I guess we Americans have always been tough. We’re known for our backbone. Our willingness to go the extra mile for peace is recognized throughout the world. As far as I can remember, we’ve never really picked a fight. But, if we’re forced to, you best hold on to something.
I hate to admit it, but there was a time in my 20s, when I was drinking, that I rather enjoyed a good fistfight. I guess, if I’m going to be completely honest, I really didn’t stop getting into fights till my late 50s. As I write this, I cringe at the trouble I got myself into. I’m sure that I paid for a couple of attorneys’ kids’ college educations.
There was a rage in me left over from childhood and Vietnam. At least, that’s what several different shrinks have told me.
Seems like almost all of my fights were with guys bigger than I – a few times, more than one of them at a time. Three broken noses, all my knuckles busted, heavy cuts above both my eyes, stitches and a couple of knife punctures later, through the grace of the Almighty, I’m still here. And relatively in one piece.
I’d flunked out of junior college, come back home and almost immediately got myself into trouble, drinking, fighting and driving through the curves way too fast.
The local judge told me it was either join the service and don an American uniform or get sized up for another kind of uniform, a county orange jumpsuit. Some choices we make are easy enough, when there’s no wiggle room. I enlisted in the Marine Corps.
I did some boxing while I was in. We used to call them “smokers.” That meant when the fight was over, whoever was still standing won. Always, my toughest opponents weren’t those heavy pounders nor the guys who had boxing skills. Nine times out of 10, they were wiry-built boys from the South.
No matter how many times I smacked them, they refused to quit. Having been born and raised in Tennessee, until I was 12, I was the same way. Those were some long rounds. When all odds were against me, I pulled my Harris prayer out of the bag. It almost always worked. I’ll tell you about Harris in a minute.
Back in the 1950s, for a few years of my childhood, I grew up over in Middle Tennessee, out in the country. Out there where Mama’s whipped potatoes had lumps in them, and it wasn’t iced tea without sugar in it. Where what you planted and raised was what you ate. Hardly anybody didn’t have at least a few chickens and a vegetable garden, even the people who lived in town.
In fact, there was an old woman who lived less than a block down from the town’s only gas station. She kept three or four goats in her front yard. They kept the lawn mowed. Once in a while, a couple of them would get out, and the neighbors would come running and help herd them back inside the fence.
Mr. Jenkins told me that, one autumn morning, one of the goats got out and was hit by a car. Later, that early evening, the whole neighborhood was in the old woman’s backyard, sitting on fold-out chairs, feasting on barbecued goat. There was frugality and efficiency to be found out there in the country. After it’s cooked, roadkill tastes the same as store-bought.
Every community has a handful of crazies, those who dance to the beat of a different drum. In a big city, they get lost in the shuffle. In a little town, they’re more visible.
It’s not just the crazies. There are others with their own small-town titles. The richest family, the best-looking guy and gal, the best athlete, the nicest person, the most trustworthy and so on. And there’s always that one fellow who’s known as the toughest guy around. That one fellow that you needed to stay on the good side of.
Our little town had its fair share of rough-and-tumble hombres, big guys with bulging arms and big hands, and necks so big around they couldn’t find shirts that fit. They were farm boys who’d grown up in the country and been doing a man’s job since they turned teenagers. You didn’t want to upset those guys. They’d all had a few scrapes, and there were stories told about them.
Most of those country boys had some things in common. They were big, they were strong, and they were tough. A few of them had another shared experience. At one time or another, they’d said something they shouldn’t have to a guy named Harris and got themselves knocked out. Cold-cocked! They said that Harris had fists like rocks.
Harris wasn’t really physically intimidating. No huge muscles. He stood no more than 6 feet tall, was handsomely tan and weighed around 175 pounds. He was one of those wiry-built boys with a chiseled chin, heavy brow and a Fabian hairdo. Quiet-spoken. He had some Shawnee in him. I’d say he was in his late 20s.
They said it was the Indian blood mixed with booze and, of all things, his devout faith in God that made Harris so strong and that he said a prayer before every fight he got into. I was told that his prayers could go on for several minutes.
Talk with the old-timers down at Whiteside Drug Store and they’d say, “Harris can put the fear of God in yuh.” At the time, I didn’t fully understand what they meant.
Harris was not a scholar. After a couple of runs at it, he finally got through high school. He landed himself a good job at the lumber store in nearby Columbia. He even did some holy-roller preaching on Sundays at a little church out in the middle of nowhere. I heard he could really get the congregation revved up.
It was just Harris, his sister and their mom. Harris’ older sister was mentally challenged and was looked after around the clock by their mother. His father was a convicted thief and was doing time in a Florida prison.
Police caught him and another guy cruising around Daytona Beach in a car that they stole from a grocery store parking lot. It belonged to a woman who was married to a cop. Nobody expected Harris’ father home anytime soon.
Harris was an interesting young man. He drank a little too much. Got into knock-down, drag-out brawls and preached. Women loved him because he was polite and good-looking. Men admired him for the same reasons, plus he was a man’s man. All men respect a guy who can handle himself.
Any time he’d see me, he’d come up behind me and tap me on my right shoulder. I’d turn around to my right, and he would be on my left. He’d grin and say, “Ah, I got you.” He’d say, “How are you, Billy? What you up to, bud?” In a way, I felt honored that he knew my name, much less that he was speaking to me.
Since I did all kinds of odd jobs in town, I saw Harris often. I watched the way he walked and tried to walk the same way. I’m sure that I looked a little silly taking such long steps. I kinda looked like what you look like taking giant steps in the game “May I.” If you remember that game, you’re several years past retirement.
The weather had just snapped, and it was getting colder. I was back to chopping kindling and firewood and hauling in coal for all the older ladies in the neighborhood. The sun had about a half-hour to go before dark. I was done for the day and headed to Whiteside’s. I intended to treat myself to a Coca-Cola and a bag of peanuts.
I could hear men hollering over by the Grange Hall. As I got closer, I saw a good 20 men standing in a circle around two guys fighting. One of them was Harris. I took off running. Before I got there, the fight was over, and Harris had won. The crowd began to disperse. A couple of boys were helping the bloody one to his feet. Harris got in his car and took off.
A bunch of the guys piled into Whiteside’s and talked about the fight. They were laughing about Harris’ prayer before the fight. I shouldn’t have, but I piped up and said that I thought it to be a good idea to pray to God for strength and his help. Ordinarily, they’d have kicked me out. Instead, there was a silence followed by laughter.
An old man everybody called Moses pulled me aside and told me that Harris’ prayer, the one he said out loud before every confrontation, was always for the guy he was getting ready to fight. At the end of his prayer, he’d run at them yelling, “Lord, I’m sending you another one.”
Bill Stamps’ books, “Miz Lena” and “Southern Folks,” are available on Amazon. For signed copies, email bill_stamps@aol.com.