The Mouths of the Sabine Bottoms

By James E. Johnson

Dad passed away in the winter of 1992. On the day of the funeral, in the old Kemp cemetery, it was cold and blustery, with the raw smell of a norther’ rain thick around us all. In a scene we all know so well, family and friends gathered beside the black draped grave. Most family huddled beneath a gray flimsy canopy affording some level of protection in case the rain materialized, as it seemed it must. The gathering formed a slight semicircle facing a cadre of funeral home directors and clergy who stood vigil by the casket. The pile of fresh earth nearby lay pathetically disguised by a tarp, a corner of which flapped dejectedly in the chill wind. The gravediggers lingered near their maintenance vans, a discreet distance away. Their nonchalance thinly veiling their eagerness for the service to end so they could complete their task, get out of the cold, and go get some coffee at the small café downtown. Calling main street Kemp “downtown” was a bit of a stretch.

Dad, Gregory Pinkney Johnson, had succumbed to a host of frailties brought on by a long life we all seem to think is a blessing. There was nothing remarkable about his demise other than the fact that he was our Father, Husband, and Brother. I stood beside the canopy, allowing the more frail of the family to sit in the limited number of metal folding chairs. My own son stayed nearby, watching me closely. I sensed the irony that in the back of his mind he fought off the image that one day he would stand in my place in an exact scenario. As I hovered protectively near Mom, reflection was inevitable.

As I stood tired and miserable in the winter wind, my mind replayed vignettes from our past with a crystalline clarity forged by the weight of my grief, like diamonds created by the mass of earth’s mantel. Dad had been a good man and respected by many. Not a perfect man at all. But one of pride, hard working, wise, and dedicated to his family. He and Mom had been married for over 70 years. Staggering that, in this day and time. There is no explaining why certain memories arise and others do not. As I watched Mom’s shoulders shudder with subdued sobs, I recalled Dad’s Saturday afternoon routines from my early youth. The time frame was the 1950’s in small town Greenville in East Texas. This was a special time. And not just because I recall it through the filter of my youth of about 6 to 16 years. America truly seemed to possess a bit of serene simplicity in those days. It was post World War II and before the tumultuous 60’s. Dad was a traveling salesman and worked long hours on the road all over East Texas. He was moderately successful but he was at heart a very rural man. A Rural East Texas man. He didn’t smoke or drink very much and I was too young to be aware of other vices he might have possessed. But one vice I knew very well.

Dad’s real passion was fox hunting and his foxhounds. Dispel your image of English royalty dressed in finery on horseback surrounded by a host of hounds and bugles blaring. Also temper that civilized perception of hunting. The word smacks of innocent bloody little dead animals. Fact was Dad and his circle of hunting friends wouldn’t dream of killing the small gray foxes native to East Texas. There were a few red foxes, of Brer Fox fame, but these had been introduced into the wild by these very fox “hunters”. Dad
and his cronies practiced a style of hunting most would fine unique. It was all about the chase.

The very mix of personalities who practiced this hunting style was eclectic. Dad was considered a “city” man being from Greenville, population about 12,000. Most of the other hunters were from much smaller towns or farms near tiny towns around East Texas with names like Miller Grove, Lone Oak, and Alba. Tiny faded old communities, with decaying hearts consisting of a few long demised general stores hinting of a more optimistic germination. These men were simple, hard, direct speaking; whose circle numbered no more than 10 to 15. Nearly all were tough men who toiled on farms growing modest crops with a small herd of cattle and or pigs, and a few chickens. Like Dad’s youthful upbringing outside Mabank Texas. All knew the environs of East Texas intimately. They spent their youths hunting and exploring the depths of the East Texas woodlands, grasslands, and more acutely the river bottoms. They held an abiding love of the land that was rarely expressed in words. The fact that they took their few precious hours of pleasure in the East Texas depths belied this adoration.

Every weekend from my earliest memories and on until the early sixties, Dad would arrive at home from the road early on Saturday afternoon. His arrival was always heralded by an amazing din of baying. For behind our old frame house on the outskirts of Greenville, between Sayle Street and the railroad tracks, which were about 100 yards behind the house, Dad kept his kennel. It was a fenced in rectangle with an old wood chicken barn in its center. The kennel was maybe a 75 feet long and 50-odd wide. Within these confines lived anywhere from 10 to 20 pure bred American Foxhounds. Now these weren’t your average housedogs, although they held as much charm and playfulness as any pet. These hounds were bred for durability, strength, nose, hunting instinct, and mouth. That’s right, mouth.

In this back lot Dad kept his battered old Ford pickup and a hand fashioned dog trailer. The bed of the screened trailer housed the hounds and above the bed Dad had constructed a crude sleeping enclosure from plywood with a hinged flap entrance on one end. The trailer could transport up to about 10 hounds if desired. The dogs made this incredible uproar upon his arrival because they knew it was time to head out for the hunt. They would only quiet when Dad would harshly scold them with a guff “Heow Now!! Hush it up!“. The dogs would then quiet to an occasional yap and whimper, all the while dancing from foot to nervous foot like a three year old in desperate need of a pee. All the dogs behaved this way save one. That would be the venerable old Barney, Dad’s prized trophy winning hunting champion. Barney merely stood stoically with his eyes riveted on Dad’s every move.

Dad would come into the house and give Mom a peck and catch up on any doings in the household requiring his attention. Both knew only a true emergency could detract Dad from actual routine. Dad would change into his old overalls and boots and head out to the kennel. I would be hot on his heels to assist and with the desperate hope of a boy child that maybe this time I could go with him. Dad would toss a couple of metal trashcans of dog food into the back of the truck along with other sundries. The dog food was a special blend Dad created from a variety of crackers and cookies which had not survived transportation intact to the nearby Nabisco warehouse, and bone and meat scraps from the butchers he encountered making his sales rounds to area grocery stores. An ax for firewood, a large metal water can, and other essentials for the camp were loaded up. Next he opened the kennel gate and the hounds bounded out making a beeline for the trailer.

They surrounded Dad impatiently waiting for him to open the trailer, at which time they would leap in, jostling each other for entry with nary a command being uttered.

I was the lesser of three sons, but I was the only one who pestered Dad to please, please let me go hunting with him. On some rare occasions he would relent and tell me to run to the house and change clothes and shoes, get a jacket and to tell Mom to make me some food for the trip. The excitement I would feel was near bliss. And off we would go on a couple of hour’s drive, deep into the woods and bottom lands around the Sabine bottoms. I always loved the woods and exploring them and watching animals, plants, and insects, so each hunt was an adventure. But it was also an education. We would set up a camp far from any habitation. Usually about three to five of the other hunters would meet Dad at a prearranged location and how they found these remote locations seemed mysterious at the time. But they knew these bottoms well.

Everyone would show up at about dusk and the first business was setting up a small campfire and stools. Each man held a certain fascination for a young boy. Old Mert was about 50 years old and as big as a barn with enormous hands as hard as rock. He had a hair lip, which slurred his speech severely, but if you were around him a while you caught onto his peculiar drawl. He was huge but had a kind and gentle air. Dad had said he was an old bachelor and because of his deformity had lived a lonely partially ostracized life. He had a farm from his family deep in the bottoms and hunted raccoons as well as fox. He even had a pet raccoon and squirrel. Louis was a dairy farmer and he and Dad had known each other forever. Louis was a tall drink of a man with kind blue eyes and a soft voice for so large a man. Louis’s son Mack was in his thirties and also ran a dairy farm and was a noted bull rider in regional rodeos. Mack was built like a stump in contrast to his father, but retained the eyes and kind manner. Mr. Overall was the eldest in his mid sixties and owned a lot of land, on which he farmed cotton and feed crops.

Each man brought from 2 to 5 dogs in their own trailers. As night would fall, they would discuss the upcoming hunt. I would sit fascinated by their knowledge trying to learn everything they said. This style of fox hunting rarely required the hunters to leave the camping circle. Its simplicity was its beauty. They would at some magic designated hour release a set of dogs. They selected the group carefully. First they released a core set of experienced hounds, each with a specific talent in the hunt. Some were adept at finding a cold trail and following it to its source. Others were more skilled at sticking to a hot trail and following the older veteran dogs. Some were blessed with that special “mouth” each being distinct from the others. Still others had amazing endurance and staying power. A few younger dogs would be added so they could learn from the older hounds and develop their own forte. The pack would usually consist of about 10 to 14 hounds. Dad’s Old Barney was always the leader of the pack. He seemed to possess all these skills in a composite and was famous throughout Texas and the South. Remember as well these hounds were pedigreed and each owner kept detailed records of their bloodlines.

Barney would wait for Dad to take him by the collar and lead him to the edge of the camp and propel him into the dark woods. The hunt was on. The pack would vanish and you only heard an occasional yelp as they moved away. And here the simple purity of the sport became apparent. The dogs would search with their keen senses to locate the trail of a fox and then pursue it with unfailing determination. The wily fox would become aware of the pack far in the distance and listen for their progress. Eventually he would know indeed they were on his trail and off he would go trying every genetically ingrained trick in his arsenal to throw them off his trail. He would wade streams, climb trees (yes gray foxes could climb trees with their cat like claws) and take long leaps leaving scent gaps, and scurry through underground dens and every other trick he could muster to throw them off his trail. And he possessed amazing speed and endurance himself. But he was loath to leave his territory, which often encompassed many square miles. So the hunt would turn into a marvelous enormous circle. The hounds were only rarely thrown completely off the scent. Occasionally a wily old fox would pull some mystery maneuver and lose the pack. But not often.

The heart of the hunt was the wonderful song of the hounds. I listened to the men discuss the hunt as it developed. They could tell simply by the sounds of the pack exactly what was happening out in the deep bottoms by the mouths of the dogs. Initially it was always Barney who would find a trail. He would announce the find to all with his glorious mouth that echoed for miles through the forest. A deep baritone “Bahrooo!! Bahroo! !“. At first just a few calls every minute or so, and then more often as the trail got hotter. Then the other hounds would begin to join in, each with its distinctly powerful mouth. Some had high pitched voices like operatic soprano’s and others with a series of yelps of various pitches. The variety seemed endless. But each mouth was easily identified by the hunters.
Soon a haunting chorus would echo for miles through the bottoms. As the trail became hotter the intensity of the symphony would grow until it formed a wonderful harmony with the bottoms, at one with the wildness and blending with the intense moon and starshine into a mosaic that made the hair on one’s neck tingle. The chase would go on sometimes for an hour or more. At some point the fox would tire or the dogs would get too close and it would tree. The event was a singular one and a distinctive final jubilant Coda was performed by the pack as they vented both their glee and frustration of cornering their quest. Though unseen by our eyes, we could see the wily fox in our minds glaring down at his tormentors from the tree, but waiting patiently for them to tire of waiting and finally heading off to find a new trail.

Then the performance would repeat itself. I could almost see Barney as he zigzagged through the briars, head down to glean the cold trail. He was tireless and eventually it began anew with that singular “Bahrooo! ! !“ And so it would go all night long. Being a child I would eventually tire and Dad would carry me to the dog trailer, opening the flap and lying me among the musty blankets to sleep. I would fight sleep with all my strength listening to the ongoing hunt. But finally I would fall into the deep sleep of youth.

The next morning, the hounds would have returned to the camp after hunting all night long. And a more ragged bunch you would never see. In their exuberance for the hunt, their very footpads would be worn and bleeding, their ears torn and ragged from dashing through greenbriars and bard wire. All would have some cuts and scrapes which the hunters carefully and tenderly attended. They would usually have to literally carry the dogs to their trailers, as they were too exhausted to make it on their own. Finally Dad and I would head for home late on Sunday morning. When we got home, we would further tend to the dogs and feed and water them. Dad had medications and salves for all their wounds. And all week the dogs did nothing but sleep and eat. Their bodies would heal and by the following Saturday, when Dad returned from work, they would renew the excited dance of the week before. They lived for the hunt and loved Dad for being the channel through which they could fulfill their destiny.

As I stood in the cold at the cemetery, these memories made my eyes misty with how I treasured those times. Finally, the graveside service began. The Baptist preacher began his last eulogy and the final sermon he could not resist delivering. I noticed across the cemetery at the bard wired tree line, a shape emerge from the trees and slip through the fence. As it neared, I realized with a start that it was a single grizzled old foxhound. He lopped in their distinctive gait to within 20 feet of the gathering and sat on his haunches.

He watched the entire ceremony intently with his long ears hanging and the breed’s characteristic sagging sad eyes, never moving a muscle. I elbowed my brother and nodded to the lone hound. We looked into each other’s eyes with wonder. We ended the rite with a single verse of Amazing Grace, and I watched as the old hound slowly rose and tentatively retreated along the path he had come. He stopped often, and would turn and look at the gathering. Finally he slipped gingerly through the fence and vanished.

I was suddenly overcome with grief and felt certain in my heart that somehow a benevolent God had sent this lone representative to pay his last respects to the old hunter being lowered into the earth. In my head I heard the chorus echo through the bottoms led by Barney’s deep Baritone saying farewell.

To this day it is the closest I can say I have ever come to witnessing a supernatural event. In fact, I know it. My dearest Dad’s final gift to a grateful boy.