Gary and the Art of Chicken Hypnosis

Even though I was a town kid, we always seemed to have some farm animals around when I was growing up.  One time my older brother Phil, who was working at the furniture factory at the time, brought in two little runt piglets.  Somebody at the factory had given them to him; they had been rejected by the mama sow and so were on their own.  They were chubby little cuties, about the size of your hand.  Phil gave one to me and the other to my sister Janet, and we determined to raise them into adulthood.  Well, I guess the odds were stacked against the little pigs, because they only lasted a couple of days.  But they were cute, and they certainly appealed to my family's penchant for unusual animals.

One of my earliest memories relates to some chickens that we kept in the smokehouse.  I was about four or five, I guess, and we had a couple of chickens in coops.  I have no idea where we got them; probably somebody that Daddy had fixed an appliance for gave them to us.  Anyway, these were not pets - they were supper.  I remember sitting on the back steps watching while Mama performed the regretful task of "wringing" the hapless chickens' necks.  To be graphic, for the benefit of the more cityfied reader, this consisted of grasping the chicken's head and twirling the chicken's body in a circular motion, producing a catastrophic separation of head and body.  To add to the trauma of the five-year-old viewer, the chicken, at first seemingly unaware that his head and body were no longer functioning in unison, proceeded to thrash about wildly, apparently seeking some sort of reunification with the missing part.  The participants in this unlikely drama could do nothing but watch sheepishly until the chicken, realizing the futility of its pursuit, decided to hang it up.  Then, it became a matter of plucking the feathers and heating up the frying pan.  But the story is told today of me, sitting there on the back steps, a little tear rolling down my tender cheek, experiencing a brief moment of compassion for the departed fowl.

My brother Gary, the oldest in the family and a genius on many levels, once provided a demonstration of chicken mental capacity that left a profound impact on me, even to this day.  He took one of our chickens, sat it down on a board, and with a piece of chalk, began to slowly draw a line down the length of the board.  The chicken, undoubtedly sensing that something was up, first attempted to ignore the strange proceedings, but ultimately was caught up in the transaction.  The chicken cocked its head, watching as the line slowly grew longer and longer.  In a matter of seconds, the chicken's cocked head remained motionless.  Gary reached over and pushed the chicken's head back a few inches, and it stayed in its new position.  He then gently pushed the chicken's head down closer to the board, and it stayed in the spot he left it.  This went on for several minutes, and we all took turns positioning the chicken's head.  Each time, the hypnotized chicken would remain motionless in the position we left it.  After a bit, the chicken, having enough of this nonsense, began to stir, and quickly resumed its noncompliant attitude.  Years later, I tried this with some of the little chicks that we would get at Easter time.  It still worked, and I even altered the process by swinging a little silver necklace in front of the chick, which worked just as well.

By the way, when it came to fried chicken, Mama was an artist.  She made the best fried chicken ever, and she fried it up in the old iron skillet that had been a wedding present for her and Daddy.  I didn't think anything could top Mama's fried chicken, but she managed to even outdo herself when she ran across a new recipe.  She started rolling the chicken in cracker crumbs and baking it, producing a whole different chicken experience that was nothing less than superb.  I cannot count the number of Sundays when we had Mama's baked chicken, but we never got tired of it. 

I'll take the pully-bone, please.

Click here to see a chicken get hypnotized.

A Few Folks from Church

The congregation of Waldron Assembly of God, circa 1972

My formative years were spent at the Waldron Assembly of God Church.  It was what you might call a conservative church; I was 21 years old before I mustered up enough nerve to step into a movie theater.  At my church, “moving picture shows” in general were frowned upon. 

King of Vacation Bible School, along with
Brenda Owens, Queen, about 1966

 I have many happy memories from church; the Vacation Bible Schools we had every summer, the flannel board Sunday School lessons, the gospel singing groups we had on occasion, to name a few. But it was the people who made up the congregation that made the greatest impression on me. They were for the most part simple country people, people for whom a trip outside of Waldron was a rarity. But they loved their church! Here are just a few who stand out in my memory:


Nelis and Margaurite Brewer

Anyone who knew Nelis knew that he was a working man. He had more energy in his little frame than most men twice his size. Nelis was the Sunday School Superintendent, which meant that he directed the first part of the Sunday Service before we were dismissed to our classes. Nelis always wore a smile, which nicely complimented his plaid slacks and plaid sport coat. Margaurite was my Sunday School teacher when I was in Jr. High; she used to call me The Professor. She also led the singing every service and on Sunday mornings led the Booster Band, in which the children of the church got up in front and sang. The Brewer’s were two of the sweetest people ever to walk the planet. When my sister and I left for college, we had expended pretty much every cent we had to enroll and buy books. On the first Wednesday night service after we left, Nelis got up and took up an offering for us, raising a vitally needed $50. This act of thoughtfulness even today almost brings tears to my eyes.

Luke Langley

Luther “Luke” Langley and his wife Lois were mainstays at the church. Luke was always very caring and considerate with Lois, I recall. I had many extended conversations with Luke after services were over as we stood on the porch outside the church house. Luke was a firm believer in the benefits of garlic to prevent heart trouble. He described to me how he would cut up some garlic on the “gritter”, mix it with a little tomato juice and drink it down.

The church record board, with "Enrollment"
misspelled.  Sister Trix would faithfully post
the numbers every Sunday morning.

Thurman and Trix Davenport

Thurman and Trix were also very sweet people. Trix was the Sunday School Treasurer; every Sunday morning, she would give the Treasurer’s report just before Booster Band, reporting on our attendance and offering. After reporting our current balance, she would always say, “taking out 50 cents for the Boosters, that leaves (whatever amount) in the treasury now.” Trix also helped Margaurite with the drawing of the fish, in which one Booster Band member would go home with 50 cents. Thurman was a quiet and soft-spoken man. He was known as a skilled coon hunter, and always had a story to share.

Brother Lee Humphries

You didn’t hear much out of Brother Humphries. He and his wife (Lillie, I think?) sat on the same row as my Aunt Addie and Uncle Joe, near the back. I got acquainted with Brother Humphries when, as a teenager, I and my friends moved to the very back row. Brother Humphries was always friendly to us and never acted like he was bothered by our being back there. One time, Fred Hunt, who also sat on the back row (in a lawn chair that he kept there for that purpose) came through and, addressing the row of teenagers on the back row, said, “Look at all the juveniles.” Brother Humphries heard this and took offense, confusing the term “juvenile” with the less favorable “juvenile delinquent.” After Fred had passed by, Brother Humphries turned in his seat and, frowning, said, “Do you know what he just called you? Outlaws!”

Opal Yandell

Brother Opal was a larger than life character. Part of each evening service consisted of “testimony service,” in which people stood and shared a short bit of praise and thankfulness. Well, Brother Opal didn’t believe in making his testimony short. He would stand and begin to testify, and as he spoke he would become more and more animated until he finally would be pacing across the front of the church. I once clocked Brother Opal at 45 minutes from beginning to end of his testimony. It wasn’t normally that long, but you could generally count on Brother Opal to ensure that you wouldn’t be getting home on Sunday night in time to watch any of Bonanza.

Brother Hubert Barnett

Brother Barnett was not exclusively a member of our congregation; he visited several churches around town. He once explained during testimony service that he believed in having three doctors, three lawyers, and three preachers. Whatever church he happened to be attending, he normally arrived late and made his presence known with a loud and unexpected “Well….Glory to God” delivered from the back of the church as he walked in. This arrhythmia-inducing outburst was enough to shake the cobwebs from even the most sleep-deprived teenager. Brother Barnett had another disarming propensity; if someone was singing a special, and Brother Barnett liked it, he would walk to the pulpit where the singer was standing and place a dollar bill on the singer’s head. Then, turning, he would unleash another “Well….Glory to God!” as he headed back to his seat.

You know, come to think of it, there were times when even Bonanza paled in comparison to that.

The church as it originally looked, circa 1947.  The little house to the right
was the parsonage.

Out In The Field

Clowning around in The Field.

 I think I’ve mentioned before about our great playground, which we called The Field. The Field was a vacant lot immediately between our house and my Aunt Lola’s house. Lola and her husband Dennis actually owned The Field, but they were happy to let us and the rest of the neighborhood kids play in it any time we wanted. It was about an acre in size, and I remember Dennis used to mow it with a big, walk-behind mowing machine that had a scythe-type blade on the front rather than the traditional rotating blade. That must have been a chore with that much to mow! Later on, Lola bought a riding mower, and we kids used to take turns mowing with it. It was great fun, because you could put it in gear and let off of the brake quickly and pop a wheelie. For some reason, Lola eventually decided she’d just mow it herself.


On the edge of The Field lived my Greatest Childhood Friend Randy Bottoms. We must have been friends since we were babies, because I don’t ever remember a time when we weren’t buddies. We spent countless happy hours playing trucks, riding our bikes, or just lying on our backs and staring up at the clouds. Randy once took possession of an abandoned dog, a friendly jet-black mutt that I suggested should be named Snowball. Appreciating the irony, Randy went with the name, and Snowball became a regular member of our group. Early on, Randy and I recognized the need for some type of signal; a way to let each other know that one of us was outside and available to visit. During our early elementary days, the recognized signal was a Tarzan yell. If I went outside to play, I would face in the direction of Randy’s house and cut loose, unashamedly, with my best Tarzan yell. Invariably, Randy would soon emerge from his house, ready for whatever we had in store. As we got on into the upper elementary years, the Tarzan yell became a bit of overkill. Our signal evolved into an indescribable falsetto mechanism, something like a controlled scream that went kind of like, “Rhee –aaaaa-Rheet!” It was a sound later perfected by Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees. By our junior high years, I was still doing the “Rhee –a –Rheet,” but Randy had developed a whistled version of Rhee-a-rheet that was just as effective but not nearly as taxing on the vocal chords.



The Blue Thing

 On another edge of The Field, directly behind our smokehouse, was The Blue Thing. The Blue Thing was actually the work box from an old telephone truck, but to me it was a boat, an airplane, a tank, or whatever else I happened to need it to be. It had a large flat surface on top, with a reel on the side that had been used to lay out telephone cable, but now made a great steering wheel. There were lots of little doors and drawers and levers to pull. All you needed was a little imagination, and I had plenty of that.


Another thing you would find in The Field was The Wheels. The Wheels were just that; a set of iron wheels about 4 feet in diameter connected with an iron axle. What you did with The Wheels was push them. You pushed them and pushed them and hoped nobody would get in your way, because it took a little effort to get them to come to a stop. If you got tired of pushing them, and you had someone else there, you could turn them on their side with one wheel on the ground and the other wheel in the air, and then climb on the wheel that was in the air and get the other person to push you and you had a merry-go-round. And, if you were my older brother Phil, you could pick them up like a set of weights and raise them over your head.

Speaking of Phil, one time he and my brother Gene brought home a bunch of black one-inch sticks from the furniture factory. They were intended for tomato stakes, but they decided to stack them up like Lincoln Logs to build a rectangular structure, about 5ft x 5 ft x 5 ft tall. They put a piece of cardboard on the top, and I decided that it would make a great clubhouse. I immediately appointed myself as president of the unnamed club. The clubhouse had everything; proper ventilation, plenty of space, and it looked real good. Well, I guess it didn’t actually have everything; it didn’t have a door. To resolve this minor problem, we dug a hole on one side, and I and Vice-President Randy gained entry by slithering under the bottom rail. The thrill of the clubhouse quickly wore off.

Daddy made one innovation to The Field for which he became famous among kids from several blocks away. He stretched a strong rope between two electric poles, one end slightly higher than the other, attached a pulley with a little piece of rope to hang on to, and put a ladder leading up to the higher end of the stretched rope. Kids climbed the ladder, took hold of the pulley, and rode the zip line to the other electric pole. A line quickly formed at the base of the ladder with kids I didn’t even know showing up for a ride. I, however, with my fear of heights and lack of self-confidence, couldn’t make myself ride the zip line, although everyone else did, including my sister Janet. After about half a day, a truck from the electric company showed up and the zip line was taken down. But still today, I encounter people who remember Daddy’s zip line.

The Field doesn’t exist today; there’s a house there now and a fence. If you had a field to play in when you were a kid, you’re lucky. There aren’t many places like that today. And if you had a Greatest Childhood Friend, you’re even luckier.

The Green Stamps Are Mine

 Back in the pioneer days of the 1960's, many merchants offered S&H Green Stamps as an incentive to draw in customers.  Green stamps were doled out according to the amount of your purchase; the more you bought, the more Green Stamps you got.  Upon arriving back at home, the stamps were generally tossed into a paper sack full of other Green Stamps, until someone took the initiative to start putting them in an official Green Stamp Book.  This usually occurred the day before a trip to Fort Smith, because that's where the Green Stamp Redemption Center (what a happy sounding name!) was located.

My sister Janet and I were active participants in the process.  The stamps had to be licked, then placed in the book to align with the squares that were printed on the page.  After a page or two of licking, you tongue had developed a toxic, yucky aftertaste, so at that point we would usually get a wet wash rag and start using it to activate the glue on the back of the stamps.  This stamp-licking process was usually done somewhat unenthusiastically, since we knew that the stamps were probably going to be redeemed for something like a set of sheets, or maybe curtains, or perhaps an iron.

But, every third rotation, the Green Stamps were mine.  That is, one trip to the Redemption Center was devoted to something for the house, the next trip to the Center would be Janet's turn to get something, and the third trip would be for me to get something.  Which worked out pretty good, since we probably didn't make it to Fort Smith much more than three times a year.  So, on those times when we were dealing with MY Green Stamps, I must admit I was a much more efficient stamp-licker.

Each year, they came out with a new Green Stamp Catalogue.  In it, you would find pictures and descriptions of everything that you could get with Green Stamps.  In the toy section, I found my goal:  a Tonka Road Grader.  I had always had a fascination for road graders, going back to the days when Pine Street was a dirt road and I would watch the county road graders as they worked on our road.  My Greatest Childhood Friend Randy Bottoms had a toy road grader, and I could use it any time I wanted, but I really wanted one of my own.  Four books of Green Stamps was all it would take, and we had it.  I couldn't wait to get to the Redemption Center.

The Green Stamp Redemption Center was located on Phoenix Street in Fort Smith, across from Phoenix Village.  I believe there is a restaurant supply store now in that building, but back then it was an incredibly fascinating place for a kid.  All the items in the catalog were there on display.  It was like a store full of free toys!  I had looked at my road grader many times before, when we were there to pick up sheets or an iron. So, I knew right where it was located.  I hurried over to the toy section, rounded the corner to the Tonka toys, and it wasn't there.  This can't be!  We asked the lady at the counter, and she said they were out of that particular toy.  Some chump had beat me to it!  I was terribly disappointed. 

Resigned to my fate, I began to look through the other Tonka toys for an acceptable substitute.  They did have a bulldozer, which was similar to a road grader.  However, being the savvy toy expert that I was, I knew that toy bulldozers had a common shortcoming - the rubber tracks would consistently come off every time you rolled them.  So, the dozer was out of consideration.  However, they did have a tractor that featured a fully functioning steering wheel.  When you turned the steering wheel, the front wheels moved accordingly.  So, I settled on the Oliver tractor. 

I still have my Oliver tractor.  It is identical to the one in this picture, except mine has the top half of the steering wheel broken off.  I did have a lot of fun with that tractor, but probably not as much fun as I would have had with a road grader.  Several years later, when Clyde Hawkins was county judge, I worked one summer between college semesters for the county road department, driving a service truck behind two road graders.  I got to fuel the graders every morning, clean the glass around the cab, and help the operators when they had to replace flat tires or change the blades.  I even got to ride along with them a couple of times.  So, I guess I got to have the "road grader experience" after all.

I Wonder What Ever Became Of...

Mad Men's Don Draper said it best:  Life is a carousel.  People get on, people get off.  All of us have people that we knew when we were in elementary school, but they went away and we never heard from them again.  With that in mind, here are a few people that I wonder what ever became of...

Denise Blair.  Denise had a particular distinction:  she was the only kid in our class whose parents were divorced.  We knew that Denise lived with her mother, and we never heard anything about her father.  Denise was a pretty, sweet girl.

Bobby Overby.  Bobby's dad was my dad's boss at the telephone company.  Bobby was a great kid, very outgoing and loved to laugh.

Jackie Ford.  I remember that Jackie was a kid who loved to play army.  Every time I see generals on TV, I always look for Jackie.

Jeff Hottinger.  Jeff was good friends with Jackie Ford, and also liked to play army.  I remember an unfortunate incident involving Jeff, when he swallowed a nickel in the classroom one day.  Evidently, no permanent damage was done, but I remember Jeff crying and saying, "I swallowed my other nickel."

Lisa Bain.  One of our class beauties, Lisa was with us until sometime in high school, I think.  I believe Lisa's dad was a pharmacist, and she had a brother John who was in the class ahead of us.

Rozann Hopwood.  Rozann was Terri Churchill's cousin, and went to school in Waldron for a few years.  Interestingly, I was on vacation with my sister Janet and her husband Harold one time, and in Owen's Restaurant in Arlington, Texas, Janet said to me, "I believe that's Rozann Hopwood over there."  After assuring her that she had to be wrong, Janet went over and, sure enough, it was indeed Rozann Hopwood. 

Steve Shurley.  Steve was with us in the early elementary years.  I seem to recall that his dad may have been the minister at First Baptist in Waldron.  Steve was my friend in first grade, a nice kid who we just didn't have a chance to get to know very well before he moved away.

And, I'm sure there are others, but these are the ones I recall.  I hope they had good lives.  Maybe we can get some of them back for one of our reunions some day.

Batman, Beatles, and Mrs. Nelson



Me in front of The Red Brick Building

I was reminded this week of my fourth grade year at Waldron Elementary.  The reminder was a sad one; I read about the passing of my fourth grade teacher's husband.  I was fortunate enough to be in Mrs. Allena Nelson's class that year, and Mrs. Nelson was one of my all time favorite teachers.

It was the 1965-1966 school year.  The previous year had been a rough one.  My sister and I had struggled with sickness and school anxiety; I had both the mumps and the three-day measles, and I ended up missing about 25 days.  But after meeting Mrs. Nelson, the school anxiety was gone and fourth grade ended up being one of my best years. 

The Red Brick Building, as we called it, housed third and fourth grade classrooms; there were three of each.  Walking in to that old building, you knew you were in a school.  The unmistakable scent of crayons, paste, and 50 years of floor wax on hardwood floors was like a pleasant bouquet.  The classrooms featured those old school desks that were all connected by steel rails on the floor; the seat of the desk in front of you was attached to the front of your desk, and likewise the seat you were sitting on was connected to the front of the desk behind you.  The wooden surface of the desk featured a hole at the upper left-hand corner to accommodate an inkwell.  Never say that the Waldron School District didn't get it's money's worth out of school equipment. 

Recess was fun.  The playground featured a merry-go-round, upon which I and my classmates spent countless hours in total.  We also played games, and the south side of the Red Brick Building was particularly suited for dodge ball.  One day, when we were playing dodge ball, we invited our custodian, Troxie Taylor, to participate.  Troxie was a wonderful, kind, and gentle old man who was loved by all the kids.  It happened that, on that day, I had brought to school a piece of paper with Japanese writing on it that I hand found in a new wallet that my dad had bought.  I was quite proud of it, and was showing it around to everyone.  For some reason, we played dodge ball with joined hands, and when Troxie joined the group, he took hold of my hand in which I was holding my treasure.  After a minute or two of the game, Troxie went back to work, and somehow my precious piece of Japanese writing had managed to transfer from my hand to Troxie's.  I guess he figured that it would be one less piece of paper to have to pick up off the playground later.

In January of 1966, the TV show Batman premiered.  We were all quite taken with the show, and sometimes at recess we would play Batman.  Randy Jones was Batman, and Terry Nichols was his sidekick Robin.  The rest of us were bats.  We would swoop around the playground, arms outstretched, doing whatever we figured bats did to fight crime. 

Once Mrs. Nelson let us do a kind of a talent show.  I don't remember much about it, just that some of us got up and moved our lips to a record.  I do remember that the record was Day Tripper by The Beatles, which had been released in December of our fourth grade year.  I believe that four of us performed, each playing one particular member of The Beatles.  I think I might have been George, and I believe that Randy Jones was Paul.  I made one suggestion that was incorporated into the act.  Completely misunderstanding the title of the song, and not realizing that a "day trip" was a short vacation, I went with the alternate meaning of trip and suggested that, upon completing our performance, Randy should appear to trip as he walked back to this desk.  The rest of the guys though it was an excellent suggestion, and the visual stunt was indeed performed at the end of our song.

We also got to go on a field trip in fourth grade, to our local chicken processing plant.  At that time it was known as Arkansas Valley Industries, or AVI.  We walked the long walk from school to the plant, and then got to see the unfortunate fate that awaited the poultry population of Scott County.  On the way back, we passed the little donut shop that had been built across the street from the plant.  We didn't get to stop and have a donut, unfortunately.  The little building is still there; it is a house now, I believe.

These were the days when we could go across the street at lunch recess to the Green Candy Store.  You can see my previous post, Lunch At The Candy Store, for more on this unique experience.  Let me just say that getting to have a bologna and chili "hot dog" at the candy store was wonderful beyond measure.

Fourth grade was, I think, when I began to be an actual person.  Maybe it's just that the memories before that time are faded, but it seems that during that fourth grade year, I began to interact with other kids more; joking and teasing Terri Churchill and Cathy Newberry, who sat immediately in front of and behind me, and feeling more of a sense of belonging.  Looking back, I have to attribute much of that to Mrs. Nelson, whose kindness and love for her students was so evident.  But that's what good teachers do.

A Trip To Rich Mountain



Me and Uncle Joe at the Lodge.  Addie had Joe hold my
hand so I wouldn't fall off the side of the mountain.



One Sunday afternoon in May of 1965, my Aunt Addie and Uncle Joe Carmack decided to drive to Rich Mountain. They offered to take me and my sister Janet along with them, but for some reason Janet declined.  Not me.  I'd heard about Rich Mountain.  I'd never been there, but I knew they had a little train that you could ride on, so that was enough for me to overcome my fear about being so far away from home.  I was going to Rich Mountain!


Addie and Joe had no children of their own, so Addie was like a second Mama to all the Yates kids.  Addie was one of the sweetest people you would ever meet, but she had one drawback - she was a worrier.  She worried about whether or not we were warm enough, or cool enough, or worried that we might get sick from something we ate.  Right now, she was worried about my eyes.  There we would be, on top of that mountain, that much closer to the sun.  But there would be no retinal damage on young Billy.  Joe, give him your sunglasses.


Uncle Joe and me riding the train.



So, Addie, Joe, and a sufficiently Ray-Banned Billy set out for Rich Mountain.  The drive must have been uneventful, since I don't remember anything about it.  But, as soon as we arrived at the top of the mountain, I spotted the miniature train.  That would be our first order of business.  So, my Uncle Joe and I waited in line for the train load up.  Uncle Joe managed to pry his lanky frame into the seat beside me, and off we went.  I was amazed at how long the train ride was.  We passed through woods that seemed far removed from the rest of the park.  When we'd come up to a road, the little train would let out a whistle just like the big trains did.  Too soon we arrived back at the little train station. 



A rare moment without my sunglasses



Just a short distance from the miniature train was a real, full-sized steam locomotive.  They must have had a time getting that thing on top of Rich Mountain, but it was a major attraction.  I climbed all over it, operating the controls and pretending to blow the whistle.  Aunt Addie made Uncle Joe climb up on there with me, just in case I got hurt.  When I got tired of playing engineer, I walked over to the old military tank that was next to the locomotive.  I climbed on top of it, but didn't go inside; the hatch was welded shut. 



Me and Uncle Joe atop the tank.



After that, we got back in the car and drove up to the lodge.  This was the old lodge, not the one that you see on Rich Mountain now.  It burned down sometime in the 70's, I think.  It was the most elaborate thing I had ever seen.  We didn't go in, we just looked around outside. 

I don't remember anything about the trip home.  But I did enjoy telling Janet about all the things she had missed.  I really felt big; it was the first time I had done anything like that by myself without my twin. 

Addie and Joe are both gone now.  They were very special to me and to the rest of my family.