What Makes a Man

I recently wrote a letter to my paternal grandfather's brother, Bo.  I asked him about his memories of my grandfather, Charles Bryant Nall, who died when I was 20 years old. Today I received a letter back, written by Bo's wife Bette, relaying Bo's recollections:

...Since Bo was 4 years younger than Charles and the fact that Charles married so young, Bo doesn't seem to remember very many specific incidents while Charles was still at home. 

It seemed to Bo that when Bo was around 6 years old and Charles was 10 years old that Charles was already doing the work of a grown man. At this early age Charles worked in the fields planting and chopping cotton, cutting and bundling maize (milo) by hand, and helping tend the cows and hogs. By age 12 he was driving the family pickup wherever they needed to go. When he was 12, Dena was 10, Bo 8, George 6, and Larry, 4. Since he was the oldest he received the brunt of the workload. But back then everyone in the family did have to help out to survive. Anyway, his younger siblings were probably a nuisance to him. Many years this family didn't start their school year until after Thanksgiving.

Bo does recall that Charles was the only one old enough to go hunting and traping with Rufus and Uncle John Wheeler.

Farmers and Ranchers in the area said they would rather have Charles work for them than any grown man available. He was responsible and hard working. Some of the jobs he was hired to do included fence building and running farm equipment. Pay was $6/day. 

Charles did play football in high school. He was a valuable star player for the Benjamin 6 man team. But he played against his Dad's wishes. If he had an after school practice or was late getting in from a game, someone had to bring him home or he had to walk home (8 miles). And he also had to keep up with his home chores. It was such a hassle that it was shored lived. 

Sue and Charles were 16 and 17 (sept 18, 1952) when they married so neither completed school. After they were married Charles worked as a ranch/farmhand on a ranch north of Benjamin on the Little Wichita River. Part of his job included checking miles and miles of fences on horseback. For this job he was furnished his own string of horses. He would need a different horse each day. Bo remembered that Charles really liked that part of his job and that he earned $125/month and was paid once a month. He and Sue had a hard time living out there and making ends meet. So he and a family friend (E.J. Ward) started roofing houses together. One aspect of their roofing houses together included tar foofing using hot pots. Because of this enterprise it was necessary to move to Childress, Texas for a time. 

During this time the rest of the family moved from the farm into Seymour (1953). Charles and Sue then also moved to Seymour where they were able to buy a small house. Willie Belle and Rufus had acquired one also, across the street. 

This is when Charles went to work for John M. Edwards at the M System grocery store there in Seymour. He soon became manager. Bo worked for him after school and on weekends while he was in high school. After some time passed Charles became the manager for several M System stores. During this time he also trained and became a licensed pilot so he could check on the stores. 

Charles was a really good brother and a respected upstanding man! We both loved and looked up to him. 

I really appreciate the time taken to answer my questions. I loved learning about my Bampy's younger years.

Until next time,
Becky Drake

Charles, Dena, Bo, George and Larry

Weathered Memories

I am still working on the post to go with yesterday's Instagram challenge but I thought I'd take a quick break to work on today's. It should be short and sweet.

Today the prompt set out by Genealogy Girl Talks is weathered and I have the perfect thing for this.




In 2014 my Uncle Mike and Aunt Lynn gifted me one of my most treasured heirlooms. My great grandfather's old wood cook stove. And for Christmas that  year, my husband had it restored. It sits on my back porch and I use it often. Turns out, according to my great aunt Dena, her dad purchased it from a store still in Farmington today, called Chicken Hollar, in the 70's because he didn't like the way gas made his biscuits taste. He passed away when I was only 4 and I don't have many memories of him at all. In fact, I really only have one, and I'm not sure if it's a real memory or something I think I remember because I was told about it so often. But I think I remember him being really sick with oxygen on and sitting in a chair as soon as you walk in the door. When I walked in he would invite me to come sit on his lap and he would say "There's my girl with the golden curls."

I was able to find the specs for his little stove online here. I really need to find a way to print this off.

Anyway - I have one specific memory attached this little wood stove and I tell it often, but just in case my children are anything like me, and end up forgetting my little repeated stories, I thought I'd write it down for them.

My grandmother, Mammy, wanted to start a tradition of having back-to-school camp outs with all nine of her grandchildren. I'm not sure we ever did it more than once. But regardless that one time was really fun and a memory I cherish.

My Mammy's house sat on the top of a hill and below it to the East they had a pond that I would fish in every chance I got and below the pond was the field where we set up camp. My grandpa, Bampy, brought in the flat bed semi trucks we used for hauling hay so we wouldn't have to sleep on the ground that most likely would've been covered in cow patties. They also brought in this wood cook stove. That night we had fried taters, and in the morning Mammy and my great grandmother, Grandma Nall, made us biscuits, sausage, eggs, hot chocolate and chocolate gravy.

Here is the recipe in Grandma Nall's handwriting. She gave this to me one year as a Christmas gift, taped to a little plate she had picked up at  Life Ministries, in Prairie Grove, where she volunteered. In case you have trouble with that first measurement it reads: 3 cups milk.

During that camping trip I remember when the sun started to set you could hear the big bull frog at the pond and how the boys went to catch it hoping for frog-legs. We sat around the fire, sang songs, told stories. I remember how cold it got at night despite the fact that it was August and how I loved falling asleep under the stars.

I would love it if my cousins would share their memories of this trip or any other memories they have.

Below are a few pictures of the cook stove after it was refurbished and a few of the meals I've cooked on it.

Even though I think there's room for improvement, I really do enjoy Facebook's feature to search through your old posts. In going back trying to find pictures to share I was able to come across the status updates that display the learning curve involved when obtaining the skill to cook on one of these things!

January 6, 2015

Goodness me, who knew there was such an art to getting a hot fire burning in a wood cook stove!! I've spent the past hour or so trying get a good fire going to no avail.... then I finally found my damper and I made a make shift chimney out of Laney's old dry erase board.... the white board is actually thin sheet metal. Now maybe with any luck I'll get this baby hot enough to cook a meatloaf in for supper. Maybe even boil the potatoes on it for our mashed potatoes. Wish me luck!

Same day, different post:

After fiddling with my stove all day without it getting hot enough to boil a pot of water, I think the consensus is that it's too cold outside to get my stove hot enough and my wood may be damp. It feels dry because it's so cold, but it may have moisture locked in it. I'm getting far too much smoke and not enough heat. I'm getting good coals and the occasional steady flame but its just not heating it all around. I'm nearly certain I'm burning oak, so the type of wood I'm using shouldn't be the problem. Also my flue may not be tall enough to draw the smoke.
Trial error, live and learn. I look forward to trying again on a warmer day.

Feb 15, 2015

Since I've been having so much trouble sleeping through the night... this time when I woke up, I decided to start a fire in the old wood cook stove. It feels pretty HOT... so hot it burns my hands to open/close the oven door... so I whipped up some drop biscuits in my old muffin tin and put Mam's cast iron skillet on the burners to warm up... fixing to head outside to make sausage gravy to go with those biscuits... wish me luck!

Feb 16, 2015

I think I decided my wood-stove problem was impatience. I don't think I let the fire burn long enough to burn the cold off the stove and I wasn't confident enough in my fire to close off the fire box door and keep all the burners on. Once I did that it got good and warm/hot - even on really cold days. I think I'm still going to look at Lowes for a better flu to draw the smoke up over the house, if for no other reason than I'm tired of smelling and breathing in smoke.

I eventually got the hang of it, but it does produce quite a bit of smoke at first before the fire really catches.

Anyway - I hope you've enjoyed this little part if my history. If you're a Nall cousin and  you have a memory associated with this stove, please oh please share it. Or any memory of Grandpa Nall. I've heard he was a gruff man.

If you're just stopping by  - I'd love to hear from you.

Until next time,
Becky.

P.S. Don't forget to stop by Days of Our Lives where my sister-in-law is blogging along side me.

Again - I have to love FB. Today in my "memories" a post showed up that had a few memories of Grandpa Nall. I'm going to place them here so they're easier accessed:

My Uncle Mike remembers, when he was 11 grandpa had him digging up stumps and Mike kept breaking the handle's so grandpa got Mike a rock bar said you can't tear this up well guess want he bent it in two days. He still has it to this day.

My dad's first cousin Angie shared this memory: Becky, I was pretty young when he passed. Not as young as you, I think I was 11. Most of my memories include watching the men working cows while we sat on the fence. One memory I have makes me laugh now but it wasn't funny then for me or Tracie. We were spending the night, and I think I was 4 or 5. We were getting ready for bed and I thought Tracie tripped me. (I now realize that I tripped on the bed but geez I was 4!) I cried and told on her. Papa spanked her. (Justice in my mind at the time) But hey, just proves Tracie McCoy is tough-she took a spanking from the Nall patriarch! It was the razor strap that used to hang in the bathroom. I don't think she stayed over there with me much after that!! I don't blame her.

Lucky To Be Alive

This week's writing prompt is "Luck of the Irish". I considered writing about a few ancestors I have traced back to Ireland, but felt that it would be a bit dry and fact based. I also thought about writing about my 23 and Me DNA results that said I am 63.9% British and Irish but I didn't know what else I would say since it has been nearly two years since receiving my results and I still don't fully understand how to read them, aside from ancestry composition. Then last minute it hit me... I'll write about my dad!




Now my Dad isn't exactly what you would call a lucky man. In fact, growing up he would always say "If it weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't  have any at all." But after some thought I decided that I would have to disagree. You see my dad has had too many near death experiences, only to come out on the other side still breathing to be called unlucky.

My dad first cheated death when he was just an infant, around 6 months of age. He swallowed a safety pin. After a tracheotomy to help him breathe the safety pin became lodged in his lung. At one point the respirator quit working and Grandpa Rufus and the attending nurse had to get it up and running again. In order to remove the safety pin from his lung the doctors had to nearly cut his arm off, reaching in from behind at his shoulder to remove the pin. It was a very close call. I can still remember being a little girl and massaging my daddy's sore back and tracing that scar, that reached from right under his armpit all the way up to the top of his shoulder, with my tiny fingers.

Now being a rambunctious little boy (My Mammy, his mother, always spoke of how he kept her on her toes.) at the age of five or six, he decided to climb a tree one Sunday morning (yes, Sunday, before church), when a limb broke and he came crashing down, only to hit his head on the retaining wall beside the tree. Not long after that he would tie a make-shift cape around his neck and jump from the roof of the house. The boy was fearless. Or hard headed. Maybe both.

At the age of about 15, he was driving the family's tractor from his dad's place to Mr. Odell Brown's when it slipped out of gear and the brakes wouldn't work. It began to "frog hop" first the front left tire hitting the ground followed by the back right. He was going down hill and was only gaining momentum, while the tractor ride was becoming more and more violent. He managed to jump off right before the tractor began to roll end over end. And as if that experience with a tractor wasn't enough, fast forward a few more years to when he was fueling up his the family's 8N Ford tractor.  Dad recalled that the exhaust on that little tractor was hot and it was near overheating. When he began filling it with gas some splashed onto the exhaust and before he knew it the tractor was in flames. Not too far off in the distance was the farm propane thank. Some quick thinking and he began kicking up all the dirt he could and threw it on the tractor until finally the fire went out. Another close call.



He's not even 18 yet, and I'm just getting started. Sometime in either his Junior or Senior year of High School (He remembers almost not graduating because of missing so much school) he found himself hanging side by side with a half skinned calf, on a gambrel-bar, used in dressing animals at the family owned processing plant in Canehill - known as McClellans. Dad was skinning a black angus calf when the cord of the hoist had come unplugged. FDA regulations state that the electrical outlets must be 10 feet up the wall. Now growing up around the processing plant I have an good understanding of how wet and slippery and kind of bulky the boots and aprons can be. I didn't spend much time on the kill floor, but I remember  the conditions very well. Dad, dressed in his heavy, yellow apron and black rubber boots, got out the ladder and began to climb it in order plug the hoist back in. His boots would've been covered in blood and other slippery animal excretions and of course, he slipped, and when he did, he fell into the hook on the gambrel bar and was left hanging. Next door his mom and dad were processing chickens and just inside past the cooler, his Granddad Rufus and Grandma Willie Belle were cutting meat. There was a lot of machinery running and no one could hear him screaming for help. He said he eventually used his good arm to wedge it between him and the half-skinned calf and was able to push himself off, just before Rufus had shut off the band saw. Once he did, Grandma Willie Belle heard him yelling and they came running. He recalls his granddad telling him it wasn't that bad, saying, "I've had worse in my eye-ball". Of course, he hadn't, and dad was taken to the local doctor in town, Dr. Tucker. A fairly good indicator of the times, he remembers the nurse cleaning his wound just in time for the ashes from Dr. Tucker's cigarette to fall into his wound.

The next tale come from right around the time I was born. He and his best friend Cary Bartholomew and Cary's younger brother Mitch were trying to load some cattle into a gooseneck trailer when the truck slipped out of gear and began to roll down hill. Dad recalled that Mitch ran for the truck first, but that Cary yelled at him to stop. Dad being closer to the truck anyway, decided he'd try to get in and try to stop it. He reached the truck and just as soon as he got the door open and started to step in the trailer jack-knifed and crushed the door into his chest and neck. Crushing his windpipe and lungs. The last thing he remembered was slapping the back glass just before passing out and seeing a white light. By then Cary made it to the truck and entered in on the passenger side giving it some gas. The tires spun out but he was able to move the truck about a foot, which was just enough slack to let the door open enough for dad to fall out. Working like he did on the farm, my dad was a pretty stout young man. He recalls the ER doctor telling him if he hadn't of been quite so muscular the impact of that trailer pinning him in the door would've left him with pizza for lungs.

Fast forward to when I was about 11 or 12. I had my heart set on getting a horse so Dad bought me one. A green broke strawberry roan filly. She got out one day and Dad was trying to herd her in the right direction with the truck. She was running at him hard and made no signs of stopping for the truck, just before she jumped right in the back,  he cut the wheels hard and she clipped the back side sending the truck rolling. The horse and Dad made it out alive, but the truck was totaled. I remember that horse with fondness and then also not-so-much. She was very gentle as long as you were petting her. But once the saddle went on, it was a different story. When he was trying to break her, he and Dawna each took turns riding her so she would be completely wore out by the time it was my turn in the saddle. After what seemed like an eternity, it was my turn. I climbed on and was ready for the ride of my life but she just stood there, refusing to move. He told me to give her a little kick. I did, and she just stood there. He told me to kick her again, and again she just stood there. Then he told me to kick her harder, and you guessed it - she just stood there! Finally he said, "Beck, I can spit harder than you can kick!" And I thought to myself, "Oh, yeah?" So I hauled off and kicked her in the flanks with all I had and well... that was the last thing I remembered before coming too on the outside of the corral screaming at Dawna who was coming in across the field through the gate. I sure was sore and thought I had broken my arm, but the doctor in Lincoln said I had just bruised the bone.

Another close call was when Dad was brush hogging and stirred up a hornets nest. He was stung so many times that he swelled up so badly he had to put a straw in his mouth just to get air.

There are many more close calls, as it can be a dangerous job being a cattle farmer, and even more so working at the sale barn. I remember some of my favorite times was when he would come home from the sale with all his stories of near injury to both himself and the boys he worked with. My dad may not be one much for luck when it comes to equipment working, or things going right, but I'd say he's definitely got a guardian angel when it comes to keeping him alive, and I couldn't be more grateful! I love you Dad!

Until next week,
Becky

And don't forget to check out my blogging partner in this #52Ancestors challenge - my talented SIL over at Days of Our Lives. This week she uses Irish Limericks.

*Winnie Sue's sister, Francis, says they drove to the hospital in their station wagon with a mattress in the back and made Winnie Sue and Charles go take a nap in it while she watched over Johnny. She said that because he had that trach you couldn't hear him crying but you could see his tears. Such a pitiful story but amazing he survived!!