You Think You Can Whip Me?

Dad usually disciplined me and my brothers by whipping us with his belt although he knocked me down once when I was 13 or 14 with a right to my face because I was late coming home.  And I saw him wail on one of my brothers, Pop, with a crutch.

Part of the crutch story was told to me but I saw the wailing part with my own eyes.

Pop ran away from home when we lived on a farm near Gadsden, Alabama.  He was 15, 16 years old, about 1950. He went up to Chattanooga, Tennessee, to work in a cotton mill.

Charles T. (Pop) and John F. Stith Sr. (Dad) Christmas, 1960, about 10 years after the crutch incident.
Charles T. (Pop) Stith and John F. Stith Sr. (Dad), Christmas, 1960, about 10 years after the crutch incident.

Dad made some phone calls, figured out where he was, and sent my oldest brother, John, to bring him home. Dad would have gone himself but he was in the hospital, Jane Greer, one of my sisters, told me. According to the way I heard it, Dad broke a leg when the brakes on a coal truck failed and the truck went over the side of a mountain near Altoona, AL.  According to the way Jane remembers it, Dad was in a jeep that went over the side.  In any event, his leg was broken and he was in the hospital.

John and his wife, Mary, and Jane and her husband, who was also named John, went to Chattanooga, to the cotton mill, to get Pop. But he wouldn’t come.  Pop swung first and he and John fought, Jane said.  The police came and took Pop away, first to jail, and then to some sort of juvenile detention facility, she said.

The four of them drove back to Gadsden, Jane said, and my brother reported to Dad, who, like I said, was in the hospital.

According to Jane, Dad checked out of the hospital and hired an ambulance to take him, Brother John, and Jane’s John back to Chattanooga, about 90 miles.  They arrived at the juvenile detention facility after dark.

Dad identified himself to the fellow in charge and said he had come for his boy.  According to family lore the keeper said he couldn’t have him, that Pop had to go to court.

“You don’t understand,” Dad told the man.  “We’re not talking about whether I get my boy — I’m going to get him.  What we’re talking about,” pointing to John, “is whether he has to put you on the ground first.”

Now the keeper understood.  Dad got Pop and they rode back to Alabama, I was told, in silence.

I was there when they came in the farmhouse, into what we called the back living room.

“You think you can lick the old man now that I’ve got a broke leg, don’t you,” I heard Dad say to Pop.

“No sir,” Pop replied.

“You think you can, but you can’t.”

He leaned on one crutch, toss the other one in the air, caught it about a third of the way from the bottom, and commenced to whacking Pop with the crutch.

Postscript: Pop revered our father and imitated his mannerisms. Years later Pop and I were up at Snowbird, sitting by the fire outside the  cabin, when he told me: “If I go to hell it’ll be for idol-worshiping Dad.”

Coming Monday: Lucky’s Best Story

 

 

Three Strikes Is All You Get

Brother Pop had driven to Snowbird, oh, at least 100 times, but it didn’t matter.  He was lost. Instead of turning left at Big Y, about a mile from the cabin, and coming up the left  fork of Juanite Creek he kept on going straight, up the right fork of Juanite.

[Snowbird is in the mountains of North Carolina, pretty close to Tennessee, in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town, Robbinsville, population 620, is 22 miles away.]

Pop and two buddies had driven to the mountain from Gadsden, AL, in Pop’s Ford  Ranger, pulling a trailer loaded down with two ATVs. His buddies had also been to Snowbird many times.  How all three of them missed the turn I don’t know. 

Whoever was driving just kept on keeping on, up that old logging road, and the further they went the worse it got.  There were deep ruts in the road, deep enough to bury somebody, but they straddled them and kept on going.  There were 10, 12-feet tall trees growing in the road too —that was a another clue — but they just ran over them.

You would have thought that somebody, at some point, would have said, “You know what?  I think we’re going the wrong way.”  But nobody did.

My brother and his buddies didn’t figure it out until they just couldn’t go any further — the truck was surrounded by trees, broken behind them and standing tall in front and on both sides.  There was nothing to do now but turn around.

It was was raining a little, cold, and getting dark when the three men got out of Pop’s pickup and unloaded the two four-wheelers.  They couldn’t back the trailer down that road, no way, and turning the truck around was gonna be a drill.  They were in a fix.

They decided to try to make a little room to turn around by unhooking the trailer, pushing it backwards a little ways and over to the side. 

But they couldn’t unhook it.

The trailer was locked on the trailer hitch ball and they had left the trailer hitch key back in Gadsden.

No matter.  If they couldn’t take the trailer off the trailer hitch, they would take the trailer hitch off the truck — they would unbolt the hitch ball. 

But they couldn’t unbolt it.

They had left their toolbox in Alabama, too.

No matter. They decided to cut the trees blocking their way and carve out a place big enough to turn the truck around.

But they couldn’t.

Their chain saw wouldn’t start. 

Three strikes. Isn’t that all you get?

Postscript: Pop and his buddies called it a night, left the truck and trailer where they were, and rode their four-wheelers to the cabin. Next day a bunch of us went back with a wrench, took the ball off the hitch, and got that truck turned around.

NOTE: I was up at Snowbird earlier this month and I meant to take a picture of that so-called road. I’ll get one next time.

Coming Monday: The Nankoweap Trail: Don’t Look Down