Sixteen Vs, Book One, The Childhood Years

By Victor Cox

Sixteen Vs! Most people can only think of less than ten! Imagine growing up in the middle of seven boys and seven girls—same parents—living on a farm setting. Mischief and mayhem rule in this first book of a series. This first book chronicles many of the challenging events while living in five locations. Discover the humorous, suspenseful, fascinating, and action-packed stories of growing up in a large family. Follow my struggles, adventures, near-death events, and squabbles from the middle of the pack. Agonize with me and Mama as we watch each child quit school. Will I get caught in the same circumstances?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor Cox
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301911578

Victor Cox

Victor Cox is an aspiring writer. After growing up in northern Louisiana, he was drafted into Military service and chose the Air Force as a career. Married at the time, his son was born when he was in Vietnam. His son was eight months old the first day Victor saw him in person. Victor and his family moved to many stateside locations in the Air Force, including one tour in Germany. Victor retired from the Air Force after twenty eight years of service. His military service encompassed being an aircraft maintainer, a flying Crew Chief, aircraft maintenance instructor, and manager. He is a retired Chief Master Sergeant (E9). After completing a tour in Vietnam, he pursued his educational opportunities. After such a precarious start in High School, he earned three Associate of Science Degrees and a Bachelor of Science Degree. He graduated valedictorian from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. He regrets telling people he was the only one in his family to graduate High School and go to college. He has one son and three grandsons. He presently resides in Powderly, Texas.

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SIXTEEN Vs

Book One: The Childhood Years

By Victor Cox

Copyright 2013 Victor Cox

Smashwords Edition

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Book cover: The Rocky Road, Copyright, Andre Klopper, Dreamstime.com stock photo

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

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This is a work of nonfiction. However, some names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents, though true, have been changed for privacy purposes. Where applicable, fictitious names are used. If the circumstances match the reader’s, it is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Table of Contents

Introduction

Section I: The Story House

Chapter 1. The Story House

Chapter 2. Craw Fishing

Chapter 3. The Mystery Catch

Chapter 4. Doctor Mama, MD

Chapter 5. Electricity

Chapter 6. Going to School

Section II: The Alvin Bronson House

Chapter 7. The Alvin Bronson House

Chapter 8. Throwing Cotton Bolls

Chapter 9. The Spotted Horse

Chapter 10. Goatee the Milk Cow

Chapter 11. Changing seasons

Chapter 12. My Superman!

Chapter 13. The Big Hog

Chapter 14. One Stormy Afternoon

Chapter 15. The Broken Cup

Chapter 16. Mama’s Punishment Philosophy

Chapter 17. The Wasp Nest

Chapter 18. The School Bus Fight

Chapter 19. Running Pole Beans

Section III: The Cokomo House

Chapter 20. The Cokomo House

Chapter 21. The Pasture Fire

Chapter 22. Commodities

Chapter 23. The Bullfight

Chapter 24. The House is Falling

Chapter 25. Them Little Suckers

Chapter 26. Stealing Tractor Gas

Chapter 27. The Pendant Stone

Chapter 28. Peg Leg Jack

Chapter 29. Stealing Watermelons

Chapter 30. Killing Velma

Section IV: The Holmes Bronson House

Chapter 31. The Holmes Bronson House

Chapter 32. The Hurricane

Chapter 33. The Blister Bug

Chapter 34. The Rabid Dog

Chapter 35. Let’s Go Hunting

Chapter 36. My First Alcohol?

Chapter 37. Going to Church

Chapter 38. The Neighbors Hog

Chapter 39. The Lifesaving Cow Track

Section V: The Start House

Chapter 40. The Start House

Chapter 41. The School Yard Fight

About The Author

Connect With The Author

Other Books By Victor Cox

Introduction

Sixteen Vs? Odds are you can only think of maybe six or eight. Take a minute and try it. I’ll even start for you; Valerie and Veronica. Common names, but not used in our family. Several of our names are uncommon. I’ll name them later, you can compare. I’ve won several sodas from people that said they could name them all. Never happened. Do you owe me a soda too?

No! We were not! A Little House on the Prairie or a modern day The Waltons. They were good shows made for TV. Watch a few episodes of those TV favorites and see how civil and easy going the parents were. Nothing was ever very serious. Everyone sat down and talked their problems out. There was never much anger, any whippings, or kids getting into all kinds of trouble. The harshest discipline might be a long talk or stopping them from going somewhere. There were few, if any, brother/sister rivalries. Yes, those were, and still are, good TV shows. They stressed family values, honesty, and always doing the right thing. But, I don’t think they accurately depicted the daily life of the average country family back then. Their families were not as large as ours and, maybe, that had something to do with it. Often, the TV kids had nothing to do and, usually, were polite around each other, even helped each other out. That was the TV land family. I say it was all made just for TV. Many viewers liked their lifestyle and wished they could live like that also. People escaped their real world and lived in the TV fantasy world for maybe an hour. Then, the real world started turning again and their real life was very different from the TV show.

No, our lives were nothing like those. I couldn’t imagine our lives being that simple. Maybe we were that poor, but rarely that civil. Read the accounts that follow of my history. Step out of TV land and get a taste of the real life being poor, in a large family, in the 1950’s and ’60’s. I want you to feel the fabric of how we lived. It changed often between burlap, cotton, and silk. I was born, almost, in the middle of the pack. See how we got along with each other in the real world. Our interactions with Mama and Daddy, the big kids, and the younger ones. Our interactions were all different and, by necessity, had to be flexible and constantly adjusting to different situations. Read my recollections of just one of the Sixteen Vs in our family. It’s fairly common, I’m sure. In this first book in a series run around with me from my earliest memories to almost twelve years old, living in five different houses.

I want you to feel the gritty dust in your mouth as you run around with me. Sit right beside me. Think what I thought. Look at the things that happened through my eyes. Feel the nail as it punctures our bare foot. Help me fight and squabble with rivalries up and down the family chain. Feel the pain of the switch and belt whippings. Compare how you’d feel and what you’d do with my thoughts. Walk with me through the woods. Pick cotton, corn, or garden vegetables right beside me. Realize the pain, and hop around with me, from a flying steel wedge that jumps out of a wooden block and hits your shin bone. Sense my fear. See my horror. Taste the good food and enjoy my happiness. Comfort me in sadness. Watch through my eyes, and feel the iron grip turn into a gentle touch. Notice and feel the anger in my parents, and in me. Sense the desperation, despair, and disappointment in Mama as one after another child quits school. Which one, if any, out of fourteen will graduate? Cry with me. Then, almost just as passionately, feel the gentle touch and hear the comforting, loving, and forgiving words. React to unspoken words, glances, hand signals, and eye contact. Join me, and all of us, in exhilarating adventures and gut-busting fun. Feel the closeness between family members and join our team as we unite to take on all outsiders as a family. Sense the camaraderie between family members and know the pride we had as we struggled daily.

It had to be hard raising such a large family. Discipline was necessary in an attempt to keep us in line. There was no time sit down and hash out all our frustrations. At any given time, Mama and Daddy had probably twelve of us at home. Slowly, the number decreased as Mama quit having children and the older ones left home in marriage. Mama, mostly, and Daddy had to find a balance between young adults with sexual desires all the way down to changing diapers. There’s a very wide gap between the two. I’m amazed at how they managed without going completely crazy. I guess after the first four or five, Mama just let nature raise us with corrective whippings to keep us on the right track.

I don’t know exactly how we all got names that started with Vs. There are several stories. I know Mama and Daddy chose the first two or three, then, it was someone they knew, or the name of a doctor, in my case—along with my grandfather. A few names were relatives on both sides of the family. Almost all our middle names came from a relative. Based on our first names, they were at a loss on a few, I think. But, by then, they had to keep the trend going.

I’ve never met another family that had all first names starting with a certain letter as big as ours. Again, many families with the same first letter of their names, but never as large as ours. I won many soft drinks by people trying to guess all our names. I’d tell them Mama’s and Daddy’s names and they bet me they could figure out all the others. Never did anyone name them all. I guess, because a few are very unique and not the common names that most people heard before. However, about 2004 the TV aired the real Duggar family with eighteen, later nineteen, children from one mother and father. All their first names started with J. It’s a very good show. They had Christian values and were hard workers. But, with TV sponsorship and other private finances, they didn’t struggle like us with a farming background. Plus, there were several other TV families that lived in cities that many people can remember. They were nothing like ours either.

Having fourteen children is a big family. But, back then, in the ‘40s and ‘50s, it wasn’t too far out of the ordinary. Many families were big, just not quite as big as ours. A big family then was, maybe, ten. Many times throughout my life, I’ve heard people talk about big families and, invariably, asked how big? Usually, it was eight or less. Sometimes, ten. Only twice in my life did I run into someone that had fourteen, or more, children from the same father and mother. I met many people that had more family members, but they were usually two or three parent families. I don’t consider them a family unit like ours. However, I talked to several of them to compare their lifestyles with ours, and invariably, they had discipline much like our family. Plus, they were usually just as poor.

No, we were nothing like The Waltons as to how we lived and interacted with family members. And, unlike The Waltons with no apparent rivalries or discipline problems, we had plenty of both. Of course, we weren’t a TV family. The only possible similarities might be, we were poor, and with me, like John Boy Walton, aspiring to write a history of how we lived. Like John Boy, I’ve tried to weave how we lived into the stories without overtly stating how poor we were. All stories are actual events that happened with hardly any embellishment. They didn’t need any! Numerous statements throughout the stories are actual quotes burned into my memory. Other conversations are accurate renditions of what happened. Everyone remembers different things about the same event—just like real life. These are my memories and the significant things that happened to me, mostly, and probably varies somewhat with others in my family. So, curl up, relax, and travel along the adventures with me. You’ll find them unbelievable, enjoyable, entertaining, scary, and comforting, as you touch, taste, and feel the texture of our lives.

OK, how many did you name? Let’s compare. Father and mother: Vester C., Viola, then top down: Virgil, Virginia, Vernon, Vester L., Velton, Vennie, Velma, Vera, Victor, Vinnie, Verlon, Vada, Venton, Vickie. All the boys except the oldest and youngest had nicknames that are usually indicated. The girls didn’t, except one, Vera, who we called Vear. Although, a couple girls, went by their middle names. Yes, I know, you owe me a soda too.

1960, L to R: Adult/Big Kids: Vester Lee-21(Snookem),Viola-44(Mama),Vernon-22(Buster),Velton-18(Boy),Virginia-25(Louise),Vennie-16,Velma-15,Vester Chester-58(Daddy),Virgil-27. Little kids back row: Vera-13(Vear),Victor-12(Cotton Top), Vinnie-11(Marie), Front row: Vada-7, Venton-4(Don), Vickie-2, Verlon-8(Man)

SECTION I: THE STORY HOUSE

Chapter 1. The Story Houseplace

The earliest memories of my childhood started at the Story house place on Snake Ridge, Louisiana. This is the first house I can remember living in. Mr. Story was the preacher at the church about twenty yards from their house. Several of us little kids attended the church while we lived there. I was between four and six years old, in 1952 to 1954. Vera a year older and Vinnie (Marie) was a year younger than me and Verlon (Man) was a baby.

Being number nine of the fourteen children, I remember my older brothers and sisters getting on the school bus and me staying home. I envied them as I watched the big yellow bus swallow them and couldn’t wait until it was my turn to go to school. The two oldest kids Virgil and Virginia (Louise) already quit school. In fact, Louise was already married. The school bus driver always waved at me and had a big smile. Even though I didn't go to school at the time, I often walked to the end of our dirt road with my brothers and sisters to watch them get on the bus and wave at the bus driver.

I think because Mama couldn’t read or write she made going to school a priority. She got up very early every morning to make a breakfast of biscuits and gravy from scratch. All her efforts, thus far, resulted in no one finishing school yet. However, she had hope in each child that started school. It was too early for me to notice the despair and disappointment she had as each of the older kids dropped out of school.

The Stories lived in a white-painted clapboard house. It was on the full-gravel road at the beginning of a third mile semi-dirt and gravel road leading to our house. There was a small wooden bridge about half the distance between our houses. I don't think they owned the land or the house we lived in, but we called the place that name.

The Stories had several kids. Important to me was a blonde-headed boy and girl about my age, that I played with a lot. They were skinny people just like me and about my size. We played many times before and after church. I don’t remember much about the Stories as a family, but Mr. Story was a pudgy, balding, and relatively short, man. Sometimes, the Story boy, and occasionally the girl, met me up the road at the bridge and we played or tried to catch something under the bridge.

Our house was old, had many cracks in it, and a tin roof. The unpainted boards were split in places and it was a cold house in the winter. Then, we burnt up in the summer. Our house was situated in a semi circle clearing carved out of the woods all around and close to the house. We continually fought the woods to keep them at bay from closing in on us. We provided enough foot traffic to keep the relatively small yard and dirt road clear. Seemed like we never lived any one place very long for some reason, and that was the case here.

We didn’t have electricity and used kerosene lamps in the house at night. We had a wood burning kitchen stove and fireplace. It was a major crime if any us little kids were caught even touching one of the lamps at night. We walked a big semi-circle around the lamps. I guess it was because of safety more than anything else.

None of us little kids ever wore shoes that much. Only the kids going to school had brogans. They were brown leather shoes that were ankle high and smelled like leather when they were new. Us small kids usually had hand-me-downs if we had any at all. Because of no shoes, usually, plus never wearing shoes at home, it seemed like we stepped on nails frequently. They punctured our feet and we hopped around howling back to Mama. She usually poured coal oil (kerosene) on it and maybe wrapped it with a rag. (More on this later) We limped around a few days before returning to normal. In winter time, if we had shoes, they were usually too big but Mama always said, you have room to grow!

We rarely got any hand-me-downs that were way too big because someone in our family could always wear them.

I don’t remember Daddy saving me some Coca-Cola, but know he did because he always did that for the youngest child. I remember watching him doing that for the younger kids and know I had my turn too. Something else that was a family tradition was, about the time you were able to walk, you ran to get between Daddy’s legs as he sat in a chair. That was your safe haven. No one could ever bother you if you were between Daddy’s legs. He protected you from everything. As I got older, and we got new family members, I was replaced with the next youngest person Vinnie (Marie). Then, I watched Daddy protect her and save her some Coke while I, and the other kids, tried to get her. Just like me, she always ran to Daddy and the safe haven. Later, I watched this cycle repeat as my other siblings were born. Each child probably spent a couple years in the safe haven before the next child was old enough and took you place.

I learned many years later that Daddy’s stomach was about one half sheep’s stomach. I’m not sure what, but something happened to his stomach before I was born and part of it had to be removed. They replaced it using part of a sheep’s stomach. Therefore, Daddy had to drink a Coca-Cola every day to have enough acids in his stomach for digestion. Every day, that I can remember, he drank at least one Coke. While you were the youngest child, you used him for protection and he always saved you a swallow of Coke to drink.

Mr. Sane and Mrs. June Murray lived across the gravel road near the start of the dirt road leading to our house. They were across the road at an angle from the Stories. Mr. Sane was a nice old man and I think he got that name from mending fishing seines. I watched him for hours at a time fixing seines. He cut out broken sections and retied the nets just like new. I was amazed how he did it so fast. He tied the lines and fixed the nets for most everyone around that area.

Upon arrival, the seines and nets looked like a big ball of tangled string and I helped him untangle the nets and stretch them out. He stretched them between two trees and cut out the ripped and broken parts and started retying the nets. They looked like new when he was through. Mrs. Murray usually had a cookie or something to give me when I helped him. He was always full of stories which he told me while he worked. It amazed me all the things he had done. I always liked going to their house.

Chapter 2. Craw fishing

Crayfish, crawfish, crawdads, mud dogs, we mostly called them crawdads or crawfish. They look like miniature lobsters, even with vicious little pincers. They seem to be in every pond, ditch, or body of water, in Louisiana. Even an area that just stays moist may have them. I was six years old in 1954, and one of my earliest memories is when we lived at the Story house. There was a small wooden bridge over a little creek between our house and the end of our dirt road. There was always a little water under the bridge. On many summer days I sat on the edge of the bridge, dangling my feet, fishing for crawfish.

The fishing pole was nothing elaborate, just a stick maybe three or four feet long with some catgut (mono-filament) line on it. Usually, I just tied some meat on the line. The crawfish, evidently, smelled the meat and came to it. They grabbed it with their pincers and held on if you tried to move it away from them. The trick was to jerk them onto the bridge before they let go of the meat. Usually, you had to be pretty fast, because when they broke free of the water, many times, they let go.

With the sun bleaching my hair white and giving my exposed skin a copper-tone color, I sat on the bridge fishing for hours. For entertainment, I watched mockingbirds, Blue Jays, red birds, and the occasional squirrel dart around in the nearby trees. I learned all their calls and mimicked them many times while fishing. I marveled at the beauty and antics of mosquito hawks— dragonflies—butterflies, and bugs as they lit on me or crawled around. Hour after hour I watched the tell-tell slight movement of the line indicating a crawfish bite. Slowly pulling back on the line usually caused them to latch on with their pincers. Then, you had to move fast to land them on the bridge. Many times, I jerked to hard and either took the meat away from them, or, they let go in mid flight. Some sailed over the road and back into the water on the other side. Sometimes, the Story boy, usually, and occasionally, the girl, joined me fishing. (It reminds me of how I used to watch Richie, Richard-my son, fish the same way near our house in Oklahoma.)

I used old strips of bacon or pieces of Vienna sausages—when I didn’t eat them all. Mostly, I used grasshoppers, crickets, or any piece of meat left from the dinner table; which was sort of rare for us. But, my brothers killed a lot of game and we usually had some meat left of some type. The summer days were hot and muggy and I sweated a lot sitting in the hot sun on the bridge since there was no shade. But, you should have seen all the crawfish I caught! Big ones too!

Occasionally, one got me with it’s pincers and I danced around yelling and pulling it to remove it. Sometimes, if it really got me good, I killed it and used it as bait to catch others. I had a coffee can or a number two foot-tub to put them in. (a relatively small round container, just the size to put two feet inside it) I caught them most of the day and usually had thirty to fifty by the time I went home. We kept them to use on a trot (trout) line either in the Beouf River, or a pond near our house. I don’t know why we didn’t eat them. I guess, we had enough game, besides, it’d take a lot of them to feed us. I never caught that many. Mama never seemed to mind that I spent most of the day at the bridge. She could see the bridge from the house although it was a couple hundred yards away.

Occasionally, I either slipped off the bridge or jumped in the water on purpose. Sometimes, if I caught a pretty big crawfish and it let go of the meat before I got it on the bridge, I jumped in after it. Every now and then, I actually caught it just as it hit the water and usually suffered the pincers getting me. Of course, I had to sit in the sun long enough for my clothes to dry before going home. Mama could always tell if I jumped or fell in the water, somehow. Never quite understood how she knew. Guess it was the muddy water on my clothes after they were dry.

Also, on occasion, when I jerked up on a crawfish and it came off in mid flight, I actually caught it in my hands like a fly baseball coming down. Sometimes, I caught a couple at the same time at opposite ends of the meat. When that happened, I had my hands full trying to catch them without getting pinched before they got off the bridge. They raised their pincers real high and you had to be careful to slip your hand behind them to grab them on their semi-hard backs.

We teased the Story girl with them and, sometimes, the Story boy and I picked one out and had them pinch each other. We pulled them to see which one was the strongest. It’s amazing how strong they are. If our hands slipped off the crawfish, we had fun trying to stay away from the pincers while trying to catch them again.

Chapter 3. The Mystery Catch

It was another typical summer day in 1954. It was hot, humid, and muggy. I was six years old and at the bridge between our house and the Story house crawdad fishing again late one afternoon. This particular time, Vera—we called her Vear—one year older, was with me sitting on the bridge fishing.

I had a few crawfish in my coffee can already when, suddenly, my line went tight and started pulling. That was very unusual for a crawfish. I slowly pulled back on the line and felt a good weight on it. I knew it wasn’t hung up because the line was pulling back. I continued to pull back and told Vear (Vera) to look at what was going on. We were both pretty excited and I didn’t know just what to do. If I jerked on it, whatever it was would surely get off. If I just pulled on it, whatever it was would steal the meat. Vear was yelling to jerk it out of the water and tried to grab the stick. I fought her off and pushed her back yelling that it was on my stick. She let go and I decided to just pull a little harder and see what happened.

As I started pulling whatever it was up, it started swimming under the bridge. I slowly pulled up on the line and the mystery fish began to come to the surface with my bait. Almost straight under us now, I pulled harder as Vear and I were thinking I might have a bream, sunfish, or catfish. Finally, we both saw what I had.

Both 1955; Victor-7, Vera-8

A loggerhead snapping turtle. It didn’t want to let go. I lifted it about one foot out of the water before it dropped off. Vear and I were very excited and ran around the bridge sides to the water. I brought the stick and bait and as we stood on the bank I quickly put the bait back in the water close to where the turtle dropped off. We fully expected the turtle to bite again and, sure enough, after about three minutes, I felt and saw the line going back under the bridge.

I tried to talk Vear into jumping into the water as I pulled the turtle close to the bank, but she said she wouldn’t do it. So, I told her to slowly pull the bait toward the bank and when it got just shallow enough for me to see the top of the shell, stop, and I’d jump on it and catch it. Vear pulled on the bait just right and the turtle came with it toward the bank. Surprisingly, it held on and Vear pulled it right up to the bank.

Just about when it’s nose broke the water, it let go. Too late! I saw it’s back by then and jumped over to pick it up by it’s sides. Immediately, it swung it’s head, on it’s long neck, and tried to bite me. For a few seconds, it looked like I had a hot potato, switching each hand as the turtle tried to bite first one hand, then the other. It seemed to be getting closer each time it changed directions and I thought I was about to get bitten when I threw it on the bank.

The turtle started scrambling back toward the water as Vear and I tried to push it back up the bank. Vear used the stick while I half picked it up and shoved it with my hands, and a couple times, kicked it with my bare feet. Of course, when it almost got me on my big toe, I decided not to use my feet anymore. At the time, I wasn’t concerned about my fingers. The turtle was winning. It was getting closer to the water as we struggled pushing it back up the bank. Vear and I were hollering at each other to stop it, but seemed like neither of us could. Between it’s mouth snapping and the claws scratching me as I tried to pick it up, we had a dilemma trying to stop it from getting back to the water. Finally, only one foot before it got back to the water, I grabbed it’s little tail and picked it up. It couldn’t lift it’s body around high enough to bite me, but it could reach me with it’s back feet claws. I wasn’t about to let it go, though.

I kept trying to get it’s claws away from my hand as it tried to claw my hand off it’s tail. It started slipping out of my hand and I told Vear to push up on it with the stick so I could get a better grip. When Vear put the stick near its head to push up, it bit a plug of wood out of the stick. We were pretty excited already and when that happened, we got pretty scared, too. I slung it up on the dirt road and we jumped up there to battle some more.

This wasn’t a large turtle, but big enough to do damage to our little fingers if it caught one. It was about four to five inches around and, as typical, had a large head for it’s size. On the dirt road, I pinned it down with the stick and wanted Vear to pick it up. She said, you’re crazy, I’m not going to pick it up.

I finally got her to hold it sort-of still with the stick and I picked it up by grabbing it toward the rear and holding it’s back legs in it’s shell. That way, it couldn’t push my hands off, and my hands were too far back on it’s body for it to reach me with it’s mouth. I finally got it under control and we headed for the house.

We got about half way home before I dropped it. Vear left the stick at the bridge and I had to kick, push, grab, and try to keep it on the road until she ran back to get the stick to hold it down again. I thought I was going to loose a couple fingers or toes before she got back. Finally, I got it again and away we went.

After dropping it once more before we got home, it was pretty exciting when all the other kids ran out to see it. Mama heard the excitement and came out on the porch to see the turtle. She told us to let it go or we may get bitten. We did intend to let it go, eventually. We all took turns putting sticks close to it’s mouth and watching it clamp down on them. It broke a few of the smaller sticks and bit chunks out of the larger ones, or just held on. We pulled it’s head way out of it’s shell before it let go. After maybe fifteen minutes, now what? We knew it wouldn’t last long in a bucket if we tried to keep it, and sooner or later, it would get lucky and bite one of us if we kept playing with it. We didn’t want it back in the water at the bridge where we waded often, so we decided to just kill it.

When the turtle was dry on it’s back, I could hold it with one hand by pushing one of it’s back feet up into the shell and gripping hard. The other back foot couldn’t reach my hand and neither could it’s mouth. Now, how to kill it? The ax was too big so we decided to get the hatchet. I wanted Vear to pull it’s head out real far with a stick in it’s mouth while I used my other hand to chop off it’s head. Vear ran to get the hatchet while several of the other kids stood around to watch the execution.

When Vear got back, she wanted to chop off it’s head while I held it. I grabbed the hatchet and we had a pushing and pulling struggle while we argued. We were standing next to the chop block where we split up smaller blocks for the wood stove. There was a lot of wood on the ground and I stumbled a little as we shoved each other for the right to kill the turtle. All of a sudden, Ouch!

I guess during our struggle, I must have loosened my grip a little and the turtle twisted around and caught me on the middle finger on my left hand just before the first joint. My finger was pretty fleshy there and the turtle bit completely through my finger just barely missing the bone. I was hollering and let go of the hatchet and swung around trying to sling the turtle off my finger, or pull it off. The first happened.

I slung the turtle off. It still had hold of my finger, and proceeded to rip a good chunk of skin on my finger. Blood started poring from the rip. At first, I thought it bit off the end of my finger.

Well, that settled who was going to cut off it’s head. The other kids put some wooden blocks around the turtle so it couldn’t get away and I ran in the house to show Mama my finger.

Mama heard us coming and probably knew what happened. The first thing she said was, Uh huh!, what did I tell you about that turtle? Come here by the wash pan. Velma go get the coal oil (kerosene). Vear go get the alcohol.

She went to get a rag to wrap around my finger then came back and poured alcohol over my finger into the wash pan. I thought it would hurt more than it did. I guess a fresh wound doesn’t sting that much. Then, she wrapped it with a rag after carefully placing my finger tip back in place and poured coal oil over the rag. All this took only a few minutes and when she got through tying off the rag, I thought I was free to go back outside. She told me to wait a minute as she put the alcohol up and told Velma to take the coal oil back outside.

I was a little confused at first about what else she had to do. My finger had bled a lot, but was pretty much stopped now with the tightly tied off rag soaked with coal oil. What else was there to do? I found out as she entered the kitchen.

One little minor thing; give me a whipping. I figured I’d suffered enough with the turtle bite, but that didn’t change the fact that I was careless and got bit. Mama always kept a switch about the size of her first finger in a couple places in the house. They were dried good too. Not much chance of them