FREE eBook on being a leader! A two day offer.

Dec 30-31 I am making an eBook free for downloading. If you have ever thought that maybe you should be leading in your church or ministry, check this book out. A good "first look" at leadership, especially for young people. As a former church leader and missionary team leader, I felt that writing such a book might help some younger adults who desire to step out and take leadership positions.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LPZEAFU

The Christmas Challenge

(This is a sequel to “An Under-the Pier Christmas” which I wrote and posted on my blog in 2011)

It had been a rough year. The Under-the-Pier neighborhood had gone through a lot. First, there was the sinking of the old tug boat tied up to the St. Simon’s Island pier. Though the humans had raised it and taken it away, it had caused quite a bit of damage to the sea creatures’ homes.

Then there were the two big storms which had caused such damage with their winds and messed up tides. The bottom had been badly affected by the shifting sands and mud banks. Once again many sea creatures had lost their homes. Why, Billy Crab was missing for a whole week before he managed to tunnel his way back out of the mess!

Then there was the invasion by the dolphins. These playful creatures often visited the area daily, but this time they came in such numbers and were so playful that they had unintentionally wreaked havoc on the community. Several of Billy’s cousins had been playfully carried far out into the sound before they had been dropped off by the dolphins. They thought it great fun to use the crabs as objects to be playfully thrown across the waves and then rapidly retrieved. Then teams of the dolphins would use the crabs to play keep-away, also.

All in all, it had been a rough year for the sea creatures which normally lived somewhat peaceful lives below the St. Simon’s Island pier. And now as Christmas approached, they were exhausted from dealing with so many events. As some of their leaders gathered to discuss how the holiday would be observed their meeting was somber. So many homes had been lost and damaged. Few of their decorations were to be found. “What to do?” they wondered.

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

Someone later said they thought it had been Wiley Sea Turtle who came up with the idea. No one really remembers for sure who it was, but a gentle voice spoke above the din of discussion and asked, ”What about borrowing some decorations?” Sally Starfish asked immediately, ”From where?” The crowd looked around as the question sank in on them.

“Well… there is the old abandoned cottage just near the lighthouse. Those people used to have a lot of decorations around on their little pier. They just drove away one day and never came back. At least that is what Herman Crab told me last year. Maybe they left their decorations.” For a few minutes, no one spoke. The thought began to bring smiles of relief as the creatures suddenly erupted into many “Maybes” and “Could be’s” and several “Let’s go look’s”. Soon a decision had been made and several brave crab folk volunteered to approach the long abandoned cottage along the beach and scout out the possibilities.

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

The day before Christmas several of the Under-the-Pier folk were hanging out near Ralphie Crab’s lunch bar admiring the decorations gently swaying in the morning’s current. “That was a GREAT idea!” stated Billy Starfish with a huge smile on his face. “Yep!” chimed in the crowd. “Who all participated in bringing the decorations back from the cottage?” asked Lily Starfish, as she looked around. “Oh those guys are easy to spot,” said Herman Crab.  “They are the Crab folk with the long scratch marks on their shells,” he said. “No one knew that a wild house cat claimed that cottage as his own and they had to wrestle him into a knotted pile of garland in order to get the rest of the decorations out of there.”

“Well, they sure are brave Crab folk!” declared Lily. “Yes, they are!” agreed the crowd. “And,” chimed in Herman, ”They have already agreed to return the decorations after Christmas. Seems that now, every time that cat sees a crab, he spits and hisses and runs off! They don’t think he will be a problem for them next time!” The crowd laughed as they all admired the beautiful decorations.  

THE END

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

READ THE REAL CHRISTMAS STORY HERE IN THE 

BIBLE...Luke 2:1-20.

	MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

Attack of the Raccoons!

(This little true story is from my book, Okefenokee Tales, which is available on the sidebar.)

Like that title? Well, it was not exactly an attack...more like a raid.

You see, many years ago we were canoeing through the Okefenokee Swamp from the east side entrance near Folkston, Georgia, headed for the southwest exit at Stephen Foster State Park.

I had my little brother with me then and a group of boys and men from a church. We were about 15 miles in and had stopped for the night near the end of the Suwanee canal run. We made camp, cooked supper and had plans to sleep peacefully through the night after the many hours of paddling. I knew we might be visited during the night by raccoons or some other critter, so I instructed the group to hang the garbage bag from a high tree limb, which they did. In fact it was hanging slightly out over the edge of the water in which there were alligators going to and fro on their alligator business.

About an hour after sundown, with darkness in full mode, the raccoons began their attack! Padding almost with ghostly silence they suddenly were everywhere! They first made for the canoes and found our full size ice chest in one of them. With almost no effort, they pulled the lid off which landed with a loud clatter in the bottom of the canoe. This loud, unexpectedly loud and echoing, noise seemed to call the alligators to zero in on the raiding raccoons. It also startled the raccoons themselves.

Our guys shot out of their tents to save the food in the ice chest! The raccoons scattered, the alligators whipped to and fro in the water's edge looking for a careless meal...animal or human would probably have been fine with them. The boys quickly secured the ice chest's top with a menagerie of ropes and crisscrossed paddles and whatever other gear they could find. They also canoed out and retrieved a floating vest which one of the raccoons had knocked into the water. This vest had attracted the attention of an alligator so a paddle was used to whack him in the snout and retrieve the vest. 

Now, the second wave of the attack was launched! The crafty critters climbed up into the large tree and out on the limb from which our trash was suspended. At that point one of them dove down onto the hanging bag and crashed it to the ground! The trash was everywhere and the buffet was open!

Our guys grabbed paddles and shoes to throw and launched a counter attack to try and save the mess from being carried off into the swamp. After a momentary standoff, the raccoons retreated. The trash was gathered and someone allowed it to be put into their tent for the night. Everyone settled down and lay awake for a while inside their tents recounting their individual acts of bravery to their tent mates (in case they had missed it during the fracas). It was a while before they could sleep after so much excitement.

The next day saw us exit the swamp after a difficult push through some very grown over spots along the trails we followed out. We had no further issues with wildlife and the boys (and the men) loved the trip!

For weeks afterwards, boys recounted this night's adventure to anyone at church or school who would listen. I am sure the size and ferocity of the raccoons grew as the stories were told and retold.

The End

If you would like to learn more about the Okefenokee Swamp (America’s largest fresh water swamp), check out these websites:

http://www.okeswamp.com/       (I work here part time)

http://www.gastateparks.org/info/scfoster/

https://www.fws.gov/refuge/Okefenokee/visit/plan_your_visit.html

My Latest Published Story

Folks, check out the summer edition of Waycross Magazine here to read my latest published story, "The Night Hunter". The story is set along the beautiful Satilla River of South Georgia. I hope you will like it.

cb

Satilla River of South Georgia with early morning fog. Near Waycross, Georgia.

The Heroes

The new coach stood in coat and tie,
The boys in the hall emotions strung high.

Together they awaited the announcer's call,
Trembling with excitement they proudly stood tall.

Finally the call and roaring of cheers,
Faithfully they answered hiding their fears.

Every self-doubt hid with bravado and bluff,
Each of them wondered had they worked hard enough?

As they run through their lay-ups and shoot free throws,
Nervousness dies and anticipation grows.

Stuck alone in the open clipboard in hand,
Stands the nervous young coach their number one fan.

Has he forgotten anything - - is their strategy sound?
Heaven only knows but soon truth will be found.

The whistle blows and play begins,
Tiny flaws in strategy coach quickly mends.

Action ebbs and flows in a tense ballet,
All on the line it's won with a masterful play.

Players and coach are praised high and low,
Passing into the night they leave the gym in a glow.

And the good thing about it as memories dim,
All will be heroes that night in the gym.

Clint Bowman
21 Nov. 1995

Little Bill’s Last Run

(Average reading level: grade 8.7)

The old warrior was impatient. He quivered and shifted nervously. Suddenly, he blew hard, an exhalation of nervous energy. The gelding was a long time veteran of these rodeos. He knew well his task, his explosive mission. And he sensed that the time was now here.

Sally had ridden him hundreds of times in dozens of arenas here in South Georgia and north Florida. At 37, she was considering calling it quits after this fall’s circuit of rodeos was done. Her rock solid, faithful steed was at the end of his barrel racing time and she couldn’t bear the thought of starting again with a fresh mount. Tonight would be the last go round for them in this little arena. Her nervousness suddenly grew and her eyes watered slightly, a tear escaped and ran down her cheek as she guided Little Bill out into the night preparing to make the turn and the long run towards the starting line.

The announcer’s call was booming around the small arena, kids were cheering and a few of the faithful who actually knew her and Little Bill rose in their seats. The old warrior’s sense of timing didn’t fail him. Almost instantaneously, as her right knee pressed in, he wheeled around as if he had sensed danger and was about to run away from it! Before she could even bring her heels down to his sides to urge him forward, the old warrior exploded into a dead out all for nothing run! The explosiveness of his start caught Sally by surprise and suddenly she sensed that he knew! He was flying!

The crowd roared as the little gelding exploded down the runway and into the brightly lit arena. Almost as soon as his racing, pounding feet hit the sawdust of the arena floor his gaze shifted to the right, spotting the enemy immediately. As his ancestors had done as they raced into battle on the American plains so long ago, his head stretched forward as his body seemed to level into a flying lance with his piercing black eyes gauging the enemy he bore down on. Now Sally was holding on for dear life! Her hands gripped the pommel with white knuckles, as she realized that tonight Little Bill had dug deep and found an old strength of an earlier age.

With his warrior’s heart pounding within him, Little Bill closed the distance in record time. The crowd, now all on their feet, roared as if everyone could sense that tonight a true champion was giving  it one last all out effort! Little Bill’s pivot around the hated enemy was a thing of unusual grace and excellent timing. The shower of sawdust and dirt flew out into the nearby stands as the bottom rows of cheering fans roared even louder at such a show of skill and heart! As if his rider had buried a lance into the hated enemy to finish him, Little Bill’s gaze shifted across the arena to the second challenge.

The little warrior exploded across the ground covering the distance in lightening speed. As the roar from the arena rose to an even higher volume, the mechanics at the local filling station across the highway stopped as one and turned to face the distant roar. “Maybe someone started a fight in the stands,” muttered Wilson, as he turned back to the job at hand. 

Nearing the second barrel, Little Bill snorted deeply clearing the sawdust from his nostrils. With a tight turn, the little warrior angrily launched himself at the remaining distant barrel. Sally, her hair flying, hat now gone, held on tightly.  She rode now leaning forward and low as if her very action would help her old friend in his mighty battle. The crowd roared louder, the bull riders now up on the rails slapping their hats and cheering like they were young children once more. The crowd, the riders, the clowns, all were now a part of the battle! And Little Bill bore down on one last enemy.

Making the turn tightly with sawdust and dirt flying, the little warrior’s eyes seemed like shiny black marbles in a patch of bright white. The saliva flew from his gasping mouth. Suddenly from far across the arena came the sound of a high piercing cry! An old Indian cowboy stood on the top rails of the arena and, caught up in the moment, voiced an ancestral war cry which seemed to reach to the heavens!  Momentarily stunned, the crowd hushed as if a switch had been flipped! Then came the answering whinnying cry of the little warrior and the crowd’s roar returned at full volume. With hats flying high many of the crowd now rushed the arena’s bars, trying to get closer, as if to help the little warrior win his final battle!    Sally gripped hard and now she whispered with tears falling, “You can do it, little man!”

Little Bill exploded forward racing down the straightaway! The time keeper stared at the electronic clock with disbelief. No horse had ever run such a time! The crowd roared with such enthusiasm, that the announcer had to send a runner to call Sally and Little Bill back to the arena. Gracefully, the little warrior trotted back through the wide runway opening into the arena as the crowd stood applauding and cheering. Sally rode Little Bill in a small circle and then with tears and smiles and many a thank you, the little champion and his best friend trotted back into the darkness of the warm Georgia night.  And an old Indian cowboy, his cheeks wet from his tears, looked to the night sky and was thankful. He slowly walked away toward an old worn pickup truck, with a smile on his face.

Clint Bowman

August 2015

Free! Free! Free!

From July 1st through July 3rd (midnight to midnight PCT) my little eBook titled "God's Creation & Christian Responsibility" will be free on Amazon for downloading. I hope it can be useful in starting discussions in your family and/or your social groups, or Bible study groups about how we can all help take better care of our environment. I hope you enjoy it!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00M6ITEQU

How to Make: A Poor Boy’s Fishing Pole

Do you enjoy fishing?

Have you ever felt the urge to go back to a simpler time?

 To get away from machines, computers, and the stress of daily life?

To make something using your hands and be proud of it?

 While it may not really be practical for most of us, there is something  you can do which harkens back to a simpler time of living. In the old days of life on the American frontier many people used handmade fishing poles, fish traps, and nets to catch fish with.

Making a simple fishing pole is fun and can give a young lad a sense of achievement, especially if he catches several good sized fish and is able to take them home, clean them, and have them for a meal.

(Image from Pixabay.com)

First, he will need to find a tree limb which is fairly straight or a young sapling tree which he can cut down. A good piece of bamboo can serve very well for this purpose also. Be sure the selected future fishing pole has a greater diameter than your thumb does. If the young boy is below the age of about 10, then maybe it should be twice the diameter of his thumb. Also be sure it is at least seven feet long. If it is as long as nine feet, that would be good.

Next, find a piece of fishing line which is about eighteen inches or so longer than the selected pole. Tie it securely about four or five inches from the tip of the top of the pole. Then tie a fishing hook of about size 7 on the line. About three to four feet above the hook tie a piece of a stick about four or five inches long onto the line to serve as a bobber. Then put fish bait on the hook and drop the line into the water. Hold on to the fishing pole and wait. The piece of stick you tied onto the line should float and if it begins to go away then a fish is pulling the line!

Of course, this is overly simplistic, but sometimes it is fun to try the simpler things in life.

While you are fishing I hope you will remember the Bible story of Jesus and the time He instructed the disciple Peter and some other men to throw their fish net into the water. They had fished all night and had caught nothing. They were tired. They were about to return to the shore. But rather than argue, they decided to do the thing Jesus said. The net filled with so many fish that it was almost impossible to pull it in! A simple story, but it shows us that if we do the things Jesus says we should do, life is better for us.

Hope you have good fishing!

The Hunter

The age old game was in play once again. He had hunted hard for several hours. His prey was now nearby. His singular focus was on getting food. On survival. He had missed on his previous two attempts, his hunger now relentlessly drove him forward. His belly pushed tightly against the ground, he hoped to avoid detection. He desperately needed to eat. Out here in the wilderness, one could not last long without regular meals. He couldn’t afford to have to run from danger or fight unnecessarily. Here on Cow House Island in the northern Okefenokee, water was not an issue. Food, on the other hand, could be difficult to come by at times.

Nearby, two Creek warriors passed along an ancient path first laid out by the Timucans of long ago. The hunter froze in place! Slowly, the warriors’ voices faded into the distance to be replaced by the never ending buzz of insects and calls of various birds. Close by, on the opposite side of a thick growth of gall berry bushes and palmettos, several small splashes could be heard. A Great Blue Heron was attempting to subdue a small unlucky banded water snake. 

The hungry hunter began to rise up out of his hiding place. Slowly, he eased up to the side of the big pine tree, gripping tightly. Only a really desperate hunter would attempt such a move into the open. Obviously, he was very hungry. The building heat of the swamp’s summer sun seemed to spur him to climb faster. The low steady hum of the many insects in the area continued uninterrupted. He was of no concern to them. There was no sign of the recently passed Creeks. He continued his steady climb, gripping the tree’s bark firmly.

The suddenness of the attack caught him completely off guard! A passing shadow was his only brief warning before the enraged attacker struck! A loudly piercing war cry, the first violent blow to his head and the wildly flapping of his attacker’s pounding wings momentarily overwhelmed the primitive senses of the hungry snake. The hard blow to his head from the angry pileated woodpecker’s heavy beak almost knocked him unconscious. The second blow so totally dazed the hunter that he lost his grip on the pine’s rough bark. No longer safely secured by his gripping scales, the gray rat snake clumsily struck about in self-defense as he began to fall away from the tree.   

The big male woodpecker now landed just above the hole which had been the snake’s target. Inside, his young chicks cowered in confused fear. The big female circled around as she eyed the falling snake. The big hunter, a male in his prime well over three feet long, thrashed wildly as he fell. He landed hard across the small trunk of a fallen insect riddled pine. His head and tailed slammed simultaneously against the ground. A loose piece of scaly skin hung across one of his eyes, damage done by the big woodpecker. Quickly, he slithered into the pine straw covered base of a large palmetto bush, seeking safety. High above, the female woodpecker entered her nest to stand watch.

by Clint Bowman (mixed media)

The big male woodpecker swooped across to land on a dying, lightning struck tree. He began a distinctive hopping motion as he ascended looking for a likely spot to search for insects. The threat now gone, life moved on here in the Okefenokee.  

The End

Clint Bowman

May, 2016

Lost in the Okefenokee Swamp

This is actually a true story and can be found in Wayne Morgan's new book, "From Zirkle to Alaska" as well as my book, "Okefenokee Tales".

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

Maybe "lost" is not the best word for this. Maybe "disoriented" fits better. Let me explain.
When I was 18, I was employed as a swamp guide in the beautiful Okefenokee Swamp of South Georgia. We opened for the tourists to enter the Okefenokee Swamp Park every morning at 9am. Before we could allow them to enter, we had to prepare things.... we had to clean the bathrooms, pick up trash from the previous day's visitors, etc. One of us would take an old beat up aluminum canoe and pole or paddle around the boat trail used for the usual 25 minute boat tours. We would be looking for floating trash left my the tourists from the day before. No matter how hard we tried, we could never keep all of them from dropping stuff here and there.

One morning, I got the choice job of canoeing around while the rest of the folks had the dirty duty of cleaning bathrooms and emptying trash cans. I choose to canoe the trail backwards instead of following the usual direction the boats ran. I guess I was feeling adventurous or something.
About 15 minutes later I suddenly looked around and could not recognize anything! After having viewed the trail from only one direction for days on end and hundreds of times, I was totally disoriented. At first, I thought that I had been so preoccupied with looking for trash and critters that I had moved off the regular trail and was now in an area I had never seen before. I was both "lost" and embarrassed! After all, I was a trail guide! I was not supposed to "get lost"!

After a couple of minutes of mind racing disorientation, I happened to glance behind me... and almost immediately I started to laugh at myself with a serious sense of relief... I knew where I was!
Since that time, I have always taken time to stop and look around in all directions as I travel through the swamp's trails (and other trails as well). I just sit and float for a bit and soak in the sights of nature. I can honestly say that I have never been that disoriented in the great Okefenokee since then.

I kind of think that if we make this a practice in life....to stop, sit and "smell the roses" from time to time...we will be able to keep our minds straight and then move on with confidence in life. Seems to work for me at least. Have a blessed day!

The Night Hunter

(Readability level is about 6.1 grade level)

The cold Georgia night’s sleepy silence was broken by the sound of two excited hounds as they struck a fresh hot scent. It was a sound which always seemed to make the night hunter’s heart warm on the coldest of nights. Slowly Ole Stan rose to his feet and stepped a short distance away from the small fire burning next to the old half buried log. It had taken the two a good long half hour or more to strike a trail. Beholden Stanley Williams had been wondering what the delay was. It wasn’t normal for the old male and his little gyp companion to be so slow in hitting on a trail as raccoons were more than plentiful along the Satilla.  

Known simply as Ole Stan by his friends and others around the region, he had been named Beholden by a grateful frontier mother after too many failures in trying to birth a son. Her thankfulness to the Good Lord had saddled her son with a name which, more than once, led to impromptu exchanges of knuckle sandwiches out behind the local meeting house. It seemed that after a few of these Sunday experiences most of the local boys decided to simply call Beholden Stanley a shorter, friendly name. 

Ole Stan now listened carefully. His eyes searched the sky here and there as his nose tested the wind. “Don’t seem like the clouds are going to build up yet,” he muttered.  “Ahroooo, yip, yip, ahroo…” the two hounds were getting excited. The night hunter picked up his rifle and checked to see that his firing cap was in place. The dogs quieted. The sound of a barred owl drifted through the woods on the night’s slow breeze. In the far distance, the distinct snarl of a large night hunting cat sounded. “Wonder what’s happened to them two?” he muttered to himself. “This ain’t right,” he thought.

The sudden sound of splashing in the river opposite his sandbar fire startled Ole Stan. He gripped his rifle tightly and crouched, ready to fight if need be. Then the light danced off the eyes of the two hounds as they swam the short distance to the sandbar and scurried quickly up to the fire’s warmth. The hunter, now completely surprised, watched them come. Both dogs had their tails down and kept glancing back across the river. The little gyp was obviously afraid, the old male, Silas, was growling low and soft as if to say, “Watch out boss, troubles over there!”

It was when Silas moved around to his master’s left side and his growling took on a louder and more vicious sound did the night hunter realize that there was movement now in the palmetto bushes on the far bank. The newly risen moon was providing a good bit of light this night, though over there the bushes were in shadow and only dark shapes at best. Slowly he crouched and tightened his grip on his rifle. His right hand slid to check on the availability of his long knife safely waiting in its sheath. Slowly, Ole Stan began to back away from the fire and into the shadows offered by the young sweetgum and tulip trees which were attempting to slowly grow their way out from the bank to take over the sandbar. Calling softly to the gyp and Silas, he moved quietly back until he was within the young trees. 

He moved carefully to place a small group of three trees against his back. He now kept his eyes on the far bank. The two dogs stood, one on each side. Silas, standing on his left, seemed to be clearly watching something across the river and continuously emitted a low growl which Stan was sure carried its way across the quiet waters. The only sounds other than the dogs, was the slight ripples in the river of some passing catfish or gar. “Likely a big gar,” muttered Stan as he waited, now down on one knee. The gyp whined quietly. The scream of the distant big cat drifted down the river. Silas never wavered, kept his focus across the river. “Yep,” muttered the night hunter, ”One thing at a time, old boy, one thing at a time.” The hoot of the barred owl sounded again from far off across the river.

What came first, Stan was never sure. Whether it was the suddenly loud snarling growl of a bark which exploded from Silas or the unnerving appearance of three men emerging from the river where none had been before, Silas could never figure out. All three were clearly seen in the moonlight as they now ran across the white sands in the moonlit night. One carried a spear and was on the left of the three. The others carried either knives or hatchets, Stan wasn’t sure. He also never could remember how his rifle came to be cradled in his left armpit and his knife appeared in his right hand… it just happened. The sharp crack of the rifle and the explosion of sparks seemed to announce to the world that once again two cultures were in disagreement. The middle Indian simply fell, face down into the sand and lay still. Silas, with a loud snarling growl launched himself in a curving run to the left as he attempted to attack one of the warriors by biting his lower leg. The spear carrying warrior leaped the last few feet as he thrust his spear at the hunter. The gyp barked a scream of fear, turned and ran into the night.

Without thinking, with years of frontier survival experience coming into play, Stan swung his rifle around and crashed it into the spear knocking its tip aside. Thrusting forward with his long knife, the leaping Indian provided a lot of the power with which the long knife now ripped into his upper arm. Badly cut, the man twisted trying to get away from the knife. Landing, his feet tangled and slid in the mix of mud and sand in this border area of the sandbar and he fell backwards away from the night hunter’s slashing knife.

Stan, slashing towards the falling Indian warrior, didn’t stop moving but spun around to face the last one. The one Silas had gone for. Silas had paid a price for his devotion. His head gashed open by the man’s knife, the old hound still gamely tried to catch the moving brave’s leg. The brave swung a wooden club at the dog, but missed. The man’s attention distracted, he never saw the long barrel of the rifle as it crashed into the top of his head. He fell with only the sound of his body hitting the ground to be heard. Stan, remembering the fallen warrior to his right swung his knife and eyes quickly that way, ducking his head and crouching expecting a blow to come.

There was no need. The man, wise in the ways of frontier fighting, knew when to withdraw. His arm badly injured, he was retreating down the sandbar holding a clump of Spanish moss grabbed from a low hanging tree limb against his badly bleeding arm. His dangling injured arm still carried his spear, but the fight was over. Stan straightened up and watched him go.

Suddenly, realizing his left side hurt, he looked down to see an arrow dangling from his buckskin shirt! His side felt wet. Suddenly another arrow landed at his feet… where he now saw three others standing with their tips buried in the sand. Looking across the river, he saw two dim figures on the far bank. They now turned and walked back into the darkness, the dim motion of palmettos moving marked their passage. It was over.

Stan quickly began reloading his rifle. Silas walked over and lay down on the white sands nearby and quietly whimpered. In the distance, the owl’s hooting call was finally answered from upriver.

 

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

A week or so later, three older frontiersmen sat on the front steps of the Kettle Creek meeting house. They listened as Ole Stan stood in the late evening shade of an old oak and talked to a small group of new comers to the community. He held a length of rope loosely in his hand which was tied about the neck of the little gyp. “Now this here dog is a first class hunter. She will trail anything, especially coons. Yep, first class. Never backs down no matter what, she…..”, on he went as the old men now chuckled and elbowed each other as they lit their pipes.

In the distance, an owl hooted a greeting to the new evening. And far off down the creek came the sound of an old dog as he announced the finding of a raccoon’s scent. Ole Stan glanced that way, handed the rope to a young man nearby and said, ”Yep. Top notch, she is. Just give me one of the pups when she brings a litter. Now, I’ve got to go.”

Grabbing up his rifle which had been leaning against the oak, he checked his long knife and walked off quickly towards the sound of a very excited hound… with a happy smile, a warm heart…. and a ripple of quiet laughter from the old frontiersmen.

“Hang on, boy, I’m coming!” he quietly said, lengthening his stride. From the nearby oaks shading the meeting house, an owl called into the night.

The End

Mr. Stansell’s Mill (1856)

Someone built a watermill,

So long, long, ago.

I found a marker standing still,

Of long, long, ago.

The mill was built by Mr. Stansell,

So long, long ago.

But now it doesn’t stand still,

From long, long ago.

A ballpark was built there,

Long, long ago.

Now the field stands bare,

From so long ago.

                                     Clint Bowman

                                       Feb. 2016

Located in Waycross, Georgia. 

The New Year Question

(This is a repeat from 2013, with a slight change. I do hope your new year is a blessed one.)

Here I am pondering,
The new year about to begin.
Here I am 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 that I had?"

Clint Bowman 
"Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." Psalm 90:12 (Bible)