My Old Friend James.... The Man in the Middle

As a young man I was always fortunate, for some reason or another, to to be friends with folks of all ages, types and personalities. I would guess that it probably had something to do with the types of things I like to do and folks that members of my family would introduce me to. I was interested in things other teenage boys were into like hanging out with friends, sports, and of course, girls. I was also very much into deer hunting, coon hunting, fishing and talking on CB radios. These types of activities put me in contact with people older than myself and I was very fortunate to call quite a few of these mentors, and better yet, friends. This particular yarn is about one of those friends James "Middle Man" Taylor.

 He was not a very big fellow, some would call him small and wiry. I remember him being pretty strong for his size. He was a good bit older than me and was much closer to my Dad's age than my own. James had hair that was well over his collar and wore a sizable "horseshoe" mustache or goatee, and in the wintertime he was most likely sporting a full beard. He was usually found wearing work clothes or dressed for the outdoors as he was an avid outdoorsman. One of my girlfriends at the time, described him as looking alike an "old timey mountain man." This really didn't surprise me because she met him during deer season and he was dressed in his signature wide brimmed flat crowned leather hat and he was in his winter time full beard and long hair.  If you ever shook hands with him the first thing you would notice is his hands were like boot leather. This was an indication of how hard he worked. For most of the time I knew him, he worked on the family sawmill and farm. From some of the stories he told me, he had done some construction work also. From what I could tell, the man was not lazy at all. He had somewhat of a nasal tone to his voice but spoke with confidence. He had been plagued with health problems his whole life as he was a Type 1 diabetic and had dealt with that since childhood.

James's signature leather floppy hat 

James and I may seem to have made unlikely friends but it seems I have always been drawn to people like him. He was different in the fact that he followed his own path. The man was one of the most honest people I have ever been around and some would think to a fault... but that is not how I see it. If you asked him a question, you would need to be prepared for an honest answer. He and I did not agree on everything, and we were ok with that. If you needed his help with anything, all you had to do was ask. He would be there early and stay late. Looking back it's a wonder we got anything done at all when we were together. Let's just say James and I were both "talkers" and would carry on forever. We were from different generations and times, but we found so much common ground on things to talk about and things we liked to do. He had a knack for taking an opposing view on something just for the sake of a good conversation. He had a quirky, dry wit that made me laugh quite often even when he wasn't trying to. He and I would cut up and pick on each other so that if anyone who didn't know us was listening, they would probably think we were mad at each other.

The name "Middle Man" was his CB radio "handle." We both had base stations and spent many weekend nights talking into the wee hours of the morning. The CB fad had kicked back up in the late 80's and early 90's but it was nothing like it was back when my dad and Middle Man started in the 1970's. My dad and I both liked to mess around with radios and there was a local crowd that we talked to that often monitored CB channel 17. I also had a radio in my truck and when I was out and about, coming and going I would often turn on the radio and talk to any number of folks. This was before the days of everyone having a mobile phone, so it kind of made me (and my parents) feel good knowing if I needed help, all I had to do was turn on the radio and most of the time I could get someone to call for help on the phone. James helped us get our base station antenna setup up in the air and working when we decided to upgrade to a bigger and better one. In turn, when James upgraded his setup, I went to help him. When conditions were favorable we would also sit up at night and talk to folks all over the country and even different parts of the world. We had a contact in the Caribbean we would contact most every Sunday morning when conditions where coming out of the islands. Many nights he would sleep in the recliner beside his radio table. I do admit, it was also comforting to know that if I picked up the radio, most of the time he would answer back. Our many conversations on the radio were what kicked off our friendship.

Another thing He and I always agreed on, is we both loved to hunt and fish. During the fall and winter he was an avid deer hunter. I remember that he would always tag out and always filled his freezer along with his mom's. James had harvested a few big bucks in his time but he was not a trophy hunter at all, he hunted mostly for meat. He taught me a good bit about deer, squirrel and rabbit hunting. He showed me a more efficient way to skin rabbits and squirrels than I was using that was faster and didn't damage the meat or hide as much as the technique i was using. I remember his rifle of choice was a well worn .223 Ruger Mini 14. I asked him one time why he didn't use a larger caliber rifle like most deer hunters, his reply was, "When you can shoot well and kill 99% of the deer you shoot, it really don't matter what caliber it is."  The facts were, he was very comfortable with it and really could shoot that well. Most of the deer he shot didn't go far at all despite using what many "serious deer hunters" consider too small of a caliber to hunt with. I would like to know how many deer he harvested over the years with that thing. It was well worn but always clean, the action was smooth as butter and it was always ready for business. I have often thought of buying a new Ruger Mini 14 and hunting with it from time to time, just to remember my old friend.

When I killed my first bear, I had never dressed and butchered one. I gave him a call on the radio and he was more than willing to help me out. I gave him most of the meat and you would have thought I would have given him a 100 dollar bill.  Now that I sit back and think about it, a good bit of what he ate was wild game he killed over the year so the meat I give him was even more meat he had in reserve and didn't have to buy from the store. I gave him the hide also, he said he had something he wanted to make out of it. He told me that most of what he ate he either killed hunting or he grew there on the farm. He had goats for milk and meat. He raised pigs and rabbits that he also butchered for meat. He would let me know when he butchered rabbits because he knew I loved rabbit. He showed me how to cook rabbit and rice and make rabbit gravy.

He and I also went fishing from time to time. I swear the man could catch a bream in most any mud hole with just a bream buster and a cricket. I remember fishing in a local swamp apply named Big Swamp. We only fished a few hours but came back with a cooler full of red breast and covered in "skeeter" bites. At first I was not catching any fish and the best I could tell. I was doing the same thing he was, fishing the same bait and the same types of places. He finally looked over at me and said, "So do you want me to tell you, or do you just want to keep not catching fish and figure it out for yourself?" I was fishing with a plain colored hook and he was fishing with a gold colored hook and I was fishing a bit deeper than he was. He said, "in this dark cypress stained water, they like a little flash." I really don't know if he was right or not, but I did start catching fish when I changed my hook and fished a little more shallow. He just sit back and smiled and didn't say a word.

I have stated it before that one of my many faults is I don't keep in contact with people I care about near as much as I should. This was also the case with James. My dad called me when he passed away and like with a few other of my friends it hit home that I really do need to do better. You never know when you see someone for the very last time as none of us are promised tomorrow. At his wake his younger sister (who is about a year younger than me) told me a few old stories and assured me that he thought as much of me as I did of him. If the truth were told, James was one of my best friends while I was living back in Bladen County and like I have stated about my Uncle Don, I always think of him when deer season rolls around. As I sit here and write this opening day of the muzzle loading part of this year's deer season starts this weekend. I'm sure I will spend some time in the woods thinking about my old friend.

I searched forever for a leather hat like Middle Man's this is as close as I could find. 

My Confession About an Angry Possum.....

Every now and then people should confess their sins. Recently at a family gathering, I made such a confession. It was after the funeral of a family member and everyone was gathered back at Aunt Rosa's house. Everyone was sitting around the table. We were all pretty sad and I decided to tell this story to make the ones gathered around that table and in the room smile. The telling of this story started something. Most everyone in the room followed it with a funny but true story of their own. Mostly involving family members. This was what the family needed and that night, as sad as that day was, is probably one of my favorite times with my family in recent memory.

First of all I think I should clear the air about a few things. First, no possums were hurt in the actual event (yes it actually happened) or the retelling of the story. Second, I will use no names because even after all these years, I'm not going to be the one to rat anyone out. Third, the actual truth may have been fractured just a little in the retelling, but my memory isn't what it used to be.

When teenage boys in a small town get bored, they tend to do stupid things. Some of those things can get you into big trouble, but some things are just dumb things that boys do. This story is about one of those dumb things.

The teenagers I grew up with in Tar Heel NC were not a bad group. Sure we did our share of dumb things, but all teenagers do. There was not a lot going on in that small town back then, and to my knowledge there is not a lot going on there now. We did most things that "normal" teens do in the rural South. We spent our time going to a couple of the bigger towns "cruising" up and down the same street over and over just to meet up with and hang out with friends, meet folks and maybe meet a few girls. We had dates with our girlfriends if we had one at the time, but the main thing we did when we were bored is just sit and talk. We would all park in the parking lot of a store that was closed for the evening and just hang out. Sometimes it was after we would drop our girlfriends off at home, or after a ballgame. Right in the middle of our little town there was a gas station that everyone knew and that is where we would meet. We were out in the open where everyone could see us and we didn't have anything to hide. A good many of us drove pickup trucks so we would park with the back of the trucks facing the main drag through town and sit on the tailgates and just hang out. I would guess that a good many folks would pass by and think "those kids are up to no good," but to be perfectly honest 98% of the time.... we were not up to anything at all, good or not. Many times local law enforcement officers would pull up and chat for a bit and see what we were up to and since everyone knew everyone in Bladen County, (and me having cops in my family) if we were "up to no good" our parents would surely know before we could even get home.

This story is about one Fall, Friday night, after the High School football game,  when we were haning out doing nothing. There were a group of guys just hanging out at the old Field's Shell station in Tar Heel. I remember it was fall because a few of the local farmers had harvested their corn for the year and we had decided to do something else that we did back then when we were bored, and that was spotlighting deer. Another thing I probably need to explain is back then, spotlighting deer was perfectly legal in certain counties under certain conditions. You could not have a firearm in the vehicle, it had to be before 11 pm, and you could not shine the light in a residence. The common practice was for a bunch of us to pile into one pickup truck. One of us would drive, of course, one would operate the spotlight and the rest would ride in the back of the truck and hang on. This particular night we were in my truck. I drove a blue 1986 GMC short bed 4 wheel drive truck. It was nothing fancy but not a bad truck at all and more than adequate for such an adventure.

We had not been up to much that night, I remember I was between girlfriends, so I had nothing to do, and didn't feel much like riding all the way to town to cruise town. Around 8pm or so, there were quite a few of us in the parking lot of that old store, and we decided to all pile into my pickup and go see if we could spot a few deer in our local area. We were pretty successful that night having seen possibly around 60 deer that night and it was getting close to 11pm and we were making our way back to the store when we noticed in a cut corn field there were about 3 possums pretty close to the dirt road we were on. One of the fellas jumped out of the back of the truck yelling, "Shine The LIGHT!" I brought the old truck to a stop and my friend with the spotlight held it steady while the "jumper" ran down the possum. I swear, it seemed like his legs were already running before his feet hit the ground. He then picked up a corn stalk and tapped one of the possums on the back. Well, the stories you have heard about opossums playing dead is absolutely true. The critter rolled over with all four feet straight up in the air. My friend then picked it up by the tail and had the look on his face as if to say, "ok, now what?" One of the other guys noticed that I had two or three corn sacks in the back of my truck that had been shoved under diamond tread tool box. It was deer season, and I had been putting corn in the deer feeders. My observant friend took one the sacks to the possum runner and they now had a slightly angry possum in the sack.

This is not the actual possum from the story, but a pic if found on the net, but you get the idea. 

The story only gets more redneck from here folks. The question is what do you do with a very much alive possum that your friend has run down and placed in a corn sack? After pondering the idea for a short time, one of us in the crowd had an idea (most likely the one who ran him down). I honestly don't remember who's idea it was... but, I guess that part is not really important. We all loaded up in my truck and headed back to the store and at this point it was well after 11pm. It was back at the store that we carried out our evil plan.

The store we hung out at had news paper vending machines out front. You know the kind, you put in your money and the machine will let you open the door and retrieve the newspaper you have just paid for. I do distinctly remember digging in the door pocket of my truck to find a quarter for the machine. After opening the door (and retrieving my paper), my athletic friend who ran down the critter opened the bag and put the possum in the machine. If you think about it, it was perfect, the door to those machines had a slot to put a paper in so the front page would be on display. This meant the animal could not see out, and the prey who would open the door could not see what they were getting themselves into.

Your average paper machine. Again, not the one from the actual story, but one I found on the net. 

The idea was to hide our vehicles and hide close by and watch as the "paperman" loaded the box. It just so happened the paperman was running his route at around midnight. So there we were when the car pulled up, trying not to laugh out loud and draw attention to ourselves. The unsuspecting paperman walked up to the paper machine with an arm load of freshly printed Saturday morning papers. He then opened the door with his key and propped it open with his leg. It was at this point the possum woke up and the paperman was eyeball to eyeball with one very angry possum. We were not close enough to hear it, but I would imagine it was hissing at him. As the papers flew up in the air we could not contain our laughter. I don't know who that fella was, but I'm pretty sure the names he was calling us were not learned in Sunday School at the local Baptist Church. He then got in his car and sped away. What happened to the possum you ask? As best as I can recall, it was last seen after it had escaped it's temporary jail running into the patch of woods behind the store never to been seen or bothered by dumb teenage boys again. 

Consider the Lowly Catfish

For some reason when people think of catfishing they conjure up thoughts of someone neck deep in muddy water trying to catch fish by hand or they think of drunk rednecks. I will admit the latter will come to mind of you hang around a few bodies of water I remember fishing. Despite these images and the reputation of the catfish being a "dirty bottom feeder,"  I would like to clear the air (or water) and the reputation of fellow fishermen. I would also like to submit the idea that the lowly catfish is not a "trash fish" as it has been called by many so called "sport fishermen" but one of the best tasting fish in freshwater. To understand the stigma that follows catfish and the anglers that pursue the odd looking fish we should look at the critter itself and why I and others like me, enjoy the sport.

If you have read anything I have ever written, you know I grew up on the banks of the Cape Fear River in Southeastern NC. I remember sitting on the front steps of the house I grew up in and watching the trucks hauling boats down to the river every Friday or Saturday evening during the warm weather months. Everyone in that area knows that the river is home to some of the biggest cats in the state. Some nights the parking lot at the boat ramp close to Mom and Dad's would be full of trucks and boat trailers and a line of folks waiting to put their boats in the water and try their luck. Why are so many folks after cats? That's an easy one to answer, they taste good, they are fairly easy to catch, you don't have to spend tons of money on gear and, because they are not considered "game fish,"  there is no limit in the area I grew up in. Oh... and one more thing... Flatheads and Blue Cats can grow to be HUGE!

My Son Logan while on a Catfishing trip on the Cape Fear with Rod and Reel

Many of those anglers were "jugging" or setting "bush hooks" while others were bottom fishing with rod and reel. No matter the technique they were all after cats. Setting bush hooks is a process that is a lot like setting "trotlines" except there is one hook on a line and tied to a overhanging tree limb. The line would be baited with fresh cut bait, night crawlers, or chicken, beef or deer liver. Most would tie a "slip loop" in the line so you could tell if there was something on the line by looking to see if the loop was still in the line or not. Jugging is a process very similar but instead of tieing the line to a tree limb you tie it to an empty milk jug with your name and phone number on it and toss it in various spots in the river in what we call a "string." A string is just a bunch of jugs in a line to cover a certain part of the river. The fish take the bait and cannot take the empty tightly sealed jug of air under water and you come back and pick up jugs collecting your fish. These days people have thought of many different ways of rigging "jugs" by using PVC pipe and pool noodles but the basics are still the same.

My favorite way to catch cats is using a rod and reel. Picking the gear to catfish with can be tricky at best when fishing in big rivers. There are different species of cats in NC and there is no telling which one will bite or how big it is going to be. Cats can range from a few pounds to upwards around 80 to 100 lbs. I prefer to use heavy rods and open face reels with around 40 lb test line and a light set drag. I set the drag light because I have had the disappointment of getting a good size fish on the line only to have him break my line when the monster decided to go deep in a hurry. There are many ways to rig for cats but the rig I have been most successful with is a one ounce egg sinker with a circle hook rigged so it can roll along the bottom. Very similar to how you would rig for surf fishing for flounder but with bigger gear.

It is a common fisherman's tell that they only bite at night. Although they do actively feed at night, I have caught cats in the mornings, in the cool of the evenings and of course during the nighttime hours. On a serious note: If you do decide to fish at night, please know the body of water you are fishing and the dangers of navigating the river at night. Know proper boat safety and have the appropriate safety gear and have the gear and a plan for if you get stranded or your boat overturns. I tell my boy that I never want him to be afraid of the water or the river itself, but the second you do not respect the Cape Fear, or other rivers like it, it will kill you. I have spent most of my life doing Fire/Rescue and EMS work and have pulled many bodies out of the water that can attest to that fact.

3 lb "Bullhead" Cat caught in cold water. 

As mentioned earlier there are a few different species of Cats in the waterways of NC. The "bullhead" cat is the smaller of the bunch (the only cat native to most waterways in NC). They have a squared tailfin and can grow up to 8 lbs generally they are much smaller. "Blue" Catfish have been introduced to the rivers of NC and can grow much larger. The blue is sought after due to the size and many have said they taste better than other species. They have a forked tail fin, are a heavy bodied fish and have a bluish grey color. Blues can grow to 100 lbs and above in the proper environment. Channel Cats are one of the most popular fish in North America. They can grow to be 50 lbs or more and have a forked tail and an olive to bluish hue. Last but not least is the "Flathead" Catfish. The flathead has a square tailfin and is known to grow in excess of 100 lbs. Each species of cat has it's preferred feeding habits and habitat and the rivers, lakes and ponds of NC provide just such environments.

What is my favorite catfish? My common answer to that question is one filleted, breaded and fried. Which brings me to the whole reason many of us around the South flock to the rivers and lakes. Catfish have a reputation of having a "muddy" taste and have found this true in some cases but "Most" of the cats I have had the pleasure of frying up have had a mild and sweet taste. The meat is not as "flaky" as many other whitefish from freshwater. Results may vary, but a good indication of the way the fish will taste, is the body of water you catch it in. Clearer water fish have been said to taste better than muddy water fish, but like I said, results may vary.

My Favorite Kind of Catfish ... Fried

The best way I know to prepare the catfish for the table is easy. Fillet it leaving behind the skin, bones head and guts. If you have very large fillets cut them into chunks (nuggets) or steaks, then cover with the breading of your choice. A mix of cornmeal, flour, salt and pepper is usually the basis of most breading recipes.  If you do not have a favorite recipe for fish fry breading, House Aurty makes a fine seafood breader that will do just fine. Deep fry the fillets in grease around 360 degrees. I prefer to use a cast iron pan and vegetable oil or peanut oil. If you are married,  you might want to do this outdoors so your spouse will not fuss about the "fishy" odor in the house. This is also a good excuse to go buy a good outdoor gas fish/turkey fryer that every good southern outdoorsman should own.  Serve with coleslaw and hushpuppies, although I have made a fine meal out of fried fillets and "light bread" (sliced loaf bread to yankees) The most important ingredient you need for a good southern fish fry is family and good friends.

Another common falsehood is that catfish can "sting" you. Some folks think that the "whiskers" of the catfish can hurt you in some way. This is simply not true. These barbels are is how the fish "smells." The concern of being hurt or "stuck" by the catfish comes from the dorsal and pectoral fins that can be very hard and somewhat sharp (esp in smaller fish). This can simply be avoided by holding the fish behind these fins. If you are like me I keep a good pair of fishing gloves with rubber coated palms so I can get a good grip on the fish, but I have no problems handling the fish with my bare hands.

A smaller "Blue Cat" being held the correct way

Catfishing on the rivers of Southeastern North Carolina has always been about something different than putting food on the table for me. I love a good fish fry more than most people, but there is more to the story. Money cannot buy what I have gotten out of the time I have spent on that old muddy water of the Cape Fear or the black water in the Cypress swamps of the Black River. I have had the pleasure of sitting on the river at night or in the cool of the evening after a hot summer day relaxing. I have heard the great horned owl's call echo tough the river bottoms and it sound like a choir of owls singing back and forth across the river to each other. (We called them "hoot owls" growing up.) I have also sat on the river bank or in a small jon boat at night and watched the lightning bugs light up the trees on the river banks like christmas trees. I have many good memories with family and friends while catfishing.  These few things that I remember so fondly have made it about so much more than just pursuing the lowly catfish.

"Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing
 that it is not fish they are after."~ Henry David Thoreau

Boyd Stone: Smiley's Story

Mr. Boyd Stone was yet another "character" I grew up knowing. He was born on a small family farm near the town of Tar Heel in southeastern North Carolina and continued to live out his life as a farmer there. During my childhood and teenage years I can't ever remember him looking any different. He was an older man with a curved spine, or as he called it a "humped back." The only time I ever saw him not wearing work pants and shirt was when he was at church. He chewed tobacco and usually had a bit of "backer juice" on the corners of his mouth. He was missing more than a couple of teeth but was always smiling. He drove an old black Ford pickup truck with more of the same "backer juice" down the side because he would spit out the window.  If you were to see Mr. Stone in town, and did not know him, he might not catch your attention other than being one of many older gentleman that farmed in that part of the state at that time. This story is not as much about how he looked but about the man himself. If you were to take the time and talk to him for more than one or two minutes, you would never forget him.

My Mother's sister,  Aunt Rosa, married Robert Stone, (more about him in other parts of my blog). Boyd Stone was Uncle Robert's Father. His kids and grandkids simply called him "Pa." He was married to a lady named Dorcas. They had four children Charles Paul, Robert, Ann and John B.

My Uncle Robert and Aunt Rosa farmed tobacco and a few other crops that Boyd and Uncle Rob would sell such as corn, okra and watermelons. I started helping on my Aunt and Uncle's farm when I was big enough to drive the old Massey Ferguson 135 tractor that pulled the old fashioned "stick type" tobacco harvester. For those of you that are uneducated on tobacco farming with "stick barns", the harvester held 9 people consisting of 4 "croppers", 4 "stringers" and one person to "catch the sticks" and lay them on a flat or drag when the stringer would holler "Stick!" The flat or trailers full of newly strung tobacco sticks would then be hauled to the tobacco barn to be hung on horizontal beams or poles to be cured with gas heat.  All I had to do was hold the tractor in the middle of the row and sand up on the clutch to stop it when someone would holler "Whoa!" and let up on the clutch slowly when they would holler "Go ahead!" Until I grew up a little and learned to do it myself, My Uncle Robert would turn the tractor around at the end of the row for me and we would move on to the next row.  I was probably about 8 years old when I was given this fairly simple but important job. As I grew up, I was given different jobs in the process.  I had known Boyd my whole life but in this environment is where I got my real first impression of the man. The first thing I want to tell you about Boyd Stone is that he was a hard working man. Boyd farmed his whole life but at this point in time was usually working as a cropper and his job was to pick the ripe leaves off the tobacco stalk and hand them to the stringer to be strung on to a tobacco stick. He could work from before daylight until way after dark and was twice the age of the grown men and women working in the field at any particular time. When we had moved away from using stick barns and harvesters, he would walk and crop slow and steady all day long and would work most young folks into the ground.  I guess hard work is a reoccurring theme when I write about folks from our "greatest generation."

Now that you know a little of his background, you need to know what makes him stand out in the minds of most folks that knew him well. Boyd was a "cut up," he always had a story or joke for you. Some of his stories were mostly true, some were just stories that were funny and were totally made up just to get a response from the listener. It really didn't matter what the response was. The more you laughed or the more offended you were by his story, the happier he was. His goal was to get some kind of response from you.  For example, not long after I started driving he came up to me at a family fish fry we were having at my Aunt Rosa's house and said, "Hey Joe, you better keep your eyes open when you go round huckleberry curve tonight." My response was, "Why's that?" To which he replied, "Because you would be a dang fool to drive with them closed." He then laughed to himself and moved on. Like I said, he always had a story or a joke, but like anyone, some were better than others.

One of the best stories I can remember him telling was told as if it were the honest truth and from what I can gather it most likely was. The story as I remember him telling it went something like this.

Boyd and his wife Dorcas had guinea fowl in the yard of their modest farm house. Many farms back then and now have guineas for a few reasons. They lay eggs that are great for baking. They eat ticks and other insects that are pest, and they make great bugler alarms. Whenever anything or anyone comes up in your yard, the Guinea will make an awful racket. One night Boyd was asleep and heard the aforementioned racket and went outside with a single barreled shotgun to investigate. One should know that Boyd slept in button up long-handle underwear with the flap that buttons in the back. The buttons were long gone and the flap in the back was just open. Picture if you will, our hero outside in the dark in his long-handle underwear with his flap a flapping shotgun in hand with the hammer eared back. As he stood under a tree outside his house very quiet listening and looking for any type of disturbance, his yard hound came up behind him and stuck his cold nose to the region that was left exposed by the flap being down. (or has he put it, the dog put his cold, wet nose in his crack). This startled Boyd so much he accidentally pulled the trigger to the shotgun causing it to fire into the air, killing his prize guinea that was perched in the tree!

Boyd loved to deer hunt and fish. He even had a pond on his property that was known for having several monster large mouth bass caught out of it. One of which is hanging on my dad's wall.  While deer hunting with dogs around the area he lived his "handle" on the CB radio was "Smiley." This name fit him well because he smiled most all of the time, and due to the fact I mentioned earlier, he was missing more than a few teeth. He often told tales of fish that were caught and past deer hunts and like any good outdoorsman there were a few tall tales of the ones that got away. There were always stories about everyday life and growing up and living in a small town and farming.

What follows is perhaps his best known story and I have no idea as to where he heard the story or if it actually happened. Boyd told the story as if it were the gospel truth. I may have my doubts, but who am I to dispute a fellow storyteller with a reputation like his?

In the 50's and 60's the invasive plant "witch weed" was found to be in North Carolina. The state and federal government were working on eradicating the plant. The government would send out inspectors to each farm and if they were to find the plant they would spray some type of weed killer on it to keep it from spreading. One hot summer day around lunch time one of those inspectors paid a visit to the Stone Farm. Boyd was lounging on the front porch in the shade taking his noon break. It was too hot to be inside and Mrs. Stone would not let him in the house as dirty as he was from working all morning in the fields. The government inspector introduced himself and showed his ID card. From what he told me the exchange went something like this... "Mr. Stone, this card gives me the right to inspect all of your property, so with your permission, I'll get started." Boyd replied without even lifting his head off the porch, "do what you have to, but stay out of the pasture behind the house." "Mr. Stone, as I said, this card says I can go anywhere on your property.".... "I'm telling you it would be best to stay out of that pasture." .... "But Mr. Stone this card..." Boyd cut him off with a wave of his hand, and replied, "Do what you have to, but don't say I didn't tell you." About 20 to 30 minutes later Boyd was awoken again by the young inspector but he could only hear him yelling from the pasture behind the house. "Mr Stone! Mr. Stone!! Your Bull is after me!!!!"  Boyd hollered back, "SHOW HIM YOUR DAMN CARD!"

Like many of the friends, family and folks I grew up with, I do not have one bad memory of him. He was a "handful" for his family from I understand. This was especially true in later years due to him being so "ornery" at times and most likely due to his fierce independence. He did love to give my Aunt Rosa "a fit" and I loved to hear them go at each other. I really don't know who was more hard headed. They would fuss and carry on, she would fuss and he would smile.  He will forever be remembered by folks in those parts as a hardworking man, who loved his family and friends, and lived a long life full of stories, jokes and laughs. He left behind a family of hard working, fun loving folks who still carry on his ideals and traits. The land he loved and worked is still mostly held by family members and he was laid to rest on that property in a small grove of trees. There is even a road down on that farm the family and the county addressing saw fit to name, "Smiley's Corner." There are so many stories I could share that he told, or about him in general, but I think the best way we can honor his memory is to go out and try to make someone smile today.

The Legend of A Man Called Pine Tree

Growing up in Tar Heel,  a small rural town in Southeastern North Carolina, you get to know some interesting folks. I have often put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard) about some of the characters I knew, but this particular rambling is about a true Legend I was able to meet, and even know him as a friend of the family. The man had a name and I know it well but today we are not talking about just the man, but about his story and his legend, the man I speak of was called around our part of the world (even by his grandchildren)  only by the name of "Pine Tree."

Pine Tree was a man who lived after his time and his story, like many others, is mixed with fact, rumors and legend. I will not try to separate fact from legend, but try to tell the story of a man who seem "larger than life" as it was told to me over the years as a young man growing up in a small town on the banks of the Cape Fear River in NC. 

Pine Tree grew up on a small farm in the mountains of North Carolina. At an early age he ran away from home to make his own way working in the log woods. He also lied about his age to join the US Army and was one of the first Paratroopers, as Airborne Infantry was a new concept in World War II.  He made one combat jump... Normandy. I have not been able to gather much about his time in the Airborne, but I could end the story at this point in his life and it would still be an incredible tale. The fact that he fought in Normandy and survived WWII makes him a hero and notable person, but the rest of the story will show you why locals still talk about this mountain man turned war hero.

He met the love of his life while teaching a welding class for women. Remember this point in history, women were the driving force behind the American industrial might. A family member gave me the interesting fact that she had run away from home because her father would not let her become a nurse. It seems both of them lived life on their own terms.

From most accounts that I can gather he got his name after a load of logs shifted and fell on him off of a logging truck pinning him down. The telling of the story I have heard implied that he was thought to have been killed in the incident. He was declared "dead" by the County Coroner on the scene. They found out it would take more than that to kill him. The local stories lead us to believe, the doctor that took care of him after the incident said he was "tough as an old Pine Tree." This was where the man's legend grew and his name was born.

The first time I remember meeting Pine Tree I was a young man of about 6 or 8 years of age. My Uncle Don was good friends with him and we rode out to his house to visit. My Uncle simply called him "Tree."  He and his wife lived in the Cape Fear River lowlands on a beautiful piece of land with tall pines, and hardwood river bottoms. I remember wild roses and two rut roads that crossed his property. I also remember riding in a truck with Pine Tree and my Uncle looking for deer tracks and listening to the two men talk of past hunts, and hounds.

It was said that he had a pack of hounds that would "run anything" from deer to bear and tree coons at night. The man loved to hunt and fish. One thing I have always heard was that is is next to impossible to catch shad out of the Cape Fear River with crickets, but I have at least one eye witness that he could and did. I grew up near the banks of the Cape Fear, and the lowlands are beautiful and a sportsman's paradise to those who know how to take advantage of the resources in that area. I remember , coon hunting on Pine Tree's place (with permission of course) and I could quickly see why he and his family loved his land so much.

When I met him, at an early age I formed my first impression, and that he was not your ordinary man. He was very friendly and had a very large presence. I was taught from a young age to address my elders with Mr, or Mrs, but he would have none of it.  "Call me Pine Tree," he said. He was not a very big man from what I remember but his personality was larger than life. He wore a pencil-thin mustache and it seems that I remember him wearing glasses.  He walked with a bit of a swagger about him and spoke with confidence. He had kind of a "gravely" voice. Every time I would see him, he had a big smile on his face. I can't ever remember seeing him without a cap on his head, or the ever present revolver on his hip in a leather holster. I have heard it said that Pine Tree was one of the nicest people you would ever meet, and if he liked you there is nothing he would not do for you. Most folks also followed that statement in the same breath with, "but he was not one to be messed with or taken lightly. Not one bit."

 The road into his house had a cattle gate. A handmade sign hung on the gate that read, "THIS IS HELL, KEEP OUT." The sign was to serve as a warning to unwanted visitors and to help protect the privacy he and his family wanted. Pine Tree had had a few run-ins with people trespassing and there were always rumors and stories about ongoing "bad blood" with a group of folks and unfortunately it came down to him defending himself with the revolver mentioned earlier. The story goes he was checking his mail box at the end of his driveway by the road when he was attacked and shot at. The attacker missed, and when Pine Tree shot back, he didn't miss. Pine Tree was tried for the shooting death and was acquitted. This part of my story is not to smear or bad mouth any party, but simply to tell the story as it has been relayed to me over the years.  Another story I remember hearing was he found some folks trespassing and asked them to leave. The trespassers were taking more time than was apparently acceptable and he "helped them leave with a boot to the rear end."

The thing I remember most about Pine Tree is he had an interesting way of making money on the side. He would catch poisonous snakes alive with his hands and sell them. He drove a black Ford pickup (if my memory serves me) and there was always a wooden box with a screen wire lid in the back of the truck. Often times we would see him in the small town I grew up in and ask to see what he had in the box. Most of the time he would have a few snakes in the box, a good many times he would have at least one very large Rattlesnake he had recently caught. My Dad told me a story he had heard about him catching a very large Rattlesnake and holding it with his bare hands while driving a four speed GTO until he could get home to place the snake in his box. I also have watched him feed one of those big rattlesnakes hot dogs by hand.

Years later, during my teenage years I was present when Pine Tree was in front of the church and was baptized. The preacher was originally from the mountains also,  and he often told the story of meeting the man we knew as Pine Tree and how they became friends. "I think the reason we like each other is he is an old Mountain Man like me." It has also been said that one of the reasons Preacher Murdock was called by God to the area was to lead "Tree" to the lord. Some time later Pine Tree passed away after a bought with cancer. It seems that cancer and time were the only things strong or mean enough to kill him.

I have told the story of Pine Tree to a few people over the years. Most folks probably thought I made the stories up. The thing about truly interesting people and people of character, the truth is far better than anything a simple storyteller like myself can come up with. When I told my 13 year old son these stories,  his response was simple, to the point and direct. "It seems like he was a real man. Daddy I think the world today needs more folks like Pine Tree." I don't think I could say it much better Son, so I'll leave it with that.

Pine Tree showing off one of the many Rattlesnakes he was famous for catching