A Christmas in Fulton

By my dad, Jody Daniels

Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year. Growing up, I spent every Christmas vacation but one in Fulton, although I did come to Fulton the day after for the remainder of my release from Mobile. This was my fourth grade year, & I remember getting a gold bicycle with a leopard skin banana seat & high handlebars.

Fulton for the holidays was always so much fun because I was with my grandparents, who were the greatest, and my aunts, uncles, & cousins. My grandparents loved their children and grandchildren & loved our visits. My grandfather, Joe Hudson, was a fun guy to be around. He was a jokester to some degree. He loved pulling our legs, & was always up to something.

When I was a young boy of hunting age, my grandfather, who we called “Pop,” wanted to take my cousins, Bob, Stan, & me, squirrel hunting. Pop would drive to Chance, AL, & borrow a squirrel dog from an old black man named Mr. Duke Dotson. This dog loved to hunt as much as we did. After several hunts with the dog, Pop decided that we needed our own squirrel dog. During this time there was a popular outdoor magazine named “Sports Afield.” Pop looked through the magazine & came across an advertisement that showed some trained squirrel dogs for sale for around $150. Pop must have thought his grandsons were worth buying a dog, so that’s what he did. He contacted the seller, who to my recollection was located in Arkansas, to make the purchase. The seller told my grandfather that the dog would arrive at the airport in Mobile, AL at noon on Christmas Eve of that year (‘67 or ‘68).

My Uncle Griffin, who worked at Pensacola NAS, was unable to come to Fulton earlier in the week with all of us, agreed to stop by the airport to pick up the dog on his way to Fulton that Christmas Eve. He waited from noon, the dog’s scheduled arrival, until 6:00 pm, but the dog’s plane never landed. After his six hour wait, Griffin decided to make his way to Fulton. When his car pulled up at POP’s house, Stan & I ran out to see what the dog looked like, but there was no dog. Griffin told Pop about the wait & no dog, & my grandfather was sick over it.

Pop went straight to the telephone, called the seller at the kennel, and inquired as to where the dog was. The kennel owner told my grandfather “I shipped the dog to Montgomery, & it’ll be there in the morning.” Early Christmas morning, Pop & my Uncle Griffin drove to Montgomery & picked up the dog, who was actually there. After half day of traveling, they made it back to Fulton with the dog & in time for lunch with the family. My cousin Stan & I were so excited over the arrival of the dog, a handsome male Feist whose name was Mack.

After spending as much time as possible, familiarizing Mack with each of us and his new home, we prepared for the initial hunt the next day. This hunt was to take place near Clarkesville, just west of Zimco, on my grandfather’s cousin Louie Wilson’s land. The time had finally arrived for Mack to show his stuff, so Pop, Bobby, Stan, & I, along with Mr. Dotson’s dog, headed to the woods. It wasn’t long before Mr. Dotson’s dog treed. We all moved in and around the tree. When the first shot was fired, Mack took off, and not in search of another squirrel. He was hightailing it out of Dodge. Quickly, we realized that Mack was gun-shy and had never had any training. He was history, so we thought. The hunt continued for a while without Mack with my grandfather feeling aggravated and very disappointed. We returned to the truck rather quietly, knowing how Pop had to feel about his recent purchase being a failure.

As we loaded up and were leaving the woods, a car approached us and the driver asked if we had lost a dog. We were very happy to have Mack back, but needless to say, for the rest of his life, Mack was just a friendly yard dog. We did continue to hunt for several years until my grandfather developed hardening of the arteries, similar to Alzheimer’s,  and he declined mentally.

I am so thankful for all of the good times Pop provided for us, the time spent with my cousins and for being able to live and raise my children in the big city of Fulton, Alabama.

49 Years of Hard Work

After 49 years, today is the last day my dad goes to work. It's hard for me to think of his not being at Scotch or at work, but I am very proud of and thankful for him and all that he and my mother have done for our family. Daddy, Joe Michael "Jody" Daniels,  is a 1974 graduate of the first class to have gone through St. Paul's Episcopal School in Mobile. As soon as graduation was over, he left Mobile to begin his adult life in Fulton. He started work at Scotch the next day, I believe, and has been there ever since.

Daddy in front of the scale house. He took inventory of the log yard on Sundays, and he would take us and our bikes. We had so much fun riding our bikes on the log yard as he worked. 

 My great-grandparents, Joe "Pop" and Bonnie "Gaugy" Hudson, lived in Fulton. Pop "worked in the woods" for Scotch, and Gaugy worked in Fulton for Dr. Jack Dozier. Their youngest daughter, Joan "Nanny," is my grandmother, and she was a single parent to my dad. They lived in Fairhope and Mobile, but my dad made it his goal every week as long as he can remember to get to Fulton and spend the weekend with his grandparents, cousins, and friends. My Aunt Maxine Fendley told me that he would say "It's not long 'til Friday, but it's a long time 'til Sunday." Daddy loved Fulton and still does. Even after moving to Fulton for good after getting his diploma, Daddy said that he would sometimes dream on Sunday nights that he was on his way back to Mobile to live his weekday life there. He would awaken in a panic, only to be relieved that he was in Fulton for good.

I love Fulton, too, for the same and a few other reasons. My parents have lived in Fulton since before I was born. I have lived here my entire life, with the exception of the ten years I was in Mobile and Orlando. I love Fulton because it is my home, it's where my memories were made, and because of Scotch. The lumber company is now under different ownership, but it will always be Scotch Lumber Company to me. The plywood mill is still Scotch Plywood Company. Daddy worked in the sawmill until serveral years after I was out of college. Fulton comes alive about 5am during the week. There are lights, steam, log trucks, and workers changing shifts. I swear that Fulton and Highway 178 are busier early in the morning than Airport Boulevard. I love those sights, sounds, and the smell of pine. When my brother and I were too young to tell time, we would be playing in Gaugy's yard or riding bikes in the neighborhood. The 11:30 whistle would blow, and we knew that Daddy would be home soon to eat the feast of a lunch Gaugy cooked for us every day. Before that, we lived in the house behind the log yard where Mrs. Sharon Hicks lives now. Daddy would tell me that he was going to put me in his pocket and take me to work with him. I definitely would have taken him up on that! When I lived in Mobile as a young adult, we had a deck added to the house. I was asked how I liked it. I verbalized my first thought- "it smells like Fulton!" 

 For years, my brother and I would look for Daddy's truck parked at the far north end in front of Scotch's office. At first, it was a blue Ford, then a red Chevy, off of which he drove many mufflers, lol. We would look for his blue hard hat under the mill when our mom drove us to the store. After school, we would sit on the front porch and wait on his truck to come across the bridge. I have no idea how, but he always had the time and energy to play with us, then do what seemed like hours of homework. If it was basketball season, we shot hoops and did endless drills. During softball season, he hit hundreds of grounders to me on third, and I threw them to Jared on first. He would pitch to me, too. Poor Jared was always on defense, covering the whole field. We also had backyard football and baseball games with the neighborhood kids. We had go carts and four wheelers, too. We always had fun. He even convinced us that it was fun to put polyethylene under the house. I remember doing that when I was probably in third grade and pretending I was a tunnel rat in Vietnam. 

 Daddy taught us the value of hard work and how to do it. My mom had a hand in all of this, too, but this is his retirement. He taught us how to think, troubleshoot, make wise decisions, and handle pressure. He taught us how to be good employees, and to treat the lowest man on the totem pole with the same respect as the owner. Even in my 40s, I often find myself thinking "I'm so glad he taught us that" as situations arise. I've blogged before about how he taught us to work, save, tithe, etc. That cancelled the chance of our having a sense of entitlement, and I am so thankful. He taught us to be courteous of others, and to be dependable.  

My dad has worked 49 years in hot, dusty wood products mills to provide for his family. We've not been spoiled, but we've always had more than we needed. We've been thankful, and still are. My parents sacrificed for many years to provide us with a good life and education. He still goes to my house every day at lunch and after work to see about my animals before I get home. We may have to make new Friday breakfast plans, though, since we have had Friday breakfast together since I moved back in 2009. If Jared were here, I know that he would agree with me when I say that we are so thankful for our hardworking, loving parents. So, if you see Daddy cruising in the Shelby, fishing, playing with the dogs and cats, riding his new bicycle, listening to 60s music, serving his church family and community, or just being lazy, know that he earned it- whether through 49 years of hard work, or because my mom has had enough and got him out of her hair for a few hours!

Photos by Melanie Andress

RIP, David Crosby, & Long Live Rock & Roll!

I was saddened to read this morning that David Crosby of Crosby, Stills, & Nash, and The Byrds passed yesterday. He was 81, but it seems as though your heroes will live forever.

I (somewhat, lol) joke and say that God knew I would be too powerful if I could do math and dance. I say that because I have no rhythm or musical talent, but I love music. As far back as I can remember, my dad exposed us to the oldies. I firmly believe that the best music was made in the 1960s, although I like rock & pop music from the 50s-90s, and a lot of country music, mostly classic, 90s, and Red Dirt. My dad, though, is having no part of country music.

He had more 8-tracks than one can imagine, and many cassette tapes, too. I wore out his oldies cassettes when I was a kid. The first that comes to mind, of course, is The Beatles. Daddy is a huge Beatles fan, and we have seen their tribute band, The Fab Four, perform many times. Some of the bands I remember especially enjoying as a child are The Beach Boys, The Four Seasons, CCR, BTO, Grand Funk, and many more of “The ___(insert random noun)___ bands from the 60s. He taught us the importance of that music, its importance in history, the talent of the musicians, the members of the bands, etc. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. I remember watching Tour of Duty and hearing The Rolling Stones sing Paint it Black in the theme song. He taught us about the 60s music during Vietnam and Woodstock. I am thankful for that knowledge and appreciation. I was able to use my position as a history teacher to pass that on to my students. When I read that David Crosby died, I thought back to the first time I remembering hearing him. My parents took us to “the mountains” in Gatlinburg, TN. It was the summer after my 3rd or 4th grade year. We were driving down the mountain and Southern Cross was on. I remember Daddy telling us about it being a constellation, pointing out the beautiful harmonies, and about the members of the band. We also listened to Wasted on the Way. Southern Cross and Suite Judy Blue Eyes are my favorites of theirs. I also love that many of my favorites were at Woodstock.

On that same trip to the mountains, my brother, Jared, was a little guy. He was 3.5 years younger than I was. We were at a venue watching a motorcycle do tricks in this big ball thing (my 3rd grade memory, right?). The venue was playing oldies over the loud speaker. Help Me Rhonda by The Beach Boys came on, and Jared sang every word loudly. The people around us were marveling at such a little fella knowing the words to that old song. I think it was Clint Black who sang something along the lines of “It’s funny how a melody can bring back a memory.” Truer words have never been spoken. Just like when my dad said he remembers exactly where he was and how he felt when he first heard CCR do Proud Mary, I remember these songs and certain memories, even more so after Jared’s death. Speaking of The Byrds, Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 was the first passage read at Jared’s funeral. That is also the main line in Turn Turn Turn by The Byrds. Sometimes I can listen to it, and sometimes I can’t.

Although so many of those songs and musicians were great, I know it’s the memories and love for my dad and brother that make them so special to me. I will never hear Suspicious Minds, Daddy’s favorite Elvis song, and not think of him. I will never hear Help Me Rhonda and not think of Jared. I wish I could tell David Crosby, John Lennon, George Harrison, Elvis, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Chuck Berry, Ronnie Van Zant, Sam Cooke, Levi Stubbs, and so many others just what their music means to me. I think that’s what it was all about to them, and it’s what it’s all about to me, too. RIP David Crosby, but long live rock & roll!