Why am I interested in my ancestors?

By David W. McMillan, Ph.D.

I was the son of a perfect mother. I was the little brother of a perfect, dead at nineteen, frozen in his perfection at nineteen, Bill. And I was not and am not close to perfect.My father wasn’t perfect either, nor was my brother Toney nor my sister Betsy. But from where I sit at my family’s table, we were all supposed to be. My father was strong and powerful. To me, Yul Brenner in the King and I personified him. My brother Toney was movie star handsome, 6 foot 2 inches, tanned, blonde and graceful in every movement that he made. My sister was born with Down syndrome and she had an excuse.

Me, I was born a mess. I played I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours with Kay Epperson and Jean Ellen Hankins. I always went first and then the girls ran away. I knew it was wrong but that never seemed to have much influence on me. The abstract idea of “wrong” or “bad” to me were only words adults used for their convenience to keep me within earshot or to stop me from taking apart mother’s precious antique Ethan Allen clock. These words “good” and “bad” were used to get me to take naps I didn’t want to take or take a bath or go to the bathroom when I didn’t want to.I was not mean or insolent. I never intended harm or insult, but I was ambitious and impatient and still am today. These qualities and my lack of respect for authority seemed to create a history of mistakes. I was trouble for my teachers. My grades were barely acceptable in this McMillan/Taylor family. If you haven’t noticed most all of my cousins were and are very smart, beginning with Daphna Ann and her protests to the contrary. I had a certain intelligence but it was for mischief and fun. I had a flair for the dramatic.

The one thing that my family gave me that made complete sense to me was a heavy dose of Calvinism. I was comforted by the fact that at church, at best, everybody was a sinner, perhaps like me.But outside of church my family was filled with Saints. In my mind my mother was chief among them. Then there was my Aunt Margie. Then there was my powerful dangerous father who loved those whom he loved ferociously. There was the wealthy mysterious Uncle Arthur. Aunt Dot was a kind doting Aunt who needed quiet and rest. There were my grandparents, Bobbobie (Elizabeth) and Hipop (Toney) Daniel. Hipop was a staunch Baptist Deacon and Bobbobie was a properly dressed and perfectly behaved Southern lady. Then there was Aunt Selma who to me seemed as pure and as wholesome as her white angel food cakes. And it was the same on the McMillan side of the family, wonderful Aunts, cousins much better behaved than me and saintly grandparents.

As I grew older the myths of my family’s perfection began to unravel and my life mistakes became more costly, a failed law school career, a dropout from the National Guard, two failed marriages. There was nothing like this in the whole of my family on either side. I became a psychologist, in part to figure out why I was so crazy.I began to ask questions. I began to uncover my family’s underbelly. There was John Pattillo. Women seemed to like him, but a work ethic and honest dealing weren’t his strong suit, until much later in his life. There was Aunt Dot and Uncle Horace. Each had a stint in the psych hospital in Nashville. These revelations all made me feel better.Though I have never suffered from extreme bouts of depression, I’m too self-absorbed for that, I was comforted to hear Roland speak of the Taylor family’s depression. My grandmother, perhaps Aunt Elsie and their mother sometimes followed the Southern magnolia tradition of taking to their beds.Hearing these stories comforted me. Though my failures may have been more family newsworthy and more dramatic, I was not the only member of my family that struggled to manage life and myself.

It is my opinion that if we are to survive as a species, each generation must improve on the one before it. As I look inside my family, I can see that I got my impatience and flair for the dramatic from my ancestors. I share a sense of humor with Aunt Selma, perhaps George and certainly Rowland. Mine is just a bit more inappropriate. I love watching Roland tell a story that makes him the butt of the joke or in which he becomes the butt of the joke by insisting on telling the story. I recognize that in me. I have my father’s lack of impulse control and his flair for the dramatic, and I have a bit of his temper, but thankfully only a bit.As I look around at my family, I recognize the genes that I am carrying. They give me a cross to bear and a talent to share. I see the struggle I had in learning about myself and living with myself as common to others before me. It seems to have been most difficult for most of us in our thirties and forties. As my hormones have decreased, the battle has become a bit less intense for me and new problems have emerged. As I have learned about who I am and where I’ve come from, my assignments have become clearer and I am more effective at managing myself.

Our family history is not much different than many others. We have our share of saints and sinners. Perhaps it is unfair of me to place the saint label on people of my generation. Perhaps I am too far away to see anything but good when I see Jan, Jerry and Beth. (Jerry suggests that I would quickly get a clear picture of the devil in him, Jan and Beth by asking their mates Sherrylon, Fred and Jim.)

I apologize for being so short-sighted, because they deserve the same freedom to screw-up and be forgiven as this family has granted me. (I have one thing in common with John T., my uncle and Daphna Ann’s father; we both have a sir-name. His was Bless His Heart John T and mine is Bless His Heart David. I’m sure Jan, Jerry and Beth need their heart’s blessed too.)I know Daphna Ann and the Cole girls too well to grant them Aunt Margie, Aunt Selma or my mother’s sainthood, though Lisa was mighty kind to tend my mother, her mother and Sally Maude in their old age and dying time. I am quite fond of my nephews Carter and Kevin. Carter seems to need his heart blessed more than Kevin. I see Pappa Taylor’s John T.’s and Hipop’s good head for business in Carter and John Hand.I believe that with the exception of my mother, I have done my task. I have taken the character traits in the difficult genes passed to me and I have worked very hard on improving them. I think I can say that I am a better man than my father. (Jerry reminds me that my father was a towering man of character and accomplishment and that’s true. He cast a large shadow.) I can say that I have accomplished more than my mother, (but we all know how disadvantaged women of her time were). I don’t think my parents would be offended or jealous of what I have become and achieved. I think they would be very pleased that I can honestly make such a statement.

I also believe my parents improved on their parents, and their parents on their parents and if you read W. J. Cash’s Mind of the South; perhaps Papa Taylor and Mary Francis improved on their parents.So who were these people? We need to know because they are us.I’m not sure my picture of Pappa Taylor and Mary Francis is more than raw speculation. He owned a store and I believe a gin in Sparkman, which at that time would have placed him at the hub of a mean and sometimes usurious share cropping system that exploited poor farmers, black and white. That’s the worst that I imagine.Pappa Taylor was a strong Methodist. He attended church regularly and saw to it that his children did as well. He was constant host to his grandchildren in the summer. My mother spoke of her frequent visits to Sparkman without her parents. Roland has memories of such visits as well. And as you know, tending grandchildren is a lot of work and trouble. This genetic tendency to tend grandchildren seems to have been passed along.

Another is the tradition of Aunts and Uncles hosting nephews and nieces. Jane visited and stayed with Aunt Elsie and Uncle Gilbert when they lived in Philadelphia, Mississippi. That’s where she met her husband, Wilbur Cole. I and my brothers were the recipients of this tradition in our visits to Philadelphia during the summer for weeks at a time, and to El Dorado where John T. would give me golf lessons and a car to drive before I was sixteen and to Snyder where I was allowed to take the family car on a date with Vicki Mebane.

We are story-tellers. We tend to take our pain and put it into a story, turn it a bit and find a way to laugh at ourselves. I was recently bumming a night’s lodging from Daphna Ann and Phil. She told me this story about her father, John T.It seems that when he was a boy, age four or five, he wanted to make money so he and Hippop concocted a scheme for how he could. Hippop bought him a goat wagon and two goats. John T. named the goats Jim and Charlie. John T. used the goat cart to deliver eggs and milk. Surely the friends and family that received and paid for this delivery were impressed and charmed by John T.’s entrepreneurial spirit. Eventually John T. became too big for the small cart and too big for the goats to pull.

Hipop took the goats to his farm where John T. expected they would be cared for by the farm tenants that lived on the farm. One day John T. came home missing Jim and Charlie. He walked down to the farm to visit the goats. When he got there it seems that the tenants were having a party. Many people had come from miles around for a goat roast. Two goats were on a spit being turned over a fire.John T. walked home crying.

Daphna Ann may have the best memories of Aunt Elsie. Aunt Elsie was a well-cared for Southern Magnolia. She never learned to drive. Uncle Gilbert left work to take her grocery shopping or to the beauty parlor or to the seamstress or to the dress shop. He doted on her and indulged her in every way he could. He lost the love of his life when she died and he never remarried.

Three of us are not burdened by the Taylor genes. They are Susan Warner Morgan, Ashley Sloan Ross and Daniel Ross. These now almost forty year olds have been given the best of our family, the expectation that they belong and are welcome, the hope, faith and support that they will find their place in the world and our willingness to bless their hearts when they needed blessing.

So where did we come from. I think it is safe to say that we came from young people in their twenties and thirties who were having a tough time. They married hoping to find love. Sometimes they did and sometimes they didn’t. Hopefully in a fit of passion we were conceived and more trouble came with us. They discovered their capacity for love when we children came along. They, Pappa Taylor and Mary Francis discovered what love was as they loved Elizabeth, Horace, Elsie, Margie, Selma, George and Dorothy.

To hear mother tell it, Aunt Margie and Uncle Arthur did not have a beautiful romantic courtship. There was Uncle Arthur’s mother to deal with but my grandmother strongly advised this union and it was so. They discovered their capacity to love in Bill and Jack.I may have something in common with Aunt Dot, John Pattillo, George and Sallie Maude, and Porter Gammill that I think all of us regret. It is that we had no children. Most all of you here know that joy and what it has done for your soul to love your children like you were loved and as Pappa Taylor and Mary Francis loved theirs. Like Sallie Maude, I have done my best to steal children to parent.Our ancestors had trouble when it was time for them to do battle with their character traits in their twenties and thirties and some in their forties and at the same time raise their children. But they had lots of help. They were given a strong sense of family and because of this Aunt Margie took in Uncle Horace when he was depressed. She took in Dot as well. Uncle Horace paid for Dot’s treatment in Nashville. Aunt Selma knew to return to Arkadelphia to her sisters and my mother after her accident. My mother saw to it that my father got John Pattillo out of jail as soon as he could. My mother tended her mother, Aunt Margie, Aunt Dot and Aunt Selma as they grew old. She visited Phil and Corrine Taylor in Hotsprings weekly in their later years. And your mother’s and father’s did things for the family that I know nothing about.

As many as you know, my family, the McMillan family, has had its share of trouble. And in the midst of our pain the faces of the people in this family were there, present, tending, caring and sharing our pain. We are especially grateful for the many trips the Pattillo family made from Waco to Arkadelphia.

This sense of family and an understanding that there is some transcendent spirit that brings us together is what we got from these folks, along with our character strengths and weaknesses.I don’t know Bill Vestal II, but I do too. He is Jerry’s boy. I met him once. He is named for Jerry’s father. If he ever comes my way or ever needs my help, I’m there. I got this from my parents. You all feel some version of the same thing from yours. We are all in this together.I must mention of Fannie Taylor, Pappa Taylor’s second wife after Mary Francis died at an early age, sometime in her fifties. Fannie was not given the respect she deserved according to Roland and my mother. She dipped snuff and that was evidence that she was not a woman of breeding. Yet, she was kind to Roland and my mother when they came to Sparkman to visit. She was Pappa Taylor’s companion and caretaker for the rest of his life. According to Roland, she had a kind sweet spirit. She was a gift to our family. I never heard much talk about Mary Francis when I was a boy but I often heard of “Fannie and Pappa Taylor” as if they were one word.

Arkadelphia, Arkansas: Home

By Dr. David W. McMillan

To me Arkadelphia is the family’s home. This is the place where most of Poppa Taylor and Mary Francis’ children lived. Though I don’t know, it appears to me that Horace took over things in Sparkman after Poppa Taylor’s death and prospects in Sparkman were not the best for the Taylor women. Perhaps someone who knew Sparkman can tell the story of that place and how it was dear to them.

In my novel I describe Arkadelphia this way: The Caddo River joins the Ouachita River right outside of town. The Ozark Mountains dwindle down to rolling hills in southwest Arkansas. At Arkadelphia the last of those hills roll into flat land at the Ouachita River. Arkadelphia has the green beauty of the Ozark hills and bluffs and it has the good rich farm land of the Ouachita River delta. The hills west of town grow tall strong pine and red oak timber. Arkadelphia is home to an active logging industry. There are fine farms along the river and east. Flooding can be a problem southeast of town but Arkadelphia itself is built on a bluff that looks down on the river above the Ouachita River and the Missouri Pacific Railroad line from Chicago to Dallas.

John Allen Adams did a much better job in his description of the Ouachita River:On a summer day just a stone’s throw upstream from the Caddo Street Bridge a fat brown moccasin slides silently from a low hanging willow branch into the current and sinuously swims down stream angling toward the shore until it hits a patch of slack water where it parts floating willow cotton sending it tumbling and spreading like smoke before it disappears into the shadow of a grassy overhang. Three turtles sunning nearly in single file on a bone-white fallen cottonwood take no notice of the snake. On a leafless twig at the tip of the tree now only two feet above the water a dragonfly with multiple river images in his compound eyes is poised on point while a squadron of his brothers fly above him, alternately darting from side to side then holding still in air while below them a bluegill with orange belly and blue-tipped “ears” hovers above a platter-sized patch of bright burnished stones on the river bottom diligently guarding the eggs resting there.

Several under yards further upstream high atop De Soto Bluff, sweet gum and hickory stand on tiptoe where the river has eaten away at the cliff and exposed their roots to the air and hardened them into elaborate bracings and cage-like scaffolds as they struggle to hold their purchase in the red dirt and so keep from plummeting in the river and joining the trees fallen from earlier seasons. Below them and up and down the water’s edge other trees stand like soldiers marching into battle, the front rank already lying strewn along the bank, casualties of earlier spring torrents, many in the following tier wounded and headed for the ground in a slow fall while the upright ranks behind stoically wait their turn to contend with the implacable Ouachita.

And so the river runs as it has for centuries, for mellenia, since long before red or white men followed its course seeking game and fertile spots of ground to plant their seed.

As I think of Arkadelphia, I too see trees, giant pin oaks, hovering over the streets all over town, especially providing the sanctuary of cool shade and soft filtered light to 210 N. 5th Street, my home and Aunt Margie’s driveway across the street. Sanctuary is the word, isn’t it? The tops of the oak trees on each side of the street met in the air some 100 feet over the center of the street. These trees created a gentle cathedral ceiling all the way down 5th Street to Ouachita and the white columns of Cone-bottom dormitory.The color I see, as one I imagine Arkadelphia is green. Green above in the trees and below in the St. Augustine or bermuda grass. In between were splashes of pink azaleas and pink and white crepe myrtle. In my mind the image of the crepe myrtle merges into watermelon red and that moves into orange day lilies.My mother planted her garden so that all year around, except for a period deep in the winter, there were flowers in our yard that she might use to provide for flowers every Sunday at Church. Camellias and gardenias played important roles in this project. Then in the Spring daffodils, tulips and dogwoods were the centerpieces of her arrangements. But green was the taken for granted frame for the plentiful flowers.

I remember my parents talking about spending summers in the swimming hole in the Ouachita River just above the Caddo Street Bridge. Apparently the river was the setting of a great deal of mischief. Jane once confessed that she went skinny-dipping with Dolly Winburn in the river. My father used to challenge Martha Thomas, one of mother’s good friends, to a race across the river and back. John T. often told of his struggle to row a boat up the river against the current. He would fight the current for what seemed forever to him for the purchase of a quarter-mile upstream.My father dreamed that he could one day make Arkadelphia into a major metropolis by politicking the Army Corps of Engineers to dredge and maintain a river channel up from Camden to Arkadelphia. But river transport was succeeded by rail and now by interstate roads and Arkadelphia is on a major interstate and the population has remained at around 10,000 people for sixty plus years.

My father’s dreams for the Ouachita came in part from the Charlie Richardson painting that he had of a river scene at what is called beaver’s nose. This is the southeastern corner formed by the intersection of the Caddo and the Ouachita. As I write this, I am looking at the painting. The river flows in the foreground. The bank slopes gently down some ten feet above the river making an excellent landing for a small canoe or paddle boat. Above the bank is a forest mix of pine, oak, hickory and maple trees. In the background is a wooden picket fence.De Soto Bluff is downstream just on the edge of what in 1960 was Arkadelphia’s city limits. This was and is Arkadelphia’s most scenic spot, a must picnic spot for all young lovers. From the top of the bluff you can see for miles over verdant forests, to the south and east across the river the land is flat, north and west the hills roll into the Hotsprings mountains. Jack Mountain, some ten miles north, is clearly visible. The river’s ribbon winds softly below, south and east to Arkadelphia and Camden and northwest to Malvern and Hotsprings.

Standing on the bluff looking out one imagines being an Indian looking for bears, and deer, or Hernando De Soto looking out over the land drawing a map of his discoveries or an eagle flying high over the earth or an ant following a trail from under the red clay and gravel to a persimmon that has fallen from a tree.

In the fall the countryside around Arkadelphia mergers from greens to oranges, reds and shades of brown. I wish I knew the name of that scrub tree that was everywhere along any road. It turned bright red during fall.I haven’t mentioned the kudzu in the ravines. It seemed to grow a foot a day in my Grandmother McMillan’s ravine. We would run down to the creek behind on a path, kudzu vines beneath our feet and kudzu leaves on either side, not noticing the screams of the cicadas that seemed to be part of the landscape. The kudzu grew over the small trees and formed a cave or a tent for us to use as a pretend wigwam or a place in which to take cover in a short summer shower.

The topography of the land and the prolific vegetation was only part of Arkadelphia’s blessings. Arkadelphia was the Athens of Arkansas. As early as 1851 Arkadelphia was an educational center in Arkansas. At that time the town had only 250 residents and Rev. Samuel Stevenson founded the Arkadelphia Institute. A Baptist minister, Rev. Hauke, lobbied the state legislature to create the Arkansas Institute for the Blind.

The Civil War ended support for higher education all over the South, but in 1886 Dr. J.W. Conger established Ouachita Baptist College. In 1890 across the ravine and 10th street Arkadelphia Methodist College was established. These colleges became the educational foundation for most of our families.As I think about college at the time my parents were students, there was not as much information to learn. Latin was an important subject. Japanese was not part of the curriculum. Perhaps the subject that required more of its students than any other was music. Ouachita’s and Henderson’s music department contained perhaps the largest segment of the faculty.

The colleges’ music emphasis along with churches and the community’s general interest in music created many social settings around music in Arkadelphia. There were recitals and visiting musical acts coming to Arkadelphia to perform on campus. Citizens of Arkadelphia had opportunities to be exposed to art, talent and ideas of the day that citizens of Sparkman, Camden, Hope, Prescott or Hotsprings did not.I went along with my mother to musical performances and plays at Ouachita and Henderson auditoriums. Then there were activities at all of the local churches.The colleges and the high school had baseball, football and basketball games. There were track meets, and tennis matches. John T. was a member of Ouachita’s marching band. My father played on the tennis and baseball teams at Ouachita.

Because of the Colleges there was a greater tolerance and openness in Arkadelphia. Though racism was clearly present there, it was not like Amity where there were signs telling negroes to be gone from town by dark.I have always been proud that my mother was valedictorian of her Arkadelphia High School and Ouachita College graduating classes. But one day when I looked at her year books, I saw that her graduating class at both schools was much smaller than I imagined. On the McMillan side of my family two great aunts and two aunts were teachers at Ouachita. My grandfather David McMillan was on the board. I think my kin the Williams and the McMillan families may have had something to do with the founding of Ouachita. John T. was on its board from many years. My father received an honorary doctorate from Ouachita for his many years of service to the school. A.J. Vestal was a significant contributor to the school.

In the 1950’s and 60’s when I was growing up in Arkadelphia the Caddo and the Ouachita River were not social scenes. The summer social scene had shifted to the Arkadelphia Country Club swimming pool. My mother could drop us off there and leave us for hours. When she returned she would pick up tired children, well exercised, ready for supper, a game of kick-the-can and the bed by 9:00 P.M.

The two colleges were great settings for riding bikes, exploring and making mischief. I especially loved the ravine behind my Grandmother McMillan’s house. The ravine merged into the ravine that separated Ouachita from Henderson.As I remember it, the small creek that ran through the ravine was once a clear, pure stream that became a polluted mess later. In that ravine my cousins and I played cowboys and indians, Tarzan and Jane. We would swing across the creek on grape vines. We smoked grape vine cigarettes and we imagined finding lions and tigers among the giant pine trees there.

Jerry Vestal remembers a time when we walked on the bridge over the ravine behind the Ouachita gym in order to explode cherry bombs. We would stand on the bridge, light the cherry bomb, hold it until its fuse was burned near the bottom and let it go so that they would explode before it hit the ground, creating huge reverberating echoes from the blasts. As I talked to Jerry recently, he wondered who we might have disturbed. That thought had never crossed my mind.

As a ten year old boy I would wake up at 6:45, ride my bike down to the Ouachita tennis courts and practice hitting the ball against the backboard there. I enjoyed having the girls watch me and compliment me as they walked to morning breakfast in the cafeteria.

In a three block radius of my home lived four grandparents, three great aunts, three aunts and nineteen cousins ranging in age from eighty to four. Three or four times a week in the summer Aunt Margie would pull up in front of our house in her black 1951 Plymouth and honk the horn. My mother would yell at us boys to go get whatever vegetables Aunt Margie was delivering from her harvest at her farm on the Ouachita River. I would run and get one or two large paper sacks filled with some assortment string beans, lima beans, corn, black-eyed peas, okra, tomatoes and figs later in the summer.

Cousins would come from out of town to visit every summer and when there were funerals. Jan Vestal would go in mother’s closet, play dress up and make Jerry and I play some part in a bizarre wedding. Jerry and I would explore Aunt Margie’s house and be sure to sneak into Uncle Arthur’s forbidden study and tinker with his ticker tape. We would have sleepovers together on Aunt Margie’s sleeping porch with the windows cranked wide open. Daphna Ann would come and so would the Cole sisters, Lisa, Carol and Susan. My mother would do her best to entertain them, embarrassed that my father could not take some time off from work to entertain Uncle Wilbur.There were great feasts at Aunt Margie’s. The adults would sit at her giant dining room table. We children would sit at the round table in the smaller dining room. Under each table Aunt Margie had a button for a buzzer that would go off in the kitchen when pushed. It was fun for me to use the button to make noise. At every one of these meals pickled peaches were an option.

The floors in Aunt Margie’s home were made of wide elegant boards I believe tongue in groove constructed and held to the floor with pegs, not nails. Oriental rugs filled the downstairs. Brass tiffany-like lamps were everywhere. Light switches were round buttons. When you pushed one in, the other popped out. The house was steam heated with radiators hissing.

Bobbobie’s home was a white clapboard house with a large front porch and a porch swing. Many days, especially just after Betsy was born, my mother would dress us boys and send us down the street one block to Bobbobie’s for breakfast. The best oatmeal in the world awaited us. It was cooked with real cream. It was rich in fruit, bananas, peaches, or blackberries. In the winter the fruit was boiled prunes.

We ate with Hippop who poured his coffee in a saucer and sipped it from the saucer’s edge, not from the cup. Hippop had a morning regimen that included drinking eight glasses of water before breakfast. It was his notion that he was cleansing his system. And soon after breakfast he lit his corncob pipe filled with Prince Edward tobacco.Aunt Selma’s house contained (I believe) her apartment and two others. One downstairs and one upstairs. Her apartment contained a bedroom, a bath, a small kitchen between her bedroom and her living room. The living room and the dining room were one room. One entered her part of the house from the side, I think into her bedroom.

The smell that emanated from her house was always of something baking. She was, of course, famous for her angel food cakes but she baked pies, cookies, rolls and biscuits. And she smiled with delight when you walked in her door.

Arkadelphia was my home and a place that many of you came home to. It was a generous kind community filled with loving friends. Anywhere I would go, I was known. The community accepted and nurtured my sister Betsy. She was the first child with special needs to go to school there.The story of the life of John Allen Adams perhaps best represents the character of this small town. John Allen was a good friend of Bill Vestals. In the fall of 1938 he was injured in a football game at age sixteen and paralyzed for life from his neck down. He lived out his life of 64 years in Arkadelphia. When I knew him, he and his aunt ran a small bookstore. We and everybody else in town bought our magazine subscriptions and our Christmas cards from him. Though his Aunt Bessie and later his wife Joy were his primary supports, the whole community saw it as its responsibility to see to it that Bessie and John Allen had a means to support themselves. As his biography Fortune Teller’s Blessing portrays Arkadelphia’s kindness and generosity allowed John Allen to have an independent, dignified and stimulating existence.

Arkadelphia was a good place to call home for our family and many others.

Betsy McMillan

Betsy McMillan, The Remarkable GirlBy David W. McMillan

ONCE UPON A TIME IN A LAND WHERE PEOPLE NEVER WALKED LIVED A FAMILY OF TREES. THIS FAMILY WAS A FOREST. LIKE ALL SPIRITUAL FAMILIES, THEY WORSHIPPED GOD. TO THE TREES, GOD HAD THREE PARTS: THE EARTH, IN WHOM THEY LIVED AND WORKED AND HAD THEIR BEING; THE LIGHT THAT SHINED ON THEM AND MADE THEIR LEAVES GREEN; THE WIND, THAT BECAME THE LANGUAGE THEY USED TO SPEAK TO ONE ANOTHER. IT RUSTLED THEIR LEAVES, MAKING NOISE THE TREES USED FOR WORDS. IT BLEW THEIR BRANCHES, CREATING POSES THAT SHOWED THEIR FEELINGS FOR ONE ANOTHER.

THE TREES SPENT THEIR DAYS GROWING DEEP ROOTS INTO THE GROUND AND STANDING TALL. THEIR BRANCHES PROVIDED HOMES FOR BIRDS AND SQUIRRELS, THEIR ROOTS, HOMES TO CHIPMUNKS AND RABBITS, THEIR LIMBS, NUTS AND FRUIT FOR THE ANIMALS. THEY LOVED THEIR ROLE OF PROVIDING SHELTER AND FOOD FOR THE FOREST COMMUNITY.

It was winter in the forest. the ground was spotted with blankets of snow in amongst the trees. the time For seed burrowing was past. One family of pine trees shared a place on the hill with their relatives and extended family. The mother and father pine tree were beginning to show their age. The father’s top was bare and the mother’s bottom limbs had begun to droop. They had sewn seeds earlier in their marriage and had three handsome boy trees. They loved their boys but they had always hoped for a girl.

Perhaps on purpose or perhaps accidentally the mother pine tree released another seed on this day. It fell down on the snow. The snow covered the ground so that it was hard to tell whether or not the ground was soft dirt or hard rock. Gravity pulled the seed in the ground. the tip of the seed felt the wet sands and began to sprout roots.

The seasons changed. The new crop of seedlings came up as the sun warmed spring into summer. The place where the seed fell betrayed no beginnings of life. But late in that summer a twig pushed out of the sandy soil and a few short pine needles sprouted from the twig. The new seedling did not have as many green needles as most seedlings. Wise men in the forest told the parents, “the ground is bad. the soil has too much sand to hold water well. There are not enough needles and they are too short. This tree is defective. We will send the deer herd through to trample the seedling so that you don’t have to be burdened with caring and protecting this tree.”

                “On no,” gasped the mother pine tree.

                “Hell, no,” said the father pine tree. “That’s not how this family does things. This is our child we will protect and care for her in just the same way we have for our three boys and you will see. She will become a remarkable girl. You will see.”

The seedling had few needles to catch the sunlight. The sand didn’t hold water for her roots like the red clay that her brother’s and parent’s roots had for soil. The baby tree had little appetite. Everyone was worried that she wouldn’t get enough nourishment.

So this father tree went to work. He collected water from the dew and the rain. He had the squirrels dig a water collection ditch around the little girl pine tree. The mother marshaled these resources. She would get help from her sons. The eldest son would drop water in the trough around her. The middle son would lean back to give her more sunlight. The youngest son would join his mother in making faces and blowing songs so that the baby pine tree would laugh and open her roots to the water and move her needles to catch more light.

For a time she didn’t seem to be gaining much strength and then suddenly she began to thrive. The first words she formed with her limbs were aimed at her youngest brother. Her development was framed by the young girl seedling next to her. They were the same age. as they grew the other girl seemed to be ahead of the slower growing pine tree. but even though she grew slower, she did grow.

The two girl pine trees became fast friends. even though the slower growing girl seemed behind, she was clearly the one in charge. She would tell the other girl pine tree what they would play, when they would stop and when they would drink. They played battle, a game with leaves, heart leaves, club leaves, spade leaves and diamond leaves. Each leaf had a number value that could range from ace to two. people were surprised that the slower growing girl could play this game but she could.

Tree conversations were overheard about this game playing. “I never saw a slow growing short needled pine playing that game before. Isn’t she amazing.”

“Oh I’m not impressed. It’s just a game and she’s not very good. she cheats to win.”

While the other girl learned to read the signs of the earth quicker than the slower growing tree, the mother worked everyday with her daughter, with one educational drill after another until the slower growing girl did learn. Sometimes her brothers would help. Sometimes friends and relatives would help. It seemed that all the trees in the forest knew what this pine tree family was trying to do. everybody wanted to help.

Trees commented about this too.

“Isn’t she amazing. i didn’t know a slow growing short needle pine tree could learn the signs of the forest.”

“Oh, that’s no big deal she doesn’t understand what she’s learning. it’s a waste of time.”

Her mother was an accomplished musician. She could play the leaves, making them sing beautiful music. a friend of her mother’s agreed to teach the slow growing girl how to play the leaves. Some didn’t think she could learn this because her needles would be too short, but she did. oh, she wasn’t the best leaf player in the forest, but she could play a tune. and she loved music.  trees could be heard saying,               

“I have never heard a slow growing short needle pine make music before. I didn’t know they could do that.”                
“So what. She’s really not very good. She often misses the notes.” Every Sunday the trees leaned together to create a sanctuary. The trees that were musically talented would put their limbs together so that the wind blew through their leaves with great beauty and harmony. The music they created was an important part of a weekly worship service. Every Sunday that the trees leaned together they would sing the same hymn*.

"IMMORTAL, INVISIBLE, GOD ONLY WISE, GOD OF THE SPARROW, GOD OF THE WHALE                                                WE BLOSSOM AND FLOURISH RICH WITH NEW LIFE THEN WITHER AND PERISH, BUT NAUGHT CHANGES THEE. GOD OF EARTHQUAKE, GOD OF STORM GOD OF RAINBOWS, GOD OF MOONLIGHT. YOU MAKE PAIN, GRIEF AND SORROW NURTURE NEW LIFE. ALL FEAR AND SHAME ARE REDEEMED BY GOD'S LOVE. AMEN."

The slower growing tree became good enough at music that she was asked to sing in the choir. She pulled her limbs up next to her mother’s every week. She sang the hymn with the rest. this was her proudest moment. She knew she wasn’t the best musician, but she was so happy to be asked to be a part of the choir.

TREES NOTICED THIS TOO. ONE SAID, “ISN’T SHE REMARKABLE. SHE CAN SING IN the CHOIR. I THINK THAT’S WONDERFUL.”

“OH I DON’T. HER WIND ISN’T THAT GOOD. SHE SHOULDN’T SING IN the CHOIR. HER NOISES DETRACT FROM THE HARMONY.”

Her youngest brother like others in the tree family worried about her. He would ask his father. “Why is my sister slow growing? Why are her needles short? Why is her soil sandy?” His father would always answer. “I don’t know. I have wood in my trunk.”  

So he would ask his mother. “Mother, why is my sister growing slow? Why are her needles short? Why is her soil sandy?”                

“That’s how god made her,” the mother pine tree answered.               

“It doesn’t seem fair. Why did god make her like that?” the brother pine tree asked.                

“God has a purpose for everything he makes,” the mother pine tree answered.                

“What is god’s purpose for my sister?” the brother pine tree asked.                

“I’m not sure,” the mother pine tree answered. “Now no more questions.”

Somehow things with the slower growing pine tree never seemed right to her brother. Hh she was remarkable, he agreed. She was the strongest willed, most determined, most talented (in that order) short leafed pine tree most had ever known.

“I want to be like all the other normal trees,” she would say. “I want a job. I want to work with everybody else.”               

“Oh, you can’t do that,” the forest organizers would answer. “You belong with other trees with special needs.”                

“I want to work,” she would shout angrily, “like the other trees. I don’t want to be a tree doctor or a tree organizer, but I could be a leaf blower and clean the forest floor. I could do that.”

Finally, a tree organizer gave her a chance at blowing leaves and she did well enough at her job. But one day, she made a mistake. She blew the leaves the wrong way. She had a new job with little patience and she was fired. But she persisted.”.

“I can work,” she said. “I’m sorry I blew the wrong way. give me another chance.” But the pattern repeated itself. She would do well until she got a new boss who didn’t know how to work with her and she would be let go. Many trees in the forest were amazed she could work at all.         

“Isn’t she remarkable,” they would say. “I never saw a slow-growing short needle pine tree working in the forest before. Look what she can do.”

And the answer would come, “Oh she shouldn’t be there. She doesn’t belong in that job. I feel sorry for those trees she works with.”

When she lost her job, she was always hurt. It pained her brother to see her hurt. He could never quite figure out her purpose. He knew one of god’s purposes for him though. That was to care for his sister. and oh how hard sometimes it was for him to love her. So hard, in fact, that he wondered when god would relieve him of this burden. In addition to the job his family gave him of taking care of his sister, he had the job of helping trees regain their dignity when they dropped a limb or lost a bird family. So you would think he would be good at patiently loving and caring for his sister. But nothing could be further from the truth. No tree could find the end of his patience so quickly as his sister. No tree could give him an exasperating trial like his sister. No tree could test his capacity for love like his sister. As the brother and sister reached middle age, they had lost a brother and their parents. The other brother pine tree was doing his best to bring a new generation of pine trees into the family. The slow growing sister and her caretaker brother had each other and that’s all the close family they had. Suddenly it seemed, but it really wasn’t sudden, the sister pine tree began to have difficulty absorbing water in her roots. Her wood and bark began to shrink. and she died. The brother pine tree felt very alone. The Sunday after she died he went with his pine tree community to worship god. They sang the same hymn.

"IMMORTAL, INVISIBLE, GOD ONLY WISE, GOD OF THE SPARROW, GOD OF THE WHALE WE BLOSSOM AND FLOURISH RICH WITH NEW LIFE THEN WITHER AND PERISH, BUT NAUGHT CHANGES THEE. GOD OF EARTHQUAKE, GOD OF STORM GOD OF RAINBOWS, GOD OF MOONLIGHT. YOU MAKE PAIN, GRIEF AND SORROW NURTURE NEW LIFE. ALL FEAR AND SHAME ARE REDEEMED BY GOD'S LOVE. AMEN."

As he prayed and worshiped he began to understand one of god’s purposes for his sister’s life. She taught him patience and tolerance. She expanded his heart and taught him to love. He felt so strange. He had thought her death might bring relief, but it didn’t. He missed her. He had loved her more deeply than he had imagined. Though he complained often, long and loud, he loved the burden of caring much like his grandfather tree told him, “A mule likes pulling a log in the forest.” He missed her. He missed the opportunity to give and to care, to be exasperated about a puzzle she presented him that he couldn’t solve.

She challenged him to grow and to learn. Her challenges expanded his character. Though the tree community failed in the long run to find her a place where she could contribute. Her drive created a place for short needle pines that followed her. One of god’s purposes may have been to teach the tree community that slow-growing short needle pines with sandy soil had things to contribute, too. Finding places for them to work ennobled the forest and those who appreciated their contributions. At her funeral, a choir sang for her, fellow workers testified about how she touched them, opened their hearts, and changed their lives.

She gave honor to those who accepted her and challenged those who could not. For her brother, one of god’s purposes for his sister’s life was to teach him that loving is a gift that you give yourself. having someone to care for pulls compassion through the heart, making the heart bigger, creating more room for joy. loving his sister was a gift god gave him, a privilege that he will miss. for many reasons his father’s prediction had come true. She was a remarkable girl!

Jane Cole Dedication

A Dedication to Jane ColeBy David W. McMillan

Jane Daniel Cole had one special talent that I clearly recognized. That talent was discernment. She had a sense of beauty, symmetry and balance. She knew how to define appropriate. In her day she was an expert on the finest furniture, which for her was antique furniture. Perhaps she inherited interest in antique furniture from her mother. From her mother she also inherited a sense of refinement and loyalty to family.

The first thing that needs to be said of Jane was the she and her husband Wilbur made a good team. Together they built the finest house in Philadelphia, Mississippi in the 1950’s. They instilled values of integrity, compassion and education in their children. They gave their children the best they had to offer. Jane sewed their clothes and taught them to sew. Wilbur hammered the nails, wired the house, tiled the bathrooms and painted the bedrooms. Together Jane and the girls earned spending money for the girls by licking tax stamps and placing them on cigarette packages. When Wilbur died at the young age of fifty he was sorely missed by all. He left Jane with a good financial base and Jane managed these resources well so that they lasted beyond her lifetime.

The qualities discernment, a sense of refinement, and loyalty to family helped define her life. She was especially devoted to her daughters. Each one of them became the central focus of Jane’s attention and energy at some point in their lives. Her daughter Elisa was her focus when Elisa was an adolescent and young adult. Carol was the center of her attention late in her first marriage, during her divorce, until she married Seymour. Susie inherited center stage when she had trouble in her marriage to Richard and has had this position until Jane’s death.

There were assets and liabilities to being the center of Jane’s attention. Generally the assets outweighed the liabilities. Elisa had the best clothes that vogue displayed and that Jane could sew. She was taken to New Orleans, Jackson and to visit family in Arkansas often. Her mind was appreciated as much as the Mississippi culture would allow. I’m not sure I know what burden Elisa carried when she was Jane’s problem child. With discernment comes judgment. Jane offered plenty of that. As discriminating as Jane was, it is hard to imagine the criticisms that might have come to the child that Jane worried about. Her mind was solving their problems constantly. Her advice was continuous.

And when it was Carol’s turn, Carols’ children were taken care of by Jane. When Carol needed her, Jane was there. She gave time, energy and money to the cause. But it had a price. Remember with discernment comes judgment and criticism.

Then it was Susan’s turn. Jane adored Susan’s husband Richard. It was hard for her to come to terms with Susan’s divorce. It was difficult for her to understand that she and Wilbur may have contributed to Susan’s pain. As the baby, Susan was the last one to cut the cord. And the one to whom Jane held the tightest. Jane was there for Susan as she was for Carol. She looked after Susan’s three boys. When Susan left Indianola for New Orleans, Jane may not have understood all Susan’s reasons but she supported her decision.

Jane had a few relationships that were undimensionally loving. Some of her grandchildren felt unconditionally loved by Jane. One relationship stands out in this regard as truly requited love. It was Jane’s love for her sister, Elizabeth, my mother, and Elizabeth’s love for Jane. Jane looked up to and respected Elizabeth. And Elizabeth always welcomed Jane’s presence. Elizabeth saw the best in Jane and felt that her daughters did not appreciate the great sacrifices that Jane made for them.

Jane was the one with the weak constitution, a heart arrhythmia. Jane required rest. She didn’t have Elizabeth’s stamina. So the two of them expected Jane to need care from Elizabeth when their health declined. Maybe Jane would move to Arkadelphia and live out her life there with Elizabeth. Or perhaps they would both go to Little Rock, where they knew Elisa would be there to take care of them. Fate had other plans. Elizabeth died fifteen years before Jane. Some years after Elizabeth died Jane moved to an assisted-living facility in Little Rock. There seemed to be an inverse relationship between Jane’s ability to take care of herself and her capacity to worry. As Jane became more dependent she became more accepting and less need to be critical. A kindness and grace seemed to emerge from somewhere inside her. She seemed to be able to accept life on its terms and people on theirs. There was a new beauty and poise about Jane’s spirit in her last years.

As Elizabeth’s son I received nothing but love and adoration from Jane. I was welcomed into her home and family as if I were her son and Elisa, Carol and Susan were my sisters. I was a boy and was excluded from the judgments Jane offered her daughters. My rough edges were excused, my heart was blessed and I was simply enjoyed by Jane and Wilbur. Or at least that is what she led me to believe.

I appreciated, always, her kindness to me. I remember how carefully she tended to the wasp sting I got on my eye when I was an eleven year old playing with Jack Rhae. Tea bags took out the poison, she said. But as I look on it now, it was her tender concern and time that made it all better.

After my mother and Betsy died, Jane and her family were all I had left. They continued to invite me and welcome me and Marietta. I didn’t see her as much as I should. I am so grateful that I could take for granted that Elisa would take care of her. And she did with help from Carol and Susan and Mattie and Ashley Sloan and the constant support of Ashley, Elisa’s husband.

Few know the burden of being the one there on the scene for the older parents, aunts and uncles. My mother was that person in the Daniel/Taylor family. Elisa has been that one for Jane and Sally Maude. I watched my mother carry that load with such grace. She seemed to enjoy being that person. But I saw what she did and I know something of what Elisa did. And I am eternally grateful to Elisa and wish I could have shared more of this burden.

Carol inherited from Jane her strong sense of family. She has given me a special place in her life. It is as if I am her brother. She has made Marietta her good friend. I have enjoyed the privilege of paying attention to her sons when they would let me. Carol consciously or unconsciously lived out Jane’s fantasy of being an artist. In many ways Carol’s art was beyond Jane’s understanding. In another way, just as Jane devoted her life to expressing the feminine, Carol’s art is focused on the essence of what it means to be feminine. She and her mother shared a great deal in spirit.

Susan was the baby girl, as I was the baby boy. We both struggled with our marriages. Susan hung tight to her detriment. And I kept getting thrown away until I finally found Marietta. Susan and I share the same profession. I wonder why that is: Surely that is evidence for something else that we share. Susan has admired me for reasons I don’t know and I’m especially proud that she read and liked my first book. Her mother was amazed that I could write a book and get it published, as was I. She read it too. Jane told me that she knew mother would be proud. That meant a lot to me.

Jane was our last drop of glue from the generation before. That glue is gone. Things will change. Death and rebirth are a circle. John’s daughter McKenzie Jane reminds us of that. We all have to move over and make room. We have to accept and appreciate the room that Jane’s leaving has created for all of us to grow. We have now to take on the legacy Jane and Mother gave us. Those of us in this generation are standing alone now with no one at our backs. Your children and grandchildren are pushing forward and we can feel ourselves moving back. Every day that passes we make peace with one more loss. We are afraid. We need one another. May we move toward our end as gracefully and courageously as Elizabeth, Jane, Aunt Margie, Hipop, Bobbobie, Aunt Selma and others that we didn’t know so well but who carried our families burden of caring, hoping wanting and all eventually losing.

I have imagined Jane and Mother meeting again in heaven. I could not have imagined it any better than Fanny Flagg in Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven.

Aunt Selma

By David W. McMillan

             Her smile was as wide as her face. They all had false teeth, but when Aunt Selma smiled, she would risk her teeth falling out because she loved joy more than discretion. I loved Aunt Selma and her humor - but I loved her most because she loved me so. Each time I was with her she would tell me a story about something I said or did. When I was three years old, I can remember her telling stories about David. Of course, I loved her creating such a legend and keeping it alive.

            Aunt Selma was widowed as a young woman (or what seems young to me now). Mother told me that Hipop & Bobobbie invited Aunt Selma to join them in whatever social occasions Arkadelphia offered. Aunt Selma was always at Aunt Margie's. Mother said that Hipop enjoyed Aunt Selma and was eager to have her accompany them. Knowing Aunt Selma, this is not surprising. It is a tribute to her good nature and sensitivity that she was welcome everywhere.

            Aunt Selma represents many miracles. How did she raise two boys alone in the depression? How did she have such "joie de vivre" with her crippled leg and the constant pain that often put her flat on her back? What was the source of the deep well of laughter that was always wherever she was? Where did those Angel food cakes come from for everybody's birthday and for all family occasions? And dammit, where are they now?

My Brother Bill: Black Titlest 7

By David W. McMillan

             It was Saturday, 8 A.M., August 14, 1960. As I was waking I could hear the rumble of voices downstairs and the opening and closing of the front door. These were the same sounds of my parents having a large party, but it was eight in the morning. These sounds were exceptionally loud because I could hear them over the drone of my window air-conditioning unit.

            With the crystallized remains of sleep in the corners of my eyes I stumbled out of bed, put on some shorts and wandered slowly to the stairs in the hall outside my room with the fist knuckles of the back of my hand rotating in my eye sockets, scraping the sleep out of my eyes. I heard mother’s footsteps running up the stairs. When I pulled my fists out of my eyes my mother met me out of breath at the top of the steps.

            “What’s happening downstairs?” I asked.

            “David,” she replied, ignoring my question taking some time to look squarely at me. “Bill is dead.”

            “Oh mother, that’s not funny. What’s going on downstairs?”

            “David, Bill is dead. He and Jo Carol were parked out in the woods on the other side of the highway from the bluff. Apparently that was the place where they parked to be together. They had the engine on so the air conditioner would work and somehow the air conditioner pulled up the carbon monoxide from the exhaust and it killed them. They say it killed Bill first and then Jo Carol, because his body was more bloated.”

            “Mother what are those people doing downstairs? Bill’s not dead! This is a bad joke. What’s really going on?”

            Eventually it became real to me. At 14 I had my first experience of losing to death someone I loved. Bill was 19. He was spending his summer between his freshman and sophomore college year at home. Bill Jr. was the oldest. Toney was one year younger. I was five years younger than Bill and my sister Betsy was six years younger than me.

            My father, Bill Senior, was an archetypal SOB lawyer. He could unpredictably fill our home with rage. My brother Bill was a classic good boy scout, salutatorian of his high school class, quarterback of his football team, president of the student body in high school, good student in his freshman year in college, best pledge in his fraternity. He was quiet, disciplined, hard working and much loved and respected. My brother Toney was not Bill. He had a temper. He was handsome and graceful.  I was the clown, the dramatic jokester, always wanting to play with my brothers, often in trouble for irritating my father. Mother was like Bill Jr. She was valedictorian of her high school and college classes. She was an expert pianist and vocalist. She put flowers in the church every Sunday. She had a roast at whoever’s home had an illness or death. And gave Betsy, who was born a Down’s baby, every opportunity to learn.

            Bill was especially important to me. In addition to being my idol, he was my protector. He would stand up for me when my father seemed to be on the verge of overpunishing me. Toney was often angry at me and Bill would take up for me.

            When my brothers were in high school we had ping-pong tournaments on the back porch. Toney would challenge Bill. Bill was the high school ping-pong champ. Toney was probably better than Bill but Toney was too impatient and often lost his temper and when he did, Bill easily defeated him. I was always allowed to play the winner. If it was Bill I would somehow manage to win and I would be the champion until Toney would pulverize me, often 21 to 10 or more. And the cycle would be repeated.

            Bill took up golf when he was sixteen. And of course I began to play too at age eleven. I got pretty good at it. We played on our small town’s nine-hole course. I thought I could compete with his cronies. He would never let me play with them because they gambled. But when he wasn’t around I would push myself into a game and always lose more money than I had. Bill would have to cover my losses. After he paid up I would always get a talking too.

            Two days before Bill died we played golf together. Bill had a job at Safeway and had money to buy golf balls. I had to use ones that I found or ones that he would give me because they were too banged up for him to use. Bill was driving his 1957 Chevrolet that he shared with Toney. When we got to the course we got out of the car, grabbed our golf bags, and walked toward the clubhouse and Bill said, “Wait here I’ve got to buy some golf balls.” I wasn’t going to miss this. I followed Bill into the pro shop.

            “Give me four balls from the ball jar and a sleeve of Black Titlest 7’s. Seven is my lucky number,” he said. A Black Titlest was a 100-compression ball. It was the ball most pros used. It was more solid and when hit with great power would go further. Seven was simply one number in nine that golf ball companies used to identify their golf balls.

            I watched as he released the flap of the small box holding the brand new balls. “Here,” he said, as he noticed me ogling these new Black Titlests. He handed me one of the three balls that rolled out of the box. “Black Titlest 7. You can have one.” I grabbed it quickly before he could change his mind.

            “Thanks,” I said. I’m sure my face beamed in appreciation and excitement. I had to play with it since it was the one the pros used and by the third hole I had lost it. Bill lost one of these three new balls on the sixth hole.

            After Bill’s funeral I began searching for Bill’s golf bag. I finally found it in the trunk of his 1957 Chevrolet. He was left-handed so I didn’t inherit his clubs. But I rifled through the pockets on the golf bag. I found a few old balls and the brand new Black Titlest 7.

            It was my treasure. I carried it in my pocket much like boys do with lucky buckeyes. I would reach in my pockets and rub the concave dimples with my thumb, carefully feeling the texture of the many circular bridges that formed those small indentions. I loved to turn the ball until I could feel the carved script. I would feel T-i-t-l-e-s-t spelled out on my thumb like Braille and then the 7 below. As I felt it I imagined the black ink instead of the black and red of the 90-compression ball and I would feel strong – as if Bill was sending me a jolt of confidence.

            Sometimes when I would play I would think of it as magic. I would pull it out of my pocket and use it as my putting ball on the green. I held on to it, taking it out of my pocket and putting it on my dresser with my change at night. In the morning back in my pocket it went.

            One late afternoon I teed off by myself on the first hole without practicing. I sliced my first ball way right. I hooked my second ball to the left. I hit a third tree shot to the right again into the trees. The only ball I had left was the Black Titlest 7. So I hit it. It went in the woods to the right too. I gathered my golf bag and went off to find my golf balls. The one I hooked to the left was the best play ball. So I found it and hit it toward the green for my second shot. Then I went looking for the balls I hit on the right, especially the Black Titlest 7.

            As I walked over to the woods and creek on the right side of the fairway it occurred to me that I might not find the Black Titlest 7. I went right to the Sycamore tree that I used to mark the line of the flight of the ball. I walked all around the tree using the soles of my tennis shoes to feel for round bumps in the ground that I hoped would be Bill’s ball. I used my nine iron to whack at the tall grass and push down into the small creek that oozed among those trees. I felt bumps and reached to find rocks. I found one of the balls I hit there but not the Black Titlest 7. I became frantic, slashing at the underbrush and poking into the water with my nine iron. Tears formed in my eyes and moans began to emerge from my mouth. Suddenly I heard someone shout “fore.” There was a twosome on the tee. I waved them through, hoping they were too far away to see me crying. I was humiliated, ashamed. I could hear my brother lecturing me about my impulsiveness, my poor judgment and immaturity. It was all true. Losing the Black Titlest 7 proved the point. How could I have even considered hitting it? And now it’s lost. After forty-five minutes I gave up the search. I walked away toward the green wanting to go back and look some more. I felt like I had lost Bill again and this time it was my fault. I will never get over losing that Black Titlest 7.

Memories of Bill Vestal (1920-1976)

By David W. McMillan

            Roland Pattillo asked Jerry Vestal, Bill’s son, to write a page or so about his father. Jerry felt he couldn’t reduce his experience with his father to a page or two. He asked me if I would share my impressions of his father.

It was 8:30 in the morning. I was ten years old. It was July. I was just waking, waking much later than usual. Most summer mornings Aunt Margie’s black Plymouth honked in front of my house at 7:30; mother would shout, “David go out to Aunt Margie’s car and bring in the black-eyed peas and butter beans.” And I woke up.

            It was always one or both of those, black-eyed peas or butter beans, with greens, okra or figs sometimes mixed in, vegetables from Aunt Margie’s farm garden. But on this morning there was no honk, no black Plymouth, no black-eyed peas and no Aunt Margie rocking with mother on the front porch shelling peas. And I slept late.

            I went down for my regular morning breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, toast and bacon, only one piece. As soon as I cleaned my plate I jumped on my bike and raced up Aunt Margie’s driveway to investigate why no 7:30 honk from her Plymouth. I used my typical slide stop. The bicycle wheels screeched and slide out from under me. I let it lie there under the carport while I walked to the breakfast room door and announced my presence with the slam of the screen door.

I walked straight in the breakfast room door and saw Aunt Margie and Hazel leaning over the table in the middle of the kitchen, knives in hand, peeling something. “Figs,” they said, after I asked what that was. I allowed as I saw no reason for peeling figs.

            “It is for fig preserves,” Aunt Margie said. I allowed again as I saw no reason to peel figs for fig preserves. I had eaten many jars of Aunt Margie’s fig preserves and not one of these figs had to be peeled.

            “Bill and Jack are coming,” was my answer to why. “And they love peeled fig preserves.” Aunt Margie made me a second breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, and toast with fig preserves. I loved Aunt Margie’s fried eggs. They were crisp at the edges. Hazel kept on peeling figs.

            While I ate my breakfast, Aunt Margie picked her knife up again and continued helping Hazel peel figs. As she did her face got red and seemed to swell. When she took off her yellow rubber gloves, her hands seemed splotchy, red and swollen. Mother later told me that Aunt Margie was allergic to figs. My mother’s answer to my question why did she peel figs when she was allergic was again that “Bill and Jack were coming.”

            From my current vantage point of 56 years old, after Bill and Jack are both gone, the first thing I notice about Bill Vestal was that he was one half of a well loved set of boys. I always heard Bill’s name as the Bill part of Bill and Jack. These men, as I knew them, were the products of the kind of love only Aunt Margie could dish out. I think I have some notion of how deeply they were loved. And I’m sure this explains a lot about Bill Vestal. But it doesn’t explain everything or Bill and Jack would have been alike and they were not.

            It is through the lens of first cousin, once removed, that I saw Bill Vestal. As I picture him I see a frank clear smile, white teeth, a twinkle in his eye that contained interest and excitement without guile. When Bill came home to Aunt Margie’s he was glowing, full of hugs and kisses for his mother, father, my mother, my grandmother and grandfather, Aunt Selma, Aunt Dot, my brothers, my sister and me.

            He seemed to smile the whole time he was in Arkadelphia, a smile that he couldn’t wipe off his face, a smile so genuine and so sincere that I felt sorry for him that he couldn’t live in Arkadelphia and hold onto what appeared to me to be utter bliss at being home again. And besides if he stayed that would mean that his wife, Mary Beth could stay too and his children Jan, Jerry, and Beth, could become my constant playmates.

            One summer Bill took me along on a camping trip to Lake Ouachita with his children (or at least Jerry). We camped out in tents on the ground. Perhaps Bill had a camper, my memory is not clear on that. What I remember is trying to fish together and Bill spending endless hours untangling our reels and unsnagging our lines from stumps without one complaint.

            This stood out for me because of a perhaps unfair family comparison. I couldn’t imagine my father tending to me and Jerry with our slow learning curves and my impulsiveness with such kindness and patience. He was not annoyed. Bill seemed to enjoy his children and my company. It never seemed that he was needed elsewhere or had more important matters to attend to.

            One other summer Bill and Jerry took me home to Snyder, Texas. I stayed there for two weeks. Bill had a new Volkswagen. It was the first VW I had ever seen. It fascinated me. I was especially intrigued by the noise its blinkers made when they were turned on. After Bill came home from work in his VW I would sneak into the garage alone. I would turn on the car so that I could play with the blinkers for entertainment. That was the only time that I remember Bill losing his patience with me. I was startled by his anger. I knew it was difficult to make him angry. He was always positive and affirming. I was especially interested in pleasing him. So when I angered him I was at least as disappointed in myself as he was in me. I didn’t get punished. All I got was his displeasure with me and that was enough.

            Two other things stood out for me from that trip. Again it was because of the stark contrast between Bill and my father. When we would stop at a gas station or a restaurant Bill would strike up a conversation with whomever it was that served us. He seemed not to have any sense of class status. He saw every person as potentially a good person to know. If they were strangers at first, they were not a stranger long. He saw the good in them and passed over the bad. That was the first thing I noticed on our trip.

            The second was Bill’s unquenchable interest and curiosity. He seemed to always have something he was learning. He was fascinated by talking to people on his ham radio. He would talk to them for hours about equipment and frequencies, people sharing contact by radio waves filled with crackles and static. He had mechanical magazines and he could fix anything. He seemed amazing to me and what was most amazing was that he seemed to be amazed by me and everyone else he came in contact with.

            One of the reasons I think I know Bill Vestal is because I knew his mother well. I saw her in Bill, I see her in his daughter, Jan and his son, Jerry. When I have a chance to be with them, I take it, because the kind of love they share with the world and me is so rare and precious. I see glimmers of Bill Vestal in Brian Hegi. When I hear Jerry speak about his children I hear reminders of Bill in Bill Vestal number two and Rebecca. I have faith that Aunt Margie’s genes were planted deep inside Bill Vestal and will live on in his great grandchildren.

The tree that didn’t understand

DEDICATED TO ELIZABETH D. MCMILLAN
(APRIL 6, 1911 - OCTOBER 8, 1992)

AND TO HER OTHER CHILDREN: TONEY, BETSY, JILL, MARIETTA, KEVIN AND CARTER; HER ADOPTED DAUGHTERS; KENNY BURTON, KATHY ULRICH AND MARY WHIPPLE, ESPECIALLY MARY ELIZABETH WHIPPLE WHO SHARED HER NAME; AND EMILY WHIPPLE WHO CAME TO SEE HER TWO DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH.

 
By David W. McMillan

ONCE UPON A TIME IN A LAND WHERE PEOPLE NEVER WALKED, LIVED A FAMILY OF TREES.  THIS FAMILY WAS A FOREST.  LIKE ALL SPIRITUAL FAMILIES, THEY WORSHIPPED GOD.  TO THE TREES, GOD HAD THREE PARTS:  THE EARTH, IN WHOM THEY LIVED AND WORKED AND HAD THEIR BEING; THE LIGHT THAT SHINED ON THEM AND MADE THEIR LEAVES GREEN; THE WIND, IT BECAME THE LANGUAGE THEY USED TO SPEAK TO ONE ANOTHER.  IT RUSTLED THEIR LEAVES, MAKING NOISE THE TREES USED FOR WORDS.  IT BLEW THEIR BRANCHES, CREATING POSES THAT SHOWED THEIR FEELINGS FOR ONE ANOTHER.

THE TREES SPENT THEIR DAYS GROWING DEEP ROOTS INTO THE GROUND AND STANDING TALL.  THEIR BRANCHES PROVIDED HOMES FOR BIRDS AND SQUIRRELS, THEIR ROOTS, HOMES TO CHIPMUNKS AND RABBITS, THEIR LIMBS, NUTS AND FRUIT FOR THE ANIMALS.  THEY LOVED THEIR ROLE OF PROVIDING SHELTER AND FOOD FOR THE FOREST COMMUNITY.  

ONE SPRING DAY THE FOREST BLOOMED WITH NEW LIFE.  THE DOGWOOD FLOWERS LACED THE FOREST LIKE POPCORN STRINGS ON CHRISTMAS TREES.  THE FOREST'S SPRING LEAVES PROVIDED SOFT AND TENDER GREEN COLORS IN THE TREE TOPS.  ON THE FOREST FLOOR WERE SPRINKLES OF YELLOW DAFFODILS RISING OUT OF THE BROWN MAT OF PINE STRAW AND LEAVES. 

ON THIS DAY, THE WIND BLEW THE PINE POLLEN THROUGH THE FOREST LIKE A SOFT GOLD MIST.  ONE OF THE SPECKS OF GOLD POLLEN FROM AN ADULT PINE TREE FOUND ITS WAY TO THE CONE OF ANOTHER PINE TREE.  THE PINE TREE RECEIVED THE POLLEN AND WITH IT MADE A SEED. 

THE MOTHER PINE TREE HELD THE NEW PINE SEED TIGHTLY IN HER PINE CONE FOR A LONG TIME.  SHE WAS WAITING FOR JUST THE RIGHT MOMENT TO LET THE SEED GO. 

SHE WAITED AND WAITED, UNTIL ONE DAY AFTER A RAIN, SHE SAW A PLACE WHERE THE LIGHT FELL JUST RIGHT ON A SPOT ON THE FOREST FLOOR. THERE, ON THIS SAME SPOT, THE TALLEST PINE TREE IN THE FOREST ONCE GREW. 

IT BECAME OLD AND FELL FROM THE SAWS OF THE PINE BEETLE.  NOW THAT THE GIANT OLD TREE WAS GONE, THERE WAS PLENTY OF LIGHT FOR NEW LIFE.  THE MOTHER PINE LET GO OF HER LITTLE SEED.  IT TWIRLED ITS WAY TO THAT SPOT.  IT WAS A PERFECT PLACE FOR A PINE TREE TO GROW.  HERE THE SEED FEEL ON SOFT DAMP EARTH. 

AS THE SEED HIT THE GROUND, IT TWISTED ITS BOTTOM INTO THE DIRT.  IT USED THE EARTH'S MOISTURE AND LIGHT THAT CAME DOWN FROM THE SKY TO BEGIN TO GROW.  IT PUT OUT ROOTS AND THEN A SMALL STEM WITH SMALL PINE NEEDLES.  IT WAS A BABY TREE.  IT HAD NO BRANCHES TO WAVE.  ITS NEEDLES WERE TOO SHORT TO RUSTLE. 

SO ITS PARENTS HAD TO LOOK OUT AFTER THEIR INFANT.  WHEN IT NEEDED MORE WATER, ITS MOTHER AND FATHER WOULD CATCH THE RAINDROPS WITH THEIR NEEDLES AND HOLD THE WATER.  THEN, ONE DROP AT A TIME, THEY WOULD DRIP THE WATER FROM THEIR NEEDLES ON THEIR CHILD AS THE BABY TREE NEEDED IT.  ON CLOUDY DAYS WHEN LIGHT WAS SPARSE, THEY WOULD LEAN BACK, MAKING ROOM FOR MORE LIGHT TO WARM THEIR CHILD AND HELP THE YOUNG TREE GROW.  THE BABY TREE DID GROW AND IT BECAME A PROUD NEW ADDITION TO THE FOREST COMMUNITY. 

THE BABY TREE HAD MANY QUESTIONS ABOUT LIFE AND HE WOULD ASK HIS PARENTS.  "HOW DO YOU KNOW GOD EXISTS?" HE ASKED HIS MOTHER ONE DAY. 

 "I JUST DO," SHE REPLIED.  

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND," THE YOUNG TREE SAID.  "WHY DID GOD MAKE SQUIRRELS?"

THE YOUNG TREE ASKED HIS FATHER. 

 "I DON'T KNOW," HIS FATHER SAID. 

 "WHY DON'T YOU KNOW?" THE YOUNG TREE ASKED.  

HIS FATHER TEASINGLY ANSWERED HIM, "BECAUSE I HAVE WOOD IN MY TRUNK."  "WHY, MOTHER, DID GOD MAKE SQUIRRELS?"  

"TO SCRATCH AND SHAKE OUR LIMBS," SHE SAID.  

"WHY DID GOD MAKE SQUIRRELS FOR THAT?" HE ASKED.  

"BECAUSE GOD LOVES US," SHE ANSWERED.  

"WHY DOES GOD LOVE US?" HE ASKED.  

"I DON'T KNOW," SHE REPLIED.  

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND," THE YOUNG TREE SAID.  "WHY DID GOD MAKE WORMS?"  

"TO HELP OLD TREES RETURN TO THE EARTH WHEN THEY DIE."  

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND," HE SAID.  "WHY DID GOD MAKE MOSQUITOS?"  

"I DON'T KNOW," THE MOTHER TREE REPLIED, EXASPERATED WITH ALL THESE QUESTIONS.  "PERHAPS GOD MADE A MISTAKE WITH MOSQUITOS."  

THE YOUNG TREES IN THE FOREST WOULD PLAY GAMES. THERE WERE SEVERAL OF THEM.  ONE WAS `BAT THE FALLING LEAF IN THE WIND' GAME.  ANOTHER GAME WAS `TEASE THE SQUIRRELS.'  IN THAT GAME ONE TREE WOULD SHAKE THE SQUIRREL OFF ITS BRANCHES AND OTHER TREES WOULD SEE WHO COULD CATCH THE SQUIRREL BEFORE IT HIT THE GROUND. 

THE BIGGER TREES WERE BUSY TENDING TO THE YOUNG TREES AND GROWING PLACES FOR THE ANIMALS.  THE BIG OLDER TREES WOULD DROP A BRANCH TO MAKE A HOLE IN THEIR TRUNK FOR OWL FAMILIES TO NEST. 

THE TALLEST TREES WOULD DROP THEIR TOP LEAVES AND MAKE ROOSTING PLACES FOR EAGLES. ONCE A WEEK ON SUNDAY THE TREES WOULD LEAN TOGETHER TO FORM A SANCTUARY AND THEY WOULD LISTEN FOR THE WORD OF GOD. 

GOD DID NOT SPEAK TO THEM DIRECTLY.  THEY NEVER KNEW HOW GOD WOULD COMMUNICATE WITH THEM.  THEY ONLY KNEW THAT IF THEY CAME TOGETHER TO LISTEN, THAT GOD WOULD BECOME KNOWN TO THEM.  SOMETIMES IT WAS FROM THE HONKS OF DUCKS MIGRATING HIGH OVER-HEAD.  SOMETIMES IT WAS FROM THE ECHO OF THUNDER IN THE HILLS.  SOMETIMES IT WAS FROM THE FLYING COLORS OF THE SONGBIRDS FLITTING THROUGH THEIR BRANCHES. 

BUT HOWEVER IT WAS THAT GOD SPOKE TO HIS TREE FAMILY, IT WAS ALWAYS A SURPRISE.  AT THE END OF EVERY SERVICE THEY WOULD SING THE SAME HYMN TO PRAISE GOD.

      "IMMORTAL, INVISIBLE, GOD ONLY  WISE,

      GOD OF THE SPARROW, GOD OF THE WHALE

WE BLOSSOM AND FLOURISH

      RICH WITH NEW LIFE

THEN WITHER AND PERISH,

      BUT NAUGHT CHANGES THEE.

GOD OF EARTHQUAKE, GOD OF STORM

GOD OF RAINBOWS, GOD OF MOONLIGHT.

YOU MAKE PAIN, GRIEF AND SORROW

NURTURE NEW LIFE.

              ALL FEAR AND SHAME ARE

REDEEMED BY GOD'S LOVE.

AMEN."

AFTER CHURCH ONE SUNDAY, THE YOUNG TREE ASKED HIS MOTHER ABOUT CHURCH.  HE KNEW BETTER TO ASK HIS FATHER BECAUSE HIS FATHER WOULD ALWAYS SAY, "I DON'T KNOW CAUSE I HAVE WOOD IN MY TRUNK." 

SO HE ASKED HIS MOTHER, "MOTHER, WHY DO WE GO TO CHURCH EACH SUNDAY?"  

"TO WORSHIP GOD," SHE REPLIED. 

"WHY DOES GOD NEED WORSHIPPING?" HE ASKED. 

"GOD DOESN'T NEED WORSHIP.  WE NEED TO WORSHIP." 

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND," SAID THE YOUNG TREE. T

HE YOUNG TREE GREW TALL AND BIG, STANDING HIGH WITH ITS PARENTS.  LIFE IN THE FOREST SEEMED WONDERFUL TO THE TREE UNTIL ONE DAY A STORM CAME.  LIGHTNING JUMPED OUT OF THE SKY AND STRUCK HIS FATHER.  WIND FOLLOWED THE LIGHTENING AND SHOVED HIS FATHER TO THE GROUND.  ROOTLESS AND BURNED, HIS FATHER WAS DEAD. 

THE YOUNG TREE FELT EXPOSED AND FRIGHTENED AT HIS EASTERN FLANK WHERE HIS FATHER HAD STOOD.  HE LOOKED WEST TO HIS MOTHER.  SHE WAS STILL THERE.  SHE WAS SINGING THE LAST OF THE HYMN SUNG EACH SUNDAY.

"YOU MAKE PAIN, GRIEF AND SORROW NURTURE NEW LIFE, ALL FEAR AND SHAME ARE REDEEMED BY GOD'S LOVE."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN MOTHER?" THE YOUNG TREE ASKED. 

"YOUR PROTECTOR AND CHAMPION PINE TREE IS DEAD.  HOW CAN YOU SING?  WHY DIDN'T GOD SAVE MY FATHER?" 

"GOD DID," SHE SAID.  

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND," THE YOUNG TREE SAID. 

THE YOUNG TREE GREW OLDER AND BECAME ONE OF THE STRONGEST TREES OF THE FOREST, STRONG ENOUGH TO LOSE A LIMB IN THE WIND AND LET BIRDS BUILD A NEST IN THE KNOT HOLE THE LIMB LEFT BEHIND.  HE PLAYED HIS ROLE AS A PROTECTOR AND PROVIDER FOR THE FOREST AND ENJOYED BEING CONSIDERED A TREE AMONG TREES. 

HE MISSED HIS FATHER, BUT HE LOVED HIS MOTHER AND SHE REMAINED THERE FOR HIM. ONE DAY, THE SQUIRRELS THAT NESTED IN HIS MOTHER'S BRANCHES BEGAN TO SCOOT ABOUT AS IF SOMETHING WAS WRONG. 

HE THOUGHT HE HEARD THEM SAYING, "SHE WILL FALL ANY MINUTE.  WE'VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE." THE EAGLES IN THE NEST IN HIS MOTHER'S TREE TOP SWIRLED ABOUT THE NEST ABOVE.  HE HEARD THEM SAYING, "IT WON'T BE LONG.  WE HAVE TO FIND A NEW HOME." 

THE FAMILY OF SKUNKS AT THE BASE OF HER TRUNK WERE LOPING AWAY FROM HIS MOTHER AS FAST AS THEY COULD.  HE HEARD THEM SAYING, "THE BEETLES ARE SAWING AT THE CORE." "WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?" THE TREE ASKED HIS MOTHER. "I HAVE PINE BEETLES," SHE SAID.  "CAN'T YOU HEAR THEM SAWING AWAY INSIDE MY TRUNK.  SOON I WILL BE TOO WEAK TO STAND.  I WILL FALL OVER, NOT LIKE YOUR FATHER, TORN FROM HIS ROOTS, BUT ALREADY ROTTING - CHANGING FROM TREE TO EARTH.  I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG I CAN STAND." 

"MOTHER, I DON'T UNDERSTAND," THE TREE CRIED, "HOW CAN YOU FALL AND LEAVE ME?  IF YOU GO, LIFE WILL SHRINK OUT OF THE WORLD.  WHAT WILL WE DO WITHOUT YOU STANDING TALL.  YOU WERE THE ONLY TREE WILLING TO SHELTER THE SKUNK FAMILY.  THE EAGLES FELT SECURE IN YOUR TALL BRANCHES.  WHERE WILL THEY GO?  YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN BEAUTIFUL TO ME.  NO ONE CAN RUSTLE THEIR NEEDLES IN LAUGHTER LIKE YOU.  NO ONE CAN USE THEIR LIMBS IN THE WIND TO TELL A STORY LIKE YOU.  AND MOTHER, NO ONE CAN LOVE ME LIKE YOU.  I'M NOT STRONG ENOUGH YET FOR YOU TO GO." 

"YES YOU ARE SON," SHE SAID.  "YOU'VE BEEN STRONG ENOUGH FOR A LONG TIME." 

"HOW COULD GOD EXIST AND LET YOU DIE?  THE EARTH CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT YOUR SPIRIT.  MOTHER, I DON'T UNDERSTAND," HE SAID. 

"THE EARTH WON'T LIVE WITHOUT MY SPIRIT," SHE SAID.  "AND MY SPIRIT WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU AND BE WITH YOU.  WHEN I FALL I WILL MAKE WAY FOR NEW TREES TO GROW HERE.  NEW LIGHT WILL FALL ON THE GROUND.  THERE WILL BE MORE ROOM FOR YOU TO GROW AND SPREAD AND BECOME THE GREAT TREE GOD MEANT YOU TO BE.  THE BEETLES WILL SAW ME UP INTO DUST.  THE WORMS WILL TAKE MY DUST INTO THE EARTH AND THE WHOLE FOREST WILL GET A PART OF ME AS I REJOIN GOD THE EARTH, GOD THE LIGHT AND GOD THE WIND." 

SUDDENLY THE WIND BLEW VERY HARD.  THE OLD MOTHER PINE TREE CRASHED TO THE GROUND.  HER TRUNK HIT THE GROUND, BOUNCED AND BROKE INTO PIECES.  THREE LARGE PIECES OF HER TRUNK FELL SO THAT THEY SURROUNDED HER SON ON THREE SIDES. HE COULDN'T THINK OF ANYTHING TO DO EXCEPT SING THE HYMN THEY SANG EVERY SUNDAY, THE HYMN HIS MOTHER SANG WHEN HIS FATHER DIED. 

"IMMORTAL, INVISIBLE, GOD ONLY WISE,

GOD OF THE SPARROW, GOD OF THE WHALE

WE BLOSSOM AND FLOURISH

      RICH WITH NEW LIFE

THEN WITHER AND PERISH,

      BUT NAUGHT CHANGES THEE.

GOD OF EARTHQUAKE, GOD OF STORM

GOD OF RAINBOWS, GOD OF MOONLIGHT.

YOU MAKE PAIN, GRIEF AND SORROW

NURTURE NEW LIFE.

                   ALL FEAR AND SHAME ARE

REDEEMED BY GOD'S LOVE.

     AMEN."

      WHEN HE FINISHED SINGING THE HYMN, HE SAID, "MOTHER, I'M BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND."

The Ravine

By Dr. David McMillan

            It is pronounced Raa'veen, not Ruh veen'.

            The Ravine was behind my Grandmother's house. It's five acre woods seemed to be a jungle to me at ten years old. A small creek bubbled through its gorge. The creek was full of tadpoles and the underbrush contained a few harmless snakes and rabbits. But to me the Ravine contained dangerous tigers, bobcats, wolves and fox. The snakes I saw were all rattlesnakes and the rabbits were wolves.   When I told my tales to adults they never seemed very concerned. In the Ravine the reddish clay mound rose fifteen feet above the creek below to form what seemed to me to be a cliff. The trees were mostly pine trees with a few cherry bark oak mixed in. The trees were so straight that they looked like giant strings flowing down from the limbs that were somehow caught in the clouds. In the summer the cool breezes blew up to Grandmother's house from the Ravine were always smelling of pine tar.

            There were five of us that played in this ravine behind my Grandmother's house. Five of us (David, Donnie, Lee, Tommy and me), were cousins - first cousins with the same grandmother. Randy was just a cousin and Raboo and Gary were neighborhood friends. David was the oldest. He and Donnie were brothers. He was twelve and a boy scout good boy who encouraged all of us to get in trouble instead of him. Donnie was nine with a bad temper, but either David or I could beat him in a fight. Lee and Tommy were brothers, too. Lee was nine and a half. He was shy and loved to be included, but was not easily led astray. Tommy was the youngest. He was seven and a half and often the one chosen for our most devious adventures. Randy was pudgy, sullen and smart.   He fought by sitting on his enemies. If he ever got on top of them he won. Raboo was the brightest among us. He did not pretend to be good like David.   He operated us in the spirit of Tom Saywer or Brer Rabbit. Gary was the group jester. He sacrificed his dignity to play bafoon for us upon request. I assumed I was the leader. I would run at the head of our group through the ravine chasing a wolf I glimpsed or I would be the first to take off my clothes and grab at a grapevine and swing from the cliff. When I did this the vine usually broke free from the tree limbs and I was also the first to fall into the creek. Raboo and David used such an occasion to snicker and praise.

            One bright summer afternoon Gary came bicycling down Cherry Street where he could count on us riding in circles in driveways on this deserted dead-end street trying to decide what to do next. He was carrying a brown metal box with a lock.

            "I've got something," he said, "I've got to show you." He opened the box for David. David quickly shut the box and said, "Not here."

            I said, "to the ravine" and I shot into the lead as we peddled as fast as we could to Grandmother's. We parked our bikes in her driveway. Shouts of "What is it?", "Show us!", "Naked women" bounced between our hustling steps as we raced through the kudzu to the privacy and shelter of the trees by the creek below.

            We all strained to look over Gary's shoulders as he opened the box. Rarely did Gary have such an exalted position in the group. He said, "Be quiet, what I'm about the show you is a secret. If my brother knew I had this he would kill me. I've got to take it right back." Then with great care he slowly unlocked and opened the box. As soon as the light broke through the lid we could see breasts - big great ones. We all gasped pushing at each other "Let me see let me see."

            It didn't take long before we were sitting down with the several magazines oogling at pictures of naked women. There was Candy Bar, Lucille L'Amour, Boom Boom Betsy just to name a few. Before we could get a good look Gary was walking around the circle. He said, "Give them back. I've got to take them back. They belong to my brother. He would kill me if he knew I had them."

            "Give them back," I said, "I haven't even begun."

            David Cooley said, "Where did your brother get them?"

            "At Reds News Stand," Gary replied.

            "Well lets go buy us some," I proposed.

            "We are too young," David said.

            This was our first circle. We sat in a small clearing a few feet from the creek across from the cliff. We were completely hidden by underbrush. There Raboo concocted our plan.

            "We can send Tommy into Red's news stand. We will go with him at first. We will find the girly magazines. We will slip one inside the Saturday Evening Post and one inside Life magazine. Then we will leave and let Tommy go to the counter and buy those two magazines. We will wait outside and then take them back to the ravine."

            So off we went to execute our plan. Gary sailed back to his house to replace his brother's stash before it was missed. He returned to meet us in front of Red's news stand with another metal box. This one was empty. He found it in his father's study. Raboo, David, and Lee decided to wait outside. Randy, Tommy, Gary and I went inside.

            Red's News Stand was a thin store front Downtown in Arkadelphia. The ceilings were ten feet tall. The building was darkly lit. The floor was dirty hardwood with the dark finish rubbing off the edges of the boards. On the left just as you entered was a counter. Red stood there behind the counter seemingly guarding the soft drinks and cigars he kept beside him. The magazines and newspapers were displayed in racks that were parallel to the store's front.

            I walked first through the door. Tommy followed me then Randy, then Gary. Gary was our magazine expert. He went to find the girly magazine, as I looked for the Post and Life. Tommy stumbled, when his foot tripped on a loose floor board. He caught himself with his hands. As he stood he looked at his filthy fingers and his face began to tear up. I came to him and said, "Buck up Tommy. You're tough. I'll stay with you." We arranged the magazines as planned. Randy and Gary left. I walked to the counter with Tommy.   Tommy stammered out, "I want these" and put two quarters on the counter. "That'll be fifty three cents," Red said. I reached in my pocket, pulled out three pennies and put them on the counter and said, "Let's go Tommy." I picked up the magazines, put my arm around Tommy and we scurried out.

            Outside we were met by our co-conspirators. Everyone gathered around Tommy. His head seemed to be in continuous motion from head pats and back slappings. "Way to go Tommy," couldn't be said enough. Gary said, "Let me see," but Tommy had given them to David and he replied, "Not here." I said, "Back to the Ravine." And we jumped on our bikes with our anticipatory prepubescent erections and raced back to my Grandmother's house. Once there we threw our bikes at the driveway and ran through the kudzu down to the hidden clearing to resume our circle.

            Gary couldn't wait. He sat down, unzipped his pants and began pumping his penis with his right hand. "Pass me a Babe. God I want those giant Boobs." His urgent need and our presbyterian shock at Gary's immodesty got him his own copy. I don't know who was next, but in a very short time we were all imitating Gary captured in the eroticism of the picture oblivious to our fears of getting caught.

            Once orgasm resolved our interest, our conversation turned to competition. David looked at me and said I came. "I shot my wad."

            "I did too," Raboo said.

            "Me too," said Gary.

            I hadn't, and I was embarrassed that I hadn't produced visible semen, but I was glad I didn't have a mess on my pants like Gary did. Our treasures were put away in the metal file box and hidden in the leaves.

            I left and went home reflecting on what I had participated in. I felt intense guilt. I don't exactly remember how many times we gathered in the ravine or what happened to the magazines. I'm pretty sure our collective guilt served to end our meetings with the beginning of school.

            What I remember most is my continued feeling of shame for having participated in such degradation. I knew this behavior had somehow dammed me to hell. Throughout my adolescence, usually after I had masturbated in private, I would remember this scene and once again feel intense shame.

            These feelings were not resolved until I was a freshman in college. I was walking down the hall of my college dorm toward my room. I watched a friend of mine as he turned the corner and came upon five dorm mates standing in the hall in a circle and he said, "What is this a circle jerk."