When I was a little kid, growing up out in the country a few miles south of Columbia, Tennessee, I knew and explored every house, barn, silo, creek and hillside in that little farming community.
Always at my side was my dog and faithful companion, Prince. A little black-and-white cocker-and-everything-else mix. It wasn’t until years after I named Prince that I, quite by accident, discovered that he was a she. I can’t help it. I still refer to Prince as he.
All country children have three things in common. They fish, ride ponies and mules, and they get Mama-dragged to church on Sunday mornings. Back then, some, depending on their faith, went two or three times a week. I used to think those Baptists living on the other side of the bridge sure must be doing a lot of sinning.
Another thing we kids did was climb trees. We had three or four trees well known to us all as tall and challenging. There was a big poplar on the north bank of the creek just down from our swimming hole. Another couple of rough-bark, century-old, oak trees sat out back of Widow Stephenson’s house.
Her neighbor, an old bald-headed man, would watch for us. You could see him pull back the curtain and peep out. He stuttered. As soon as one of us shimmied up to the first limb, he would run across the backyard, still in his bathrobe and holler us out of the yard with, “Y’all gi-gi-gi-gi-git!” We were long gone before he got it all out.