We Ford the Creek 2006

Now that we are having rain again, we again have a river where County Road 104 and Alabama Hwy. 227 meet; and it’s just like fording the creek to get from here to there or there to here.   As I’ve told you before, the state claims it’s the responsibility of the county and the county claims it’s the responsibility of the state to do whatever it takes to repair this pesky spot.  So here the residents of this short strip of road remain.  Actually, this part of County Rd. 104 is in pretty good shape, except for where the dirt meets the pavement. I was told once that if I didn’t quit writing about the condition of this road  “they” would plow a ditch right down the middle.  “They” haven’t plowed a ditch yet, but “they” are getting ready to pave the rest of 104 – but not this part.  This end of County Rd. 104 is a short connector road between Hwy 227 and County Rd. 20.  Its okay with me if they don’t pave this section (traffic by here is fast enough, thank you), but it would be nice to have the river fixed.  We don’t use the end of the road that connects to CR 20 as much, but it’s not much better than the other end.  If the commissioners lived on this part of the road these problems would not exist.  I have to bone up on when it will be election time again – surely it’s not too far away.  It will be interesting to see how the voters on this little dirt vote – there are not many of us, but every vote counts.

Speaking of fording the creek – you younger readers do know that to ford the creek, you cross it without a bridge – just wade through.  Well, we used to know a man, in the 1930?s and ’40?s, who operated a rolling store – it was actually a little store on wheels and he traveled the Sand Mountain roads on certain days of the week – peddling.  Back then very few cars were on the mountain and this gave the country folks an opportunity to shop.  He was called “The Peddler” and he would accept barter – such as butter, eggs and chickens – in exchange for whatever products were needed.  There was a trap door in the floor of the rolling store which opened into a coop attached to the bottom of the store and this is where the chickens rode. In certain areas of his route he, too, would have to ford the creek.  One bitterly cold winter night he had to ford a creek that had risen because of recent rains and all the chickens in his coop drowned.  He got home at midnight, woke his wife, she got out of bed and together they dressed about a dozen chickens.  I can just imagine today’s wife getting out of bed to dress chickens in the middle of the night!!!  I heard one time that “there’s nothing worse than wet stove wood and a woke up woman.” (You can’t imagine what my computer says to me when I put this phrase in here – I talked back, saying, “Yes, I’m going to use that term”).

Another fording the creek story that has floated around here for many years was about John’s grandmother fording Reedy Creek.  Back then she lived in the Ophir community (at one time Ophir had a school and post office, but they no longer exist, so I guess Ophir community went by the wayside, too) anyway they had to ford Reedy Creek when they visited relatives in Crossville.  On this particular trip, some Birmingham cousins had come to Grandma’s to visit, at which time John and his brother were also going home with Grandma. I’m told Grandma had a one horse wagon and an old gray horse named, Major, and it was in the back of this wagon that the visiting children were riding.  Back then it was a treat to get to sit in the floor of the wagon bed and let bare feet hang out at the back opening and this is just what was happening.  As they approached Reedy Creek, Grandma said, “You’d better get your feet up in the wagon, if you don’t Ole Raw Head and Bloody Bones’ll get you.”  Grandma Crumly was widely known for her ghost story telling and this was just another sample of that. Needless to say, the children pulled their feet up in the bed of the wagon until after they got through the creek and have never forgotten the episode.

Many years after this, one of those Birmingham cousins (afflicted with Parkinson’s disease) was visiting here and John was trying to get her to remember that happening (but he never mentioned the name of the horse).  She could hardly remember her name, but when he told that story it was as though a light had been turned on – her face just glowed as she remarked, “Grandma’s horses’ name was Major.”  It was almost a tear jerker for the rest of us.

Soap boxes, complaints and memories – all an important part of this style of country living.