LEGEND OF AN OLD TATER FORK

His birth name was Paul but people who knew him, called him Pete. He grew up with the Youngblood family at Ridgedale Mo, a small community about a mile from the Arkansas border in southern Missouri. Born out of wedlock, with a speech impairment, his mother and family did not want anything to do with him. At that time he was thought to be mentally retarded. So at a young age Pete was turned into an outcast and homeless person. He was ridiculed and mocked by his peers at a time in his young life that should have been the Golden Years. When my grandfather first met him and saw the living conditions he was trying to survive in, decided right then and there that Pete was going to be a permanent part of the Youngblood family. He was a colorful character. His love was working the outdoors. Vegetable gardens were his favorites. In the spring when everything ripened he enjoyed showing everyone things that he had picked. His favorite past time was digging new potatoes. His most prized possession was a (tater fork) as he called it, which was used to dig new potatoes. He never worried about money, bills, taxes or current events, he enjoyed living in his own private world of simple and beautiful things. So you see I would never call Pete mentally retarded because in his small world of limited knowledge the things he loved to do were done well. I grew up with Pete, and when Granddad left he came to live with our family. Dad and Mom built him his own private house where he lived until his health got so bad that he had to move to a home where he could get professional care. Pete and I spent a lot of time in the woods. I think he could talk to the wild animals because they were never afraid of him. He would spot a deer or squirrel before I ever knew that they were there. His constant companion was an old homeless dog that dad had picked up somewhere wandering down the road. In his later years he would often go down into a hollow and couldn’t climb back up. So I would have to help him. He loved to cut down small trees with an ax. After the branches were all cleaned up, he would stack them in big piles ready to be cut up for firewood. They were a prized possession he would show everybody. He never forgot a name. When introduced to him for the first time you would never forget his name either. He was always doing things to make you laugh. Mom was working outside in the yard one day, she heard a racket coming from his house and decided to investigate and see what he was up to. There he was, singing a song and dancing. He sure was happy. He loved to chew tobacco. He would tell everyone, I was born in a (baccer) patch. Pete never asked for much out of life, just a kind word, something to eat and a place to lay his head. I am thankful I had the privilege of knowing him. He was one of the last true Legends of the Ozark mountains that will always be remembered with a smile when folk lore is discussed. Nature has now reclaimed the wood pile he created, old animal friends weep at his passing, his (tater fork) stands in the corner of the shed gathering rust from lack of use and the old lawnmower he used to cut the lawn with is silent, never to run again. Pete’s in heaven now, free of pain and reunited with the family that loved him so much. A true Legend is a special person like Pete that only come around once in a lifetime. It’s always hard to give them up. But I know God puts these special people on earth for a purpose and will never tolerate abuse or let them suffer too much. He will always find them a safe haven with families that treat their disabilities with love, not scorn. Pete, you were my friend. May the sun always shine bright on your new home and your vegetable garden be blessed with an abundance of fruit, May your (tater fork) stay bright and shiny. You were such an important part of my life and to all others that knew you. I will never forget. God Bless You, Rest in peace my friend.

Your Pal Max

JUST DAD, AN OLD HUNTING DOG AND ME

I awoke this morning to the sound of birds singing, and off in the distant I can hear the caw of a crow that is upset with some creature that has disturbed him. This is not just an ordinary morning. Something is calling me. I’m lying here not fully awake yet trying to figure out this unusual feeling I am experiencing. A gentle breeze is blowing through the open window of my bedroom. I recognize the familiar smell of the dogwood trees in bloom. They are releasing their fragrance and telling me that spring has come to the Ozark mountains of Missouri. I need to get up and enjoy this beautiful day God has provided for me. I was born and raised in this hilly country. My life was never boring, because there was always something exciting for a young boy like myself to do. We had numerous cattle ponds on the property that was stocked with catfish. I spent countless hours sitting on the bank fishing for them. I would lay my head back and close my eyes, fall asleep and dream about some simple problem that was so important to me at the time. My small world was full of positive things. This morning I want to go squirrel hunting and have to get out of bed because it’s a special day and I have a lot of walking and exploring to do. I know the old dog is ready to go. I can hear him moving around. The squirrels will be busy eating acorns to store up fat reserves for the coming winter. It will be a great time for a hunt. I slip out of bed very quietly, put my clothes on, get my gun and shells and slowly open the door. Low and behold there sits dad with a big grin. He has gotten up early. The call of the wild has given him the same idea as me. I love to hunt with him and listen to the tall tales he tells about experiences and events that happened during his lifetime. He is such an inspiration to people who know him. I feel like I’m ten feet tall when we are together. He is not only my dad but also my friend. This morning we head for the old Dutchman place. It’s about a mile from our house and a good place to hunt or just be by yourself. Dad and I are walking down the old road going real slow when we hear the dog bark. That sound I know very well. It is one of the greatest experiences you will ever have if you love to hunt the outdoors. It means that your dog has found a squirrel and has run it up a tree. You have to go slow now because when you get to where the dog is and make too much noise the squirrel will get scared and start jumping from tree to tree. When that happens, he will get away. We get to the spot and start looking, sure enough the squirrel is hiding on the opposite side of the tree. Dad looks over to me and says: Max! Go down the hill and shake a bush. So I wade through all the black berry vines, getting my face scratched, all the time looking out for poison ivy plants, because I’m very allergic to the oil they secrete, all the while trying to find a bush small enough to shake so the squirrel will move to dad’s side in order for him to get a shot. True to form as soon as the little animal sees me, he moves to the opposite side of the tree and dad takes a shot and gets him. Down he comes and lands right in the middle of that black berry patch. I feel like Briar Rabbit trying to retrieve him. To this very day when I sleep at night I can see my dad and still hear him saying: Max! Walk down the hill and shake a bush. He loved old dogs and always had one around him that someone had discarded. All of them lived their lives on our farm and never had to worry about being abandoned somewhere else. The Dutchman place was very unique because of all the different varieties of trees it had. There were black walnut, wild persimmon, sassafras and a abundance of oak trees. The wild animals loved it. There are deer, turkey, squirrel, fox and many other species too numerous to name. It was a hunters paradise. A lot of family history is associated with that piece of land and Dad loved to talk about it. It was originally owned by a German family and got its name The Dutchman Place. I know my brother was born when Dad and Mom lived there. I can remember my uncle living there and walking down over the hill to get water for him from the natural cave that is on the property. When I was growing up, I spent many days exploring the old cave, looking for an imaginary treasure I thought existed in its dark caverns, just to have something to do. The old pond by the road was a place to swim, kill water snakes, raise minnows and Gold Fish. There was also an abundance of Deer. In the fall of the year Dad would put me on a Big Rock that lies at the back of the property with a shotgun and told me to sit still so he could chase a Deer to me off the next hill to kill for our winters meat supply. I remember sitting on that rock when it was so cold I could hardly stand it. We usually got our Deer. Golly! I have got to get up. Dad is waiting. All at once I open my eyes and realize that I have been dreaming. I’m a long way from our farm and Dad had to leave years ago. Oh what a great experience I have just had. Too bad it’s not real. Our old hunting area probably is overgrown with vegetation now. Nature has taken it back. All those pleasant memories will forever exist deep in my heart of Just Dad an old Hunting Dog and me.

Max Youngblood