Cabin Stories: An Arkansas Memoir

By Norma Connor

Seventeen stories relating to our Chicago family's discoveries and adventures in the northwest corner of Arkansas explore the dynamics and benefits of learning a different culture. Maintaining a seventy-nine year old log cabin is a chore in itself, rendered memorable by our love of discovery and family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norma Connor
• Release date: Apr 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311047670

Norma Connor

I'm a journalist and writer with an imagination that won't quit, so I keep writing. Check out my author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/normaconnor-writerMystery novel: Dreamspeak, available in soft cover at AmazonMemoir: Cabin Stories--an Arkansas Memoir, available in soft cover at AmazonDreamspeak available as an e-book for Kindle, Nook, I-Pad, and others.

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Cabin Stories

Norma Connor

An Arkansas Memoir

Copyright © 2013 Norma Connor

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

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Formatting by Debora Lewis arenapublishing.org

Table of Contents

Witness Tree

Chapter 1: Here Lies the Blame

Chapter 2: Everybody Makes Mistakes

Chapter 3: Summer One

Chapter 4: Chipmunk City

Chapter 5: Cabin Origins

Chapter 6: Flashlight Tag

Chapter 7: Clear Creek Expedition

Chapter 8: The Mule, The Bushwhacker and Endless Road Trips

Chapter 9: The Nita Gifts

Chapter 10: I Didn’t Hear the Banshee

Chapter 11: The Girls of Catfish Hole #2

Chapter 12: TEE GEE

Chapter 13: Mountain Man

Chapter 14: The Traveling Gypsy Road Show

Chapter 15: Black Magic

Chapter 16: Betty’s Swing

Chapter 17: Cabin Spirits

Stories Yet to Be Told

And last, but not least…

Excerpt from Ms. Connor’s upcoming story collection

Witness Tree

The hickory nut tree out in the meadow might be a couple hundred years old. One huge black walnut tree has shaded the side of the cabin for years. Sweet gums with their golf ball-size spiked seed balls are everywhere among the oaks, pines and cedars. Spring blooming dogwood light up the woods well before the first flush of emerging green leaves. The surrounding acres house a plethora of Arkansas forest members. They’re our close companions, friends of the land, trees that have been witness to our family’s growth, struggles and losses. Their trunks bear scars from lightning, drought and bug infestations, along with a few errant gunshots, burrowing animals and hungry woodpeckers.

If there were Indian battles fought in these woods, many of the trees echoed cries of terror and anguish. Our country’s only civil war encroached on this land, not fifty miles away at Pea Ridge; retreating Confederates ran for their lives, slashing tree limbs and crushing saplings. Countless deer have leaped in panic through this forest, searching for a safe haven from November guns. Though we don’t hunt, many others venture onto our land when we’re not here. It’s a way of life in Arkansas that we’ve come to understand.

Our youngest son chose the shaded ground under the hickory nut tree as the final resting place for his dog, Muddy Waters, a legendary stud Labrador, much loved by all the family. Since then we have laid Coco, our last chocolate lab, to rest next to Mud, reminding us of the Muddy-Bean bunch, their litter of seven chocolates, another joyful adventure. Muddy’s Arkansas pup, Gus, joined the group under the tree, followed by Stoli, a long-lived rescue dog belonging to our son’s wife.

Is it silly to create such a pet resting place? Probably.

Then again maybe not. It gives me moments to reflect on the presence these animals had in our lives, the family joy they applauded with wagging tails and the pain their soulful eyes seemed to understand. Had Jim and I buried all six of our previous dogs here, we might wish to put our own ashes among them.

In creating these Cabin Stories, I have relived a part of my life, a journey into who I am because of the world that opened up for me, a city girl, in the Ozark forest, the red dirt, the rocks and bluffs of the Arkansas cabin land. Hearing our children laugh about disasters and discoveries during our many Arkansas trips continues to spark memories for me. Whatever they don’t want to remember would be secret files I’d love to peruse, but in the end, my personal recollections are the basis for all these tales. Although a few are written in another’s point of view, another’s voice, they are my stories. Some are closer to fact than others and any errors, personal slights or strong opinions are my own.

With thanks to the senior Connor family and friends for accepting me into their fold, sharing secrets and stories and important family history. Jim’s sister, Betty, opened my eyes to how great love can be shared with everyone you meet. Her determination to succeed and survive in spite of limitations is a strength of spirit that is hard to live up to.

To our four children, thanks for the memories, the leaking pipes, wasp stings, cuts and poison ivy, the many deck building projects that would never have been finished without gallons of Kool-Aid, Gatorade and iced tea.

We all shared aggravation over the constant chore of hauling water, three-minute navy showers and freezing pipes. Occasionally anger reared up at thieves who broke in, more than once, and stole silverware, towels, a coffee pot that had been a wedding gift and the pump with which we transferred the precious water into a holding tank, so we could shower and flush.

More important there were tears of laughter from adventures on the Amazon at Beaver Lake, flying off the saddle of one of Butch’s trail horses or dressing up in Dad’s Nehru suit and seeing one like it at the chapel on the mountain. And there were tears of loss, watching Betty, Grandma and Grandpa Connor, along with all the other Arkansas kinfolk, hobble into old age and leave us.

We fed a lifetime of wonder and curiosity about lunar moths, tarantulas, mud daubers, walking sticks and a thousand other creatures of nature. Thanks for all the living that filled forty-some years at the cabin. Vivid scenes from the past roam through my memory, far more than I could attempt to record.

With love and life-long admiration I dedicate these cabin stories to my husband Jim, and hope there are more stories yet to come.

Chapter 1

Here Lies the Blame

Uncle Pat & Jim

Aug. ‘58

August is dog panting time in Arkansas and I was feeling the heavy humid heat. It had been a long, lost, five-month winter for me in Newport, Rhode Island, where my husband, Jim, was in Navy OCS (Officer Candidate School). Following graduation, we were heading to Underwater Swimmers School in Key West, Florida. Along the way we’d spent a few days in Chicago with my family and now were heading for the river town of Fort Smith, across from the Oklahoma border to see Jim’s family.

In 1958 most cars didn’t have air conditioning and I, being pregnant, was roasting. So was our English Setter Gretchen, not pregnant, but panting and shedding at the same time in her small space on the seat behind me. The car was packed with everything we owned, which really wasn’t much. Jim loved the heat, cruising along with his arm resting on the open window frame, pointing out familiar rocky bluffs and forested hills as we crossed Missouri and came into Arkansas.

We can only stay three or four days, hon. He patted my arm. But I hope you get to meet Uncle Pat. Mom said he bought a log cabin up in the Boston Mountains.

How far is that?

About an hour north of town.

Right now I wasn’t interested in more road time, knowing I’d soon be trucking for two or three days to the hot, humid Florida Keys. On the bright side I thought of it as an exotic island, stuck out there in the ocean, the last piece of land for miles. I couldn’t wait to explore. After all, Hemingway, a favorite author of mine, had lived in Key West at one time.

You’ll like Pat, Jim said, kind of an adventurous type. He went out west years ago. Every time he came back here on vacation, he’d describe the desert, the distant mountains and he harped on education. Told me to be an engineer.

Which you are not. I said the obvious.

Well, now I’m a Navy man, soon to be a diver.

I wasn’t sure if he was excited by that prospect or just doing what he, we, had to do now that things had changed.

Jim ignored that subject. He worked in the oil fields in New Mexico.

Jim’s mom referred to Pat as a quiet old bachelor who always lived alone, but I’d heard some wild tales from Jim’s dad involving his four brothers, two of whom had already passed on. Pat was third in the pecking order, just ahead of Jim’s dad.

The Sunday after we arrived, five of us wedged into my father-in-law’s Buick for the hour drive up, down and around the treacherous curves of Highway 71. When he turned off the road, I thought he was driving into the forest, but there was a gravel drive hidden by trees and tall undergrowth, no sign, no mailbox, just two narrow ruts heading into the dark. Shade fell like a cloud as we drove uphill and around a curve before entering a small clearing with two cabins.

After the hairpin curves, roller coaster hills and being stuck in the back middle seat, I gratefully piled out of the car and set foot on weed covered ground. I’ve always had an equilibrium problem; you know, the carsick kid.

That one’s Pat’s. My father-in-law pointed to the log house. And an acre or so around it. The rock house over there is Calhoun’s.

Hey, it’s much cooler up here. I shook out my sweaty shirt.

Come on. Jim’s younger sister Betty pulled me forward with a damp hand on my arm. She had glued herself to me the minute we met. We were partners now, sisters. Betty was forever young, a Downs child, with more hugs and kisses than I could handle in this heat.

Cecelia, a cousin of Jim’s known as Tee Gee, came from the cabin and hugged me briefly, sharing a bit of her strong perfume. From the beginning she had been the most accepting of me, not a Catholic or a southerner.

No Uncle Pat sighting yet, but the cabin sat solidly among many trees, some with trunks so large I couldn’t have gotten my arms around them. Tall branches reached over the roof filtering the sun, spattering the logs with a patchwork design. Such a peaceful place, I thought. Mom and Dad Connor led us inside the screened entry porch and into the house, where they introduced me to four family friends.

So you’re Jimmy’s new bride, repeated on around the circle. Not so new, I thought, putting my hand out to shake, hoping I wasn’t getting sweaty hugs.

The cabin consisted of one large room with a small kitchen, black potbelly stove for heat and a tiny bathroom. Large fans blew air in all directions. We went out to a long screened porch that overlooked Lake Fort Smith, which was a good ways down the hillside. Beyond stretched another row of mountains.

Beautiful. I held Jim’s hand, as I spotted a man working deep in a stand of weeds and vines just below some rock steps.

That’s him. Jim waved. Hey, Uncle Pat.

He grinned up at us, waving his pruning shears in the air. Be up in a bit. Jimmy, you want to help me? He wore a tank type undershirt and stained khaki pants. I swear Pat was the hairiest man I’d ever seen. Thick ringlets curled up from the shirt to cover his neck and loop around his shoulders and down his long arms. It was almost fur, dark and borne close to the skin like an extra warm coat.

I looked closely at Jim, the only man I’d ever seen up close and naked. Could he possibly grow hair like that on his body? It hadn’t started yet and we were on our third year together. What sort of tribe had I married into? I, of course, thought Jim was the handsomest man anywhere. A fair Irishman, my mother had said, blue-eyed with curly dark hair.

Jim’s sister Betty, seven years younger, didn’t seem to have an excess of hair. Of course I hadn’t seen her naked. Yet.

I’ll be down in a few, Jim hollered, taking off his shirt.

Pat nodded, holding up a sickle.

I’m staying in the shade. I sat near Betty and we all watched Jim and Uncle Pat work up a good sweat, probably wishing they could jump in Lake Fort Smith to cool off.

When Mom Connor and Tee Gee went inside, I followed along, hoping to help. Setting the food out on the one counter was a challenge. Besides the fried chicken platter there were enough casseroles to pile double: Crowder peas, green beans cooked gray with a hot pepper, potato salad crunchy with celery and a hint of mustard, garlic bread sliced in its silvery foil bag, Cole slaw, tomatoes, pickles and dessert with a capital D: a rhubarb pie and hand-cranked peach ice cream. These people liked to eat. In the waves of moving air from the big fans, we all shouldered together at the large round table.

I studied the newest member of my new family. Uncle Pat spoke very little at first and then usually to Jim or his dad. He had a quiet gruff voice, as though it hadn’t been used enough to fully vibrate. In his sun-weathered face wintry blue eyes moved slowly around the room, re-bonding with his kinfolk. He was a big, slow-moving man, slightly stooped with age and hard work, a body of muscle, a face of acceptance.

Uncle Pat turned to Jim. So how’s life in the Navy?

So far, so good. Jim was finishing a mound of Crowder peas, topped with ‘goop’, which I’d discovered was a combination of chopped onion, tomato, green and red pepper in a vinegar bath. I volunteered for EOD.

EOD? Uncle Pat scratched at a spot on his shoulder, covered in a slightly wrinkled denim shirt. I wondered if