My Arrival- 1948
​
The war that dominated everyone's thoughts for years was receding in memory, and a general sense of optimism prevailed. Things had gotten almost back to normal. Rationing had ended, not that it had been much of an inconvenience for farmers in rural Grant County, Kentucky, for they were accustomed to raising most of their food anyway. The gas shortage had been an inconvenience, and the local consensus was that having it end was a good thing.
At the time, Jerry and Mary Barnes had two sons. Victor Ray was eleven and Jerry Blaine was seven. The couple was content with their family of four. Other than when Mom was angry with him, Victor Ray was simply called Vic. However, his younger brother was always called by both names, Jerry Blaine, even when Mom wasn't angry with him. Actually, instead of two words, both names were pronounced together, as if one. He was called "Jeriblane," and it was said very quickly. This form had been adopted to differentiate him from his father of the same first name. After years of being addressed by both names, he would come to be known simply as J.B. in adult life. Going from two names to two initials may seem a bit extreme, but that's the way he wanted it.
Jerry and Mary, at thirty-three and thirty-one years old respectively, had no intention of adding to the brood. Quite unintentionally, the number was about to increase by one. Although unplanned, Mom was expecting and quite happy with the turn of events. Surely this would be the daughter she longed for, and little Marilyn Faye would be a welcome addition to the household. A little girl would certainly require much less energy than Mom had expended raising two red-blooded boys. Her conviction that a girl was forthcoming was strengthened by the general agreement of the old ladies in the neighborhood, each of whom had their individual way of divining such matters. In the very early hours of Friday, July 30, Dr. Russell Kinsey negotiated the gravel road, known as Kentucky Highway 36, from Williamstown nearly to Cordova. The trip was in response to a call from the white frame farmhouse where the Barnes family lived at the top of Cordova Hill. He'd made hundreds of such nocturnal drives during his career as a rural physician. Giving birth at home was the norm in the country and rarely were the services of a hospital required. Vic and Jerry Blaine had been taken to the home of Mom's former Guardian, Mrs. Pauline Ryon, the previous evening so they would not be in the way when things got busy.
At 5:05 AM, Dr. Kinsey gingerly smacked the bottom of a healthy baby and announced to Mary and Jerry that Marilyn Faye was a boy. Mom was a bit shocked and unprepared to answer some of the doctor's questions as he filled out the Certificate of Live Birth form. She was so sure the baby would be a girl that almost no consideration had been given to boys' names. She thought the name David sounded nice. She knew people by that name and liked it, so that was settled. Things got a little tougher when Dr. Kinsey asked about a middle name. Mom drew a blank, and the doctor insisted that since there was a space on the form for a middle name, one must necessarily be added. After his limited patience was exhausted, he said, "Mary, if you don't say something, I'm just going to put my name in the blank and go on home." That is how I became officially known as David Kinsey Barnes. Just Davy most of the time.
Dad firmly decided that I would be the last family member. Dr. Kinsey's charge for the delivery was $75. Pre-war deliveries were a lot cheaper. Vic's birth cost $25, and Jerry Blaine's cost $35. At that rate of inflation, if a fourth child came along, he would have to sell a cow to pay for it. Besides, he felt that three was plenty.
The Monkey - 1956
Among the many domesticated animals on our farm was a monkey - not a native species to Kentucky. It was probably an orangutan, since it was large and orange, but we simply called it the monkey. Its name was Mike. A Merchant Marine friend of my oldest brother Vic was on leave, visiting some relatives, and asked Vic to watch the monkey for a few days. It probably slipped Vic’s mind to mention the arrangement to Dad, until the sailor was gone and the monkey was not. Mike’s arrival with his large cage should have been a clue to the sailor’s actual intention. Vic got along fine with Mike and could take him for walks without a problem. Imagine driving along a quiet country road in Kentucky in the mid-1950s, and seeing a teenage boy walking along hand in hand with a five-foot-tall orange monkey. I suspect more than one driver swore off whiskey on the spot. Those walks were the extent of Mike’s sociability. He was otherwise a vile creature of dubious hygienic habits, the worst of which was to poop in his hand, then sling the results at anyone within range. Of course, this provided great amusement for me when I would introduce my friends to him for the first time. I didn’t explain his bad habit in advance. It was fun to see them dodge monkey poop. On the positive side, Mike was a world-class flycatcher and could snatch the insects from midair in either hand. The sailor never returned for his property, and we would have been stuck with it if fate hadn't intervened.
The old adage about not biting the hand that feeds you has real meaning for me. I was giving the monkey a glass of milk one day. I guess being around the sailor so long, he was expecting something more potent. He expressed disdain for the beverage by knocking the glass from my hand, grabbing my arm and taking a large bite. I screamed. He let go, rather than continuing lunch. Dad heard my cry, and Mike lived about ten minutes. Dad shot him out of the persimmon tree in the backyard, where he had taken refuge after his attack on my arm. Vic blamed me solely for the monkey’s demise. His version of the story was that I was poking it with a stick and slipped on wet grass trying to get away. The monkey’s head was sent away for analysis to make sure he didn't have rabies. While awaiting the results, Vic spent a lot of time telling me about the horrors of dying from rabies or worse yet, all the shots in the stomach that passed for a cure. I was greatly relieved when the results came back giving the monkey a clean bill of health, except for the lead slug in his brain. I still have the scar on my arm as a constant reminder of the incident. That was the end of exotic animals on the farm.
The Gunpowder Incident - 1962
Jerry Blaine, my firearm enthusiast older brother, became interested in black powder muzzleloaders. When the powder is not crammed into a tight space, such as the chamber of a gun, it harmlessly burns and gives off an incredible amount of black smoke. I decided to take some to high school one day, with no particular plan in mind. I knew something would come up. That morning on the bus, I took my customary seat near the back. An idea came to me, and I enlisted my best friend Ronnie as a conspirator. It was a cold day, and I mentioned to the kids sitting nearby that I had some granules that could be placed on the floor and lit to give off heat. “Won’t this make smoke,” someone asked. I gave assurance it wouldn’t. Ronnie backed me up.
A kid nicknamed Shikepole was immediately interested. I don’t remember his real name. He didn’t live in the area long. The name came from a mythical long-legged bird, probably like a crane. So, any kid with long legs could be called Shikepole. After some discussion, he asked if I was going to light it. I said, “That’s the easy part. It is more critical for me to be the lookout and choose a time when the match can be struck without the bus driver’s notice.” Shike asked if he could please light it. He begged. I relented. I assumed he would lean away from the small pile of gunpowder on the floor and extend a lighted match at arm’s length, as any reasonable person would. Shikepole was not a reasonable person. He leaned directly over the pile, bent low to block any nonexistent wind and touched it off. There was just enough powder vaporized to exactly fill the interior volume of the school bus. I didn’t see that coming.
It took about a second for the bus to noiselessly fill with thick, black, stinking smoke. It seemed that Mr. Wynn, the bus driver, was able to come to a complete halt in just over another second. Kids slammed into the backs of seats in front of them, and some spilled into the aisle. He didn't know what had happened but knew something was amiss. The evacuation was anything but orderly. The Emergency Door in the back, the front door, and some windows were used. In a few more seconds, the bus was empty, and we were standing in the snow. Mr. Wynn braved the quickly clearing smoke to investigate and soon discovered the black stain on the floor. He was usually a man of a few words. This was an exception. After using some “non-school board approved” language, he lined us all up beside the road in the cold and had us face him.
He made it clear that he would find the culprit and walked down the line asking all but the girls and timid looking boys what they knew. All, in turn, denied knowledge. I suggested, “A brake fault perhaps?” He was growing weary of asking and getting the same negative reply but continued anyway. His mood was noticeably less severe as his task wore on. About three-quarters of the way down the line, he came to Shikepole, whose denials were more vehement than any and started well in advance of being addressed by the bus driver. The problem was that his face betrayed him. It was black with soot, and his eyebrows were burned off. Mr. Wynn unsuccessfully tried not to laugh, but the sight was too much for him. He averted his face from our view and just pointed to the bus. We scrambled back aboard, and that was the end of the episode. I guess he figured Shikepole had suffered enough. I'm not sure the eyebrows ever grew back entirely, but after about a week, the black wore off his face. I think I lost his trust that day. Upon reflection, that could have occasioned his move to another school district. The Gunpowder Incident became the stuff of Grant County legend.