Childhood Memories

Between Idabel and Valliant, Oklahoma, is a small community named Millerton. The community was so small, if you blinked you would completely miss it. The town had an Assembly of God, a Baptist, and a black church. Once upon a time there was even a bank. During the 1960’s two grocery stations competed with the Piggly Wiggly in Idabel. On the north side of the highway was Timmons grocery, a block or so from the post office. To the south was the water tower. The KCS Railroad ran parallel to Highway 70. Across the railroad track, a sawmill with a lumber yard extended along the tracks to the edge of town, only a half a mile or so.

Timmons grocery was a white frame one room building with a lean-to on each side. One side had oil, and kerosene, the other side held feed. The gas pumps near the highway were covered by a large porta cochere that led about 20 feet to a step up at the door covered with the Ideal bakery sign. A couple of Coca-Cola benches partially hid the spittoons and cigarette butts.

Inside the door on the right was an 8’ counter that held a cash register on one end and a butcher paper roller on the other. An eight-foot long meat display cooler made the almost square checkout. The shelves rose to the ceiling so children couldn’t reach the 8” x 8” x 4” paper wrapped boxes and finger balloons. Near the back of the 30 x 50 room were the drink machines with Little Debbie flanking one side, Lays on the other. Along the back walls were the milk and ice cream freezers. A back door for unloading also led out to the outhouse that was turned over every Halloween.

In the winter, a big pot bellied stove surrounded by an assortment of chairs, buckets and stools became the stage for the “spit and whittle club.” The ash pan underneath was the spittoon. When the ashes were still warm, the spit would sizzle and smell.

At 11 or 12 years old, these men were larger-than-life to me. They told the most outrageous stories. Dad didn’t want me to listen because their language was not for little girls’ ears. I would hide behind the meat counter where there was a gap that I could hear and see through. I heard stories of brave deeds, wild drinking parties, hunting and fishing tales that became stranger and bigger every time it was told.

My favorite tall tale was about ol’ Granddad, the catfish. Ol’ Granddad was as big as pickup truck and so smart no one could ever catch it. If you were in a boat and Granddad was feeling frisky, with one flick of his tail you would be swimming for land. If you made him mad, he might grab your line and swiftly drag you out of the boat into one of the swirling whirlpools found in the Red River sand. Horses, cattle, men and even an airplane had been reportedly missing somewhere between the border of Oklahoma and Texas.

Early one spring a new retiree joined the spit and whittle club passing time at the store. This new person didn’t believe in tall tales. The diehard members of the club decided to prove ol’ Granddad existed.

Bill brought up a couple of logging chains. My dad added an took old hay hook. Bugger took them to his shop and welded the chains together and the hay hook to the end. It three men to load it into the back of the truck. On the way down ’98 they stopped at Skinny’s and got a suckling pig.

They backed the truck up to a tall pine tree close to the water and wrapped the chain around the base. The three men loaded the end of the chain with the pig tied on the hay hook and paddled out as far as the chain would allow. After dropping it in, and a few swigs of sour mash, they joked and were feeling pretty smug about catching ol’ Granddad.

Late the next evening, five members of the spit and whittle club drove down with a tractor and trailer for loading this legend. Again there was a home brew involved. Imagine their surprise to find the pig, chain and even the pine tree gone. The boat was there just as it had been left. But no sign what so ever of the pine tree or chain. It is said you can still hear the chain being dragged along the bottom of the Mighty Red to this day.

One day when I came home from school, a 65 pound catfish was stretched out on the counter. From the stories that I had heard of ol Granddad, I was convinced that he was the size of a whale so this had to have been ‘ol Granddad’s baby.

I tried to remember the stories they told because I wanted to write books. There was the 6 foot six Dave Wilburn, a black man whose skin seemed to drape over the bones with age. His fingers were the longest I have ever seen. Every morning he would walk about four blocks to the store, go into the side shed, get a chocolate soldier then put his nickel on the counter. The ones in the cooler inside were seven cents. He was my confidant. He never talked, but I did. I asked thousands of questions but he never told of the time he was a slave across the ‘Red’ in Texas. The McCurtain Gazette claimed he was 104 when he died. The community said he was closer to 110.

Then there was ol’ Aunt Lucy who could have been a stand in for Aunt Jemima. She always had a dip of snuff and an elm chew stick. She would argue with my dad for hours on which came first, the chicken or the egg. And so it went on and on until her death.

We kids all played together. After a rain we would take a string and a piece of bacon to fish the ‘bar ditches’ for crawdads. Black, white, Indian, it didn’t matter. We didn’t know about racial problems in the world. If there was a need, the women cooked donuts, peanut brittle, cakes and pies to raise money for the community.

The people and their stories were larger than life. Everyone has a story. So you see, along with a vast imagination, I’ve always had a resource of things to write about.

I am a storyteller. I take words generated from the wrinkles of my brain, form them into sentences, then into books.