"Bill - The Dancing Guitarist"

Playing music has been this writer’s, “drug of choice,” since the age of nine. No high in the world (sorry, honey) can compare with having performed a popular song for a receptive crowd of listeners. Standing ovations are sweet payback for the fatigue of packing and moving heavy amplifiers and sound equipment, untold hours of practice, and the pain of developing and maintaining calluses on bleeding fingertips.

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of music; and for the blessing of being a guitarist in an enormously popular band, in Atlanta, Georgia, during the 1970’s.

“Silver Creek,” was our band’s name.

The nucleus of the band had been together since high school. Our first gigs were a high school talent show (which we won by performing two of the biggest tunes of the day – Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River” and Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4”) and playing in the lunch room during 4th period (A, B, & C Lunch) on St. Patircks’ Day (our school was the “Fighting Irish”). The band was extremely popular with our fellow students.

All bands eventually go through personnel changes. This one certainly did.

Some of our guys happened to work with two other musicians who were looking to join a band. 

Musician #1 was a really good drummer – skinny as a rail, with fiery red hair. “Robert” would become a real asset to our group in the years to come.

Musician #2 was a vocalist who was also a songwriter, harmonica player, and the owner a decent PA system – which we badly needed at the time. “Bob” became the tender-hearted core of our band. 

These fellows were welcomed into our number. The band that would become "SilverCreek" was beginning to take shape.

The next hurdle was and is the most common one faced by every band that has ever struck up a tune. 

Where does this band practice?

We had bounced around between parents’ living rooms, neighborhood garages, at least one old barn, and an apartment complex clubhouse (where some of our equipment was eventually stolen). About this time, as good fortune would have it, this writer’s parents moved from one metro Atlanta County to another, and into a brick house with a basement. This house was located on what was then still somewhat of a county road, on a piece of land that was surrounded with woods on one side and open terrain on the other. It was THE perfect place for a loud band to practice.

The 1970’s was rock music's heyday. Places to play were as plentiful as fleas on a collie. Clubs, bars, singles apartment clubhouse parties, fraternity and sorority parties, corporate outings, private parties, restaurants and “lounges,” county fairs, small concert halls, outdoor sports venues, grand openings for new businesses, high school dances and pep rallies, and a hundred other venue types were constantly needing rock and roll bands. The work was steady and the money was decent. 

Silver Creek had found its place. We were a working band, and loving every rock and roll minute of it.

One of our favorite places to play was a restaurant/bar just west of Atlanta. “Effie’s Kitchen” served good food, and had rock bands playing six nights per week. 

Silver Creek was given a tryout at Effie’s when their regular cover band had a conflict on a Saturday night booking. A good audition would bring a week-long gig. That Saturday afternoon we loaded up the gear and headed out. The largest crowd ever at Effie’s showed up that night to hear our little five piece group. The night was truly "electric." After three hours non-stop cover tunes from Aerosmith, Grand Funk Railroad, Bad Company, ZZ Top, BTO, The Stones, and others, the crowd refused to go home. 

When the night was over, the club owner told us we were THE best local band he had ever heard. We were immediately booked for an entire month, which was longer than Effie’s had ever held a group over. Our time had finally come. We could quit our day jobs.

Effie’s Kitchen attracted all types of people. Long hairs, rednecks, hippies, geeks, bikers, blue collar and white collar, black and white, male and female. They all came for different reasons, but, certainly, many were there because loud rock and roll were there.

One segment of Effie's clientele was especially prolific. The female segment.

Women, women and more women. They came in the door like cattle at a county fair auction. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads, tall, round, thin, big-chested, flat-chested, bone-hard ugly, drop-dead gorgeous, some of legal age, and some not. One by one these precious creatures appeared. They had several things in common: they were searching for a good time, hoping to dance a little, and maybe even find a nice guy to talk to. There might have been other reasons. 

Too, anyone who has ever followed rock and roll knows a universal truth about women who show up at clubs, concerts, and most other places where music is played. Women L-O-V-E the boys in the band! One of THE sweetest places on earth for a musician to be is onstage performing before an adoring crowd of females.

One of the “boys” in our band was “Bill.” He was our second guitarist and sang harmony vocal. Bill was an excellent musician, and could also repair while blindfolded any amplifier, microphone, or other electronic gizmo.

There was one thing, though, that Bill was NOT. He was not a dancer - by any means. If Bill had starred in “Saturday Night Fever,” the Bee Gees might never have gotten beyond singing for weddings and funerals. Bill rarely if ever moved while onstage. His guitar work was impeccable and he capably sang many a harmony line. But, beyond this, Bill was never going to be confused with Tom Jones or Elvis.

One particular Saturday night, Effie’s Kitchen was “hopping.” Silver Creek was loud and in fine form. The crowd had developed a buzz, and the dance floor was filled on every song. As always, women – hot, incredibly good looking women – were everywhere. What a great time to be young, a guitar player, and part of a really, really good rock band. 

Sweet memories.

At one point during the show, the dance floor emptied with the exception of one young lady. She was a strawberry blonde in her early twenties, the possessor of a beautiful face, and an even better physique. She was wearing stacked heels, tight jeans, and the prettiest orange, 100% cotton, tube top that K-Mart ever sold. That top was perfectly positioned in the one area of this pretty young thing’s upper torso. No one would have ever guessed where that top would eventually wind up.

The song that seemed to light this young thing’s fire was ZZ Top’s hit, “Waitin’ On The Bus.” Her boyfriend stayed with her on the dance floor through the first half of, “Waiting On The Bus.” But, retreated to a seat when the tune changed gears. The second part of the song was a slow, bluesy type number, with a steady, pulsating bass line. It was THE perfect song for a lead guitarist to show his chops; and, for a pretty young thing in an orange tube top to show hers.

In the middle of the guitar solo, the action began. All alone now on the dance floor, she must have known that every guy in the place was watching her. Slowly, sensuously, and graphically, this young lady began to disrobe. One gentle tug after another at that orange top was gradually bringing it ever closer to her navel. 

And, not a bouncer in sight.

Almost every male in the place was going crazy. This serious guitar player was right in the middle of the aforementioned solo. As he carefully watched what he was paying on the fretboard, he was oblivious to what was happening just a few feet in front of him on the dance floor. He assumed the audience was cheering for him. Never did any audience we ever played for make that much noise.

Suddenly, Robert, our drummer, began screaming. “Hey...Look, man!...Look at…BILL!” I opened my eyes and saw the eye-popping mammarial display only a few feet away. Robert yelled again, “Man!...Look at BILL!” Robert was attempting to continue the beat of the song while gesturing wildly toward the opposite end of the stage with one of his drumsticks.

When this guitar player was finally able to look, what he saw was extraordinary.

Bill was D-A-N-C-I-N-G!

Bill - the science freak, egghead, intellectual, solitary, “stationary” man – was hopelessly overcome with the sensuous, fleshly display he was witnessing. Bill was smiling, laughing, moving around, swaying, leaning back and forth, shaking his head in approval, and doing a "dance" all his own.

This stoic, unmovable, guy, that normally stood like a proverbial Cigar Store Indian, was going absolutely rock and roll crazy! That little stage at Effie’s rocked and rumbled each time Bill gyrated back and forth.

Soon, the bouncers came and got Little-Miss-Orange-Chiffon-Tube-Top. As they helped her off the dance floor, the males in the crowd booed. She was not seen again during the rest of the evening. 

From that fateful night, and until the band played its last show, Bill was a changed man. He never stood still onstage again. Bill's transformation became one of THE greatest memories this guitar player received from his days with a band called Silver Creek.

Thank you, Bill.

Rock on, brother.

"Springtime In Georgia"

It’s azaleas, dogwoods, jonquils, and magnolias. It’s the reappearance of redbirds and yellow jackets after a cold winter’s hiatus. It’s the smell of grass greening, and the feel of breezes warming for the approach of summer. It’s Springtime in Georgia.

Georgia is one of the most beautiful places on earth in the Spring. From late March through May every year the good Lord blesses this writer’s home state with a heavenly appearance. If one spot on earth can be this pretty once a year, one "can only imagine" what the real heaven is like.

Springtime in Georgia also brings other things to the surface. Things like exposed flesh, testosterone, and swarms of duly infected “insects” of the human, male variety. Old men refer to this as the time when the, “sap goes to rising.” “Georgia Peaches” that bud and blossom in the springtime become as intensely pursued as are white-tail buck in the fall.

This was surely the case with one fourteen year old, freckle-faced, Georgia boy. During life’s first hormonal epiphany, he suddenly awakened to the superb creative work the Good Lord is known for, especially with the female species. During those precious few minutes each day, this young man stopped "hating girls."

Her name escapes remembrance. Her younger sister’s name was Karen. Karen was a high-school contemporary of this writer. Their family lived just around the corner, on Spink Street, in our little community of Riverside. There were, perhaps, other daughters in their family, but none more fair than her.

She was blonde, fair skinned, built like a, “brick outhouse with the corners knocked off,” and loved to go bare-footed during the warm months of Georgia springs and summers. During those unforgettable days, with the grace of a swaying pine in a Georgia breeze, she made her daily pilgrimage through this writer’s old neighborhood - bound for Gary’s Store.

Mr. C.J. Gary had an old two story brick grocery store on the corner of Bolton Road and Main Street in northwest Atlanta. Bolton Road was a busy traffic route from Atlanta to all points west. Her chosen route to Gary’s Store kept her away from the noise of Bolton Road, and in the process brought her right past the front door of 2579 Forrest Avenue.

Thank you, Lord.

Mr. Gary had the coldest 16 ounce Cokes that have ever been sold to mankind. Those classic, green-tinted, glass bottles - with the name of the city of their origin on the bottom - were the perfect containers. Almost like mini-refrigerators. So cold were they that a soft layer of icy slush would often form on the inside near the top - just below the bottle cap. Thankfully, Mr. Gary always had a case full of these carbonated beauties on hand. 

She must have loved those drinks. Every day, she walked to Gary’s Store and came back with her sensuous lips wrapped around the mouth of one of those icy bottles. A certain young man often thought of kissing old man Gary right in the mouth for being such a savvy merchant.

One of the great challenges of Georgia, springtime, female watching is stealth. Young boys are as clumsy and comical as Peter Sellers' memorable, "Inspector Clouseau." Especially when it comes to checking out a passing female. The lure as she walked by was to get close enough to see the dirty bottoms of her wonderful bare feet, while appearing to be merely checking the mailbox for the day’s mail. Never mind that you just checked the stupid thing barely fifteen minutes earlier when she walked by the first time.

To ensure the voyeuristic intent of this charade was well camouflaged, the “smart” thing was to stick one’s head ALL the way INTO the mailbox. To this day, it somehow still seems reasonable that a young man would go to such absurd lengths just to glimpse the bottom of someone else’s dirty feet.

But, ahhhh….those perfect feet.

The other trick was to not appear to be “stalking” her as you carefully paced every square inch of the road frontage of your parent’s property - picking up sweet gum balls like it was your life’s calling. No threats or parental intimidation were necessary whenever this glorious creature made her daily trip to Gary’s store. Yard work became a glorious mission. 

Her name may escape remembrance but her body does not. It was a creative a masterpiece. A beautiful specimen of womanhood. One that has endured in one Georgia boy’s mind for more than fifty years. There were so many wonderful things to behold, and remember.

Her coy smile, which said that she saw right through the pathetic attempts to hide the real purpose behind yet another visit to the mailbox…Those wet, blonde, freshly washed curls falling all around her neck - gently swinging back and forth with the motion of her shoulders…Scant cut-off shorts and a sheer white t-shirt supplely draping her perfect form…The rhythm of that slow, sensuous “strut” parading down that old neighborhood street…And, her lusciously perfect lips caressing the frosty opening of that Coke bottle….

"Kodak moments" – every one. Which resurface with every blooming of azaleas and dogwoods and magnolias. 

Along with one other highly vivid memory from that same time…

The shrill sound of a mother’s brazen, Parris-Island-trained, drill-instructor voice…echoing loudly from just inside the front screen door…barking out those unforgettable words…

“George David!...You had better quit standing out there with your head in that mailbox!…You don't need to be out there lusting after that girl walking up and down the street!…You better git your lazy butt in here and mop this kitchen floor like I told you thirty minutes ago!…Before I get me a switch and tear your sorry hide out of the frame, young man!…Do you hear me???!!!”

Ah, yes, springtime in Georgia.

"Home Sweet Home"

"Be it ever so humble...There's no place like home."

Singers sing about it, poets write about it, old people reminisce about it, and children grow more attached to it than they know.

"Home" is certainly far more than four walls, a floor and a roof. But, the "old home place" holds a spot of great sentimentality and fondness in many human hearts.

According to current U.S. Census Bureau research, the average American will move 11.7 times in a lifetime. That .7 move must a real trick, don't you think? Those who stay longest in their residences are the fifty and older crowd.

Makes sense.

This writer and his extended family have a long history of bedding down. The old family homeplace in Riverside that was built in 1917, was just torn down in 2010. Ninety-three years - not a bad legacy for a house and community that was home to so many of our family through its generations.

Though not everyone shares this philosophy, there just seems to be something powerful about a family's homeplace, and the irreplaceable memories and nostalgia connected with it.

In days gone by, the family home was much more a place built for living, and much less a palace built for show. Parents reared large numbers of children in just two bedrooms and a bath. Many did so without the bath.

Scores of the old houses in Riverside, as well as in other farming communities in Fulton, Cobb, and various other counties, were frame structures. They had plaster walls, hardwood floors, and tiny rooms. Most were built without the aid of blueprint, architect, or county inspector.

And, few, if any, featured the "luxury" of inside plumbing.

When indoor bathrooms did come into vogue, they were small, and equipped with only one sink, a claw-footed bathtub, and a lavatory. The bathroom that this writer grew up in was so small, when one sat on the toilet, his/her knees touched the side of the bathtub.

Instead of wall-to-wall mirrors in bathrooms of the past, there was a single, small, mirror that doubled as the medicine cabinet door. No one spent an eternity in the bathroom soaking in a hot tub, or hours in front of a bank of lights, "stylin'."

It was a process of, "get-in and get-out." There were usually eight or nine other people waiting their turn.

Before water heaters and hot baths or showers, there was the #2 washtub on the back porch on Saturday night just after sundown. The water was heated over an open fire on or the coal/wood stove, and the subject got only one pass of the hot water being poured over his/her soapy body. There were no thirty minute sessions spent daydreaming under a pulsating shower-head.

Moving from the bath to the kitchen, in homes of yesteryear, there were no granite counter tops, no microwave or convection ovens, no fancy islands or built-in dishwashers, and no Lazy-Susan cabinetry, or recessed lighting. There was one sink, and it was usually a white porcelain model with a slanted drain area where the water funneled back into the sink. The cabinets were made out of plain wood. They were small, and equipped with modest, functional hardware.

Going even farther back, this writer's extended family told of kitchens with well pumps at the sink, or none at all. Stoves were not powered by a Southern Company nuclear plant, but by either chunks of coal or large slabs of cord wood. Refrigerators were not fancy, stainless steel, designer creations with crushed ice machines on the front door. But rather, they literally were "ice-boxes." They kept things cold for no longer than it took the large block of ice in the unit's upper chamber to melt away.

There were no middle-class houses in this writer's day with more than 1,000 square feet in the floor plan. There were no formal dining rooms, sunrooms, television or theater rooms, spas, workout rooms, walk-in closets, or libraries. Parlors were common in houses built at the turn of the twentieth century, but they were much smaller than the average living room is today.

The one feature of houses from past times that was so very special was the front porch. It was a meeting place, a resting place, a vantage point, a cooling off place on sweltering summer nights, and the perfect stage for a budding romance. Like Andy, Barney and Aunt Bea, folks sat on their front porches after the evening meal, on Sunday afternoons, when company came, and when they courted. Front porch rocking chairs, swings, and hammocks made relaxing or reclining all the more pleasureable. And, also made the front porch one of the favorite areas of the old homeplace.

During the youth of this writer's father, the Riverside community of Northwest Atlanta was filled with small farm houses. These "shotgun" homes did not have lots of amenities, especially in comparison with today's palatial mansions. But, they did have ample front porches.

This architectural touch reflected the slower, friendlier, more neighborly pace of that day and time. It was not until a few generations later that builders and architects stopped putting front porches on houses.  The home building fad came to include sun decks on the back side of the house - so we could all hide from one another and have our "privacy." Thankfully, the trend of designing homes with front porches seems to have come back around in more recent times.

While the front porch was a daily blessing, there was one special time every weekend when they took on an added bliss.

Every Saturday night during the Spring, Summer and early Fall, there would be a community gathering in Riverside. This gathering rotated to some degree in regard to the place, but it would always be hosted at somebody's home. The host family would drag their console radio up to the front window of the house just before 7:00 PM.

The crowd would have already gathered by that time.

Families from all over the community brought blankets, food, pitchers of iced tea, and an occasional pillow or two. They would pick a spot on the host family's front porch, or in the front yard. The guests would spread out, picnic style, and await the sound of the booming voice of the WSM AM-650 Radio announcer.

"Live from Nashville, Tennessee, and brought to you by Martha White Flour, it's time for the Grand Old Opry."

For the entire two-hour broadcast of the Opry, folks would sit and listen intently to the music. Some would clap or sing along, and some would tap their foot. The more adventuresome ones would get up and buck dance, and others would just sit and rock back and forth as if they were sitting on their own front porches. When the WSM broadcast of the Opry signed off, folks didn't always go home right away. Many stayed around until after 10:00 o'clock visiting, talking, and enjoying an unhurried evening with their friends and neighbors.

In a day and time when folks are losing their homes in record numbers due to foreclosure, perhaps it is good to remember a simpler time. An era when families didn't need 4,000 square feet and a pool in order to be happy. An era when the family home was much more than a place to merely shower and change clothes before rushing off to the next appointment or form of amusement.

Perhaps what our country needs is a return to the simple contentment of a time of living in communities rather than subdivisions. Of having neighbors that we know and share our lives with, rather than next-door strangers that are seen only if both happen to go the mailbox at the same time. And, of living life at a slower pace.

There is, after all, no place like home.

May the Good Lord help us each to realize this, and to plan for that greatest "Home Place" of all.

"Well I'll be John Brown"

- David Decker
  February 21, 2011

"Mr. Will Palmer"

Every community has its characters. Some are naturally funny, and create memories that bring smiles as broad as an old time Atlanta street. Some are difficult, and easy to forget. And, some are as kind and sweet as "Gone With The Wind's" precious character, Melanie Hamilton.

Mr. Will Palmer was an older black man who lived down off Johnson Road in the old Center Hill community. His home was really nothing more than a broken-down shack with a make-shift barn and an outhouse. His property was adjacent to a creek that crossed under Johnson Road. It was not far down the road from Inman Railroad Yards in Northwest Atlanta.

"Mr. Will" was as sweet, and as kind, and as gentle as any human being could ever be. There was always a smile on his face. His meager earthly possessions would have soured a lesser person. But, not Mr. Will.

In 1966, after living away for several years from this writer's family's home community of Riverside, we moved back. Mama and Daddy bought a house that was five doors down the street from the old Decker home place. The lot for this old farmhouse was just over an acre, and was bordered by a creek. The ground was not the typical Georgia red clay, but was a far richer grade of dirt. Sitting not far from the banks of the Chattahoochee River, the soil was perhaps more like river bottom land. It was great for growing azaleas, flowering shrubs, and thick, turf grass.

Having grown up on a farm, this writer's father often lamented that his vocational life led him away from farming. Like most Southerners, Mama and Daddy loved farm grown vegetables. But, they did not own a tiller of any kind.

Enter Mr. Will Palmer.

Mr. Will drove an old mule and wagon. It was his only form of transportation. You could hear him coming several blocks away as he clunked along the asphalt streets of many a community in Northwest Atlanta. This included Riverside.

His old mule's name was, "Midnight." (Many thanks to a dear, lifelong, friend, Mr. Anthony Sizemore, for his research and assistance in getting Midnight's name correct for this story.)

"Midnight" was a thick-bellied old mule, that stood about fifteen hands tall. "She" looked like she weighed at least 1,000 pounds. Mr. Palmer bought Midnight for $50 from a farmer in Marietta who also raised mules. Her coat was black as coal oil, thus her name. Midnight pulled Mr. Will Palmer and his old clapboard wagon all over Northwest Atlanta for many years.

Mr. Will knew that white folks loved garden vegetables. And, he also knew that most white folks didn't have a good way to turn up a piece of ground for growing a garden. Too, Mr. Will knew that white folks were the only ones with enough money to be able to afford to hire somebody to plow up their gardens for them.

So, every morning during February through April, he hitched up Midnight and off they went. They rode through communities where stay-at-home mothers would most likely be. Mr. Will would sing to Midnight as they rode along. He made up most of the songs as he went. They were either spirituals or from a blues-oriented genre.

One old black spiritual that Mr. Will often sang declared, "The devil wear a hypocrite shoe...If you don't mind, he'll slip it on you...The devil wear a ragged coat...If you don't mind, he'll cut yo' thoat...Git' up, Midnight...Befo' the devil come along here..."

The noise of Midnight pulling that old wagon along the street, and Mr. Will singing to the top of his lungs, was loud enough to wake the dead. Folks would come to their front doors to investigate the source of the racket. And, some just knew that it was about time for Mr. Will to be coming around.

Their coming out on the porch was exactly what Mr. Will wanted. When he saw an open door, he would stop Midnight with a low, soft-spoken, "Whoa, mule," or "Whoa, Midnight." He then stood up in the wagon, taking off the old wide-brimmed hat he always wore, and began his sales pitch.

"Good morning/evening, Miss ma'am," he would say, "dis here is old Will Palmer and Midnight, ma'am. We done come to hep you good folk plow up yo' garden fo' the springtime. Why, in jest a little bit, old Midnight can have yo' fine garden spot ready fo' yo' husband to commence plantin' when he git home dis' evenin'. How 'bout it, ma'am? Does you want old Will and Midnight to git to work right here in a jiffy, ma'am?"

He was so polite, and kind, and humble. Even if the thought of having someone plow a garden was the furthest thing from the housewife's mind, most could not refuse such a sweet and self-effacing sales pitch. The charming way of this savvy, old businessman won many hearts, and made lots of friends among the people who hired him.

Especially the kids.

Mr. Will knew that children loved animals - especially Midnight. If any kids were home when Mr. Will drove by, children came from everywhere - running to the street to get a closer view of that giant old mule. Mr. Will would climb down patiently from the wagon and hold Midnight by the harness so the children could pet her. He spoke softly to her as the little ones came near her muscular legs and hooves. He was not about to allow her to be spooked and harm the children. They would often bring Midnight sugar cubes, carrots, or fruit of some kind. It was no wonder that old mule was so large. She ate better on most days than Mr. Will.

If he was able to secure a plowing job, Mr. Will most always promised any children hovering around Midnight that he would allow them to ride her after the garden was tilled. He faithfully honored his promise, and the children loved it. If the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Mr. Will understood that the best way to a mother's heart was through her children.

Many times, the wives and mothers who hired him wound up feeding him a sandwich or a piece of homemade pie from their kitchens. Mr. Will was not an overweight person by any stretch. But, it wasn't because he was underfed. Some women insisted that he take covered plates of their evening meals home with him.

$25. This was Mr. Will's price. He would till as much as a half acre of ground for this amount. Actually, considering that it usually took him less than two hours to finish most of the jobs, Mr. Will was actually well-paid for his day. $12 an hour was more than most skilled laborers made during the 1960's.

Today, with so many households getting their daily meals from either a restaurant or a zip-lock bag, to remember the sweet taste of garden vegetables served from a mother's table is a powerful thing.

Another lingering image is the sound of Midnight clip-clopping along the streets of Northwest Atlanta, and Mr. Will singing in his best voice to his beloved co-worker and best friend.

Thank you, Mr. Will Palmer, for all the work you did, the ground you plowed, the miles you drove old Midnight, and for being the kind-hearted person that you were.

Most of all, thank you for the timeless memories you left behind.

"Mule"

During the early twentieth century, Southern families were large. There was no Dish Network to entertain folks after the children went to bed. Therefore, making more children was probably the "funnest" way to spend the shank of an evening for most married couples.

This writer's extended family, on his father's side, sported five uncles and three aunts. Each was unique in their own way, and left many enduring memories for their loved ones. And, each of these children distinguished themselves in life in significant and impressive ways.

Uncle Alan Decker worked for the Southern Railroad, as did many of this writer's kin. He was the personal engineer for President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. On many occasions, Uncle Alan ferried the President and Mrs. Roosevelt between Washington, D.C., and the, "Little White House," in Warm Springs, Georgia. At President Roosevelt's passing, he was honored to be the engineer on the presidential "Death Ride" from Georgia to Washington.

Aunt Katie Decker was heavily involved in Georgia politics as an adult. She held high positions in the election campaigns of gubernatorial candidates such as Beau Callaway and Lester Maddox.  

Aunt Octavia Decker's children would one day build and operate the well-known and highly popular  Dixie Speedway in Woodstock, Georgia.

And, this writer's father, Ernest Decker, serving as a machine gunner in the United States Marine Corps, was decorated for distinguished combat service on Guadalcanal and Peleliu during World War II.

And then there was Uncle Hubert.

In his late teens and early twenties, Uncle Hubert, for the love of a great woman, walked away from a contract in professional baseball. Uncle Hubert was a great pitcher and outfielder in semi-pro ball, and was heavily scouted by several professional teams. The extended travel, and long periods of time away from the woman he loved, led him to refuse the contract. He often said that he never regretted choosing true love over sports.

When Uncle Hubert was a young lad, he was, physically, the strongest of the Decker boys. He could plow a mule longer than any of the rest, and sometimes even pull the plow himself whenever the real mule got down. This was one of the reasons why he became known around the Riverside community as, "Mule Decker."

There were others.

It was true that Uncle Hubert could hoe weeds in the sweltering Georgia sun long after everyone else around him had wilted. He could pitch more hay, pull more corn, dig more potatoes, carry more watermelons in his arms, and chop more firewood than any of his five other brothers. As "field hands" went, Uncle Hubert was "the boss."

But, as previously mentioned, his physical prowess was only one of the reasons for his nickname.

The other was his stubborn, hard-headed, and obstinate personality. No one outdid "Mule" in anything, especially when it came to running his mouth. His parents often said that they thought the doctor who delivered him must have vaccinated him with a Victrola needle. Uncle Hubert talked more, and at a more boisterous volume, than anyone. He could turn even the most casual conversation into a passionately hot debate - even when the topic was of the most benign nature. He eventually developed a widespread reputation for, "arguing the horns off a Billy goat."

Hubert Decker was no dummy. But, neither was he an academician. His report card was never the stuff of Magna Cum Laude. He much preferred plowing and splitting wood to homework and cracking books. Many times, he would deliberately stay home from school if some chore or major farm-related task was pressing.

Uncle Hubert was not with his siblings on their daily walk to Bolton School on one particular Fall morning in the late 1920's.

During the 1920's and 30's, most children walked to school. There were no school buses, and no such thing as, "mom's taxi service." Riverside students attending Bolton Elementary School walked down Bolton Road and through the streets of the Bolton community as they made their way each morning. Their single-file procession, done in a most orderly fashion, snaked down the left side of Bolton Road as they walked facing traffic.

Children from many communities went to the same school together in those days. Along with the many children from Riverside who attended Bolton School, there were also the "renegade" children from the wrong side of Hollywood Road.  They walked the same route to school as their Riverside classmates, but usually along the opposite side of the road. Known as "heathern" children, these students regularly taunted the Riverside kids on the other side. This was often the cause of trouble on the daily walk to and from school.

One morning, one of these "riff-raff" boys ventured across Bolton Road and began "hitting" on Katie Decker, the youngest female sibling of the family. This rather strapping boy began trash-talking Aunt Katie, and eventually tried did his best to run his hands over her developing female body. Aunt Katie responded decisively. Having grown up in a household with six brothers, she knew the exact spot on a male's lower extremity to aim her knee. The boy bent double in agony, managing to stay erect just long enough to spit in Katie's face and on her dress. As he staggered away, this troublemaker shouted some of the most vulgar, profane things at Aunt Katie that any male could say to a female.

Later that evening, Hubert Decker heard all about the attack on his sister. Normally, Hubert would have been the one to launch into a diatribe of insults and threats. This time, however, he said very little. Inwardly, he vowed to accompany his siblings to school the very next morning. Before the sun came up the next day, as he fed the chickens and the livestock, Uncle Hubert hid a plow line in his bib overhauls.

He had a plan for his sister's attacker.

Sure enough, the boy who had attacked his sister showed up that morning walking to school and running his mouth. Uncle Hubert crossed over to the other side this time. He grabbed the boy, pulled him across one of the yards along Bolton Road, tied him to a Hickory tree with the plow line, and proceeded to pummel him. First, with his fists, then with any rocks that he could find, and finally with his size thirteen farming boots. Uncle Hubert did not murder the boy, but he did leave him slumped in a bloody heap by the Hickory tree. It was, reportedly, a brutal thing to watch.

That evening, when Grandaddy Whitfield Decker came home from his three-day-per-week job as a Fulton County Deputy Sheriff, as soon as he pulled up in the yard, Grandma Georgia shared with him the details of what Hubert had done. Whitfield Decker taught all his children to defend themselves and never to cowardly back down if someone else started a fight. But, he also taught them to never start a fight, or engage in excessive brutality in any way if they had already gotten the best of an opponent. His assessment of Hubert's behavior that day was that his son had crossed the line, and had behaved himself in far too extreme a manner in paying the boy back.

Grandaddy Whitfield walked calmly out to his Ford A-Model truck and retrieved a pair of leg and hand shackles commonly used to transport prisoners. These "irons" were commonly reserved for hardened criminals who had been sentenced to roadside labor on the county's "Chain Gangs." The twin shackles were bound in the center by a steel sleeve welded to both chains. The leg portion was made to a specific length designed to restrict the prisoner's ability to stand upright and walk. This forced the prisoner to stay bent in a "hunched over" position, and to walk with only a shuffling of the feet. This would make a running escape difficult, if not impossible.

With shackles in hand, Grandaddy Whitfield went out to barn to find his son. In just a little while, witnesses said that Grandaddy came back across the field - with "Mule" stumbling along behind. Leading him up to the front porch, Grandaddy chained Uncle Hubert to the front porch swing, and made him sit down.

He then began a most painful, "hell fire and brimstone," lecture.

"If you're going to act like an animal, and a convict, and a heathern," he sternly proclaimed, "then we're going to treat you like one."

For several minutes, Uncle Hubert bore the verbal wrath of his father. The final declaration of this tongue lashing brought, perhaps, the greatest punishment of all. Uncle Hubert would be forced to remain on the porch, chained to the swing, while the rest of the family ate supper. If there was anything left at the end of the meal, Hubert would then be led into the house to sit alone. He would be chained to the table, and allowed to have only the scraps from each person's plate.

Grandaddy might as well have hung him upside down and naked from the giant oak tree in the front yard. It would have been far more merciful.

Uncle Hubert's baby brother, Ernest, was two years younger than him. Being the youngest two offspring in the family, they did many things together. However, Hubert always knew his place in the family pecking order. He fully understood that the "baby of the family" usually received preferential treatment. This angered and frustrated him on many occasions as he and Ernest grew up together.

During supper that night, Ernest could not get his mind off Hubert. He kept turning around in his chair at the dinner table, and stretching his body and neck in an attempt to see his brother - still chained to the swing. His mother kept reminding him to turn around and eat his supper, or else he might find himself out there with Hubert.

During the course of the meal, Ernest asked if he could be excused to go to the outhouse. Upon receiving permission, he bolted straight out the front door. As he walked a wide path around the front of the house, he goaded his big brother. "Jail Bird, Jail Bird, Hubert is a Jail Bird!" he chanted. He squawked like a crow, and flapped his arms as though they were a bird's wings.

Hubert angrily cursed his little brother, and vowed that Ernest would be sorry when the shackles finally came off.

The family eventually finished their meal, and Grandaddy Whitfield came out to get Hubert. Trailing right behind him was Ernest, pleading, "Can I lead him in, Daddy?...Can I lead him in?" Grandaddy Whitfield agreed that this would be a grand idea. The humiliation of having his worrisome little brother lead him to the supper table would certainly add to Hubert's punishment. Grandaddy stayed close by to ensure that Hubert did not try to retaliate.

To add insult to injury, with the chains making it difficult for Hubert to feed himself, Ernest was given the honors. He snickered and whispered taunts at his big brother with every bite he fed him during that bitter meal.

When the shackles finally did come off, Hubert was warned that if any harm came to Ernest in any way, he (Hubert) would be wearing the shackles again, and perhaps for a much longer time.

"Mule" Decker passed away in February of 1991, on the night that American military forces began the assault on Iraq and Kuwait - marking the beginning of Desert Storm. Cancer had mercilessly sucked the life out of his once muscular body.

Uncle Hubert told many stories during his life, and many jokes. He won his share of fights, and knew the sweetness of financial success. And, he never forgot the humiliation of an evening when his worrisome little brother led him around the family home in a criminal's shackles.

This writer is indebted to Uncle Hubert for the many memories he left behind during his time on this earth.

If there are to be any "mules" in heaven, it is surely hoped that this one is among that number.


"Well I'll Be John Brown"

- David Decker
  February 18, 2011

"Cats Flattened While You Wait..."

Few animals stir and evoke emotion like cats. There is no middle ground regarding this creature. Folks either love them, or despise them. For the record, this writer has been acutely allergic to cat hair since he was a boy. Therefore, his cat worldview is, "feline challenged."

Cat lovers are passionate in their calling. Cat haters even more so. Bumper stickers abound that declare a cat hater's conviction. Such as, "I Love Cats...They taste just like chicken," or, "The Only Good Cat is a Dead Cat." A personal favorite is, "Cats Flattened While You Wait."

Animals seem to possess an innate fear of humans. The Lord says in His Book that man would have "dominion" over the animal kingdom. Sometimes, it seems that cats are the lone animals that would stand in God's court of law and protest that ruling.

The late Johnny Carson observed that the universal disdain for cats was tied to their obstinate, uppity, independent air. Carson said that if he was going to spend money to purchase an animal, feed it, house it, give it basic medical care, and see to its well-being, whenever he summoned the animal, he fully expected it to come.

Carson asserted, "Cats do NOT come when you call them...They look at you as if you'd lost your mind...Like you were crazy for assuming that you were in control, or something."

For some reason, cats are commonly associated with women. If two women get into a tussle it is called a, “cat fight.” If a woman is hard to get along with she is labeled as, “catty.” If a woman is happy, she is said to, "purr."

Conversely, the image of, “a boy and his cat,” just doesn’t ring true somehow.

Boys of all ages find great joy and fulfillment in playful, cat torture. They tie pieces of paper onto cat's paws just to watch them try to walk. They tie cans onto their tails just to see them run away in fear of the noise. And, young boys have been known to hold cats upside down so as to intentionally drop them - in order to test the theory that cats always land on their feet.

A group of Riverside boys was playing "church" on a lazy, Sunday afternoon. They rounded up a #2 washtub, filled it with water, and went looking for baptismal candidates. The first victim they found was one of the neighborhood cats. It did not take them long, however, to discover a fundamental truth of life: cats do NOT like water. When the baptismal service was over, there had been lots of scratching, clawing, hissing, and bloodletting, but no cat was successfully, "...born of the water and the Spirit."

Sometimes, boys never grow up.

Cruelty to any domesticated animal, cat or otherwise, is a disgrace. There is no excuse for any human to abuse or inflict intentional pain and suffering on an innocent, domesticated animal. Animals in the wild that pose mortal danger to humans are a different story. They should be eliminated by a hunter's rifle. Sometimes, animals in the "wild" that pose no threat to humans are the ones who endure the greatest mistreatment

This writer’s father worked for the Southern Railroad for over eleven years. For many years, Inman Railroad Yards was the central staging ground for all freight train activity in and out of Atlanta. Inman was a huge facility covering many acres, ranging to more than two miles in diameter in some places.

The main “call office” at Inman Yards was situated in the middle of this giant rail facility. It was connected to the different staging areas located throughout the yards by a network of vacuum tubes, similar to those used by banks in their drive-through windows.

Orders and manifests would be placed in large cylindrical canisters and sent out through the vacuum tube to the engineering crews that were set to man the departing trains, and vice versa. These canisters would travel at speeds in excess of thirty miles per hour, and sometimes traverse almost a mile’s worth of tube in order to reach crews working the far reaches of the rail yards.

On one occasion a stray cat had been milling around the trains prowling and panhandling for food, affection, or whatever else it could find. The cat evidently became a nuisance to someone. The anonymous rail worker grabbed the cat, stuffed it into the vacuum tube (without bothering to see if it would fit in the canister), and closed the door.

One can only imagine the harrowing ride that poor animal endured on its way to the call office.

The clerical people (mostly females) working in the call office said they could hear something coming far down the tube. There was a blood-curdling, high-pitched screaming that echoed down that long pipe in advance of the cat’s “arrival.”

Suddenly, the cat came flying out of the vacuum tube. When it did, witnesses in the call office claimed that it did not have one hair left on its body. The poor beast was so frightened that it tore up stacks of files, office furnishings, and anything else in its path - while leaving a trail of cat feces in its wake.

One of the ladies finally opened the entrance door to the call office, and the poor, hairless cat flew out the door.

Southern Railroad management conducted extensive investigations in search of the cat culprit. No one, however, was ever willing to step forward and point the finger of blame. The perpetrator was mostly likely an overgrown boy in a man’s body. If those ladies in that call office could have ever gotten their hands on him, HE likely would have gone for a vacuum tube ride himself.

The cat was never seen again around Inman Yards. However, a recent conversation with a retired railroad worker revealed that the legend of this particular cat prank continued to circulate around the railroad yards for several decades after it happened.

If there is a hell, this would be likely be the final destination that cat lovers would vote to send the person that shoved that innocent animal into the tube. They might even vote to have him endure a tube ride of his own for all eternity.

Since it was the Good Lord that created cats, they must fulfill some purpose in the order of all things.

If only the ministers and priests of this world could figure out a way to “dry clean” their feline sins away.

Disclaimer: No cats were harmed in the telling or writing of this story.


“Well I’ll Be John Brown”

- David Decker
  February 18, 2011

"A Riverside Boy & His Hole-Digging Dog"

Back in the day when Atlanta was a much smaller city, farming communities ringed the outskirts of town on all sides. This writer's family lived on an eleven acre farm in the Riverside community of Northwest Atlanta (now known, affectionately, as the "Upper West Side"). There were other industries in the Riverside area, such as Whittier Cotton Mills, but most folks farmed. Some did both, just to put food on the table and a roof over their family's heads.

Families were large in those days. Born in 1920, this writer's father was the baby in a "litter" of nine children. Gaggles of offspring provided much needed help for mothers and fathers. Girls worked in and around the homeplace with their mothers, and boys went to work the fields with their fathers. There were many mouths to feed, but also many hands and backs to help bear the burden of the work that had to be done.

Scattered among the humans were the neighborhood animals. Mules, cows, goats, an occasional stock horse, and several varieties of dogs were commonplace in farming communities like Riverside. Most of these animals served a utilitarian purpose. The mules plowed, the goats kept embankments and other areas free of underbrush and briars, and the cows provided milk and cheese. The neighborhood dogs, however, were another story. The majority of their everyday lives was spent lying around on front porches, waiting for a cat, or a mule and wagon, or sometimes even an occasional automobile or truck, to chase.

Most Riverside dogs were not of an elite pedigree. A good many were of the "Heinz 57" variety - a mixture of whatever species of male dog that had been fortunate enough to mate with the mother dog while she was in heat. The one lone exception to this was a frumpy looking English Bulldog owned by this writer's family.

His name was, "Doc Decker."

Doc was far too lazy to chase the few cars that infrequently rumbled down Forrest Avenue. And, he certainly was not about to trouble himself in pursuit of a prowler or hobo that might have come through the neighborhood. Doc would chase cats, because they annoyed him, and because that's what any good, self-respecting dog would do. He did not climb trees, however, so the cat's danger ended at the base of whatever tree that was chosen as a getaway.  

Like most Riverside dogs, Doc spent the majority of his time lying on the front porch. Whenever one of the Decker girls came outside with the scraps from the family meal, Doc would follow like a kid at Christmas. When the scraps were dumped in his bowl, he attacked the meal with great fervor. There were few other things in life that Doc had such passion for.

During the summertime, he would often accompany the Riverside community boys down to the Chattahoochee River for a swim. He seemed to instinctively know where they were going and why. His rolling, shuffling gait made him humorous to watch as he followed this gang of whooping and hollering boys down to the river bank.

Doc loved the water. The boys would pick him up under one arm, swing out over the river on a long tree rope, and release him while in mid-air. Doc would hit the water, disappear for a second or two, and then surface, flipping and flopping madly with his dumpy legs and body as he made his way to shore.

He was truly just, "one of the guys."

Doc was also the "church dog." The family attended the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church on Bolton Road. Doc would ride with all the children in the back of the family's 1927 Ford Model A truck. He would stand at the door of the church building, accepting pats on the head from all the parishoners, and then run and play with the kids after services. In the summer, he would lie on the cool, marble porch of the church building during the worship service. In winter, he was allowed to come into the foyer, and lie just inside the front doors on the large welcome mat. This was as close as Doc ever got to a "conversion."

Male dogs in Riverside had a healthy array of "bitch" dogs with which to carouse. No male dog in Riverside ever suffered from a testosterone build-up. Doc, along with his fellow Riverside canines, helped father many a litter of puppies. Like singer David Lee Roth of the rock group, Van Halen, Doc Decker had offspring scattered all over the countryside. Occasionally, a neighbor would bring a puppy to the Decker home that was obviously one of Doc's. He seemed to know his "children," and would shower them with licks and sniffs when they came around.

Everyone in the Decker family loved Doc. But, Ernest, the baby of the family, loved him the most. English Bulldogs, though hopelessly indolent and lazy, are very loyal. They also seem to have a deep affinity for children. When Ernest was a boy, everywhere he went, Doc went. Bolton School became his second home during the school year. He would follow Ernest there every morning, hang around the back door and the school yard, and filter through the ranks of the student body at lunch, panhandling scraps of food from each student's lunch pail. Doc was always standing at attention near the front door of Bolton School when the dismissal bell rang in the afternoon.    

The lone, annoying habit of Doc Decker's was his propensity to dig holes in the yard. Some species of dog, such as Labradors ("Labs"), seem almost possessed with a digging "demon," especially during their puppy years. Doc's personality was not "OCD" in any way nor with anything, but he was obviosuly partial to the smell of fresh dirt. And, one particular spot seemed to be his favorite place to dig.

In front of the Decker farm house at 2525 Forrest Avenue, was a long, split rail fence. Running from one end of the property line to the other, the only opening was at the front sidewalk (which ran from the mailbox to the front porch of the house). The rails of the fence had been split off a large hickory tree from the back part of the farm, and were heavy as a pregnant mule. The bottom rail of the fence was positioned very low to the ground.

Doc Decker did not seem to understand that the opening in the fence was the designated entrance to the property. Or, he was just too lazy to lumber another hundred feet or so in order to access the front walkway. Instead, Doc would dig a deep hole or passageway under the bottom rail of the fence. Never mind that this excavation required far more effort than would have been necessary in shuffling up the road a few extra feet. Doc seemed to enjoy his labor. Perhaps it was just his way of getting in his cardio workout for the day.

The trouble with Doc's practice was that it did not please the patriarch of this writer's family.

Grandaddy Whitfield Decker not only farmed to feed his family, he also served as a Deputy Sheriff for Fulton County. He was a tall, stocky man with a ruddy complexion and a serious demeanor. Grandaddy Whitfield carried a long barreled, nickel plated, Smith & Wesson .38 caliber pistol, along with a set of handcuffs, on his lawman belt. He was a respected man in the Riverside community, and one that kept his life and his family under control at all times.

Grandaddy Whitfield found Doc when he was still a young puppy. On his way home from a Sheriff call one bitterly cold Winter night, he saw Doc lying next to a trash bin, shivering from the cold. When he brought him home, Grandaddy Whitfield told the family that they could keep Doc, but only if the children took care of his needs and kept him out of trouble. The two youngest boys, Ernest and Hubert, immediately volunteered. They fell in love with Doc the instant their father brought him through the door, and were actually the ones who named him.

Years later, they were also the ones who buried him. Doc died during the "Dog Days" of summer, following a severe bout with distemper. Both Hubert and Ernest were young men when Doc died. But, they cried like two brokenhearted little boys as they dug his grave.

Whenever Doc dug holes under the fence, Grandaddy Whitfield did not like it even a little bit. He made Ernest and Hubert go behind their dog and fill in every single hole. It was uncanny how Doc seemed to know the most opportune times for such. Late at night when the family was asleep, as he came home from a mating session with one of the neighborhood bitches, Doc dug his way under the fence. When the family was seated around the supper table eating the evening meal, Doc dug his way under the fence. On the days that Doc chose not to go to school with the kids, or to the fields with the older boys, Doc dug his way under the fence. Over and over, Ernest and Hubert filled in the holes, cursing Doc with each shovel of dirt.

Finally, on an afternoon in early May, Doc Decker's, "chickens came home to roost." Staying around the homeplace that morning instead of following the boys to school, he had ventured out into the community in the early afternoon looking for some female "action." He arrived back at the Decker farm only minutes before Hubert and Ernest came walking up the road from school. They spotted Doc, same as always, digging his passageway under the bottom fence rail. Both boys, so tired and frustrated from their dog's incessant digging, and from having to fill in the endless stream of holes he left behind, sprang into action.

Doc heard the boys coming and sensed from their angry screams that he was in trouble. He hurriedly tried to finish the hole. Not digging quite deep enough, when Doc tried to slide under the bottom fence rail to get away, he got stuck. He couldn't go forward, and he couldn't back up. Hubert jumped over the fence and held Doc by the scruff of the neck. Ernest pulled off the belt from his school clothes and began whipping Doc's hind quarters. Similar to the whippings they had both endured from their parents, Ernest and Hubert were in no mood to, "spare the rod." They each took great joy from being on the delivering end of a thrashing for once.

What a scene it was. Two young boys, shouting with glee, lecturing this English Bulldog with every lash of the belt (just as their parents routinely did to them). Doc, the hole digging machine, was growling, squirming, barking and whining - trying desperately to break free from the torment that was being inflicted on him.

Finally, the boys saw that Doc was beginning to gradually extricate himself from the hole. They also realized that this normally docile English Bulldog was now furious with rage. They immediately stopped the beating and took off in a dead run for the house. Doc quickly squeezed his dirty, aching body through the fence hole and took off after Ernest and Hubert. The front screen door slammed loudly as the two brothers barely and breathlessly made it inside, just a few feet ahead of their extremely angry English Bulldog. The sound of their mother's voice could be heard coming from the kitchen, threatening them for slamming the door in such a violent manner.

Hot on their trail and bent on revenge, Doc hit the front porch and charged head-first into the now locked front screen door. Standing on his hind legs, he fitfully barked and clawed at the screen. He wanted in that house, and he wanted some payback. Ernest and Hubert knelt just inside the screen door, egging him on. Doc's vicious tirade increased to an almost fever pitch.

Finally, Georgia Decker came to investigate. Grandma Georgia was half Cherokee Indian. She was a little woman, with high cheekbones, and a normally quiet and submissive nature. As the mother of nine children (six of them - boys), Grandma Georgia had learned to hold her own in a fight. She was a tough disciplinarian when the situation dictated, and could swing a razor strap or tree limb with surprising power for such a little woman.

Grandma Georgia scolded Doc severely and ordered him to quiet down and get away from her front door. As she listened to Hubert and Ernest try to explain and defend their actions, she acknowledged that they had acted correctly, and praised them for taking charge of the situation. As with every good mother, she also attempted to seize this "teachable moment" and drive home a life lesson for her two youngest.

She sat them down in the living room and asked them how they felt during the experience of whipping Doc. Ernest spoke up and said, "I enjoyed every single lick...That'll teach him not to dig holes all the time." Grandma Georgia was careful to explain that merely beating the dog was not enough. The boys would have to, in some way, teach him not to resume the practice after the memory of the beating had faded.

She instructed her boys that when Doc had been given sufficient time to cool down, that they would need to go back outside and reconnect with him. This would show Doc that they did not hate him, and that the whipping was not just for sport. "Because," she explained, "just like I have to whip you boys every other day for the same things, this is probably not the last time you'll have to whip Doc...He probably isn't through digging holes."

Grandma Georgia was correct. Ernest and Hubert did restore their bond with Doc later that day. But,  Doc kept right on digging holes under the fence - until the day that he finally decided that either he was too old or just too tired to dig anymore.

Ernest and Hubert Decker did, in fact, remember this valuable experience later in their lives. Both genuinely tried to apply it after growing into manhood and becoming fathers themselves.

They learned that day that disciplining those we love is just that - an act of love. It is one of the things that deepens the familial bond, and trains the next generation so they will know when it's okay to dig holes under fences, and when it's not.

Long live the memory of a Riverside boy and his hole-digging dog.

Long live the memory of Doc Decker.


"Well I'll Be John Brown"

- David Decker
  February 15, 2011