HE WAS ALWAYS TWELVE YEARS OLD.

HE WAS ALWAYS TWELVE YEARS OLD.

Written by,

Mimi Huffman Alexander

At the young age of seven, my Dad, Forrest “Joe” Dell Huffman, (1916-1993), was orphaned when his mother, Roxie C. Holland, (1898-1923), died of leukemia. He found his mother, cold and motionless that early morning of November 22, 1923, in Lucas, Kentucky, and with the frantic fear only a young child could feel, ran wildly out the door into the dense, darkness of the Barren County woods, yelling and screaming hysterically at the top of his lungs, “she’s dead, she’s dead, my Mommy’s dead”! The next day, Roxie’s father, Sidney W. Holland, (1863-1942), arrived from Allen County, with horse and wagon, to take the lifeless body of his oldest daughter back home to rest in Trammel, Kentucky, where 25 years earlier, she was born.

During the bumpy ride back to Allen County, Sidney thought, “the family must be told”. Roxie’s older brother, Sherman, (1894-1966), lived in Florida, and Vilaz, (1896-1941), lived in New York. Her younger sister, May, (1900-1977), and May’s husband, Hobart Roberts, (1897-1949), and their two children, John and Theta, had recently moved from El Paso, Texas, to Los Angeles. The only sibling still living in Allen County was Roxie’s youngest brother, Cecil, (1902-1984). Cecil would help get the word out to relatives still living in Warren, Simpson, and Allen Counties. There were Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Church folks, neighbors and friends like the Lamberts, Landers, Tabors, Goodrums, Johnsons, and Howells. The constant clip-clopping rhythm of horse hoofs was mesmerizing as Sidney’s thoughts quickly swirled towards his wife, Maggie, who died seventeen years earlier and oh….how he missed her now more than ever before.

It was Thanksgiving week, the autumn time of year. The Kentucky hills were blanketed with God’s artistic display of blazing reds, gold, and vibrant ambers. A sharp chill was felt as Roxie’s body was lowered into the ground the next day in a humble gravesite beside her mother, Maggie Oliver Holland, (1869-1906), at Beech Grove General Baptist Church Cemetery. She would rest in the same cemetery where other ancestors had been buried in earlier years. With the funeral over, Roxie’s husband, Thomas H. Huffman, 1881-1942, (an oil driller in Allen County, for 8 years during the oil boom), turned around and walked away to return to his home and relatives in Kosciusko Co., Indiana, leaving my Dad behind to be raised by his Holland kinfolks in Allen County, and that was the very last time my Dad ever saw his father!

Dad’s Kentucky ancestors came from a long line of patriotic men with strong character and unending determination. They came to Kentucky, from Virginia, the Carolinas, and Tennessee prior to and soon after the Revolutionary War. Many helped to settle, tame, and shape the land at the time when Kentucky first became a state, when counties were being formed and divided, during the late 1700’s / early 1800’s. Many received land grants for having served in the war, and many of those acres claimed over 200 years ago in Allen County are still owned by direct descendants today. Dad’s ancestors were of the lineages: BENBROOK, BURTON, CHAMBERS, CHOICE, CLARK, DIXON, DICKSON, HARRIS, HERRINGTON, HOLLAND, JACKSON, KIRBY, MAHAN, MEGUIRE, OLIVER, OWEN, STOVALL, STUBBLEFIELD, TARRENT, WALKER, and WRIGHT.

Walker D. Holland (1812-1899), Major William Holland (1777-1831), Hezekiah Holland (1742-1816).

Noel Winston Oliver (1839)1925), Price Oliver (1804-1844), William Oliver (1772-1863).

Bartholomew Stovall (1745-1807), Thomas Stovall (1708-1803).

William ‘Major Bill’ Kirby (1785-1846), Jesse Kirby (1757-1852), David Kirby (1738-1811).

Jordon Jackson (1763-1820), Burwell Jackson (1748-1796), John Jackson (1670- ).

Ezekial Benbrook Jr. (1775 – 1825), Ezekial Benbrook Sr. (1748 – 1840),

Robert Stubblefield (1776-1830), George Stubblefield (1748-1820), John Stubblefield (1724 - )

John Dixon, (1813-1883), William Dixon Jr. (1784-1867), William Dixon Sr.

Merrick Herrington (1771-1840), Gideon Herrington (abt 1745 - ), John Herrington .

Leonard Tarrent (1713-1791)

Sidney’s older brother, James P. ‘Doc’ Holland, (1857 –1931), and Doc’s wife, Eliza Wilson Holland, (1856 – 1929), were getting up in years. They lived in the picturesque countryside of Trammel, Kentucky, a rural farming community in Allen County, located halfway between Scottsville, and Bowling Green. Not having been blessed with children of their own, they opened their hearts and home to Dad and a couple of other kids who, like Dad, had lost their parents at an early age. It was here, at Uncle Doc and Aunt Eliza’s, that Dad would develop his strong, sense of character and determination like those many ancestors before him. The seeds had been planted and would soon take root.

Uncle Doc was a teacher in Allen County during the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, and like many folks back then, took his wagon to work every day, with his beloved, white, work horse, Charlie, leading the way. All the kids loved ol’ Charlie! Lester Cooksey and Noble Allen, (Dad’s best friends), would race down the dirt road, following along side of Uncle Doc’s wagon hoping to hitch a free ride to Halfway School.

One afternoon, Uncle Doc was working in the tobacco field with Charlie. It was a scorching hot summer day and the humidity was unbearable when Charley suddenly keeled over dead. By the time Uncle Doc got help, Charlie was starting to swell and was too big and heavy to move so they decided to bury him in the middle of the tobacco field. They dug as fast as they could but kept hitting large rocks that hindered the depth they could dig. Hot, exhausted, and only half finished, they all agreed to bury Charley on his side so each grabbed hold of a leg, and swung Charlie around thinking he would roll into the grave sideways, but that’s not what happened. Instead, Charlie plopped into the grave, “smack dab on his back”, with all four legs sticking up out of the ground like fence posts! Charlie continues to swell and stiffen in the heat and when someone suggested they saw Charlie’s legs off, Uncle Doc nearly had heart failure and yelled out, “Oh no.…you’re NOT sawing my Charlie’s legs off”. “We’ll bury him just like this”, so they quickly started shoveling and covering Charlie’s body with rocks and dirt. After a proper prayer and their loving goodbyes, everyone started walking back to the farmhouse, except for Dad. Dad turned around to look at Charlie’s grave for one last time and saw Charlie’s four stiff legs sticking straight up out of the ground, as if in defiance, pointing high up to the Heavens! Uncle Doc yanked Dad by the ear and said, “Don’t ever look back son, don’t ever look back”! That’s one lesson he never forgot and in fact would put to use several times in the years ahead.

In 1929, Aunt Eliza died, and Uncle Doc followed soon after. Members of Beech Grove General Baptist Church, (where Dad had been baptized), felt that a nearby orphanage was the best place for Dad since by now, most of the Holland’s had died, moved away, or were too old to take care a young boy, but Dad had other ideas. He was going all the way to his Aunt May and Uncle Hobart Robert’s home in Los Angeles, California, and it wasn’t long before he and Cecil, (Roxie’s youngest brother), hopped a train out of Bowling Green Kentucky, heading west. “How old were you when you left Kentucky”, I asked Dad, and he said, “Oh…...I was about 12 years old”.

Many Hobos were hopping trains in those days so Dad always had plenty of company on the freight cars. Sometimes, the train would jerk to a sudden stop and before you knew it, all the free loading Hobo’s were being kicked off, but it didn’t matter cause they’d just hop on the next train passing by.…and so it was about that time Cecil decided to go on to Montana and Washington and Dad found himself east of Tucson, Arizona. He’d been thrown off the freight car in the middle of nowhere, at some God forsaken, lizard crawling, scorpion infested, desert town called, Bowie, Arizona. He stared in amazement at the strange, towering Saguaro cactus, some as tall as a three story building, scattered across the desert as far as the eye could see. “What was this strange land”, he thought? He was about to experience one of the adventures of his life, but it was going to be a bumpy ride!

It was the dead of winter with snow and ice covering the Arizona landscape. A strange man named, Jim Bartlett, was passing by the train station, and saw Dad, barefoot and freezing with only the shirt on his back, crouched and huddled low, trying to keep warm, near the train tracks. He could see how bad off Dad was so he struck up a conversation and asked Dad if he’d like to come out to his cattle ranch for a hot meal and maybe stay awhile. It had been 2 or 3 long days since Dad had eaten anything and his belly was cold and empty. He wasn’t about to pass up a good opportunity, nor was he shy at speaking his mind. “Sure would”, he said, and off they went to the Bartlett Ranch, also known as, “Happy Camp”. Dad’s stay at the Bartlett Ranch lasted for almost two years!

Jim Bartlett had a younger brother, Lee, (a kind and soft spoken man), who lived at a nearby ranch. Lee was married, raising a family of four kids, and he was an alcoholic. His youngest girl, Dolly, was crippled from polio. Dad used to go over to Lee’s house to play with the kids. They were like family to him and gave him the closeness he longed for after having left his roots back in Kentucky. His happiest days were spent however, by himself on scouting trips up in the Chiricahua Mountains with his dog, “Newt”, at a secret hiding place called, he called, “Tarbox”. It was there that he rode his horse, “Knothead”, searching for rumored hidden treasures and gold, but of course never found any! “How old were you then”, I asked Dad, “when you rode Knothead looking for treasures at Tarbox”? Dad scratched his head and answered, “well Mimi….. I was 12 years old”.

Everyone in Bowie knew, what a mean guy Jim Bartlett was. When you looked into Jim’s cold, steely, blue eyes, it was as if you could hear him saying, “he’d just as soon kill you”. The story was that the Bartlett brothers came running out of Texas with the Sheriff close on their heels. Dad told me a story of how Uncle Jim was cooking dinner one night and the skillet caught on fire. Uncle Jim became enraged as the ranch house quickly filled with smoke. He stomped over to the stove, cursing up a blue streak, grabbed the hot flaming skillet, kicked his way across the room, and threw the entire meal out the door! Because of Uncle Jim’s fierce temper, they all went hungry that night!

Jim gave Dad two nicknames, They called him, “Toddlyhock” when he first arrived, but about the time he left, he was called, “Chief Jose Talemache”. I never questioned Dad as to why the nickname was changed so left it to my imagination. It was at Happy Camp he learned to ride a horse, herd and brand cattle, hunt, shoot a rifle, fix cornbread n’ beans, cuss like a man, and act like a real cowboy. It’s also where he picked up his first cigarette, and learned to smoke, a habit he never put down and in fact was the cause of his death some sixty-five years later, in 1993.

One day while working the ranch with one of his partners named, Boggs, Jim and Boggs got into a heated scuffle. Jim was fiercely angry, and he took out his gun, aimed it, (thinking he would only scare Boggs), but the gun accidentally went off hitting Boggs in the leg. Startled and not knowing what to do, Jim shot Boggs once more, this time, hitting him in the groin. He then drug Boggs into the cabin, laid him on the bed on his back, took out his knife and pierced it into Boggs groin near the bullet hole, cutting the main artery! At that point, Jim figured it was a matter of time before Boggs would be stone dead so he rode into town to the Sheriff’s office to, “report an accident”. He told the Sheriff he had come back from working the cattle and found Boggs shot dead on the ground and carried his dead body to the bed. By the time Jim and the Sheriff returned back to the cabin, they found Boggs deader than a door nail, and they found something else that Jim hadn’t counted on. With Jim having left for the Sheriff’s office to report a shooting death, Boggs was struggling for his last breath and somehow managed to stick his finger in his own blood, and wrote on the bed sheet… “Jim did it”… Needless to say, Jim Bartlett was arrested for murder and after a quick trial in Wilcox, was sent to the State Penitentiary and served time for 9 years. Once again, Dad was placed in a nearby orphanage, and once again, (just as years before), he ran away, more determined than ever to get to his Aunt May’s in California and nothing was going to stand in his way. “How old were you when this happened”, I asked my Dad, and with a twinkle in his eye, he answered, “I was always 12 years old”…..

It was well above 100 degrees that Friday, when he ran away from the orphanage. Seeing a horse at a nearby farmer’s coral, he decided to, “borrow”, the horse and started riding south towards the train station. His plan was to hop a train heading towards California, but the authorities caught up with Dad a couple of miles down the road and took him back to the Sheriff’s station in Bowie. The Sheriff didn’t work on weekends and the Jail was locked so they chained and shackled Dad by his ankle, to a large, heavy, metal ring, buried deep into the ground outside the Jailhouse and left him outside in the open like a wild animal, with the sun’s hot, blazing heat pounding on his head, for three days with no food, no water, and no shelter. When the Sheriff returned that following Monday morning, Dad told him why he stole the horse and told him about wanting to go to his Aunt May and Uncle Hobart Robert’s in Los Angeles. Dad had memorized their address before leaving Kentucky two years earlier and asked the Sheriff to please phone Aunt May. God certainly was looking down on my Dad that day because the Sheriff believed his story and made the phone call. The next thing you knew, Dad was riding in the Coach section of the next train out of Bowie, Arizona, and he was headed to Aunt May’s in Los Angeles, California…**Hollywood * Movie Stars**….and it was the first time in his life he was riding on a train as a, “paying passenger”.

His thoughts focused on his cherished mother, Roxie, during his train ride to Los Angeles. He reflected back on the events that had led him far away from his old Kentucky home two years earlier, and he pondered with amazement on the two years he spent in Bowie, AZ. He wondered what the future would bring him in Los Angeles, California. The past two years had been a hard journey. He had experienced many hardships yet through it all, he constantly felt his mother’s love and presence nearby, protecting him, during his most difficult struggles to survive. Over the years, his love and memory of Roxie never diminished, but in fact, it grew stronger and more deeply bonded as his life evolved. I can say in total honesty that he never ended a prayer, (not even grace said at the dinner table), without ending it with these beautiful, loving words, “and thank you God for my Mother, Roxie”. Tears glistened deep in his clear, blue eyes when I asked Dad one last time, “how old were you when you arrived at Aunt May’s”, and taking hold of my hand, he answered with his soft, sweet, familiar, Kentucky tone, “Why daughter……I was always 12 years old”!

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