The Day That Dad Popped A Wheelie

In my "growin' up years", bicycles were the preferred mode of transportation. No Skateboards or Scooters for us! Besides the fact that we lived on a DIRT ROAD, which was not commodious to skateboard or scooter riding; there was a certain manly stigma associated with riding a bike.

I was still in the "slightly less manly" tricycle stage when we lived on the farm at County Line. My older brother Ralph, however, had already graduated from "Tri" to "Bi" so Dad and Mom purchased him a brand spankin' new Bike!

If I remember correctly, it was a hot, muggy summer evening, when Dad decided to "strut his stuff'. Ralph had been riding around the back yard at the farm house for a while, when Dad posed him the question... "Ralph, can you pop a wheelie??"

Now... Knowing my brother like I do, I would say that "wheelie popping" had already been attempted. And I am also sure that he attempted to perform the feat for Dad.

It must have fallen way short of Dad's expectations. Because the next thing out of his mouth was "Here. Let me show you how to do that!"

So... My Dad climbs on the bike.

You know how, when you're young, everybody is old? At this time, in the late 1960's, my Dad was old. At least in his middle thirties. I had never seen my Dad on a bicycle... And I don't believe I ever saw him on one again...

Dad sashayed around the yard while Ralph and I watched with anticipation for the big wheelie. I think Mom was just watching with with a sense of foreboding...

On one of his trips around the yard, Dad must have figured that it was Show Time! He pulled up on the handle bars of the bike, pulled the front wheel off the ground and Popped A Wheelie!

....Only the "Wheelie" kept "Popping"! The front wheel kept coming up, up, up... Until Dad slid off the back of the banana seat and hit the ground, Ker Thud! Right on his Bohunkus!!

Now Ralph and I knew better than to laugh. But Mom had no such inhibitions. While she was running over to see how badly Dad was hurt, she was laughing, snorting, giggling and trying to act concerned, all at the same time! Ever been there?!?

After we found out that the only thing really damaged was Dad's pride, we all had a good laugh!

In the next few days, a patch of dead grass appeared in the yard... In close proximity to where my Dad performed his one and only bicycle exhibition. Now I'm sure it had nothing to with my Dad's derriere hitting the terra firma with the force of bunker buster bomb...

But it was forever a reminder to our family, of "The Day That Dad Popped A Wheelie"!!!

*I'm pretty sure that the bike Ralph is riding in the picture above, is the one that Dad popped his wheelie on. And...this picture is taken at the Conklin House, at Junction Hill, in the summer of 1969.

Ivory Soap Memories

I've been having some sort of irritation in my eyes. I wash them out with my regular soap, Irish Spring, and everything is fine for a little while. Then, it starts to feel like I have something in my eyes. The best I can explain it is this... It feels like morning "eye boogers" but you can't rub them out. Sometimes (Gross Alert!!) I can even wipe white sticky "boogers" from my eyes... The other symptom is that direct sunlight seems to make it worse.

I decided to try a new kind of soap.

So... I went to Wally World and bought a three-pack of Ivory Soap. When I opened the soap up this morning to begin my face wash, Tami happened to be in the room. So I stuck the bar out to her and said "Here. Smell this and tell me what it reminds you of."

She took a whiff of the Ivory Soap bar and then said "At school...."

I interrupted with "EXACTLY!!!  It reminds me of School!" More particularly, it reminds me of art classes when I went to the Junction Hill Elementary School.

It seems like every year, we had an art class that included carving "something" out of a bar of Ivory Soap. The teacher would announce that we needed to bring a bar of Ivory Soap to school for an art project.

Our family used Zest...

Zest would not work Dove wouldn't either. Even "Clean As A Whistle" Irish Spring would not work. It had to be Ivory!

So the bar of Ivory Soap would be procured, taken to school and readied for the future Michelangelo's to sculpt. As I am typing this, I am wondering... Did they let us use knives to carve with?? Third and fourth boys with sharp knives? I'm lucky to still have my fingers! My old school friends are lucky to still have their fingers. And other appendages...

Every one of us started out with confidence and a determination to carve the best "whatever" that anyone had ever seen. A Turtle? A Dog? A Fish? The best I can recollect, the teacher had only a few patterns and we had to choose one of them. Otherwise, some smart alack like me would have tried to carve the Statue of Liberty or The Eiffel Tower.

As it turned out, I would start carving... Let's just say a turtle. After working on it for a few class periods, I would despair of caving anything remotely resembling a turtle and try to convert it into a fish... or a snail... or an egg... My high hopes would descend into low expectations.

What I usually ended up with was something that faintly resembled Quasimodo... with no teeth, missing an arm, both legs and an ear, complete with the wart over his left eye...

How did the teacher keep a straight face when she complimented us on our masterpieces? And not break out in hysterical laughter??

I do know this; when I stuck that bar of Ivory Soap up to my nose, and breathed in... I was transported back to a simpler, uncluttered little world of good memories....

You can read more about Ivory Soap Here

"I Have A Dream"

Our beautiful "Heart of the Ozarks" was not always the laid back, friendly, peaceful place that it is today. During the Civil War (or the War of Northern Aggression... depending on what side of the Mason-Dixon you were on) our area of the Ozarks was basically deserted. It became a violent battleground of Union and Southern sympathizers, with brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor and family against family. This resulted in guerrilla bands burning the courthouse and most of the buildings in West Plains and causing the residents to pack and flee north or south, depending on their ideological leanings. I have heard the arguments that this war "was not about freeing the slaves!" And I would agree, that it was not fought totally over that issue. But the Emancipation Proclamation and the slaves being freed at the end of the conflict tell me, that it was not an insignificant, little happenstance at the end of a bloody five-year war.

I was born four months after Dr. Martin Luther King gave his famous "I Have a Dream" speech at the "March on Washington" on August 23rd, 1963. I was a child during the civil rights upheaval of the sixties and early seventies and it seemed far away and unimportant in my "world." Most of the black people in our town were well respected, hard working people like the white folks... with a few bad apples... just like the white folks. However, the people of color all lived on the "Hill", had their own church and their own cemetery.

I do remember the "N" word being used in jokes in my elementary and high school - although there were no black children in my elementary school and only two in my high school. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I also joined in on some of this talk but I couldn't have told you the names of more than than three or four black people.

When I consider the presence of racial prejudice in the West Plains of today, I am really clueless. I still do not have a lot of contact with the people of color in our town. I have a couple of friends I swap howdys with when I meet them but no close relationship with them. Our West Plains college campus has increased the number of African Americans and other people of color in our city, but again, I have no real contact with them. Maybe I should work on that?!?

This brings me to the real purpose of my post. When Dr. King gave his "I Have A Dream" speech; I'm sure, in a small way, he had this in mind... An annual tradition of my great niece, Claire Riggs.

Every Memorial Day for years, even decades, our family has went to the family cemetery plots and decorated the graves of our ancestors. For many years, (at least the years she has been aware of the significance of it), Claire has decorated the grave of Aunt Mime, in Ledbetter Cemetery near Crider, Missouri.

Aunt Mime's Gravestone

Why is this so significant?

Aunt Mime was a former colored slave.

Sometime around the 1850's, Turpin Goode Scoggin* moved from North Carolina, into the Ozarks near the settlement of South Fork. In addition to his family, he brought with him, two female slaves. In the years that followed, according to certain accounts, one of the slaves "became unruly" so he set her free. This left her homeless so she had to find someone that would take her in. Scoggin had family near Crider, Missouri, so one of these kind-hearted souls took her in. She established her place in the household and became "Aunt Mime". From my recollection of comments of people that knew her, (such as my Grandma Fox) she was a kind, sweet lady and not "unruly" at all. 

Considering that Aunt Mime passed away in 1921 and was set free in the late 1850's, she lived quite a long life! Even in death though, she never gained the status of "all men are created equal". They buried Aunt Mime in the southwest corner of Ledbetter Cemetery, away from all the "white folks", and marked her grave with a large rock. An unceremonious end for a life of labor, heartache and trouble. In later years, a small granite stone replaced the rock with the words, "Aunt Mime - Died August 1921

This story of "Aunt Mime", I have heard since my childhood. This was the story, in the fine oral tradition, that was repeated to Claire. It touched her heart and made her want to "do something" for Aunt Mime. So every year, at Memorial Day, Aunt Mime gets flowers on her grave. Some ninety-odd years after her death, she is remembered and mourned by a "white" young lady.

It just may be that Dr. King's "Dream" is coming to pass. Not with marches, protests and riots. But with the telling of a story that touches the tender heart of the younger generation...

Claire Riggs at Aunt Mime's grave

Claire Riggs and "Pawpaw" Ralph Riggs decorating Aunt Mime's grave. You can see how isolated it is, in the far corner of the cemetery (although there is a new grave nearby)

*As an aside - Turpin Goode Scoggin was appointed the first County Surveyor of Howell County in 1859.

Folks I Have Met - Rev. & Mrs. James Suits

Some folks have been around for quite a while but for some reason, our paths never crossed... until fairly recently. Two such people are Rev. and Mrs. James (Jim) Suits. Brother Suits has been preaching many years but it is only in the past ten to fifteen years that I have been able to become acquainted with them. Where have they been all my life?!?

My wife Tami,  remembers Brother Suits preaching youth camps and special meetings when she was a teenager. I have heard the name "Brother Suits" all of my life but the opportunity never arose to meet him or Sister Suits.

I have had that opportunity for a few years now and whenever I can, I go to be in their presence. They are two of the most down to earth people you will ever meet. Their singing, his preaching, the humble spirit they possess and present, is truly refreshing.

Recently, when the Suits were in revival meeting at the Hilltop Holiness Church in Willow Springs, Missouri, I was able to attend and took this picture.

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist

My friend and fellow professional, Dr. Richard Elgin, has written a book. A memoir of his "hitch" in the Army. The title of the book, "Shoulda Played The Flute", speaks to a choice that Dick was given; Fly helicopters in Vietnam or play the flute in the Fort Polk Army Band. I believe the title speaks for itself.

I have stated that my Dad, Leamon H. Riggs, was a "Jack of all trades, and Master of most of them". Whatever he put his hand to, he usually was successful at. So... Since Ralph and I were accomplices in most of these endeavors, it just follows that we could have turned out to be most anything! A carpenter, a real estate agent, a tax preparer, an auctioneer (I think I still have the training records), an auction clerk, maybe a "horse trader". He ran a successful "Moving and Storage" business and a "Second Hand" store. He bought, repaired and sold tractors and farm equipment, built and sold trailers and various other kinds of mechanic work. By working with my Dad, I acquired a myriad of skills, that have stood me in good stead throughout my life.

We had a shop full of tools. Wrenches (box-end, open-end and pipe), screwdrivers (straight and phillips), sockets (standard - no metric), hacksaws, hammers, mauls, a welder and... a cutting torch. For the mechanically challenged, this is a "cliff-notes" explanation of how a cutting torch works. The handle, like the one in the picture above is connected to bottles of Acetylene Gas and Oxygen by two hoses with knobs to control the amount of Acetylene and oxygen delivered to the torch tip. The Acetylene is ignited at the tip by a striker (sparks) and then oxygen is slowly introduced to make a blue/white flame at the tip. This flame is held to a piece of thick metal you want to "cut" and will heat the spot where you want to start the cut. When the "spot" is red hot, a lever on the torch handle is pressed which introduces a rush of oxygen at the tip, which superheats the "spot" and basically melts the metal and blows it away. You keep the oxygen lever pressed and as you move along the line you want to cut, it continues to superheat and blow the metal away in a line approximately 1/8" to 1/4" wide. Pretty neat huh?!? I watched my Dad do this hundreds of times and observed how he adjusted the knobs, heated the metal, when he pressed the lever... And... the very first time I ever picked up the torch, I knew what to do and did a decent job of it!

The job of metal cutting was not without its hazards. Dad wore safety goggles and leather gloves but with superhot pieces of molten metal (we called it slag) being blown around, things were bound to happen. Such as... One day a piece of slag fell into my Dad's open (Andy Griffith style) boot top. Wowser! That was ONE time I saw my Dad get excited!

I have never really figured out how it happened but one day, Dad had a serious encounter with some slag. As he was cutting, something got in his eye.

What followed is not a mystery - I was there...

Dad worked around for a while with his eye watering and hurting. I guess he figured that eventually, whatever it was would just wash out. He would pull out his hanky, wipe the tears out and try to keep working.

Finally, he had had enough. "Ray, I've got to get whatever this is, out of my eye."

My thought was "Good, good! Let's go to old Doc Hayes and git'er'dun!"

That's not what Dad had in mind...

He pulled an old chair out of the shop into the sunshine and sat down in it. Then he leaned his head back, held the affected eye open with his fingers, and said... "See if you can tell what it is in my eye."

In the bright sunlight I examined his eyeball and in a few seconds, I saw the problem. As he was using the cutting torch, a small piece of the slag got behind the safety goggles, burned onto and stuck to his EYEBALL! Dad ALWAYS wore the safety goggles so to this day, it is a mystery how this happened.

I told Dad what the problem was and I'm thinking "For sure now, we are going to the doctor." Didn't happen...

Dad merely reached into his pocket, pulled out his Case pocket knife with the razor sharp blades, handed it to me, and said... "Get that off of my eye."

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist.....

My Dad was not mean and even though he would get frustrated at us boys, I never heard him raise his voice. He was stern, somewhat taciturn but could and did find humor in life.

But... It never crossed my mind to refuse to do what he told me to do.

With trembling hands, I opened the long, sharp blade on his pocket knife.

With the fingers on my left hand, I held the eyelids back from his eyeball, exposing the tiny piece of slag burned onto the eyeball.

I forced my right hand with the knife to be steady...

And carefully scraped the offending little piece of slag off of Dad's eyeball....

In a few seconds, Dad sat up, blinked his eye a few times, wiped the tears out of the eye with his hanky and said "Well, I think you got it. Now we can go back to work."

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist.....

I have told this story numerous times and it still seems almost unbelievable. My Dad basically entrusted the eyesight in one of his eyes to a gangly, pimply, immature teenager! However, as I look back at it through the lens of thirty-five plus years, I realize that Dad had more confidence in me than I had in myself and he knew me better than I knew myself...

Ralph lost the key to the lock on his storage unit so he used Dad's old cutting torch to cut the lock off! (I just noticed his "Andy Griffith" boot style!!)

When All You Can See (Are Cowboy Boots)

My Dad, Leamon Harold Riggs, had a standing rule. "You get into trouble at school, you get into trouble at home." In my day, this was probably the norm for most of the kids in my class. This was the impetus for myself and my schoolmates, that kept us out of more trouble than we could have gotten into. However, On a certain bright, sunny, warm spring afternoon.......

At Junction Hill C-12 School, we had recess. Morning, Noon and Afternoon. A full thirty minutes or so of wild, sometimes reckless, basically unsupervised, Pandemonium! From what I hear, recess nowadays is short, sanitary and highly supervised. I pity today's children...

On this particular afternoon, Roger Underwood and I were playing in the civilized part of the playground near the school. We were in third grade and they had relocated most of the playground equipment to the west side of the school. They had moved a lot of the old playground stuff like the monkey bars and swings, but they had also installed some new equipment that was pretty neat. There was a big, tall, metal climbing frame with a rope to slide down (or climb up.) A couple of new tether ball poles. A chin-up bar. And they had paved a large area with asphalt and installed basketball goals. The "marble playing" part of the playground was up close to the school, right near the fifth grade class windows. And that's where we were playing on this fateful day.

Since it was spring and a warm day to boot, all the windows were open in the classrooms. While we were playing near the fifth grade window, we happened to notice some of our fifth grade friends standing at the back of the class, near the open windows. So... Being the friendly persons that we were, we walked over and struck up a conversation with them through the open window. Somehow it never registered that there was a reason we were talking through the window. While WE were out to recess, THEY were still (supposed to be) studying. We carried on our conversation for a few minutes and then....

All of a sudden I felt a big, rough, hard, hand grab the back of my neck and shove my head forward, where I was looking directly down at my feet! Now... I happen to know that Roger was in the same predicament, because our heads banged together as they were shoved forward. We were both in an iron grip, looking at our feet... And right in the gap between our pairs of feet... A pair of big, scuffed up, pointy toed, Cowboy Boots!!

When all I could see was the cowboy boots, I knew we were in deep trouble.

Our principal that year was rugged and rawboned cowboy, who hailed from Texas, with the moniker of Horace T. McGuffin. Mr. McGuffin had a mustache, always wore a cowboy hat, round wire-rimmed glasses,... And Cowboy Boots... He brooked no nonsense and put the fear of God into all of the would-be tough guys in the upper grades. Oh... One more thing. He and my Dad were very good friends.

"What do you boys think you're doing?!? Can't you TELL that we're having CLASS?!?!" While I was busy trying to keep from wetting my britches, Mr. McGuffin gave us the final word. "Git inside to your class, recess is over for you!"

When the grip on our necks was released; Roger and I skedaddled inside, went to our seats, and were both in tears while we waited for the executioner.

When recess was over and everyone came back in, our teacher, Mrs. Nondes Good, addressed the class. "I heard there were a couple of boys that got into trouble at recess. I hope you've learned your lesson and won't be doing that aaany more." Well... It seems I had a stay of execution at school but I still had to face the music at home. (remember Dad's standing rule?)

When school let out, I trudged home. We lived around the corner on the dirt road so it wasn't that far to the place of reckoning. But my Dad wasn't home yet and judgment was stayed, so I did what any sensible person would do... I went to bed and covered my head!

In my young boy's mind, I figured that as soon as Mr. McGuffin got to his office, he had called my Dad and told him the whole story. Looking back, I know he probably forgot about it before he got back inside the school. But Boy I Sure Didn't Forget!!

Mom came into my bedroom and finally wrangled the whole story out of me. And bless my dear old Mothers heart; she assured me that she would talk to Dad and fix it with him. When Dad got home from work, they talked it over and then Dad came to my bedroom. I don't remember all he said but in a nutshell, he told me he thought I had been punished enough and I needed to get up and get ready for supper. And that's all there was to it.

Even as I write this, I get tears in my eyes thinking about my old Dad. He was stern but he was also compassionate and fair. From that day forward, he never brought this incident up again. But believe you me, I never forgot THAT day... The day... When All I Could See Was Cowboy Boots!

The only picture I could find of Mr. Horace Talley McGuffin (from findagrave.com)

Happy Valentine's Day Tami!

So... I really planned ahead this Valentines Day. A week or so ago, I bought Tami a real nice card. (Fellers... A Tip: When you buy early, there is a real good selection. Unlike February 13th at 11PM in the crowded Wal-Mart card aisle... and Yes, I've been there!)

I was up pretty early this morning and after my devotions, I decided to retrieve my card. Tami had already surprised me with a card at my shaving mirror so I was just going to return the favor and surprise her. She was still in bed, but knowing how light a sleeper she is, I very carefully unlocked the deadbolt and knob on the front door. I eased the door open without so much as a squeak and then just left it open to save the noise of shutting and opening again.

I padded across the yard to carport, opened the driver's side door and reached under the seat to get the Wal-Mart bag with the card inside. Hmmm... no bag. I opened the driver's side back door and checked to see if it had slid back... no sack, no card.

I had to carefully and quietly "slam" the doors to shut them and then went back inside to think. "Had I really put it under the seat?" or "Did I put it under the passenger side seat?" Maybe I put it under my truck seat. Surely, Surely.... Tami didn't find it and hide it as a joke.... She wouldn't do that... Would she?

I repeated the drill. Unlock the door, carefully open it, leave it ajar, pad across the yard to the carport, open the doors and check under the driver side seat, under the passenger side seat, behind the back seats. NO CARD!

I go to my truck. I check under the seats. Lots of empty Ginger Ale bottles, water bottles, Butterfinger wrappers, Little Debbie cake wrappers... But no card.

So, I goes back inside, finish getting ready for work, and wake Tami up to kiss her goodbye. Then I ask this question: "Do you know anything about a Wal-Mart bag under the front seat of the car?"

I see a grin and then hear a chuckle... Ah ha!

ME: Where is it?
TAMI: Under the seat.
ME: No, it's not under the seat.
TAMI: Oh yes, it's there. I saw it the other day, didn't know what it was, so I looked in it. I saw what it was so I put it right back.
ME: It's not under the seat.
TAMI: (blank stare) Where did I put it?
ME: I'm sure I don't know!
TAMI: I put it right back under the seat.
ME: It's not there.
TAMI: Maybe it slid under the back floor mat.
ME: It's not there.
TAMI: WHERE DID I PUT IT???
ME: Ummm... I don't know.... It's not there...

While she put on her thinking cap, I decided to make one more foray to the car to see if I had just over-looked it. Nothing Found! But just as I as climbing out from behind the back seat, I spotted something.... Shoved down between the driver's seat and the console... Beside the seat belt latch... A Wal-Mart Bag! With a card inside!

In a few minutes, Tami has her card (for the second time!!) She did not remember putting it where I found it but we share a laugh and all is well!

I love you Tami Ruth! Happy Valentine's Day!

And here's a little song by Doc and Dawg just for you!

"All About You"