Maybe one more looking back at a treasure. This was probably sometime in 1953 give or take a year. It was hot and we were dirty, my cousins and I , but that didn’t matter one bit because we had just finished chopping tobaccow and now were on our way to the stoney hill landing to go swimming. This wasn’t a heated swimming pool, but a narrow spot in the famous black river that eventually made it’s way into the cape fear and finally into the ocean. This was a spot for the elete of Sampson county, you had to be dirty, sweaty, and above all you had to love jumping and playing in the water, even if there were turtles, red bugs, horse flies, gnats, and probably snakes lurking in places that you couldn’t see.If you had time to notice {it was a full time job just playing in the water} you could see a yellow-reddish bottom at the edge of the river. As the sun creeped through the juniper trees, somwhow, I really can’t tell how, but it kindly turned the rocks and bottom of the river that strange beautiful yellow-reddish color. Not a lot of people really knew about this magical spot, because it was tucked away down a little winding road just wide enough for that 1948 chevy to make it’s way through. The river was public property, but the road to the river belonged to John Henery Faircloth. He was a good man, and rented his tobaccow,and cotton out to my dad. All was going good until my dad and Mr. John Henery had a falling out, and then the stoney hill landing became only a memory, now it is just a dream.
Lets remember a treasure. It is about 430 in the morning and my dad’s green 1948 chevy pick up is parked somewhere in Fayetteville N.C. and I am in the back waiting for people to climb in so we can head back home to start picking cotton. About 6 oclock we start unloading at the cottan patch. The morning glory vines are wrapped around the fence post at the end of the row. The may pops are scattered through the cotton patch. I had much rather pop the may pop than pick the cotton. But I could choose; play with the may pop of get whooped, I choose to pick cotton. Picking cotton taught you 3 things. One, it taught you hope, you hoped you would soon get to the end of the row, two, it taught you courage, don’t be afraid of those sharp pricks at the tip of the cotton bowl that stick in your fingers and causes them to bleed, you needed to have a hankie with you to wipe the blood from your fingers. Finally number three, picking cotton taught you how to work fast if you wanted a bicycle, and I did, so I just went on like Forest Gump and picked 200 pounds of cotton in one day and made 6 dollars, then my dad gave me thr rest so I could get my first bike. Go pick some cotton at your job today, and be happy you can…
Good stuff mr. Page, thank you and your dad for sharing these memories with us
I know time machines do not exist except in books and movies. However, I found a way to slip back into history this morning and view the memories that had been stashed in my somewhere state for 64 years. You will really have to close your eyes to see what I saw. My car was more that willing to hurl me into my past. All the events that I saw were real in time and space, however the past held back the live events because they had long since passed away, but the imprint of them were as much alive as the cells in my body.The old time wood house of Mr Ben Bedsole, the mule stables and the straw broom on the front porch no longer graced the little piece of earth where they once stood as a welcome post as you entered Sampson county. Now corn grew in their place. One life has given way so another life in the form of corn can grow and give others the opportunity to eat and live.
As I etched my way through tall grass and cotton stalks I saw the pond where I would swim and fish, but now ferns, and tall blades of grass acted as a guard fence to keep me out. I could hear the splash of the water, and feet the coolness it provided on those hot day of barning tobaccow and picking cotton. I just looked and dreamed and wanted at least for a moment to run and jump in. It was about 30 seconds later that I saw my most cherished form of colorful life, the morning glory vine. There it was at the narrow end of the pond. It was a violent purple just hanging there bidding me to look and remember all the times it gave its life for me to pick it and give it to my mom because I loved her. And suddnly a chorus of voices sprang from the cotton fields, the water from the pond, the very ground on which my car rested and I knew I was being welcomed back into my past history Then I realized it took real present time experiences to build this past that I was now visiting. Then I realized as much as I cherish my history, it is my now that is creating happiness and stashed memories for my yet to come days. You will never enjoy the past if you don’t enjoy and thank God for the now. There are other experiences to precious to forge into, so I will m
use myself in the 2 hours of my back in time travel. You go and find a way to go back and enjoy your childhood before you get to old to remember it.
After surviving a career dodging Russians and terrorist Mr Page Senior was finally put into retirement by an elite NZ agent.
Again, I apologise on behalf of our small woolly nation for the old granny who ran him over.
Sorry!
He is still on the go, just with a cane and a limp now
Glad to hear he’s back in action.
Still Sorry about the old lady tho!
You make the call.
Have you ever mulled over the reason people place money in a jar or container and bury it in the ground. Maybe they wanted to save it and spend it later, or maybe they planted it to grow it. You have often heard the comment about growing your money in a money market. If you plant a quarter or dollar in a jar what will grow from that container. Well, this may sound like a prophet, but I know. When my grandfather passed away he had placed an undisclosed amount of money in {we think} a jar and buried it {we think} close to a tall oak tree that served as a resting place for my grandfather and I as we walked to the river to go fishing. After my grandfather’s death we searched for that container which housed what we called a treasure. Realitives and friends plundered the area of concern hoping to locate the jackpot for themselves. My last visit to that well worn spot was sometime in March of this year.
Maybe I should have invited the press or at least the Sampson Independent to accompany me. I didn’t find the planted money, but I did find what grows from money that is planted in the ground. There it was in plain sight. I could have reached out my hand and touched it, but I didn’t, I just looked and thought. There not only resting beside that old oak tree, but rather all around the tree was the proof that green money, and perhaps copper and silver coins had been buried there some 80 years past. Well, I can’t keep the secret with we forever, I will share what I saw, you could very well have seen a different sight depending on your childhood. I do need to say that what I am revealing from the past is what I am viewing right now this present moment as I write this. There we were my grandpa and I. The bib of his overalls unbuttoned where he kept his buildfold, his old hat pulled down a little over his eyes, the reed fishing pole and can of grub worms along with his grubbing hoe by his side. And there I sat beside him; don’t know if I was thinking about the times he would rub my head with his fist, or the time he gave me a cathers mitt. And there all around us were little flowers springing up out of the ground, and there covering the tree roots was that old green moss, greener than it was old. Scattered all round our presence were leaves, that painted the ground with their fall colores, and finally the most abundant proof of all that my grandpa had unbuttoned the bib of his overalls many times before and added to his bank in the ground was the very ground itself, dirt as old as the earth itself with little ants and doodle bugs racing through the moss and leaves. I am glad we never found grandpa’s pot in which he planted his money. Money can buy a buildfold in which to keep itself, and yes it can buy a cather’s mitt, but it can’t buy stashed memories of the past. Well {grandpa} wake up,
lets go fishing.
Go make your own lard.
This may sound crazy to todays society, but the way to stay healthy is to live on a low carb high fat intake of foods. olive oil is about the only safe oil you can use for cooking. Then there is the pig, or more often called the hog. Little did I know when my mom greased the biscuit pan with a scoop of Luter’s lard from the lard stand underneath the kitchen sink that she was not harming me, but instead extending my life by using pure lard that was made in the old washpot. The only time my dad bought Luter’s lard was when the lard from the hog killing was gone. Todays lard from the grocery store looks white, however real pure original lard from the hog has a creamy color indicating that no unhealthy processing or chemicals were added to it. Also you may want to buy you a cow, milk the cow and churn your own butter, or just go buy Irish butter. We have been tricked into believing that low fat is healthier that high fat, when actually high fat such as animal fat, cold pressed oil and butter is better for your health. Explore the health benefits of the hog, the cow, and butter. So, we end this which the tune from a song back in the mid fifties. The words have been changed, but I bet you catch the meoldy.
"If you want to be happy for the rest of your life,
Go buy yourself a hog and make your lard just right.
Sometimes you don’t always think about what you say, and there are times you don’t always say what you are thinking. And then there are those times that you didn’t think or say what you thought you thought or said, simply because you couldn’t remember if you had already said that which you had forgotten. Late in life you realize that the barker you ordered for your dog when he lost is barking ability didn’t arrive, and you finally figured out why Santa didn’t leave that Tonka dump truck under the christmas tree located on top of the singer sewing machine, the one with the peddle your mom pressed with her automatic foot, which was right before she pulled your arm out of the ringer of the washine machine that sat on the cement side porch along with the wash tub and scrubbing board. Yes, that was the same wash tub that held your bath water that was heated by the sun all day so you wouldn’t freeze to death as you washed that night. Who would have ever dreamed back then that one day the sun would be housed in a metal container called a hot water heater? Just being alive enables you to eat a three dipped cone of vanile ice cream from Mr. Sandy Godwins country store right across the road from the cotton gin that probably ginned the cotton from which that shirt you are wearing was made.
You may have heard the saying “His pencil sure isn’t the sharpest pencil on the table.” This may indicate the person isn’t as smart as his classmates, however, he is the only one is class that has a pencil. I guess the moral of this thought would be, “before you think you are smart, just be sure you have a pencil that you can sharpen.” And that is all I am going to say about that.
Go make your own lard.
This may sound crazy to todays society, but the way to stay healthy is to live on a low carb high fat intake of foods. olive oil is about the only safe oil you can use for cooking. Then there is the pig, or more often called the hog. Little did I know when my mom greased the biscuit pan with a scoop of Luter’s lard from the lard stand underneath the kitchen sink that she was not harming me, but instead extending my life by using pure lard that was made in the old washpot. The only time my dad bought Luter’s lard was when the lard from the hog killing was gone. Todays lard from the grocery store looks white, however real pure original lard from the hog has a creamy color indicating that no unhealthy processing or chemicals were added to it. Also you may want to buy you a cow, milk the cow and churn your own butter, or just go buy Irish butter. We have been tricked into believing that low fat is healthier that high fat, when actually high fat such as animal fat, cold pressed oil and butter is better for your health. Explore the health benefits of the hog, the cow, and butter. So, we end this which the tune from a song back in the mid fifties. The words have been changed, but I bet you catch the meoldy.
"If you want to be happy for the rest of your life,
Go buy yourself a hog and make your lard just right.
You make the call.
Have you ever mulled over the reason people place money in a jar or container and bury it in the ground. Maybe they wanted to save it and spend it later, or maybe they planted it to grow it. You have often heard the comment about growing your money in a money market. If you plant a quarter or dollar in a jar what will grow from that container. Well, this may sound like a prophet, but I know. When my grandfather passed away he had placed an undisclosed amount of money in {we think} a jar and buried it {we think} close to a tall oak tree that served as a resting place for my grandfather and I as we walked to the river to go fishing. After my grandfather’s death we searched for that container which housed what we called a treasure. Realitives and friends plundered the area of concern hoping to locate the jackpot for themselves. My last visit to that well worn spot was sometime in March of this year.
Maybe I should have invited the press or at least the Sampson Independent to accompany me. I didn’t find the planted money, but I did find what grows from money that is planted in the ground. There it was in plain sight. I could have reached out my hand and touched it, but I didn’t, I just looked and thought. There not only resting beside that old oak tree, but rather all around the tree was the proof that green money, and perhaps copper and silver coins had been buried there some 80 years past. Well, I can’t keep the secret with we forever, I will share what I saw, you could very well have seen a different sight depending on your childhood. I do need to say that what I am revealing from the past is what I am viewing right now this present moment as I write this. There we were my grandpa and I. The bib of his overalls unbuttoned where he kept his buildfold, his old hat pulled down a little over his eyes, the reed fishing pole and can of grub worms along with his grubbing hoe by his side. And there I sat beside him; don’t know if I was thinking about the times he would rub my head with his fist, or the time he gave me a cathers mitt. And there all around us were little flowers springing up out of the ground, and there covering the tree roots was that old green moss, greener than it was old. Scattered all round our presence were leaves, that painted the ground with their fall colores, and finally the most abundant proof of all that my grandpa had unbuttoned the bib of his overalls many times before and added to his bank in the ground was the very ground itself, dirt as old as the earth itself with little ants and doodle bugs racing through the moss and leaves. I am glad we never found grandpa’s pot in which he planted his money. Money can buy a buildfold in which to keep itself, and yes it can buy a cather’s mitt, but it can’t buy stashed memories of the past. Well {grandpa} wake up,
lets go fishing.
If Mark Twain had seen what my cousin and my wife and I saw today he would have pulled his shoes off and probably would have said "in all my days of earthly living I have never, since that time I saw a two headed cabbage ever seen anything like what I saw today. You might believe this or not, but it is as true as a tooth ache or a stomach ache. At some point in time in the early 1720’s some real good Scottish folks were claiming land and settling down in the West area of what is not known as Fayetteville N.C. Keep in mind that was about 298 years ago when those Scotts were walking over the same ground that my cousin and my wife and I walked over today. Hold on to your hat, stay seated but be ready to head out to to an old tobacco barn to see a creature whose great grandpa and grandma were already there some 298 years ago where we stood today. As we walked under the old barn shelter my wife noticed some little holes in the ground, and without fear like David Crockett when he fought the bear my wife assumed the intrusion squatting position and picked up a small straw from the ground. My cousin who was as brave as my wife stood beside her with her cell phone and made a video of the unbelievable spell bounding event. I felt just like Mark Twain as I covered this historical epic making event. For about one minute the farm animals around us remained silent, only the sound of the three humans were herd. My wife began the chant, Doodle Bug Doodle Bug come and get your bread and butter, then my cousin and I began to harmonize with her and before you could smell a hot dog that tiny non prehistoric creature that we thought had vanished with the lighting bug crawled up the straw and found itself in my wife’s right hand. I didn’t know if it was time to cry, laugh or run, so I just stood there realizing that all three of us were witnessing an event equal to the landing of mankind on the moon. This little Doodle Bug walked backwards in my wife’s hand. No, we didn’t take him to a museum, we let him continue making history and keeping the tradition of his grandparents alive and bringing back memories of when kids back in the late 40’s and 50’s chanted Doodle Bug lyrics. If you are sad and feeling lonely get up and head out to the nearest tobacco barn and find you a Doodle Bug and just watch as He makes his way backwards in your hand and will probably walk right into your heart if you let him. The Doodle Bug ranks among the great Honeysuckles, the Lighting Bugs, the Morning Glory Vines, and the Green May Pops of years gone by but are etched in my memory for ever.
Who would have known. Under that rough exterior you’re a poet too. Good stuff.
No no. These are my dad’s musings. This whole thread is his writings
I see. Apparantly he was a wise man. You’re fortunate to grow up with an influence like that. I moved out at 16 because I couldn’t stand my family. We get along well now though…as long as we don’t live together.
Lol. He was no treat growing up. Ex military, Baptist minister and grumpy. I moved out at 14. Came back home at 16 for a year to support the family due to dad breaking both legs when the locks on a ladder broke (and people wonder why I’m satety conscience) then gone again at 17. We get along fine now.
Reminds me of my family. I dont know my real father that well but my step father is one of the meanest guys you could ever meet…Something tells me you two would get along though.
That being said his father makes him look like a nun. The guy basically built a whole city in the middle of the desert ( Lancaster, CA) and was a foreman for 20 years before he started his own construction busimess. I guess doing all that for so long that makes you grumpy. He was a racist, sexist, and generally hard to get along with but he was a MAN among men. He always blamed his short comings on his life experiences and I cant argue with that. Then was most definitely a different time than now.
