My Brother Making a Fort

We lived on four acres. Not large by country standards but a whole universe to a child and her dog.

My father worked in the city but wanted his children to have the country experience that he had growing up in a small town in east Texas.  So, braving the commute, he moved us out into the “boonies” where we would have the opportunity to build forts, create mud pools, maintain an aviary, and know what it feels like to run bare foot through the field that you, a child by others standards, mowed with your John Deere tractor that morning.

My siblings and I loved tramping through the woods claiming forts and tree houses that the other gender was not allowed to cross.  The girls made homes with rolls of toilet paper and transplanted cacti.  The boys made watch towers with tire swings and snake skins.  A paradise of wood and mud – and we loved it.

1997 Jarrell Tornado News Coverage

Little did my father know that the creature he would most influence with his desire for open air would be a little dog that my sister brought home from work one day.  It was 1997 and there were a string of tornados that tore through the Central Texas hill country.   One of them had been the F5 that killed 27 people in Jarrell, TX, just 7 miles, as the crow flies, from our home.

One of the smaller tornadoes in the chain, however, had managed to throw a newborn puppy from her litter into a stranger’s backyard while sparing its life. The owner of that backyard found the pup cowering in the bushes the next day and brought her to the Anderson Mill vet clinic where my sister worked as a technician.  They bathed the three inches of mud, fleas, and leaves off of her and determined she was less than 24 hours old and would need to be hand-fed.

That evening my sister walked into our house with a sly smile.   “It will only be until she is weaned.  We can put her up for adoption after she can eat on her own.”  She pleaded with my father as she revealed a silent, little puppy underneath her sweater.

“Annie,” as we dubbed her, won an eight week reprieve.  Of course, little orphan Annie ended up staying with us for over 12 more years.

With such a traumatic beginning Annie grew up with a few quirks of her own.  She didn’t speak until she was three months old and when she finally found her voice it’s strength scared her back into silence .  Never a fan of too much noise she decided that she would try not to use her voice unless absolutely necessary; choosing visual and physical communication over barking.

Annie was prone to other neurotic behaviors.  She knew a storm was coming before any of the TV networks did.  Always our little guardian, she would herd us inside, away from any danger when the clouds grew dark.  She would pace, pant, and cry for the duration of every storm and then sleep like a baby when we all got through it alive.

The first Sunday we let her stay outside while we went to church she decided to explore one of our many woodpiles and wound up with a bump on the head and a runaway eye.  Annie now had a cone collar and a new nickname, Popeye.

Despite these traumas at such a young age, Annie discovered a love for nature that few humans can really grasp.  Forgiving the lumber, wind, and clouds for their abuse of her, she would set out for an adventure in the woods every afternoon.  Sometimes I would follow her just to see if I could catch a glimpse of the alternate reality she embarked on every day.

Of course, as a girl with a rampant imagination, I would create all kinds of stories behind her daily disappearances.  She had meetings with the woodland creatures about current issues in the ecological climate.  Her best friend, a deer, would wait for her in a thatch behind our neighbor’s fence.

She taught a pack of wild wolves about living with the humans.  What I couldn’t understand at that age was something more than a fairytale.  It was the beauty of a scented wind that spoke of mice and crickets.   A crackling of leaves that told the story of an escaping squirrel.  The luxury of lounging on a bed of soft, decaying grass and leaves beneath the awning of an ancient oak tree.  These were the adventures our dear Annie enjoyed every day that the skies allowed it.

Rattle Snake (Click Snake to Enlarge)

Annie’s entire life revolved around the next time she could escape to her private universe.  One day, when the winds had changed and the world was starting to cool down, she escaped for an adventure and met the creature no man wishes to cross paths with, a rattlesnake.  She came home with two puncture wounds on her nose.

The vet said that she would be fine thanks to some anti venom they had given her with their annual shots.  We breathed a sigh of relief and forbade any more outdoor adventures.  As the months went on we noticed her joints starting to stiffen.   She began drinking more water and her fur took on an oily, clumpy appearance.   Her gait was slower and she no longer jumped up and ran to the kitchen with every crinkle of her treat bag.

The poison had done its damage.  One Sunday, a year after she met the snake, she didn’t get up for breakfast.  Her legs could not support her anymore. My family, all of the children now adults with houses, families, and careers, gathered at our parent’s house to share our last moments with our sweet, neurotic adventurer.  We did what any true country family would do; fed her some great barbeque and took her outside for one last adventure.  We sat with her in that big, soft field smelling the mice and listening to the escaping squirrels while we watched the clouds scuttle by – whispering their thanks for her gentle friendship over all those years.

She may not have said much in her twelve years but she managed to show at least one little girl the simple beauty of a bright, windy day.

Annie

This post was submitted by Beverley Strong.

I was raised in rural North Carolina in a town called Altamahaw-Ossipee. Yes – hard to pronounce and hard to find.

My parents and another couple, Jim and Susan Walton, met at a Quaker retreat and made a plan to live communally in a log house built with their own hands.

Before they had time to think about it, two families had merged as one family of nine, and the logs were coming off the truck.

Willie Nelson records, UNC basketball, chicken coups and crops of corn were just some of the themes of the day back in the ’70s. Life was good on “Sweetwater” farm.

We were all swollen with pride to be a part of this beautiful place and situation. Twelve acres of land wrapped around all of us, along with a mysterious pond that flanked the south side of the house. Corn, tomatoes, watermelon, squash, green beans and many other crops flew out of the red dirt. Blackberry stained hands and buckets meant one of Susan’s cobblers would soon be on the way as well (I still need to get that damn recipe).

Big mossy rocks, tall Frisbee-catchin trees, a basketball goal and rolling yards of grass were my playground as a kid. My mind ran wild as did our pets.

My father would play frisbee or hoops with me ’til the sun went down. He would always make time for me, and I loved trying to beat him. There were also forts, race tracks, walking trails, imaginary football fields as well as players (I would tackle myself in the mud for an extra entertaining effect), poison ivy, black snakes that would scare you indoors, tree swings, a fire pit, a bee hive and a worm farm for God’s sake.

Our brand of country living had it all. Mom would cut my ‘then’ hair on the back porch after sweeping away the chicken shit land mines. The back porch was also a great place to listen to the rain throw down.

I really loved the greasy red tractor that lived down by the pond. As a kid, I would prop myself up in the torn seat, shifting the gears with purpose, imagining the roaring engine and the earth tumbling below the giant tires. When Jim would
take me on the occasional plow ride, it was literally a dream come true. I remember the smell of the exhaust and the cigarette smoke from his shirt. Jim was a gem.

There was a long dining table where a meal was served pretty much on a nightly basis – usually something fresh from our garden with some meat or fish. The handmade stained glass light shade hung over us as we thanked our lucky stars in a silent blessing. I just remember feeling the love and laughter – two of favorite my things besides music.

In the evenings my Mom and Dad would teach my sister and me violin and cello. I reluctantly sawed at the cello, waiting for the future to hand me a guitar and microphone. These were great lessons learned, and I am very thankful that music was instilled in me from such an early age.

Out in rural Guilford County, the nights were actually dark – no dull glow from street lights. The only thing shining were the stars. Late at night from my room, I could hear the record player and mumbling conversation coming from the downstairs den. I wished I was a grown up.

The punctual roosters would remind us of a new day, and we would live the dream all over again. If only I could rewind and get a whiff of that blackberry cobbler just one more time.

This post was submitted by Seth Walker.

My cousin, Kevin, and I were (once upon a time) quite young; perhaps four years old at the time this tale took place.

We loved to loiter on our granny’s boat dock down on Lake LBJ. It may still have been called Lake Granite Shoals back then, but I was too young to know or care. Just as I was too young to know what it was we pulled out of the minnow net that day.

Our job was to catch minnows for the family’s fishing excursions. The job consisted of placing some sort of bait (a weighted down and short-lived cracker, for example) into the center of a square net, then hanging the net off the side of the dock. Whenever a school of minnows would swarm the net, we’d yank it up and–voila! Minnows galore. We’d pour the minnows into a cylindrical perforated minnow bucket made of galvanized metal, firmly shut the lid, and hang the bucket over the other side of the dock. A dad, uncle, aunt or cousin would find bait minnows at the ready.

On this particular day, we caught more than we bargained for. In our innocence, we believed that the very large and sinuous creature lying in the center of our net was the largest fishing worm we had ever seen. Quite well acquainted with fishing worms, my cousin and I could thread a worm onto a hook in seconds flat. But this one–well, this one would bait a larger hook than we could imagine.

Grinning with pride (imagine how thrilled our dads and uncles would be!), my cousin and I held and inspected our giant worm. Satisfied that it would catch even the craftiest giant fish, we shoved it into the minnow bucket and latched the lid tightly. Then we ran up the hill to granny’s house, forgetting all about our grand catch as we moved onto other games, other mischief.

Surprised indeed was my uncle, who opened the minnow bucket later that day only to be soundly bitten on the hand by an angry water moccasin. Why the snake did not bite either me or my cousin, I cannot say. Someone was watching over us that day. And apparently that someone stayed long enough to ensure that my uncle was treated, and suffered no tragic effect from the snakebite.

It was quite some time before anyone figured out just how that snake got into the bucket. None could imagine the truth, and perhaps they didn’t actually believe Kevin and me when we ‘fessed up to it much later. Perhaps they still don’t believe it.

This post was submitted by Amanda Finch.