Mr. Alton and his boy Dennis came by the store at Myrick’s Mill to pick up some hog feed and a few other supplies. After loading his supplies he stood at the counter drink’n a Coca Cola. He said that he had gotten a quart of oysters at the fish market when he went to Macon this morning and Buck (that’s his wife) was mak’in some oyster stew for supper. Ya’ll come tonight if you can. Of course, it didn’t take arm twisting to get Daddy to join someone for a bowl of Oyster stew. It was something one just didn’t get everyday. Dennis and I looked at one another, both mak’in the same ugly faces. We never said a word but thoughts were obviously the same; we hoped we never got oyster stew on any day. Fried maybe, if we could just learn to eat them without biting and looking into what we were eating. They weren’t too bad, though we didn’t dare admit it.

As quickly as the frown appeared, it turned to wide eyes and a smile. Again, we must have thought about the same thing at the same time. That’s the way it is between best buddies, you know. They function on the same wave-length, you might say. Dennis and I grew up together, were the same age, in the same class, visited and spent nights with each other as little boys do.

If the parents were to get together for supper tonight, then we could spend the remainder of the afternoon together, we reasoned. Isn’t it fun when you grow up and have children and grand children of your own, to sometimes shock them by anticipating and telling them exactly what they’re thinking, before they say it. It’s just the look on their face, or knowing the situation that you shock them with your ability to foreknow with almost spiritual awe exactly what they are thinking. You see, they don’t realize that you were once a little one, too; They just can’t imagine it!

Dennis and I always had a good time at his place because he had a good barn. Barns stock hay and sacks of feed. The feed attracted rats. The hay and the rats attracted little boys. At age 11 or 12, it’s a heck of a challenge to sneak around the bales of hay watching for rats, then shooting them with a .22 rifle loaded with rat shot.

Summer was approaching and the last day of school had arrived for everyone of the bus. Dennis stepped off the school bus and told Miss Selma, the bus driver that, come next school year, she could pick him up across the road at his new house. Like many of the day, Dennis lived in a good, but old unpainted country house close to the county road. The family was building a new brick house across but well back from the road in a grove of oak trees. Since it was the last remark as he left the bus that day, Dennis was obviously proud of the family’s new house and he was looking forward to living there.

The first cutting of hay was scheduled for the week school dismissed and Dennis went with his Dad to help cut and bale hay. Dennis, as most youth, helped on the farm and often drove the tractor even at the young age of eleven. The old hay baler was cranky and required the operator to periodically reach into a part of the baling machine to make the wire catch and tighten around the bale. It was a particularly dangerous maneuver; a fatal maneuver in this case. Dennis’ arm was caught by the rollers that compressed the hay and his body was pulled partially into the machinery, crushing him before Mr. Alton could shut the operation down. We were later told of Dennis’ last words, “you aren’t’ going to let me die are you Daddy”? I can hardly bear to think how Mr. Alton must have felt at that moment. Living is often a personal choice; Dieing is most often not. Dennis died while being rushed to the hospital.

Later the same day Mamma came up the path from the store to our yard where I was cutting grass to tell me the sad news. Almost 50 years have past since, but I remember the occasion as clearly as if it were yesterday, even the place in the yard where I was stood when Mamma told me about my best buddy.

As all neighborhoods, Myrick’s Mill offered a community of fun experiences, memorable people doing things to be remembered and, on occasions, events one wishes had never been experienced.

©2003 - William C. Humphries, Jr.