Dad Gumm

See the source image

Dad Gumm

James R. Aist

“Not yet I ain’t!”, he said…

This story will require a brief introduction to a colloquialism that I grew up with in Arkansas.  When someone had tried and failed at something (for example, shooting a squirrel that was climbing up the side of a tree), they might say something like “Darn!” or “Dag nabbit!” to express their disappointment. Or, they might instead say “Dad Gummit!” or just “Dad gum!”

With that, let me tell you my version of a story that originated with my brother Johnny. At the time, Johnny was an undergraduate at the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. He was enrolled in a class on folklore, and was required to research and submit an original essay on local lore in northwest Arkansas. So, Johnny decided to visit and interview, impromptu and unannounced, some of the old-timers in the area to find out what words of wisdom they might be willing to share with him. One day he was driving along a rural, dirt road looking for someone to interview, when he rounded a bend and saw the perfect prospect: an old man sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of his old log cabin, high on a hill. This appeared to be just the kind of old-timer that Johnny was looking for.

So, he pulled into the dirt driveway, drove up the hill to the cabin, and began the interview. “Good morning”, says Johnny. “Howdy there, young feller”, replies the old man. Johnny then proceeds to begin the interview. “My name is Johnny Aist, what’s yours?” With a slight grin on his face, the old man replies “My last name is Gumm, but most people around here call me Dad!” Instantly recognizing this clever reference to a local colloquialism, Johnny grins accordingly and then continues the interview. “Tell me, Mister Gumm, have you lived here all your life?”, he asks. To which Dad Gumm replies, “Not yet, I ain’t, but I ain’t never lived nowhere’s else neither!”

And that’s when Johnny knew that he had stumbled onto a gem of an old-timer who was just the kind of guy he was looking for help him get an “A” on his research project!

(To read more amazing short stories on this website, click HERE)

Encountering God in the Barn on Sunday

See the source image

Encountering God in the Barn on Sunday

by Annette Seybert, Guest Author

God is full of surprises. I never thought I would find myself living on a farm at this stage of my life. I call this God’s unexpected grace.

God is sovereign, He reigns over all, and that would include me, my family and my life. There are things that I don’t understand, secrets that I may never have answered this side of heaven. However, I know there is a purpose in His plans for me. There are unexpected blessings that pop into our ordinary days. I experienced one of these while I was watering the yearlings in the barn on Sunday afternoon.

We have four heifers that inhabit the barn (these would be the babies that were born last spring). You could say they are kinda stuck in the middle, similar to a teenager, too old to have their mama’s attention, yet too young to be mixed in with the rest of the herd, especially with the bull. This foursome of “tweens” will put a smile on your face even on the darkest of days. I do believe they have stolen a piece of my heart. They can be mischievous, like dragging the watering hose around the barn floor and stomping holes into it. But in spite of their awkwardness and ever-increasing size (somewhere between 700 and 800 lbs.!), they have a gentle and sweet disposition.

The watering of such beasts is not an unpleasant task. I rather enjoy the encounter. The atmosphere inside the old barn is pleasant and peaceful. This is a wonderful place to meet with God. A place to stop striving and allow God’s thoughts to permeate my own. Something about this place seems to make time stand still, just for a little while, long enough to let peace settle in and to be reminded of simpler days. There is an old familiarity about this place, like I always have known it. It seems to be somewhere hidden down deep inside of me.

I wonder if God gives us some little sampling of our home in Heaven when we allow the busyness of our crazy world to fly, fly away for a brief time. God gave me a glimpse of this on Sunday, in the barn. He used the soft breath of a yearling at the base of my neck and a rough lick of a tongue across the back of my hand. God is creative; you can count on Him to use what ever resources are available at the time you need to hear from Him the most. The barn is full of useful resources.

Nothing huge happened on this day in the old barn. I do not have the words to describe His overwhelming Presence on Sunday, but it was there, and it was for me, and it was glorious.

I walked away from the barn with a smile on my face, a little lighter in my spirit, and with a deep down assurance that … I am loved.

(To read more, awesome short stories on this website, click HERE and HERE)

Shields Up, Fire at Will!

Shields Up, Fire at Will!

James R. Aist

If you are old enough to have been a fan of the Three Stooges slap-stick comedy series, the title of this article may have reminded you of the episode where the Stooges are armed for battle and someone gives the command, “Fire at will”, to which one of the stooges responds, “Which one is Will?” Well, this article is not about the famous Three Stooges, but it is about four not-so-famous child “stooges”, including myself, who lived so far “out in the sticks” of rural, central Arkansas that we had to invent games to entertain ourselves during the long, hot summers when school was out. And, to do so, we had to use whatever was readily available, which wasn’t much. [For example, you may enjoy reading also my account of “Wasper Warriors” (click HERE)].

This particular game we dubbed “Corn Cob Fights”, and it was practiced briefly when we were about 8-10 years old. Since we lived on a farm, raised a few pigs and had a dairy herd, there was no shortage of corn cobs and burlap feed bags. It wasn’t long before I realized that these were all we needed to create a new fighting game when we grew tired of playing “Cowboys and Indians.” The burlap bags made suitable shields when supported by a straight stick passed through one end, while corn cobs were readily obtained from the filthy, disgusting, germ-infested ground inside the pig pen. The fact that these corn cobs, because of their nasty origin, made terrifying projectiles when thrown, just made the game more exciting to us. (Remember, we were boys, we were bored, we were only 8-10 years old, and Mamma didn’t always know what we were up to!)

So, we collected our corn cobs, constructed our shields, decided on the ground rules and selected the venue: one team would defend the barn’s hay loft by “firing” corn cobs through the open door in one end – an opening that was used to pass hay bales into and out of the hayloft — and the other team would stand on the ground and try to “pick them off” by “firing” corn cobs when they appeared in the opening to “fire” corn cobs at us. The burlap shields were used by the ground team. This seemed innocent enough at the time. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

To start the fight, we chose sides, with two friends on each side. Tommy Joe was on the loft side, I was on the ground side, and we took our respective positions about 25 feet in front of the barn. The loft team fired first, suddenly appearing in the opening, launching their filthy missiles, and quickly dodging back behind the barn wall to safety. We easily dodged their reckless, return rounds with shields up, and then fired back. But, alas and alack, they could much more easily protect themselves than we could, because they could retreat quickly behind the wooden wall of the loft when we fired at them. After a few, futile exchanges, it occurred to me that I would have to come up with a new strategy, if we were ever going to emerge victorious over these lofty fiends. So, I took note of the time it took for them fire again after firing at us: it took about two seconds for them to reappear to fire back.

With that time in mind, I fired into the opening, waited two seconds, and then aimed and fired again where I expected Tommy Joe to appear just as my ordinance arrived. And, wouldn’t you know it, my new strategy (can you say “trickery”) worked perfectly: Tommy Joe popped his head out just in time to be smashed in the face by my filthy, airborne corn cob! I was astonished at this development, because the odds of actually hitting my target must have been at least a million to one! Then I heard Tommy Joe begin to cry, and I saw blood on his lip. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, not really”, I thought to myself. Then Tommy Joe complained loudly, through his tears, that I had cheated, to which I shot back that there were no rules in this game against trickery. For some reason, Tommy Joe didn’t seem to be comforted by my retort. Go figure. Then it hit me: “What if he tells on me, and what if he gets infected from the filthy corn cob? This could very possibly not end well for me.” “Oh, why did I ever invent such a game in the first place?” I asked myself, with sincere regret in my heart.

Well, Tommy Joe and I had been friends for a few years already, and when he had calmed down, he realized that his injury was never intended to be an outcome of this game. So, we agreed to never play the game again and moved on. Nevertheless, I must admit that I still admire the clever creativity that went into my trickery and the skill with which I pulled it off. Still, I am glad that I had the presence of mind to not suggest that we go for “two out of three” as a way to, somehow, console him. You see, sometimes it’s best to just keep your mouth shut and walk away!

(To read more of my short stories, click HERE.)

A Day to Remember

Image result for blessed free images

A Day to Remember

 James R. Aist

We all have our “good days” and our “bad days.” Most days it seems to be a mixture of the two. And so it is with me, as well. However, there is one particular day in my life that stands out far above all the other good days I have had. This day came together for me in the Spring of 1971, while I was a Ph.D. student in Plant pathology at the University of Wisconsin, Madison.

As I was soon to graduate with a Ph.D., I had been busy preparing for the next logical steps in my career and my family. Applications for a Postdoctoral Fellowship at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich, Switzerland, had been sent in. Job applications had been made to a couple of prestigious institutions with strong programs in Plant Pathology. My wife and I were trying for our first baby, as I was soon to be earning a suitable salary to support a family. Of course, I didn’t know either if or when any of these aspirations would be realized, but I did my best to make them all happen in the near future. I was optimistic, as is my nature.

After several months of anxious waiting, the unbelievable became reality, all in one morning: first, I got a letter in the mail from the National Institutes of Health, and they offered me a full-ride Postdoctoral Fellowship for Switzerland; next, I got a phone call from the Chairman of the Department of Plant Pathology at Cornell University offering me a tenure-track faculty position that was literally tailor-made for me (I kid you not!) at a starting salary of $11,000 per year; and finally, my wife walked into my cubicle and announced that she was pregnant with our first child!

Well, needless to say, I was truly amazed, overwhelmed and rendered mentally useless for productive work the remainder of the day, so I shared the good news with my Major Professor and went home to bask in the avalanche of good news that God had blessed me with that morning. It was hard to believe, but it really was true.

However, there was still one potential “fly in the ointment” that had to be resolved before I could benefit fully from all these blessings: my job offer and my Postdoctoral Fellowship were both scheduled to begin in September of that year. So, I called the Department Chairman at Cornell and asked if I could go ahead and accept the Postdoctoral Fellowship and start my job at Cornell in September of 1972 instead of 1971. “Sure”, he said, “Go ahead and get your postdoctoral training in Zurich first, and we’ll hold your job for you in the meantime.” Wow, I was delighted that it was all going to work out just as I had hoped! But, this fairytale-like adventure didn’t end there. When I returned to the U.S. to assume my faculty position at Cornell, there was a letter in my mailbox from the Department Chairman stating that he was including me in the salary-increase program for the year I was in Zurich, and my new starting salary would be increased from $11,000 to $12,000 per year; I got a salary increase before I even started work at Cornell!

I truly am a blessed man, and I give God all of the praise and all of the glory for the favor that had to come my way in order for all this to happen as it did. And His timing is impeccable!

(To enjoy more of my short stories, click HERE)