Beautiful Lela, an unpaid modelA Time to Remember
Knocking on Heaven’s Door
By Ronnie Powell
Hay cutting time for me ranks in the top ten of favorite events while growing up along the Dousinberry Creek. The fragrance of new mown hay and later, shocking it in preparation of stacking was second only to threshing. Neighbors came together helping with the cutting, stacking and or hauling the hay to the barn. Mother and friends provided a large noon meal consisting of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, beans and a wide assortment of pies and cakes.
The first hay harvest after moving from Kansas City to the farm took place in late May of 1946. Uncle Clifford Powell, fresh out of the Navy, came early a little after sunup with his team of black mares to start the cutting. I was told to accompany him to the field to help if needed. I led one of the mares to a stump and climb upon the broad back. There was nothing more I needed or wanted as I sat there, reins in hand following Uncle Clifford to the field.
It wasn’t long until four swaths had been cut around the ten acre field, providing safe distance for me to roam about chasing rabbits, for there was little to do except to provide drinking water for Uncle Clifford. Even so I kept a watchful eye in case I was needed and stopped each time he passed so as not to scare the team.
The morning became hot and wearied of chasing rabbits I sat down on a thick swath of fragrant hay near the edge of the field. Propped up on the hay I sat lazily gazing about watching a lone buzzard circling against a broad expanse of blue sky. The rows were noticeably becoming shorter with each turn around the field. I ate a biscuit I had wisely taken from the table and drank a little water, becoming increasingly bored.
When at last I began dozing I decided to get up, considering running rabbits again, but I spied movement in the hay. Thinking it might be a field mouse I moved quietly on my hands and knees with intentions of capturing the little fellow. I bent down peering closely into the dark recesses of the hay where the movement had occurred ready to pounce. After a moment or so becoming discouraged I was about to discontinue the hunt when I came face to face so to speak with the largest spider I had ever seen before. It stood inches away like some great prehistoric beast watching me, flicking one of its many legs. The spider continued its close scrutiny, the dark body and legs nearly the size of my hand, a beautiful creature with unfathomable eyes.
I glanced up to check on Uncle Clifford and then back down at the spider. I wanted a closer look at the creature and slowly got to my knees and sat back on my heels. I looked about for something to prod the spider and picked up a portion of a milk weed plant and slowly extended it toward the now crouching spider. It sprang straight up, retreating to make a stand on a small mound of hay. I waddled forward and once again extended the stalk, closely watching the spider. The spider reacted quickly, too quickly resulting in a blur of movement and felt a sharp prick on the big toe of my right foot. I came apart at the seam falling backwards, yelling, quite certain the spider was clinging to the toe. But the spider had vanished in the hay.
I stared down at the toe fearing the worst, but saw only a small red whelp on the first joint. This was little consolation, for I was certain that deadly venom was now coursing through my veins. My fate would be to die in the hayfield.
The sun now high in the sky bore down very hot and I sank back on the hay, sweating profusely. Calm settled over me. I lay for a time with eyes closed thinking about my impending death and what it would do to the family and my friends.
I wanted water but had not the strength to set up.
The Liberty Church house would be packed, standing room only, I thought. Folks would come from miles around to my funeral.
The sun grew hotter and I began to wonder if there would be anything left of my body by the time Uncle Clifford found me.
It was during this time of peaceful submission I became aware of a shadow passing over me and fearing a buzzard had decided I was dead and had come to feast I looked up into the face of Uncle Clifford.
“What are you doing Ronnie?” he asked, lighting a Lucky Strike cigarette. “Were you a sleep?”
“No Uncle.” Clifford I said. “I think I may be dieing.”
“Why would you do that?” he asked, grinning.
“I was poking at a big spider and it jumped on my toe and bit it,” I replied.
Hunkering down, Uncle Clifford laughed. “I doubt very much if you’re dying. It was probably a field spider like that one standing over there.”
“Where is it?” I asked sitting up.
“Right there, pretty close to your feet,” he answered laughing again. “Some folks call them Wolf spiders or tarantulas, but they won’t kill you.”
I stared at the spider; slowly drawing my feet in. “It sure didn’t like being messed with and came at me faster than you could bat an eye.”
“Of course, she was protecting her young,” Uncle Clifford said. “She’s carrying them on her back. Come on it’s time for lunch. You do have an imagination young man. Are you strong enough to ride or do you want me to carry you?”
“No I can ride,” I replied sheepishly.”
Knocking on Heaven’s Door
By Ronnie Powell
Hay cutting time for me ranks in the top ten of favorite events while growing up along the Dousinberry Creek. The fragrance of new mown hay and later, shocking it in preparation of stacking was second only to threshing. Neighbors came together helping with the cutting, stacking and or hauling the hay to the barn. Mother and friends provided a large noon meal consisting of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, beans and a wide assortment of pies and cakes.
The first hay harvest after moving from Kansas City to the farm took place in late May of 1946. Uncle Clifford Powell, fresh out of the Navy, came early a little after sunup with his team of black mares to start the cutting. I was told to accompany him to the field to help if needed. I led one of the mares to a stump and climb upon the broad back. There was nothing more I needed or wanted as I sat there, reins in hand following Uncle Clifford to the field.
It wasn’t long until four swaths had been cut around the ten acre field, providing safe distance for me to roam about chasing rabbits, for there was little to do except to provide drinking water for Uncle Clifford. Even so I kept a watchful eye in case I was needed and stopped each time he passed so as not to scare the team.
The morning became hot and wearied of chasing rabbits I sat down on a thick swath of fragrant hay near the edge of the field. Propped up on the hay I sat lazily gazing about watching a lone buzzard circling against a broad expanse of blue sky. The rows were noticeably becoming shorter with each turn around the field. I ate a biscuit I had wisely taken from the table and drank a little water, becoming increasingly bored.
When at last I began dozing I decided to get up, considering running rabbits again, but I spied movement in the hay. Thinking it might be a field mouse I moved quietly on my hands and knees with intentions of capturing the little fellow. I bent down peering closely into the dark recesses of the hay where the movement had occurred ready to pounce. After a moment or so becoming discouraged I was about to discontinue the hunt when I came face to face so to speak with the largest spider I had ever seen before. It stood inches away like some great prehistoric beast watching me, flicking one of its many legs. The spider continued its close scrutiny, the dark body and legs nearly the size of my hand, a beautiful creature with unfathomable eyes.
I glanced up to check on Uncle Clifford and then back down at the spider. I wanted a closer look at the creature and slowly got to my knees and sat back on my heels. I looked about for something to prod the spider and picked up a portion of a milk weed plant and slowly extended it toward the now crouching spider. It sprang straight up, retreating to make a stand on a small mound of hay. I waddled forward and once again extended the stalk, closely watching the spider. The spider reacted quickly, too quickly resulting in a blur of movement and felt a sharp prick on the big toe of my right foot. I came apart at the seam falling backwards, yelling, quite certain the spider was clinging to the toe. But the spider had vanished in the hay.
I stared down at the toe fearing the worst, but saw only a small red whelp on the first joint. This was little consolation, for I was certain that deadly venom was now coursing through my veins. My fate would be to die in the hayfield.
The sun now high in the sky bore down very hot and I sank back on the hay, sweating profusely. Calm settled over me. I lay for a time with eyes closed thinking about my impending death and what it would do to the family and my friends.
I wanted water but had not the strength to set up.
The Liberty Church house would be packed, standing room only, I thought. Folks would come from miles around to my funeral.
The sun grew hotter and I began to wonder if there would be anything left of my body by the time Uncle Clifford found me.
It was during this time of peaceful submission I became aware of a shadow passing over me and fearing a buzzard had decided I was dead and had come to feast I looked up into the face of Uncle Clifford.
“What are you doing Ronnie?” he asked, lighting a Lucky Strike cigarette. “Were you a sleep?”
“No Uncle.” Clifford I said. “I think I may be dieing.”
“Why would you do that?” he asked, grinning.
“I was poking at a big spider and it jumped on my toe and bit it,” I replied.
Hunkering down, Uncle Clifford laughed. “I doubt very much if you’re dying. It was probably a field spider like that one standing over there.”
“Where is it?” I asked sitting up.
“Right there, pretty close to your feet,” he answered laughing again. “Some folks call them Wolf spiders or tarantulas, but they won’t kill you.”
I stared at the spider; slowly drawing my feet in. “It sure didn’t like being messed with and came at me faster than you could bat an eye.”
“Of course, she was protecting her young,” Uncle Clifford said. “She’s carrying them on her back. Come on it’s time for lunch. You do have an imagination young man. Are you strong enough to ride or do you want me to carry you?”
“No I can ride,” I replied sheepishly.”
Adios
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