In those days, the roads were mostly dirt around Muddy Creek. Only a few were graveled and, here and there, a mile of cement might have been laid out by "Good Roads" Gov. Len Small.
When he visited, Charley usually camped where the gypsies camped, by the big, steel Muddy Creek Bridge, which also was where the flying squirrels nested.
He would pull in by the late afternoon and set up camp, taking care of his horse first. He hung the harness on a nearby fence and led the animal down to the creek to let her drink.
If he had no oats, Charley would tether the horse to a stake so she could forage on the rank grass that grew along Muddy Creek.
Then, in a small, well-blackened circle of sandstone, Charley would build himself a fire on which to prepare his own evening meal.
We kids would follow him to the grove and visit with him while he made up a fishing line, cutting a willow pole and baiting the hook with grubs found under rotten logs. Then, he'd catch his dinner from old Muddy, which was filled with fish in those days.
Next, with us still watching, he'd cook his supper over the fire. Charley was the one who showed me how to make a reflector oven in which to bake biscuits from scratch over the open fire - a skill that I have even to this day.
When his evening meal was finished and clean up complete, Charley would amuse himself with the banjo, singing "The Spanish Cavalier," "Red Wind" and spirituals.
By hitting Muddy Creek in the late afternoon, he'd let Mother and the rest of us sort of stew in anticipation of his early-morning visit. So the next day, when he'd come jingling up the road - two bells were tied to the wagon axles to announce his arrivals - we always were at a peak of excitement.