Author: thegraymaniac

The Cotton Mill-2015

I know my Daddy was a hard working man. I remember being very young, back when we lived over on Simmons street and Daddy would come home from the mill. I rushed to meet him, and most of the days he would grab me up and give me a hug. Some days though, when he had been working right up until the last minute before the whistle blew, he would still have the grease and oil from working on looms on his hands and he had to go clean up before I got my hug.

Mom didn’t like all that mess in her bathroom sink, so Daddy had a little container of kerosine and some soap he kept out next to the back steps, along with some rags with which to wipe his hands. He’d get most of it off his hands, then finish up in the bathroom. I know he was tired, especially on the days he worked over. Still, he always had a little time to play, whether it was throwing a ball around or going out to where the beagles were penned up and letting me play with them a little.

Loom fixers were essential back in the cotton mill in the 1950’s. Good loom fixers, like my Dad were sought after. They moved around from “upkeep to upkeep” inside the weave room, getting the better set of looms to look after as they became more proficient. New fixers got the worst running looms and had to ask for help from the older more experienced fixers sometimes.

I never realized how hard working in that cotton mill could be until after I was sixteen years old. That was the age in which a student could get a summer job in the mill and make themselves some “good” money. A lot better money than caddying up at the golf course, or working bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. So, in the summer of 1967 I got myself a summer job in the mill.

By that time, my Dad had worked his way up to being an Overseer in the mill. He was the “boss” over the second/third shifts in the weave room. My Dad didn’t believe in doing family any favors though. I ended up doing a job called “taking up quills” We’d take a little buggy and go around to every loom and fetch the empty wooden quills on which the filling yarn had been wound. We’d dump the container into which they fell, in our big rolling buggy, and when that buggy was full we’d take it to the “quill machine” It was there that the quills were reprocessed to be sent back up to the spinning room. It was the location of one of the strangest sights I can ever remember.

Me and Kelley ( a teacher at our High School who also had a summer job in the mill) had filled our buggies up to almost overflowing and were bringing them to the machine. The dumping station was a circulating belt which eventually fed into a smaller belt which took the quills upstairs. A lot of times there was a little yarn left on them and the quill machine operator was responsible for getting that yarn off before the quills got to the smaller belt. There had been a large influx of quills and the operator was standing in between the large cirulating belt and the smaller belt buried chest deep in slowly moving wooden quills. With his arms outstreched and pulling the remnants of yarn off of the quills he looked like some strange multicolored ghost with stringlets of light hanging in all directions off on him. He was covered in sweat and it dripped from his face and neck onto the remnant yarn. “Damn” Kelly whispered, “I hope he doesn’t get buried” He didn’t.

There was no air conditioning in that mill back in 1967, just humidity. The more the humidity, the better, because the looms ran better when the humidity was high. They even had “humidity heads” built into the ceiling spewing out moisture into the air. It has hot that summer. Over 100 degrees inside that weave room most days and with that humidity, it was brutal.

I came home most days and just went to bed and slept for 10 hours or so. I didn’t feel much like doing anything else.

I developed a very healthy respect for my Dad, and all of the other men from our community who had been working in that place for most of their lives. They were tough men. Most of them were good men. Many of them, they just don’t make ’em like anymore. My Daddy was one of them, as was many of yours my friends. I met and worked with a lot of them that year and in the subsequent years in which I worked in that cotton mill. I will have to admit that the next summer I asked ol’ Henry Rider about a job before I did my Dad, and he put me to repainting the walls. It was a lot better than collecting quills!

I don’t know what it’s like in there today. I haven’t been in a weave room in a score or more of years. I do know how hard of work it used to be though. Hard..hard work.

I’ve eaten a lot of different kinds of food in my life, especially as a kid.

I had to stay with my Maternal Grandparents a lot when I was young because Mom was sick quite a bit. I stayed there almost one entire school year in the 4th grade, and almost every Summer I spent 3 or 4 weeks with Grandpa and Grandma. Grandpa had grown up eating wild game and he never intended to change as long as he had a choice. He had deer horns lining the upper beam of his front porch from one end to the other…there were dozens of them. Rattlesnake rattlers also hung down from the beam, trophies of killing some of the biggest Eastern Diamondbacks I ever remember, or want to think about.

My Grandpa’s Uncle Larkin Davenport once killed one that stretched from one side of the old dirt road to the other. I wish there had been iPhones back in those days, oh the photos I could have taken! But, back to the food…

Besides venison, Grandpa also had a craving ever now and then for a Possum. Yes….a possum. The kind you see lying dead on the side of the road almost every time you take a trip up the old Alabama highway. Of course Grandpa wouldn’t pick up roadkill! That was for the REAL hillbillies in the backwoods of Kentucky. Up at the end of Snake Nation road in the Blue Ridge mountains, things were done in a civilized manner.

Grandpa would trap or catch a possum when he had a craving for one, and keep it up under a big old, huge wash tub for about a week. During that week, the possum would be fed the leftover vegetables from our meals, along with the peels and scraps from the vegetables. Grandma gave the little beast bread with a little honey on it on the day before it was to meet his maker. I believe it was to “sweeten” the meat, although maybe it was a last little treat for the critter too.

I had to help Grandpa skin the possum, and it was done just like skinning a rabbit. If you have never skinned a rabbit, I won’t go into it right now, but if you need to know, send me a message and I’ll give you instructions. Chances are if you grew up in the deep South you already know.

Grandma was very particular about cooking wild game, so she carefully cleaned the possum and poured nearly boiling water over him in order to get any scraps of hide off. All of this was done early in the morning. The possum then went into a large pot for parboiling. After about an hour of parboiling, Grandma would take the possum out, put it on a large pan, and sprinkle salt and spices onto it. Peeled sweet potatoes where added, and some slices of bacon, in order to add back some of the flavor which was lost during the parboiling process…which was essential in order to make the meat tender. It then went into the oven to finish cooking by being baked.

I have to note that parboiling was also necessary when preparing and eating squirrel, if you were going to fry them. If stewing the squirrel, you just went right on and kept boiling, but added some spices and some other ingredients. I ate a lot more squirrel than I did possum, and they aren’t half bad.

The last possum I ate was back around 1960 if I remember correctly, when I was ten years old. My Grandfather was 67 years old that year. I can’t remember ever eating possum again, although venison and fish still graced the table at times. For the most part Grandma stuck with fried chicken, and beef roasts, and other pretty ordinary stuff in the subsequent years. Of course her cooking was anything but ordinary. Never had another biscuit as good as hers, or a cherry cobbler, or fried chicken…or fried apples for breakfast straight off the apple tree, or…well, you get the picture. I have wished a million times I had paid more attention to how Granny prepared food…especially the biscuits!

As for the possum? Well, I ate the sweet potatoes. The meat was just too greasy for me.

On a Mountaintop

I wish I lived on a mountain top, so I could see the stars more clearly,
I wouldn’t mind the cold wind, or the thin air.
It would be well worth an extra cloak to be closer
..to their persistent and lasting beauty.
It would be worth an extra breath of steamy warm air
…in the cold, still night
..to be able to almost reach out and tickle the moon.
Somewhere on a mountain top. There’s a million stars waiting.

Larry Bowers.

How is it that the people of the world allow such brutal, greedy, and power hungry men to dominate? There are more of us then there are of them, so it’s hard to understand. I watched a clip of Putin saying he would use nuclear weapons on certain countries that send soldiers to Ukraine to fight. He acknowledges that it could be an apocalyptic event. How is it that the people of Russia allow this?

In that same genre of man are many other men of that ilk. I won’t name them all but with very little research a person can ascertain who they are.

If this world was indeed created, was it created just so brutal men could destroy it? Even if it was not created, it is here and it is beautiful, so how can the vast majority of humanity stand pat and let just a handful of men debase all which is beautiful and good?

I understand what religions say, but I am looking at this from a totally secular viewpoint without taking into account anything of a supernatural nature. Will 8 billion people allow less than 100 men to dictate the lives of all we hold dear? Is there not a way in which they could be stopped?

Going Fishing With DAD

Fishing. I’ve spent a lot of time when I was little going fishing. Most of the time it was with my Dad. I have to admit that I never really “had it in my blood” like Dad did. I loved it when they were biting. Nothing beats the feel of throwing that line out there and letting it sit…and then when that stopper on the top of the pond starts to bob. The blood pressure goes up a little, your heart beats faster and you start to hold your breath. Then when it disappears all the way under, BOOM…you snatch that line back and hook ‘em good! I was a slow learner at first. I had a hard time waiting until that stopper went all the way under. I wanted to snatch it up and pull just as soon as the stopper started moving. I have missed many a “bait stealing” little bream by being impatient. Dad taught me to be patient when it came to fishing.

I remember going to a little pond somewhere down in Gore about 1960 to fish. Can’t remember who owned it, just a little ways out the road to the left after making a left hand turn there at Ballenger’s. I was fishing with worms trying to catch some Bream and Daddy was Bass fishing with a “shyster” lure. I had caught one and wanted to show him, so I ran up behind him with my fish on the line just as he was about to make a cast. The “shyster” caught me in the left earlobe on Dad’s follow through and one of the barbed hooks went right through my earlobe. The look on Dad’s face was one of surprise and shock and horror all at once. Needless to say, our fishing trip for that day was over with. I think we went back to old Doc Clemens up at the old hospital, and he actually used a pair of wire cutters to just cut the barbed end off and pull the other end through my earlobe. It really wasn’t as painful as it looked. I never walked behind my Dad again when he was casting! I know he felt bad about it, even though it was my fault he kept telling me he was sorry.

But there were lot’s of other times that the results were better. Many days of catching Crappie down at Lake Weiss with leadheads. We would put two leadheads on at a time when they were biting hard and sometimes we would hook two at the same time! Daddy would whoop and holler and you could hear him all the way to Centre. I have photo’s of him with stringers full of those fish, and boy were they tasty! It was a yearly ritual every spring as to when the Crappie would start biting! Ahh yes those were the days. We didn’t own a boat, so we would put on a pair of waders and wade out chest deep in that cold water so we could cast out as far into the lake as possible. I know I about drowned a couple of times when I would fall or trip and the lake water would fill those dang waders up. Daddy would just laugh at me.

One fishing highlight was in 1966. It was the first time I EVER went to Florida. We went with the Browns and I think my cousin Judy came along. We went DEEP SEA FISHING! It was in August and I was getting close to 16, but looked a little older. I was more interested in girls at that time than in fishing but couldn’t resist the lure of going out on the Ocean and trying to catch a “big ‘un” We went out on a chartered boat…Captain “somebody” or another. Before we left, everyone kicked in a couple bucks for the lucky person who caught the biggest fish. Dad kicked in a couple for him and me. The ride out there was great for me, as I wasn’t prone to motion sickness. I met a little old girl and Mikey got seasick. Everything was cool, and I was wanting to spend more time with the girl than fish but Daddy set me straight: “I paid for you to fish, so get your ass out here and fish!” Well I did, and the first bait I sent down got me a bite. It was an electric reel which we had rented, so I pushed the button and pulled. I thought I had snagged somebody else’s line…the dang thing wouldn’t come. I kept pulling and pulling and finally this giant fish head hit the surface. Jeez, I though I had a whale! Turned out it was a 33 lb Red Grouper, which ended up netting me 44 dollars for the biggest fish of the trip! I was rich! It was a good and a bad trip….Mom and Dad fought…and there were roaches in the motel. But, it was memorable.

I have said all this to get to this point. Dad probably went fishing for the last time about 2007. I think he and Uncle Frankie went over to Billy Locklear’s lake and caught a few bream. Dad’s health started getting bad about then and he couldn’t got by himself anymore. Too many car wrecks had happened and there was a danger of dizziness and black outs. Dad kept asking me about going fishing, but I was on the night shift working 12 hour swing shifts and rarely if ever felt like doing anything but sleeping. Dad and Mom got to where they couldn’t take care of themselves and we decided that Assisted Living was the only choice for their care. Dad kept after me though: “When you gonna take me fishing?” he would ask “When it warms up good Dad” says I.

In April of 2010, Dad was feeling pretty good. I was on the 2nd shift then and still not feeling good, and not sleeping good. Dad asked me again “When we going fishing, son?” I promised him we would in a couple of weeks. “We’ll go down at Sloppy Floyd’s” I said. “You can sit up there on the walkway in the wheelchair if you have to and fish from there” I remember those exact words. I meant it. But April moved on into May..and we didn’t go.

On May 21st, they called me at work from the “Cozy Manor” and told me Dad was sick. He had been bleeding and having lots of stomach problems. I called the 3rd shift supervisor and asked if he would come in a little early so I could go check on my Dad. He came in an hour early…wow a lot of help. I went to LaFayette and Dad was sleeping. I asked him how he felt and he said “ok, but I would like a drink of cold water” I brought him one and asked him if he wanted me to stay. It was 1:30 or so in the morning. “You go on home and rest, and come back in the morning” he said. He woke me up at about 7 am the next morning and said he was hurting in the chest…and then he said “Can’t breath good” and it sounded like he dropped the phone. By the time I got there, my Dad was dead.

Guilt comes in a lot of sizes. Small, medium and Extra Large. My guilt for not staying that night goes beyond extra large. It’s hard to describe still. It’s like swallowing a rock and having it sit down there in the pit of your stomach all the time. You forget it’s there sometimes, but at other times it just eats you from the inside out.

I was going to wait until May to reminisce about fishing and my Dad. But, I picked this “special” day which happens only once every four years. It’s an extra day on our calendar and it represents that extra day which I wish I would have had with Dad. I wish that extra day would have been the one day that I had taken him fishing. That day which I had promised him. That promise which I didn’t keep…. I pray that if there is a pond or a lake between Earth and Heaven that when I die that God will let me go with Dad out on that little body of water and try and catch a couple of bass. I owe it to him.

Our closest relatives are quite telling. I mean, they are not telling us as in writing us a book or anything. They are not speaking English to us. Maybe a little sign language now and then. Rudimentary stuff. Yes, No…Gimme’ banana. Stuff like that.

99.6% of our genome is shared with Chimpanzees, and now scientists have found, also with Bonobos, (pygmy chimps) although we share a different 1.6% of our genetics with Chimps than we do with Bonobos.

Monkeys and Greater Apes, like the Chimpanzees, are generally not pleasant creatures. Chimps especially will become very vicious creatures as adults. Just think back a few years when the poor lady in New York City got her face ripped off by one of her friends “pet” chimpanzees. Vicious.

My Father in law was a Veterinarian. Dr. L.J. Neurauter. He was an administrator, and after he retired from the Air Force, he ran the BIG primate center out in Davis, California. But he didn’t like monkeys. He certainly didn’t like the Chimpanzees. One time we visited them in Davis, and took a tour of the primate center. “Don’t get too near the Chimpanzee compound,” said Dr. Neurauter. “They’ll throw feces at you, and they are really accurate.” I took him at his word. He went on to tell us how none of the handlers would ever…ever…get in the chimpanzee compound with them out, unless they had a death wish. Vicious with each other, and vicious with human beings. Almost like a hatred of human beings.

Our closest relative, as far as genetics go. I know a lot of people are gonna’ say: “We didn’t evolve from monkeys!”

So true.

We had a common ancestor with the chimpanzees and bonobos about 4 million years ago, and the ancestor who eventually evolved into human beings split off from that common ancestor. I imagine they were pretty vicious animals. Out of the three most closely related Primates, the Bonobos, who are the smallest, are the least vicious. Humans and Chimpanzees….not so much.

Survival of the fittest…and the meanest.

As Anthropology major in college, I took a lot of classes in Physical Anthropology. Dr. Butler. A hard man to please if you didn’t study like you outta’. He once told me that early man was probably a vicious animal, but also a social animal. Conditions of living dictated that families stay together for protection from larger predators. Sabre tooth tigers, Cave bears. You know…all that Jean W. Auel stuff. Eventually families started hanging around together for even more protection. They became tribes. Tribes grouped together and became ethnic groups. Discovered agriculture. Started building small villages, towns, cities. Still maintained the viciousness. The aggression and the primal instincts of those first ancestors.

Survival of the meanest?

For how long?

The creator alone knows, and he ain’t telling.

If the United States of America is the “melting pot” of the world, then New York City is at the center of the pan. It’s the hot, hot cauldron which has produced many a hero, but conversly has produced many a fiend.

The five boroughs of the great city which was founded in 1626 as New Amsterdam have given us Theodore and Franklin Roosevelt, Mark Twain and Walt Whitman. It has given us Carl Sagan, Lou Gehrig and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Also Anton Scalia, and Harry Houdini. A diverse group of good folks.

There also have come the “Son of Sam” and the Oklahoma City bomber, born in New York City. Many others…good and evil, darkness and light..

The complex interwoven city, with it’s open mindedness also harbors the most secret of secret societies and relationships between people who might at first glance seem to be on opposite ends of the spectrum from each other.

Businessmen and mobsters in relationships. Prostitutes and politicians. Rabbis and priests. Strange bedfellows, strange indeed.

Now comes Donald Trump…and the story begins……

There will be more….

“Dreary” my Mom would say as she looked out the window, “such a dreary day.”

Mom used to look out the windows a lot during the Winter, and she hated the dreary, rainy days like we are having lately. She didn’t much like winter at all after Christmas was over and done with. I have to admit, I’m much the same.

On sunny, warm days Mom might go around with her dust rag, polishing the coffee table and end tables and hum some country tune she heard as a child. She could sing on tune and in key if she wanted to, but would never let anyone hear her if she could help it. She would clown around most of the time, and act silly with it when she sang.

She once told me she wanted to be a country music singer when she was a little kid, but her Daddy had made fun of her once when she was singing, so she never sang for anyone after that. It was a shame, because in the unguarded moments when the sun was shining outside, I could hear a spark. I loved it when the sun was shining as a child, and Mom was happy. It didn’t happen too often, because Mom’s personality became dark very early on due to mental illness, and stayed that way off and on until she died.

As far as the singing goes, she had done the same thing to me when I was little also, but probably hadn’t realized it. I had heard Elvis singing on T.V., and stood in the doorway of our home on Simmons street and belted out my version of “Hound dog” Mom burst out laughing at me. I think it was because she didn’t know before that moment that I actually could sing. I was embarrassed. I wouldn’t sing out loud for anyone after that, until the year I was in the eighth grade.

I was in “Glee club” at school and we were singing as a group with band director John Corruth as our director. It was at Christmas and we were doing a version of “White Christmas” I was really into the song, and with the seeming anonimity of others around me singing, I was belting out my best Bing Crosby version. “Hey Bowers” said Mr. Carruth. “I want you to sing the first verse of that song at our program as a solo”. “You sound pretty good.”

My face went bright red, and I almost ran out of the rehearsal area, which was at the front of our Elementary school cafeteria. But…I ended up doing it, and although I was extremely nervous, my voice didn’t break. I went on to do a lot more singing during High School. If it hadn’t been for that one situation with Mr. Carruth though, I may not have.

My parents didn’t come to that program. I can’t remember them ever coming to any of the “minor” activities we did at school. It’s not that they weren’t interested, but it was more that the programs took place during the hours in which they worked. I wish they could have been there sometimes.

As my Mom got older, she was beset by a bevy of health problems which finally took her away in December of 2010.

But sometimes during the dreary days of winter, like the one today, as I dust the bookshelf or the T.V., I can hear her gently humming a country tune…..

The Voice

There is that voice which is there all time in my head. He has been there ever since I can remember. He was the one who told me back in the fall of 1953 when I was almost 4 years old to ride my tricycle down the front steps on my house. A busted forehead and several stitches later the voice told me we would never, ever do that again.

He sings constantly to me, in any style. I can have a country song by Johnny Cash followed by Imagine Dragons singing “Demons” At times he scares me with my person demons, but at other times he soothes me with sweet poetry. He will be with me until my last breath.

I have read a lot about this… “Inner voice” our internal narrator, our personal monologue which I think….at least from conversations which I have had with others… I think we all have going on constantly in our head. I know all about my guy. I know what to expect from him most of the time. He comes up with some weird things, some good things, and some thoughts which are verbalized which I would never consciously say to another human being. He says some very rude and vulgar things. He also comes up with some tender and moving soliloquies. I hear him just as if he were another person speaking to me. It is never like an invisible or hidden voice, but always speaking directly to me just as another person would. I don’t know how other people hear their inner selves, I really do not know if everyone even has an internal voice.

I’ve heard some people say that our internal voice comes from the way our parents and those around us speak to us as babies and early toddlers. I’m not so sure I accept that theory. I just cannot hear my parents or any other relatives I knew as a baby or child in my monologue. I also can’t accept that people like John Wayne Gacy , or Jeffrey Dahmer had normal inner voices which came from their early associations. I would have really, truly have hated to be inside their head, listening to what was being said. I think their voice must have been riddled with hallucinations, or nightmares.

On the opposite end of the spectrum I would have loved to have heard some of what Leonardo da Vinci, or Albert Einstein had to say to themselves…maybe. I can imagine their inner voices having a sort of discourse, bouncing ideas off of their own walls in order to make discoveries of new things. I would probably been very confused. One cannot imagine what might be going on in the mind of the genius.

Jiminy Cricket would have called our inner voice our “consequence” In Zen, they would think of it as “Nen nen ju shin ki” which means something like “Thought following thought.”

I personally think of it as my heart. The center of my being.

I have read all the mundane explanations, about how the “soul” is nothing but a bunch of character individualization’s based on time, location and socioeconomic factors combined with each person unique experiences, which comprise our personality. I just don’t agree. There is enough of the mystic within me to continue to believe in things which cannot be seen or heard.

Whenever my inner voice speaks to me of any deep emotions it always comes from the heart. I have never had a headache from something bad happening, but always have the feeling come welling up from the center of my chest. My tears start in my heart.

When my voice tells me to be happy, I have never had my head spin. My joy starts in my heart, and radiates out into the rest of my body.

My inner voice comes from my heart and tells me the things no one else would or could tell me. I’d sure hate to lose him because he’s my oldest and closest companion.

I sometimes see the question “If you had the chance to live your life over again, would you do it?”

Of course none of us ever will….

And when I see this question, people usually qualify the answer: “Well, if I knew what I know now…” or “If I could make just a couple of changes…”

I tell you straight to the point, that I would. I’d do it again just exactly the same without changes anything one iota. I’d take the pain and heartache of burying a child, just to see her again through the nursery window.

I’d go through the agony of my parents death, just to hear their voices again. I’d let Mom hit me on the head with my bow again. I’d endure watching Porter Wagoner.
I’d wait til I was 16 again to see the Ocean for the first time. I’d rinse poop out of cloth diapers to have the chance for my baby girl to take a nap on my tummy.

I’d buy hot wheels for my boys to crush with rocks and bury under the Elm tree I planted on 9th street. I’d pick cherrys straight off the tree in the blazing Idaho summer sun for my Mother in law to can.

I’d chase lighting bugs all evening until I had a jar full, and take my turn at cranking the old ice cream machine.
I’d smell Grandpa’s pipe tobacco, and the wood smoke from the pot bellied stove. I’d listen to him cuss when I’d turn over his “spit can” I’d relish the taste of Grandma’s fried apples and homemade lard biscuits.

I’d take the two heart attacks a stent, and four bypasses and a year of recovery to see baby Eli and Rue come in the door the first time again.

I’d play countless games of hearts at the student center at West Georgia college to fall in love with my wife. I’d run off the road in a rain storm on our wedding night and double back to Dalton to a tiny little hotel room.

I would load tractor trailer loads of matresses by myself in 100+ degree weather, so I could have Saturday off to go to the baseball card show.

I would do all the stupid things again, just to do a few of the smart things. I’d take the ass chewings, and countless hours of driving out and back to work in Calhoun and Dalton just to have the hugs and the kisses from the ones I have loved, and do still love.

We will never have that chance…perhaps…depending on your philosophy, or depending on how the Universe works. Who knows really how it does work? All I can say is that the joy has vastly outshined the sadness.

Yes, I’d do it again. Unqualified and unquestioned if I could.