This is another story from my youth I wrote for my kids to have. I hope it brings a smile to y'all somewhere along the way.
Ralph and the hogs….
The old man's name was Ralph, and he was a fixture within the small town of Owasso where I grew up, and remain yet today.
Ralph was many things, husband, daddy, farmer, hay cutter, drunkard, holder of the tri-county record for tickets for drunk driving involving pickups, two ton trucks, and farm tractors (Ralph told me one time when he was drinking that he preferred to drive for oftentimes he couldn't walk) and our longtime neighbor and friend.
He owned an older Chevy pickup, painted in a lovely shade of John Deere yellow. Being his pride and joy, anytime he needed a joyride, the pickup was his main mode of transportation, especially if he was three or four sheets into the wind. The old pickup’s frame was bent due to several mishaps when either a bar ditch, utility pole, or tree interfered with where Ralph wanted to go. The resulting twisted frame and off track rear axle caused the rear end of the pickup to hang out past the front end by about ten to twelve inches making the old pickup take a whole lane or more.
Back then, a DWI wasn’t much more than a monetary fine if the County Sheriff happened to be in the same vicinity. The County finally had a flashing yellow revolving beacon installed of the roof of the old pickup and wired directly to the ignition. Anytime the vehicle’s motor was running the light was flashing. The custom modification seemed to scream “CAUTION….RALPH IS COMING!!!!”, and was very colorful along the country roads after dark. It also made it easier for any county LEO to spot.
Ralph was the same age as my Dad. They had gone to the same school in our town, both being graduated from the same eighth grade class in the mid 1930’s. Our family helped their family through many lean years. It was for those reasons my brothers and I were special to Ralph (as long as we stayed clear of his girls), and had received exclusive hunting rights to his property.
Hunting rights ...those being the key words, is where this particular story was birthed from.
Due to economic reasons, store bought birthday presents were few and far between in our family at the time. On my tenth birthday I received the gift of being able to use my Grandpa's .22 caliber rifle that was one of the few memories of him I had. To me that was a dream come true, for the Stevens .22 did not kick like the shotgun I had been using the past two years. Also, it had real fine beaded iron sights which I took too quickly.
My shooting prowess became well known within my family and neighbors with that rifle .. no brag, just fact. Being the runt of the litter, and being a very good shot, I was made the go to game getter of our family whenever Momma needed something extra for the table...like fresh squirrel meat for example.
It was well known that the largest and best squirrel population was located in the hills and bottoms of Ralph's farm which consisted of 1,280 acres. It was a good combination, since I had hunting rights, whenever Momma had another one of her hankerings for squirrel.
Anytime I wanted to hunt on Ralph's land I just went. There was never a need to stop by his house and let anyone know beforehand. They knew if they heard any sound of gunfire it would be one of my brothers or me. I was given free range to the wooded hills and hollers of the backside of his property, only warned to stay away from one particular area because it was well known to have a “haint” or two residing there. I always honored the promise I had made to not hunt or otherwise bother the haints.
The remote hills and hollers of Ralph’s farm provided a wide variety of critters, fox, bobcat, long tailed cat, and squirrels. I never remember being scared, but always kept my distance from the forbidden zone. I do recall having seen and heard many strange things within those hollers on occasion.
On one hunt I experienced something I have never forgotten even today. The noise I heard was low and painful sounding, and seemed to travel from the holler of the forbidden zone. At first, I thought it was only a scare tactic as a reminder for me to not enter due to the haints residing there. Over the next forty or fifty minutes the eerie sound would waft up the floor of the ravine where I was located. To me, I finally recognized the sound I heard was very similar to hogs.
Ralph raised hogs, but they were kept in fields closer to his house. I had seen the occasional feral hog move through the country, and had always avoided any confrontation. A .22 was no match for a grown feral hog, me being a good shot or not.
Curiosity finally won out. I had to know what was causing the noise. I stealth fully made my way up and over the saddle of the hill to the hollers below, and towards the forbidden zone. The sound had stopped.
The area off limits to prying eyes such as mine was fenced off. I figured as long as I stayed on my side of the fence I was still good on my promise. It was getting late in the afternoon anyway, so I headed back towards the farm road where I had left my secondhand bicycle at the side of. A gentle breeze had come up, and with it came a stale sweet aroma I was unaccustomed to at the time. Any breeze at all was always welcomed down in the hollers.
I had moved a hundred yards or so when I saw them hiding in the undergrowth ahead of me. Hogs. There were ten to twelve hogs, good sized ones, all apparently lying in wait to ambush me if I was foolish enough to venture any closer in their direction.
I froze where I was, and watched for what seemed to be hours. The hogs must have had the patience of Job, for they didn't seem to be moving either. From where I was at the hogs appeared to be dead. Perhaps dying hogs had produced the eerie sounds I had heard earlier. If they were dead, if indeed something had killed them, Ralph had to be made aware of the situation.
Working up my young nerve, I continued my quiet approach drawing closer and closer to the first hog. He lay there motionless. I quietly stepped even closer. The air was thick and ripe. They were dead all right....every dad burned one of them.... stone cold dead.... all of them were stone- cold -dead –ass- drunk and had passed out.... just as I had seen many men along skid row in Tulsa when I used to go with my Dad to help out in the Missions or soup kitchens.
As God is my witness, I had never seen drunken hogs, neither before nor after that incident. It turned out that the hogs had busted through a section of the fence guarding the “forbidden zone” and had totally filled their bellies on sour mash from a still.
It dawned on me then as to how Ralph seemed to have plenty of extra cash, all in smaller bills, from time to time. He was supplementing his farming income by making moonshine whisky down in a bottom of his farm.
I never informed Ralph about the dead hogs. I left the woods that day with my promise still intact, a new secret to keep, and a good passel of squirrel meat for my Momma. Life was good.
p.s.
Ralph passed away many years ago. I am pretty certain as to how he wouldn't mind me sharing about the hainted holler and the dead ass drunk hogs with y'all now.
disclaimer:
If any of y'all have been offended and such by hunting, drinking, moonshining, bicycles, haint's, or stone cold dead ass drunk hogs....... well that is just too bad.
Ralph and the hogs….
The old man's name was Ralph, and he was a fixture within the small town of Owasso where I grew up, and remain yet today.
Ralph was many things, husband, daddy, farmer, hay cutter, drunkard, holder of the tri-county record for tickets for drunk driving involving pickups, two ton trucks, and farm tractors (Ralph told me one time when he was drinking that he preferred to drive for oftentimes he couldn't walk) and our longtime neighbor and friend.
He owned an older Chevy pickup, painted in a lovely shade of John Deere yellow. Being his pride and joy, anytime he needed a joyride, the pickup was his main mode of transportation, especially if he was three or four sheets into the wind. The old pickup’s frame was bent due to several mishaps when either a bar ditch, utility pole, or tree interfered with where Ralph wanted to go. The resulting twisted frame and off track rear axle caused the rear end of the pickup to hang out past the front end by about ten to twelve inches making the old pickup take a whole lane or more.
Back then, a DWI wasn’t much more than a monetary fine if the County Sheriff happened to be in the same vicinity. The County finally had a flashing yellow revolving beacon installed of the roof of the old pickup and wired directly to the ignition. Anytime the vehicle’s motor was running the light was flashing. The custom modification seemed to scream “CAUTION….RALPH IS COMING!!!!”, and was very colorful along the country roads after dark. It also made it easier for any county LEO to spot.
Ralph was the same age as my Dad. They had gone to the same school in our town, both being graduated from the same eighth grade class in the mid 1930’s. Our family helped their family through many lean years. It was for those reasons my brothers and I were special to Ralph (as long as we stayed clear of his girls), and had received exclusive hunting rights to his property.
Hunting rights ...those being the key words, is where this particular story was birthed from.
Due to economic reasons, store bought birthday presents were few and far between in our family at the time. On my tenth birthday I received the gift of being able to use my Grandpa's .22 caliber rifle that was one of the few memories of him I had. To me that was a dream come true, for the Stevens .22 did not kick like the shotgun I had been using the past two years. Also, it had real fine beaded iron sights which I took too quickly.
My shooting prowess became well known within my family and neighbors with that rifle .. no brag, just fact. Being the runt of the litter, and being a very good shot, I was made the go to game getter of our family whenever Momma needed something extra for the table...like fresh squirrel meat for example.
It was well known that the largest and best squirrel population was located in the hills and bottoms of Ralph's farm which consisted of 1,280 acres. It was a good combination, since I had hunting rights, whenever Momma had another one of her hankerings for squirrel.
Anytime I wanted to hunt on Ralph's land I just went. There was never a need to stop by his house and let anyone know beforehand. They knew if they heard any sound of gunfire it would be one of my brothers or me. I was given free range to the wooded hills and hollers of the backside of his property, only warned to stay away from one particular area because it was well known to have a “haint” or two residing there. I always honored the promise I had made to not hunt or otherwise bother the haints.
The remote hills and hollers of Ralph’s farm provided a wide variety of critters, fox, bobcat, long tailed cat, and squirrels. I never remember being scared, but always kept my distance from the forbidden zone. I do recall having seen and heard many strange things within those hollers on occasion.
On one hunt I experienced something I have never forgotten even today. The noise I heard was low and painful sounding, and seemed to travel from the holler of the forbidden zone. At first, I thought it was only a scare tactic as a reminder for me to not enter due to the haints residing there. Over the next forty or fifty minutes the eerie sound would waft up the floor of the ravine where I was located. To me, I finally recognized the sound I heard was very similar to hogs.
Ralph raised hogs, but they were kept in fields closer to his house. I had seen the occasional feral hog move through the country, and had always avoided any confrontation. A .22 was no match for a grown feral hog, me being a good shot or not.
Curiosity finally won out. I had to know what was causing the noise. I stealth fully made my way up and over the saddle of the hill to the hollers below, and towards the forbidden zone. The sound had stopped.
The area off limits to prying eyes such as mine was fenced off. I figured as long as I stayed on my side of the fence I was still good on my promise. It was getting late in the afternoon anyway, so I headed back towards the farm road where I had left my secondhand bicycle at the side of. A gentle breeze had come up, and with it came a stale sweet aroma I was unaccustomed to at the time. Any breeze at all was always welcomed down in the hollers.
I had moved a hundred yards or so when I saw them hiding in the undergrowth ahead of me. Hogs. There were ten to twelve hogs, good sized ones, all apparently lying in wait to ambush me if I was foolish enough to venture any closer in their direction.
I froze where I was, and watched for what seemed to be hours. The hogs must have had the patience of Job, for they didn't seem to be moving either. From where I was at the hogs appeared to be dead. Perhaps dying hogs had produced the eerie sounds I had heard earlier. If they were dead, if indeed something had killed them, Ralph had to be made aware of the situation.
Working up my young nerve, I continued my quiet approach drawing closer and closer to the first hog. He lay there motionless. I quietly stepped even closer. The air was thick and ripe. They were dead all right....every dad burned one of them.... stone cold dead.... all of them were stone- cold -dead –ass- drunk and had passed out.... just as I had seen many men along skid row in Tulsa when I used to go with my Dad to help out in the Missions or soup kitchens.
As God is my witness, I had never seen drunken hogs, neither before nor after that incident. It turned out that the hogs had busted through a section of the fence guarding the “forbidden zone” and had totally filled their bellies on sour mash from a still.
It dawned on me then as to how Ralph seemed to have plenty of extra cash, all in smaller bills, from time to time. He was supplementing his farming income by making moonshine whisky down in a bottom of his farm.
I never informed Ralph about the dead hogs. I left the woods that day with my promise still intact, a new secret to keep, and a good passel of squirrel meat for my Momma. Life was good.
p.s.
Ralph passed away many years ago. I am pretty certain as to how he wouldn't mind me sharing about the hainted holler and the dead ass drunk hogs with y'all now.
disclaimer:
If any of y'all have been offended and such by hunting, drinking, moonshining, bicycles, haint's, or stone cold dead ass drunk hogs....... well that is just too bad.
