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For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. (Job 19:25, KJV)
Back in the lean pre-WW II days of my youth (the 1930's) every member of my family worked hard to scratch out a living on our farm over where Buckhorn Creek runs into Enoree River. We made out pretty well and if we lacked anything we didn't know it. However, it was often hard to find excitement around the place unless we created some situation to pep up our adrenaline count. To disobey our parents, especially our dad, would always create extreme excitement, somewhat like one-sided warfare. But there were always other more appealing alternatives awaiting our creative touch. (I am talking now about "boy-stuff," the gals could watch and giggle but not get involved.)
One sure way to liven up our "off-duty" hours was to stir up our old cranky Jersey bull down in the pasture. My only brother, Charles, and I would climb a large persimmon tree beside the creek and from a safe perch upon a limb, make a certain growling noise. Those deep-throated noises would infuriate old "Buck" to the point of attacking whatever had invaded his realm. Now, that was pretty dangerous and entertaining especially when the monster decided to linger under the tree for a protracted length of time. As a last resort, we could always call old "Boozer," our faithful and battle-scarred dog, and sic him onto the bull. In short order the coast would be clear and we could descend and run to safer ground. Pop would not get caught in the barn lot with that old Bull without a loaded 12 gauge shotgun in his hands so we thought we were pretty brave to pull off our act down in the pasture, bare handed. And, today, about 60 years later, I still think so!
And then, away down the (Enoree) river on a steep bluff was a large hollow oak tree that furnished a home for whatever wild critter that had the might to defend the dwelling. The tree leaned heavily over the river and was tough to climb but the rewards were great. Almost every time that one of us lads climbed that tree, we met two eyes and a ball of fur with fangs or some feathered creature with a sharp hooked beak taking a long daytime nap. Since I was the undisputed village tree climber, my brother and two or three buddies would watch and gawk as I would labor up toward that great black hole with a folded "tow-sack" tucked inside my shirt. Needless to say, an encounter with a varmint endowed with either tooth or claw can be pretty dangerous for a mere 14 year old homo-sapien, especially at an altitude of thirty feet with no deck or handrails.
Usually the bounty was a 'possum, but once I brought down a "wise ole owl." I could always throw the 'possum down to the ground crew and they would sack him up but not that "wise old owl." That "bird in hand" evidently thought that he had captured me because he held me hostage with his claws and beak. Somehow I did make it down the tree, though, with that thing piercing my hands and clothing with both talons and beak. My land! The old hermit could have flown at any time as far as 1 was concerned but I guess he was too sleepy. Once on the ground he evidently decided against eating me for breakfast and, like a shadow, flew off into the forest and was gone forever. Thank the Lord! My mom always told me that owls were not at all wise but one of the most stupid birds around. That may be correct but she was too wise to climb a tree and let a dumb owl "gat" hold of her just to prove her point.
I do know one thing, the zillions of crows that inhabited our neck of the woods were not dumb. Once I found a crow's nest, high up in a pine tree, that contained three young fellows and I brought them home with me in my straw hat. It took all of my spare time to come up with grasshoppers for my fledglings and about the time that I decided to return them to "mommy" one of our young calves broke it's neck and died in minutes.
The liver of that animal got me through the crises and "Jim," "Cripp," and "Sam" became part of our family. Cripp had landed in the chicken yard after a cruise around the farm and was attacked by the chickens, thus the name, "Cripp." His slight limp certainly did not hinder his flying ability, though, for he was as airworthy as any other bird that sailed our skies. After avoiding enemy territory for a spell, Cripp decided to touchdown in Chickenland again and tried to make peace with the inhabitants. But that time they finished him off, forever! Sounds like Israel and the Arabs, doesn't it?
Jim and Sam stayed around for the summer and we all had a wonderful time together. We could call them down from the trees with a whistle and, usually, they would alight upon our heads. Strangely, maybe for security reasons, they did not like to perch on our shoulders. In the field, they rode upon the backs of the mules as we plowed back and forth, row after row of cotton and corn. Occasionally, they would fly down for a worm and then back to their favorite perch.
Toward autumn, crows will naturally gather for their "conventions" and in those days each meeting would be attended by thousands of those faithful black critters. They usually gathered near a corn field or a peanut patch. (My dad said that crows would never risk their lives for anything but a peanut, and even then, they would always post a "guard" nearby in a tall tree). Toward Autumn, my crow friends could not resist the call of their peers and they decided that their wild cousins were more to be desired than the ease and safety provided by their adopted benefactor, which was me! I think that we could learn something from those wise birds, especially when we are tempted by the favors and (false) security offered by the bloated and gorged Federals that once again are invading our Southland. Beyond doubt, those crows in the midst of our family during the summer of 1938 brought us more satisfaction and entertainment than any other one thing that transpired during that whole year.
The most ill-devised excitement was probably derived from finding a "Copper Head" and forcing it out into an open area where we could tease the viper into striking at a hoe or shovel and listening to the fangs scratch on the metal. For years we wanted to put a Copper Head and a King Snake together to see how they would react to each other. That never happened and all too soon Charles and I beat our plowshares into swords and entered World War II where the King Snakes and Copper Heads really battled each other for an extended spell.
But, gracious me! Lately, some of us that survived the greatest war ever fought by the inhabitants of this planet are halfway persuaded that maybe we should have saved our strength to combat the King Cobras that hide in high places in our government and in the NEA and local school boards!
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