Creekbank Stories Curt Iles, Storyteller
Now available at https://bit.ly/KindleEbookWhereIcomeFrom
The Talking Stick
I have his walking stick— the one he carried in the latter years of his life when I knew him best.
His name was Frank Iles, but our family knew him as “Pa.” He was my great-grandfather and a major link to our family’s past.
Pa’s ancestors were among the first pioneers to settle No Man’s Land. Both of his grandfathers fought in the Civil War. One had earlier escaped from Ireland as a stowaway, and the other was captured at Vicksburg and then paroled.
His initials, “FI,” are carved on the worn handle of Pa’s walking stick. It’s not a very sturdy stick, but neither was Pa in the last ten years of his life.
Those were the years I knew him.
Pa spent those last years in his favorite rocking chair on the dogtrot porch at the Old House. His perch had a breeze from three directions, was always shady, and allowed him a birds-eye view of the front yard and barn, with Crooked Bayou Swamp as the backdrop.
During those latter years of his life, he was content to sit with a cup of coffee beside him, a Zane Grey paperback in his lap, and his walking stick across his knees.
He’d watch me play in the front yard, fighting Germans and digging for gold. From time to time, I’d join him on the porch.
I regret I didn’t ask more questions.
I wish I’d have listened better.
I remember his tales of walking through the vast longleaf tracts before they were clear-cut and being one of the first students at the “Who’d-a-Thought-It” School.
A personal favorite was his story of being chased by a wild bull of the woods, a hump-backed brahman bull, as he sprinted for the safety of one of the few remaining standing trees in the clear-cuts. In my mind, I ran with him to the lone tree in the entire area.
In the Pineywoods, they were called Bremer Bulls, and if I saw one in the open range of my childhood, I ran like fire toward the lowest-limbed tree.
Pa had memorable stories from his years as a teacher and principal. Here was one story I always requested:
He was paddling an unruly Pineywoods boy. The student had loose strike-anywhere matches in his back pocket. Pa’s first whack lit the matches, and the second lick put them out. Pa said that smoke boiled out of the boy’s pocket.
He had literally “set his “britches on fire.”
I’m sure that tale (pun intended) and many others were embellished, but I believed them. I still have a strong visual image of smoke roiling from that boy’s pocket.
He never set my britches on fire but made several observations that shaped my life. This was the most lasting impression:
One day, I threw a kicking, screaming fit in the yard, and Pa called me over. I can still hear his words, “Son, I can see that you’ve got a strong spirit in you. If you don’t take control of it, it’ll hurt you and cause you much trouble in your life.”
That was all he said. He went back to his paperback, and I returned to playing. I’m sure he wondered if his oldest great-grandchild had heard a word.
I took his words to heart.
Pa, I’m still working on it.
I’ve tried to tame that strong, wild spirit and channel it for the good.
I removed Pa’s walking stick from the Old House: like the house itself, the possessions inside are suffering from the ravages of time. Our family has gradually removed the paintings, photos, and family keepsakes.
I took Pa’s walking stick from its spot by the log room chimney. I’m only the temporary caretaker until one of my cousins or sisters wishes to borrow it.
Pa’s rocker still sits in the same spot on the dogtrot porch. It’s the centerpiece of my YouTube studio.
How it ended up being painted red is a story for another time. If you see me, ask about it.
Recently, I read that various cultures in Africa and the Pacific Northwest have a tradition called “The Talking Stick.” The chief elder wields it at clan gatherings and calls the group to order by stamping the Talking Stick on the floor three times.
Everyone around the bonfire becomes quiet,
As long as the elder has the stick, no one else can speak.
As we say, he has the floor.
At some point, the Talking Stick is passed around, and each member must have the stick before speaking.
Each member strikes the Talking Stick on the ground and shares.
Clan members can only hold it once, allowing every member to speak, and no one person can monopolize the gathering. When you hand it off, you must be silent.
(I’ve been at my share of church business meetings where a talking stick would’ve been handy.)
The stick passes among the other elders while the younger members respectfully wait their turn.
Only the clan leader has the right to speak more than once, and he may end the meeting at his discretion.
* * *
Recently, we took an Iles Family Trip to a cabin at Toledo Bend. All seventeen members of the Curt and DeDe Iles clan gathered for a memorable weekend of swimming, eating, games, and good fellowship.
After SaturdaSaturday’sg meal, I called everyone together. DeDe and I sat on a couch, surrounded by our sons, their wives, and our nine grandchildren.
I brought out Pa’s walking stick.
I told them the stories of Pa’s walking stick as well as the tribal ritual of the Talking Stick.
“All right, everyone gets one chance with Pa’s Talking Stick. No one will be forced to share, but everyone is welcome. Be careful not to stamp the stick too hard; it’s thin and fragile.
The Talking Stick began its journey around the circle as our three sons and their wives spoke first. Then, one by one, my nine grandchildren took the talking stick.
It was moving beyond words; some shared a scripture while others commented on what they were grateful for.
Several of the grandsons fiddled nervously with the talking stick. DeDe and I later agreed that we expected it to snap at any moment. If one of them had broken it, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Grandchildren are much more precious than any wooden stick.
That’s one thing I learned from my people: relationships always rule over things.
Finally, the Talking Stick returned to me—the elder of this clan. I sat the stick across my lap, looking into the faces of the people I love best, especially the nine great-great-great grandchildren of Frank “Pa” Iles. I wanted to take it all in.
Getting this group together in the future will be much more challenging. Two of the grandsons are high school seniors, and one branch of the family is moving to New Orleans.
It’ll be different.
Different but good.
As I returned the Talking Stick to the truck, I stood in the darkness, recalling Pa in his rocker, walking stick across his lap, remembering his lessons and stories from the Old House at the dead end of Clayton Iles Road.
The spot where the open pine lands slope into the hardwoods of Crooked Bayou Swamp.
The place I come from.
“You better get back to the country ’cause ’cause that’s where we all come from.”
—“Standing on a Rock”
Ozark Mountain Daredevils
