The Little House, Chickens, and Six-guns a’ Blazing
About 1950, Dad bought a small house at 116 Gregg Street in Fort Mill. The house had a living area, a kitchen, two bedrooms, a small hall and a bathroom. Dad was a pretty skilled carpenter and, mostly on his own, added a den to the house. He was particularly proud of the knotty pine-paneled walls in his new den.
The back yard had a rough wooden shed which was quickly dubbed the “Little House.” With a lifetime love of woodworking Dad made the shed into a rustic workshop. The shed was about ten feet square with exposed two by four stud walls. Along the left wall was a plywood work area mottled with splotches of paint and wood glue. It held jars full of nails and screws and hardware for his woodworking projects. Nails and hooks on the walls held his hammers and saws and screwdrivers. A lawn mower, sling blade and a couple of rakes took up the right side.
I cherish the vivid image is of his Marine Corps uniform hanging on the back wall of the Little House and the rich aroma of varnish from his many projects. I wish he had kept the entire uniform but it became the home for wasps and it was stained with streaks of mud from dirt daubers. I rescued his globe and anchor cap badge, his 3rd Marine Division patch and keep them along with his Marine Kabar fighting knife. Dad was very proud of his military service but not as proud as his kids would be.
Robert Charles (Bob) Hill was, and ever would be, a Marine. He was of the generation that was marked by a well-developed sense of responsibility. He and his peers had grown up during the Great Depression and fought in a World War. They were determined to make their world safe and secure for their families.
Dad had planned to go to college but the money was not there and I was. His parents lived in Union, SC and were not “well-to-do” so Dad had to make his own way. He tried everything he could to make enough money to keep his family comfortable. He found work at Kimbrell’s Furniture Store hauling furniture and delivering purchases to people. He also worked part time for the Post Office picking up mail from mailboxes around town. He supplemented both jobs by joining the National Guard and although he did not have a college degree, he studied and passed the necessary test to be commissioned as an officer.
One money-making scheme he had during the time, well-intentioned but hairbrained, was to raise chickens. A mislabeled tray of baby chicks ended up as undeliverable at the Post Office and Dad was told he could have them. It was winter so Dad constructed a pen and put the “biddies” in the Little House. Since there was no heat in the shed, Dad put a small heater beside the pen to keep the chicks warm. When he came back the next morning, all the chicks had survived but they were black instead of yellow. The heater had singed their feathers.
The chicken enterprise went downhill from there and I remember only one free-range chicken who stayed around. She had cozied up to a couple of cats who slept under the Little House and they traveled as a gang. I remember seeing the cats and the chicken prowling around the yard together. Mother was convinced that the chicken thought it was a cat.
When a chance to run a small business called the “Soda Shop” came along, Dad jumped onboard. The name was misleading. The Soda Shop was a narrow storefront between an old-fashioned grocery store and a barbershop. The customers were textile workers from the nearby Fort Mill Plant who, when their shift ended, would come by for cigarettes and nabs* and a Coke.
Dad gave it his best but soon realized that the Soda Shop would never break even and he left for new vistas. He told me he threw the keys on the counter and never entered the shop again. Luckily, even as he was getting fed up with the Soda Shop, State Farm Insurance began opening offices in the South and Dad signed on as an agent. He was one of those fearless people who could talk to anyone and he knocked on doors all over Fort Mill and Indian Land until he built a thriving insurance business.
Dad grew up during the Great Depression and his heroes were the big screen cowboys. He and his friends in Union, S.C. had to be content with six-guns carved more or less realistically from wood. They created their own Western town called Silver City from anything they could scrounge from the neighborhood.
Because store bought toys were scarce during his youth, Dad made sure I never had to use a wooden pistol. We have photos of me in three different complete cowboy outfits accessorized with cowboy hats, elaborate holsters and chrome plated cap-pistols.
The very best pistols I ever had were a set of “Have Gun, Will Travel” pistols with chess-knight holster, interchangeable ebony and ivory grips, and loadable cap bullets. I was one over indulged cowpoke. All his life, my father’s heart was in the west and his soul rode the range with Buck Jones and Tom Mix. It is my hope that heaven has a wild west area and that Dad is leaning on the bar in that celestial saloon and having a drink, sarsaparilla, of course, with Buck Jones and John Wayne.
*nabs: a Southern term for cheese and peanut butter crackers