Ahmonmelchu

Growing up I was a "city kid."  That's how I thought of myself back then because I lived in town, and a lot of the kids I went to school and church with lived on farms or ranches or otherwise out in the country.  Looking back I don't know how anybody who lives in a town of 10,000 could be a "city kid." 

I was tall and skinny at fourteen, and hard physical labor just wasn't part of my life.  Nevertheless, an aura of toughness was required at that age, of course, so I played some sports and lifted some weights sometimes.  I just didn't do the kind of daily chores that made a hardened body.

One of the ranchers that went to our church needed help baling hay one Saturday in August, so he hired me to augment his regular crew. (Everybody called him Little Woody, but he wasn't little; he was the firstborn son of Woodrow.)  He picked me up that morning on the way out to Hollister where we would be throwing the hay bales. 

Soon after I got in the truck he looked over at me and said, "Ahmonmelchu," which, translated from Southern drawl into standard English, was, "I'm going to melt you." I knew exactly what he meant--I would be earning every dime of my pay.  I had thrown hay bales before, but never the number I would handle that Saturday. 

When everybody arrived at Osteen's hay fields in Hollister we started loading the trucks and horse trailers with all the bales that could be stuffed in or on them. The driver would follow the path of the baler while the crew walked along behind throwing the bales on the truck or trailer.

A good dry bale of hay might weigh 40-50 pounds. Ideally, they get that light because the cut hay has lain in the field and dried out several days before baling.  If rain is threatening, you might not have the luxury of letting it dry that long.  That day we were throwing fairly wet hay, and the bales were probably 60-70 pounds each.  It was a long, hot day.

I must have done satisfactory work, because Little Woody put me on his crew throwing hay after school each day until the end of the season.  There were five or six boys on the crew, and we had a grand time throwing the bales on the truck and then stacking them in the barn.

Anyway, by the time we finished work that first Saturday it was near dark.  Heading back through town on Highway 17 I told Little Woody he could just stop at 8th Street, and I would walk the three blocks to home.  He said he'd be happy to take me home, but I insisted so he dropped me off there on the corner.  I suppose I wanted to prove to him that I had some strength left in me.

He paid me in cash for the day's labor ($2 an hour), and I started walking. I began to realize on that short walk home that I was seriously exhausted. I don't know whether Little Woody was a master motivator, or if he really believed what he said to me to start the day, but I do know he got his money's worth out of me.

When I walked in the front door at home, I was too tired to climb the stairs to my room, and I lay down on the carpet to rest for a few minutes. That's where I woke up Sunday morning.  Little Woody had melted me that day, but I wasn't going to let him know it.

Jerry the Barber

Jerry the barber is one of the friendliest men in Palatka.  He was my dad's barber, and Daddy always enjoyed the culture of the barbershop and the sometimes playful conversation there. 

Before and still after Daddy's passing, when I was home on leave from the Air Force, I would take my two boys with me to have Jerry cut our hair.  Jerry was always interested to know where I was then stationed and if I had been recently promoted.  I thought it remarkable that in spite of the months or years since my last visit to the barbershop, he always recognized me and seemed interested in my military career.

Jerry stuttered, but nobody was bothered by it.  What he had to say was worth waiting for, and people in Palatka tend not to be in a hurry anyway.

One Saturday, Daddy was in Jerry's chair, and they were commenting about some man in town whose behavior they found odd.

Daddy observed, "Well, we all have our peculiarities—except me and you," then quickly adding with a smile, "and sometimes I wonder about you!"

Jerry came back, as quickly as he could in his way, "N-now, HD [Daddy went by his initials], y-you're taking advantage o-of a stuttering man! I-I was g-gonna say that a-about you!"

Is That Boy Green?

My dad loved to have fun. He loved pulling pranks and especially liked hiding and scaring people. I don't think he did that stuff very often when he was at work, but an account of when he once did has become a family favorite.

He usually worked alone when he was out selling insurance and collecting premiums, but occasionally he had another agent with him. On a day when he was out with a wingman he decided to have some fun with one of his customers.

It was during one of his collection stops that this exchange began:

"I appreciate you paying your premiums on time each week, Mrs. Green, and I thank you for your business. Do you have any other insurance needs?"

"No, Mr. DeLoach, I think you have everybody in the house insured."

"What about that dog right there?"

"Are you serious? You insure dogs too?"

"Sure. Let's go sit down, and I'll fill out the application."

"OK."

"Has he ever had heart trouble, liver trouble, kidney trouble, high blood, low blood, the dropsy, or the fits?"

"No."

Daddy's partner had been doing fairly well keeping his composure until this point, but now he had to excuse himself to go back outside.

"Does he chase cars?"

"No, he just lays right there on the porch."

"And what's his name?"

"Boy."

"Is that Boy Green?"

"Well, we got him from Mr. Williams down the street, so I guess it's Boy Williams."

A Matter of Perspective

If you've ever been downwind of a pulp and paper mill you know it has a characteristic smell and not a pleasant one.  They use some pretty harsh chemicals to break down the wood into fibers that can be made into paper, and those chemicals have a distinctive "bouquet".

My hometown, Palatka, Florida, has just such a mill, and it has for many years been the largest private employer in the area.  With increasing automation, the number of employees at the mill has declined steadily. While the mill is very important economically in the community today, it was even more so when I was a kid back in the 1960s and early 70s.  

Many of my relatives have supported their families by working at the mill over the years, and some still do.  My dad never worked at the mill, but he put food on our table by selling insurance to many of those who did (see Some of This Might Be True: Inanimate Objects Are Our Real Enemies).

Daddy was going to drive me to school one foggy morning, and as we walked out the front door to the car, the odor of the mill hung in the air like the fog.  The brightest thing I could think to say at that moment was, "Peee-yeww!"  Daddy stopped, drew in a deep breath through his nose, and smilling as he resumed his walk to the car said, "Smells like bread and butter to me."

I have never forgotten that lesson.

Inanimate Objects Are Our Real Enemies

My dad was an insurance agent. He wasn't the kind that sat in an office; he went out and beat the bushes.

I don't know if anybody sells insurance now like he did then, but he used to go to people's homes and convince them that they needed life insurance. And what seems even more odd now, he didn't wait in his office for the premium checks to arrive; he went out and collected the premiums each week from his customers, usually in cash.

As I write this it occurs to me that some gentle readers may be thinking, "Are you sure he wasn't in the mob?" I'm sure. The first ten years of his insurance career he spent with Life of Georgia. The last twenty-five, he worked for National Standard Life Insurance Company, and its home office was in Orlando. Sometimes he called it Nasty Standard, but probably not around the home office in Orlando.

His routine was the same every week. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday he was out selling and collecting, usually until well after dark. Thursday morning was the last of the selling and collecting for the week, and that afternoon and late into the night he worked on his weekly report. Friday all the men went to a district meeting in Daytona.

Working on the report involved, among other things, sitting for hours at the dining room table with an adding machine adding up what he had and what he was supposed to have. Sighs of exasperation and muttering were common. The adding machine was one of those old mechanical types with an impressive array of keys, and it required you to pull the crank on the side after each entry. With each pull the adding machine went "ka-chunk, ka-chunk", and the wooden dining chair went "creak."

Daddy was a big man. I don't know that he ever weighed less than 250 pounds while I was a kid. That wooden chair had assuredly been earning its keep, but its "creak" was no idle threat. After one particularly vigorous pull, the chair could bear no more, and it all came down with Daddy on top of it. He leapt to his feet in the way that a large man can and began stomping on the remains of the chair, reducing it to even smaller splinters.

Now you may think this was simple rage at and vengeance upon a piece of furniture that had collapsed under him. Rage was no doubt a component of the display, but I know there was a deeper meaning and purpose. That stomping was also for the benefit of those other chairs sitting around the table. One of them would soon be pressed into service, and he wanted them all to see that no repeat performance of the first chair's failure would be tolerated.

I don't know whether the adding machine was paying attention.

A Cure for Hiccups

My widowed grandma lived across 14th Street from us when I was little. I used to visit her regularly, and she seemed to be happy to see me every time.

Her pet name for me was Crockett. Even as a teenager, Crockett is the only name she ever called me by. I suppose originally she had called me Davy Crockett, and it just got shortened over the years. That's my theory, but I'm open to correction.

On one occasion before I was old enough for school, I was at her house with a serious case of the hiccups. They just wouldn't go away. She listened to the "hics" arrive every few seconds, and then she told me how to cure them.

Now this was a practical grandma with remedies of all kinds. If you had a loose tooth, she would offer to get her "pullicans" and have that tooth out in no time. While I was anxious to get loose teeth out of my mouth and under my pillow as quickly as possible for the 25 cent payoff, I was also afraid of pain, so I never submitted to the pullicans. In fact, I lost several teeth the usual way before I even asked to see the pullicans. Turns out they were just pliers.

Back to the hiccups.

"Crockett, if you'll drink nine swallows of water without stopping, your hiccups will go away."

"But I can't count that high, Grandma."

"Well, how high can you count?"

"Eight."

My Favorite Whipping

One of my more memorable whippings as a boy was when I was about ten or eleven. My dad and I were in the front yard headed to the car one sunny Florida day when he came to the knowledge that I had violated one rule or another. 

We prepared for the peculiar father-son dance that was much more common in those days. My preparation required no real effort and consisted only of mounting dread.  Daddy prepared by unbuckling his belt, sliding it from around his waist in one smooth motion, doubling it over, and taking me by the left arm.

The counterclockwise dance began with Daddy providing the beat while I sang the music. The whipping soon became my favorite when our dog, Skipper, arrived on the scene and started biting at Daddy's legs. I stopped being the focus of attention as Daddy attended to the dog.

After a couple of swings at Skipper, the dog retreated.  I suspect Daddy was at least a little amused at the turn of events, and that was the end of the affair.

I wasn't sure that day if my father loved me, but I knew my dog did.