“The Country” means a hundred different things to a hundred different people. To me, it has always meant freedom.

There’s something about the lack of people and the open space that gives you an opportunity to stretch out and have an adventure. As a teenager that meant the ability to get into trouble without having someone on your back. Blow something up. Build a potato gun and shoot it at cars that whizzed by on Hwy 36. Build a tree house in the woods and use it as a base of operations for pine cone battles, runs to the bootlegger, or a place to stash our Playboy or OUI Magazines (which we pronounced as “O-U-I”, having no idea that it was French).

The country meant that in the summer you said goodbye to your mom at 7am and you got home when the streetlights came on. What you did in the intervening 13 hours was between you, your little brother, and whatever gang of boys you were running with that day.  You were 12-years-old.  You solved your own problems.  You made your own fun.

I grew up in a very small town in Northern Alabama. We had a “downtown”, some churches, a beat up shopping center and the rest was wide open Alabama farmland – patches of woods, cow pastures, creeks, ridges, and farmhouses.

When I was about 13 my pal Bucky Garner (I suppose I should change the names, but what the hell) who lived on a farm south of town invited Randy Asherbranner, Trev Wright and myself to sleep over on his land in a tent. Camping out was a pretty common activity and with enough land to set up away from his parent’s house we were in an excellent position to cause some trouble.  We were also pretty much guaranteed that his mom would still make pancakes for us in the morning, AND Bucky had a hot
older sister that we could sit and talk to early in the evening.

For some reason (it’s all a little foggy), we had decided that our main activity of the evening would be TP’ing Pam Beard’s yard. This was also known as “House Wrapping” or “Yard Rolling”.  Alabama is an EXCELLENT place to cover someone’s yard in toilet paper.  The relative humidity and dew points are so high that whatever you lay down at 2 or 3 in the morning is a sticky wet mess by the time they discover your handy work.

So, we got settled in – four boys in a Coleman tent. We had a little whiskey, played some cards by flashlight, and waited for everyone to go to bed.  We also revealed how much ammo we’d been able to smuggle out of our own bathrooms – a dozen rolls of two-ply TP.

There are two basic approaches to “rolling” someone’s yard. There’s the “We love you and we’re doing this to show how much we love you” approach. That’s all toilet paper. It gets you talked about at school on Monday and is relatively easy to clean up.

Then there’s the “We hate you, and we’re doing this to cause you as much pain as possible” approach. That is an action that takes more than toilet paper. We would buy a couple of bean bag chairs, cut the side with a razor and sling the Styrofoam “beans” all over the yard. It looks like snow, is impossible to clean up, and can kill the grass. There were some super sadists who would use bleach to write ugly comments in the grass…but I never personally went that far.

This was definitely a friendly “We love you!” kind of yard roll. Pam was a cheerleader, smart as a whip, pretty, and “one of the boys.” It was a love lick.

Around 1 am we set out. It was the country and about 2 miles to Pam’s house. We walked the roads, but in order to stay clear of the law when we saw headlights in the distance we would yell, “car!” and dive into the ditch. We finally made our way to Pam’s and the rolling began – in the trees, on the mailbox, in the bushes, whispering so as not to wake Pam’s very large, well armed father, Paul.  We rolled the cars, the bikes, and the basketball goal in the backyard. We did it up proud.

Exhausted and thrilled we started the walk back. Suddenly, I heard the “car!” warning and instead of diving in the damp ditch, I decided to make a run for the pasture where I could crouch. So, I ran like a wild man through the dark and BAM – next thing I knew I was flat on my back, wind knocked out of me. I had no idea what happened. I didn’t hurt exactly, but I could barely move. It took me a couple of minutes to realize that in the dark I had run headlong into a barbed wire fence. It had hit me across the mid chest, the mid-groin and thighs.

I stood up and looked at the front of my body. My shirt was ripped to shreds and there were holes in my pants, but I appeared to be completely injury free. It was dark, of course, but I couldn’t find a single mark or spot of blood.

Trev, Randy, and Bucky came running over and I said, “Well, it seems like I’m okay. Let’s head back.” We got down the road a piece and I started to feel terrible – dizzy, weird. I reached up to scratch my face and my hand was covered in blood. I looked at my chest and my entire body was soaked in blood. It turned out that the barbed wire had made dozens of tiny puncture wounds all over my body. Because the holes were so deep it had taken 5 minutes or so for them to start to bleed, but now… I was covered and feeling faint.

“Oh, My GOD!” They tried to carry me, but in the end they walked me back to the tent. Of course, it never occurred to us to wake Bucky’s parents and seek professional care. We made our own fun. We solved our own problems! Someone decided that the best course of action was to “sterilize” the wounds by pouring whiskey all over them. So, I was laid out on my sleeping bag, my tattered clothes were removed and Bucky doused me in Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7. Randy and Trev held me down and I put a rag in my mouth so the screams wouldn’t wake the dog.

Of course, the rest of the story plays as you know it must. Got home the next day.  Mom demanded an explanation. I lied. She browbeat me. I confessed. She lectured me about Lockjaw and called the doctor for an update to my Tetanus shots.

And that entire story is just to say this – when I see my nephews and short leash they have, it makes me sad that they will never experience the country life the way I did. The world has changed too much. There is so much, “Do you know where your children are?” and very little, “Be home when the streetlights come on.”

Kids don’t get to make their own fun and solve their own problems because mom and dad are 12 feet away watching every move. It all makes sense, but it’s very sad.

– Grant

This post was submitted by Grant Langston.

Getting through a barbed wire fence was always easier for Robin than it was for Mike. Rob deftly lifted or squeezed the wires just right and quickly slipped through without a hitch.

Even though Mike and Robin were only 9 or 10 at the time, Mike’s navigation through a barbed wire fence resembled a 90 year old doing the limbo. In spite of the extra caution and time he took, Mike invariably got snagged on one of the barbs.

Robin lived on a farm, but Mike was a “city boy”. Didn’t matter that the “city” only had about 5,000 people in it, Mike lived “ in town,” which made him “city.” Things that seemed ordinary to Robin were often either great adventures or daunting trials for Mike.

As always, with a snicker or two, Rob patiently waited for Mike. He could have been cruel, given the disparity in their skills, and, of course, he had to give Mike a hard time now and then. But, overall, at least in his dealings with his buddy Mike, Rob had a sweet patience beyond his years.

Every day can’t be a major escapade. Moms only tolerate so many grand adventures per week. Most days, a young fella has to just improvise with what’s nearby. So, to make it more interesting, common things quickly become exotic.

Not far from Robin’s place was a field behind a neighboring farm. Splat dab in the middle of the field, at its highest point, stood one lone, majestic old pear tree.

Now, most fruit trees only live 7 to 15 years, but some said that this tree was over a hundred years old. No one knew how old it was, but it was undoubtedly a remarkable old tree.

It was for many reasons. First of all, it was the only tree of its kind anywhere nearby. Trees more common to the North East Texas forests surrounded the open field where it reigned. There were Pines, Elm, Pecan, Sweet Gum, and several others … but no pear trees!

The old pear tree was also much bigger than any fruit tree either boy had ever seen. Its branches and trunk were as big as an ancient oak’s – rugged and twisted with so much character and personality.

In spite of its age, the tree always bore a great bounty of fruit, year after year. Its massive canopy burgeoned with giant green pears on every limb. The pears were always hard, but sweet.

Key among the old pear tree’s endearing and mystical qualities was its preeminent climb-ability. It had no equal among the great trees of the world for a young adventurer who must attain great heights in very little time with only modest effort.

Finally, the most magical aspect of the old pear tree was the intricate system of hollowed out branches, which fed into its hollowed out trunk, complete with a nature-made delivery chute at the bottom of the tree.

Ordinarily, trees don’t last long once they begin to hollow out, but, in spite of its many cavernous, hollowed appendages, the old pear tree stood sturdy and strong. The old tree seemed to go back as far back as time itself, and the boys imagined that it would be there when Jesus returned.

Once both boys got through the barbed wire fence, they made a beeline for the old pear tree. The early morning air was cool and sweet. The emerging morning light was soft, granting the receding dark blue sky a gentler light blue hue with warm yellow and orange tinges from the not-yet-fully-risen sun.

The boys trudged through a blanket of morning dew, which still covered the rugged tufts of browning grass. Their boots and the bottom of their jeans got soppin’ wet, but they didn’t care. It would all dry up within ½ hour or so as the warm morning sun joined their mission at the old pear tree.

Mission

Whenever Rob and Mike committed a few hours to the old pear tree, they always had to figure out what their mission was that time around. Today’s mission was especially important. The US Calvary would be bringin’ supplies within the week, if, that is, they weren’t bushwhacked by Indians or delayed by severe weather. It was Mike’s and Rob’s job to protect the fort (the old pear tree) until the Calvary arrived to relieve them.

Mike and Rob were not regulars in the army. They were independent scouts. They acted as trackers and guides, hired by the US government to assist the Army in its expeditions through the untamed West.

In fact, Mike and Rob had been personal friends with other great scouts, such as Davy Crocket, Wild Bill Hickock, or Buffalo Bill Cody. No one understood how they were able to live so long so as to know Davy Crocket and the other two great scouts, but that’s just the way it was. The boys were legends.

Each boy would take turns being the lookout at the top of the old tree, peering out between the leaves to detect possible raiding parties of Indians or outlaws.

It was uncanny. Invariably, only moments after scaling one of the wide, accommodating branches, the lookout scout would spot something amiss.

To keep the fort’s attackers from realizing they’d been spotted, the lookout would carefully and quietly grab a pear hanging near his face. It was critically important to not make the branch quiver even the slightest bit to avoid being noticed by the approaching enemies. He would steady the pear’s limb with one hand as he carefully and slowly tore the pear’s stem away with the other hand.

He would then quietly flip open his official, US Army supplied, pocketknife and etch an alert message into the pear’s flesh.

If he took a bite off the opposite side of the pear that meant that the raiding part had ten to twenty attackers in it. Two bites meant the raiding party was 20 or more in size.

The lookout would then warble some random birdcall to alert the scout below. It mattered not that no known specie actually made a sound like that. The enemy was too dumb to know this.

The lookout would then drop the pear into one of the many open holes in the large branches above. The pear’s descent was mostly silent, only betraying one or two faint bumping sounds on its journey down.

Having heard the bird warble, the scout below knew to be attentive to the message chute at the bottom of the tree.

The scout with ground duty had the most perilous assignment. He had to go, single handedly, ambush and repel the attackers. The lookout could, of course, sit and snipe the enemy from his superior elevation. The pear tree was always generous to offer a small branch when an improvised Winchester rifle was needed.

Once in awhile, however, the raiding party became too much, and the ground scout would holler out for help. In no time, the lookout scout would slip down the tree and be fighting shoulder to shoulder with his partner in mortal combat against their enemies.

Swords and Bowie knives cut and jabbed the air, as each agile scout dispatched one enemy after another. At times, though, even the best of the fighters gets injured. When one of the boys was stabbed or shot by an enemy, he’d yelp out that he’d been hit, then stumble or even completely fall to the ground.

His companion would quickly close in to guard and protect his friend. Standing over his partner he would swing his arms with ever greater vigor at his enemies, switching from sword to knife to bayonet to pistol … whatever was needed in the instant, and depending on which firearm was loaded.

Eventually, the frenzy would subside. Exhausted from the seemingly endless melee, the standing scout stood panting as he surveyed the field. All of their opponents lay dead on the ground or were fleeing in terror back into the thick woods that surrounded the old pear tree’s field.

Now he could turn his attention to field dressing and bandaging up his wounded friend.
One huge advantage of make believe, is that the body heals at an amazing rate. Within only two or three minutes, the wounded scout would be almost 100% recovered, showing only a slight gimp in his walk, or only the slightest favoring of one arm over the other.

The day progressed as Rob and Mike heroically handled one wave of attackers after another with only short pauses between each one.

Again, with uncanny timing, Rob and Mike saw the US Calvary coming through a path in the woods right when Mrs. Smith banged the cow bell on the back porch announcing to the weary scout’s that their lunch was ready.

True Story by Mike Strong and Robin Smith

This post was submitted by Mike Strong.