The New Year Question
Here I stand pondering,
The new year about to begin.
Here I stand considering,
The old year about to end.

"Did I do well," I wonder,
"With the time I had?"
Or "Did I waste it wrongfully,
This year of time I had?"

                                    Clint Bowman

An Under-The-Pier Christmas (re-posted from Christmas 2011)

I really hope that this Christmas is a good one for you. Take time for family outings. Enjoy and encourage each other "well-well" (as my African friends used to say). Remember to take time to thank the Good Lord above for the real reason for this special season. He DOES really care for you and wants to have a special relationship with you... all you have to do is believe in Him, accept His free gift of love and forgiveness found in Jesus Christ the Messiah.  Start by praying....He will guide you to do what He desires for you to do. God bless, cb 

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An Under-The-Pier Christmas
(Reading level: grade 8.4)

It was just a few days before Christmas and the critters which inhabit the depths of water beneath the St. Simon’s Island pier were not happy. They were in fact getting pretty depressed. They had almost no Christmas decorations to decorate their underwater domain with. Almost everything they had owned had been destroyed or swept out to sea during the Great Storm which had punished the area just a few months ago.

The Great Storm, as they referred to it, had lashed the area above the surface with terrible winds and did much damage. The Great Storm had punished the underwater creatures as well. It had caused such powerful currents to rush through the area that almost all their homes had been destroyed. Many of their friends had even been carried far out to sea. Every few days another old friend would come struggling exhaustedly back telling tales of barely surviving the depths of the great Atlantic Ocean. Why, only yesterday Joey Crab had returned so tired and worn out that he could barely enjoy the excited greetings of his old friends around the pier.

Today, the creatures had suddenly realized that it was almost Christmas day. And as they passed each other coming and going they talked about the lack of decorations for the Christmas celebration. You see each year on Christmas eve and on Christmas day peace is declared among all the inhabitants of the waters surrounding the St Simon’s Island pier. All of them come together on Christmas morning to hear the old story of the birth of the baby Jesus. They congratulate each other on surviving the difficulties of another year. This year’s celebration of fellowship would be special as they would be remembering the Great Storm and honoring the memories of those whom it had carried away. No one knew if those old friends and neighbors had perished or would one day reappear as Joey Crab had done.  

The biggest concern for everyone was where to find Christmas decorations? As the talk went around among the creatures, a fisherman up on the pier accidently dropped his artificial bait and it fell down into the depths of the water. While this wasn’t all that unusual, today it was different. The “bait” was a new, shiny type called a spoon. It was small and not of the kind usually used by fishermen around the pier. As it sank to the bottom it twisted and turned this way and that and the sunlight reflected off it causing it to look almost like a falling star of sorts. As it reflected rays of sunlight off in every direction all the creatures seemed to stop and stare at it… and an idea was born. As soon as it landed, the crab family was there. They hoisted it up on their backs and headed up under the pier as the creatures rushed together excitedly talking. Grandfather crab called out above the din of excited talk, “Okay now, everyone calm down! Calm down, please! There, that’s better,” he said.

“I think we all got the same idea at about the same time, heh?” he asked.  Everyone excitedly agreed. “Now the problem is, how do we get more of these shiny things to use for our decorations?” he asked. Quickly, the crowd began excitedly discussing this and then suddenly an excited voice rose above the din. “Why, we can go up there and get them!” shouted an excited fiddler crab. “And how to you propose we do that?” asked grandfather crab. “Anyone of us sets foot or claw on that pier and we will become shark bait,” he continued. Everyone nodded, as it is well known that the pier is one of the best known sites around for shark fishermen.

Sam Hermit, one of the cousins of Grandfather Crab, called out, “We will need a diversion!” he said. “We will need someone to cause such a ruckus that we can raid the tackle boxes up there on the pier and get the things we need,” He explained. “And I have just the idea,” he said. “They are all congregating up there now for the evening’s shark fishing contest. If we were to hang up one of their lines out there in the channel on something which would move around a lot and mimic a huge shark, then we would be able to sneak up there and get the stuff we want. All the fishermen would rush down to the spot where the one is fighting with what he will think is a monster shark,” he explained.  

An idea popped into Grandfather’s head. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I need about eight volunteers for a dangerous task,” he said. Quickly eight large and brave sea creatures stepped forward. They were an odd collection of creatures to be sure. Some were barnacle covered old crabs while others were slimy looking octopuses. No one doubted their bravery, as all of them were well known members of the Under-The-Pier club, a local club of adventure seeking fellows. “Now,” said Grandfather,” I want you guys to head out there into the channel and very carefully and slowly gather up six or eight of those fishing lines and knot them together. But be careful not to tug on them so that the fishermen think they have a bite or else they’ll jerk on the line and you may get hooked,” he explained. “When I give the signal, then I’ll want you guys to jerk downwards as hard as you can on the tangled lines then let them go. With some luck the fishermen will think they have all caught a giant shark and they will pull against each other. That should keep them occupied for a while,” he grinned.

“No problem,” answered Slick, the club leader. He was an interesting fellow to look at as he had a tattoo of a flying bird on each arm at exactly the same location. When he wanted to entertain people, he would extend his arms and twirl around quickly which made the bird appear to fly in a circle. The club members talked briefly among themselves and then headed off to do their task. Then Grandfather called for a swarm of crab family volunteers. “We need about thirty of you guys to get ready over by that piling,” he said. “When I give those guys the signal and they begin the show, you will scurry up there and all of you lift one of those big tackle boxes and run over the side with it,” he said. Immediately many of the larger and older Crab family members bunched up over by the indicated piling and watched grandfather for the signal to head topside.

Everyone waited anxiously. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Slick sent the message that their mission of gathering and tangling the lines had been achieved. Grandfather lifted a conch shell to his lips and raised one of his arms. With a drop of his arm and a blast from the shell, the club members yanked down as hard as they could on the tangled mess of fishing lines. Even as deep down as the creatures were, they could hear the excited yells and shouts coming from above as the fishermen struggled against their “giant shark”! Grandfather turned to the bunched crabs eagerly waiting at the foot of the piling and raising all of his front arms upwards he shouted, ”Go!”. Immediately the bunched crabs surged upwards and quickly gained the edge of the pier. Those who were in the lead had no chance to stop and look around as they were hurled forward by the mass of crabs coming up from below. Soon, one of the oddest sites to ever be seen on the St. Simon’s Island pier occurred. A mass of swarming crabs picked up a large fishing tackle box and simply flowed across the pier and off the other side, leaving behind several shocked and staring pier visitors.   

On Christmas day, the Under-The-Pier community of sea creatures relaxed and admired their pretty decorations as the gently passing currents twirled and otherwise caused the colorful hanging fishing lures and floating bobbers to dance. The community shared the Christmas story together and congratulated each other on surviving another difficult year. They also wished each other a prosperous year ahead and hoped that next year, those of their community who had not yet returned since the Great Storm, might be there to share Christmas with them.

The day after Christmas, the pier visitors lounging around enjoying the sun of another beautiful coastal day were suddenly astounded as a tide of surging crabs mysteriously rose up on one side of the pier and swept a large fishing tackle box onto the pier. Outlined across the top of the lid in small gray stones were two words… Merry Christmas! 

                           May you have a REALLY MERRY CHRISTMAS! 

Ambush!

Ambush!
(Reading level: grade 9.9)

Slowly, the man lying in the shallow tea colored water of the Okefenokee Swamp shifted his gaze from the tall grasses bordering the nearby tree shrouded island to his overturned dugout. The dugout lay a short distance across the open water run against the far side with one end of it lower down in the water. The higher end was the hiding place of his Creek Indian friend, Cross Toed John. The two had, just a few short minutes before, been slowly and lazily paddling their way down the run which would soon end itself in the open waters of Bluff Lake. The lake was one of many running the length of the east side of the Okefenokee and had in the past proven to be a sure location for the catching of a good meal of blue gills with the occasional largemouth bass. Today it had proven to be something else. What that was, they did not yet know.

Lying there, Clifton could see that several of the arrows which had risen like a flight of angry bees from the tall far grasses along the island had imbedded themselves in what had previously been the side of the dugout facing the island. Only Cross Toed John’s swift realization of their danger had saved one or both of them from serious injury. With a warning cry he had tightly gripped the top of the boat’s sides and thrown himself hard over to his left and away from the incoming flight of arrows. His action had served to roll the dugout bottom side up and provided him with immediate protection from the descending arrows. Clifton, caught a bit off guard, had fallen out into the open water of the run where his experiences of many years surviving the South Georgia frontier served him well. He immediately realized that John had spotted some serious and nearby danger. Quickly, he gulped a lungful of air and dove beneath the water heading for the far side of the narrow run. He swam beneath the mass of water lilies, mosses, and floating vegetation. Spotting sunlight coming through a small hole in the mass, he slowly surfaced enough to breath yet kept his head down in the cover of the swamp vegetation.

The water here was shallower, not over three to four feet in depth. The sight of the arrows and the previous ringing cry of John’s alarm had set every nerve on edge. Clifton felt that his body was sensing every vibration in the surrounding area of swampy vegetation. Looking closely at the edge of the upturned dugout, Clifton could see the partially submerged face of his long time friend peering out at him. Though John had seen or at least sensed the flight of arrows and therefore knew that hostile Indians were nearby, his present predicament meant that he was unable to see what attacking force might be moving towards them. Slowly, Clifton shook his head as if saying “No! Don’t move!” Already he could see the tops of the heads of what looked to be six Indians now showing above the not too distant grasses.

Slowly the hostiles began to move; obviously they were standing in their dugouts while using long paddles to propel themselves out of their ambush site and into the open lake waters turning towards the run where their apparently defenseless quarry hid. As they glided smoothly around the point of grasses and entered the mouth of the run, Clifton’s hand was slowly pulling his long knife out of his belt. He glanced briefly at his old hunting rifle, now sticking up out of the swampy mass of vegetation it had fallen barrel first into. He realized that with their rifles and powder now wet, the fighting would have to be with knives and tomahawks… if he and John could survive the arrows which were sure to be loosed as soon as the approaching Indians could spot them.  Glancing towards his hidden friend, Clifton could see the business end of a well sharpened  knife blade showing above the water, just hidden beneath the over turned boat which John kept in place with one arm while he readied himself for the unavoidable fight which seemed surely about to begin.

Often those who travel the trails of wildernesses near and far are doomed or spared by some of the strangest happenings. Sometimes a traveler will come upon a strange sight which leaves him wondering about the fairness of life. Once, a man innocently walking along a narrow river trail while looking for a good place to fish was struck unconscious by a falling tree. He fell into the river where he drowned. Why did that tree have to fall away from its riverside spot at that precise time? No one knew. Yet it did and an innocent man ended his days on earth, stepping into the hereafter to face his Maker, whether he was prepared for such an event or not. Many a discussion had been held around many a camp fire by frontiersmen about such things. Debates had raged and yet questions still remained to be debated again and again by campfire philosophers and semi theologians. Now, one of those unexpected events happened. And John and Clifton would live to often debate the whys of it!

As the hostiles turned their dugouts into the mouth of the run, a bull alligator suddenly launched himself up out of the swamp’s brown waters showering the first two dugouts with a wild spray of tea colored water and bits of flying lily pads! The uninitiated may think that such heavy awkward looking animals cannot leave their watery world with anything like a graceful lunge up into the air… but it would be a serious mistake to think so. This one did. With an explosion of energy, the previously unseen alligator shot up into the air and then came crashing down across the mid section of the first dugout submerging it almost stem to stern! Its two occupants leapt as far off to the side away from their attacker as their fear powered legs would take them. The rocking waves of swamp water caused the closely following second dugout to heave violently, dumping the Indian standing in the bow over the side before he could catch his balance. The third and final dugout swerved quickly away from the chaotic scene as one of the Indians fired a very ineffective arrow at the attacking alligator, knowing as he did so, the attempt would be worthless. 

Even as the alligator now hesitated lying across his newly captured resting place, Clifton and John both bolted up out of the water and quickly righted their dugout. As John gave a mighty shove to begin their escape Clifton made a long stretching dive to get a grip on the dugout’s bow and heave himself up and into the bow. In almost the same motion his sweeping hand grabbed a nearby floating paddle and within another second he had rescued his rifle, still sticking up in the the nearby grasses into which it had landed. As John landed in the stern of the dugout the boat almost swamped with water from the force of his landing, the next instant it shot forward as the two very determined and grateful friends dug deep with their paddles and made a run for their lives!

The shouts and excited talking of the now left-behind hostile Indians could be heard for a long ways across the water lily and grass filled swamp prairie. The excited calls of the now disturbed red winged black birds and numerous water birds clearly communicated to all near and far that the swamp’s peace had been shattered. Clifton and Cross Toed John steadily put distance between themselves and their attackers, both knowing that if the hostiles could regroup and give chase, their lives might be ended there in the watery environs of the Okefenokee. Though they were free, their gun powder was still wet and any fighting would still be hand to hand with the odds definitely not in their favor!

Many hours later, the two veteran frontiersmen settled down into a hastily scouted out defensive position behind a thicket of palmettos, briar bushes, and thickly located pines on a small raised bit of ground which swampers would often call a “house”. Most outsiders would have called it an island. The setting sun left an orange glow with yellowing trails reaching up into the darkening violet of the western sky. The towering Spanish moss shrouded tops of the cypress and pine trees swayed gently in the evening breezes which failed to reach far enough down the towering trunks to be felt on the ground.  Clifton, gently shifting his weight to a more comfortable position while digging a now well squashed pine cone out from underneath his hip, muttered quietly, ”Well, what do you think? Those egrets seemed to settle back down over yonder by that stand of cypress pretty quickly. Maybe it was just a passing bear that disturbed them?” “Possible.” The one word answer was all Cross Toed John was willing to volunteer at the moment.

The two had paddled vigorously for a good while to flee their attackers. Then they had settled in to a steady rhythm which quickly ate up the miles as they had moved steadily away from their possible pursuers. Occasional looks back and short stops for listening had revealed nothing. Neither man was willing to stop too soon. The numbers of possible outcomes of two men fighting against six using only knives and tomahawks were mostly negative in Clifton’s way of thinking and he was sure John felt the same. So they paddled on, crossing the swampy prairies cutting through gator trails and circling warily around familiar islands, now viewed differently as possible locations of hiding hordes of hostile warriors.

Later in the dark of the swamp’s night, listening to the haunting echoing calls of barred owls and the deep vibrating rubble of an occasional bull gator, the two men relaxed a bit. The drop off in their adrenalin had left them feeling at times sleepy and dull minded.  Yet, every sudden commotion caused by some unseen but obviously large alligator thrashing through the grasses in pursuit of some form of prey would cause another rush of adrenalin. Clifton’s hand ached from gripping his knife and his eyes stung from the continual beads of invading sweat which seemed to be on a steady roll from his forehead to the corner of each eye. Each man longed to sleep, but the thought of what might be coming had kept them from succumbing to that temptation. However, now they were feeling that even if they had been followed, they were temporarily safe. No Indian would risk paddling through the dark swamp waters in a low riding dugout at night. The thought of what might happen if the dugout ran afoul of one of the numerous large alligators in a narrow watery trail was enough to keep any sane warrior settled near a smoky fire enjoying the respite the smoke would give from marauding mosquitoes.      

Clifton and Cross Toed John had debated the possibility of starting such a smoky fire to give themselves some relief from the swarm of mosquitoes attacking them, but they realized that if the warriors had followed them, then the fire would only serve to identify their general location. On a dark night in the swamp, a bright fire could be seen for a few miles and would possibly lead the enemy right to them by daybreak. So they lay in their hiding place. Steadily, they attempted to apply dirt and any mud which was handy to any bare patches of skin to thwart the mosquitoes. With minimal talk they napped uncomfortably; often waking to listen and look around… both men knew that it wasn’t just hostile Indians they now had to be aware of. A passing large alligator, any dangerous snake out hunting for a meal, and even an occasional passing panther or bear could pose a problem which both hoped to be able to avoid. Slowly the night passed.

“I saw them first!” stated an almost shouting Clifton as he and John argued under the oaks near the trading post at Kettle Creek community. This latest comment was immediately greeted by several hoots, hollers and snorts of laughter as the locals enjoyed the latest round of the ‘ambush’ story as they were locally calling it. Clifton and Cross Toed John had returned to the community located along the east side of Kettle Creek without further Indian problems. The alarm they raised among the local settlers and passing hunters had led to an armed militia sortie being conducted along the stage coach trail running along the north side of the swamp from Kettle Creek eastwards down towards the communities established near the eastern borders of the swamp. Once the patrol had reached the Carter community, they felt that whatever threat had possibly existed was over and they had returned home.

Now one of the favorite pastimes for the locals who hung out around the trading post playing checkers and swapping fishing stories was to suggest gently that just maybe the whole thing had been a result of someone possibly imbibing a little too much ‘cold remedy’. This being the local term for home made brew. Especially in light of the fact that the militia had not found any proof of hostiles being in the area. The fact that neither John nor Clifton were known to be drinkers of rum or any other strong drink just increased the fun of the teasing.  And in the retelling and arguing over the events, the order of things as well as the facts of who did or said what had become cloudy in the telling. Hence, the current session of arguing. One of the facts which completely astounded everyone every time the story was told was, of course, the attack by the alligator as it had leapt onto the dugout. Speculation was that the Indians had been spearing fish and had been dropping them in that particular dugout while being observed by the gator. It was a well known fact that gators would attempt to steak a man’s fish if such an opportunity presented itself.  Several unwise fishermen had had their strings of fish stolen by a passing alligator while fishing in both the nearby Satilla River and the swamp.

“I saw them first and I saved your life by tipping the boat over,” Cross Toed John steadily replied. “I was just about to do the very same thing and save your life, but I had to first grab ahold of my gun,” retorted Clifton.

John rolling his eyes amid the laughter said, “Well, if that is so then why….”

The End

Ever had a day when you try to concentrate on something, but  your concentration is continually interrupted by a tune you can't stop? Happened to me the other day...

 

"That Tune"
Little singing voice in my head,
Please, go away!

That tune is so darned distracting,
Please... go away!

Dum, dededum, de de….
Please, go away!
...
I have to work today,
Please… go away!

...Thanks
cb

 

 

Memories Which Never Die

(Reading level: grade 5.9)

One last touch of the cross I wore and I placed my hands on the M-60 grips. Our Huey danced slightly from side to side as the treetops flashed closely past us. We were landing in a hot LZ. And I was the most frightened nineteen year old special ops soldier in the U.S. Army.

The radio’s excited calls for help were almost drowned out by the crackle of gunfire coming loud over the channel as the men on the hilltop fought for their lives. We were their last hope. The sky above the LZ was thick with glowing tracer rounds which had suddenly begun arcing up to meet us as we swooped in to land.

Arriving after a one hour flight, the two leading gunships had turned back badly damaged. Now, barely able to maintain control of their damaged aircraft, their pilots were desperately trying to get back across the border into Panama and out of the drug cartel’s area of control.

The six man squad on the ground was depending on us. We had to get them out! All were wounded. All were someone’s husband, son, or brother. We couldn't leave them! To do so would condemn them to a horrible death.

It had been worse than horrible. I’d never seen the shattered bones and exposed intestines of another human before that day. It was long ago, but it changed my life forever.

*****************************

“Don’t worry, son,” I said, patting his shoulder. “We have a good team here. I promise, we will do our best for you.” I watched as his eyes gave in to the powerful effects of the anesthesia. Once again, another soldier needed me to help him survive. But this time it would be a scalpel and the finest technology our teaching hospital had, instead of a Huey mounted M-60 in my hand. “And thanks be to God, I won’t have to kill anyone in order to help this one,” I gratefully thought.

But, the sudden brightening of the overhead lights caused my mind to serve up another brief flash of a nightmare of bright daylight, the smell of smoke, and the sounds of hurting men. Memories which I think will never die.     

Clint Bowman

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bell_Huey_family

I am very happy to let ya'll know that the current issue of Waycross Magazine (Spring 2013, issue 21) is out...and my short story "Death on the Satilla" is in it... thank you David Callaway, publisher, for choosing to include my story! I am blessed. The magazine has its own website (www.waycrossmagazine) but I don't know if the current issue has been posted there yet. Enjoy!

The Dog

Another in the series of stories of a fictitious early American swamper and frontiersman from what is today the southeastern part of the state of Georgia, USA. Known as Clifton, he frequent travels the Satilla River and its tributaries and also often hunts and camps within the great Okefenokee swamp. The time period is set as being roughly within the 1820 to 1850 time period. CB 

 (Reading level: grade 7.1)

“It’s a dog,” Cross Toed John stated defiantly. The argument had been quietly ongoing for several minutes. Clifton glanced sideways at his good friend, half smiled and muttered quietly,” You are so so wrong. It’s a wolf… one of them they call the red wolf.” The sounds of buzzing bees and other insects was all that broke the silence along the slowly moving darkish waters of the Satilla. The two had been sitting calmly between two tree trunks which had fallen down off the nearby crumbling river bank, fishing for their supper. Their attention had been drawn to something half hidden by the grasses crowding out the mouth of a distant slough up river about a hundred yards or so. It was the sudden movement of what appeared to both of them to be some type of dog like animal hunting among the grasses which had given birth to their good natured argument.

“Dog,” said John. “Wrong, you too educated Indian… it’s a red wolf….I’ll clean the fish for supper if it ain’t,” argued Clifton. “You half blind white man, it’s plain to see that it is a dog,” replied John. “And I’ll take you up on that offer. Besides, those animals have long since been run out of this area by all you white people and your dogs!”

“That’s just plain wrong, Jo—,“ the comment stopped in mid-voice as both men suddenly involuntarily flinched as the water near the concealed creature suddenly exploded in a cloud of spray and splashing! The violent attack by the bull alligator exploding upwards out of the shallow waters of the slough mouth caught the creature by surprise, it’s screech of fear cut off, barely heard by the watching friends. The alligator caught his prey in his massive jaws and immediately rolled violently to his right doing two to three quick revolutions before backing quickly into the deeper waters, the creature now hanging limply from his jaws partially visible above the surface. “See, it was a dog,” John said in matter of fact fashion.

“It was not a dog…it had a bushier tail than a dog does, it was a wolf,” answered Clifton, totally ignoring the now steady pull on his line as a catfish tried to take his freshly cut fishing pole off downriver.  “Huh!” exhaled John as his pole now jerked down hard towards the underside of the nearby tree trunk. Both men now turned their attention to their jerking poles.

Later, relaxing with their backs against a log sitting in the smoke of their mildly smoking fire, the two friends were still arguing good naturedly about the strange creature.  Their fishing efforts had yielded several small but very tasty catfish along with a couple of hand sized red breasted perch. Both were now feeling the relaxing effects of their full stomachs. “If it was a dog…,”Clifton said,”…not saying it was….but if it was… whose was it?”

“No idea,” Cross Toed John replied. “Besides, that doesn’t matter. He could be one of those wild ones we see from time to time.” “Have you ever seen a bushy tailed dog?” asked Clifton,” I haven’t…all of them are short haired dogs around here. No one has a bushy haired one anywhere around Teabueville… they are all short haired ones, cause the bushy haired ones get too hot and go mad in the summer times, you know that.”

“That is not true! It’s just an old woman’s tale,” John argued,” I once saw…huh oh….run! “

 

A few seconds later the two friends, gasping for breath, paused halfway up the steep river bank. “Where did he come from???” Clifton almost shouted from the rush of adrenalin now charging through his veins. “I don’t know but obviously he wasn’t satisfied in just eating that dog,” John gasped out, the knuckles of his right hand turning whitish as he gripped the large protruding root of a pine growing higher up on the lip of the bank. Both men looked down at what had just a few minutes ago been a peaceful campsite, now occupied by a very large, active, and apparently still very hungry bull alligator. As they watched, the gator made short work of their remaining fish left hanging up to dry on a short rack built of cut limbs. Then, as his massive underside began to register the fact that he was laying across a bed of hot wood coals, the big gator thrashed around turning his heavy snout towards his watery refuge. Lifting himself up on his short stubby and powerful legs he lurched back towards the nearby river waters and slowly splashed his way out of the shallows settling down into the deeper water.  

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next day, at mid morning, Clifton strode up onto the sidewalk under the low hanging porch roof of the general store of Teabueville. The locals sitting around the checkerboard barely registered his arrival. “Anyone heard any news about a red wolf being seen around here?” he asked. “Anyone missing a bushy haired dog?” called Cross Toed John as he passed down the side of the building headed for the Cow House Island trail. “Seems I heard of ole’ Sam missing his bushy tailed squirrel hunting dog…” began Pete. 

“Ohhhh….” groaned Clifton as the sound of laughter drifted back from the rear of the building.

The End

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

For more info on red wolves:

 http://teacher.scholastic.com/wolves/rabout2.html

You may want to check out this website for more info on the present day Satilla River system:

http://www.garivers.org/other-georgia-rivers/satilla-river.html

My Place

(Reading level: grade 5.1)

Slowly the paddle dipped into the still dark waters,

Nearby a bullfrog croaked a greeting.

Red winged blackbird swept across…

Landing on a cattail, he sings out his welcome.

Two bright eyes slowly sink down,

Into the dark rippled water.

Two gentle swirls mark the spot,

Where the king of the swamp sank,

Beneath the now dancing water lilies.

The gently dancing white water lily flowers…

Their yellow centers brightly bobbing here and there,

Give birth suddenly to a leaping bright green grasshopper.

His refuge no longer the safe haven he thought …

As watery ripples pass over his yellow throne.

The cool and gentle evening breeze,

Passing through at the end of hot day,

Welcomes me back to my little island.

My hidden, blessed little corner of the world.

Clint Bowman

April 2013

Happy Easter!!!!!

This Easter season I have been thinking a lot of a story which isn't usually related to Easter morning. I enjoy the Okefenokee Swamp and the Satilla River as those of you who read my stories know. I spent wonderful times with my dad and others as a child fishing in the river and hunting the edges of the swamp as well as along the river. This Easter season, I have been thinking of a "fishing" story involving Jesus and some of His followers immediately after His resurrection. I am going to put bits of that story here for you to enjoy:

"As the sun was rising, Jesus stood at the water's edge, but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. Then He asked them," Young men, haven't you caught anything?" 
"Not a thing," they answered.
He said to them," Throw your net out on the other side of the boat, and you will catch some." So they threw the net out and could not pull it back in, because they had caught so many fish.
                                                 ***************************
When they stepped ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there with fish on it and some bread. Then Jesus said to them," Bring some of the fish you have just caught."
                                                 ***************************
Jesus said to them," Come and eat." None of the disciples dared ask Him, "Who are you?" because they knew it was the Lord. So Jesus went over. took the bread, and gave it to them; He did the same with the fish. This, then, was the third time Jesus appeared tot he disciples after He was raised from the dead. 
Taken from the book of John chapter 21 verses 4-6, 9-10, 12-14. The Good News Version of the Bible.
                                                 ***************************
May the Good Lord Above be your guide through life. May your family be blessed and your fishing and hunting be memorable. cb

The Great Chip Crab Surge

(Reading level: grade 6.5)

It had been a bright and sunny day at St. Simon’s Island and the crab folk who lived at East End were in a good mood. In fact they were feeling so good that they decided to have a picnic! But….they had not had any food crumbs and other goodies to find all day long. “What to do?” they wondered. After some sitting around on the various shell bits here and there and talking it over they decided to go to Crab Bob and ask him. Crab Bob had a reputation as being a clever fellow and they were sure he would know what to do.  After all he was a member of the Under-the Pier Club, which was well known to be a club of adventure seeking crabs led by their chairman, a crab known only as Slick.

So the locals all headed for Crab Bob’s hangout over at the Sunken Oar snack bar. (It was called the Sunken Oar snack bar because the snack bar was housed under an old broken oar which was stuck half way down into the sand.) It was considered to be one of the coolest snack bars around and usually served some of the best found French fries around. This was a well-known fact among the locals. Once they reached the snack bar, the locals quickly explained their plan to have a picnic to celebrate such a beautiful summer day and their problem of no good picnic foods to use for their picnic. Business had been slow around the Sunken Oar for a day or so, so Crab Bob was kind of eager to help them out and maybe have a little adventure as well.

Now the serious thinking began! The whole group of crabs settled down around the Sunken Oar to try to think up an idea or two which might net them some food snacks for their picnic. Just as they had settled in well for their hard thinking time, there was a small splash at the surface near the pier followed by a cry and a louder splash! Looking up high the crabs saw that some smaller type of human child had fallen or jumped into the water and then it looked as if a larger person had jumped in near him. Now the two were side by side and swimming towards the nearby beach. And sinking slowly down towards the startled crabs was… a big, nice potato chip! One of those with the ridges!! And an idea was born in the mind of Crab Bob as he gazed up at the slowly sinking chip. “There is food to be found on the pier!” he excitedly thought. “And especially today,” he said to himself as he remembered the news he had heard earlier this morning from a passing squid.

“Hey guys, I’ve got it!” he called out. “What is it?” they answered. “Well this morning a business squid came by on his way to Jekyll and he stopped just long enough to say that he had heard that there is to be some kind of special program which the humans will be holding today up top along the pier. I don’t know what it is, but one thing I do know. When humans have special programs, they always bring along food! Now all we need to do is send a scout topside to spy out the situation and see what available snacks might have already been dropped for us,” he said. “Well, if they are dropping anything, it’ll be gone in a second with those old sea gulls hanging around the pier,” one crab said. “Well, now that might be true,” responded Crab Bob. “But, if we can see where the likely places are for finding food and then position ourselves up there near that, we might be able to grab it and run before the gulls see it,” he said. With that said, the group selected a scout crab to send up to the pier to look things over for them. The group chose a crab named Jack who had especially long legs and therefore might be better able to stretch out and look over obstacles. With the encouragements of the group Jack pulled herself up onto the nearest pier support and began rapidly climbing topside. Soon she was almost out of sight.

Now the talk among the locals began as to where this picnic might be held once they found their snacks. Some wanted to picnic to head over to the undersea communications cable which ran along the bottom parallel to the pier. They thought it would be fun to hang out on the sea side of the giant cable and to catch the fishermen’s fishing lines and then gently hook them on the cable before giving the line a hard pull to excite the fishermen. Others pushed for a more tame affair and thought it would be a good idea to hang out on the West End and share their snacks with their friends from over there.   The chatter of talk went back and forth until all of a sudden a gently dropping shape caught their attention… it was Jack! And she was hanging onto one of the biggest and prettiest potato chips the hungry crabs had ever seen! She was parachuting down from the surface, gently swaying back and forth with the currents! And she was so happy she was giggling as she dropped!

“Chips!” she shouted down to the upturned crab faces. “The pier is covered with them!” she shouted. Gently she landed among the crowd and was immediately congratulated on her safe return and for being so smart and brave as to be able to bring back a chip. She glowed in their praise, but then quickly said,” The pier is covered with dropped chips. And there is a large crowd of kids up there who are having a chip fight and throwing them everywhere. They never even noticed me!”

Crab Bob thought quickly. He remembered how the crab crowd had returned the borrowed items to the top of the pier one Christmas after their celebration down below. “Okay guys, listen up!” he called. “What we need is a crab surge!” he said. “Crab surge, crab surge, crab surge,” the locals began to chant. This was not an unknown thing among the crabs who lived below the pier. Quickly, Crab Bob massed the crabs and they began to move up one of the pier supports after checking with Jack to find out which would be the best location. The surge of crabs came to a halt just below the surface as Jack inched up out of the water to check things out. “All clear!” she called, “No gulls in sight!”

With that the crabs surged upwards in mass out of the water up the last few feet of pier support! They rolled over the edge onto the pier as if they were one solid creation with hundreds of legs clicking across the pavement of the pier! The sight immediately brought the kid’s chip fight to an instant halt. Kids began to climb up onto benches and railings! Moms squealed and pointed! And the crab surge rolled across the pier and off the other sight within seconds….leaving behind a completely clean path through the scattered chips! It was over in seconds.

Conclusion

  The picnic was a blast! In the end, the crabs agreed just to hang out at the Sunken Oar and each tell his own version of the role he played in the Great Chip Crab Surge. Of course, each one thought his role had been the most important, though all agreed that the real heroes were Crab Bob and Jack. Of course, as soon as the topside minnows had witnessed the surge they had immediately spread news of the great feat the full length of the pier world. This led to many visitors from the West End, Cable Side, and other parts and all wanted to hear the news of how Crab Bob had managed to find enough chips for such a great picnic on such a beautiful summer afternoon.         The End

                                               The pier at St Simon's Island, Georgia, at sunset.

Want-To-Be-Warriors

It was getting on towards mid morning and I was anxious to make the fort settlement at Racepond by sundown. I figured I could and I was already thinking of the taste of Ole Jim’s squirrel stew and pear pie. That and a good fresh cup of store bought coffee, which I knew he served there, would be a fine way to end the day.  I knew I was getting close as the evening before I had heard the far off sound of the little cannon at the fort as the soldier boys ended their day. I knew I was somewhere to the east and north of what the swamp families called Big Water lake and somewhat west of the Racepond settlement where the little fort was. I figured that as how tomorrow was Sunday, I’d even be able to sneak around and wager a bet on the Sunday afternoon horse races they usually ran around the little cypress pond there. I’d have to sneak ‘cause I knew tomorrow to be the second Sunday of the month and the circuit riding preacher was due in there tomorrow…and as he knows me well from up Teabueville way, I figured it wouldn’t do for him to know about my bettin’ practices. 

I guess it was the prospects of good food, a little fun, and the possibility of that good store bought coffee which dulled my senses. Whatever it was, my mind just did not want to hear the warning my eyes were screaming about how two of the shadows near the sweet gums and palmettos on the nearby little island I was passing seemed to be moving oddly. As compared to the gentle bending and swaying of the rest of the undergrowth there in the morning breeze, that is. Suddenly, my off track mind snapped around to attention as two of those shadows seemed to grow arms holding bows with notched arrows! I fell backwards from my sitting position into the bottom of my dugout, dropping my paddle and grabbing at my ole’ squirrel shooter rushing to swing it around to point in a general direction off to my left! The sound of the twanging bow strings sounded as I feel backwards. As my back hit the bottom I was aware of an arrow thudding into the top right side of my dugout and its shaft vibrating against my old fat belly. Where the other was I had no idea, but I thankfully realized it was not sticking into me. Realizing they may even now be charging towards me, I hastily snapped my head around to get a look over the side raising my rifle up a bit to fire if needed.  

I’m not sure who was more scared at that instant, me or the two young Indian boys who had hurried out of the undergrowth down to the water’s edge. Thinking, no doubt, they had possibly killed the old white devil who was trespassing in their hidden world.  Both had failed to fully notch another arrow. A failure that today’s events would probably cure them of ever repeating again. As quick as I raised up, both stopped dead still… time seemed to stand still as they gaped open mouthed at the still very much alive white man before them. Then with a kind of harsh grunt one of them turned and in about two very quick steps reached the undergrowth and without even slowing down actually dove over the palmettos to disappear from sight! The remaining boy, who I now realized could only have been about twelve or thirteen or so seemed to be frozen with fear. Suddenly a short piece of thrown limb came sailing from out of the undergrowth to smack him square in the back and with that wake up call, he pivoted and ran hard to his right where he promptly tripped over a tree root and fell face down into a bunch of tall grass and wild grape vines. He quickly became lost from view in a shaking, tangled mess of vines.

Though I was half amused by his predicament, I was also keeping an eye out on the palmettos behind which I was sure his partner was hiding still. Having no desire to shoot such young boys, I was half minded to pull over to the little island and have an understanding with them about shooting at me. However, my better judgment won out as I realized if there were two young ones of this age around, there were probably much older and more deadlier Indians somewhere near. After all, the fort was there at Racepond just for the purpose of keeping the Indians from coming out of the swamp. They frequently enjoyed raiding the settlers and travelers around the edges of the swamp and nearby areas. “Only an idiot would set off to try and catch those two,” I thought. With that in mind I sat up fully, laid my ole squirrel shooter down and picked up my floating paddle out of the water. Then I dug it in and headed for the eastern edge of the swamp with one eye kind of trying to watch for what those two adventurous want-to-be-warriors might be up to.

The thrashing in the vines had soon ceased and the whole episode hadn’t lasted longer than probably three or four long minutes. But it had been enough of a close call for me to have no trouble at all in focusing on where I was at and the trail ahead. “Dead men can’t drink store bought coffee and eat pie, boy,” I thought as I dug a bit deeper with my hand carved paddle into the tea colored waters of the Okefenokee Swamp. As my dugout responded and glided quickly down the trail I passed beneath clumps of hanging Spanish moss with thin dangling pieces gently waving in the breeze. I looked down and saw the arrow was still there embedded in the top edge of the dugout. I decided that it was one souvenir I didn’t want to keep. With a hard jerk I pulled it out and dropped it over the side, startling a drifting gar fish, causing him to flick his tail and seem to leap a good three feet before landing among the nearby water lilies with an echoing splash.

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Where they went and what story they may have told their elders, I do not know. One thing I did know though… I was mighty thankful to the good Lord above that this once I had been spared. I was also thankful that I had not fired off my ole squirrel shooter without thinking, as I had no mind to have to live with the thought that I’d killed a young boy, not yet a man. Fightin’ men is one thing, fightin’ boys is another. And I wanted no truck with that. 

cb



A canoe trail in the Okefenokee



The Okefenokee Swamp at dawn


You may find the following link interesting. It leads to the Facebook page for Waycross, Georgia, which sits where the old town of Teabueville used to be.
http://www.facebook.com/#!/waycrossmainstreet