Hawgs, Dawgs and Freedom: A Story of Survival

By A. W. Sibley

This is the story of how the author and his family survived hard times after losing their dairy farm during the Great Depression. To make a living for a large family, they moved to a farm near the Sabine River bottom, into an area known as No Man’s Land. They had to contend with disease, floods, predators, and thieves.

On the positive side was the isolation and freedom enjoyed by the children. It was a wonderful way of life that taught perseverance and independence to anyone tough enough to endure.

This story tells about life in the generations past. Actually, it was not long ago as we count time, but seems like it because of the many changes that have taken place in our society. Not many years ago we could walk through the woods without our neighbors suing us for trespass. Children could pray in school. You could build a fire in the fireplace to warm the house without being accused of polluting the air. Parents were in charge of their children’s eating habits, whether good or bad, but still in charge. It was a time when individuals took responsibility for their actions and didn’t look to others for a handout. This generation knew a life of hard work inspired by a desire to make a life better for ourselves, our children, and our grandchildren.

This is a story that shows life is what man makes of it, not what life makes of man. A story of how despair can be set aside with laughter. A story about the class of people who made the United States of America the land of the free and the home of the brave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 14, 2018

A. W. Sibley

Dr. Sibley was born and raised in the small town of Negreet, Louisiana. After serving in the U.S. Army he attended McNeese State University in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and Loyola University in New Orleans where he obtained his Doctorate in Dentistry. Dr. Sibley spent his career working as a country dentist in rural Louisiana. When not at the dental office, he enjoyed spending his off hours in the pursuit of various activities included farming, raising horses, cattle, developing land, hunting, fishing, and raising kids. Raising four children with his wife Margaret, he retired from dentistry and resides in Merryville, Louisiana and enjoys farming and writing. His first published work “A Wolf Called Ring” was released in 2014, receiving much acclaim in the literary market, and even hailed as a modern day Mark Twain. His second work “A Filly Called Honey Gal” was released in 2015, followed by “A Wolf in God’s Country” in 2016, “Dub’s Misadventures” and “Home Again” in 2017. Hawgs, Dawgs and Freedom is a departure from The Wolf series. A heartfelt story of a man’s life. A story that shows life is what man makes of it, not what life makes of man. A story of how despair can be set aside with laughter. A story about the class of people who made the United States of America the land of the free and the home of the brave. Visit Dr. Sibley. at: https://www.docsibley.com

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Hawgs, Dawgs and Freedom

A Story of Survival

Dr. A.W. Sibley

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-477-9

Copyright © 2018

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction based upon real life experiences. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or copyright owner.

The Lord Is My Shepherd

A Psalm of David

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my wife, Margaret, the light of my life; daughter, Lisa, and niece Cathleen, for all their hard work. A special thanks to my friend, Charles, for his advice and encouragement.

Many thanks to my brother J.V. for sharing his memories of this special time in our lives.

Dedication

For my grandchildren–how it was when I was growing up.

Preface

Let me tell you about life in the generations past. Actually, it was not long ago as we count time, but seems like it because of the many changes that have taken place in our society. Not many years ago we could walk through the woods without our neighbors suing us for trespass. Children could pray in school. I could build a fire in my fireplace to warm my house without being accused of polluting the air. Parents were in charge of their children’s eating habits, whether good or bad, but still in charge. It was a time when individuals took responsibility for their actions and didn’t look to others for a handout. My generation knew a life of hard work inspired by a desire to make life better for ourselves, our children, and our grandchildren.

Some of the changes that have occurred have been good, such as the many advances in medical science. Other changes have crippled our grandchildren if they ever have to survive without modern conveniences such as electricity and grocery stores. Many will not know how to find food and water. It is not entirely their fault, they have not been taught how to survive in an unfriendly world.

I hope my memories of how my family faced hard times will make readers question their own survival skills. I realize young people who might get hints of reality will probably never read this. I freely give this suggestion to all grandparents; encourage or forbid your grandchildren to read this book–whichever will work–it might save their lives.

I'm a fairly well-educated fellow with a pretty good command of the English language, but I’m going to use a kind of relaxed English also called the vernacular of west Sabine Parish, Louisiana. I hope to show you how hogs and dogs were an important integral part of our frontier life in the Sabine River bottom.

I feel a certain urgency about this endeavor. My older siblings have all gone home to be with Jesus. I'm the old patriarch, the oldest one left of nine.

Chapter One

This is my family’s story about our personal freedom in America in the 1930s and 40s. Ours was a common way of life in many respects but unique to us because we were the ones living it. Like many others, we were poor in a monetary sense but rich with stubbornness and determination to survive, which meant we had to provide for ourselves. We didn’t have a choice–our nation was in the grips of the Great Depression and on the verge of World War II.

In 1933, I was born into a fairly well-to-do family at Many, Louisiana. Three years later, Dad had been ruined financially in a price war with a large dairy company. He lost his dairy farm, cotton farm, and our home. That began a slide down toward poverty for my family that worsened with time.

After several moves, we finally settled about two miles south of the old El Camino Real in Sabine Parish. The El Camino Real was the old road from Natchitoches, Louisiana across the river to Nacogdoches, Texas and on to Old Mexico. We lived in the area that was known as No Man’s Land. It was called that for a reason. No Man’s Land included the territory between the Calcasieu River and the Sabine River claimed by both the United States and Spain. It included about 5,000 square miles extending from Rio Hondo, a small short stream near Natchitoches, Louisiana, south to the Gulf of Mexico. Boundary disputes between Spain and the United States led to a treaty that declared this territory as a neutral zone where neither side could send troops or peace officers. The lack of law enforcement allowed the area to become a haven for outlaws and illegal activities, thus the name, No Man’s Land.

Three or four generations had passed since my ancestors had settled in the area. I didn’t care why they chose the area, I was just glad they had. It was sparsely inhabited with a wild frontier feel that still remained.

***

At the time of my family’s last move, I had just turned six years old. I had three older sisters, a brother three years younger, and an infant sister. The last move actually wound up as freedom for us kids. I didn't know it at the time, but this would be the most carefree time in my life. We had moved to a farm we called the Courtney Place, named for the man who homesteaded there. The farm was down a little logging road in the woods south of Negreet, Louisiana off the road between Negreet and Pine Flats. This area is west of Many, the Sabine Parish seat, on the edge of the Sabine River bottom. We didn’t have any close neighbors, the nearest farm was several miles through the woods. Mother worried a lot about the isolation but Dad had a different attitude. He said, Turn the kids loose and let them hit the woods. Just leave the little rascals alone. They have got to learn how to look out for themselves in this world.

So Mother turned us loose–there was no way she could keep us corralled and also take care of all her own work on the farm. The wilderness along the Negreet Creek and Sabine River became our playground with Mother Nature acting as our teacher. At home, Dad taught us how to work and why we had to work. He was a stern disciplinarian and didn't tolerate any opposition against his will. Mother taught us how to love. I can't really say I got a whole lot of love from Dad, but there was plenty of discipline.

***

It was common practice for folks living in the country to own dogs for protection as well as work. Most of the dogs in our area were cur dogs because they were a hardy breed and made good stock dogs for working cattle and hogs.

Dad had a two-year old yellow, glass-eyed, black-mouth cur dog named Queen. He claimed she was the best and smartest dog he ever owned. She had her first litter of puppies after we moved to the Courtney Place. Dad gave the only male puppy in the litter to me for my very own. I was mighty proud of that little dog. I named him Ring. He was the first in a long line of dogs I had, named Ring.

By the time little Ring was big enough to follow me around, I was the proud owner of a little single shot .22 rim-fire rifle. It was one of the older models. I had to pull the hammer back to drop a bullet in. When I raised the block up behind the bullet and pulled the hammer all the way back, the rifle was ready to fire.

When Dad gave me the gun, Mother objected and raised Cain. She said, Vivian, a six-year-old can't just be turned loose in the woods with a weapon like that!

I never will forget what Dad said. He was speaking to Mother but he looked straight at me and said, It'll make a man of him or it’ll kill him.

I knew Dad wasn’t referring just to the gun; he was also referring to the part about the woods. In my young mind, Dad had set me free to try anything I felt big enough to tackle. The rest of the message also came through: I was responsible for the consequences, whether good or bad.

Of course I got kicked, butted and hooked a few times. I also got bit, scratched, and pawed a few times. But, I survived and so did little Ring for many years.

Taking advantage of my new-found freedom, I discovered that solitude was wonderful and exactly what I craved. I never outgrew my love for the peace and quiet I found in the woods and swamp.

I quickly learned to complete my assigned chores and disappear into the woods. One of my first adventures was fishing. I purloined a piece of line with a good hook from one of Dad's trot lines. I headed to the spring branch that ran into Negreet Creek below our home. I cut a set-pole to stick in the bank. For bait, I turned over a rotten log and found a sawyer worm. I put it on the hook, drop it in the water and in just a few minutes I had a blue-cat about twelve inches long.

I could hardly wait to taste my catch. Dad had taught me to always be very careful with fire, so I cleared off a wide area before I built a little fire.

With my pocketknife, I cleaned my fish and cut a green switch cane about five feet long. I stuck some strips of fish on the end of the cane and held the strips over the fire. Although I turned the cane over and over, the fish was still half raw when I ate it. I wasn’t really happy with the taste and determined to do better next time.

Before my next fishing trip, I found a piece of tin about six inches square in Dad's workshop and hid it on the bank near where I had built the fire. In a book I had been reading by Joseph Altsheler, I had learned I should let my fire burn down to a bed of coals before I cooked my fish. (Yes, I was reading by the time I started school.)

The first time I cooked a piece of fish on the tin, it stuck and I had to scrape it off before I could turn it over with my pocketknife. It didn't take long to find out I needed to put grease on the tin. So I borrowed a pint jar with a lid from Mother’s pantry and filled it with lard, also from Mother’s pantry.

Understand, I wasn't filthy with my project. I took the piece of tin to the creek and scoured it with sand before I hid it away.

Another must–was matches. That rubbing two sticks together didn’t work for me. I didn’t have time to fool with that mess so I also hid matches along with my lard and piece of tin. The best thing in the world I found for holding my matches was an empty medicine bottle with a screw cap lid. The matches had to be the kind that strike on anything. The stem had to be broken to make the matches fit in a small bottle, but I didn’t care, I just wanted the lid on tight. I carried a second bottle that fit nicely in my overall and blue jeans pockets because I wanted to be able to swim the creek and still have dry matches. Eventually, I replaced the piece of tin with a little pan but I kept my stash of lard and matches.

What I learned while working on the farm wasn’t what I needed to know to survive in the woods. Solitude had become important to me so I was determined to learn how to live off the land. When I asked questions of grownups they treated me as if I wasn’t serious. After lots of practice, I became accurate enough with my slingshot to kill an occasional bird. Most of the time, I built a little fire and broiled the bird while I sat and enjoyed the peace and quiet. That is when I decided to add salt to my stash.

***

Most of our neighbors were kinfolks. Like our ancestors, family members still had a tendency to settle near each other. Several of Dad’s brothers and sisters lived within a ten mile radius. If I went to any of their homes, I struck out on horseback through the woods. That was not a problem, most country folks owned and rode horses. They were necessary to our way of life.

The first horse I was allowed to ride was a dependable little horse named Tony. Tony wasn’t much to look at, he looked kind of lopsided because he had only one ear. Somewhere in the past, one ear had been knocked off. But I didn’t mind, and it certainly didn’t bother Tony. We got along fine and spent a lot of time together.

One day the mail carrier, who was Dad’s cousin, put a note in our mailbox to let us know that Aunt Eddy was bad sick. Aunt Eddy was Dad's sister who lived about seven miles across Negreet Creek in the edge of the Sabine River bottom. At the time, we didn't own a car, so Dad told me to ride Tony over and bring back news about Aunt Eddy. Mother got me up before daylight the next morning for an early start. She gave me an extra biscuit to stick in my shirt pocket in case I got hungry.

We followed a trail for about two hours, just me, Ring, and Tony enjoying the solitude and sounds of nature. The trail was an old logging road along the top of a hickory ridge. Eventually, I reached the place where I had to leave the ridge and descend to the crossing on Negreet Creek toward Uncle Dale and Aunt Eddy’s. I'll be a son-of-a-gun! Instead of the usual crossing, I couldn’t see anything but water. The creek was out of its banks. It looked like a river instead of a creek. I was scared but I still had to go to Aunt Eddy's. Dad had said go, and to tell you the truth, I was more afraid of my

Dad than I was of that water.

Determined, I rode my little one-eared horse off into that mess. Tony hadn't gone two hundred yards until he was swimming. The trail was pretty obvious for a ways as there was a lot of timber and I could follow the opening. Tony was soon swimming hard. I knew he was a good swimmer, so I didn’t panic, but the further we went, the harder Tony had to swim. I had a grip on my horse’s mane that Mother Nature herself couldn't have pried loose.

When we finally reached shallow water on the far side, we had washed downstream and faced a high steep bank instead of the trail. Getting back to the trail, Tony had to swim along a sandy stretch of bank. Once on the bank, we had to fight our way through a dense briar patch. Ring had stayed on the bank down at water’s edge and swam back up to the trail. He was standing on the trail waiting for us when Tony finally tore through the last of the briar patch. I was wet to my waist but getting wet didn't bother me. I did worry a little about my biscuit getting soggy.

We went on up to Aunt Eddy's. Sure enough she was really bad sick. I hadn’t been around sickness much and I really hated to walk by her sickroom. When I slipped past the door, Uncle Dale must have noticed how upset I was. Since I was a kid, I think he comforted me in the only way he knew. He asked, Are you hungry? You want something to eat?

I told him I couldn’t stay for breakfast because Dad was waiting on me to get back home. I thanked him and said, Mother sent me off with a biscuit in case I got hungry.

He said, I've got a couple of pieces of bacon already fried. You take it with you to go with your biscuit.

Uncle Dale wrapped the bacon up, so I stuck it in my pocket. I intended to share with Ring later. Ring was waiting back out at the edge of the woods on the other side of the tromp yard. Ring was a smart dog and had learned to stay where I put him. I certainly didn't want him in a fight with Uncle Dale’s dogs.

I got my horse and we headed on back toward home. When we reached the creek, the water had risen some more, so I had to figure out how to get back across. I turned Tony upstream just a little bit before we reached the swift water roiling through the edge of the timber. He went nearly straight across until his feet hit bottom on the other side and back up in the trail.

When we reached the top of the ridge, I sat down with my back to a tree and cried a little bit about Aunt Eddy. She was Dad’s oldest sister. Dad was the youngest of twelve in his family, but even with the age difference, they were close in lots of ways. Family members looked out for each other.

I dried my eyes and checked my biscuit and bacon. Both were dry so I shared with Ring before we headed for home. Further down the ridge past my turnoff toward home, was a place I had heard stories about. It was where the member of a neighboring family had waylaid and killed Uncle Shon, one of Dad’s brothers. I didn’t know the full story–just that it was an argument about a hog. Kind of tells how important hogs were in their lives.

***

Hogs were definitely important to us. The same was true for most of the people living along the Sabine River in those days. But without horses and dogs, we could not manage the hogs. To his credit, Dad was good at handling all three. He owned several horses and didn’t ride the same horse for every job. Most often he rode a big stallion named Lily when he worked cattle and an iron-gray mare named Missie, when he worked hogs in the woods. He definitely made a winning trade when he got Missie from some gypsies. She was a fine using animal for everything except plowing. Dad didn’t even try to plow her because he said a good saddle horse would be ruined under a plow.

We had lots of hogs in the woods and made good cash money with them plus we ate pork year round. Since everybody’s hogs ran on open range, we marked our hogs so we could recognize them as ours. Everybody in the country had a registered mark they put on their hogs for identification purposes. Dad’s mark was a split and under-bit in the right and an over half-crop in the left. It just meant we cut part of their ears off in a distinctive pattern so we could tell it was ours.

Most of the hogs running free in the woods were semi-wild, especially the younger sows and shoats. The older sows weren’t as wild because they had contact with people and dogs several times a year. Dad didn’t sell a sow that raised good litters, he kept her until she died of natural causes.

For anyone who might not know, a 'shoat' is a young hog of either sex. A 'gilt' is a female shoat. A 'bar' is really a 'barrow' or castrated male pig.

When it was time to inspect or gather some of our hogs, Dad had his own way of doing it. We usually took three or four dogs with us to work the hogs. When the dogs picked up the scent on a herd, they ran the trail down, started circling the hogs and soon had them bunched up. Any outlying hogs quickly joined the group, they didn't want to be left out on the edge by themselves.

Sometime old boars were in the herd. They might be five or six years old and contrary as all get-out. When the first dog barked, those older boars generally left in a hard run. That was fine, we didn't want to contend with the belligerent old things anyway. Gradually, the dogs pushed the outside hogs in a tighter circle until it was very compact. To maintain the tight formation, the dogs continued to circle, bark and hassle the hogs. Well-trained dogs learned early to stay spaced out on the edge to keep the hogs hemmed in. Our dogs were good at this because we trained and worked them regularly.

If it was a trip to inspect a herd, Dad took a young pup or two along. Our pups started their training as soon as they were big enough to keep up with the older dogs. After a trip or two, if Dad didn’t like the way a pup progressed or worked, he simply dismounted and killed the slow learner. That may seem cruel, but a dog unable or unwilling to learn the job was a liability and danger to the other dogs as well as the men.

***

Dad always carried a sack of shelled corn tied behind his saddle. After the inspection was complete, he threw a few handfuls of corn down to the hogs and whistled the dogs off. We knew the hogs would stay right there until they clean up every bit of that corn while we moved on to the next bunch, which might be a mile away. As soon as one dog barked, the other dogs converged on the site. The hogs would rally and by the time we got there, the dogs had the bunch gathered in a wad.

We moved through the woods and checked as many herds as time and location allowed.

Sometimes after an inspection, Dad needed to mark some piglets. He had a method all his own. I don’t know of anyone else who used this method. He always rode Missie on those trips because when he dropped the reins, Missie was ground-tied and didn't move. He'd take that sack of corn and throw a few handfuls of corn in among the hogs but he would not whistle the dogs off.

If there was a sow with a litter of piglets in the bunch, they always huddled close around their mother. Usually by the time their litters were of a size to be marked, sows had already quit the larger herd. There wouldn't be but one