If I’ve learned anything from the recounted observations of McKinley Weems, it is that the good old days weren’t always as good as advertised. His evidence is anecdotal, but persuasive. He might recall some local event of startling brutality and will say with mild sarcasm, “That’s what we did for fun in the good old days.”

Sometime back, I overheard a snippet of conversation between two white-haired men. One was talking about his idyllic youth. He wasn’t a person known to me and I don’t recall all of what he said, except that when he came of age, the world was a simpler and better place, people were honorable, and one didn’t have to worry about, well, much of anything.

From the clues given, I did some quick math in my head and was surprised to realize that he wasn’t talking about the 1940s or 1950s, but about the late 1960s. (First of all, when did white-haired men become so much closer to my own age?)

My father was in California when I was born in 1968. (Thank you, Wilsie Sherman, for standing in and holding my mother’s hand.) Dad did fly home for a brief visit, but we didn’t see him again until eight months later because of the inconvenience of the Vietnam War. Maybe because of my reading about Vietnam, assassinations and widespread rioting, my impression of 1968 is not one of golden splendor and contentment. But perhaps it was for the gentleman I overheard talking. I’ve not worn his boots for a country mile…

Or is there something psychological going on here? I think of my own youth as a time of relative security without many complaints. Reagan slumbered on the throne but Marines died in Beirut and a space shuttle exploded.

Then again, the people of my youth do not seem that different than the people I know today. Times change, perhaps, but do people really change that much, generation to generation? Don’t look to me, I don’t know. I’ve always liked this quote attributed to Mark Twain, “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it does rhyme.”

I had a good friend in the army named Jim Never who always amazed me with his strength. He could do 80 or 90 pushups so fast that he’d just be a flash of motion. I talked to him recently and asked if he was as strong as he once was. He said no, but that after a recent full workout he bench pressed 225 pounds (about his body weight) 22 times. That sounds strong to me.

Over the course of my lifetime, I’ve heard from numerous local old-timers that the strongest person they ever knew was Wells McCall. His feats of strength are legendary. When I was in the army twenty-five years ago, I had a recurring notion that I’d like to introduce Jim Never and Wells McCall to each other.

In the late 1940s, McKinley Weems put in a spring-fed water system for Wells on his farm east of town. McKinley had driven his work vehicle, a four-wheel drive Willys Jeep down under the hill where the spring was located. There were a number of rock shelves that the jeep had to traverse and it was unable to get traction. Wells said if McKinley would drive the jeep so that two wheels were able to grip, Wells would lift the other end of the jeep onto the rock shelf. And that is what he did.

Another time, Wells had a sick draft horse that was down and needed to be stood up. Wells cut a hole in the floor of the barn loft and lowered a sling that he put under the horse’s belly. Using heavy rope that he tied on either side of the sling and looped up into the barn loft, he squatted down with the rope over his neck and then stood up, lifting the massive animal to its feet.

Obviously, I only knew Wells in the latter part of his life. He died in 2006 at the age of 94. In his senior years, he was still strong, but did not look like a classic symbol of strength like a Charles Atlas. Wells was not overly tall and was somewhat rotund, with thick, heavy arms. I’ve seen photographs of him in his youth, though, and he looked like a bull.

A long-legged coon dog wandered in recently and spent the day at my youngest sister’s house. The healthy, well-fed canine had a collar but no tags and Barb was getting ready to put up flyers to advertise his presence. The next day he was gone. Maybe he was just resting up at a friendly location for his journey home. Hounds will travel if given the chance.

My grandpa, Jack McCall, was a coon hunter and kept hounds. He enjoyed going out at night with his Uncle Otto and others with their lanterns and guns. Hunting raccoons was a respite from endless farm labor and the stresses of life.

One day while working on his place on Kings River, a stranger’s automobile pulled up with one of Grandpa’s coon dogs. The stranger introduced himself and said he’d found the dog crossing the US 62 White River bridge and gave it a ride. Turns out the man was a hound talent scout of sorts from Kentucky. He traveled the United States looking for the scattered pockets of coon hunters and studied their dogs and bloodlines looking for champion-type hounds. Grandpa took the guy around and introduced him to the local coon hunters.

There used to be more hounds around here, but with changes in the local culture and fewer rabbits, for example, those breeds aren’t as popular. I’ve had a couple rabbit dogs myself. The first was a high-energy Beagle with an effusive, charming personality. I had Rusty as a kid and he loved everyone and everyone loved him. Once I saw a station wagon drive by with Rusty in the back. I don’t know who the people were but Rusty returned later in the day. Just hanging out with friends, I guess. I always thought Rusty was a bit too good for me, kind of like Snoopy and Charlie Brown.

Waldo was more my speed. He was a Basset Hound we adopted from the Good Shepherd Humane Society shelter. He was ponderous, well-intentioned and often asleep. He was the only dog I ever had that I could out run.

http://issuu.com/esindependent/docs/esi_vol_3_no_9a/15

The other day I awoke to a misty morning down in the hollow and it reminded me of the old Ozarkian saying that “the fogs of August are the snows of winter.” Naturally, this led my mind to the legendary snow of March, 1968 when my mother was eight months pregnant and living in an apartment on Spring Street. She was afraid that if she went into labor, transportation would be an issue.

I’ve heard and read that local snow fall amounts ranged from 16 to 24 inches, but the main problem was a driving wind that created snow drifts of mind-boggling depths. I did some research trying to ascertain if the old stories were true and found a reference to the snow storm on the front page of the March 13, 1968 Northwest Arkansas Times. It says, in part, that “highway department workers attempting to clear a lane between Berryville and Eureka Springs drove a snow plow into a 17 foot drift.” The massive snowdrift was at the top of Bluebird Hill and the plow became stuck, as did the road grader that came to the rescue.

That morning, Mac Weems was driving to a bulldozing job and encountered the “commotion” on Highway 62 caused by the snowdrift. He turned around and drove down the Old Berryville Highway (now County Road 306, though the bridge that was there then has since fallen into Kings River) to James Garrett’s shop, where his big Allis-Chalmers bulldozer was stored. Later, the area Arkansas Highway Department foreman caught up with Mac and asked if he would get the two graders out and clear the snow drift. Not having his truck and trailer, he had to drive the dozer at a slow crawl up Highway 62 from near Kings River to the top of the hill.

He says the hard part of clearing the drift was being careful not to hook the abandoned cars buried under the snow with the dozer blade. It took awhile, but he was able to clean it up and drove the bulldozer home to his house in Eureka, clearing a few driveways along the way.