Cross Creek by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

 

At one time or another most of us at the Creek have been suspected of a degree of madness. Madness is only a variety of mental nonconformity, and we are all individualists here.

This 1942 novel of rural Florida is rife with life, redolent with place. Observations and anecdotes abound picking out what is common to all human experience and perhaps rendered all the more noticeable as we garner it from a background of so few human characters.

Every human we encounter in Cross Creek has a story to tell about ourselves.

Old Aunt Martha Mickens, with her deceptive humility and her face like poured chocolate, is perhaps the shuttle that has woven our knowledge, carrying back and forth, with the apparent innocence of a nest-building bird, the most revealing bits of gossip; the sort of gossip that tells, not trivial facts, but human motives and the secrets of human hearts. Each of us pretends that she carries these threads only about others and never about us, but we all know better, and that none of us is spared.

The rural life, the frontier life as seen by one who actually lived it as opposed to how many from congested areas might see it.

Folks called the road lonely, because there is not human traffic and human stirring. Because I have walked it so many times and seen such tumult of life there, it seems to me one of the most populous highways of my acquaintance. I have walked it in ecstasy, and in joy it his beloved. Every pine tree, every gallberry bush, every passion vine, every joree rustling in the underbrush, is vibrant. I've walked it in trouble, and the wind in the trees beside me is easing. I have walked it in despair, and the red of the sunset is my own blood dissolving into the night's darkness. For all such things were on earth before us, and will survive after us, and is given to us to join ourselves with them and to be comforted.

Rawlings has a sincere gift. I’ve never encountered such a novel way to describe the annoyance of mosquitoes.

One would think that exposed neck, arms, the face would suffice the hungriest of insects. But the mosquito is a Freudian, taking delight only in the hidden places.

Rawlings’ limns the life of early rural Florida with such skill I feel the richer for having visited on the page, and the poorer for not having visited in actuality.

We at the Creek draw our conclusions about the world from our intimate knowledge of one small portion of it.

Old Boss said, “The Creek don't amount to anything. The people don't amount to anything. But if you're sick and have no money, they'll cook for you and fetch it to you, and they'll doctor you, and if you get past their doctoring, they'll send for a doctor and pay his bill. And if you die, they'll take up a collection and bury you. I figure it's just as close to heaven here as any other place.”

Easy A.

“Grandpa and the Miracle Grindstone” by Joe David Brown

 

Women were still weeping over the graves at Gettysburg when my grandpa came to Walesburg. Nobody ever quite figured out where he came from or why he came. He just showed up one night in a blue-serge store-bought suit and eased his way into Jere Higham's place. Grandpa walked quietly to the end of the bar and put down his Bible. He didn't have to call for silence, because it followed him through the long smoky room like a hound dog.

Grandpa cleared his throat and began to speak. “Boys, I'm you’re new preacher,” he said, “and I aim to give my first sermon right here.”

A couple of General Lee's men still in uniform, began to laugh. Grandpa didn't even glance that way. He just reached under his long coat and pulled out two long-barreled cavalry pistols and slapped them on the bar.

“Either I speak,” he said, “or these do!”

This 1956 short-story by Mr. Brown is a mini-marvel. He is also the author of Addie Pray, which became the charming Oscar-winning film, Paper Moon about a 11-year-old con artist and her older partner.

The story feels like a Southern shaggy dog story, that morphs into one of tough-minded faith, and right before one suspects that it may turn mawkish ala a lesser episode of The Waltons, Mr. Brown kicks his moral into high gear and leaves us with both a fine story and a firm sense of the kind of boot-strappin’ faith that likely sustained many of pioneer spirit.

Damned, well done.

I will now be tracking down more of Mr. Brown’s work.

Do You Fear The Wind by Hamlin Garland

 

I’d like to offer a poem by Hamlin Garland, the author of Main-Travelled Roads [reviewed favorably on this blog.]

It is a bracing bit of Western thought, in his case, Mid-Western thought.

May you enjoy!

Do You Fear The Wind by Hamlin Garland

Do you fear the force of the wind,

The slash of the rain?

Go face them and fight them,

Be savage again.

Go hungry and cold like the wolf,

Go wade like the crane:

The palms of your hands will thicken,

The skin of your cheek will tan,

You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy,

But you'll walk like a man!

“Enter Ramona, Laughing” by Wayne Ude

 

“As usual in the evening, Ramona Laughing sits on a stool at the bar’s end farthest from the door and stares at her hands, spread out before her on the polished bar top. They are small hands, like her grandmother's, but useless: good only to excite a man. Ramona's glass is neglected, half filled with warming beer. The bar as yet is quiet; it will fill up later, and Ramona may or may not notice: she also is quiet tonight. Some nights she may be feverish in her conviviality, and others sullen, almost murderous in her silence. She once stabbed a man, though not seriously, and it is widely agreed that he should have known better.

This 1975 story from Ude was selected by Jon Lewis as one of the 100 Best Western Short Stories of all time. It was a devil to track down; I found it in the fall 1975 issue of Transatlantic Review. It was later collected into a slim anthology of like stories titled Buffalo and Other Stories.

This story clocks in at a mere 5 pages, but damn does it pack a whole lotta livin’ in that brief page count.

It captures despair, loss of connection with tribal culture, smalltown barroom desperation and a bit of “Taken for granted” indigenous mysticism.

In short, a mini masterpiece of observation, well worth a read by the mature reader who appreciates that the genre can do so much more, be so much more than formula.

Review in a single word: Superlative!

Over the Chihuahua and Santa Fe trails, 1847-1848: George Rutledge Gibson's Journal

 

George Rutledge was born in Virginia around 1810. He later studied law and opened a law office in Vincennes, Indiana, in 1834. During the early 1840s he moved his practice to Weston, Missouri.

He also tried his hand at journalism, that is, publishing his own newspapers, both of these ventures failed, perhaps so for his law practice as well for when the Mexican War started, Gibson volunteered and was elected a second lieutenant.

He was part of Colonel Stephen Watts Kearny's Army of the West, which left Fort Leavenworth for the occupation of New Mexico in 1846. He later became assistant quartermaster and commissary and accompanied Colonel Alexander Doniphan's forces to El Paso and Chihuahua, seeing action at the Battle of Brazito on 25 December 1846 and the Battle of Sacramento on 28 February 1847.

The first section of Gibson's journal begins when he left Chihuahua in April 1847. During the one-month journey, Gibson provided descriptions of the land and people and the several hardships he encountered. The second section of the journal details his eight-hundred-mile trip from Santa Fe to Fort Leavenworth beginning in April 1848, after his stay of about one year in Santa Fe. Again, Gibson recorded his adventures, impressions, and feelings along the way.

As per usual, Men and Women who have lived many lives are almost invariably interesting.

Picture the following eerie sight. The reality rivals anything in Cormac McCarthy’s nightmare lands in Blood Meridian.

Monday, April 5^th

We took a long rest at the stone corral in the bottom, where there are some cottonwoods, and then rode over the field which covers the intermediate ground between the mountains and is very extensive. The stench from the dead carcasses both of men and animals made our stay much shorter than it would have been, nor was the spectacle of the kind calculated to kindle our antipathys or resentments, for the skeletons of our Enemies were strewed over the ground, having been dragged out of their graves by the wolves, great numbers of which we saw even in the daytime. They had eaten all the flesh off, but the bones were very offensive, human flesh of all others creating the most disgusting smell. This animal seems to relish it above all others, for they dug them out of the Redoubts and left the dead oxen, horses and mules almost untouched. There are still many marks of the conflict, but everything of the least value has been carried away.

[I offer the following far more sedate counterpoint as showing the Frontier’s reverence for Books—the capitalization of Book is Mr. Gibson’s choice. The West was a literature hungry society. The novel mentioned was a new one on me, I have since acquired it and am enjoying the read. It always rewards to nourish with what those of yore nourished with.

Saturday, April 10^th

The day was as pleasant as could be wished for and having determined to remain all night to recruit our animals we spent the evening reading, Mr. Hoffman having brought for his own use several Books. Agnes Serle by Mrs. Pickering fell to my share, which I found interesting and it was quite a novelty to sit down in the wilds on the banks of a clear spring branch and read one of the latest and most fashionable novels of the day. They want of Books to read at our leisure moments has been a source of greater annoyance since we first came into the country, a vexation which has to be experienced to appreciate.

[The final 10 words in the following are the Wise moral here. Many of us would be happier if would but embrace this philosophical stiffness of soul.]

Wednesday, May 5h

I found that there had been no mail since February and I determined to await the arrival of one, the state of things being such as to require it, consequently the traders go on without me. I was in hopes I should find several letters in the office but there were none and I have to put up with what I can't help.

[Another eerie scene—92 mule heads double bordering the trail. Good Lord!]

May 10^th

We made an early start, the road leading down the valley and we found it very sandy. In 6 miles we reached the Willow Bar which is nothing but a bank 3 feet high, with water occasionally in a Pool, and not a single willow to be seen, if ever any grew there. A short distance this side we passed a formidable row of 92 mule heads placed in double-line which Mr Spire lost in one night in 1844 in a snow storm, frozen to death.

[One more curious event, there is so much more story here, and yet in an eventful life the following merits a mere single paragraph in a journal entry.]

Wednesday, May 7h

We have in company a strange customer, no other than a woman in mans clothes. She enlisted in Col. Gilpins Battalion and performed all her duties as a soldier, nor was her sex suspected until it is she disclosed it herself. There is nothing in her appearance suspicious as she mixes with the Teamsters as one of them, and smokes, chews and acts like the man. Her sex being discovered she was sent back to the States by this train and furnishes rough jokes daily for these men of hardy habits. She has not yet laid aside mans clothes.

To those who Dare to Live Many Lives!

Resources for Livin’ the Warrior Life

The Black Box Warehouse

https://www.extremeselfprotection.com/

The Indigenous Ability Blog

https://indigenousability.blogspot.com/

The Rough ‘n’ Tumble Raconteur Podcast

https://anchor.fm/mark-hatmaker

Lost Stage Valley by Frank Bonham

 

About the coach milled the usual crowd: relatives departing passengers, old men who read dead dreams of adventure in the dust of varnished panels, Mexican children waiting to run alongside the big yellow wheels is the stage rolled up the road.

This 1948 offering from the prolific Mr. Bonham was chosen by Editor Jon Lewis as one of The 100 Best Western Novels.

It is rife with well-observed ruminations of life, people, the land and the ever-rolling tapestry of Fate that we call history.

His terse pronouncements rival most more highly regarded craft found in what is termed “Literature” with a capital L.

I’ll allow a few more extracts to tell that tale.

Under a gray blanket of tattered clouds, they buried Tom Gilson in the cemetery on the hillside. Here lay Willie Crocker; a Mexican hostler dead of smallpox; and three immigrants who had been murdered in the past. Almost as many residents as some Western towns could boast.

Or this…

It had the appearance of a thriving town, but it was a rough one, dirty and careless of its appearance, like a bleary-eyed old man with food spilled on his vest. It was a town of church bells, crows, and rubbish, with little of beauty other than the tawniness of adobe walls against blue skies.

Or this summing up of how men often silently size up one another.

Holbrook's eyes picked him like a pawnbroker’s fingers, searching for the flaw he would go for in a scrap. But Broderick’s jaw was one for shaping anvils on, and his arms were long and the hands at the end of them big-knuckled and capable, and if he had a vulnerable spot it did not show.

Or here, his take on a tool in the feminine wiles’ arsenal.

And she did something with her eyes, a quick veiling of long lashes and the downward glance again, as though she had overstepped. He had seen it done before, but never so well.

The novel may come in the form of a formulaic Western and it contains it’s share of shoot-em-up scenes, but…these are never glorified.

Griff pondered. “Haunting is all in a man's mind. I saw Grandjon die tonight. Nobody ever died having less fun. He died because of the ball I put in his leg. Then I put a shot in McArdle. I guess he's done, too. Reminded me of a rabbit that almost made its hole, laying there kicking its life out and squealing like a pig. Death ain't pretty, Johnny. It ain't like going to sleep. It's big. Bigger than life, because people keep getting born, but nobody ever comes back carrying his coffin and brushin’ off the dirt. I've killed men in my time, and once in a while one walks in still, showing me the hole in his breast and saying, “You done that, pardner. Don't forget to tell God.”

Bonham’s West is both formulaic and real. Spangled how many of us like it, but also tattered, how others of us like it.

The girls were getting more haggard-looking. A couple had gone out and others came to take their places. The edge was off the fun, but the girls and patrons kept playing because they had things to forget or wanted something to remember.

Many who put pen to paper may hit their word count but how many, well, make it sing?

Or as Mr. Bonham would say:

“Powder’s cheap”, he said. “Anybody can talk loud, but how many can make it stick?”

Not a classic but head-and-shoulders above the herd.

At the Movies with The Old Man: Jim Kelly, Quiet Cool

 

[Taken from our book Frontier Fisticuffs: Brawls, Dustups & Mysterious Strangers--The Martial Arts Western on Film. To see another extract from the book, this time a delightful and accurate early Jonn Wayne film, hit the link. The behind the scenes scufflin’ is worth the read alone.]

Take a Hard Ride [1975]

This 1975 Italian-American coproduction was an attempt to blend the then popular Blaxploitation and Spaghetti Western trends. It was also the 2nd of three films starring the trio of Jim Brown, Fred Williamson, and our main man of interest here, Jim Kelly. [Three the Hard Way & One Down, Two to Go being the other two films.]

The director, credited as Anthony Dawson was the sometime screen name of Antonio Margheriti, a veteran of Italian exploitation cinema with Peplum, Spaghetti Westerns and cannibal films to his credit.

As per usual with Italian “Westerns” the film was shot nowhere near the American West, here, the Canary Islands stands in for the Southwest.

As is the practice here, plot details will be minimal to save that enjoyment for any who decide to screen the flick for themselves.

In precis, Pike [Jim Brown, wearing the tightest pants ever devised] accedes to his dying boss’s wish to take a saddlebag of $6,000 back to his ranch in Sonora, Mexico.

Along the way he acquires an untrustworthy but stylish gambler Tyree [Fred Williamson, wearing the second tightest pair of pants known to man.]

While on the journey they are pursued by various parties who think that $6 grand would look better in their own saddlebags.

Add to this they are being pursued by the ruthless bounty hunter Keifer [played by Spaghetti Western stalwart Lee Van Cleef.]

Also, along the way, they pick up a mute Indian scout by the name of Kashtok [played by Jim Kelly.]

Since fighting is our focus in these pages, let us turn to the non-gunplay action.

Jim Brown and Fred Williamson have a brief dustup, but neither lead seems up to really relinquishing cool status so it is a rather mundane affair.

Now, to Mr. Kelly.

Most of us remember him for his role as Williams in the iconic Enter the Dragon.

Jim Kelly, a Bonafide karateka began his study of Shorin-ryu karate in his college years. Kelly went on to perform well in Karate Championships of the early 70s, perhaps the acme being his winning of the world middleweight title at the 1971 Long Beach International Karate Championships.

Mr. Kelly parlayed this success into opening his own studio in Southern California, which led to more than a few celebrities giving karate a go, and these connections led to his debut in martial arts film.

Those of us who know Jim Kelly from Enter the Dragon, two films as Black Belt Jones plus a few others know the decision to have him play mute in this film was not because he could not deliver a line reading, oh, he could and deliver it with utter early 70’s Afro-Cool.

In Take a Hard Ride we may be denied his voice, but we do have the expressive vehicle of his body, and he uses that well here.

His easy grace fits the Indian scout role to a T. He does not mount a horse, rather, like actual Apache scouts who often preferred to “lope” vast distances afoot [see our offering on Apache Running here] or Larry McMurtry’s memorable character “Famous Shoes” from the Lonesome Dove quartet, we often see him treading easily and smoothly where our two tight-trousered stars stay ahorse.

Let’s get to what you came here for, the fights. Unlike the lackluster Brown-Williamson confrontation, we are treated to Kelly in a few brief scuffles moving smoothly, applying jump kicks on sand with facile ability and overall providing some of the more interesting aspects of the film.

Now, I adore Jim Brown, but…I don’t see this as his best film.

I’m not the biggest on Fred Williamson’s swagger style of “acting around his perpetual cigar,” so I can’t really say how he stacks up here—he always seems the same to me. Cocky and posing for the camera, never really performing.

The clear attractions, to this viewer are Van Cleef’s dependable laconic cool, and Jim Kelly’s mute grace.

It seems even without dialogue he out-cooled the main stars.

The film is no classic of the Wester-Frontier Martial Arts film but thanks to Jim Kelly it is worth a look for aficionados of the genre.

[Taken from our book Frontier Fisticuffs: Brawls, Dustups & Mysterious Strangers--The Martial Arts Western on Film. To see another extract from the book, this time a delightful and accurate early Jonn Wayne film, hit the link. The behind the scenes scufflin’ is worth the read alone.]

Old School Warrior Resources Below

The Black Box Warehouse

https://www.extremeselfprotection.com/

The Indigenous Ability Blog

https://indigenousability.blogspot.com/

The Rough ‘n’ Tumble Raconteur Podcast

https://anchor.fm/mark-hatmaker