It was in 1943 that I first asked my Grandpa Bullard about the woods across from Goat Ridge Road that ran in front of his place. All the woods I knew were “Woolley” and brushy -- full of ticks, and you could step on snakes and stickers. But the forest just south of the farm had giant and beautifullooking pine trees.

The floor of this forest was deeply carpeted in pine needles and there were no stickers. No cows grazed there; it was a great place to go barefoot. It was a beautiful area and populated with strange wildlife and beings called flying squirrels instead of snakes. ticks and such. The flying kind of squirrels were almost extinct elsewhere, even back then. It was a pleasant walk with an abundance of flowers that may have caused the early French explorers to call this county, Leflore. (The flower). My brother Gerald and I were well acquainted with this magic forest. it was like all woods should be. And yes, my grandpa said it was a virgin forest. It had never been timbered.

I’m glad I got well acquainted with these woods because soon large crews arrived who clear cut it. All of it. Just a vast sea of stumps were left. I learned with my brother Gerald that all the flying squirrels and other rare animals had quickly disappeared. It was a sad looking mess the loggers left. That was about the same time the government looked the other way as Tyson built large chicken and turkey houses up and down a nearby pristine creek called “Little Caston.” So basically, the picturesque little creek and its rare collection of goggle-eyed perch vanished too. Our idyllic swimming hole with its sandy beach on one side and beautiful granite bluffs on the other was polluted. Locals had named this popular spot “The Bluff Hole”. It was quickly turned into a septic mess. It was and is abandoned.

This causes my thoughts to go back to one day in 1943 when I was able to take a single-shot .22 rifle and go for a stroll in these pristine woods. My grandpa warned me not to go East. “There’s people over there that don’t want anyone nosing around,” he said. But naturally, I did. Up on the ridge of Goat Ridge I walked east into a clearing. No one was there. There was a propane fired whiskey still, an old truck and an old car parked in the clearing. As I completed my inspection with the thoroughness any 8-year-old would bestow, I was suddenly aware there was someone else with me.

I had never heard of Branson, but this stranger looked all dressed up for a part there. A wild-bushy grown beard, overalls and his big gun helped him blend in pretty well with the other artifacts in the clearing. Yes, an illegal whiskey still. I chose to say, “You guys making sorghum I see. We been making it down on Goat Ridge Road.” Now another wellarmed hillbilly stepped out and both of them nodded. “Uh yeah,” they said, “Sorghum.”

I walked away and I knew enough to know I was having a brush with the death angel. But I made my way back down to the farm. I shared my findings with my Uncle Jack later that day and he said, “You’re lucky to be alive. Don’t ever go up there again.” And I didn’t. Jack told grandpa about my walk and grandpa was pretty disturbed with me and told me those people were too lazy to work and that was why they made whiskey to sell instead.

I’m pretty sure the descendants of those moonshiners are now trying to fill the drug needs of our modernday dope-heads, which only shows what parasites they and their descendants are. The pending marijuana elections brings me to think poorly of these people and their harmful drug products. Be sure and vote NO on this marijuana proposition. We’re doped up enough and Oklahoma doesn’t need any of this supposed new and potential revenue. The costs to our society will far exceed any purported tax benefits.

And oh yes, be sure and go to church on Sunday. This beneficial action will bring no harm to our State of Oklahoma and its free admission.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com