Begin edit by hand on October 7, 2008..George Fulks..java40@consolidated.net

Transferring from Piedmont National Wildlife Refuge to the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge for my father, Rummage Ira Fulks, occurred at precisely the appropriate time for his son, George Fulks. Mrs. White's fifth grade class at the Gray Elementary School had begun the practice of breaking into discreet and finicky social groups. Parties were held and I, his son, had not been invited. That trend disturbed my dad, and he asked to be transferred in order to protect me from such treatment by peers. Beginning to experience periods of isolation and some ostracism, I began during November 1951 to sense that something was seriously wrong with my social standing.That sort of thing may commence to happen in fifth Grade and continue until highschool graduation. Dad did not want that to happen to his son.

A day in November 1951 was my last day of attendance at Gray Elementary School in Gray, Georgia. Everything proceeded in the usual manner.I was in the best of spirits in anticipation of our trans- fer to a different location. After we were seated and the role taken, we began to sing loudly in competition with our building neighbors. In a sense, the five classes competed to see who could sing the loudest and most skillfully.Included in our repertoire were some fun-songs. As a fifth-grader, I enjoyed Froggie Went-a-courtin', She'll Be Comin' Around The Mountain, Old MacDonald Had A Farm, and Waltzing Matilda. Which group sang best would have been difficult to judge. All the classes were great. The third graders were outstanding for reason that Mrs. McClure accompanied her class on piano.

Following reading, writing and arithmetic, just a few minutes remained until the 10:30 A.M. recess. It was then that Mrs. White announced to the class; "As you all know, this is George's last day in class. He's been with us since first grade. Will you tell us where you're moving, George?"

"Yes, Mrs. White," I said. "My dad has been transferred by request to the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge in Southern Georgia." Commenting that they had visited or had friends or relatives there, a few of the students glanced in my direction and assumed wide-eyed expressions. Many were town students, and they were happy with the opportunities they had by living in the city of Gray.

"George," said Mrs. White,the teacher. "Be certain to pickup your Indian artifacts before you leave today."

"I'll give those to Margaret, Miss White." I said. "Thank you, George,"said Margaret, my usual company since she had moved to Georgia from Iowa in third grade. We'd be parting company. The Wades would soon be transferring to St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge in Florida after another six months at Piedmont Refuge, and I was never to encounter her again. We exchanged a few letters, but soon she was no longer important to me.I'd be among new friends, and so would Margaret Ann. I did not write that episode of the lives of Rummage Ira Fulks and his family. I would never have composed it at all. We would have remained in Kentucky near my grandmother.

Coming near the end of the fifteen minute,morning recess, I stood placidly and watched as the other fifth grade students entered the door leading from playground and back into the classroom. It was then that one of two twin boys, Bobby Swinford,approached me. As I was distracted and awaiting the entry of the others into the Gray Elementary School, Bobby Swinford very expertly threw a punch to my left temple. That punch rendered me unconscious. Then falling onto the earth, I was awakened some moments later by an ammonia inhaler- the kind enclosed in cotton and glass that releases that gas when crushed.

Leaving me with a "shiner" on my left-eye for several days afterwards, I sat at my desk for the remainder of that day and held an icepatch over the injury. I survived without unbearable pain and without hate. Failing to comprehend why such an attack had occurred, I felt no anger for anyone. Accepting that knockout punch as one might react to the sting of an insect, I have gathered since then that such attacks by others are not that rare. That was the last knockout performed on me, but I have come to understand during my experiences with others that the process of "imaging" in human psychology enters into the interpretative sphere of comprehension. That human outlet for hostility is one that needs further study by behavioral experts and teachers.

Resulting in a delay in our departure from Piedmont to Okefenokee, my injury required that I remain in the area for observation and near medial treatment, if required. With such a blow in the temple area of the head, a physician explained that there's always danger of a bloodclot developing and moving from an injury point. Such an injury can result in death. While that punch did not result in death, I have interpreted that event as a kind of "I'm leaving my mark" lesson.

Having the choice as to whether to attend school for part of another day or remaining home, I chose the latter. I was one of the first students to enter Mrs. White's fifth-grade classroom. Soon all students were seated except two. Robert and Johnny Swinford, the twins who had moved to Jones County from Macon at the begin- ing of their fifth school year were tardy that day. The two of them and their father, all short in stature, entered the classroom redfaced, late, and embarrassed.Adorning the faces of the Swinford twins and their dad were three of the finest "shiners" I ever observed. The injuries had been administered to their left eyes, and it was quite an impressive spectacle. My own "shiner" was the only one I have ever suffered. I'm sixty-eight years old now, and there's no way of assuring that the bruised eye will not be my last. I have suffered a broken collarbone from being thrown over the handlebars of a bicycle. I have been known to image, and one way to arouse my adrenaline is to hear someone direct toward me, "You're dead meat!" If I should throw a pound of groundbeef on the street to such a mentality, I feel there might be a fight there among those types of hostile individuals.

As for my personal feelings, I would have not have attacked the Swinfords. I would have proceeded to my new location at The Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge without retaliation. Oh, sweet mystery! Who could have done such a thing as blacken the left eyes of a father and his two twin sons? (Blond-haired and blue-eyed.) The mystery remains for me.Who could have done such a thing?

(Teachers at Gray Elementary School, Gray, Georgia from 1946-1951 were: one-Mrs. Morton; two-Mrs. Ross; three-Mrs McClure; four-Mrs. Ben Barron; five; Mrs. White.) Mrs. White resided in Round Oak, Georgia. Her husband was an oldfashioned country doctor who carried a black bag and bottles of surecure medicines in bottles. There were Hadacol, Blackdrought, mudplasters, and miracle cures. He was as good a doctor as any available during those days. My present personal care physician recognized "cat-scratch fever" immediately, and I was cured within three days with an anti-biotic. "Only one person has died during this century from that ailment, " my doctor said.

(Teachers at Folkston, Georgia Elementary and Highschool I recall were: five,Mrs. Eleanor Saunders and Mrs. Wainwright for math; six, Mrs. Gowen; seven,Mrs Jones; eight,Mrs Mildred Mizell. Principal of Charlton County Highschool:grade nine,Mr. Williams;Principal:grade 10,Mr. Alred Lipscomb; Principal: grades 11-12; D.Ray James. Other teachers I can recall were: Ralph Belcher(band and chorus), Mr. Jenkins (science); Mr. Robert Corley(qualified to teach everything); Mr. Knight, Mrs Sorrells, and Mr. Lamar Casey.(instrumental music) Let me state for the record:"There was not a badegg among any of those educators."

Picking me up at Gray Elementary School at 11:00 A.M. that day, we began our journey of 250 miles toward the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge and our new logcabin home at the edge of a great swamp; an eco-system that was made for an eleven-year- old boy and his mother and father of hillbilly orgin. Little did I suspect that in my future lay a night within the eye of a hurricane, a journey fishing in Chase Prairie, a near hit from a diamondbacked rattlesnake and a boxing match with Robert Gay. In my future would be a world of fun with touch-football. There would be Connie, Lavonne, Carolyn and Lajuana. Lajuana won me with beautiful, blond hair and a splendid, yellow dress. You should have seen her in that "outfit."(Woe is me.You'll never be a man, George. You'll always be just a little boy.)

Residing in one of three splendid, log-cabins at Camp Cornelia, the head- quarters for personnel working on the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge, were two young people who became very good friends, Nancy and Douglas Eadie. Two of the assistant refuge manager's children, Doug was a fourth grader. I was never to suffer damage from being his friend, but I'm lucky I didn't get snakebitten or mauled by a black-bear with cubs. Doug was a brave explorer and would journey almost anywhere without a weapon for our protection. Doug was easy going and not agressive. Everyone liked Doug.

Nancy, as I recall, was a sweet and charming first grader. Her behaviors were typical for children her age. She was trusting, gentle, and she wanted more freedom; to be with people who had attained different growth and developmental stages. She could not accompany Doug, me, and our friends and associates on adventures on the wildlife refuge.(Doug, like Huckleberry Finn, would take one up on any dare, go anywhere on the refuge, and he could not be equaled for bravery or loyalty.)There were deadly- poisonous snakes and unpredictable wild animals roaming the refuge and in very large numbers. We all watched Nancy carefully. Predators more often pursue the smallest and weakest. It is a part of their nature. As with the lion in Africa, it will, most often, go for the easiest of prey. The time she spent on the refuge was often lonely. No other children her age were living there.

As a senior-citizen now, I place little confidence in the concept that anyone is to enter a paradise following their physical deaths; but supposing there were, I would not mind entering into a place that housed those people. Here's the year 2008, and as Art Volsen asked me within the context of "Art's Miracle," 'George, do you believe in the hereafter?' My answer was, "I don't know, Mr. Volsen."

Hailing from Kingsport, Tennessee, John Senior and his wife had, as the Fulks family, moved from their native habitat and into a sphere of cultural coexist- ence with rural Kentuckians such as we and native swampdwellers. Cultural and educational differences between people require caution during personal relation- ships . There were different dialects and backgrounds for most of us, even during our dealings with the island people of the area. Most of the people we encounted within the area were accommodating. They were not perfect people, and neither were we.

John Senior's son, John Junior, was a gifted highschool junior. Both his physical conditioning and ability to vocalize were impressive to me. Junior Eadie could have been a professional recording artist. He had an incredible vocal quality as a singer. His physical stamina was such that he could have led a group of conquerors into the swamp area. He, his brother, and a friend had canoed twelve miles in order to rescue a group of us on "The Journey To Chase Prairie."(We did not need to be rescued. The three of them were worried about us.) Few could match John Junior. Why didn't he enter into athletic competition? Was it just a lack of interest in favor of academics? He could have been successful at baseball, basketball, and football. I've met several people who excel and have forever envied them.

As a sixty-eight year old, the Eadie family is recalled very fondly and positively. There were John Senior and his wife Blanch, and there were Nancy and Douglas; two very good friends. Making the most positive contribution to my education was Douglas with his gift of Mark Twain's book entitled "Tom Sawyer." After reading the first chapter, I was hooked on that story and completed the reading in just three days. To my understanding, Douglas had received Tom Sawyer as a gift. By that gift, I became interested in reading.

Nearing the end of the Eadie's assignment at Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge, John D. Eadie Junior was in his third year of highschool, intellectually gifted and a high achiever. Working his way into the cultural centers in Folkston, he and his brother, Doug began to spend more time in the town of Folkston, twelve miles away. As a result, their first grade sister Nancy became my company for more time. Her gentle disposition and wonderful personality provided me with some insight that became useful during my future work with elementary children. I will always remember Nancy and Doug fondly. John Junior was into late adolescence and had little time or interest in socializing with youngsters. We could have learned from him.

A character I have enountered often during my lifetime, Tom Sawyer is without doubt universal. Representing the lifestyle of boys and girls both prior and into adolescense, I had the pleasure of meeting many boys and girls such as Tom and Huck wherever I've visited and resided. Teaching reading to many of them, we were successful in most instances. If you look around your town, you'll find those characters. You might even call this writer Tom.

Very strict during his enforcement of fish and wildlife laws, John D. Eadie Senior did not hesitate to write tickets for those fishing or hunting without licenses or other violations. For example, no firearms or hunting were allowed within the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge. Several residents feared the snakes and alligators as they fished within the Okefenokee. Some would try and take firearms with them. A few county residents were involved in the sale of 'gator skins.(Game management agents can be fired if they are known to allow such violations.) John made an effort to enforce the laws, and nighttime patrols within the Okefenokee Swamp were performed periodically. The refuge agents were attacked viciously by trillions of mosquitoes, and the insect repellants of those time were ineffective.

first effort:July 4, 2008, George Harold Fulks

Dedicated to Tom, Iva, and Aaron Huey Chesser

In Southeastern Georgia, it was during the morning hours of a September, set in the mid-1950's that my dad approached me and announced: "Son, your sister has had a miscarriage. Bernard and Euphama are in South Carolina, and she's in the hospital in Charlston. Your mother and I need to travel there to provide them some financial and moral support. I think it would be better if you'd stay here in the area."

Agreeing to care for me, a fifteen year old, while my mother and father were absent, were the Chessers. Residing on Chesser Island, their homestead, were Thomas and his wife, Iva. A sixteen year old son named Huey was the only one of their children remaining at home. Owners of an island and homestead bearing their surname, the Chesser's never failed in their generousity and hospitality. Visiting their homestead there on the edge of the Great Okefenokee Swamp was a special treat for me. "That's okay with me," I said to my father, R.I. Fulks.

Driving me to Chesser Island, five miles Southeast of our residence at Camp Cornelia, my parents dropped me off there. "We'll be back late tomorrow if we have good luck," Dad said. "There's a hurricane off the Florida coast, but there's very little chance that it will come ashore here. You may get some wind and rainfall."

Loafing about the Chesser Homestead into the mid-afternoon, Huey and I enjoyed a fantastic bluesky, but a promise had begun to takeshape high in the stratosphere towards our relative South and Southeast. Curtains of puffy, white clouds hanged as skirts on shapely figures without faces in our distance. Occasionally carressed by moist and gentle winds,our shirt tails would catch a puff of wind and burstopen as wings of butterflies feasting on plumblossoms.

Huey and I checked the farm, workanimal, a mule feeding in his barnstall on fodder, cornshucks, and shelled corn.The mule shifted about nervously. An enigmatic, calm somehow cast its ominent, presence upon Huey Chesser's Island. No birds chirped, and no woodpeckers pattered. The quiet became so magnificient that we were also made calm.It was a sleepy time that made one want to close his eyes, crawl into a dark space, and enter into peaceful slumber during a sultry day under the sweltering sun of a skyblue day in Soutneastern, Georgia. It was a wonderful time and place, and we were children, Huey and I.

On a cornertable near Mr. Tom's favorite rockingchair sat an oldtime batterypowered radio and a halffilled kerosene lamp. On a wall beside the chair was a handcranked telephone that suggested that we were into a different time. Radio station WJAX in Jacksonville, Florida continued to broadcast news of the hurricanes' movement; "progress" it was socalled. As a child then, I am unable to quote from a radio broadcast from that long ago. I've read several accounts of hurricanes and storms. They're all wellwritten and basically follow the same theme- the lives of men, animals, property and landscape endangered by some force of nature. No effort here would be made under normal circumstances. This experience differs for reason that Mr. Tom and his wife, Iva, were characters in this event. "All the world is a stage, and we are its actors."(credit to whom??????)