The Christmas Story (From the Book of Lucas)

Baby Jesus was lying in the manger, in the stable, with Mary and Joseph watching over Him. The Shepherds had come to see the Savior and had already gone back to their flocks, rejoicing and praising God. The Wise Men had followed the star and were still at the manger with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh....

When all of a sudden, this bear shows up! He has a deep voice and is singing about this being "The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year!"

This is scary for Baby Jesus... So Joseph decides Mr. Singing Bear has to go.

It isn't long until there is "Danger at the Manger!" An Iguanodon Dinosaur suddenly appears in the town of Bethlehem! It seems very likely that the Christ Child is about to be devoured!!!!

But thankfully, Mr. Iguano chooses to make a meal of one of the Magi...

Luckily, The Wise Man escapes... And decides to quit the astronomy business and become a paleontologist!

My First Deer

This should be a short story. The reason being; My first deer kill was not all that dramatic and awe-inspiring. And... it was illegal. *I am sure hoping the statute of limitations has run out for this foray into delinquency...

I'm guessing (from the picture above) that it was the 1978 deer season and I would have been 14 years old. I also know that it was not opening morning since I am in my school clothes. If I were guessing (and I am) it was in the middle of the week of season.

On mornings that I had to go to school, Dad would drive the backroads and "Road Hunt". If you aren't familiar with this highly technical term, let me bring you up to speed. When there is enough light in the morning (or light left in the evening) to see, you drive the old dirt roads, slowwwwwly, and watch for deer in the woods or fields.

*And since hunting from a vehicle and from a public roadway was against the law... The real secret to a successful "Road Hunt" was knowing what the game warden's vehicle looked like...

This particular morning, we had "made a circle east" past county line and were working our way back west into Howell County and eventually onto 160 Highway for the trip to the Jr. High to drop me off. I was dressed for school and was pretty bummed out that I couldn't skip school and hunt.

We came west across the Howell-Oregon county line at Uncle Ellis's "80" and continued on past Roy Merritt's place. We went through the cross road, on past Dave Ryan's house and finally came to the big hill where the road went around the sink hole. This is where the "Old Bob Thompson Place" started, and since we hunted there, we knew there was a real possibility of seeing deer. Dad drove real slow, down the hill past the field on the north, up the hill, around the curve and we were just about to go down the hill to Droop Harris's land, when I started whispering "Stop! Stop, Dad! Stop!!!"

My window was down and I had been watching with hawk-eyes for any sign of the elusive whitetail. Anybody that has "Road Hunted" knows that in timber, unless the deer moves, you will pert-neart never see him. As we rounded the curve and started down the hill I saw a deer move in the timber, up the hill, on the road bank.

A couple of things happened in that split second after I whispered for Dad to stop. First, he braked so hard that we slid for a few feet down the road, which put us Past the deer. And second, I saw that the deer was a buck and that it only had one horn... And it was standing stock still, in perfect position for a shot.

Some sort of instinct must have kicked in at that moment. I threw my 30-30 Winchester to my shoulder, took aim and squeezed the trigger! It was later that I realized that I was shooting uphill, from a very awkward position and Left-Handed! I should have missed... But I didn't!

The little buck ran down the road bank and across the road behind our truck. His head was down, his tail clamped to his rear end as he crossed and Dad said "You hit him good!" He pulled the truck to the side of the road and we got out to trail him.

We found him about fifty yards down a ridge top, dead as a hammer!

Since I was in my school clothes, I was spared the requirement of gutting my first deer kill. However, Dad left me with the arduous task of dragging the deer back up the ridge to the truck!

This was before the days of Tele-check so we took ole "Lop Horn" to the check station on Preacher Roe Boulevard and got "legally" checked in. Then we drove back home to show Mom and get him strung up to cool.

When the deer was tied up and I was cleaned up, Dad took me on to school... With my very own "Deer Story" to tell!

*In the spirit of full disclosure, let me say that I do not condone illegal hunting activity such as I have described here. For any outdoor activities I now undertake to enjoy, I strive to stay well within the bounds of legality. It is much more enjoyable to hunt and fish without having to "look over your shoulder" all the time.

A Day To Give Thanks

Plymouth Rock

As with Christmas, let us not forget the reason for the day. Most of us focus on the three "F's"; Family, Food, and Football, when we celebrate Thanksgiving.

But sometimes, we tend to forget that there is a fourth "F" that needs to be recognized above the other three.

It is our "Heavenly Father" that has given all of the blessings that we have enjoyed throughout the year. And whether we will acknowledge it or not, He is the one that should be thanked for all the blessings we enjoy.

And there is another "F" that should be considered. It is our "Forefathers". The Pilgrims. The 102 men, women and children that wanted nothing more than to escape from certain oppressions and have freedom to worship God, without interference of governments.

So Today, I Recommend:

"Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ" Ephesians 5:20

*The pictures are from our 2011 Anniversary Trip to New England

The MayFlower II

The Ozarks Deer Hunt - A Curious Rite Of Passage

From My Stand - Opening Morning - 2016 Deer Season

In the Ozarks, a young man's (or lady's) passage into acceptance as an equal, usually is the traditional firearms deer hunt. When you have spent your first morning, ALONE, in the dark woods, shivering (although you had more clothing insulation than a polar bear), and hearing noises that could only be the hoofsteps of a thirty-point buck or... BigFoot!; then you can stand with the rest of the grownups and recount your experience (whether deer blood was spilt or not).

The November Deer Hunt is the honeysuckle vine that grows in almost every Ozark Family Tree. When schools have to dismiss during deer season because so many kids are going deer hunting... It's serious! If you think about, Is the November Ozark greeting a "Hello!" or "Howdy!" or even "How's it Goin'?" Nope... It is the time honored "Git chee a deer?"

Now when I was growing up, there weren't no Youth Season. And, if I remember correctly, it lasted from Saturday to Sunday. Eight days instead of our present ten days.

Also, there weren't no Hunter Safety Course requirements. For the Riggs boys, it wasn't necessary. We had LRCAIOMAYIDDD... the "Leamon Riggs, Comprehensive, All Inclusive, One Mistake And You're In Deep DooDoo" hunting and firearm safety course!

I distinctly remember those first early mornings going out to the deer woods. While I was enrolled in the LRCAIOMAYIDDD, I sat with Dad and he "showed me the ropes". He (almost) always hunted from the ground. (I say "almost" because there was that one time....) We would arrive at the selected spot in the dark and pick out a nice big tree to back up against. He would instruct me to clear an area where we were going to sit so we wouldn't be rustling around in the leaves and scaring off all the deer. We would dig out little depressions for our heineys... OK...we would dig out big depressions for our heineys, sit in them and then get up and dig out any protruding rocks that could make sitting even more uncomfortable. After Dad got all settled in, he would jack a shell into his trusty, gold-trigger, 30-30 Marlin and we were set for the next couple of hours.

The season finally came when Dad deemed my training to be complete enough for me to "go solo". The step from a protègè to pursuer, from sidekick to slayer, from apostle to assassin... Well...You get the picture!

I got up way before daylight that morning to begin the process of dressing. I would start layering on the clothes. Insulated underwear, thick socks, blue jeans, flannel shirt, another flannel shirt, a winter coat, insulated coveralls... And then I had to put my boots on. By then, I had so many layers on, I couldn't bend down and Pull my boots on, let alone tie them! This was very frustrating... I remember my dear sweet Mother coming into the bedroom and helping me with my boots... And by the time we were finished, she was chuckling, cackling and even out-right laughing at my predicament! I wasn't amused...

Dad, Ralph, and I loaded up in the old 1976 white Ford truck and headed east to Roy Merritt's place, just west of the Howell-Oregon county line. We turned off 160 Highway at Rountree Corner and drove north to the cross road. Then, we went east from the cross road to the trail that led north to the old Forest Dell School. We parked the truck on the county road, piled out and gathered up all our equipment... Which (unlike today) consisted of gloves, orange hat and vest and our rifles.

Ralph took off walking to his stand farther east across another county road and Dad and I started walking north toward the old schoolhouse. It was still awhile before daylight so even though there was some light from the east, the woods were dark and kinda spooky as we soft-footed along to our stands. We passed up the old Forest Dell school building, which was dilapidated and actually just creepy looking in the half-light. The trail kept going past the schoolhouse and when we had walked a few hundred feet farther, Dad said "This looks pretty good".  He pointed out a big tree, right beside the trail and told me "I'd set right there." He informed me that he was going on to his stand, he would be back in a couple of hours, if I shot one, just sit tight, and be watching and listening for him when he came back. And he walked off with his slow, easy walk.

I cleaned out beneath the tree, fixed a place for my Gluteus Maximus, thumbed some slugs into Dad's old double-barrel shotgun and settled down to wait for "The Big One".

For those of you that have been there; How do you describe those first few minutes of darkness, quietness, and complete aloneness? After a few minutes, your ears start adjusting to the "quiet" and then things get loud. There is probably some nitwit poet that has described the woods as "quiet" or "silent" or "hushed" or "still". It ain't so!! Leaves rustle (for no apparent reason), twigs or leaves fall from trees and sound like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground, the footsteps of three-hundred pound squirrels are heard everywhere, cows bawling in the distance and sometimes a old donkey braying his thanks to the morning. And then there are the birds... Blue Jays, Juncos, Tufted Titmouses, Woodpeckers, Flickers, Pileated Woodpeckers, all with their own distinct calls and sounds. The Crows deserve a sentence all to themselves...It is no wonder that Noah got rid of the one on the Ark! He couldn't stand the noise another second! And then, a whole flock of sparrows will fly over at mach speed - they are making no bird sounds but the best way to describe it is the wing-noise of 150 miniature jets, flying over you at 500 MPH! The woods may be "Lovely, Dark, and Deep" but they are not Quiet!

And then the day starts to break... Now, you can't really describe those first shafts of sunlight, coming over the horizon as romantic (Cause by then you're freezing and scared spitless, For Crying Out Loud!) but they are... elegant, graceful, and even pulchritudinous.

Dad had trained me well to be listening, watching and making no sudden moves. I watched in what I call "Cow Fashion." Have you ever watched a cow, watching you walk or drive across a field. They follow you with their eyes, without turning their heads, until you go out of their range of view. Then they turn their heads to look directly at you and start the process again. And I listened... Did you know if you listen hard enough, you can hear the Ghost Deer walking in the leaves? At least that's how it seemed to me. I would hear a deer walking up behind me. I was positive of it. So positive in fact, that I began shivering and shaking with the "Buck Aggers"... Only to be disappointed by a big-footed chipmunk or squirrel that came bounding by my stand!

When it was good daylight, and I had been sitting for an hour or so, something magical happened. To my right, up the trail toward the old schoolhouse, and not over a hundred feet away, two does just appeared. How do they do that? I was watching and listening but they still snuck up on me!

They started ambling down the trail toward me. They would stop, look around, nibble buds from limbs, flip their tails and continue on toward me. Now, in this era of time, the only time you could shoot does (or antlerless deer) was the last day of the season, which was a Sunday. Shooting an illegal deer would have violated LRCAIOMAYIDDD so ALL I could do was was sit as still as I could and watch! They kept getting closer and closer... Finally, they were right in front of me! Within ten feet! To this day, I do not know HOW they didn't see me or smell me! They passed by and continued slowly feeding their way down the old trail and out of sight.

Within a few minutes, after they went out of sight, the adrenaline rush was over and the sweat began to cool in the morning cold and I started shivering and shaking! This continued for quite awhile until the sun began to shine full on me... then I got warm and sleepy. I watched, dozed, listened until I caught sight of Dad working his way up through the timber toward me.

Of course, his first question was; "See anything?" And that's when I stepped into that mysterious position of being (somewhat) an equal with my old Dad. I had my own "Deer Story" to tell!

Brother Mac

There used to be a small scraggly blackjack tree in the southeast corner of the Junction Hill Pentecostal Church parking lot. And sometimes of a Sunday evening, when I pull up into the parking lot, it seems there ought to be an old, green, late 40's model, Chevy truck, parked facing south under that tree. That truck belonged to W. Chester "Chet" McDowell or as we respectfully called him, "Brother Mac".

This is the only quality picture that I could locate of "Brother Mac". I found an email of one of his relatives on the Findagrave.com website and she sent me this photo from a newspaper article. Thank you Leilani Mcdowell for responding and sending me this picture!

Chester McDowell hadn't always been a church goin' man. As a matter of fact, his spiritual awakening came rather late in life. If I have it figured right, it was somewhere around 1959-1960 when he was in his middle fifties.*  As told by Rev. Harold Essary, Brother Mac showed up one day on the doorstep of the **Victoria Mission Church parsonage. He had been drinking and had "ambeer" or tobacco juice running out of both sides of his mouth and down into his beard. Brother Harold brought him into the living room and proceeded to ask him what he needed. Chester informed Brother Harold that he wanted to "get saved". To parlance this phrase, Brother Chet wanted to repent of his sins, receive salvation, receive Christ... be "Born Again". And that is exactly what happened! This big, rough, bearded, old reprobate was adopted into the family of God! According to Brother Harold, this was quite the spectacle to behold, especially for the Essary children!

When Brother Mac appeared at the next service, not only had the inside man been cleaned up, but the outside also. He was scrubbed to a fare-thee-well, had on clean clothes and instead of washing the ambeer out of his beard, he had just shaved it off! Right from the start, he was faithful to church and sat right on the front row.

When Brother Essary left Victoria Mission and plans were underway to build a new church, Brother Mac had a visit with him. Brother Mac lived on eighty acres west of Victoria Mission and since he no longer farmed or pastured it, he had a proposition for the new church project. He would sell seventy of the eighty acres, keeping ten acres including his house. With the money from the sale of land, he would buy land for the new church and pay for the fencing around it. This was certainly acceptable to Brother Harold and the church, so the land was sold and property purchased from Leo Nolte at Junction Hill. As I sit here and type this out, I get tears in my eyes, thinking of the reward that Brother Mac is STILL receiving in Heaven because he had a vision and a generous heart!

When I remember Brother Mac, he was up in years. He still drove to church, sat on the front pew on the right side of the sanctuary and clapped to the music with a slow (out of time!) rhythm. Did I mention that he sat on the front pew on the righthand side? Yes, that was His place! If someone visiting happened to take his hallowed place, it took him a couple of service to get over it! He would sit farther back and "pout" but eventually "get over it" and all was well again.

One of Brother Mac's unique talents was whittling and wood carving. He had a little building just west of his house that he used for his hobby. Most everyone in the church was at one time or another, a recipient of one of his crafts. It seems the most popular one by far was a little fan. It was carved out of a single piece of wood, with separate "fins" and a little handle with a hand carved chain attached. The fins were sewn together with a neat stitch and also sewn at the base of the handle. The ends of the fins were carved with a decorative pattern. I had one of these fans years ago but like a lot of things that you don't think are too important in your childhood, it was lost. The picture below is of one that was given to my sister-in-law, Lisa Riggs. It doesn't have the little chain on the handle but the rest is like I just described.

When you ask any of the children that were around when Brother Mac was alive "What do you remember most about him?". Almost invariably the answer is "He handed out candy to us kids!" When the kids from the area churches would visit, they always would make their way to the "Candy Man". We never called him that but perhaps they didn't know his real name. My Mom told about Brother Mac giving my brother Ralph a piece of candy one day, and he got choked on it. Mom slapped around on Ralph, stuck her finger down his goozle and finally dislodged the..."Lifesaver". Brother Mac was looking on and commented in his gruff way, "Well, he could still breath cause that Lifesaver had a hole in it..." That was just Brother Mac!

One day Brother Mac came to Brother Essary with a scripture he had read. The verse was Genesis 2:18 and this was the part that caught his attention; "It is not good for man to be alone." Brother Mac was a lifelong bachelor but figured since he was now a Christian, he should follow the scripture commands...and get married! I don't think Brother Essary was too keen on the idea and tried to talk him out of it. But evidently, Brother Mac had already been spying out the land because it wasn't but a few weeks and he had found "Birdie". Brother Harold married them (very hesitantly) and for awhile they lived in wedded bliss. But sadly, it didn't last too long. In just a few months, they separated and divorced. Brother Mac kept coming to church and didn't lose his faith over the whole ordeal.

When Brother Mac passed away, one of his funeral requests was quite unusual.

Every Sunday at Junction Hill, we had (and still have) the "Booster Band". All the children from walking age to seven or eight years old, would line up by the altars (boys on one side, girls on the other) and someone would lead them in simple children's songs. It started with; "We are the Gospel Booster Band. We come to you each Sunday Morn. We extend to you a welcome hand! So won't you come and join our Gospel Booster Band! We're gonna fight! fight! fight! all sinfulness. Until we prove to you our usefulness. Were gonna push the De-vil in his grave! In his Grave! and Shout! Shout! Shout!" There were other songs like "Root Them Out", "I'd rather be a little thing climbing up (than a big thing tumbling down!)" and the old standard "Jesus Love Me".

The Booster Band was the highlight of Brother Mac's life. He would smile and clap and for a few brief minutes, perhaps become a child again... So...At his funeral, all of the children that could (myself included even though I was ten) lined up in front of the casket, and sang Booster Band songs! It seemed to fit just right...

Brother Mac has been gone for well over forty years, and most folks, even at Junction Hill, do not remember him. But I hope this little blog post gives someone a little more information and appreciation for the "Un-sung Heroes" of our church. I am a blessed man to have the memories that I do of Chester "Chet" "Brother Mac" McDowell.

*All of my information is from conversations through the years with the first Pastor of the Junction Hill Pentecostal Church, Rev. Harold Essary. With memory being the fickle thing it is, feel free to comment with your memories and I will make corrections as necessary.

**One other thing. Brother Essary pastored the Victoria Mission Church at Cull from 1959 until he was asked to leave in 1963. It was then that he and most of the congregation left to form the Junction Hill Church.

Joy Barnett Collins kept the little fan that she received from Brother Mac. It is shown in the picture above with the little ring carved at the end of the handle.

If anyone else has a "Brother Mac" fan, send me a picture and I'll add it to this post. thebigparson@gmail.com

My Dad - "The Barber"

My Dad did not abide the hippie philosophy or styles. If anything, my Dad was the poster child for the "Un-Hippie." And he intended for his boys to be the milk carton face of clean-cut American youth. When we left the barber shop, we had "whitewalls" above our ears, a blinding white "taper cut" on our necks and a "part" with a comb-over that Donald Trump would envy!

In the mid 1960's, when haircuts went up two bits from $1.50 to $1.75*, my Dad had had enough. With two growing sons and himself to keep sheared, it was more economically advantageous to buy a pair of electric hair clippers and just "Do it yourself!"

In the southwest corner of the basement of the new farm house at County Line, my Dad set up shop. And for a couple of years, every few weeks (when we started looking shaggy) we would trudge downstairs and Dad would "lower our ears."

Sometimes, even the trip back up the stairs was memorable...such as the time I "fell up" the stairs, hit the metal strip on the top step and had to get six stitches to mend my chinny chin chin!

After a couple of years, Dad must have tired of hair cutting because the clippers were put away and we went back to Squires Barber Shop on Washington Avenue. It was quite a few years before they were brought (however briefly) out of retirement...

It was a hot summer day at the Farley House when they came out for one more meteoric flash of duty...

Our old dog, Sandy, was really miserable in the summer heat. She was a German Shepherd, Collie mix and had a heavy coat of hair. Dad decided to remedy this situation and rousted out the old electric hair clippers from days gone by.

Dad put a bench to sit on out in the driveway in front of the shop and ran an extension cord for the clippers. After testing them out to see if they would still work, he told us boys to "bring her on over." Sandy was a pretty docile old dog, and she didn't really put up a fuss when we led her up to Dad. She had NO idea what the result of the the next few minutes would be...

Dad started at her neck, right behind her ears, and began the shearing. He must have had a gauge on the clippers because from what I remember, it was a pretty even, smooth cut. He proceeded down her neck to her withers, down her chest and front legs and then started shaving down her back, sides, and belly. Ever so often, we would have to turn Sandy around so Dad could make sure he was getting both sides evenly.

When Dad had worked his way back to Sandy's loins, right in front of her thighs, the unthinkable happened... THE CLIPPERS QUIT WORKING!!

Try as he might, Dad could not get them to working again. And, when you think about it, they had just done the equivalent of about seventy-five men's haircuts in the space of about thirty minutes! No wonder they quit.

But now, Ole Sandy was an interesting spectacle. She was shaved from her head down to her "waist line" and the long hair from there on down made it look like she had a little pair of pants on!!

Now us boys thought this was just about the most hilarious thing in the world! But Mom...not so much so... Mom felt so sorry for Old Sandy that she even pleaded with Dad to "cut the rest of it off." I believe Dad would have if he could have but the clippers were shot.

To Ole Sandy's credit, it didn't seem to bother her too much. In fact she seemed quite pleased with herself. I don't know if it was the stylish trousers she now had or just that she was much cooler. Anyway, the image is firmly etched into my mind and I'll never forget the "Summer of Short-Britches Sandy!!"

*From my limited research, this is about what a haircut cost in 1966.

Of Tractor Axles and Hacksaws

I really can't say that my Dad was stubborn (any more than is usually present in the human male species.) But he was ingenious and tenacious.

In the last few years of his life, Dad bought and sold tractors. In our little shop, we would weld-up, fix-up, sand-down and paint-up every kind of old tractor you can imagine. John Deere, 8N and 9N Fords, Minneapolis-Moline, Allis Chalmers, Case, Massey-Harris, Farmall...

Somewhere along the line, Dad bought a John Deere MT Row-Crop Tractor. If you're not familiar with this kind of tractor, I'll try to explain and then look at the pictures below. The Row-Crop tractor (usually) had a tricycle front-end (single or double tire close together). The back tires were adjustable, in and out, to match the "rows" between the crops. If it was wide rows, the tires would be way out on the end of the axle. Narrow rows? The tires would be close in to the tractor body with the axle sticking way out past the tires. And this is where the problem began for Dad.

Since we didn't have any crops that needed worked, he moved the tires in real close to the tractor body. And... since he didn't sell it right away, he started using it around the place for bush-hogging and other tasks. However...he would forget about the long piece of the axle sticking out past the back tire and when he would "Hug" some object... such as a tree... a gate post... the shop building... KER-BLAM!! The axle would catch the tree, gate post or building and "Tear Up Old Jack"!!

Finally Dad had had ENOUGH! He announced to us boys that "We're gonna cut them axles off..."

We backed the tractor into the shop and he commenced to cutting the axles off with our cutting torch.

Let me say that he TRIED to cut the axles off with a cutting torch.

These axles were at least 2½" - 3" in diameter, made of carbon steel and our little cutting torch wouldn't even get it hot enough to make a "cut". You might as well have been spitting on it!

Dad was not deterred... His next statement was "Go Get The Hacksaw"

If this seems laughable to you, believe you me, it wasn't to us! Ralph and I just saw our afternoon disappear into a little pile of metal hacksaw shavings!

We began "hacking" on one of the axles. After about fifteen minutes, we had made some progress but were down to nubbins on the hacksaw blade. With no replacement blades to be found in the shop, Dad says "Boys, let's go to town."

We drove to Western Farm and Home (or as we called it.."Fester's" which was short for "Fester's Worm In Hole") to buy more blades. Now... Dad didn't just buy a couple of blades. This was a serious undertaking... He bought a WHOLE CASE! Forty-Eight Hacksaw Blades!!!

And then we drove back home...

And began "Hacking" away at them axles... Dad would hack awhile, Ralph would take over and hack awhile, I would take over and hack awhile and then back to Dad. We thought of giving Mom a turn but she was busy supplying us with iced tea!

After about four hours of hacking, a couple dozen blades wore out and a couple of gallons of tea...Both ends of the axles were cut off! Dad used the grinder to grind off the sharp edges and he now had a tractor with a much narrower rear-end!!

Never let it be said that my Dad was faint of heart when it came to matters of Tractor Axles and Hacksaws!

(As an aside... I was visiting with my friend, Danny Yarbrough about this and he said he had seen this very tractor with the axles cut off and wondered why and how someone would do such a thing. He said this particular model was a collector's item, but with the axles cut off, was basically worthless.)

After visiting with Danny today, 09/07/16, he said it was a John Deere 40 and not a Farmall like I thought it was.