The following is an excerpt from a rewrite of “The Crackerhead Chronicles.” You can start reading the old version [here].

My mother was physically born into this world on October 22, 1926. The place of her birth was in a log cabin near [Mountain Home, AR] (around 140 miles north of [Little Rock, AR]), and what may remain of it now rests at the bottom of [Norfork Lake], which was formed by damming the North Fork River in 1944.

Sadly, I know even less about her lineage than I do about my father’s. For she did know all that much about it herself, and all of our efforts to find relatives proved unsuccessful.

Oh yes, we went looking on several occasions, and I have many fond memories of those trips—even though we never got a whiff of her family’s trail. For it was as if they had vanished without a trace, but roaming all over that rugged area was quite an adventure to me.

Perhaps it was all for the best. For her maiden name was Honeycutt, and her father was a full-blooded [Cherokee].

Oh no, it was not because of him being a Cherokee that it might have been for the best that we never uncovered a clue of where they may have gone. In fact, I considered being a quarter Cherokee as being something really special, and I delighted in hearing all about what my mother could remember being told when she was a little girl.

Most of these things came from her great-grandmother on her father’s side, and one involved her being forcibly removed, along with the rest of her family, from her home in [northeastern Georgia] when she was a little girl. She was then marched towards [Oklahoma] on what came to be known as the [Trail of Tears], and she was the only one of her family to survive the trip.

After her folks died, friends of the family took her in, but she did not stay on the reservation in Oklahoma long. For her new family, along with some others, decided that they would much rather fend for themselves in an area that they had passed through along the way.

That area was in the vicinity of the [Buffalo River] in north-central Arkansas, and since it had more than its share of rough terrain (to say the least), the wayward Cherokees were left in relative peace. For there was still plenty of much easier land to settle elsewhere, and that is the way it stayed until the War Against Northern Aggression broke out.

It is not known whether they volunteered or were conscripted, but my mother had several relatives who served on the Confederate side of the [American Civil War]. One of them supposedly helped to hide a cache of gold bars in a cave that has an opening under a 15-20 foot overhang near the top of a 100 foot tall rock-bluff on the Buffalo River not too far from where my mother was born. In true Confederate gold legend fashion, a huge hornets nest hung from the top of that opening, and the more accessible one was filled-in.

Oh yes, I would certainly like for the story to be true, and since my mother’s six uncles spent years looking for it, one would think that there must be something to it. They did not have much to go on, however. For the rest of the story is that their relative was led blindfolded to where the wagonload of gold bars was, and was led blindfolded back to his cabin after all of the gold was carried into the cave.

On the other hand, I have my doubts. For those men knew every inch of that area, and they would have surely found at least the opening to the cave above the Buffalo River if there was one to be found. Nonetheless, I am not opposed to entertaining thoughts to the contrary on occasion.

Contrary would be a nice way to describe the Honeycutt boys, who comprised my mother’s six uncles and her father. For they had several ways of generating an income, and most were of dubious legality—at best.

Yes, living was not at all easy in that area during those days. In fact, [the great depression of the 1930’s] had virtually no impact on most there because of it already being so bad.

Therefore, it could be argued that they were just doing whatever it took to survive, and some might even go so far as to applaud their ingenuity. For one of their means for generating income involved being one of the first to conduct float trips down the Buffalo River, which certainly sounds quite enterprising.

It was, however, to the extent that they took this enterprise that all who know better should take exception. For their clients were almost all quite wealthy, who usually brought a lot of very expensive hunting and fishing equipment with them, which was carried down the river in canoes. Invariably, those canoes would flip in rough water, and all of their contents would be dumped in the river. Most of those contents would be carried downstream in the strong current, get caught in the nets that the brothers had set-up beforehand, and then sold to anyone who did not insist upon asking too many questions.

No, not everyone in the area during those days condemned such practices. For the law of the jungle was certainly practiced, and anyone who would be willing to pay good money for a float trip was considered fair game by quite a few outside of church.

One who did not cotton to playing by such rules was supposedly a county sheriff, or deputy sheriff, and what is said to have happened to him may have something to do with why nary a trace of my mother’s father’s family can be found now. For he was gunned down by one of my mother’s uncles, and his family would have had to be honor-bound to avenge his untimely death if they had any love at all for the old ways since no arrests were made for his murder.

Since no name for alleged murder victim was provided, there may not be any way of confirming the story. Nonetheless, it certainly appears to be in character for the Honeycutt boys.

Yes, they were definitely a rough bunch, and the worst of the lot seems to be my mother’s father. For he was supposedly some sort of a gangster—like [Clyde Barrow (of “Bonnie and Clyde” fame)], [Pretty Boy Floyd] and [Machine Gun Kelly].

No, there is apparently not any evidence of my mother’s mother being involved in any previous illegal activities, but the supposed details of her death leads one to wonder. For it is said that she smuggled battery acid into my mother’s father’s jail cell in [Searcy, AR] during a visit in 1933 or 34, and that is where they both died of apparent suicides after drinking the acid.

Yes, I know of much better ways to commit suicide. So, I have my doubts about what really happened, but there is no doubting that it was still a great tragedy of monumental proportions to my mother—regardless of the circumstances involved. For she found herself an orphan at the tender age of seven during a great depression in an area where only the strong were meant to survive (naturally-speaking, of course).

Needless to say, my mother did survive, but it was touch and go for a while. For there were apparently no relatives on her mother’s side around, and she was bounced from one relative to another on her father’s side.

Her summers were mostly spent picking cotton on great uncle’s place near [Stuttgart, AR], which is around 100 miles to the south of the Buffalo River region. I’m not sure if it qualified as a plantation or not, but it had space for sharecroppers. My mother got room and board, along with 50 cents a week, for picking 100 pounds a day.

Her winters were spent back up north, and she managed to complete the 6th grade in [Yellville, AR] before taking care of her cousins took precedent over her getting more of an education. Nothing was ever said about her having to take care of any “other things.”

Sometime after she turned 14, my mother heard voices just over the horizon calling her name, and she went to live with an unrelated couple who owned a cafe in either [Lepanto] or [Marked Tree, AR] (around 45 miles northwest of [Memphis]). She learned a lot about a lot of things from them, and she really appreciated all that they did for her.

Nonetheless, my mother had her share of "teenage moments." Some of those moments involved “borrowing” the nice couple’s car so that she and some friends could dance the night away in Memphis ([Beale Street]?).

After staying in northeastern Arkansas for a while, my mother heard the voices calling her name again, and she eventually found herself on the opposite side of the state (over 250 miles away) in [Texarkana, AR]. She wound up moving in with a lady, whom she came to think of as being her mother.

It was there, while working as a carhop in 1951, that she met a fun-loving pipeliner, who introduced himself as being "Buddy." A few days later, she left with him to start a new job in [Ohio].

This was after being married by the justice-of-the-peace as soon as her last shift was over, of course. For my mother was most definitely not “that” kind of a girl!!!