My Recollections
Andy Derryberry

My earliest recollection is of breaking my baby bottle. It was the garden spot behind the house. There are great slabs of rock in the ground between the house and the garden and I (being three or four) had the bad luck to drop my bottle and it broke on the rocks.

My mother took this as an opportunity to get me to kick my bottle dragging. She told me that there were no more bottles and that I would just have to learn to do without it. I was very disappointed. My older brother, Clay, told me about  some of the injuries and misfortunes he had suffered back in the woods around the garden (he was trying to scare me) which included getting a thorn from a thorn tree buried so deeply in his leg that part of it was still there.

For my part I was sulked a few days for being so unfortunate to have broken my last bottle. It was an awakening to loss that I have never forgotten.

*

Around about the same time as the bottle incident I began my stint with farm chores. There are many things to do on a farm but I needed to begin simply. I fed the cows in the milk barn during milking.

This feeding provided a necessary dietary supplement for the cows and it occupied their attention during milking so that Daddy and Clay would be dealing with contented cows instead of antsy cows.

My job was simply to scoop feed from the bin and deliver that feed to the feeding trough in front of the next cow to be milked. I was able to do this job easily and was very satisfied that I was straight away able to perform this necessary task my first time out.

This was also the point that I "left the house" and I believe my mother felt that she'd lost her little boy that day. From then on I worked with the men.

*

Dairy farming has a daily routine like no other way of making a living. My father (W. C.) got up at 3:00 am of every day to start the daily routine by going to get the cows from the pasture down the road from the house. Before he left the house in the winter he would start a fire in the wood stove.

My brother Clay and I would get up a little later after gentle prodding from our mother (Glenn). The cows were brought to the barn area across from the house. We'd put the milking cows in a holding pen near the milk barn and bring them in as we got to them. When I was small the milking was done by hand. I was never very good at it, but I attribute my strong handshake to that work to this day. The cows had to be milked in the evening as well. In the summer that was often after a day of hard work. The only times that Daddy wasn't there was once when he had a kidney infection and stayed in the hospital a while and once when Mama and Daddy visited Ralphine in Chicago.

While we were out milking Mama would be getting the cook stove fired up and breakfast cooked. We were then, I suppose, not all that well to do, but I have never eaten better or slept better at night. The hours were long, the work hard, and the routine could be monotonous, but I was very happy. We spent much more time together as a family than families can now.

*

The first pet that I remember was an old "tick" type hound that Daddy sold to be a hunting dog. I wasn't really attached to that dog, but I hated to see him go. Daddy, Clay and I were just in front of the cow barn when the man came to pick him up.

The first dog I really loved was Tippy, a beautiful female Collie. She was a friendly and loyal pet. She was also scared to death of thunder. You simply could not get in the house when it was storming without her sneaking in too. But she couldn't stay in because Mama would have no animals in her house. Tippy would run in and crawl under a bed. She didn't seem be scared of anything else but thunder really did her in. I'm not sure how we got Tippy, I just remember her being there.

Tippy of course, being a female, was always having pups. And she would always hide them from us. I'm not sure why she didn't trust us with her puppies, but she would keep them hid until they were as wild as wolves. I was persistent, though, and managed to catch one of her brood. I named him Tip. He was sort of a mix and I named him Tip partly because of his mother's name and partly because he had distinct dark marking on the "tip" of his snout. It was sort of like a moustache. Tip stayed somewhat wild all his life. He was more comfortable with me because I was always trying to be a friend to him. I caught him as a pup and was the first to pet him. He always had this suspicious look about him when you managed to pet him. Like you were silly or crazy.

When Tip was not quite a year old, a male "rat terrier" just appeared at the farm. He was friendly and didn't make much trouble and he seemed to take to us right off. I guess I was a push over. Its lucky we had a lot of room. We named him PeeWee. I'm not sure who came up with the name. PeeWee was the boss. Tip always looked to him to lead and he was more than willing to oblige. They stuck together all the time, but at feeding time PeeWee wouldn't let Tip eat until he was finished. I usually stayed close to keep things civil at feeding time.

PeeWee and Tip would always follow us to the fields when we were out on the tractors. If I were just out walking, they would stay at the house. But fire up the tractors and they were ready to go. Once when we were "combining" wheat Tip would chase rabbits through the wheat (which was over his head). He would lose sight of the rabbit and jump high over the wheat and find the movement of the rabbit by looking around while sailing over the wheat. He could really jump. He was a strong and well muscled dog. One of his brothers we gave to James Sherman Walker. I can't remember what he called him, but he was a good hunting dog and even better shaped and muscled than Tip.

PeeWee usually relaxed once we got to the field. He'd keep us in sight from a comfortable spot in the shade. This led, in a way, to his losing his rear legs. He stayed too close and didn't get away from the sickle bar when we were mowing hay. One leg was gone at the first joint. The other leg was injured. I think the tendons were severed, so he never got full use of it again. I thought he would die, but he survived and carried on without seeming to give his injuries a second thought. He walked on his front legs and balanced with his injured rear leg. It wasn't long until he was following us to the fields again.

*

I've always been fascinated by animals. When I was small I could catch little gray lizards at the Berea Church of Christ. I don't know why I was so intent on catching them, but it seemed that after a while they figured out that I didn't mean them any harm. I would pet them a little after church and let them go. I never harmed one.

*

Summer work included a lot of hay hauling. One day before I was old enough to help I got the idea to help in another way. I would cut down a tree while Clay and Daddy were in the back hay field hauling Ceresa. I got out hatchet and worked and worked on a fair sized sapling. It seemed that I had worked for hours when the tree finally fell. It fell opposite the direction I had thought, though, and fell toward the track where Daddy and Clay would have to bring the hay wagon.

Clay got back to the barn first and, seeing the tree, told me that Daddy would be real mad when he saw that I had downed a tree there. I was really disappointed and afraid of Daddy's being mad.

Waiting for Daddy I was sullen and was moping around. Waiting for Daddy to be angry. When he finally got to the barn he barely noticed the tree and look somewhat amused. As near as I can remember he never said anything at all about the tree.

*

At that time there was lots of help available for hire when working hay. On a per bale basis, hay haulers were easy to come by. I barely remember a black family (Campbell possibly) with teenage boys who would haul hay. Most of the time though, the

Collins men would help us haul. There was Len senior and Len junior, Jessie  and later Freddie. They were real workers. They almost always helped with tobacco too.

Usually they were paid per bale or per job and they got an excellent meal that my mother prepared. The men worked hard and they ate in our house at our table.

*

For many year we hired not only the "hired hands" to haul the hay but also the baler to bale the hay. Charlie Jones often baled the hay. The first hay I remember was baled with wire (baling wire was the universal repair material). Wire was hard on your hands. You had to have gloves to handle many bales. Later, the bales were baled with "twine". Twine, a course string, also became a universally used material for binding and wrapping. We even braided rope from the short pieces from bales.

*

Early on I loved walking through the woods on the farm. There are wonderful caves and rock formations scattered throughout the woods. These areas looked different on every trip. They took on different appearances through the changing seasons and they were perfect for getting away.

I still love walking through  the woods today. They are as new, refreshing and mysterious as they always have been. Today I walked some of the Miles farm that adjoins our property on Currey Road. Mrs. Miles is ill and has willed the property to the Baptist Foundation. There has been a little preliminary road cutting. The Core of Engineers has also cleared some sections along Mill Creek. So the property is changing. I may have taken my last look at it as a farm. I came across an old fallen down house at the east end of the lower fields. The house was so fallen in I couldn't tell what it had looked like. It was mute but I'm sure there are many stories associated with it. Much of that will likely go to the grave with Mrs. Miles.

Mill Creek is a wonderful stream to have in a large city. It gets blamed for flooding and there is pressure to channelize and straighten it. That would of course destroy it as a creek. I would become a ditch.

All this is still a mystery to me so I never tire of walking in the woods.

*

 When I was just a baby, the family and I were in church at the Berea Church of Christ in Verona. Being a baby I was making noises at an inopportune time during the sermon. Trying to quiet me down Daddy slipped his hand over my jabbering mouth. This worked, but the preacher saw it and thought it was so funny that he was struck by uncontrollable laughter. In fact he couldn't continue. As well as I know, this is the only time that I've been the show stopper.

*

As long as we milked cows there was a morning/evening pattern that repeated without exception. The cows were gathered, pinned and milked. Usually, the cows were kept in a small lower pasture during the night. So the last chore at night was moving the cows down the gravel road to the lower pasture.

Cows are kind of dumb and usually complacent, but they also can be excitable and uncontrollable. One evening, I had gone down the road to open the gate to the lower pasture and to stand in the road to head the cows into the field from the roadway. Clay followed behind the herd to urge them along. This was an easy operation that rarely was more than a casual walk down to the pasture. This night, though, there was an unexpected surprise.

One of our neighbor’s sheep had wandered into the pasture. We had seen the sheep, but were unable to corral it. And we ultimately couldn't keep up with it as we were busy with our normal chores. When the first cows headed into the field as usual, the sheep bolted across the field at them and let out an aggressive bellow. The cows froze for a second and then reversed direction and ran. Being a herd animal by nature, it took only a second for all the cows to follow the lead.

We didn't have a lot of cattle, but Clay had a pretty decent stampede on his hands. He gamely stood in the road waving his arms and hollering to head the cows. They didn't even see him. Clay held his ground until the last second and then dove into a heavy brush margin along the road. The cows roared past him and back to the milk barn.

The sheep followed close behind and seemed to take great satisfaction in running those goofy cows. We didn't get the cows to the lower pasture that night, and it took several days for the poor animals to recover from the frantic chase of the mean sheep.

*

As a small child the farm provided seclusion and shelter from the outside world. My first real friend was the next door (about a mile) neighbor's daughter. We had a very competitive relationship, but we had lots of fun together. One time I remember walking down to their house (that was before I had a bicycle) all by myself. That was like sailing the ocean to a five year old.

They moved before I started to school, so our friendship was special and short. I saw her once when we were a little older, but we were different by then, not little kids who knew nothing better than having a good time being friends.

*

Farming was mechanized when I came along. My father was quite comfortable with machinery. My grandfather (Sherman) on the other hand seemed to me to never be totally happy with the modern ways of farming. I always thought he was more contented clipping the pastures with his two horse mower than operating his own tractor. In fact, Daddy, Clay, and eventually myself did most of the driving of the tractors.

Clay and I just liked the machinery. Daddy liked the machinery too, but I think he also remembered how hard and long the work was without the machinery. As for myself, I remember how hard and long the work was even with the machinery. I don't think any one in the USA works as long and hard as farmers did then.

Still, at the time, I don't recall it being too much of a bother.

*

I always loved animals. I had dogs and cats. And most of the cows had names and were easy enough to work with that I liked them too. One day I was playing with my riding toy tractor and trailer (Mama told me that if it ever went outside it would stay outside and it did) and came upon a green snake that had been run over by a car. It  was injured, but it didn't seem to be mortally wounded. I was fascinated by it and loaded it into my trailer with a stick of appropriate length.

I sped to the house to show Mama. When Mama saw the snake I believe she became a little faint. She recovered quickly, however, and killed my little green snake. Up until that time I had no fear of any animal, but I reasoned that perhaps some animals might be dangerous.

*

      
Much hard work on the farm deserved wonderful rest. The old featherbed was certainly the answer to that need. In the winter the feather bed would be loaded down with four or five quilts. Clay and I slept in the same bed in a room that wasn't directly heated. Getting into and out of bed was a time to move quickly when the temperature was low.

We'd jump into bed between those cold sheets and seem nearly to freeze, but in a few minutes the bed would begin to feel warm. Before the night was over I would usually be hanging my feet out to cool off a little.

The feather bed was very soft and you just floated in sweet sleep. I don't know that I have ever slept so well since.

I remember one night a light rain began to fall just as I was falling to sleep. The raindrops strike the "tin" roof with authority. I dreamt of tiny elf like fellows striking the roof with tiny hammers. They were friendly looking and very workmanlike. Before long there were thousands of them banging away at the roof. I slept soundly until the next morning.

*

When I was about five a couple of fellows in their fifties or sixties drove up to the house in what was to me a gigantic Cadillac. They talked to Daddy a little bit and walked around a little in the front yard and toward the barn.

I watched from a distance like a raccoon watching a couple of grizzlies. I was shy you might say. Daddy pretty much left them alone, but I watched everything they did.

The farm was known at that time to a lot of folks as the old Weaver place. These two gentlemen were apparently refreshing some memories by visiting the old home place. I knew this, but it was difficult for me to visualize the farm as ever having belonged to anyone else. To me time began and ended here and it was a strange thought that the Weavers had predated us there.

The two men didn't stay long and they didn't wander far from the house. What memories they discussed I'll never know because I never talked to them. Sitting here now I would loved to have heard their conversation.

*

When I was about seven or eight Clay decided he was going to take up fly fishing. He bought, or possibly borrowed, some fishing gear that included a rod and reel, waders, and a fisherman's bag to carry lures and other gear. He was anxious to go fishing, so Mama, Clay and I got in the car and drove to Verona to fish at the old dam.

Of course Mama and I didn't have any sophisticated tackle. In fact we had only a tin can of earthworms and an old cane pole. With our gear we were pretty much confined to the little bit of bank (actually a rock overhang) near the bridge just upstream of the dam.

Clay was much more serious than that of course and took off downstream below the dam. I must admit I was a little intimidated. I figured Mama and I would be lucky to catch anything at all. My first worm in the water, however, landed a little perch. After that good start we just kept catching fish. The old cane pole was long and not easy to handle so we lost a lot of fish too, but we did catch about twenty keepers.

About an hour and a half later Clay returned with one fish. He was clearly disappointed that his gear and preparation had not caught as many fish as a little boy and his mother with a cane pole and worms. This was the most fun fishing that I have ever had.

Many years later after I had graduated from college, Clay and I fished the same water (Rock Creek) from Double Bridges to the dam there in Verona.

We got on the creek just after daybreak. The creek was still foggy and the sounds of the water was all there was to hear. We caught two stringers full of Redeye bass and perch without trying all that hard. We took out at the cow cut (for cattle to get to the creek) in the Hayes/Richardson pasture which is about three-quarters of a mile up stream of the dam. This was the second most fun fishing that I have ever had.

I have fished East Rock Creek (the one that runs along the north border of Daddy's farm) and West Rock Creek (the one with the dam in Verona many, many times. One trip that I remember clearly doesn't involve fish, although I think I caught a few.

I was floating the East Rock near the Ceresa field in a two man inflatable boat that Clay had bought. I was facing downstream fishing just about daybreak. It was very quiet.

From behind me came a loud swishing sound. It seem loud only because its so quiet on the creek at that time of day. I turned quickly to see what was making the sound. I didn't have to look far because a large Giant Horned Owl was flying downstream directly at me. I wasn't frightened nor was the owl.

His wings seemed to just barely clear the trees on either side of the creek. As he got to the boat, he cocked his head slightly to see what unusual critter this was in the creek today. Satisfied that I wasn't a suitable meal for a hungry owl, he flew directly over me and on down the stream. I could hear his wings swishing through the air even after he was out of sight.

I've seen many kinds of animals along the creek. Black racers, cotton mouths, and other kinds of snakes. I saw gigantic Carp in the West fork of the creek. They were stacked up at a mud bank. They were probably spawning, but that's just a guess on my part.

I also saw what I think was a beaver swimming in the water there, although I don't know of anyone who has had beaver type activity in that area. And I saw some huge turtles that had crawled up on a large mud bluff to catch the sun. I've never seen things like these any closer or better than on Rock Creek.

My great grandfather (WFP Derryberry) fished the creek I'm told and never threw back a fish no matter how small. I think he probably liked that same things about the creek that I do. I  hope part of the reward for a well lived life is a chance to do a little fishing on a nice creek.

Not many people fished the creek then or now. The few that do fish from the bank there at the bridge in Verona. This makes fishing the creek that much better because of the solitude and quietness. Even though you float through several different pieces of property, you never see anyone because the creek has steep banks in most places. Its a great place to go when you don't want to be "found". There are times when it is wonderful to not be available.

*

Perhaps the really big event of a kid's life is the first day of school. I remember the old yellow '56 Ford school bus that came to our house every day of the school year. It had black fenders and rode like an ox cart across the gravel and boulder surface of the country roads of our route. Still, it was new and exciting to me.

Verona School was down to nine grades when I was in the first grade. The building had three classrooms and a kitchen with a dining area. There were seven or so kids in my grade. Each room housed three grades, so two thirds of our time was effectively a study hall. I generally read, did home work and listened to the other classes go through their class work.

I was pretty timid when I was in the first three grades, but I was big, strong and fast for my age so I was a force on the playground. I was also a good student, so I was a sort of "BO"--good at almost everything.

There weren't indoor restrooms until I was in the third or fourth grade. This didn't bother many of us since most weren't all that familiar with indoor plumbing at home. At school we took the path to the privy's. The boys had theirs and the girls had theirs (strategically located in opposite directions from the school building).

Once, when I was in the first grade, some of the older (and thus bigger than me) girls drug me down the forbidden path to the girls toilet. They tried to push me into the toilet, but that turned out to be as hard as taking a cat for a ride in a car.

The girls thought that this was pretty entertaining. I have suspected girls' intentions ever since because this seemed to me to be totally irrational behavior. You can be sure that I never let myself get too close to the path to the girls restroom after that.

The old schoolhouse today has been converted to a residence. I'm not sure what the inside looks like now, but I can see in my mind the way it looked when I was a student and when Governor Buford Ellington voted there.  

*

I can remember when Daddy, Clay and I went to pick out bicycles. I think it was a fellow's home business...refurbishing old bicycles. Clay got a 26" bike and I got a 14" bike. Those two bicycles must have had a million miles put on them during the next few years.

I rode mine all over the farm. Cows tend to walk one after another. In time they wear "paths" through the grass that make nice roads for a kid on a bike. The only problem I had using these paths was travelling down one too soon after the cows.

Certain slippery green blobs would either spill me and get me very messy. Even if I didn't dump the bike, I still would get messy. This was a risk, but the paths were usually clear.

The paths went through woods and pastures. I could go just about anywhere on the farm. My favorite destination was the creek. The creek bank was always cool and refreshing. There was one spot in particular that had a gravel bar that was a comfortable place to
sit and relax. It was a perfect destination for the adventurous bicycle rider. A few years later I would put my boat in there for fishing trips.

*

While we milked the cows, we always fed them a ground feed of corn, hay and molasses. It was healthy for them, but it also kept them occupied while we were about the milking. An unoccupied cow doesn't really care to be bothered by a tired farmer.

We, of course, raised the corn and hay but we didn't have the mill to grind it all together into feed. A mobile mill did that job. There was more than one, but I only remember Mr. Partain.

He came around every two to three weeks, and ran the mill while we fed in the hay and corn.The mill was a pretty impressive outfit packed onto a one ton truck frame. It had a big four cylinder engine that was loud on its own, but when the rest of the equipment was engaged, it was a fairly deafening contraption. It never occurred to me why Mr. Partain was a little hard of hearing.

He made up for that, however, by being a championship talker. He was never at a loss for a story or small talk. Quite often he liked to talk about his car, an early to mid-sixties DeSoto. It had all the options including the Chrysler Hemi V-8. I only saw the car once, and I didn't get a close look at it although I would have loved to see the Hemi.

According to Mr. Partain it was just about the finest and fastest automobile ever built. As far as I knew he was probably right. The concept of fancy, high powered cars was a little foreign to me. I was still on the turnip wagon, so to speak.

Still I knew that a lot of Mr. Partain was just talk. It was OK though, because it was always in a spirit of fun.

Another truck that came around regularly was the milk truck. We operated a grade B dairy, so milk was stored and transported in ten gallon milk cans. You see these now holding mailboxes up (like mine) and decorating front porches of city folks.

At the time a ten gallon milk can was just about as big as me. I was fascinated by the truck drivers because they would lift those cans out of the cooler and up into the truck like they were empty. As for me, I could barely maneuver the rascals across the floor, much less hoist them up the three feet or more to the bed of the milk truck.

I don't remember any of the drivers being the character that Mr. Partain was, but then they always came and went to quickly to strike up much of a conversation. I did, though, enjoy watching them pitching those cans.

*

"Spook" Clark still works for the Post Office. When I was young he ran the delivery on our rural route. He had a Studebaker of some vintage at that time. The thing I remember most clearly is that the tie-rod broke one day and stranded him on the route.

I'm not sure if the mail made it through that time or not.

*

Mama used to cook on a wood burning cook stove. There were metal plates in the top that could be removed for access to the firebox. You adjusted the heat by moving the skillet away from the firebox (the whole top was hot). There was an oven and water tank in the stove, so it was pretty versatile.

You can imagine what cooking in the summertime was like. A hot fire in the summer will absolutely take your breath away. We later got an electric cook stove. Mama's food was just as good, the house was a lot cooler in the summer, and I don't recall anyone's complaining or missing that old wood fired cook stove.

*

When I was small there were two Mulberry trees in the front yard. These were my climbing trees. In the one on the east side of the front yard I put a 4 x 4 piece  of wood in the crook of two limbs to form a sort of platform. From there I had a pretty significant perch for scouting out the area.

Today there is a maple (which came from Mama Chesnut's yard as a small sapling) and a locust. There are Mulberrys around the farm, though, and I remember my tree perch every time I see the unique shape of the Mulberry leaf.

The sapling from Mama Chesnut's place has a twin that I planted at the house at 4752 Terragon Trail in Nashville. I think that tree is still alive, although it had a very tough life in that poor, rocky yard. The one at Daddy's house is a large tree now, whereas the one on Terragon Trail still looks like a sapling.

Mama Chesnut selected those trees on a visit. I don't remember how we got to talking about trees, but we ended up taking a trip out into the yard and picking out two likely sprouts. I think this was about the time that she gave up the last of her cattle.

She must have been in her 70's by then. She still, however, toted in her own firewood and started her own fires. Mama Chesnut was very self reliant (as she had been all the time that I had known her).

*

One of my favorite pastimes as an adult is taking my boat out to Percy Priest lake. My earliest enjoyment of power boating was in the Duck River at Milltown in my uncle Edwin's boat. I was pretty small at the time. All I remember is approaching the dam and rounding a small upcropped portion of the structure (I have no idea what it was). That portion of the structure is not there now because I've looked for it on canoeing trips.

I had quite a lot of fun riding in the boat (it was an Aristocraft, the same brand as mine). I had the opportunity to look at the boat a lot of times because Edwin stored the boat in a shed of the grain barn on my grandfather's farm. We were over there pretty often working hay, corn and tobacco. I often looked at the boat, but as near as I remember I only rode in it that one time.

These days  Faye, Tracy and I are out on practically all weekends when the weather is nice. Maybe that one trip gave me an insight into boating that has been with me all this time.

*

I remember my first BB gun. It was the kind where you twisted off the end of the barrel and poured in hundreds of BB's. Then with a heavy cocking of the mechanism (similar to the TV cowboys' 30-30 Winchester) a little boy only needed practice and lots of targets. I shot around at a lot of things, but inanimate objects were unfulfilling. I had to go for a kill.

It took me a long time. Birds, particularly the small one's that I could drop with a BB gun, are too fast for the armed adolescent. Finally, though, persistence paid off and I hit a bird.

What I wasn't prepared for was the sight of a seriously hurt but very alive little bird. I agonized over his situation and then held the gun close and to put him out of it. I never shot another live thing with that BB gun.

Another experience with the BB gun occurred a few years later. My mother was friends with a lady whose daughter was mentally retarded. The girl was fascinated by the sound of the BB gun. I was firing it without BB's, so it was only a noisemaker.

She wanted to shoot it, so I let her have it. She fired it and then cocked the mechanism to fire again, but left the lever loose instead of bringing it to the closed position. When fired with the lever down, the lever would rap your fingers sharply, trapping them between the lever and the stock.

I knew this would happen and I had time to stop her, but somehow I couldn't act. She got her fingers whacked pretty good and I've always felt bad that I didn't moved more quickly to prevent it.

*

From a very young age until I was in my late teens I had bad dreams. They became less and less frequent as time went along, but I still remember some of those dreams very clearly. And though I haven't had one in a long time, I carry a little pang of fear that I might.

Momma and Daddy put a lamp with a 25w bulb in Clay and my room because I was particularly scared of the dark. My mind conjured up creatures, villains and faceless malevolence out of the dark. I believe that I was actually asleep when these things came to me, but falling to sleep in the dark seemed to bring them on consistently.

The most frightening was one of the earliest. I would be outside the house at night. The front porch light would be on but the perimeter of the rest of the house would be cast in shadows since there was no moon. I was being chased around the house by turbaned men with daggers between their teeth. Amazingly, they would be pushing toy road graders in their pursuit of me. I must have had this dream thousands of times.

That dream was typical of my frightening dreams. I was outnumbered and was being chased in a life and death pursuit. Many of the dreams became quite familiar, but they were no less frightening because I knew what was going to happen.

They developed into another dream dilemma. I would know I was in one of my familiar dreams, that I was dreaming but I could not wake myself up. I'd try to move my arms and legs but they were numb. I would try to scream to wake myself up, but I couldn't make a sound. This became more frightening than the dream itself. Many times I finally awoke and wasn't sure whether I had actually managed to wake myself.

The most frightening dream I had when I was sixteen or seventeen. Asleep in bed I wake up knowing that there is an evil presence at the outside door from mine and Clay's room (the door had been walled up years earlier). I sweated profusely because I was genuinely afraid and, again, unable to escape sleep. In fact, I didn't what to show myself to the thing on the other side of the door. There was just the door, which was unlocked, and the screen door latch between us, a distance of perhaps ten feet. I finally woke up, but I frightened until daylight.

Interestingly, most of my dreams were pleasant, although I cannot recall one that repeated (there were some). These were comfortable dreams. I actually looked forward to sleep because of the good dreams. I could even prompt certain dreams every once and a while by starting it just as I went to sleep. Only occasionally did the bad dream play itself out. I could never predict them, so I had to take the bad with the good.

*

I did a little sleep walking in my time too. This would drop me out of bed onto the wood floor or run me into walls and doors.

This only lasted a week or two. Amazing.

*

The floors in our house were 1 x 4 tongue and groove boards. Over the boards, except for two feet around the perimeter of the rooms was linoleum. I can remember one time in particular when Mama and Clay and I painted the floors. We laid down a gray and later textured another color (red?) across it. We textured by tapping in a pattern the edge of a two inch paint brush across the floor. That surface stayed on the floor for many years.

The linoleum in the living room had a pattern in it that a young mind could turn into a field. I spent many hours driving my toy tractors and Clay's toy combine around that floor bringing in the crops or plowing the field.   

*

Growing up in a house with a tin (really galvanized steel) roof puts you in touch with the weather. I love the sound of rain on a tin roof. The house we live in now has an asphalt shingle roof and a lot of insulation in the rafters. You can barely hear a heavy rain.

One night Clay and I were asleep when a heavy thunderstorm came through. There was one extremely loud strike. The flash from the lightening bolt came through the window like the light from a giant flash bulb.

The storm came and went quickly, however, and we were just about to get back to sleep when we noticed a flickering light dancing on the wall from the east window of our room. We saw from that window an old hollow tree in flames. The dry inside of the tree had been set to blaze by the hot lightening bolt. It was still raining a little, so it didn't look like the fire would spread.

It was very late and we were tired, so I went back to sleep to the flickering light dancing on the wall of our bedroom.

The next day the tree was still smoldering. It was an old tree that I had never taken much notice of before, but after it was struck by lightening I visited it often. I'd stare into the hollow, charred inside of the tree. It was still somewhat alive even though the inside was thoroughly burned. I'd climb inside and use the old tree as a hiding place. I liked that tree because it had character.

The brightest lightning and loudest thunder I've ever seen and heard was going on when Mama and I were driving the '55 blue Chevy to Verona to pick up Clay and Daddy. They had been working in hay (this was before I went to the fields I guess). It wasn't raining all that hard, but the lightening was brilliant. The fields around us were totally illuminated by flash after flash of bright lightening. Each flash was followed by an equally impressive clap of thunder. It was amazing to me. I remember seeing the cattails around a small pond in the field about a mile west of the house. I saw them as clearly as if it had been the middle of the day. I wasn't frightened at all. Maybe that was because Mama didn't seem to me to be scared. Looking back, though, I think it may have gotten to her a little.

Mama was concerned that Clay and Daddy were in the fields when the storm had come up, but when we arrived we found out that they had been inside during the whole storm and didn't get hit by the first drop of rain.

The storm spent its energy quickly, and the rest of the night was calm and peaceful. In spite of all the noise and light I never have felt that we were in any danger that night. The storm seems to me to have been strictly entertainment.

*

Every night when I was young, I would sleep by the distant rumble of the giant diesel railroad engines that plied the rails that ran north and south just about three quarters of a mile from the house. I often heard them in my dreams and I often heard them when I was awake.

The rhythm of the engines was (and still is today) consistent and comforting. The great steel giants came and went with a mellow confidence. The pulsing of the largest internal combustion engines soothed a sleepy boy. I dreamed of travelling the rails with them at times, but it was only for short distances. My dream self would always return to the farmhouse content with a short trip.

I can occasionally hear from my back yard the same sounds I heard then. The sounds are still soothing and I still get a far away expression on my face as I momentarily run the rails of childhood dreams.  

*

For as long as I can remember the Derryberrys have gotten together for birthdays and Christmas. Of course there is a fine meal and lots of presents. Plus a lot of catching up with each other and other ordinary fun.

Originally we would usually go to my grandfather's house. That was familiar ground to me because it was not far away and we spent a lot of time sharing farm work on Pa's farm. We would usually have a share in corn, hay and tobacco so we were over there a lot. Mary Addie would often feed us when we were working the fields. It was a second home to me.

The get togethers at Ralph and Gena's were I always remembered because Clay and I got to stay up late and we saw TV shows that were out of reach at any other time. We'd get to see Paliden, Gunsmoke, Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, The Ed Sullivan Show.

I don't remember much from the Ed Sullivan show, but I do remember the night the Beatles appeared. That would have been 1964 I think.

So in addition to getting with the family and having a great meal, I got to see though television some things that were new and interesting to me.

It was about that time that I found an old red radio out in the milk barn. I didn't know anything about how it worked, but somehow I got it working (I think my basic repair method was to whack it on the top just right). On that radio I listed to songs by the Beatles, Beach Boys, Rolling Stones, Kinks, Dave Clark Five, Beau Brummels, Ventures, Dick and Dede, Jan and Dean, Chuck Berry, Chubby Checker, Everly Brothers, Association....

It was pretty noisy in the milk barn and the little radio didn't make much volume anyway. And I think the cows might have become a little more jumpy if the Rolling Stones got within ear shot. So I held the radio up to my ear to listen to my favorite songs. I had invented the forerunner of the Boom Box/Ghetto Blaster. This was before transistor battery powered radios.

*

Daddy sold some timber when I was in grade school. The buyer did all the cutting. They did a good job of taking the trees they wanted without damaging the rest of the woods. They worked in the woods behind the house for several days. One day the crew boss brought in lard stand (about five gallons) of honey that they had taken from one of the trees that happened to have a beehive. We ate that sweet honey for weeks and weeks.

At school in Verona, a bee swarm took over the large oak that was on the east side of the baseball field. Bees were in the air 75 feet around that ancient oak. We didn't play ball that day.

You could throw a pebble through the swarm of bees and bees would attack it all the way to the ground.

The next day, a local bee keeper came to the tree to gather the bees. They were now mounded up in a huge mass on one of the large limbs. The bee man wore his hood and other sting proof parafinalia, climbed up into the tree and dropped the mass of bees into a box. That was the end of the bees in the ball field.

I walked down to the bank of Percy Priest lake on a small trail recently and noticed an old, dead tree on the way back. Around a hole where a limb used to be swarmed hundreds of honey bees.

This is the only active wild hive that I have ever seen. The bees took no notice of me and I watched for quite a while and then walked under the tree to be on my way.

*

I've always been fascinated by caves. There was one cave behind the house that I could find when I was small. In fact I left a message and date on the wall in something like 1964. The last few times I've tried, however, I've been unable to find it. I've found and area in the woods that looks right, but there's no cave in the center of the saucer shaped area. May the cave has filled in through the years. I'll have to look again sometime.

There is another cave behind the house that I didn't find until I was well into my twenties. Its odd because that cave is probably no more than a quarter mile from the house. I've walked those woods many, many times. I even had a basketball goal within a hundred feet of the cave when I was in high school. Sometimes things are right in front of you, but you just can't see. This is a fair size cave with enough head room to stand and two hallways forming sort of a "T". Maybe it's a geological formation for the Vols.

Its not far from that cave where there are steel spikes in some large limestone slabs. There aren't any real clues to the purpose of the spikes, but someone put a lot of effort into driving them home. They're about an inch in diameter, and solidly embedded in the limestone. Beyond those simple facts, they're a complete mystery to me.

*

From a young age I was an avid reader. I was always looking for things to read. I'd even read labels on cereal boxes. Two publications I read a lot were the Nashville Tenneassean and the Sears catalogue. We got the Tennessean daily, so each day when I got home from school the first thing I'd do was read the funnies. I read them all, even the ones I didn't like so well. And I got to where I read the rest of the paper too.

In the Sears catalogue I got to read about tools, machinery and especially motorcycles. Sears then sold the Vespa scooter (still built today in Italy) and two types of motorcycles. Bill Crigger was the only person I ever knew of that actually had one of the Sears motorcycles. The Childress's had a scooter that they occasionally rode to school. The only other motorized bike that I knew of when I was going to school in Verona was a Cushman that a Burgess boy owned.

As well as I can remember, a cycle or scooter was the only thing that I out and out begged for. Of course Momma and Daddy's opinion of motorcycles was about the same as their opinion of live hand-grenades. I never made any significant headway on the motorcycle front.

*

We were hauling hay once in the typical fashion of square baling. That is, you baled all the hay leaving the bales on the ground. Then you go in with a crew, pick up the bales, stack them on wagons, haul them to the barn, pitch the bales up into the barn and stack the bales in the barn (usually the loft).

We were hauling hay (I think it was just Clay and me) with the Hays/Richardson crew. I don't remember any of the people working with us, but there were five or six total. We had a full wagon load of hay and we were negotiating a narrow and sloped section of an old farm road. The tractor was in a fairly low gear and we were creeping up the grade. Clay and most of the crew were riding on the loaded hay wagon. This is a nice place to ride because you're up in the breeze and you get a good view.

Again, we were creeping slowly up the hill. The road was rough and angled but the loaded hay wagon was top heavy. Not far from the top of the hill the load of hay slowly tipped down hill. The bales tumbled neatly out onto the ground. The crew tumbled as
well ending up among the bales on the side of the road. Clay, seeing that the load was coming off, "climbed" up the load of sliding bales and ended up on top of the load which now resting unneatly on the side of the road.

No one was hurt and it was pretty comical outside of the fact that we had to go to the trouble of throwing all those bales back onto the wagon.

*

I have friends that go all the way back to Verona School. There can't be many from my class because there were only seven of us. Let's see if I can name everybody: Paul Childress, David Ledford, Gary Finley, Ray Church, Emily Dalton, and Linda Poteete. I see Paul at least once a year, David every once in a while, Gary a little less often and the rest I rarely see, but we all remember our shared simple past of six grades at Verona
School.

I can remember when the indoor toilets were installed, how modern. But there was always electricity. We had a small library and I think I read every book. That wasn't too difficult since there probably weren't over sixty or seventy titles. I read all the Nancy Drew mysteries and the Hardy Boys mysteries. I can't recall another single title.

There was great excitement when a dump truck flipped over on the Verona Road in front of the school and slid into the old store that was just south of the school ( and unfortunately close to the road ). There were no serious injuries, and none of us kids
actually saw anything, but I remember seeing the marks on the road. What excitement.

There were two bus routes that brought kids to the school. Ray and Linda and I were on one route. Everybody else was on the other route. There was always a rivalry about whose bus was best. The same way that farmers argued about which brand of tractor was best (Farmall, Allis-Chalmers or John Deere). Of course this was a continuing discourse that never came to a resolution. These days I'm not so sure our bus was really up to
par.

Paul and David and I (we were diatomic sort of and I was a catalyst so it was David and me or Paul and me) were together in the adventures of early youth there at Verona School. Looking back on it we probably weren't so bad, but we did get into our
share.

David and I did the sports kind of things. In those days I was big for my age as well as fast and strong ( maybe its easier to be a big frog in a small pond) so I was a dominant force on the playground. David and I were friends, so we got on the same teams nearly all the time.

Paul was more into comedy and irony. In the sixth grade we had a running "funnies". We would draw frames alternately and thus tell a story. Neither of us ever knew where the stories were going, but it was hard not to laugh out loud in the classroom. We always tore them up right after class to destroy the evidence.

Maybe I can't speak for all of us, but I think that we were a pretty raw bunch of country kids then and better off in a lot of ways. But we all have survived and hopefully improved since then and probably will continue to do so.

*

Farming was a fairly mechanized endeavor as I was growing up. Clay and I learned to operate and repair farm equipment early on. Like operating any machinery, there was a bit or risk. I remember when I was about five years old I was riding with Clay on the Allis-Chalmers WD. He was discing the field in the corner next to Wink Hardison's farm. The tractor was going slow, and I would jump off and on the tractor at the hitch. I knew that this was dangerous because the heavy disc, which pulverized the soil, would do a fine job on me if I were to fall. Luckily, I didn't fall and Clay convinced me to stop playing in such a dangerous way.

Clay was bush-hogging in the lot below the milk barn one day and ran the tractor into a sinkhole that no one knew was there. Clay was thrown from the tractor but not hurt. The tractor was so deep in the hole that we had to get a wrecker to lift it out. I ran into a sinkhole while bush-hogging in the back fields but the tractor drive wheel just touched the bottom of the hole and pulled its way out. It was a rough ride, but I held on.

*

Claude Graves died today, 1-21-91. I knew Claude from childhood and always saw him as a happy, positive, and optimistic man; a father and husband who held up even in tough times. Claude's son, Johnny, was in the same grade in high school as my brother, Clay. They also went to college together at David Lipscomb. Claude's wife, Sadie, is related to the Derryberrys in a way that's not clear to me right now. I know her father was "Uncle
John" to my father and the families went back considerably before my time.

I rode with Claude on a trip to Nashville to return the boys (Clay and Johnny) to college. Claude has just bought a 1964 Chevy Impala with a 327ci V-8 engine. I was riding in the front taping song off the radio with a small portable tape recorder that I had just gotten for Christmas. Claude was really enjoying the powerful new car. In fact he would accelerate and decelerate on straight stretches of road just to feel the power of that big
V-8 engine.

Claude owned a warehouse at one time where he "wholesaled" to the public. I loved to walk around in that building. It was full of all kinds of packaged foods, paper goods, and candies. There seemed to be no end to a farm boy from Verona. Claude closed the store after a short time apparently in part due to pressure from other retailers in the area. Claude's working life, I think, was happiest in that store. Many years later, while I was working at my first "public" job at Beech's BestWay in Lewisburg ( a part time job while I was a Junior and Senior in high school) Claude and I worked together. He was, as always, positive and optimistic.

Through the years Claude wrote many letters to the Editors of the local newspapers and the Nashville Banner and Tennessean. He always had strong opinions about the issues of the day and wrote about them regularly. He held up well working with a bunch of boisterous, smart aleck, and sometimes rude teenage boys. He was never ruffled.
 

*

My father still lives on the farm in Verona. He has lived there more than forty years and many of his neighbors have lived there just about as long. One neighbor' farm borders Daddy's on the north and there is quite a bit of common fence. Through the years this fencing has been the only barrier to lots of cattle, so the fence has to stay in reasonably good condition.

This north boundary neighbor, Wink Hardison, is a bachelor farmer with whom I repaired about half a mile of fence when I was a teenager. Daddy was in the hospital with a kidney
infection and Clay was away at college. I was the only "man" on the place to help with a necessary chore.

We worked three or four days. Wink would come by the house each morning after the early milking of the cows, about nine o'clock. Wink, of course, arranged all his meals. Generally, his meals were quickly made sandwiches of egg and sausage wrapped in wax
paper and stuffed into a brown paper bag.

As a teenager I was about as big as wink. He's five foot five or so, and not a bit of fat on him. Still, he knew a lot more about fencing and was a lot stronger than I. We worked those days and probably didn't speak a dozen sentences. That's one thing we had in common (and still do to this day) .. a frugal use of the spoken work.

We got on with the work without speaking all that much because we worked together .quite effectively.  

*

When I was grade school in Verona, I was big for my age. I was also fast and strong. This held up until the sixth grade. There began the end of my physical prowess. Before then, however, I was a schoolyard phenomenon. My closest rival in my class was also a friend, Len Wright. We pretty much dominated sports in our age group.

I spent the night at Len's house only one time, though. He moved away before the sixth grade and I only knew him a couple of years. When I was at his house that one time we looked through his telescope at several planets and the moon. I remember the
sight of the rings of Saturn.

This was an amazing thing to me because all I knew of planets was what I'd seen in a few books. But there in rural Tennessee I looked directly at the rings of Saturn. I was amazed. I'm thinking about getting a telescope and taking another look. I'd still be amazed even though I've seen terrific pictures from the Voyager.

*

When Uncle Ralph was a young fellow, he worked for a while at the Marshall County Creamery in Lewisburg. The creamery processed milk into various dairy products. The processing involved large vats for separating milk.

Once, some of Uncle Ralph's more rambunctious co-workers dumped him into a whey tank. What a way to flavor cheese.

*

When I was seven or eight years old I remember going to the  Parthenon in Nashville for an annual exhibition of a large nativity scene. As well as I remember Daddy, Momma, Clay and myself went in our car and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Gena went in their car. There were probably some more family in their car, but I don't remember who.

We went at night and drove around the Parthenon to view the statues that formed the scene. They seemed quite large and I, being a pure country boy, was quite impressed. I don't remember much more than being in front of the nativity scene, but the memory is quite clear.

Recently, there was an article in the Tennessean about the remnants of the nativity. The pieces eventually fell into severe disrepair, and there was no money to repair or replace them, so the tradition of presenting the Nativity at the Parthenon became
only a memory.

*

Aunt Lenis lived in a little house near the railroad track in Verona. It was a great event for me as a child to be there at her house when the massive diesel engines would roar past the house. On one occasion that I remember clearly Clay and I and all our cousins were at what was probably a birthday party for one of us (I don't think it was me). We had a camp type fire outside and roasted hot dogs and marsh mellows.

At the time Johnny was in the service in Germany and his sports car was there in the yard. I think it was a Triumph or MG and I really enjoyed having the hood up (the entire front end would lift up) to put the little four cylinder engine out in the open. I could stand there for what seemed like hours staring at the engine. And though I wanted desperately to hear it run, I don't believe that I ever did.

Behind Aunt Lenis's house is a steep bluff that overlooks the west fork of Rock Creek, the same creek that Mama and I caught fish from. I've also fished the creek behind the house many times. There below the bluff and now, as I always recall, I picture aunt Lenis smiling.

*

When Clay was quiet small he was playing in the road in front of the house. Jim Hayes, a neighbor came by and cautioned Clay that he shouldn't be in the road. Clay decided at this early age to stand up for himself and replied "I was here first!"

*

I've always been fascinated with caves and there's no better place than a farm in Middle Tennessee for cave exploring. This part of the world sits on great slabs of limestone that
Archeologists say came from a time when a shallow sea covered the area. At any rate, the limestone is there now and has been there for quite a while. Long enough for the movement of water to produce lots and lots of caves.

There was one cave on the farm that I could always find as a youngster. In fact I left my name and the year (I think it was 1964) in the small cave for posterity. After I was in college I tried to find that cave but it seemed to have disappeared. I scouted the area and it all looked familiar, but ... no cave. It is possible that the soil has filled and "taken back" the small cave. I'm going to keep looking for it though.

Again, while I was in college I found another cave, very near the house, that I had missed all the years before. In fact it is a much larger cave than the one I left my name and the date in. Its a good cave and the next chance we get I'll give Tracy her first "spelunking" experience.

I have been in all of Marshall counties "good" caves and I want to visit them again if possible. Bobo's cave is sealed up now and since I don't know the owner of the property, I don't know if I'll get back to it. I'm a little vague but I think a fellow named Bobo owned the property and sold apples from an orchard. The cave entrance is at the back of an old abandoned fruit cellar at what was an old home site. There was no house there when I went into the cave.

As well as I remember, I didn't know the name of the owner then, but being a little younger and careless I went in the cave with some friends. I don't remember who it was, probably David Ledford or Paul Childress. Anyway, the cave is easy to explore
since its all level with standing room throughout. There possibly could have been some salt peter mining during the civil war.

There were a lot of recent footprints in the cave, so it seems there were at least a few more careless people such as my self. It’s a nice cave that took a couple of hours to explore.

One of my favorite caves is "Buzzard Cave" near the Duck river. In fact the entrance is in a bluff overlooking Rock Creek, which meets the river about a quarter mile down stream. Clay and I explored buzzard one cold winter day around Christmas time. Clay had a general idea of where the cave was and I had none. We walked through the woods to the creek and worked our way upstream. There was a little snow on the ground and the ground was wet and soft. We soon came to the bluffs which were steep and slippery.

We continued up stream for what seemed like an hour on progressively steeper and slipperier creek bank. We stopped and were going to give up on finding the cave when we noticed steam pouring out of the bluff about thirty feet above us. If it had
not been for the cold, damp weather we would not have found it.

The entrance is fairly large with a moderately large room. The cave appears to end with the single room, but there is a small opening near the back of the room that's just big enough to wiggle through. I went through head first and found that the cave continues steeply down hill over broken up rock to the first passage.

There a lot of features for a single cave. Some areas are very wet with standing and dripping water. Other parts of the cave are bone dry, so dry that you have to be careful not to stir up too much dust. You can practically choke yourself by being too clumsy with your feet.

There are multitudes of crickets in some chambers. There are quite a few bats in other sections. The most interesting animal, though, was a large gopher rat that seemed to be following us through the cave. He was very large and healthy and had the shiniest and blackest coat of any rat I've ever seen. He actually followed us through portions of the cave which we assumed were what he considered his. He showed no aggression or
hostility. Nor did he show any fear. It seemed like he was just curious to see what we would do next. We didn't mind his company and, in fact, looked forward to his appearance and each new chamber.

All in all Buzzard Cave is one of the most interesting that I've even been in. I hope to visit again if I can find and convince the owner.

Petty's Cave is the classic cave of Marshall I suppose. At least my memory places it as one of the most talked about by high school students. The cave is south of Lewisburg just off the Cornersville highway, but I'm sure I couldn't find it today. Again the name derives from a previous owner named Petty. I don't know anything about Petty himself. Maybe I'll try to find out. I got an opportunity to explore the cave because my since the first grade friend, Paul Childress, bought the old farm.

The old house was falling down at the time and has probably been demolished (Paul's dad built a house on the property I think). To get to the cave, Paul and I followed an old road track behind the house past an old fallen down barn.

The cave has a large mouth that spills out water from the bluff year round. The stream continues throughout the cave, so you can expect to get wet. In places there are fairly deep pools and it wouldn't hurt to have waders to stay dry.

The cave is a single cavern that follows the stream far into the bluff. As I recall we moved at a pretty good pace for about an hour before the chamber ended in a knee deep pool with a low exit...about a foot clearance from the surface of the water. Perhaps during dry spells you could go further, but we weren't prepared to "dive" to find the very end of the cave.

We saw a few insect "critters", but no snakes. The word on the cave indicated that it had a lot of "rattlers" but we didn't see anything larger than a cricket. We did see a deer and some raccoons before we went up to the mouth of the cave, though, and the ridges on the old farm are reputed to hold many a fanged reptile. We didn't go looking for them that day.

We had to drive across a branch to get to the old house and the slope of the land made it an easy crossing on the way in. We had come in my old '87 Skylark. On the way out, though, the stream looked much wider and I'm sure it was deeper. We stopped and looked skeptically at the water and the steep muddy opposite bank. There was nothing to do but try, so I backed up about twenty yards to get a good run and we dove into the stream. The
Skylark parted the waters impressively and bounded up onto the muddy bank before the momentum was used up. I held the throttle evenly and the rear wheels spun but caught enough to pull us up out of the stream. Paul and I were relieved because it was
almost dark and we sure didn't want to hike out.

Clay has told me about a spot near Uncle Ralph and Aunt Gena's where a creek rises up out of the ground. That seems to me to be a prime spot for a cave, but I've never had a chance to investigated it. In Farmington there is a large spring that pops right up out of ground to create a small stream. I've heard for years that Confederate cannon were pushed into the spring to keep the approaching Federal armies from getting them.

There are probably many more caves in the county. To the south of Lewisburg and high ridges that should harbor lots of caves, but I don't anyone that lives in the area.

The largest non-ticketed cave that I've ever been in is Crab Orchard near Rockwood (on the way to Knoxville from Nashville). While I was a student at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, I visited this cave several times. Its not far from the I-40 Crab Orchard exit. From the farm house you must hike about 3/4 mi through the woods and up the ridge.

This is a cave that was mined during the Civil war. Walkways were obviously hammered out so a man could walk upright and there's even an old vat and other remnants of ore processing. This is a large and complex cave which has several intermingled levels. This is a cave that you could easily get lost in. In fact on one trip I was pretty sure that we actually got lost. Still, we found our way out. On one trip, a friend of mine from Pittsburgh PA, Karl Swartzle drove (I think there were four of us) us in his '67 Bonneville to the old farm place. When we left, the car, which rode pretty low to the road, drug on the middle ridge of the gravel drive. A pronounced knocking began when this happened and we assumed that we had mortally wounded the old car.

We did manage to get to a service station, but the mechanic was busy and we had to wait until he finished the job he was on. We waited for about an hour and a half. Finally, the mechanic put the car on the lift to inspect the damage. When the car was up
the mechanic reached into his pocket, got a screwdriver, and scraped a small gravel out of the space between the oil pan and the flywheel housing. Thus the damage was repaired. We all felt a little silly and I think it was pure entertainment for the mechanic. The hour and a half plus the five minute repair had kept us in that little service station long enough. We left post haste.  
 

*

I've got two marks on my right hand that are reminders of growing up in Verona. There is black dot under the skin at the base of my index finger. One night I was doing high school home work at the dinner table in the kitchen. I had two or three sharpened pencils in order to be neat.

As I picked up one of the freshly sharpened pencils it slipped out of my grasp and fell into my lap. I reached down without thinking to retrieve the pencil not realizing that it had landed wedged between my legs with the point up. I lifted my hand with the pencil hanging from it. OOh that smarted. The pencil lead darkened the flesh deeply and I never could get the mark to go away. The mark has never left, but it’s never hurt.

The other mark came earlier. I was probably seven or eight years old. We were visiting Aunt Lenis. Clay and James Sherman tore out for some sort of adventure and I followed along for some inexplicable reason. We crossed the road and headed down a fence
line. About half way down we were going to cross the fence. The fence was no problem for Clay and James Sherman, but for me it was a very high obstacle. It was a typical fence in that it had five foot high mesh topped with two or three strands of barbed wire. I got to the top fine, but it was a long drop down on the other side. As I jumped, my right hand caught one of the barbs on the top strand of barbed wire. It really didn't hurt all that
much, but it bled like crazy. That ended the adventure. I don't remember what it was we set out to do anyway.

*

Summer is a busy time on the farm. All the field work and harvesting had to be done in the summer. A secondary but valuable crop that all the farmers in the area grew was tobacco. It produced a good amount of cash from a small plot of ground, but it is a peculiar crop that takes a good bit of attention.

Early in the season the plots bedding plants (slips) had to be prepared. The soil is tilled to a very fine consistency. The plot (which is usually bordered by railroad ties) is covered with plastic sheeting and a sterilizing agent (I don't know what it is) is introduced. This agent prevents undesired plants from sprouting in the plot.

The "tobacco patch" is also plowed and worked to a fine consistency in preparation for "setting". When the slips are 8 to 12 inches long it is time to set the patch. In the earlier
years we laid out the rows with twine pulled tight on stakes. Daddy, Clay, and I would walk down each row. On the first pass slips are dropped at the proper spacing. On the second pass a hole is made with a peg (a pointed stick about a foot long and
about an inch in diameter) and the slip dropped into the hole. The final part is to pour the hole full of water and pack soil into the hole and center the slip. The only fun I can recall
about setting tobacco is getting finished.

When the plants are small, the main problem is weeds. Any amount of undesirable plants cuts plant size and quality. Daddy plowed with a mule and "double shovel" for many years. If the ground had the right moisture content, the double shovel could practically eliminate "hoeing". Of course, the weather hardly ever cooperates completely with the farmer.

Hoeing is plain old work. The hoe is 6 inch wide broad blade at the end of a handle. You use the blade to clip down the undesired shoots and to pull soil up around the tobacco plant. When the tobacco plants get large enough, the broad leaves cast enough shade to keep shoots of other plants from making much headway.

Adult tobacco plants sprout blossoms at the top. This is an important time, time to get busy and harvest the crop. If you wait too long, secondary sprouts (suckers) start at the base of each leaf. The suckers must be removed or the crop will spoil in
storage. The blooms must also be removed. Suckering requires a sharp knife and the willingness to get gummy with tobacco juice. You walk by each plant, cut out the top and any suckers.

As soon as the tobacco is topped, its time to begin cutting. A tobacco knife is a special thin bladed hatchet with a cutting edge on two sides so the plant can be cut with a chop or a pull. One man can cut tobacco, but a two man team works much better. On man cuts and one spears. To spear you drive a tobacco stick (about 3/4 x 3/4 x40) into the ground. A tobacco spear is a short steel point that fits over the top of the tobacco stick. The tobacco stalk is split by the point and slides down over the stick. Six or seven stalks fit on a stick.

The tobacco stick keeps the plants off the ground and is the support for storage in the tobacco barn. The trip to the barn is next and is usually done the next day or so. The plants need to wilt a little to lose moisture and weight. The sticks are laid flat on a flatbed wagon with sticks to the outside. The tips of the plants are overlapped for stability.

At the barn there are poles (saplings about 4 inches in diameter) hung in the rafters to take the sticks. The only way to hang the tobacco sticks is to climb up on the poles and get to it. Sometimes there are as many as three men standing on two poles reaching down to take a stick and raising up to lift the stick up to the next level. Daddy always took the top level where it’s hot, cramped and difficult.

At least now there comes a break. The tobacco stays in storage until all the green is gone from the leaves. About November or December its time to "strip" the leaves form the stalk. The leaves are taken in grades. As well as I remember there were four grades. The whole family often got involved, so Momma was there to make the fourth grader. Each grader would take his leaves (starting from the bottom of the stalk) and pass it to
the next grader. When you got a fistful of leaves, you had a "hand". When you have a hand, you take the next leaf and wrap it tightly around the stems. With practice you can make a compact and tight bundle.

The hands go back on the tobacco sticks and placed in a tobacco press. The press compacts the hands about 10 to 1 for better handling. When the tobacco is pressed, it is ready for market. Our crop (I think it was 1/2 acre) could be carried to the auction barn in one trip. At the auction barn buyers from all the tobacco companies bid on every farmers crop. If a farmer went by the quota allocation, there was a price support to prevent the price to the farmer from falling below a pre-set amount. Each farm had an allocation which could be retained or sold. Allocations were often leased, but hardly ever sold.

Just about every year we worked Sam Tennison's allocation and we usually helped work Pa's allocation. One year we also worked Leslie Finley's allocation which was about an acre. We were resetting this patch (since the allocation was by acreage, every
"spot" needed to have a plant). The temperature reached 100 degrees that day. We were putting the slips in the ground as usual, but it was so hot that the plants were flat on the
ground as soon as it was released. We reset a couple of rows (very long rows), and at the end of the second one we were about as wilted as the tobacco slips. Daddy looked back at the drooped slips and said "Let's go!" That's the only time I can remember Daddy throwing in the towel. We did the resetting later when it was a little cooler.

*

Daddy still takes care of cemetery in Verona at the Berea Church of Christ. He's taken care of the cemetery as long as I can remember. And I spent many summer days there mowing the grass, trimming around the stones and replacing and rearranging flowers
and other ornaments. In that time I became quite familiar with the folks buried there. Many are family and many are friends and acquaintances.

In fact now my mother, grandfather and grandmother, great-grandfather, and aunt are buried there. There's also one boy I went to grade school with at Verona. Still, it’s a comfortable place for me because I've spent a lot of time there and its a place where I can collect memories that don't seem to come anywhere else. Maybe its the peacefulness and quietness that aren't found anywhere else. Its a place to develop perspective.

Just this past weekend Faye, Tracy, Daddy and myself visited two other cemeteries: The Derryberry cemetery in northwest Marshall county and the Hardison-Derryberry cemetery in northeast Maury county. We saw many relatives in these two places, although we weren't sure of the exact relationship of most. There were many born in the early 1800's. At the Hardison-Derryberry cemetary we found direct and true ancestors: Adam and Eve Derryberry. They were born in the mid-1700s and were the first ancestors in Tennessee. They moved from North Carolina, but I don't know much more about them. Still, I know ancestors all the way back to before the existence of the United States.

*

I was about nine years old when Mamma, Aunt Gena, Ralphine and I were out and about in Uncle Ralph's 1957 Dodge (a flashy red and white sedan). We had a flat tire and I endeavored to change the tire, but the jack would not lift the wheel off the ground. I
was exasperated by the lack of function by the factory's own jack.

We got the tire changed somehow, but I don't remember how. What  I can still see, though, is that jack in its highest position and the wheel touching the ground.

*

Irish Report
By Tracy Derryberry
          
The Irish people loved potatoes. In fact potatoes were their main source of food. One day all the potatoes died. 50% of the people left to got to America. The other half went to
other places.

Tracy Glynn Derryberry;s Great Great Great grandfather is IRISH!
Tracy is doing a project on the Irish.

The End

*

In Marshall County, of all places, there are two long lived examples of supernatural phenomena. One is the Bible in the Little Egypt church. Legend and many live reports indicate that the Bible cannot be taken from the building. It can be removed temporarily, but the perpetrators will find trouble, be distracted, and the bible will disappear. Without fail the bible can be later found in the church building on the pulpit in its normal place. Many tried and all failed to lift the Holy text from its proper place. Fire has since destroyed the old building, and the bible is not to be found, but its fame will live for years to come.

Not far away on the L & N rail line is a section of track just north of Chapel Hill that is home to "The Chapel Hill Light". This is an apparition that appears on the track late at night. Its not a train, just a moving, quiet light. Legend is that a rail signalman who was decapitated by train is swinging his lantern in a vain search for his head.

Both of the phenomena have through the years attracted the drunk, the armed, and those of low research ability, so not much is know about either. And the local police discourage the bad behavior that has plagued the area for as long as I can remember. Maybe there'll never explanations for these two and I think it’s probably better that way.

We stopped on the L&N tracks just north of Chapel Hill one night after a birthday party in Lewisburg. We didn't see anything, except, well, I may have seen a small light on the track but its hard to be sure.  

We didn't stop.

*

Contrary to what most people think, the country is not quiet. The decibel level is probably a little lower than some of the noisier cities, but there is lots of sound in the countryside. Particularly when you're trying to sleep. At home in Verona, crickets and tree frogs can keep me awake. This was especially true when I was growing up because we didn't have air-conditioning. Therefore, the windows were open on hot summer nights and with no sound barrier to the chirping and croaking there can be quite a din. Plenty enough to keep me awake.

But there are other sounds that put me to sweet sleep as easily as crickets and frogs kept me awake. Trains on the L&N line running from Nashville to Birmingham (or vicea versa), have a deep throb and rumble from the massive diesel engines as well as the rhythmic clatter of the steel wheels on the tracks that, combined, put me directly to sleep.

I believe, in a rather naive way probably, that I could hear trains pulling out of the rail yard in Nashville because the rumble would start low and far away and, in the hazy timekeeping of partial sleep, it seems to be an hour before the train would arrive in Verona. Just about the time to travel from Nashville.

A similar set of sounds is more natural. Rain, wind and storms. Nothing puts me to sleep faster than rain on a tin roof. And the thunder hits me pretty much the same way as the low rumble of the locomotive engines. It could be that I gained a restful connection to rain honestly. On the farm rain usually means a break in the long hours of work. Rain always means rest to me ... even today.

*

I've always been semi-athletic. That is, somewhat good at most sports but not really good at any. There have been three exceptions, however. When I was in grade school at Verona, I was particularly good at King King Calico and jump sticks.

King King Calico is played across a playing field with the end lines being "safe". Between the two lines is positioned one player (usually the first out in the previous game). The other players must run across the field to the opposite "safe" line. The player in the middle must try to tackle any of the others. Once tackled, a player stays in the middle and becomes a tackler. I was large for may age and as fast as most of the older kids and I rarely got tackled except by the rest of the players combined.

Jump sticks is, as it sounds, a game of jumping across two sticks. As the game progresses the sticks are spread to match each successive jump. Players are eliminated when they can't clear the sticks. I was good at this and could only be matched by some of the older boys.

Much later while in college at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, my roommates and I accidentally created our own game from a tennis ball and three bricks. It was basically tennis played low on a carpet indoors. The bricks became the net. For some reason (and as it turns out this skill has no other application) I was extraordinarily good at this game. In fact we had several "tournaments" to determine the apartment champion
and I won them all. This was baffling to everyone as I was certainly not the athlete of the group and was not distinguished in any other athletic endeavor. Still, in that narrow  band of skills I was unbeatable. To this day I haven't earned a cent from my athleticism.

*

Agriculture is a tough business and some farmers are tougher than others. Some are just more determined. Some are just more stubborn. There is a field in Verona that was part of my grandfather's farm (Sherman) that had large rock formations in a section near the road. Daddy usually raised a share type crop in that field of hay or corn.

In the spring or late fall, that field would need plowing and we plowed those rocks every time. Nothing much would grow there since what soil was there was so shallow that, true to biblical wisdom would sprout a shoot, but not produce a mature plant.

It was hard to get the equipment through the steep, rocky section as the plows that had hydraulic lift would hang and lift the front wheels of the tractors and the plows that were not hydraulic lift would just hang and make the tractor's wheels spin. In the end, the tractor would have to be backed off the worst spots and we'd ease around the rocks.

Years later when others were farming the field, I noticed that they left the rocky section alone and a grove of scrub trees took up residence there. I my mind they just weren't tough or stubborn enough to be farmers. In fact they didn't farm that field for long.

Plowing was a challenging and exciting endeavor for me. It was one of the few times that the tractors full power was used and operator error could easily result in broken machinery. On the other hand, a "two-bottom" plow required a lot of passes to plow a field, so there was not enough time to be overly cautious. When the fields needed plowing we went at it with a mind to get it finished as quickly as the equipment would go without breaking.

*

My grandfather, Sherman Derryberry, was a man of many contrasts. He was usually quiet (so I got that naturally) but he could speak well when it was required. He was modest but allowed for a little showiness from his children and grandchildren. He was strict in demonstrating right from wrong, but was never severe in administering correction.

Still, as a teen-ager I was puzzled by Pa (this is what my father called him and thus what I always called him) and the rundown cow.

Pa lived on Verona Road, a modest two lane thoroughfare that wound it’s way northward from  Lewisburg to Chapel Hill. Even though a modest road, it was the only road for a lot people to make their way to Lewisburg where most employment was to be found. Pa’s farm straddled this modest little road.

On any road that I’ve ever known of there is a percentage of knuckle headed speeders who don’t take care of themselves very well and also don’t give a thought to anyone else. Now,  Pa moved his dairy cows each evening across Verona road: Once to get to the milk barn and again to get back to the evening pasture.

Crossing the road took about 5 minutes for his small herd. There was a lot of visibility where the cattle crossed, easily a half mile in either direction. Still, the inevitable happened; a young man speeding inattentively smacked right into one of Pa’s milk cows. I’m not sure why I was there. I guess we’d working some of the fields and happened to be there late in the day.

Anyway, I was angry at the young derelict for being such a knucklehead. The cow was banged up pretty good but she survived. Pa examined the cow and then talked to the young man. He later talked to the Police officer. Through all of this he was, I thought, extraordinarily calm. As for me, I wanted the guy cuffed and hauled away.

What happened, though, was that the guy got a ride (since his car had to be towed) and, as far as I know, never paid Pa a cent for the injury to the cow. This really burned me as I always got my correction. It seemed as if young speeder got nothing other than the direct damage to his car.

Pa also got some “Cattle Crossing” signs (I’m not sure from where or who bought them) that he put out along side the road every time he moved his herd across Verona Road. This seemed to me to be a punishment for the innocent.

This bothered me for a lot of years. Time has modified my view of it some though and I now see Pa as being generous and considerate even to somebody who did him some injury. He really wasn’t a victim. Instead he was an agent for good.

*

On the “square” in Lewisburg, Tennessee you’ll find the Marshall Country Courthouse. It was recently restored (this is 2003..restoration was within the last few years) and the four clockworks were replaced.

In my lifetime the clocks never worked until the old works were replaced. Well before I was born my great uncle, Chesley Derryberry, was a jeweler and ran his business on the corner of the square. He also maintained the clocks in the courthouse. The clocks always worked, but when Chesley died the clocks quit working and never worked again.

*

You just remember cars. At least I do. Maybe that’s result of working with all kinds of equipment on the farm, maybe it’s just a boy thing. Anyway here’s what I remember about all the cars:

1955 Chevrolet Belvedere: Daddy bought this car from his Uncle Benny who had won it in a drawing in Lewisburg, Tennessee. As with most things “given away” it was the lowest cost version. It was blue, had an inline six engine and a three speed manual transmission with the shifter on the column. It didn’t have a heater because that was an option. We had this car from my earliest memory until I was a teenager.

It always burned some oil and got worse the longer we had it. Daddy would carry a quart of oil (in a glass jar with an oil spout top) in the trunk always. The travel ritual was to add that quart to the crankcase before returning home.

I don’t recall this car ever failing us. I was a cheap car with no features and of fair quality but it just kept going. It was driven hard daily and used occasionally as a tow vehicle on the farm.

I remember some trips vividly. Every few weeks we would go to my Mom’s mother’s house for Sunday lunch (dinner). Highway 99 between Caney Springs and the bear creek area was then a twisting, narrow two lane paved road. The surface was good though and we generally went pretty fast. As little kids in the back seat before the creation of any form of restraint we bounced around and slid a lot on the way to Momma Chesnut’s house.