out and approach from two sides in silence, but this became impossible due to the sanction against using lights. There were too many limbs being released to lash the wide-open eye of a following Hero. Various yelps and expletives were intoned as the heroes approached the roaring beast.

Suddenly the beast cut short his roars! The abrupt halt to the roaring was followed by pell-mell footfalls going away from the approaching heroes! The leader cried, "He's on the run: Let's go men!" The Heroes of Carthage charged and broke from the scrub brush into a small clearing where the fearsome beast had roared.

Before their eyes hung a mysterious contraption!

The Beast of Carthage was discovered to be a lard stand suspended between two trees on a length of plow line liberally coated with resin. The lard stand had a punctured lid and bottom with the plowline inserted through both. The hole in the lid and bottom fitted the plowline tightly so that when the lard stand slid along the rope it moaned and growled in the most fearsome manner! The Heroes of Carthage, were agog, amazed, and most of all relieved not to be staring into the fangs of a raging beast.

The Beast of Carthage had been found! Few were they that had the last laugh at the expense of the Heroes and the town of Carthage. But there were a few. It was a prank that all relished telling for many years to come.

2009-10-21T09:52:00.001-05:00

My First Job

When I got old enough to join the Boy Scouts of America my mother decided that I needed to earn the money it would take to purchase my uniform and accouterments that were germane to the kit. Scout stuff has always been relatively expensive and you just had to have the scarf and the scout knife and the campaign cap and camping gear and on and on and on.

Anna Dalton Butler decided that I needed to memorize a sales pitch. Mine went something like:

“Good afternoon Mr. or Mrs. So & so, My name is Lewis Butler. I am trying to earn enough money to purchase my uniform for the Boy Scouts of America. I would like to show you these greeting cards to see if you might be interested in any of them.”

That was all I needed to say and do: these folks were anxious to reward me in my quest. The greeting card business started fast and stayed that way.

I figured that I needed about $60 or $70 to get all the stuff I needed to be a well outfitted Boy Scout. But sales were so brisk and my mom kept ordering cases of cards for me to sell. When I broke through the $100 level I began to wonder where all this traveling sales business was going!

I was beginning to notice some other things out on the sales circuit. There were a lot of grown men at home in the middle of the afternoon. I wondered why they were not at work. I would invariably encounter a combination of odors emanating from the domiciles of these particular customers. Some were the unmistakable smells of cooking but something else was in the air.

I also noted that the eyes of these men were more often bloodshot and the odor of their breath sickly-sweet. It occurred to me later on that these guys were getting an early start to the ‘cocktail hour.’ This deduction was never verified, but it still seems to make sense.

After our third case of cards arrived I and my dad got mom to stop ordering them. He was taking off from work at the barber shop to drive me around the neighborhoods. And there was a fellow in our church, Martin Myers who had a little greeting card business, and I was making a dent in his income.

When I ended my card selling business we had about a case and a half of greeting cards left. We had cards to send for all occasions for years to come. We may have moved off and left a half a case in the attic in the Butler house: I don’t know.

CLOSE CALLS

2009-10-20T18:27:00.005-05:00

CLOSE CALLS

There are times in one's life when he has some close calls; I've had my share. In fact, I thought I'd had all of my share until two days ago (August 23, 1988). One of the state of Tennessee's mowers threw a missile of some kind into the front of my Toyota Van. It actually penetrated the metal! What if what-ever-it-was had come through the windshield? I would not have been here today.

My earliest brush with death came at the tender age of five years old: 1945 found everyone in Carthage Tennessee "in town" on Saturday night walking, visiting and window shopping. World War II was almost over and the country wanted to get "OUT". My Dad often barbered until midnight on Saturdays: Shaves were fifteen cents and haircuts were a quarter.

Our automobile, a 1937 Chevrolet Touring Sedan had been stolen in 1943 by some of General Patton's soldiers and we had to walk for a few years. There were no cars available since all steel production went toward winning World War II. We were in-town on a Saturday night like many hundreds of others and were heading home when my mother thought I was old enough to cross the street alone (Main Street) to get two bags of popcorn.

I made it across the very busy street just fine. Folks spotted me, a little tyke, attempting to cross and they stopped to let me pass. But on the return trip I was in the middle of the street when some popcorn blew out of the bag in my left hand! I looked to see where it went and was stopped abruptly when the fender of an Oldsmobile came to rest against my chest! The visibly shaken driver waved me on, and my mother learned a lesson and so did I!

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The second time was when I was a junior at Smith County High in Carthage, TN. I was one who thought he could do anything and most everyone else was willing to stand out of the way and let me try. It is still one of my favorite sayings; "After all is said and done, there's a lot more said than done!" I have always been one who acted rather than talked about it or thought it through.

In my junior year I emerged as one of the leaders of the high school band. I knew that I was going to be a band director and I figured I'd give leadership my best shot. Lots of things worked out well that year, but one occurrence almost cost me my life!

The Smith Co. High School football field is in a hollow made by a spring many years ago. One evening I volunteered to turn on the field lights (having never done so before) in total darkness. I went down to the electrical boxes and opened the protective doors. I didn't know that the switches were on the outside of the boxes. I opened the boxes, standing in the wet grass when my hand neared the for fuse terminals inside: the electrical energy danced over my arm and down my leg. It quickly occurred to me that I had gone too far. I closed the box, found the switch that turned the field lights on. A quick look inside the switch boxes showed me just how close I had come to being killed.

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The third time I was close to death or dismemberment (that I know of) was on a high school band trip to the Tennessee Polytechnic Institute's Homecoming Parade and football game. I was almost run over again by a speeding celebrant.

One time my best childhood friend, Sonny Apple pulled me out of a creek by my hair in order to keep me from drowning! I WAS on my way down! There were many times when we boys were messing around down at the river when we had close calls. We were never really aware of any danger.

I've been shot at twice; I don't like it!

As teenagers in Carthage we were always looking for something "harmless" to do to occupy our time. One of our favorite "tricks" was to put five boys on each side of the street and wait for a car to come. We would yell "PULL" at the top of our lungs and act as if there was a rope between the opposing groups! The cars always screeched to a stop, and we would laugh and jeer the driver for being so gullible.

One night we played this trick on Gerald Maggart's father who was a man short of temper. When he stopped he had a pistol at hand and proceeded to fire it in the air as we made hasty retreat!

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Three of us went to Gordonsville, just riding around, the main occupation of teenagers in the "fiftys." I decided to see just what the '55 Chevy could do going west out of town!

As I hit 70 mph I decided that making the 90 degree turn toward Carthage was going to be impossible so I went straight on toward Brush Creek. Just beyond that point there is a small rise with just enough pitch to get a '55 Chevy airborne. Sonny Apple. was sitting in the middle of the front seat. Sonny's head hit the head liner twice before we slammed back to the pavement. It was very funny about 10 seconds after we had touched down!

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My first gainful employment began at Fred Cleveland’s Pharmacy. The druggist running the store was Gene Oldham was paying off was old man Cleveland. Competition was stiff because Carthage was a small town and there were three drug stores on the main street.

Some customers wanted home service for their prescriptions and cigarettes and I was often called upon to deliver the goods. Gene’s car was a ’53 Ford straight shift that I barely knew how to drive and had no license to do so. It was great fun to give it the gas and the “smoke the tires.”

Evidently some local busybodies had taken notice of my driving antics. One afternoon I was standing in the front of the store with my mind a mile and a half away when there appeared Dave Porter the Smith County Sheriff.

Sheriff Porter got in my face and suggested that I needed to change my ways given that my parents would be disappointed and I would suffer sure and certain consequences if I continued to drive in the manner to which I had become accustomed!

A personal visit from the county sheriff will get things straightened out pretty quickly! Trust ME on that!

Banjo Night

2009-10-18T17:19:00.002-05:00

I was the band coach in Macon County, Lafayette, TN back in my younger days. My dad’s family came from the Union Camp area, and my dad, Huber Butler played in the Brown School Band back in his day.

The MCHS program was sparse in 1962, and we needed a quick infusion of students and resources. I put out the word that we were interested in getting old instruments that were not being used. We received a couple of silver plated clarinets that had been in someone’s chicken house. There was a trombone that had been stored in someone’s attic. The solder holding it together had given up the ghost due to the alternate freezing and sweltering. It was in fifteen pieces! Someone contributed a wire recorder, and someone else gave us a C Melody Saxophone and an E-flat tuba. I have never seen music written for a C Melody sax, and I had to consult my great Uncle Willie Butler on how to play the tuba! We cleaned and repaired everything we received, and students who wanted to be members of the Tiger Band played them.

An old uncle in the Hudson family (my in-laws at the time) who lived somewhere between Willette and Difficult heard that I was a “music man,” and on a warm Saturday afternoon he invited me to his home for a visit. I had no idea that he had an agenda: he wanted to give me an antique banjo.

It was hanging on the wall of his kitchen across from the wood stove and near the back screen door. It was dingy and nasty looking with strings awry, a busted calf skin head and so covered in grease and soot that it almost made me sick to look at it. I treasured the relic, but I had no idea what I would do with it.

When I got it home I cleaned it up and found that the head ring was secured by 20 silver eagle brackets. The wood was well preserved by the pork grease. I ’re-habed’ the old instrument with a new head, new pegs, a few frets and new strings. By then I wanted to learn how to play it. I found the Pete Seeger Banjo Method and set out to learn "claw hammer" banjo pickin'. I learned to strum, whail, frail and finally “claw-hammer.” My learning to pick extended to a two-year period.

One cold winter night about three years later I was living a solitary existence at the White Hotel on the square of Lafayette, TN. A fellow I hardly knew showed up at my door and asked me to come with him saying that he had some folks he wanted me to meet. We went to the smallest cottage I had ever seen just off the square in Lafayette. As we approached I could hear Bluegrass rattling the windows of the little frame house.

Inside there were three people, a man and woman with jet black, longish curly hair playing guitars and singing. Singing loud! Seated next to them was an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair picking his banjo. That little house was filled with the picking' and sangin'. I found out later that these people were the Casey Russell country band. Mr. Russell was semi-famous in rural northern Tennessee and southern Kentucky.

When the song was finished Casey handed me his professional grade banjo. I was flabbergasted, but I've always been game for whatever comes, so I took it. It was a beautiful instrument that sounded 100 times better than mine.

They “jarred down” on another song expecting me jump in. I listened to a verse and picked up the melody, so on the subsequent verses I had my borrowed banjo chiming in. I realized that I could keep up! What a thrill!

There are a few moments in life when something happens that carries you to another level. Those few minutes in that little house turned out to be one of mine. I can never thank that sweet old uncle for his thought and the chance to transcend this mortal plane for a few minutes in that little frame house.

They will never know the joy they had provided me that night.

Lewis Butler

The ’54 Olds

2009-10-16T18:15:00.002-05:00

Sonny Apple's mom had a 1954 Oldsmobile '88. It was light "blur" and white. Blur in this case is not a mistype. This particular car had a pinched exhaust pipe, and when the accelerator was depressed, which was the case most of the time, the sound emitted was that of a miniaturized wind tunnel. At seventy, at night, in the country, the sound was distinctive and not readily recognizable.

One very dark, damp, summer night, on the return trip from our regular haunt, Gainesboro, TN, the '54 Olds "blurred" trough the hills and dropped down into one of the long creek bottoms that led to Granville. This was a very flat stretch of road that allowed one to open up and run. The proper term in the rural vernacular is, "sopping-out" a curve. Those not familiar with the term, “sopping” need not be concerned.

The picture then: Two teenage boys filled with fun and hormones, the windows down, the radio playing Fats Domino, Sonny and I talking and laughing at the top of our goose-bumps, "sopping-out" that long curve. The exhaust was somewhere between a whistle and a scream.

Just as we started out of the long left curve we topped a small hillock, and there appeared the white face of a 1,500 pound milk cow suspended in space, two feet in front of the left headlight.

A black and white Holstein was standing on the center line with her ample black rump towards us. She had looked around to investigate the peculiar sound coming from behind, and in that split-second her white face was all our wide eyes could behold. It was henceforth and forever imprinted on our minds!

It is difficult to visualize the size of a full-grown Holstein's face when it is the only bright object in your field of view at 70 miles per hour! I could've sworn that old cow had a face at least four feet long and two feet across at the eyes! That's probably inaccurate, but remember, I only saw her briefly!

Things got very quiet after we went by that stationary bovine!

It didn't take us long to realize just how close we had come to making more than hamburger in the middle of the road that night. I recall during our much quieted ride back to Carthage that I made several promises to the creator of the universe. We arrived back in Carthage a few minutes later than we would have had we not encountered the cow. And thus far the creator and I have done pretty well by each other.

Beulahland

2009-10-14T08:56:00.002-05:00

Beulahland

There is a settlement northwest of "greater Carthage" on the old Monoville Road known as Beulahland. The residents are descendants of river folks who lived on “unclaimed land” along the Cumberland River. These hearty souls were "spirit filled" most every night and especially on weekends. The term "spirit filled" has two distinct meanings that relate to two very different human conditions: I am referring to both.

I am not a member of any organized religious group: I am a Methodist. For all I know the Holy Rollers in Beulahland may be more organized than I can imagine. The sounds of raucous singing and shouting, accompanied by guitar, tambourine, banjo and an drum resonate in the hollow below. The din from the clapboard church proves that the worshipers truly are "spirit filled".

The winding road through Beulahland is barely wide enough to allow oncoming traffic to pass without sideswiping. However, more frequently than not, an individual who is more than sufficiently filled with spiritus fermenti will sideswipe a car parked along the narrow road.

The houses in Beulahland at one time could be categorized as run-down shacks. Having the status of “a shack” is bad enough, but “a run-down shack” is one that was constructed from packing boxes and corrugated tin roofing blown off an old barn and found along the road. There was a family squatting on Jerry Gardenhire’s property just above the river. Their run-down shack had dogs, chickens, adults and children all living together. The abode became such a mess that instead of cleaning it up someone just set fire to it.

My father, Huber Butler served on the Carthage City Council in the 1960's and '70's. During those days the good people of Carthage clamored for improvement. Somehow the word got out that the Beulahland shacks were to be razed and the residents moved to public housing!

Beulahland property titles are unclear to say the least, but to live independently no matter the circumstances is cherished. Not long after the rumor went forth a few members of the Carthage City Council appeared in Beulahland wearing white shirts and dark ties, carrying clipboards, and making occasional notes. No council person said anything to any Beulahland resident they just looked around and jotted stuff down.

Without any further ado the shacks of Beulahland began to receive paint, stabilization of the foundations, and even aluminum siding in a few cases. Beulahland was drastically transformed! Flower beds were constructed and "yards" were cleared of tires, junk cars, batteries and broken toys. Even the church received a new roof and a coat of gleaming white paint.

The routes to Monoville, Pleasant Shade and points north and west were changed to by pass Beulahland. But Beulahland remains in pretty good shape some forty years after the city council made its foray. You can surely bet that joyous worshipers still make the Beulahland hillside ring with spirits on hot summer nights!

Seeking My Fortune in Black Walnuts

2009-10-13T19:32:00.001-05:00

On Becoming a Businessman

Every kid tries selling lemonade, and I did too; probably with the same disappointing results as other kids. I tried raising chickens in a backyard coop for my 4-H Club project. Little did I realize that I was required to monitor what they ate and drank and keep detailed records! As it turned out my “project” began shrinking as one-by-one they were fried up in Mom’s trusty skillet.

We got our first television set at my age ten. It was Westinghouse. The viewing choices were travelogues that were fuzzy and distorted. They were followed by screen-static and then the test pattern that proclaimed that WSM was owned by the National Life and Accident Insurance Company of Nashville, Tennessee. We sat patiently watching the WSM Shield while the next travelogue was cued up. Thank goodness travel films were soon replaced with Howdy Dooty, Ruffin’ Ready Westerns, local news and John Cameron Swayze on NBC.

The Nashville stations offered brief news and weather programs followed by reports on the war on the Korean Peninsula. There were local advertisements during the shows. Some of these ads were presented by retailers who were utterly inept at on-camera performances. One professional announcer, “Smiling Eddie Hill,” proclaimed how one could make big money selling black walnuts. The film running behind him showed the machine chipping off the green walnut hulls flinging them into the air while the black walnuts dropped into a big bin. It was a sight to see and excited me since I knew where there was a big walnut tree just waiting for harvesting.

I mentally rehearsed the satisfaction of standing there watching the walnuts I had gathered being loaded into the huller and seeing the chipped-off hulls flying through the air. Then I could almost feel the dollars, glorious “greenbacks” being counted into my hand until they made a big pile. The smiling proprietor of the produce house was broad and warm-hearted in my imagination!

I had a plan: I borrowed Buddy Stilz’s wagon, the one we used to descend Fisher Hill. However on one trip Buddy had let the tongue wobble, and as the front wheels skewed to the side we were hurled into the air and then to the asphalt street scraping knees and elbows in the process. No teeth were lost on this excursion.

I found big burlap sacks in Mrs. Apple’s barn and located bailing twine to tie the tops of the sacks. I had all I needed to seek my fortune in black walnuts.

Carthage in the ‘50’s was a small village. A teenager on a bike could go all the way across town from the fairgrounds to the end of the old river bridge in about ten minutes, and probably less if he really burns some pavement. One could walk from any part of town to the fairgrounds in thirty minutes. My designated walnut tree was on the hillside above the fairgrounds: That made my journey about half a mile up to the tree and about a mile back to the produce house down on the river.

I sallied forth right after school on a cold November afternoon . My spirits were high in anticipation of gathering the bounty given freely by Mother Nature to pad my pockets with uncounted riches. The wagon was a steel Radio Flyer with low sides, and I wondered if I would have trouble keeping two huge bags of walnuts from falling out. I dismissed the problem forthwith.

There was a gate just beyond the fairgrounds that allowed access to the track leading up through the gap between Battery Knob and Mike Hill. The track was not an actual “road.” but rather a rocky affair where walking was difficult. On closer inspection I soon realized that the rocks just filled in between limestone ledges jutting out every few feet. It was a difficult climb, but I finally made it high enough to be even with my bounteous walnut tree.

It was a splendid specimen, tall and straight, with all the leaves dropped and loaded with big green-hulled, black walnuts! The walnuts proved to be a proud product of Mother Nature, almost the size of baseballs.

Standing on the track I encountered a rickety wire fence separating me from my quarry. The wagon had to remain in the track since I could not get it over the fence and into the deep gully just beyond. The tree was loaded with walnuts, but it was about thirty yards up on the steep side of Mike Hill. The town-side of Mike Hill is not particularly steep, but the northwest side facing Battery Knob was very steep.

I got myself and my sacks over the fence and down in the gully after much hard scrabbling. There, straight above me was the tree. I found a few walnuts in the gully: That was where I had hoped to find the mother lode. The bulk of the crop remained on the tree. I would have to find a big limb to throw to knock the nuts down.

My first throw taught me a few lessons: (1) That I should get higher on the hillside before throwing the limb: as it was, I could not hit even the lowest limb from the bottom of the gully. (2) That I should not stand under a large flying limb that was bound to come down in my immediate vicinity: standing in the gully I had no place to run! (3) This operation was not going to be as easy as I had hoped.

I scrambled up the side of Mike Hill until I was able to fling the limb with the desired effect. My first throw from my new position taught me a few more lessons: (1) That these walnuts were not going to be easily dislodged: my first throw brought down only three or four walnuts. (2) That every time the limb was thrown it wound up in the bottom of the gully and had to be retrieved requiring considerable effort. (3) That this operation was not going to be as easy as I had hoped.

I would not give up while those visions of walnut hulls flew through the air and the pile of dollars grew ever higher. The day was growing old and cold and I finally dislodged every walnut I could given my decreasing strength. I figured that I could still get the booty home by supper time.

I descended into the infamous gully for the final time to fill my sacks. I had almost a full sack and began my climb to the fence when I realized that I could not lift the sack! It must have weighed more than a hundred pounds: I only weighed sixty pounds! I decided that I would put half the sack into the other sack, make several trips, and go through some transferring when I got to the wagon.

Dumping from one sack to the other did not work so the strategy was a labor intensive task. Using one walnut per hand, then opening the top of the sack with my little fingers was not getting me anywhere fast, but what else was there to do? And all the while the cold November day was making my fingers numb and stiff!

Getting back up to the fence sapped my remaining strength so that I was having great difficulty getting the half-sack of walnuts over the fence. I struggled with it until I got it up to over my head, just about ready to push it over the barbed wire, when the walnuts shifted and the sack tilting directly backward over my head. All but four lousy walnuts cascaded down my back and rolled into the gully twenty feet below!

I realized that this project was going to be much more difficult than I could manage! In fact, it was impossible for a ten year old skinny town kid to get it done. So then and there I admitted that fact to myself. I was too tired to cry, and I did not know enough swear-words to make an effective display. And besides, there was no one to witness my tirade! I struggled back over the fence and dejectedly pulled Buddy’s wagon back to his house. It was a long cold walk for a kid who realized that his judgment was suspect.

I did not tell my parents about my adventure in the world of black walnut gathering. A good night’s sleep made my disappointment fade. I just wondered how much money I had missed.

A few days later some country-raised, school-friends of mine were discussing their walnut selling experiences. All their trees were on their own property and on level ground where they could drive a wagon or pickup under the trees and get every family member out there tossing walnuts into the box. These hearty families had seen the TV ads or had heard the gossip and had descended on the produce house with truckload after truckload of black walnuts.

They got to witness the hulling process and received their remittance. I am sure that they had envisioned the piles of dollars growing in their hands just as I had. As it turned out, there was a glut in the black walnut market, and the prices paid for the commodity were minuscule! So minuscule in fact that the following year only desperate walnut gatherers were willing to exert the effort. I was not one of them!

Smiling Eddie Hill was seen only briefly on TV the following year. Evidently the black walnut business had experienced a permanent down-turn.

Staying Alive

2009-10-11T15:33:00.001-05:00

Staying Alive

The summer following my first year teaching was spent going to Peabody College for better or worse. The other summers were spent in various efforts at staying afloat in Lafayette, TN.

Teachers were paid every twenty “school-days” with a Macon Co. Trustee’s Warrant. That meant that you had to have taught for twenty school-days to get paid. I had to wait seventeen school-days for the snow to melt in 1963. That put me nine weeks away from my January paycheck. Summers were also trying in that there where two months, July and August with no income. I had to do something to maintain the sumptuous lifestyle of a country band director!

I thought I could run a summer band program on my front porch. That idea turned into a two-hour babysitting service for mama’s who had some shopping to do. The next year Harris Howser, who was the director of the North Central Telephone Cooperative felt sorry for me and hired me to help with the “change over.” The “change over” was from an old system to the new rotary-dial system.

I did a modicum of paperwork and acted as the office flunky for minimum wage. Hey, it kept me from babysitting a bunch of seventh graders. We had some laughs during my telephone tenure. A fellow who had been having a considerable amount of trouble getting service left a message that went: “This is ‘so & so’ out here on Enon Road. You can come out here and fix this $%#*&^@# phone on Monday, or you can come out here on Tuesday and fix the pieces!” He got serviced on Monday as I recall.

I spent a summer measuring tobacco acreage for the Macon County Extension Office. Tobacco allotments were determined by the total acreage of the farm. Tobacco was the major, if not the only source of income for many “scratch farmers!” One single tobacco plant could be worth over a Dollar. Single Dollars were dear to lots of farmers back then.

I soon learned that there were two types of people trying to eek out a living tilling the dirt, milking a few cows and trying to keep the foxes away from their chickens. Usually the farmer and spouse were amiable and lonely enough to be glad to see you. You had to identify yourself by identifying your ancestors: mine were pretty well known in Macon County. Invariably these folks could work it around so that you became a distant relative. Their hospitality served them better than the receptions by others.

The other type had an “attitude!” He did not want you on his property even though he knew you had every right to be there and that you came with the best intentions. One in particular had done a tour measuring tobacco. He knew better than I how to divide a field so that the total of various areas could be determined. I was “spot-checked” on that plot by a young whipper-snapper about two years out of MCHS. He and I re-measured the plot, and he told me how I had screwed up at every turn. When we finished and figured the acreage, his measurements would have caused the farmer to lose significant revenue. He got pretty quiet after that. I said not a word and went on working.

I had a really good area where I could measure lots of farms without a lot of driving. Before long I was called into the office to learn that I had been reassigned to a very hilly area on the other side of the county. This new area slowed me down so that the money was going to be very short. It seems that some “old buddy” had been given my choice territory. The folks I met on the eastern side of the county were friendlier anyway.

It was an interesting summer to say the least. My dad, having grown up in Macon County gave me some advice early on that I had to apply often during my tobacco measuring experience. His advice was, “Don’t make the wrong person mad.”

It occurred to me after five years of building a band of substance where there wasn’t one before, that “this is all there is!” These and future students were never going to be any better than the 1967 group. However since I had no other alternatives I finished the year with an eye on the horizon.

The summer of the following year was spent working for Dunn Bros. Pipe Stringers out of Texas. A high-pressure gas pipeline was being laid through southern Kentucky into Tennessee through the western part of Macon County. Almost everyone my age was anxious to get-on with the pipeline and make the “big bucks!”

I was twenty-six, in reasonably good shape, and ready for anything, or so I thought. My first day was typical. My first step off the running board of the pipe truck landed my feet in eight inches of wet sticky mud. My second step or jump as it were, was into nine inches of white clay dust. I had just purchased a new pair of work boots to start this job. (Those boots are now over 40 years old and are still wearable.)

The pipe-truck would roll up the right-of-way with five pipes that were forty feet long and thirty-six inches across made of five-eights thick of rusty steel. Each pipe was about the weight of three family cars. The pipes had to be “hooked” by a guy on each end wielding a coarse rope attached to a large cable with a steel hook on it. When both hooks were in place the side-boom would lift the pipe, the truck moved forward without running over the front-hook guy, and the pipe was laid next to the ditch. The huge pipe would swing to and fro and mostly over our heads. It took a lot of pulling and just hanging-on to wrestle the monster into position. This process was repeated for twelve hours each day for seven weeks. For the first two weeks I thought that would never get used to the exertion it took to do the job. I wore through a pair of heavy work gloves every four days.

The pipeline ran in a straight line for the most part. However the pipe had to be bent to match the contours of the hills and glens of the most rugged sections of the country. The blasting crew was immediately in front of us and the pipe-bending apparatus followed us. Prior to all this work the right of way had to be cleared of trees, and the survey crews had come through to mark the route and indicate depth of the ditch.

Because the terrain was so hilly, “tow-cats” had to be employed to hook onto the front of the pipe truck and either drag or winch the truck into position. Two tow-cats had to be used when hills were very steep. One cat would be positioned high up the incline with the second winched to it and positioned about halfway down the hill with his winch attached to the pipe-truck. The top cat had to “dig-in.” That is, the treads had to be spun until a firm layer of rock had been reached. The lower cat had to be able to move up the hill with the truck loaded with ten tons of steel pipe on the trailer.

One day we had the “two-cat” system in place on a steep hill of shale when the “low-cat” operator hit something and “popped the clutch” on his winch. This caused the pipe-truck to careen backwards down the hill completely out of control! No one was injured, but it could have been a disaster. It was such a dire situation that the very experienced operator on the “top-cat” decided to “drag-up.” That means he was frightened enough to quit! He came back the next day, and we were successful in getting the pipe laid across the ridge.

As the pipe got laid we were closer to the pipe yard near Lafayette. The trucks could deliver pipe much faster, and we had reached a relatively dry, flat part of the Highland Rim. We laid six miles of pipe in one day. This was the day when I had to hang on behind the truck cab for several miles back to the pipe yard. I was covered in sweat and dust so that I was unrecognizable to people who saw me everyday and I actually frightened a student of mine I met on the square in town that day.

We pipe hookers otherwise known as “swampers” never sat down! A “swamper” was a "common laborer" with no standing among the engineers and company men. We were expendable! That fact came to my mind the day I was standing still while three tow-cats and three pipe trucks were roaring around. An unloaded truck made a turn while I stood directly in the path of the sixteen-wheel rear portion of the pipe trailer. The young driver saw me just as the truck frame whacked me on the shoulder. He stopped the truck and ran back to see if I was injured. I wasn’t, but I had learned a lesson that day: no pipeline, nor job nor anything else was worth risking my future!

I returned to the pipe yard, sat down in the dusty shade of a loaded pipe truck, “killed” a six-pack of PBR, went to the office and “drug-up!” The boss told me that I had been a “good hand.” I considered that high praise for a “swamper” who had decided to quit. Truth-be-known, the work was drawing to a close because each section of the line was completed by different crews. Our section was running out, and all the talk was about who was going to Alaska to string pipe for the Trans Alaskan Pipeline. These were "interesting" conversations. I was tempted to consider the adventure, but there were other places for me to go and other things to do.

After all the talk about earning “Big Bucks” working on the pipeline; I had made a grand total of $910.00 risking my life every day for seven weeks, twelve hours per day in the broiling sun! That was exactly what I was making in the band room at MCHS for that amount of time, with weekends off.

To add insult to injury, Kentucky wanted me to fill out their state income tax forms! Like most things in my life, I over reacted to the notice and did a little verbal dance in a "stressful moment." Actually I was due a refund since I was not a KY resident. However I found the forms absolutely impossible to decipher: a life-long 'talent.'

I wrote the following on the form in bold script , “I hereby donate my refund to the Kentucky whiskey industry, because everyone who must figure out this form needs all the fortitude he can get!” My note was signed with a flourish! I received my refund in about three weeks.

Thereafter, things started going my way. I finished the summer on a stipend participating in a guidance and counseling project at TTU. We country teachers were involved in sensitivity training: a hot-topic in the emerging “new age of Aquarius.” It was a social experiment that attempted to change our attitudes toward those who were not “our kind of folks.” It turned out to be a horse I could ride out of the rut I was in.

I left Macon County and band directing the following year to finish my Masters in Guidance and Counseling at TN Tech. Then I became a resident assistant and received a “free ride” to work on an Ed. Specialist Degree at Indiana University the following year. I became a "Dorm Daddy" in Wendell Wilkie Quad at IU. A whole new life path had opened it arms, and I was launched into the "Age of Aquarius."

The memories of the Macon County days are sweet breaths of air. I would not have missed them for anything. I’m just glad to have lived through them.

River Days

2009-10-11T15:26:00.001-05:00

River Days

The day I learned to swim those first few strokes took me across the Cumberland River and back. I was 13 years old and a bunch of my friends who could swim thought this would be a great adventure. Carthage Tennessee had no public swimming facility at the time, and we rowdy teen boys, enjoyed nothing more than trying to mount and ride a floating log on a hot summer's day.

In 1954 the river looked very different than it does 50 years later. In late summer when the spring rains were over, the Cumberland was low. At the Upper Ferry Landing we could stand upright in mid-river! The water there was just about chin-deep: the footing was solid rock! Swimming the river still required planning and considerable effort. Because of the current you had to go about two hundred yards above where you wanted to land on the far shore. That was a problem due to slippery banks and densely wooded riparian zones along the banks.

We found that further downstream, near the Carthage Bridge the water was only a few feet deep! We marveled and enjoyed our swim until one in our troupe got the hook of a trot line in his big toe. It took some courage and severe teeth gritting to remove the hook while fighting the mid-river current.

In days long gone the rivers in Tennessee were used to send rafts of logs, flatboats of livestock and merchandise down stream from rural areas to the bigger towns. However the rivers were not navigable in the dry months of summer. The government addressed this situation on the Cumberland River by constructing dams and locks to maintain a dependable depth. All the water in the river was forced over the dams. There were three dams near my boyhood home of Carthage and there were three or four near Nashville.

Locks were constructed at each dam to let boats go to and return from markets. Commercial shipments were 'locked' around the dams, but sometimes a small boat would come too near the dam and be forced to survive a brief but momentous ride over the dam into the maelstrom of roiling current below. Large boulders were placed below the dams to break up the force of the torrent often making a boat ride an 'iffy' proposition. No sober boaters went over the dams on purpose!

Myriad species of aquatic life thrived in the highly oxygenated river. Sturgeon, 'Red Horse Drum,' McMillan Shad, Walleye and Sauger, Catfish and Perch were abundant. There were also several varieties of mussels and turtles, but they were not well studied and therefore were unknown for the most part.

My father loved to fish from the lock walls with his bait thrown into the turbulent waters just below the dam. He was after Walleye and Read Horse primarily, but he would bring home whatever was landed.

This was rough water fishing! My dad used a flexible steel fishing rod and the strongest braided fishing line available. Three-ounce lead sinkers were expensive & often lost, so he began using old spark plugs that the local auto repair guys were anxious to donate. Dad would tie two or three plugs together a foot or two above the leader that held the hook and bait. The "sinkers" would sink between the boulders at the bottom of the dam and the bait would "float" just above the rocks. If everything went according to plan, a big walleye would snatch the bait and pull the weights out of the rocks. Surprisingly this system worked. The biggest fish I can remember my dad catching was a nine pound walleye. The Carthage Courier and the Nashville paper published his picture in the next edition.

The river was always dangerous, and in the summer of 1956 the river became too cold to enjoy as a swimming venue. The old dam and lock installations were destroyed by the mid sixties. Other priorities had emerged, and the river had been harnessed by large dams built to generate power for a growing population.

"Time changes everything." The burgeoning of towns and cities with all that growth brings, and the development of new elements and compounds that are supposed to make our lives better, abound. The US Army Corps of Engineers and the Tennessee Valley Authority have had their priorities and impact for better for most and for worse for others. As it has always been, it will be a whole different world for coming generations.

Lewis Butler

Huge Mushrooms in the Yard

2009-05-25T19:27:00.000-05:00

Big Sandy Ferry

2009-04-05T17:16:00.000-05:00

This is an old railroad bridge across the TN River.

This flooded structure is 7 floors high. It was a cotton depot in the days of massive river transportation of goods going to New Orleans.
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Crossing the TN River at Big Sandy

This ferry is one of only a few left in Tennessee. The fee to cross is one Dollar.

I was too awed by the destruction to make pictures of the aftermath of the tornado that went through Big Sandy earlier this year. Loggers are busy reaping the fallen timber that stretches for mile after mile. Residences are slowly being rehabbed or rebuilt.

Duck Hunting with Bud

2009-01-11T15:35:00.000-06:00

DUCK HUNTING WITH MY BROTHER!

Growing up in Carthage, TN in the 40's and 50's meant that hunting was one of the things you did. I had been initially introduced to hunting and fishing by my father, Huber Butler.

That was my last duck hunt. My mom was none too happy with my condition, but she figured these experiences were just another little lesson in my life. I never cared for duck anyway.

Feb Trip to the Owens Valley, CA

2008-03-02T11:01:00.000-06:00

The Alabama Hills at Lone Pine, CA were a favorite site for filming the back & white westerns of the 30's through the 60's. These "mountains" are very late in the "rock cycle." They are granite and were originally higher than the 15,000+ foot elevations of the Eastern Sierras that range to the west from Ontario, CA up through Mammoth. http://picasaweb.google.com/lewis.butler/AlabamaMtnsFeb0802 This links you to some pictures the