How Not To Climb A Tree

...and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

There was this elm tree at the corner of our yard next to the driveway.

A double elm tree really, forking from the base to form two separate trees.

There was one particularly low-hanging  branch, accessible if you stood in the fork, which allowed an adventurous youngster to climb up into what seemed a green and leafy wonderland.

You could see the longest way from its uppermost branches (which I admit I had to work up my nerve to scale), and from the very tip-top you could feel the tree swaying in the wind. Very scary but also very cool.

My Lil Sis thought this looked cool as well but, being six years younger than I, was unable to reach that first branch.

So one day, after questioning her closely and being assured of her resolve to conquer at least the lower reaches of our vegetative jungle gym, I gave her a boost to the lowest branch.

There was another large branch, maybe four or five feet above the grass of our yard, which made a comfortable perch, where one could dangle one's legs and ride what ever breeze happened to be blowing.

This was the place where Deb (not desiring to climb any higher) decided to park herself while I stood on the ground offering words of encouragement (or dares to climb higher, which I suppose is the story she would tell, though I am sure that story is mere delusion).

What happened next is not certain except the end result.

I imagine that a gust of wind came along and she perhaps lost her nerve and certainly her balance and, like Humpty Dumpty (or the walls of Jericho), came a-tumbling down.

Lying flat on her back, Deb seemed unhurt but out of wind so I proceeded (by pulling up on her middle section) to pump air back into her.

In repayment for which kind act she used her first full breath to squall out loudly (as though she were dying, which she was not), which brought Mom rushing from the house.

By this time, Deb was sitting up, still bawling, and sobbed out to our mother that I had pushed(?!?!) her from the tree.

I responded indignantly (as the victims of false accusation will do) and the earnestness of my protestations being apparent, nothing further ensued.

Other that a stern admonition to Lil Sis not to be climbing any more trees and to myself not to aid, encourage, abet or in any other way incite or induce her in the climbing of any more trees.

Looking back, I hold no hateful grudge against her for her treacherous accusations but view it as only the hysterical reaction of a small child to a frightening experience.

Besides the which, I guess it made up for all the stuff I did do, for which she never ratted me out.

When You're Weary, Feelin' Small

An infamous incident, which I relate mainly because it so annoyed my sister and my wife at the time.


When I was 23, I totaled my car and dang near totaled myself in a "bad wreck." Six months in a leg cast and forced inactivity was the result.

So I was puzzled and pleased when my friend John Griffin came by the house one Friday evening and said, "Come go with me."

"Where to?"

"Your Uncle John's house."

Now Uncle John was the husband of my Aunt Ona (one of my mom's sisters; my favorite) and they both were people of musical
ability. And every Friday night they would jam and practice for music shows at various community centers in the area.

I credit these Friday night jam sessions with rekindling my love of playing music.

It didn't take long, after having heard Deb and I sing and play with our cousin Mike, that someone came up with the idea that we should form an opening act, as it were, for the main country music show.

And it didn't take me long to remember that I had a good friend Carroll (Oneida Flash) Casey who was a very accomplished drummer.

It was a cool, fun little group of kids (Deb was only 16 I think and Mike a year younger) and our audiences loved us and our music.

So it happened that on a late Friday evening on the way  home from a Friday night music session, we were cruising down a two lane blacktop when the Flash and I experienced a call of nature.

Being country boys, we pulled over, on a little bridge and raised the level of the creek a bit.

The womenfolk professed to be mortified at our uncouth behavior, though like true gentlemen, we kept out backs to the car (and them, of course) the whole time.

My significant other was upset enough to hold a "hateful grudge" for a day or two. She got over it.

Deb, being a Tolar, was annoyed at first over the perceived disrespect but soon added the incident to her arsenal of insults whenever we would begin to list one another's faults.

Flash and I named the affair "The Bridge Over Troubled Waters."

And you know, we never did figure out why our "dates" were so mad at us.

I personally think it's because they were jealous.

But to this day, I cannot hear Simon and Garfunkel without being transported back to a simpler time; a time when I was young, a time when I was finding out I was good at this music thing and could bring enjoyment to my listeners, When making music together was a new and fine thing.

A time when old boys could pee over the railing of a bridge on a moonlit summer night in Arkansas.  

In Front of Your Sisters

I've mentioned before that Daddy never cursed in front of us when we were youngsters.

We  might have seen his irritable side after we became teenagers (though I can't imagine why teenagers would make anyone cuss),
but when we were younger: never.

At this point, I will digress and observe that every boy loved rasslin' back in the day. I mean "rasslin'" not "wrestling" and it is much more a sport to me than that stuff they do in the Olympics.

I mean if you were to get in a fight as a kid, it would most likely start with a punch or two and then some grappling and rolling around on the ground and some more punching and perhaps even (if you really were mad) you might throw in a bite.

Rasslin'. Right? Plus you had the extra added attraction of good vs. evil.

Plus it was a common ground for my dad and I. I found out years later that he had wanted to be a rassler after he had mustered out of the navy at the end of WWII.

So you can imagine the thrill when he told me (I was maybe ten or eleven) that we were going to the rasslin matches on Monday night at the Memphis Mid-South Colliseum.

We would be going with Ed and Don and Flootsie (Ed's brother), some of Daddy's friends who were not exactly church-goers.

I may have told you that I was scared of my daddy until I was thirty, maybe thirty-one.

So when he leaned over into my face all serious-like as we were getting into the car to go get the fellas, I can tell you I was somewhat alarmed.

This usually prefigured punishment of some sort, since like most fathers of the time, he was a pretty serious guy and not much prone to tolerating foolish behavior.

What had I done?

Instead he spoke, with an intent manner.

"These old boys we're going with tonight, you might hear some rough talk. I don't want to catch you repeating any of it in front of your mama or your sisters."

I get it , Dad. What happens at rasslin' stays at rasslin'.

Hoe, Hoe, Hoe

I guess you could say we were a little(?) spoiled.

Growing up in  the midst of a great depression, as our parents did, meant working in the fields like the grownups and maybe took a little of the joy from their childhoods. Gotta be serious, you know, when folks are starving all around you.

At any rate, I think Mom and Dad recognized this and determined that we would not have to go through the drudgery of day-to-day, all day long chopping cotton or picking cotton.

There were chores of course. And that cotton field was right there in front of the house, needing hoeing if we expected to have any spend money.

And it came to pass that my two sisters and I would find ourselves working down the long rows, in the late June sun, trying, as per Dad's instructions, not to "chop down any of my cotton" along with the weeds.

Not the most exciting work and as kids will do, we entertained ourselves as we worked. We talked, though I cannot recall any of the conversations. I told stories, to amuse myself and Brenda and Deb, though again I don't remember any of them.

My favorite thing we did was to sing. I had begun to appreciate vocal harmony and as the eldest, taught my two little sisters to sing the various parts. "Sweet Adeline" which I had heard on the Lawrence Welk Show was a good tune to start on, with its echoing harmonies.

It was the beginning of many fine times Deb and I and, later, Rodney, spent with each other, family and friends, playing and singing way into the night.

Now one of the other things siblings will do is bicker. This was complicated in our case by the insane Tolar competitive gene (there really is such a thing, you can look it up).

It was a contest to see who could finish chopping their row first. I am afraid many young cotton stalks suffered because of this. Of horticultural interest is the fact that once a cotton stalk is chopped, no amount of propping it up and piling dirt around it will prevent it from withering and dying rather quickly.

These speed-chopping contests would naturally lead to a race to pick the most desirable next row to chop, e.g. the one with the fewest weeds.

Now my sister Debi was prone to torment her opponents, though I pray that Jesus and a changed heart have rid her of these proclivities. Only God and her husband Dusty know.

So when I won a hard fought race and skipped a row to one with very little Johnson grass (a truly noxious weed for cotton choppers), she planted her bony little self athwart my new-claimed row of cotton and refused to budge.

In fact, to rub it in, she indulged in a spiteful little dance and (I'm sure) some taunting words, though again (God being merciful) I cannot recall those.

I warned her to move and she refused, with flourishes. So I fired a warning shot as it were, swinging my hoe in her general direction. Unfortunately she began her dance again and zigged even as I zagged.

Result: one wound on her arm with some pretty impressive bleeding. Actually it was a mere scratch, only a flesh wound, but being a little sister, she indulged in loud weeping and hysterical (so it seemed to me) accusations.

Panicking, I snatched her up and ran all the way to the house. I explained to Mom that as I swung at a particularly large sprig of Johnson grass, Deb had accidentally wandered into the path of the hoe. A shame really, and I hoped she would live.

A bald-faced lie of course (except the wishing she would live part: I'm no Monster. Debi.), but my lil sis was to busy suffering to rat me out.

The end of the matter is this: a rinse-off of the wound with the garden hose and a liberal application of iodine (or mercurochrome, I don't know, whichever one burns the worst), and Deb was on the road to recovery.

And the punishment to fit the crime: the victim was propped on a pillow in the air-conditioned house while the perpetrator was consigned to the cotton patch to serve out his sentence.

...and be sure your sin will find you out.