Crow Hunting

Ebby Crumley, God bless his soul, was one of the most interesting people I ever knew when I lived in Searcy County, Arkansas. Ebby was a real mountain man, living in a small log cabin at the end of a tough hour's drive by 4x4. The old trail to his place was originally an old wagon trail, but several mud slides and large rocks moving over the years had made the trail quite a contest for even an experienced offroader. Most times, Ebby could be found walking along very quietly on one of the many backroads winding through the remote portions of the Buffalo River and Richland Creek area. He always had on blue overalls, a wide brimmed felt fedora, and a gold watch chain. In his arms was a very old, but well cared for Parker double barrel 12 guage. Ebby did alot of subsistence hunting, calling squirrels into range by squeaking through a gap in his chewing tobacco stained teeth. I spent a couple of months walking old trails in Richland Valley with Ebby, learning from his vast knowledge about the medicinal herbs, and ancient Indian cultures that had inhabited the region. Now Ebby was not the most social of old guys, a life filled with the painful memories of WWI, where he saw some incredible tough action. One time when we were taking a mid day cool down in a remote waterfall he had taken me to, I saw the scars of mustard gas and phosphorus burns on his back and the large scar of either a bullet or shrapnel wound in his leg. I began to understand why he found so much peace and soulful satisfaction in the remote beauty of the Ozarks. He carried an old dogeared copy of the Old Testament and a small pocket book of poetry by Whitman and Thoreau and others, and had made a habit of sitting in a quiet glade finding peace in the words from the two books. He had an incredible knowledge of the native songbirds and could imitate their calls and identify them from just hearing a faint warble in the treetops. He taught me to call wild turkeys right up to you by using a "gather up" hen call which consisted of a series of short whistles that Ebby told me "that there is the sound a momma hen makes to get the poults to gather close to her and even an old Gobbler will respond to it since they never forget whut ther mommas told em". I have tried it since, and believe me, it works. One time at Ebby's cabin I had a bad cough and sore throat, and he told me he had something to make me feel better. He had me crawl under the porch of his cabin and pull out a small oak keg and uncorked it and poured about three fingers of the homemade aged whiskey into a tin cup with a large dollop of clear black locust flower honey he had harvested from one of the wild bee hives he had found. He added some ground ginseng and a large pinch of goldenseal herb to it and told me to drink it down.Wow, best cough syrup I ever had, it about made my knees fold, but really helped. Ebby would often rescue injured animals and birds, rehabilitate them if he could and release them. If you sat on his porch really quiet many times animals would return to his place to visit. The place where Ebby's cabin was located, had held a large ancient civilization at one time, Pottery, arrowheads and other stone tools were easy to find. A waterfall coming from a good sized spring filled a beautiful turquoise colored pool in the rocks that Ebby said that the ancient people had built as a holding tank for drinking water. About the only time that Ebby ever went to town, was on the second Tuesday of the month, when the livestock auction was being held in Marshall. He would hitch a ride into town with one of the local hippie farmers whom he had befriended and would get to visit with some of the people he knew around Searcy county who would be in town that day. He would make a trip to the bank and deposit his Social Security and disability check and we would often go to the hardware store, grocery and such before heading back to the mountain. Ebby really loved IBC rootbeer and cherry licorice and Day's Work chewing tobacco. He often could be found sitting and whittling small animals and personalities with an old Case pocket knife. He gave several of them to the children of the local hippie folks, and seemed to find a real friendship with them as they were very respectful and borrowed from his wealth of knowledge and sincere inner peace. Alot of the local folks had been fairly cruel to him and made rude comments about him because of his friendships, but he seemed uncaring about them and would often quote a profound bible verse or a line from a poem or classic story to dismiss their poor people skills and lack of understanding. As his age made him feeble, it was the local hippie folks that helped to care for him and when he passed away at the age of 94 according to his birth date listed in the worn pages of his bible, it was in a comfortable bed in the nice house of a good friend of mine. Ebby was buried on a beautiful secluded plot on his land and Ebby left his land to a group of the hippie folks, to make a nature area out of and to be used for growing ginseng in the rich soil of the woods there. A small wooden sign marks "Ebby Crumley Road" and to walk that lane is one of the most peaceful walks you can take, knowing that old Ebby still walks with you whistling songbird calls.

"How" Times Have Changed by Perley "Pudwink" McFlicker  (as told to HW "HARD" Dudley)   In days of old, when nights were cold, and summer turned to autumn, the men and women of Vermont did what their parents taught ‘em. The ladies stayed to mind the farms, and stores, and country houses, and watched men leave for hunting camp, while waving to their spouses. For in time-honored fashion this is how their lives were distant, the men were brave and hearty boys, and ladies weren’t resistant. ‘Cause things went on at huntin’ camp no wife or mom should see, But I’m prepared to tell the truth...this happened once to me..................   The truck was filled with sleeping bags, and tools to hunt the deer, but underneath, and out of sight, were 15 kegs of beer. And then there was the chili, 30 movies, one projector, which Uncle Silas named, amid his laughs, The "Old Erector!" But lest you think the beer was all these "hunters" brought for liquid, there’s 18 jugs of whiskey, 12 of wine, we could get sick’wid! The spam and Dinty Moore Beef Stew would round the outdoors menu, You had to love the outhouse ‘cause thats where this food would send you!   We got there on a friday night, ten hours ‘fore the season, we drank to deer, and huntin’ camps...we drank for ANY reason. The sun would come up early so we poured ourselves to bed, and twenty minutes later with the clock beside my head, The hunting season started with the crash of Uncle Rob, Who rolled across the top bunk, hit the floor in one big blob. I can’t remember if the rules were written in a book, but all agreed the new "boy" there became the new camp cook.   ...the sweeper, and the lugger, and the one who washed the dishes, the one who makes the beds, and packs the lunch, and cleans the fishes. ...the one who hikes the mountains, slogging swamps to push the deer, while veterans rested on fat stumps and drained canteens of beer. And that is how the first day went, all tolled six bucks went down, but all the cheers, I figured out, were centered on "in town", where Missy Gina’s Roadhouse was the next plan for adventure, I heard for twenty dollars she would throw away her dentures.   But I was just too young to go, so I was left behind, with half a keg of warm, flat beer, 2 half-filled jugs of wine. And I was quite contented by the time the men drove back, I saw the lights come up the road, and heard 12 rifles crack. The whoopin’ and the hollerin’ would’a chased away the squirrels, And I remember wondrin’ where they’d caught the herd of GIRLS! So in the door they tumbled, brand new kegs, and 14 ladies, With movies playin’ on the walls, a blonde on Uncle Grady.   The party went for hours, really seemed to always linger, and at some point, a weird idea!, I checked the ladies’ fingers! And I’ll be damned if every one, which I thought rather bold, displayed a left ring finger that displayed a ring of gold! Well ‘bout this time the beer had pushed my senses somewhere other, and staggering across the room I yelled at my big brother, "you know these girls are married?", and a blonde beside the lamp, said, "’course we are! Our husbands all are gone to huntin’ camp!"   You could’a heard a pin drop, silence lasted 15 minutes, and finally Dad said, there’s my truck, you ladies best get in it, And back to town he took them while the others went to bed, and early in the mornin’ people walked like they was dead. I don’t know who decided we should pack and head for home, or who made the decision that we never more would roam. But someone had a bright idea, though some thought they was wrong, That come next huntin’ season they would take their wives along!   Today I’m not invited, thanks to pointin’ out them rings, My brother won’t forgive me (years ago I killed his fling!) So now I’m packed, its time to leave for my own huntin’ camp, I’ll push the camo 4-by-4 right up the pick-up ramp. And by tonight with time to spare my things will be unpacked, I’ll take a look around the camp...be fine ‘til I get back. And while I’m down at Gina’s I just won’t feel one bit wary, My huntin’ season starts tonight....’cause this boy still ain’t married!

Page 1  of Tales

Page 2 of Tales

Page 4 of Tales