Sweet Home Alabama

One of the founding members of Lynyrd Skynyrd died the other day of a heart attack. Keyboardist, Billy Powell was the only survivor of the plane crash that claimed the lives of three members of the band back in 1977. But apparently he couldn't outrun a bad ticker. Now like any true Southerner, I'd place Skynyrd right along side the greatest rock bands of all time. They essentially created the Southern Rock Sound of the '70's. They are legends in every sense of the word but I've always found it strange that their biggest hit song sings the praises of the state of Alabama but when in fact the band is actually from Florida.

On my way home tonight, one of the local radio stations here in Atlanta played Sweet Home Alabama in tribute to Mr. Powell and the tune got me reminiscing about my own personal experiences in the fourth state to secede from the Union. Unfortunately my only memories of Alabama are primarily limited to horse shows and deer hunting, in that order.

I used to HATE go to the horse shows that Mom and Dad drug me and Joe to every weekend during the summer when we were kids. I always thought racking horses were just so boring. Why couldn't they have been into saddle bronc or bull riding, or even barrel racing. Anything but racking horses. But two positive things did come out of the experiences I guess. One was my lifelong love of comics books started during these weekend excursions. The places where we went to show Mom's horses were typically small, backwater towns in Mississippi or Alabama. So to keep my and Joe occupied for the duration of the event, Mom and Dad would find a local convenience store and buy us a stack of comics. To this day I still have a secret adoration for a good graphic novel.

The other, positive that came out of the horse shows was Dad's connection to some good deer hunting property through out Alabama. Our Horse trainer, a man named Elwin Heatherly, lived in Arab, Alabama, and over the years hooked Dad up on some sweet hunts. When I was old enough, I was allowed to tag along on some of them.

Now the following little stories occurred over twenty years ago, so I may not be entirely accurate in relaying the facts but I'll do my darndest. Most of my recollections hunting in Alabama is a mish-mash of pre-adolescent memories anyway.

One of my most vivid memories of hunting Alabama, happened just days after I killed my first deer back in sixth grade. The day after Christmas, Dad and I loaded up the truck and drove down to Arab, where we picked up Ewin Heatherly, and headed down to Selma. When got into Selma, late that night, and needed a place to stay. Elwin, who apparently was good friends with the local sheriff and was himself an honorary deputy of the county told us to head over to the county jail. When we got there, the sheriff, showed us around the place and allowed us to sleep in one the vacant jail cells. For a ten year old kid, I was half excited about this overnight adventure and half scared to death. I remember Dad and I drifting off to sleep that night, to the loud cursing and yells of the inmates on the other other side of the wall.

The next morning the sheriff, point out a large pond in the back of the jail where he a had a small goat tired up near the edge of the water. The sheriff said some of his deputies were trying to lure a alligator out of the pond with the goat. Once he crawled out to snack on the goat, they where going to pump him full of bullets. Apparently the gator had recently dined on a couple of the sheriff's prized coon hounds.

After leaving the jail, we headed up to a large cotton farm just outside of Selma. As we pulled up to the house, it immediately reminded of Tara from Gone With The Wind- a massive antebellum plantation house. The mansion's owner was a fellow by the name of Tommy Trailer, who by my accounts came from some old-time Southern money. I remember the man being loud and obnoxious, but boy did he have some impressive deer heads hanging on the wall. And that was why we were there in the first place, to hunt his property.

On his estate grounds, Mr. Trailer had several African-American wandering around, and as it turned out they had been employed to run with the dogs during our hunt. You see in this part of Alabama, we were going to be driven deer, which meant that hunters would be placed in strategic locals and dogs would be set out to flush the deer towards the hunters. Only Tommy Trailer didn't have enough dogs, so he made some of his black employee run with the pack. Obviously this was extremely dangerous, but several of these guys were very poor and needed the money. As we rode out to the deer woods in the back of a pick-up, one of the black gentleman kept begged Dad and me to be careful and not shoot him. He said one of his buddies was shot and killed doing this several years ago. Good Grief.

When we reached woods, I was dropped off in a spot overlooking a narrow logging road and Dad was dropped off about a quarter mile past me to watch a power line. About fifteen minutes later, they turned the dogs loose. In between their loud yelps, one could distinctly hear "WHOO! DON'T SHOOT ME! I'M A MAN! I'M A MAN!"

The dogs ran a small little button buck out of the brush to with in ten yards of my position, where I quickly disposed of the animal with my 20 gauge shotgun. My second buck!

Dad on the other hand, had to watch in utter disgust at the sight of the biggest buck of his life was flushed out of the woods some 80 yards from him. An easy shot with a rifle, but due to the fact we were running dogs each hunter was forced to hunt with shotguns and the distance was too far for his 12 gauge. Dad had to just stand there and watch the deer slip away.

Later that afternoon, back at the plantation, Tommy had cooked up a big lunch for us hunters but refused to let any of the African-American "drivers" to eat inside the house.

"GET BACK IN THAT TRUCK, AND SIT THERE UNTIL I CALL YOU!" he snapped at one man.

Turned out that not only was Tommy Trailer a loud braggart, but we was also an incredible racist. At lunch he bragged to us that he was on the bridge in Selma in 1965 during Martin Luther King's famous march where he helped other racists attack the civil right activists. It was apparently something he took great pride in. Dad and I knew immediately we'd never hunt with this wacko again, and during lunch we snuck some sandwiched out to the some of the black guys who weren't allowed to eat with us.

Though I disagree with just about all of his politics, there are times I'm glad Barrack Obama was elected president, if only for the sake of African-Americans who have been treated like dirt their whole lives by people like Tommy Trailer.

***

Now the following story has been told so many times over the years, I honestly can't recall if I was actually present for it's occurrence or if the story itself has simple become entwined with my memories. In any event, Dad and I traveled to Alabama on another hunting trip a couple of years later. Again, we stopped to pick-up our old horse trainer Elwin along with his brother in-law. We traveled to a place called Cuba, Alabama which lies on the Alabama/Mississippi border. It was long trip and we didn't arrive at the hunting camp until the wee hours of the morning. When the four of us walked into the cabin, we found ourselves confronted with the deafening sound of over two dozen middle-aged deer hunters snoring as loud as they could go. The sound was reverberating off the cabin walls and literally shaking the tiny structure. It thunderous cacophony of severe sleep apnea.

"They Good God," said Elwin. "I've ain't never heard anything like this in my life."

Elwin pondered the situation for a second and eventually had an epiphany. "I'll take care of this," he said.

With that, he marched outside to an old tool shed and returned with an old, rusted-out Craftsman walk-behind lawnmower. He silently pushed the mower to the center of the room, in between the bunks of sleeping men and proceeded to start it up with one quick stroke.

Every man in the room woke up with a jolt, some nearly falling out of their beds. It's a wonder he didn't give some of the more overweight men a coronary.

"Well, I recon that takes care of the snoring," Elwin laughed. "Now the rest of us can get some sleep."


***

On another trip, in addition to Elwin, Dad and I brought along Ray, Junior and Uncle Walt. We were again hunting somewhere down around Cuba, Alabama on the Mississippi line. On this particular hunting property, the land owners had hauled an old box trailer from an 18 wheeler out into the woods and converted it into a sort of hunting shelter. It looked more like something Jason Vorhees would live in, than a hunting cabin but it served it's purpose. They had some old cots in there along with some aluminium folding chairs. I can't remember right off, but I assume they had some sort of stove and ventilation system in there as well.

On the second or third day of the hunt, I shot a little spike buck with my .22 mag. Because it wasn't a large caliber rifle, the deer didn't drop immediately and ran off into the swamp. There wasn't much of a blood trail, and Dad said we shouldn't waste our time looking for the deer. "He's probably in the next county, by now," Dad said. But Junior and I decided we were going to find that deer and the two of us ended up tracking that thing for over a mile. At times we were on our hands and knees searching for minuscule droplets of blood. Eventually we found the little buck, half dead laid up by an old log. After a lengthy debate as to how to finish it off, Junior put the muzzle of his .243 Remington to the deer's head and pulled the trigger.

It wasn't a big buck in any sense of the word, but due to our expert tracking skills, my cousin and I thought we were now certified mountain men.

I'm sure there are more stories from Alabama that I'm leaving out, and I sure Dad has a few of his own, but for now that's all folks. Roll Tide!