The Hank's Stories

The Hank’s Stories

Hampton Forbes Jr.

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© 2012 by Hampton Forbes Jr.. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 07/05/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2886-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2885-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2884-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911451

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Contents

DEDICATION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book of stories to my family: my wife, Betty, the love of my life of sixty-three years, and my four children, Hampton III, Deborah, Therressa, and Gwyneth. They stood by me during all these stories.

I married Betty at age sixteen. She was more responsible at sixteen than most thirty-year-old. She birthed our son at age seventeen and our youngest at age twenty-two. If she wanted to do or make something, she read about it (no computer). She had a vast knowledge in various areas from reading and doing. She could furnish the family needs on a minimum budget. She made the children’s clothing; for extra money, Betty baked, made draperies, pillow coverings, furniture finishing, upholstery, and flower arrangements, and sold Sarah Coventry jewelry. She was also a lifeguard and swimming instructor. When we moved to Delaware she worked as a hostess, banquet manager, sales service and department manager, antique dealer, run a stove shop business, sold flowers, and managed seven acres, with four in flowers and gardens. She maintained four acres of grass. While working in all these areas she had time for caring for those less fortunate. She is a doer. She is one of a kind; they broke the mold when they made her.

IN THE BEGINNING was Grandpaw Hinton. I think this is where my stories began. He was a generous, kind granddad. He had a temper that was set off by a small spark. There are a lot of stories about him. He was a big tease, especially if he had a bag of candy. His favorite thing was to thump you on the head. I could write a lot of stories about him, but I will just write two of them.

Granddad owned a farm. One day he was plowing corn with the mule, and the mule was constantly bending down to bite off the young corn. He talked to that mule as if he was a person. He would say, Don’t eat that corn. Your feed is after you have worked for it. Well, that was a hardheaded mule. Granddad warned that mule again. He said, If you take one more bite of that new corn I’m going to hit you with my fist. I’m sure the mule understood. At the beginning of the next row that mule took a double bite. Granddad got red in the face and came around with a haymaker to the side of that mule’s head. The mule got a little wobble in the legs and fell over. Yep, that mule went down for the ten count, only he didn’t get up. Granddad had a dead mule on his hands.

When granddad sold the farm he went to work for Westvaco. He lived about three-quarters of a mile from the plant. Grandma would pack a metal dinner bucket with his dinner. It would have a spoon, fork, and whatever glassware was needed to contain his dinner. One day while walking to work the glass and/or the spoon would rattle, a tinkle, tinkle. He would stop and adjust the items in his dinner pail. After a few steps it would tinkle, tinkle again. He repeated his adjustment about three more times. He took off huffing and puffing, no sound. He thought he had it mastered. Then the rattle—tinkle, tinkle—started again. He slammed the dinner pail to the ground and stomped it. He then said, Now tinkle, tinkle.

Uncle Fred was a great coon hunter he owned good coon hounds; he had a pet coon, Billy he used to train the dogs. He also worked for Westvaco. When getting home from the three to eleven shift he heard the dogs baying on the ridge above the house. He got his .22 rifles and came over to Dad’s. He said, Hamp, the dogs are treed above the house. That’s all Dad needed to hear; he loved coon hunting also. They walked to where the dogs were barking. Sure enough, those dogs had a coon treed. Fred was about to shoot the coon. Dad said, Fred, that might be Billy. Fred replied, No, Billy is in the cage. He shot, and down went the coon. Those dogs pounced on it and vigorously shook it. When they went by Billy’s cage, Dad said, Fred, Billy has escaped. Yes, Fred shot his pet coon. Make sure you know what you are shooting.

CHAPTER I

Preschool

I AM HANK A DEPRESSION baby, born November 5, 1930, the son of Lucy Hinton Forbes and Hampton Edward Forbes, after whom I was named. Mom was a retired school teacher; she put her children before her job. Dad was a mill worker (foreman in the pulp mill). I had three sisters, who are listed according to age: Lavera Ailice, Dorothy Agnus, and Dreama Arbutis.

We lived on the outskirts of town; our backyard was eight acres joining Hot Springs Mountain. From the front porch the Jackson River could be seen, flowing with clear blue-green virgin waters. This was a child’s paradise; it also had a creek flowing from the mountain to the river. (It contained lizards and crawfish.) It was also a retreat for Dad and Mom. They had a garden for vegetables and flowers; also, they had chickens, pigs, and a jersey cow, which supplied us with milk and butter.

Hank stories started at a tender age. I really don’t remember this story; however, I will repeat it as I was told. Early one morning Mom bundled me up with blankets and left me warm and serene in the cradle; she gathered her milk container and headed for the barn to milk the cow. I was quite an active child, kicking, tossing, and turning in the crib. When she returned, I was entangled in the blankets, black and blue from lack of oxygen. She survived me never to leave me alone again.

Somehow I was now a special baby (boy).

I remember the next story. I was in a baby gown. It was a hot summer night, and I was in bed with Mom and Dad. I don’t know how this got started, I was crying for a corn silk cigarette. I remember Dad getting out of bed and going to the garden for corn silks. I don’t remember if the cigarette was lit. I was pacified and went to sleep. This should have been a warning of things to come.

My next story happened at age three. We had a rock wall parallel to the road in front of our house; it had an opening about three feet for a gate. The top surface was eighteen inches wide with a smooth cement cap, perfect for running. I was not allowed on the wall; however, I would sneak on it and just fly. I spent more time looking back for Mom than I did looking forward. Thinking I was getting away with something, I didn’t see the gate opening, I glided to a fall on the opposite side. My head and knees were skinned and bruised. Seeing blood, I squalled even louder. The neighbors thought my parents were killing me. Well, no more rock wall for a while.

I was hardly healed when I went under our front porch to play. I loved to play dangerously; I climbed on an old cook stove and jumped off. There was an accumulation of old barrels, hoops, boards, rakes, shovels, and junk around the stove. When I leaped I didn’t pick a clear spot; my head hit the shovel, and I fell against other items. I had a muddy face with blood; it looked worst than it seemed. I thought they are going to kill me. Hoping to get sympathy I got up squalling, knowing I would soon get attention. Immediately Mom arrived, panickly. She said, "Hankie, what have you done this time? She carried me to the kitchen and cleaned me up. After removing dirt and blood she discovered cuts between my eyes there were two cuts resembling an airplane. It wasn’t bad however I now had something for show and tell. The scar has been with me ever since. Needless to say, under the porch was now off-limits. Just in case I ignored the warning, a lock was placed on the entrance. As I grew in wisdom and understanding, my parents felt I needed to be with children of my own age.

Now being five years old, they enrolled me in kindergarten. It is similar pre-K of today. This is where I learned to play with others without getting hurt. I was introduced to reading, writing, math, and art. I was very good at art. I got a little creative; my masterpiece was the east end of a westbound cat. This got a chuckle from my fans but not from the teacher. That masterpiece and being introduced to the opposite sex was the downfall of my kindergarten career. I was homeschooled until starting the first grade.

Our backyard had a beautiful elongated pool (pond) about two feet deep. It had goldfish, lilies, and floating flowers. It was like a showplace especially when the flowers were in bloom.

I started a new game around the pond. only I knew the game was tippet. I would lure others, especially boys, to get closer to the edge and bend over while watching fish and smelling flowers. This is where the tippet came into play. I would give a quick push on their shoulders and tip them in. This didn’t go well with their parents or Dad. My famous words were, I didn’t do it; they just lost their balance. I was broke of this early; Dad gave my brand new stripped railroad coveralls to one of the victims. This is when a fence went around the pond; finally it was filled in to prevent future temptations.

Prior to the pond being filled with dirt, a group of ladies came to admire the pond fish and flowers. Mit was a robust lady, big in stature, who weighed about x pounds. She was leaning over and saying how beautiful it was; one huge flower caught her eye, and she decided to catch its fragrance. She had footing on a rock that tilted. You have never seen such a sight; down she went headfirst, her legs separated and sticking up like the forks in a tree. Mom, being very excited and not knowing what to do, hollered for Forbes (Dad). He came rushing out half dressed and in a tea shirt. Seeing the site he made an about—face and back in the house he went . . . all I could say was, I didn’t do it I was twenty-five feet away as a bystander. The women got together, forcing her legs and thighs down, and finally, after a few bubbles, her head popped up for air. They used a small ladder to assist her to stable ground. When I wanted to gig Dad, I asked him what he saw. He just said, We don’t want to talk about it. I only wish I had a camera. I could have won America’s Funniest Home Vidoes.

Aunt Garnet lived three houses from our home. I frequently went by for a visit. She was a good cook and often had available pie or cake. I was a little bored this day, and I headed for her house. I pecked on the door, and she invited me in. While sitting behaving myself I noticed a big nickel box of strike-anywhere matches. Aunt Garnet asked me what I wanted. I answered nothing except mom wants to borrow some matches. She gave me a handful and said be careful and go straight home. Well I built a couple small fires on the way home. I struck every match; I now know every possible way to strike a match. I went back to Aunt Garnet’s. She came to the door and said, What is it, Hankie? I said, Mom needs more matches. She said, Hankie what did you do with all those matches? She said, You get straight home before I call Lucy (Mom). Well, she figured me out in a hurry. I went home and took a low profile for the rest of the day. I think Mom knew what I did. Well, a Mom gotta do what a Mom gotta do.

I was