Barker Ten Mile: Stories from the Edge

By Christopher Musselwhite

The stories in Barker Ten Mile string together the boyhood adventures of a certain Chris Musselwhite – stories he swears are true, and not the least bit stretched. Perhaps we can give him the benefit of the doubt as he sagely never casts himself the hero.
How else could we stand for such extravagant, fantastical accounts of Christmas in July, of a glass eye popped out for any paying schoolboy, of a place you can no longer find on the map? How else could we believe the wonder and danger and skin-of-your-teeth luck he knew on a green patch of earth, on the edge of a changing world?
Read to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664193109

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Christopher Musselwhite.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/22/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

831428

CONTENTS

Prologue

Impaled

Fatback

July Christmas

The Lone Ranger

Dusty and the Jet

First Communion

Bulletproof

War Zone

Hell Fire

The Glass Eye

The Big Dig

Refuge

Hornets and Chickens

Bubble’s

Acknowledgments

About the Author

These stories are dedicated to my grandchildren, Harlan Musselwhite, Hinton Musselwhite, Wyatt Tobey, Charlie Tobey and Mary Nash Tobey, and to all the farmers who work hard to provide the food we consume—especially those who grow healthy, organic vegetables and fruits and humanely raised meat. Half of any profit from the sale of this book will go to the food security programs at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market (gsofarmersmarket.org) and the Robeson County Church and Community Center (robesontogether.org).

PROLOGUE

My ancestral home, both the Musselwhite and Mercer family farms, is situated along a mile-long stretch of Regan Church Road on the edge of Barker Ten Mile, a rural community roughly triangulated by the town of Lumberton and the communities of Tolarsville and Smiths Township in Robeson County, North Carolina. My ancestors have farmed this land since before the American Revolution. It is aptly named Barker Ten Mile for its juxtaposition to Barker Methodist Church and the Ten Mile Swamp which weaves through the community.

The Barker Ten Mile that I knew as a child no longer exists. I wanted my grandchildren to have a glimpse into my early years there and, with no museum to transport us on a sentimental tour, I started telling them stories.

My initial plan was to write two or three of my most memorable stories from growing up on the literal edge of the Barker Ten Mile Community and the figurative edge of my extended family. I decided I would give the stories to my grandchildren and that would be the end of it.

But when I started writing, something unexpected happened. The colors in my memories became brighter, the sounds more vivid, and long-buried feelings resurrected. Lost stories resurfaced, also begging to be told. The more I wrote and rewrote and rewrote, the more I remembered and reclaimed the stories.

When I’d tell my grandchildren one of the stories their reaction was always, Pop, tell us another one. Soon they knew the stories and started correcting me if I strayed from the plot. There was the time I dug my own personal Cold War fallout shelter which flooded and was then invaded by ducks, the memories of being impaled by a pitch fork, and having to stop in the middle of a high school football game to chase chickens off the field.

Those and many other stories which I had nearly forgotten and never appreciated now became exciting, even adventurous. My grandchildren’s curiosity helped me to appreciate the uniqueness of Barker Ten Mile and my place in that community, as well as within my family. I developed an appreciation for the boy who navigated that sometimes dangerous and occasionally dysfunctional world, often alone, and the fortitude it took to traverse it.

The stories play out on a backdrop of a changing South, racially, economically and culturally. These stories reflect my experience and, as a consequence, a limited view of that world. I’ve lived long enough to know that two people can have the same experience and tell different stories. Some of these stories contain realistic descriptions of injuries, blood, guns, misdeeds and violence. I’ve only told my grandchildren these stories as I’ve felt they were old enough to hear and discuss them.

I can only hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I have enjoyed remembering and writing them.

Welcome to Barker Ten Mile—or at least my corner of Barker Ten Mile.

farm%20map.jpgcommunity%20map.jpgpartone.jpg

IMPALED

E VERY SPRING, MY mother chose one day to clean our house of a winter’s worth of dust, cobwebs and darkness. That day had arrived, and with the doors and windows propped open, she was laser focused on her broom, mop and dust rag. My sister Paula and I were banished to the yard so that, at least for a few minutes after she finished, her house would be spotless.

Achieving spotlessness in an old farm house was at best aspirational. The dirt from the surrounding fields seeped through every crack and covered every surface in a layer of dust deep enough to write your name in. And the cobwebs were as invasive as kudzu.

Out from under our mother’s normally protective eye, Paula and I wandered farther away from the house than was generally allowed, eventually finding our way to the hay barn on the back side of the farm yard. The barn door was usually latched, but not on that day. The height from the ground to the barn floor was too much for five-year old legs, so I mounted a short tree stump my dad had placed by the door as a makeshift step.

Inside the barn, I wandered into waist-deep hay. Pressing forward, I lost my balance and fell sideways, much like when I’d tried to walk in the surf at Holden Beach.

The barn floor was simply out of reach for three-year-old Paula. She managed to climb onto the tree stump step, but that was as far as she could go. I could see her curly blond hair above the barn floor but, as I stumbled toward the ladder to the loft, the hay swallowed me and I lost sight of her.

Since I was not allowed in the hay barn, I was pretty certain I was not allowed to climb the ladder. It was only eight steps, but I struggled to reach my toes to the first rung. Persistence paid off and the rise in elevation and perspective with each new rung increased my motivation. I could only imagine what I might find at the top.

The loft consisted of a narrow balcony that stretched around three sides of the barn’s interior. I cautiously slid on my bottom across the rough lumber, inch by inch, to the very edge and swung my legs over. Below me was a sea of loose, unbaled hay.

My sense of up and down was faltering. My heart raced. An invisible force pulled me ever closer to the edge against my will. I wanted to crawl back to the ladder but knew I couldn’t possibly make my way down. The only way down was to jump.

Imagining the barn below was filled with spectators, even though it was only Paula peeking over the door threshold, I mustered all the courage I