Checkers is a Cracker. And so was I.
A shaggy-dog story.
A Shaggy-Dog Story.
I learned about Crackers in Cedar Key, FL when I dropped into Curmudgeonalia, a gift shop with an admirable selection of local books and art.
The owner, and self-proclaimed curmudgeon, was a man named Dick Martens. I recall he was a short, white-haired older gentleman with intelligent, sparkling blue eyes that occasionally wept blood. He carried with him a Kleenex, but stared you right in the eye as if being so comfortable with his malady that he dared you to say anything or notice, or was at least impatiently understanding as you moved past the initial shock. I don’t regret the first few moments I lost, observing him instead of listening. He was the opposite of a curmudgeon - intelligent, insightful, and friendly with the demeanor and dress of a retired professor. Sadly, he has since passed away and his shop is closed, but I’ll never forget meeting him and the stories he told me.
I had heard the cattlemen of the South were sometimes called Crackers because they used bullwhips that cracked loudly to move, with the noise, their cattle through the thick underbrush and swamps. I asked Mr. Martens to direct me to any books about local ranching and Crackers. He did, but took the time to correct my understanding of the Cracker Culture.
The term cracker has many connotations and definitions. I’ll stick with the two that the curmudgeon lit upon, but with the help of Wikipedia: A cracker is a braggart, with an origin in the Gaelic word craic. Among the Irish, it could mean entertaining talk or boisterousness and bragging, and as the Irish enjoy immensely spirited talk, craic also means fun, a good time, and showing off. In Florida and the South, it is something different. Dana Ste. Claire from the Orlando Sentinel summed it up best by diplomatically explaining, Since the huge influx of new residents into Florida in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, the term Florida cracker is used informally by some Floridians to indicate that their families have lived in the state for many generations. A simpler and more fitting definition of a Cracker is "a self-sufficient inhabitant who scratches his/her living from the soil or from raising livestock," a description of a Southern "plain folk" culture. Self-sufficiency was a signature characteristic of Crackers.
After an hour or so of Cracker tutorials from Mr. Martens, my book bag filled, he left me with a parting joke that, even after a decade of hearing, just recently slapped me in the face.
I live alongside my kennels. Hounds dictate my schedule, from sunup to sundown and often through the night. The kennels are a little redneck, but comfortable. The yard fences are six feet tall, made of no-climb wire so they can’t climb out, with buried chicken wire at the base so that they can’t dig under. The kennel and lodges’ gates are chainlink or solid panels.
Hours every day are spent with my hounds, feeding, watering, exercising, cleaning, doctoring, sorting, re-sorting, hauling, hunting, and raising them. When I’m not with them, I’m thinking, talking, or writing about them. If you visit, you will be subjected to stories and education about hounds ala Mr. Martens.
The hounds cannot leave their enclosure without me. Aside from their spacious yards, their only freedom is hunting or walking out. Despite being miles from another dwelling, we’re just a few hundred yards from a commuter road and a busy railroad. it’s imperative they don’t run around unsupervised. They must always be within hearing distance, as I use my voice and horn to communicate with them.
One of my worst fears is that the hounds escape, en masse, from the kennels when I’m not there. This has happened only a couple of times, once by malice, and once by a faulty latch. They always come home, eventually, but two were lost to the road when I was away from the ranch. The scenario is the stuff of nightmares.
For three years now, I’ve had this particular kennel setup, which (though modest) is the most hound-safe I’ve ever constructed. However, it is not without its fallacies, especially when it comes to Checkers.
Anyone who knows my hounds knows Checkers. He’s my only rough-haired hound, of distant Welsh descent, twice the size of the rest, and a complete crackup. He looks like a curmudgeon, but he’s not. I think he’s beautiful, with sparkly eyes, intense intelligence, and an old soul. He is sweet, funny, loyal, brave, a great hunter, and just different and aloof from the rest. He reminds me now of a young, athletic, harmlessly mischievous, exuberant Dick Martens, sans the hankie.
Checkers learned to climb the solid gates of the kennels and escape years ago. He’d start his journey by parading by the kennels, to dismay the rest of the hounds. Countless times, I trudged across the yard to catch him, put him in, and lock him somewhere - sometimes numerous times a day. He never went far. Usually,he wass waiting at my front door in the morning or lounging in the shade until afternoon kennels. If we hadn’t hunted or exercised hard in a day, despite tucking them all in at dusk, the pack would alert me in the middle of the night when Checkers escaped. It woke all of us. Occasionally I’d let him in when I was too tired, or it is too dark to do anything requiring fruitless ambition. He slept in my bed, quietly growling at the TV and protecting me from particularly large moths or strange noises.
Recently, a young, slightly neurotic hound named Detour learned to follow Checkers over the gate. Two hounds out, together without supervision, is not good. It drives the rest of the pack insane, and it’s dangerous. Hounds hunt. Sometimes they hunt things, cross roads, and go places they shouldn’t.
Every time I’d hear the tell-tail sound of a deserter, no matter what time or state of dress, I’d run out and right the wrong. Check latches. Shine flashlights. Count dogs. I didn’t sleep. I kept a watchful eye on the kennel. I rarely left the ranch.
Finally, my father and I braved the sweltering heat to erect simple mesh wire extensions above the solid gates. It took a few hours but little money and required no feat of engineering genius. Upon completion, I sat back and satisfyingly watched Detour scale the gate, run face-first into the wire, and fall back into the dirt. Checkers never even tried. He’s smart that way.
Now I sleep. There have been no raucous riots in the kennels, no escapees. But I kind of miss my game with Checkers. I blame Detour for ruining his harmless deviance and feel a little bad for him, stuck in the kennel now with the rest of the obedient, conformist pack because his ingenuity wasn’t appreciated, all because of the invention of a humble little two-foot extension of wire and wood.
The other quiet night, lying without my faithful, funny, furry companion, I remembered the words of the old curmudgeon. With an earnest, admiring tone, he said,
“You know, a Cracker, every day he will leave before sunup to trudge across a swamp to get to his barn and care for his livestock. Rain or shine, healthy or not, a Cracker will faithfully trudge back across that swamp at sundown to settle his livestock. Day in, day out, flood or famine, hot or cold, a Cracker will brave the elements and get up and slog through that swamp so that he can feed his animals.”
I had listened solemnly. Then, he cracked a smile and laughed, “But a Yank? He’ll just build a bridge.”
