Lemme tell you something right now: I’m 13 years old, and being trapped on your front porch when your dog has something treed in a hollow log is pretty dang hard to take. But, heck, I was gonna sit right there till Momma called me in for dinner. You know why? Well, it’s because Momma had threatened me with the switching of my life if I as much as set foot in the yard, and, whooo, just the thought of one of Daddy’s switchings makes me shake. It ain’t worth it—not by a long shot. That's why I didn't hightail it across the yard to the peach orchard to check out what Sniffer had treed.
But Sniffer just kept up the howling, and pretty soon he was going plum dog crazy. Well, I walked up and down that porch till I had nearly worn the paint off, but every time I started to sit back down old Sniffer would cut loose with another round of howls. Shoot, the dang dog started sticking his head in the log, and then he'd dig around it and bite the log. I ain't never seen nothing like it.
Well, I took it about as long as I could, and then when I couldn’t stand it another minute. I started to step off the front porch, but before my foot even hit the ground I had second thoughts: Whoa! Watch out, boy! This ain’t just any Thanksgiving.
Shoot, even before the War started Thanksgiving was already one of Momma’s favorite holidays, and Thanksgiving, 1945, was gonna be the biggest yet. Yeah, I’ve got one of them mommas who makes a durn big deal out of holidays. Heck, I ain’t got any choice, but, of course, Momma does everything and all I’ve gotta do is show up clean as a whistle, wearing my good Sunday clothes and have my hair combed.
I sure knew better than to get jump off that porch and get dirty, but Sniffer kept on howling and growling and I started to get itchy. Heck, that sorry dog never trees nothing, and now with me stuck here on the porch, he finally got something cornered. Shoot, if it weren’t for that dang War that was just over, Momma wouldn’t have been so worked up about Thanksgiving. But the end of the War was all anybody talked about those days.
I had several uncles who’d been fighting them sorry Japs, and this Thanksgiving Momma was gonna make sure that not only did we remember them, but we were gonna go over a list of every soldier from Norphlet. And you’re not gonna believe this, but, we were gonna not only read their names at the table, but make sure each one gets a little special prayer. Do you believe that? Shoot, I’d be starving to death before Momma was through. But you know something? This year was a whole bunch different from last year, because we’d whipped them sorry Germans and the stinking Japs, and just awhile back Daddy said the soldiers from our little town would be coming home soon.
On Sunday night before Thanksgiving that year, Daddy and I were listening to Walter Winchell’s newscast on the radio. Our family never missed that famous newscaster Walter Winchell and we all knew how he starts every newscast. Heck, I can even say it now: “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea… let’s go to press!”
Well, that Sunday night his first story started out like this: “Japan is now occupied by U. S. troops and Marines from the 11th Airborne Division, as well as other troops. Official casualty figures from the Atomic Bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki are estimated to be between 110,000 and 165,000 dead.”
Yeah, that was the big news. The War was over cause we bombed them Japs with two Atom Bombs. Gosh, I remember how bad the War seemed on Thanksgiving, 1944, and I guess we do had a lot to be thankful for that next year.
But back to old, worthless Sniffer: Course, I tried not to pay him any attention, but that was shor hard to do. Heck, I was sitting there in that stupid swing trying to read a funny book with a hound just going crazy not 50 yards away. Shoot, I figured something had wandered up from the swamp and Sniffer had it cornered. Oh, yeah, you don’t know nothin’ about Flat Creek Swamp and who I am, do you? Okay, I’ll just fill you in and then I’ll tell you the rest of what happened to me that Thanksgiving Day.
Well, first off, I’m Richard Mason, and I live with my momma and daddy on a 40-acre farm in south Arkansas about a mile down the El Dorado Highway from the little town of Norphlet. Our house sits right on the edge of big Flat Creek Swamp, which is just huge. That dang swamp covers thousands and thousands of acres, and, boy, the very most interesting thing is right in the middle of the swamp where beavers have dammed up Flat Creek and made a great big lake. Wow, talk about an exciting place! Me and my good friend John Clayton Reed spends a lot of time exploring the swamp. Heck, that’s our favorite thing to do, but, boy, let me tell you something right now, that dang swamp is just plain spooky and full of snakes—bad ones, too, you know, like cottonmouths. They’ll kill you dead as a sack of hammers so quick it'll make your head swim.
Well, I was still trying to settle down in the swing and finish reading that “Captain Marvel” funny book, when Sniffer just went out of his ever-loving dog mind and started biting the log like crazy, and he went on and on making a high, squeaky howl like nothing I've ever heard. I couldn’t stand it no longer. Heck, who could? There weren’t a boy living on this earth that could just stand there with that hound going on like that.
“Dadgum it! I’ll bet he’s treed a big swamp rabbit in that hollow log! I just know he has!” I kinda mumbled. “Probably one of ’em rabbits that are as big as some old coon!” I stood there on the edge of the porch for a minute watching Sniffer, and then, when I couldn't stand it no longer, I thought of something. What if?… yeah, go ahead… uh, huh. Yep, I’m gonna find out what old Sniffer has treed. I smiled as I walked to the kitchen door and looked in. The first part of my little plan was to see what Momma and Daddy was doing. I just walked in the house like I was gonna go get a glass of water and when I got to the kitchen door I said, “Hi, Momma.”
“Richard, don’t stomp in here. You’ll make the rolls fall.”
“Yes ma’am.” I started to tiptoe back and as I did I checked out Daddy. I could see him at the kitchen table leaning over the radio listening to the news, and I knew he wasn’t gonna move for the next 30 minutes.
Well, I tiptoed back toward the porch just thinking, Momma’s making hot rolls. That’ll take 20 minutes at least. She’ll never miss me, and, heck, Daddy’s gonna be glued to that radio. I was kinda laughing because my plan was just perfect, and I was getting away with something. Go! Go, Richard! I jumped off the side of the porch and took off like I’d been shot out of a cannon, straight across our yard toward the peach orchard. Ha! They’ll never know I’m gone I’m gonna get that swamp rabbit and put it in one of the chicken pens!
Boy, I was going like 60 when I got to the barbed wire fence around the peach orchard, and I put one foot on the middle strand, the other on the top, and jumped.
“Ahaaa! No! No!” I’ll be danged if my sleeve didn’t get caught on a barb, and it ripped my shirt all the way from wrist to elbow. Well, lots of flashed through my mind: Oh, my God, dang it, double dang it! Maybe I can pin it! Yeah, I can pin it and after dinner I’ll sneak into Momma’s sewing machine and get a needle and thread.—yes! yes!... good plan!
Sniffer was still having a dog hissy fit around the old hollow log, and I ran over to where he was barking.
“Sniffer, get back!” I pushed him outta the way, looked in the log, and you bet, yeah, I could shor could see something. There, just back in the dark part of the hollow log, was something furry.
"Yes! Good boy, Sniffer!—A big swamp rabbit!” I yelled. “Sniffer’s done treed a huge swamp rabbit in this hollow log!”
Wow, was I excited. I got down on my hands and knees and reached in as far as I could, but my arms were just a little too short. Finally, I rolled around on the ground in the dirt and leaves until I got my whole shoulder in the hollow log, and then I felt the rabbit’s fur.
“Okay, Mr. Swamp Rabbit, come outta there!” I grabbed a handful of fur and started pulling the critter. Then all of a sudden something just chomped down right across my fingers, and it hurt like the dickens.
“Ahaaaaa! Ohoooo! Oh! Oh! Oh!”
There was a snarl from inside th
e log, as I yanked my hand out, and I knew for dang sure it weren’t no rabbit. Heck, if you lived in Norphlet you wouldn't have no doubt what made that snarl.
“It ain’t a rabbit! It’s a big, old, sorry possum! Dang! Dang! Dang!” Them two rows of possum teeth had made little cuts all across my fingers right up to my wrist, and blood just started dripping everywheres. I looked down at my hand mumbling, “Dang, you sorry possum!” And before I thought, I pulled my hand against my stomach, and wiped blood all over my clean, white shirt. Then I glanced down at my shoes and pants.
“Oh, no!” I mumbled. Crawling around and rolling on the ground in the leaves and dirt covered my pants and shirt with all kind of stuff. Shoot, the little cuts on my hand weren't nothing, but them spots all over the front of my Sunday white shirt was trouble, trouble, trouble. I was thinking like crazy as I looked at my shirt and pants. My gosh, I’ve gotta clean this shirt and pants before I go back in the house… I need water… good! Good plan! I started for the barn just nearly flying, cause in our barnyard there’s a big, wooden drinking trough for the cows and the mules, and I was planning to wash off the blood and clean my pants there. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, then I’ll slip in the house and find a pin to pin up this shirt—it’s gonna be okay.
I was just like a flash as I dashed across the peach orchard, yanked open the gate, and headed for the water trough, and then, oh, you wouldn’t believe what happened in a million, million years. Oh, my gosh, my left foot came down right in the middle of a biggest pile of cow manure you’ve ever seen and that gunk went all the way up to my ankle.
“Dang! Dang! Dang! Oh, my gosh, not my new shoes! I’ve gotta get this off my shoes, or I’m as good as dead!—The brush, where’s the brush we use to brush the mules?—Where’s that stupid brush?—That’s what I need!” Heck, I was just a-hollering I was so upset.
Yeah, you guessed it. I was beginning to panic as I yanked the barn door open and rushed in. Then, up on the rafter above the door I spotted the mule brush. I reached up to get it, and as I did my hand knocked a big red wasp’s nest off the windowsill. Trouble was in my face before I could move, and two red wasps stung me right below my left eye.
“Oh! Ohooo! Ahaaaaa! Dad-gummed, stupid wasps!” Shoot, that hurt like the dickens, but them wasps was the last thing on my mind. Oh, I’ve got to hurry! Hurry! I dashed back to the water trough running as fast as I could. I had to clean up and change clothes or it was gonna be really, really big trouble for me. I dipped up some water with the brush and tried to wash off the shirt first, but the water just made the blood spots bigger. Then when I started brushing the dirt on my pants and sleeves it turned to mud. Shoot, have you ever gotten in such bad trouble that you can’t breathe? Well, I was just barely breathing, and making little snorts as I thought, What? What am I gonna do now?
Well, I didn’t hafta wait long for the answer to that question, cause right then I heard Daddy’s whistle. A long, shrill whistle that has only one meaning: Come to the house immediately. Well, course, I was just petrified, and I couldn’t even wiggle I was so scared. Heck, I stood there with my good white shirt torn, bloody, and dirty, and the only Sunday pants I owned covered in dirt; cow manure splattered all over my new shoes, and one eye swollen shut from the wasp stings. You know, I thought about just taking off for the woods, maybe running away and joining the circus, or at least hiding out for a few minutes and then trying to slip back in the house after Daddy went back in, but before I could move Daddy walked around the corner of the house. Heck, for nearly a whole minute he looked at me. Then he shook his head, and I knew trouble was coming, big time trouble.
“Richard, what in the world have you been doing! You know your mother told you not to leave the front porch! Look at your good Sunday clothes, your shoes—and what’s wrong with your eye?”
“Wasps stung me.”
Daddy shook his head and from the look on his face I knew what the next words were gonna be; the words that will make any kid alive just want to drop dead.
“Richard, cut me a switch!”
Every time I hear Daddy say those words I just stop breathing for a little bit, and then start whimpering like some poor, little beat-up-on kid, hoping he’ll feel sorry for me. And then I beg a bunch and promise to do everything I can think of. You know, offering to wash the car, go to Sunday School for the rest of my life, mow the yard, … anything that crosses my brain will come out my mouth when Daddy says the words “cut me a switch.” Shoot, I don't know why I say all that stuff, cause I ain't got a prayer of ever getting out of a switching. This one would be just like the last one and that one the one before it. I was a goner, and I knew why.
Daddy just looked at me and shook his head, like, “Boy, you’re gonna get the switching of your life and you know why.” And heck, I did know why, and that Thanksgiving Day there weren’t an ounce of doubt in my mind that I was getting what I deserved. Well, let's just say a good talking to would have been enough for me, but talking ain't Daddy's style, so I started walking over to cut a switch. (Hey, you know something? That part of the switching ain't fair. It's like telling some criminal that’s about to be put in the electric chair to work on the wiring.) But I limped and whined, as I made my way over to the old willow tree.
Heck, the willow tree in our back yard is almost bare from all the switches that have been cut. I looked up at the tree and started to select a switch. No, that limb’s too big, maybe this little one? Uh, uh, too small. Daddy will cut a big one if I bring him that. Well, maybe this one. It’s about the right size and that dark spot in the middle might break. I cut the switch and walked back over to Daddy, and as usual I was crying even before the first lick. I learned a long time ago Daddy will slack up if I cry a lot.
“Here Daddy,” I sobbed. Daddy’s left hand tightened around my wrist as the first lick of the switch hit my legs.
“Oh! Ahaaaa! Don’t! Ahaaaa! Ahaaaaaa! Stop! Stop! I’m sorry!” I yelled, jumping as the switch whipped though the air, and every little bit I’d let out a special scream that I’d practiced. Finally Daddy whacked me one last time and he said, “There, I hope you’ve learned a lesson about minding!”
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry. Oh, Daddy, I’m so, so sorry.” Then I gave him my hang-your-head –down-like-a-whipped-dog look that I’d practiced, and limped like my legs was all busted up while I made little sniffing sounds that made you think I was gasping for breath and that I might not live over this switching, but, shoot, I’ve had a heck of a lot worse. I was thinking, Thank goodness I’ve got on long pants.
Momma was standing in the kitchen door waiting for me, and, of course she was mad as all get out, but since I’d been switched and it was Thanksgiving she didn’t get on me very much.
“Richard, I can’t believe what you do sometimes. Didn’t it occur to you that if you left the porch you were going to be switched? Well, you know I can’t stand to see you switched. It hurts me more than it does you.”
I’ve heard that, ”hurts me more than you” line more times than I can remember, and, shoot, that’s just crazy. I stood there with my legs still stinging, trying to act like I’m was so sorry, and every little bit I’d do a little gasping sound and hold on to the door acting like I was about to die. Hurts me more than you? Baloney! But of course I didn’t say nothing, I just whimpered like I’d been beat halfway to death. I could tell Momma was just ignoring my little act, though, so I pretty much just quit whining and walked on into the kitchen.
“Richard, go change into your good school clothes, and you can help me carry things to the table.”
You know, there’s something about getting a switching that makes me different, at least for a little while. I’m always the perfect kid right after I’ve been switched, but, of course, it don’t last but about a day. Well, I changed clothes, jumped in and started to help Momma, and you know something? Shoot, after a while I started liking it, and when we put the roast hen on the table, I was right there at Momma side like, Hey, I helped fix this dinner.
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nbsp; You know I really don’t like to clean up and comb my hair for Thanksgiving, but there’s some good things about Momma’s Thanksgiving Dinners. Momma loves to cook, and living out on a farm gives us a whole bunch of different kinds of food, but I always knew exactly what we’d have. It would be the same: roast hen, cornbread dressing, baked sweet potatoes, coleslaw, green beans, Momma’s special hot rolls and, of course, pumpkin pie.
We can’t afford nothing we don’t raise, so buying a big old turkey ain’t never gonna happen. Instead of a turkey we had a White Leghorn hen, one of them old birds that had quit laying eggs. When them chickens gets old and stop laying, they’re gonna be Sunday dinner or like today, Thanksgiving Dinner. Course, I was absolutely starving to death because I’d had breakfast just a little after 6 that morning, and I glanced at the kitchen clock. Yep, just like last year; it’s one o’clock.
“Daddy, we’ve got Thanksgiving dinner ready!”
Momma smiled and nodded to me that, Yes, you did help.
She walked into the dining room and smiled, looking over her Thanksgiving table. “Everyone come and sit down.”
Daddy came in from the living room where he’d been listening to the War news on the radio, and we all sat down, but nobody moved ’cause we all knew Momma was gonna do her special thing, and this Thanksgiving, just like last year and the year before that, we were gonna hear about those dull pilgrims again.
“Everyone pay attention,” Momma smiled. She opened a book called The First Thanksgiving and turned to the page she’d marked.
“The first fall after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, after their first harvest . . . ” Momma went on and on until my eyes had just glazed over. She finally finished reading, and I sat there starving absolutely to death. But, no, she weren’t near through yet.
Lyin' Like a Dog, The Yankee Doctor, The Danged Swamp! 3-Volume set Page 36