$1 for 3 months
$1 for 3 months

J.B. Webb — Winging it with some old memories

Herald Democrat

This is going to be an unusual article this week. I haven’t been able to go fishing since last Thursday. If you could have seen me, I looked like a mummy who ran out before he’d been completely wrapped.

A week ago I had eye surgery. Driving home with one eye was an adventure. Friday, I went back for a checkup and got rules. I’m carrying in wood three pieces at a time. He put some drops in my eyes after he was through with the exam. I was supposed to take them home with me and use them four times a day.

I was talking to a nurse and walked out without them. The doctor was out over the weekend so I had to wear these big sunglasses.

Only having one eye working sure messes up you reaching for things. This was my right side. Monday I went in for another doctor to take a cancer off my head caused by no hair and too much sun without a cap. Well after that encounter I had five stitches and tape and gauze over my head and left eye.

They let me out and I drove home. I must have looked pretty bad because people would drive up beside me a little miffed I was going slow and take one look and got on down the road. My head was wrapped in tape, I was wearing those big sunglasses and all you could see was two ears and a nose and one eye. People were backed up behind me like in a funeral procession.

As I suffered through the weekend a time or two, I thought about opening a beauty shop. I didn’t have a lot of hair before this started and I got less now and my bushy eyebrows are smooth eyebrows from the tape. Another thing — I don’t know who made that tape but when it grabbed you it was on. I’ll have a fishing report for next week.

Got to thinking about some of the true stories of me growing up in some of my early articles. There are likely to be some people who read my ramblings that missed out on a lot. These are just the tops of my adventures. You need to read the whole story to get to the funny parts.

There was the time school started when I was in the second or third grade. The school bus picked me up way out in the country. Not far from where I waited on the bus was a little creek. My parents always bought me two pairs of new jeans each year to carry me through school.

We lived on a Blackland farm and the fishing powers were already pulling at me. There was a bridge, the creek was low and there were a bunch of mudcats I could see in shallow water.

There was an old bucket in the ditch so I got it jumped in the creek and while I was putting them catfish in the bucket, I collected my share of mud. The bus showed up, I ran up to get on and the driver wouldn’t let me ride. I went back home and when my loving parents saw me and my new jeans, they both grabbed something to spank with and dried those wet jeans from the heat coming off my Butt.

Fishing sitting on top of the fence, catching a cow and having the whole herd run through the fence resulted in another whipping. The cow took my fishing pole with her through the fence. Daddy got home, folded up a check rein and warmed me up again. Remember my article on roping pigs? They said you couldn’t rope one; I proved them wrong and got another meeting with a belt.

Daddy liked leather. I didn’t. I haven’t talked about the lamb and me; I’ll get around to that one sometime. I told about the horses running away in a wagon with me. No spanking on that one. I told how new cowboy boots don’t let you whip two boys a little bigger than you. Granddad showed me how to train a mule to go to work with a 2x4; he had the secret because all he had to do after that was pick up a board and the mule was ready to be harnessed.

There was the time mother made me a four-foot Cotton sack. My other grandpa had a lot of cotton and he hired people to pull bolls. He was paying Mom too and I was picking along beside her. I saw that the heavier your cotton sack was, the more money you made. I wasn’t making much money.

I began picking up big black dirt clods and a few rocks and putting them in my sack with a little cotton. Granddad picked up the sack to put on the scales, set it down and looked in, never said a word as he grabbed a cotton stalk in one hand and me in the other and commenced to swing.

When he stopped you could have heard me crying a mile away. That ended my serious cotton picking until I was a junior in high school and our class pulled bolls in a race to raise money.

Someday I’ll go further with the fun growing up country. I still have adventures with lambs and chickens and ducks, shrimp and the preacher plus a lot more whippings. That’s one reason I never wanted to be a lawyer: I never won a case that kept me from a whipping.

Hope you enjoyed some of these. I was raised by an extended family and neighbors who had Mom and Dad's OK to whip me if I needed it. They believed in the old saying: spare the rod, spoil the child. I never had the option of sitting in a corner for 10 minutes.