Banner photo: Curt left, me bent over, Mom in a chair, and Jim on the rug. The lower photo is Curt showing our niece, Tammy, a slide.

Hit the Dirt, Jim!

It was inevitable Curt would marry the first of the boys of Louise Lowry Smith, nee Wescott, and Walter William Smith, Sr, as he was the most gregarious and popular. Curt was a slicker, very concerned about the placement of each hair on his head, before he sprayed his hair fixative on it for the day. It was comb your hair like this, Olan, tighten your belt, tuck in your shirt, and come Sunday he'd teach me how to tie a Windsor knot for church. I'd say he was a surface person, but it wouldn't be fair to him. He was certainly concerned with his appearance, and if you were with him, you had to look sharp. He came home from serving in the National Guard, and we'd moved from under him into a new house, and the old house was razed to the ground. He did spend some time with us, in the new home, but while he was there he got his own room, and Walt and I were housed in a room with twin beds. Curt would soon marry and be gone, and Walt would move to Macon. He is a good brother, and during that period of time he'd pay me a quarter to slap his face in the morning. If he slept in, sure, whatever you want, Curtis.

Photo: Curt and his first wife cutting the wedding cake, a boy and lady looking, and me in the right foreground, all spruced up with a new haircut.

When I went to a Christian summer camp Curt was very concerned for me getting homesick, because he was homesick in the Guard, and he wrote Mom about it. I could care less, because I wasn't home, and I was having fun, but he was worried about me. God bless him. In 1965, he met a girl and fell in love. She was the queen of the fair, and he was her prince charming. This part is about her step brother, Jim and me. He and I became close friends, and was a year or so younger. We did many things together, including fishing. Behind our new home, to the south, was an old tank pond for a spur railroad used by the mine. Jim and I would go down to fish every so often. One day while fishing at the pond, we heard two, and then a third bullet zing within inches of our heads, in quick succession. I turn to Jim and say, "Hit the dirt!" I'd played enough army to know what to say in those circumstances. We plastered ourselves to the bank of the pond. His dog runs up beside us and curls up; it was bleeding. We were down low on the bank so most likely whoever was shooting didn't know we were there. We grab our gear, and I pick up the dog cradling it in my arms. I look over at who is shooting at us, and I recognized him. He was a boy visiting his grandfather from the state of Michigan. I stand up and carry the dog to him and his friend, and shout angrily at them both. "You think shooting this pet dog makes you big! Well, it makes you small! You shot my friend's dog and nearly hit us." We walked pass them toward my house, when Jim said, "Wow, I've never seen a boy so brave. You walked right up to them, with their loaded rifles, and you tell them off. They could have shot us. They still could." I look back over my shoulder nervously, and think, damn that was a stupid thing to do. Jim passed away a number of years ago, and I still think of that day when we shared a life threatening situation. I wasn't brave. I was woefully stupid. I told my parents, his parents, and the boy's grandfather, but to my knowledge nothing happened to the boy. I just never saw him again. Who in their right mind shoots a pet dog, or shoots not knowing what is down range? The dog had a gut wound, but the bullet went through-and-through cleanly. We were all lucky that day.

The eighteen year-olds taking their vows.