The Bee Charmer
I’m not sure when I first realized that my grandfather
couldn’t read. He died the summer before
my sixth grade year and it wasn’t until after that I discovered this fact. I find it remarkable that I was neither
startled nor amazed. I remember that he
would have me read the cattle reports and prices to him and had always assumed
this was because he wanted me to practice my reading. I had read before I even entered first grade
and I could do this with no problem at all.
It provided a moment of special time between the two of us and I hold
that nugget of togetherness in a special place in my heart.
Henry Conditt Parks was born during the blustery month of
October, 1891, in Mountain Home, Arkansas, quite near the Missouri line. He was the son of Mikiel and Nancy Cypert
Parks. Mikiel was a gregarious farmer
and Nancy the quiet daughter of a rather prominent political family in
Arkansas. He was in the upper half of
ten children. Things were tough in
northern Arkansas and in his youth he found himself hopping a freight to go to
Idaho to work as a shepherd. After that
stint, he wandered around and even played a little bush league baseball. He became a pitcher of local renown. He wound up back in Mountain Home, married
his sweetheart, Cora, and tried his hand at farming. They lost a son and then had one other child,
my father. One of his sisters had
migrated to Paducah, Texas, and soon he and his little family followed in the
early 1930’s. He spent the rest of his
days in this community as a farmer. He
worked as a hired hand for several years, bought his own little sandy land farm
and was there until his death.
“Connie” was born, he herded sheep, played a little
baseball, married, buried one son, produced another, moved to Texas, farmed and
died. He couldn’t read. This is unimportant because the blanks need
to be filled in. Allow me.
My memory of my grandfather is that of an 11-year-old. It also consists of what I learned after he
died. Grandpa was a remarkable man. He was able to communicate in a way that was
almost spooky. His communication
consisted of listening, nodding and become one with the person he was with at
the moment. He was quiet and when he
spoke it was very important. He was very
sparse with his words and one hung on them with much attention. He was the consummate gentleman and I never
heard any vulgarity come from his mouth.
His relationships with his wife, son, grandchildren and friends were all
important to him. He was an important
man, and he couldn’t read. So what! Let me tell you some stories.
Grandpa was a bee charmer.
When someone found a wild swarm with honey, they called him in for the
harvest. This isn’t particularly
remarkable, except he did it with no protective gear. He would move with slow deliberation and
would be covered with the insects. He
was never stung. His fee for the service
was part of a bounty. I remember with great
clarity the washtubs of honey still in the comb and occasionally the bodies of
the bees who had produced it. To chew a
fresh comb of honey is a religious experience.
He loved the honey mixed with peanut butter and he passed that love to
me.
His wife, Cora, was a formidable woman who worked hard, had
many imagined ailments and lived in the hope of a glorious resurrection! Granny’s church of Christ background was the
cornerstone of her life. She was the
prized soprano in the a capella world of this church. Her sister, Hessie, was the tenor. The two of them sang forth with great gusto
and held the congregation together. It
was apparent that they felt the louder one sang, the more likely it would reach
the Pearly Gates. They had very good
pitch, excellent volume and to hear them warmed the heart of any church of
Christ member. Granny and Aunt Hessie
sat together in one of the front pews and ruled the roost in that particular
church. Aunt Hessie’s husband didn’t
attend church, much to their sorrow, but Grandpa was a faithful attendee. However, he sat in the back of the church and
not with the two divas. I never found it
peculiar that he didn’t sit with her.
That’s just the way it was.
Lady was his cow dog.
She was a delicate black and white Border collie who had IQ higher than
some other folk. Grandpa had trained her
to work the cows in a way that was magical.
He merely had to nod to her and she would go into the pastures and herd
the cows to the barn without any human assistance. People would watch in amazement. One of her pups, Buckshot, came to live with
us. He primarily herded my sister, Katy,
and kept her from angry roosters and snakes.
Grandpa loved critters.
He had a cage holding two monkey-faced owls and had a large flock of
geese and chickens. He made birdhouses
from long handled gourds that would become homes to wrens. He taught me to fend off the angry geese with
a stick. It was one of my first life
lessons. If you stand up to something
with authority, they will back away. A
hissing goose is a scary thing to a child, but they will scatter when
confronted. He knew each cow by name and
talent. He gave us a milk cow when we
moved to the farm named “Sugar.” She was
called that because she produced remarkably sweet milk.
Grandpa loved the movies.
In those days everyone went to town on Saturday. You parked your car on the square and everyone
would go around and visit. We kids would
run and play and go to the “picture show.”
If it was a hot day, you stayed in the theatre all afternoon. It was nearly always a western. There would occasionally be a “road” film
with Hope and Crosby or perhaps a Ma and Pa Kettle. There would always be a serial. Lash Larue and various other heroes would
always provide much excitement with hair-raising cliffhangers at the end. He loved all these movies. We would first go to M.E. Moses, the five and
dime store, and buy a sack of corn candy.
At the movie we would have popcorn, a soda pop and, occasionally, a
giant dill pickle. Granny never went
with us. I think, in her heart, she
taught they might be a little sinful. I
did take her to see “The Ten Commandments” after Grandpa died. She proclaimed that they did a pretty good
job, but the Book was better. The movies
were Grandpa’s books.” Since he couldn’t
read, this was away for him to escape into an imaginary world. He did this with the radio shows as well.
“Gang Busters,” “Fibber McGee,” and “Dragnet,” provided him with much
pleasure.
His son, Roy Neal, was an extension of himself. He and Dad could spend an entire afternoon
together, speak only sparsely and communicate more than any two individuals
I’ve ever seen. They were perfectly
attuned to one another. He made sure Dad
attended college and had it not been for WWII, he would have finished with a
degree in chemistry. He had to leave his
junior year for Uncle Sam and was never able to finish. However, Grandpa was fiercely proud of what
his son had accomplished. When it became
apparent that Dad was meant to be a farmer, he assisted him in returning to
Cottle County and procuring a farm. When
the drought of the ‘50’s hit, he spoke to the County Superintendent and got Dad
a job teaching in a small country school.
Dad spent a summer back in school in school and got his emergency
teaching certificate. Grandpa’s son was
a teacher and the buttons on his overalls were straining at the seam. This was the summer of 1953. Here was a man who couldn’t read, and his son
was a teacher. He sat down one morning
that summer for a breakfast of biscuits, honey and butter and had a heart
attack. A few days later he died. He was 61.
My grandpa couldn’t read, but could charm bees. He couldn’t read, but could train the best
cow dog in the country. He couldn’t
read, but he could raise owls, geese and provide homes for wrens. He couldn’t read, but had herded sheep in the
hills of Idaho and pitched bush league baseball. He couldn’t read, but produced a son who
became a farmer, teacher and county judge.
He couldn’t read, but left a legacy of love and devotion to his family. He helped form a portion of Texas with his
hard work, tenacity and imagination. I am
proud to be his grandson and wish that I could charm bees.
