As a 10 year old boy, there were many successes and failures in my life. They were both natural ways for teaching our minds and bodies to grow. The main difference, adults allow failures to affect them more long term. We tend to hold on to them like they are some kind of trophy to be embellished and handled over and over again. Make a mistake as a child, it is smoothed over and by morning of the next day, it hardly exists.

In our country-like neighborhood, there was a group of boys ranging in ages from 9 to 12. Some of the boys were very vocal and others were quiet and went along with the status quo. As for myself, although I was not the oldest, I was taller and stronger than any of the older boys and what I had to say pretty much was the rule of the day.

Our little town of Barrackville, West Virginia, was not a Petticoat Junction; however it eventually did have an Uncle Joe. In late July, the midday sun scorched our little neighborhood, and brought most activities to a stand still.

I recall this one summer day when we were all resting under an apple tree in the grassy alley behind Mr. Shackleford's chicken house. Skipper was a chubby nine year old boy, shorter than the rest of us, who was forever bragging about this and that. His constant bragging got us so fed up one day, we tore off his cloths and made him run home naked. We tied his clothes in so many knots it would have taken him until Christmas to get them straightened out. As he ran up the alley, he screamed, cried, and cursed us with every word he had ever heard.

It was few days later after baseball practice, Skipper showed up again. Still full of his bull, he started bragging about his father who raised bees and how he was allowed to do the job by himself. He professed to be the best bee keeper in the area. Skipper really just wanted to fit in to the group of older boys and wanted them to believe he was a very important person to have around. It was then, I said, "I know the location of a bee tree and it's full of honey."

Bee tree--honey! were the magic words. Everyone's eyes got very large. It was like some one had yelled fire in a crowded theater. The guys all started to gather closer to hear the details. As for Skipper, the news of a bee tree did not seemed to phase him. He just sat there with his eyes half open. Then he started, "Yeah, yeah" he said. "If I knew where a bee tree was located, I would just go there and get that honey." "What about the bees?" everyone remarked. Skipper, the little chubby boy said, "Don't worry. I got all of the equipment to get the honey. You guys just show me the tree and I will do the work." Skipper really wanted to fit in to the group and this kind of talk made him look like a pretty big guy. We all agreed--tomorrow we would meet, bright and early at the playground and I would take him to the bee tree.

Morning came and we were all assembled at the playground except Skipper. We waited and waited and finally it was suggested that we go to his house on the hill and see what was the matter. Arriving at his house, we knocked on the door and there stumbling, half asleep, came Skipper still in his night clothes. Opening the door and rubbing his eyes, he said, "What do you guys want?" "We? You were suppose to get the honey this morning," was shouted almost in unison. "Oh" he said. "I forgot. Let me sneak out the back door and I'll be right with you." We went around to the back door, and there came Skipper wearing a full rimmed hat, two shirts and two pairs of pants. As chubby as he was, this made him barely able to walk. Every thing seemed to be fine tuned for the trip and it was now time to make journey to the bee tree.

We walked across town and made sure to detour my house. If my mother saw me with Skipper dressed like a blue berry muffin, she certainly would want to know what we were going to do. Making a sprint past Mr. Horton's house, we ran past the old State Garage, passed under the large pine trees, maneuvered around the hog pens, jumped through an old garden and scurried down a hidden path to the old blacksmith's shop. It was here the asphalt road was located and we were out of sight from my mother. Now it was full sails ahead to the old iron bridge.

Arriving at the bridge, we were full of excitement. It was here we always stopped to check for any large fish that might be swimming up stream, look for snakes and throw a few rocks. Throwing rocks from the bridge was considered an art and I seemed to have a talent for being the most accurate. We would really give the snakes a rough time of it.

Having made our stop, we started up the old street car track. The rails had been taken out many years before leaving two paths full of black cinders with grass and weeds growing in the middle. We stopped at John Ice's spring, got a drink and washed our faces for good luck. Skipper just stood back from the rest of us and said, he didn't need any luck because he knew how to do it. He exclaimed he had helped his dad many times and he could get the honey. He was playing big man and we just let him do it.

You must remember, it was only a few days earlier when we caught him telling us fibs. We had punished him by taking his clothes off and making him walk home without them. Needless to say, the truth was a part of the Boy Scout Code and we paid high tribute to it. Taking his clothes was considered ample punishment for his fibs. We gave him a lot of rope and just let him talk about how he was going to get the honey.

The bee tree was located on a very steep hill near the pump house on a large bend in Buffalo Creek. The pump house is where the coal mines acquired their water for their cleaning plant, and where we boys did our swimming. The "Pump House Hill" as it was called, was so steep, if you started a rock rolling, it would roll all the way to the bottom before it stopped. In addition to being a very steep hill, there were two rock cliffs about ten feet high to climb over and it would take the efforts of Hercules for us to reach the top.

Taking a break from the long walk, we all stopped and rested at the old spring house from which a local family got there drinking water. The old concrete structure had fallen down years ago and only three walls still remained. It was in the center of this spring, a deep hole existed where you could get down on your knees and get a drink of pure cool water. You had to be careful not to drink a salamander that occasionally would come swimming by your mouth. Making sure your eyes were wide open was very important to the technique of sucking up a drink. When writing about this, I can now taste the cool water, feel the cool damp air and hear an occasional mosquito trying to land on my ear. Many times, I came away from that drink with a knot on my ear. As a matter of fact, along the Buffalo Creek, I was known as a great contributor toward keeping the mosquito population prolific and well-fed. To the mosquitoes, my blood was like the golden nectar to the Greek Gods and it assured a strong healthy lineage.

Rested up, it was time for the climb. To look up the steep wooded hill side, one would think it was too steep for a mountain goat. Normally that meant things were just right for me. To climb the hill, you needed to know what paths existed. There were fox and ground hog trails you could follow around the hill. These were on a little upwards angle allowing for a gradual upwards progress. During many long summer days, my dog Boy and I, would make a day digging a ground hog out of these cliffs. With my hill climbing experience and knowledge about this hill, it is no wonder they made me the team leader for directing the climb.

Beginning at the spring, a trail led to the first cliff where it was a ten foot climb you made with just the skin of your finger tips. From here on, it got even steeper which required you to go on all fours. Grab a root, a sapling, a tree, a grape vine, just any thing that would help propel you upwards. The upper cliff had ropes already installed to help you up and over them. The journey would take approximately one hour and that's with scratches, bruises and a lot of sweat.

There was a much easier way to get to the bee tree. It was a simple and direct route to the top of the hill through John Ice's fields. Easier....yes. But it would have taken all of the fun out of the journey. We were just kids, full of energy, and what would we have to talk about during those long hot summer afternoons wrestling and eating sour apples.

Arriving at the bee tree was an anxious moment. You could hear the bees humming, and occasionally see one fly by your head. The bee tree was an old brown rotten oak which had fallen years ago. Now it was Skipper's turn to take over. First he put a net over his hat and tied it tightly to his shirt collar; second he tightened up his shirt sleeves and then finally lighted a smoker. The smoker was to make the bees confused and leave the hive. When the smoker was going full strength, he began his little, big man act. He began to yell at us, "Back up you guys! Let me do my job!" With that I ran for about twenty feet and peered from behind a large buckeye tree. Not having to ask twice, everyone else scattered too.

Skipper began to smoke, and smoke some more. We could hardly see him in the cloud of smoke he had hanging over him. He yelled, "Throw me the ax!" Man oh man I thought, he is really going to do it. Thump, thump and then thump again went the ax on the old hollow tree. Skipper shouted out, "I can see it! I can see it! No, I got the honey! I got a whole hand full. You should see it!" Wow, I thought--the little fellow is really going to do it. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it.

At about that time, with my heart racing, thinking about the delicious honey, Skipper shouted, "Hey you guys. There's a bee on my net! Oh, there's another!" He began pumping the smoker feverishly and then he yelled, "No, they are not on the outside! They are on the inside!!!" I came out from behind my hiding place to see Skipper's entire arm and the back of his pants covered by a swarming wave of angry honey bees. There was no question about it, those wild honey bees were not happy campers. It was about this time that Skipper began to do a dance. "Ouch, ouch, ouch" he went as he twisted around and around smacking his pants.

The bees had found their way into Skipper's clothes and they were forging a full scale attack on his chubby behind. He yelled, "They got me boys. They got me!" He started to run down the hill. At this point in the adventure, we all scattered. The last thing I saw was Skipper flying over my head like Captain Marvel with the smoker still in his hand. He didn't stop to climb down the cliffs. He was air born for more than half of the way down the hill. First he would fly a ways--slide a ways--and fly some more. Towards the bottom of the hill he did some tumbling and crawling and made one last valiant jump into the pump house swimming hole.

When we got down the hill, we all gathered around the swimming hole and waited for Skipper to surface. Some wondered out loud if had he killed himself. It was at this time we could see some bubbles coming to the surface; he surfaced with a blow that would have made a whale proud. With his second breath, he screamed, "They got me! They got me!" and down under he would go again. Each time he went under, he would take off more clothes until he was completely naked. It was then he yelled, "Hey you guys! I can't swim! Ouch!" Those darn bees were circling the water and every time he came up he would get stung again. In desperation, I yelled, "Swim underwater! You can do it! You can do it!" Having given the command, Skipper disappeared. He surfaced down stream under a black willow near the bank.

When we got close to him, we could see knots on his head, back and his chubby behind. It was then he began to cry. We asked, "Does it hurt a lot? Are you OK?" "Oh no," Skip said. "It doesn't hurt much. It doesn't hurt much at all.....and yes I am OK." I asked, "Then why are you crying Skipper?" Skipper just pointed at the pump house swimming hole and continued to sob, with half breaths. Then with a little coaching he said, "I lost my clothes and I will have walk home naked." We all looked at each other and each guy started to taking off an article of clothing. We fixed him a real nice outfit. Since I was the biggest, he used my shirt as a pair of pants by putting his legs in the arms of the shirt. He used another boy's shirt for a top. To us, he didn't really look too bad because we thought he really looked tough.

We took our time and walked with a togetherness which we had never felt before. When we got to the iron bridge, there were some girls fishing off the bridge. They began to yell and point at Skipper's clothes. I thought surely they didn't look that bad and so I asked him to turn around and look at me. Skipper, in his haste to get dressed failed to button all the shirt's buttons and he was exposing his bottom. We made short work of getting him buttoned up and started home.

We decided to walk along the creek to the covered bridge and into town, rather than the road up Tony Sergi's hill which led past my mother's house. When we reached town, things broke loose. Most of the kids in town had assembled at the local grill to hang out for the afternoon and were always looking to pick on someone or something. When they saw Skipper wearing my shirt up side down they ran toward him laughing and poking him with their fingers. This made Skipper cry and we all got into a shoving and shouting match. You've got to understand, it was OK for us to make fun of our own group, but that's where it stopped. For someone else to make fun of our guys was considered an act of war. Fighting really didn't mount to much other than shoving each other around or a little Indian wrestling. It was only a few weeks before that we were chastising Skipper and now we were fighting for him.

After the shoving match, we pretty much dispersed the other group by chasing them into the grill. We then walked Skipper home to explain to his mother what had happened. His mother was very understanding, and I think to prove it, she took a photo of him. I never got to see the picture but I bet that it will go down in history as a one of the most funniest ever. As we left Skipper, I can still hear his mother laughing on her porch, bending over holding her sides.

What I have learned is, things are not always as easy as they seem to be; and it takes an expert to mess with wild honey bees. Oh yes one more thing, I am sorry about the time I helped the guys take Skipper's clothes and made him walk home naked. He was just a little kid who wanted to have fun with the older boys and prove he was a tough little guy. Skipper remained my friend throughout my school years and I write this story with his friendship in my heart. Back to Story Menu