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 |  It's all her fault. |
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| While I was busy going around from one animal to the next, the dung brothers took notice of me. Lenny asked, “What are you doing?” I told him that I was waiting on Grandpa to call me so we could get the eggs from the chicken coop. “So,” Lanny piped up, “you mean you’re about finished?” “Yep, remember what Grandpa said last night, when we get done with our work we can start decorating. I’d rather smell the Christmas tree than what you’re shoveling.” They looked at me for a moment, then began to work faster. Grandpa called my name and I flew with anticipation to where he was. “Yes, Grandpa?” “Now hold on, I’m not quite ready yet. I need you to take Jack out back and put him in the corral so he can stretch his legs a bit.” “What about Patches?” I asked. “No, she would be a little tough to get back in, and we don’t want to waste any more time, do we?” “No, sir!” Grandpa was right, Patches was so playful, that if I took her outside, we’d have a time trying to get her back into the barn. She was a beautiful Appaloosa, about sixteen hands high. Then there was Jack, short for Blackjack. He was solid black, not a white spot on him anywhere. He stood about eighteen hands high to his withers. He was a handsome horse and he knew it. He gave me the feeling that he thought I should feel honored if he let me pet him. With Patches, I could pet, hug, and brush her all I wanted to. I got a rope and then climbed up the slats on the door to Jack’s stall and asked him if I could slip the rope over his head. Patches looked over at me sorta pitiful-like, so I told her I’d ask Grandpa if she could go out tomorrow. After Jack agreed to let me put the rope on him, I climbed down and opened the stall. Jack came out easy and I felt proud walking beside him like Gene Autry next to Champion. With one little difference, though. If Jack wanted to take off, I would have been hanging onto that rope for dear life. I opened the barn door and led Jack out, asking him nicely not to do anything unexpected. He followed me, waiting patiently as I opened the gate to the corral and then led him inside. I shut the gate behind him and he took off running. He was so graceful to watch; he would stop abruptly and change direction, trampling and flinging the snow with his hooves. I climbed up onto the top rail of the fence to admire his beauty. He slowed down and surprised me by trotting over to where I was. I reached out to pet him, and he blew snot and slobber on me then took off again as if he was laughing at me. “Dang horse!” I muttered as I reached into my back pocket to fetch my handkerchief. I should have known. As I was still wiping my sleeve and hand, Grandpa called out to me to help him get the eggs. I jumped down from the fence and hurried toward the chicken coop. About halfway there, I turned and looked back at Jack. He stopped and looked back at me, then began to dance around the corral again. “Dang horse,” I muttered again. Grandpa and I retrieved the eggs and went back to the barn. To our surprise, Lenny and Lanny were done and were putting away the last bit of hay from the loft. They didn’t even make a mess of things, not even of themselves. Grandpa laughed and said, “You boys sure are on fire today. Why, it’s not even eleven o’clock! I reckon we can go back to the house and eat lunch nice and slow-like. We’ll let Jack run around for a bit longer while we eat, then bring him back in after lunch.” The three of us boys deflated just a bit. “Then I guess we can start getting the decorations put up.” With that said, we were grinning from ear to ear. We gathered our things and then headed out of the barn. For once, my brothers were keeping up without pushing and shoving or even flinging snow at one another. That was a strange feeling, having them quiet behind me like that. Grandpa probably felt it too. As we were walking the path back to the house, Mr. Mitchell came walking up. He lived on the next farm over and had worked with my Grandpa for years. He was a good friend to everyone in our family. “Merry Christmas!” Mr. Mitchell hollered out to all of us as he approached. We all replied with the same cheerful greeting. Mr. Mitchell said to Grandpa, “It’s all ready for you, John.” Grandpa said, “Thank you, Tom,” then asked him if he wanted to stop for a spell and have some lunch. “Lunch? Why, it ain’t noon yet, John.” “I know,” Grandpa said, “but I told the boys when they got their work done they could put up decorations, so they worked really hard and fast and got it all done. So we are going to TAKE OUR TIME and have an early lunch. You’re welcome to join with us, if you want, Tom.” “I guess I could come in and warm up to a cup of coffee, but I rode Billy over.” When I looked over that way, I could see Mr. Mitchell’s horse tied up to the porch post in the front of the house. Grandpa turned to Lanny. “You go and fetch Billy and take him over to the barn. Make sure he’s fed and watered.” Mr. Mitchell spoke up, “I don’t want to put anybody to trouble when—“ Grandpa cut him short. “There’s no trouble, we have plenty of time.” I was sure glad when Grandpa told Lanny to do that. Billy got his name from butting with his head like a goat if you didn’t walk fast enough. That’s all I would have needed, another dang horse doing something to me today. |
| Turning to look at us three boys who were now all puffed up with pride at our parts in bringing home such a fine specimen for a Christmas tree, Grandpa said, “Lenny and Mike, you take it off the sled over by the smokehouse. Lanny, you fetch the knapsack and come with me so we can get the front room ready for it.” Grandpa and Lanny headed off around the house, and Lenny and I pulled the sled over near the smokehouse and started untying the tree. Even Lenny admitted it was a beauty. We were just putting the sled away when Grandpa came down the steps of the back porch, carrying his homemade tree stand. It was kind of funny-looking for a tree stand. It looked like a big squatty funnel with a large opening for different tree trunk sizes and winged screws, probably from c-clamps. On one side there was a place to pour sugar water with tea mixed in. The sugar water fooled the tree into thinking it was sap and the tea was to keep the tree green longer. Grandpa picked up the saw and trimmed off more from the trunk, wrapped the bottom in a layer of cotton, covered it with burlap, then slid the tree into the stand. He stood back to survey his handiwork. “Alright, Lenny, let’s get it into the house.” He and Lenny took off with the tree as I put up the saw and hatchet. I came back in through the back door, straight through the kitchen and into the front room. There it stood, right in the middle of the front room window. Even without decorations, it was beautiful. The light from the fireplace made it look as if it was covered with twinkling lights as the flames flickered. Grandpa said, “Tomorrow when we’re done working, we’ll decorate.” We had another fine supper and after the table was cleared and the dishes were put away, we all gathered in the front room. Grandpa started playing Christmas music on his fiddle, song after song, finishing with Silent Night. That particular song played on a fiddle is the most unforgettable sound, the likes of which I haven’t heard since. After Grandpa played the final note he said, “It was a Silent Night, now good night to you boys, it’s time for bed.” We all got ready, said our good nights to one another, then crawled into our beds. I laid there, looking at the glow of the potbelly stove for a while, then quietly got up and went into the front room for one last look at the Christmas tree. I stood there in that firelit room for a few minutes, admiring the shape and size of the tree that I’d cut myself. Then I went back to bed and fell right to sleep. The next morning, like usual, Grandpa was up before me. We had our breakfast, then walked out to the barn. My brothers were cutting up like always, until they stepped through the barn door. Their demeanor changed quickly when faced with the chore ahead, knowing that it wouldn’t be tiddly-winks they’d be flipping. As for me, I had all the strength in the world. I was working so fast that Bowl’s droopy jowls were making a rut in the floor as he watched me going back and forth. I was caught up in no time flat and went over to where Grandpa was and asked if he needed help. He looked up at me from his milking stool and said, “You mean to tell me you’re a-caught up on your chores already?” “Yes, sir, except for getting the eggs and pitching the hay down from the loft.” Grandpa laughed and said, “Is there something going on I don’t know about?” “No, sir. You said last night that we were gonna decorate when we had our work done.” “Oh, I remember that. I tell you what, when I’m done here, I’ll call ya when I’m going over to the chicken coop. I’m sure you can find something to keep you busy until then.” “Yes, sir,” I replied and off I went to pet and talk to the animals. |
| My brothers and I finished digging and banking the snow. The clearing we made was about eight feet in diameter with walls around three feet high. Grandpa came over with the kindling and began to stack it carefully in the center. “Mike, fetch me the knapsack.” When I handed him the knapsack, Grandpa pulled the aluminum-foil-wrapped biscuits out and placed them on the ground. He then reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of wood shavings that he had just cut. He placed the shavings on top of the foil package, then slid the whole thing under the wood he had arranged. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket and with little effort, the fire was lit. The fire grew bigger, letting off a few pops and crackles because the wood was a little damp. The warmth it gave off felt wonderful on our faces. We pulled our gloves off and positioned our hands and feet close to the fire to warm them up, too. Beyond the physical warmth that the fire provided, it also brought about another kind of warmth. Encircled by white walls of snow, the firelight cast a glow on us and we all felt the warmth of sharing this special time together, and enjoying each other. Even my trouble-making brothers were subdued and respectful within that circle of flickering light in the hush of that silent forest. Grandpa passed a thermos to Lenny with the extra cup tied to it for Lanny. From the second thermos, he poured two cups and passed one to me. As we all enjoyed both the richly brewed scent and taste of the coffee, Grandpa started telling us about that tree. He said he’d been watching it for years and knew that this year the top would be perfect. He went on to tell us about other trees that were around and where they were located. “The reason I like cutting the top off the tree is so you’re not killing the whole tree. It allows the sun to penetrate the inside so the rest of the branches will fill back in. That tree will continue to grow fuller and eventually you won’t even know the top is gone.” The biscuits were ready and Grandpa pulled them out with a stick. He handed each of us a biscuit with beef jerky. I don’t know if it was the fresh air, the long walk, or the ambiance of our little cafe in the snow, but that was one of the best snacks we’d ever tasted. The biscuits were warm and flaky inside, golden brown and crisp on the outside. After we finished eating, Grandpa announced, “We had better pack up and start heading back, daylight’s a-burning.” We got everything packed up, and put the fire out with snow. I asked Grandpa if he wanted us to fill in the hole we dug. He answered, “No, there might be an animal that can crouch down in it to stay out of the wind just like we did.” I offered to help with the sled, but Grandpa said “You’re not needed just yet, Mike.” He told me to take the lead and follow our tracks back. It sure felt funny, me walking in front of Grandpa. As we walked along, every now and then I would see where the tracks of an animal had crossed ours. Grandpa was quick to tell us what it was and about how big it was by how deep of an imprint it left. We trudged along and before I knew it, there was the gate. Of course, there were also the tracks where Mutt and Jeff had gone their own way under the barbed wire fence. I unlatched the gate and waited for them to pull the sled through, then latched it again. As we came up to the hill, Grandpa told me to get behind the sled and push. At the top, Grandpa paused for a moment, smiling as he looked up at his house. “Your grandma used to watch for me out the back door window when I’d go out to get a tree for Christmas. She’d come out to greet me as soon as I reached this very spot where we’re standing.” My brothers and I stood quietly, watching his face as it softened with memories and listening respectfully as he relived those cherished moments. “She would come down the steps and cup her hands around the branches of the tree, then lean down and inhale the aroma of the fir. She would look up at me and say, ‘Mighty fine tree, John, mighty fine.’ I don’t think it would have mattered what kind of tree I would have brought home, she would have said that. That’s what we have here, boys, a tree that would make her as proud as I am.” |
| Yessirreebob. My brother asked for it and boy, did he get it. When I stomped the branch, the snow fell from that branch to another and then to another, gaining more snow as it fell. The avalanche I’d created dang near knocked him down when it hit him. He was spitting and sputtering, flailing his arms and wiping his face, so mad he could have bitten a nail in two. It even knocked his hat off. That was great. I was laughing so hard that if I wasn’t careful, I would have fallen out of the tree. I saw that he was starting to make a snowball to bean me with, but I heard Grandpa say, “Don’t even think about it.” Lenny dropped the snowball on the ground and said to Grandpa, “Did you see what he did? I could have gotten hurt or something!” Grandpa just said, “You asked for it. Don’t ever start something with a person unless you’re ready to pay the price. Now go and sit down on the sled.” Lenny hung his head in defeat and went and sat down on the sled. Lanny was snickering, but when Grandpa looked over him, the snickering abruptly stopped. “You got anything to say?” “No, sir.” Grandpa hollered up at me, “Mike, get that dang tree cut.” “Yes, sir,” I replied. I began sawing one side. I thought to myself, This saw is cutting through the tree like butter. Of course, Grandpa always said, “If it’s supposed to be sharp, sharpen it.” Everything that Grandpa owned that was supposed to be sharp, was really, really sharp. I made my first cut, then switched to the other side just like Grandpa had shown me. I started to hear a popping sound which meant the top was about to come off. So I increased the speed of my cut. As the top of the tree started to tilt, I yelled “Timber!” because that was what lumberjacks do. As the top came off, it swung down, hitting the branches on the side of the tree and then it bounced off to the ground below. I was hanging on for dear life because when the tree top hit the side of that tree, it caused the whole rest of the tree to whip back and forth, flinging me backwards and forwards. Everything just looked like a blur until it stopped. “Good job, Mike,” Grandpa hollered up. I got the beeswax out from inside my coat and rubbed it all over the stump like Grandpa had said to do. As I started climbing down the tree, I remembered Lenny. I figured he was probably still steaming mad at me. As I came out from under the tree, I saw Lanny and Grandpa busy tying the tree to the sled. I found the knapsack hanging from a nearby branch and the bag right underneath. I crouched down to place the saw back in the bag, then hollered over at Grandpa. “What do you want me to do with the beeswax?” “You can just put it in the bag for now, Mike,” he answered. As I got up and started to turn, I almost bumped right into Lenny. I tensed up, ready for the impact when he said, “I’m sorry I called you names and stuff, it was just for fun.” I stood there in total shock. “Yeah, okay.” He went over to help with the tree, and I just stood there, still trying to figure out what just happened. I snapped out of my state of confusion when I heard my Grandpa’s voice calling my name. “Yes sir?” “Bring over the bag and knapsack with you.” Grandpa reached into the bag and pulled out the hatchet and handed it to Lenny. I thought to myself, I’m sure glad he didn’t give him that hatchet a few minutes earlier, he probably would’ve buried the hatchet between us a little differently. Grandpa told Lenny to go over to an old dead oak over aways and peel some bark pieces off, at least six inches wide and at least two feet long. Then he turned to Lanny and told him to fetch some kindling. I stood there looking at the tree and asked, “Is this a fine Christmas tree, Grandpa?” He put his hands on his hips, and took a moment to examine the tree. “It surely is a mighty fine Christmas tree, son.” He paused and looked off into the distance. “I wish your grandma was here to see it. But where she’s at, I‘m sure she does anyhow.” Lenny walked up to us, his arms loaded with strips of oak bark. Behind him was Lanny, carrying the kindling. They both dropped their loads into neat piles at Grandpa’s feet. Grandpa reached down and handed each of us a piece of bark. He pointed over at a mound of snow and said, “Make a clearing in the middle. Use the bark as shovels and scoops, to bank the snow up to keep the wind off of us. Make sure it’s big enough for us to have a place to sit.” We went on over and started to work. At one point, I paused for a moment and looked over at Grandpa. He had his pocket knife out and was whittling on a stick, but his gaze was fixed at a point far away, as if he was lost in thought. Maybe he was thinking about Grandma still or maybe about the events that just took place, I didn’t know. But even at my age, I knew sometimes a person needs to think about things. He glanced up and saw me looking. A smile crossed his face as it did mine. |
| We stood there like we were looking up a pig’s butt for a ham sandwich; you know it’s there but you can’t see it. Now, don’t get me wrong, Grandpa could track a rabbit across pine needles, so we knew he could see to find whatever he was looking for. But looking around the clearing, we sure didn’t see any trees that looked the size or shape of a Christmas tree. Grandpa shook his head from side to side. “Remind me to teach you boys to tell one tree from another in the spring.” Aha! I thought. My brothers don’t know their trees either. But what’s that got to do with the situation now? Even if we knew trees better, I still can’t see a single tree that would make ‘a fine Christmas tree’ like Grandpa said. “It’s right in front of you.” Grandpa waited patiently for us to figure it out. The only tree in front of us is a big old ever— “That one!” I pointed at the large evergreen, even though it seemed impossible. Grandpa nodded. “Yup, that’s a Douglas fir.” “But that’s as tall as your barn, Grandpa,” said Lanny. “Yep, give or take a couple feet, that tree’s about 35 feet tall.” “How can we get that home?” asked Lenny. Grandpa explained, “We’re not going to cut the whole tree down, boys, we’re just gonna top it, this way it won’t kill the tree.” I looked up. The further I looked up, the larger my mouth opened. “Why, just look at that top, boys, it’s the perfect shape.” I spoke up, “How do we get it down? What do we have to do?” “All you have to do is climb up and I’ll tell you when to stop and where to put your saw so that you cut about seven feet.” I thought one of my brothers would be doing the climbing, seeing as they were older than me, so I asked, “So that’s all he has to do then is just climb up and cut it?” “Not he. You.” “Me?” I said. “Yes, you. I was about your age when I topped my first tree for Christmas with my dad. My brothers chimed in, as they always did when I got something they wanted. “But Grandpa, we didn’t get to top a tree.” “Yeah, how come he gets to do it when we never did?” Grandpa faced them head on and spoke in an even tone. “Nope, you didn’t. I didn’t much feel like hearing you two arguing over which one was gonna do the climbing and cutting, so when we went tree-hunting, I had y’all cut a young fir, one that was close enough to the ground so you two could take turns with the saw.” “Well,” I piped up, “if they want to...” “No, Mike.” Grandpa’s tone was firm, a sure sign that his patience was wearing thin. “I’ve seen you climbing trees, hundreds of them, all summer long. This is no different, it’s just winter.” He was right, I had climbed an awful lot of trees last summer, but none quite this high. “Yes, sir,” I replied. I’ve got to show my brothers that I’m not afraid, I thought. Grandpa took the bag off the sled and inside was a hatchet, some rope, and a bow saw. He handed me the saw and said, “Remember how I taught you to use a saw?” “Yes, sir, I do.” He reached inside his coat and handed me something wrapped in wax paper. “What’s this, Grandpa?” “That’s beeswax. When you cut the top off, rub that on the stump up there, so the sap won’t come out, and keep it inside your coat to keep it warm.” I unzipped my coat and placed the beeswax inside like I was told. “Why, just look at him, he’s afraid!” said Lenny. “Yeah, he’s all shaky and nervous-like,” said Lanny. “I am not!” I hollered back at them, “It’s just the cold making me shiver!” Grandpa raised his hand, pointing one finger at each of us. “That’s enough, all of you.” That one finger was all it took, especially remembering that there was a whole hand connected to it. We settled down real quick. There was no way of getting out of this one, I had to prove to those two lunkheads that I wasn’t afraid... much. I walked slowly closer to the tree. “Take your time climbing. I wouldn’t want anything happening to you, Cille would never forgive me.” Cille is what my grandpa called my mother, short for Lucille. That sure made me feel better, Grandpa. As I approached the tree, I saw that the branches were drooping down from the weight of the snow, and they were close enough that I could reach without a problem. I reached out to part the branches and just then a deer came bursting out from the side. I tried to run backward and fell flat on my back in the snow. I could hear the hoots of laughter as I found myself looking up at the sky, and then my grandpa shouted, “That’s enough!” I sprang to my feet and kept my back to them because I was madder than a wet hen. It seemed like every time I turned around, somebody was laughing at me. I’ll show ‘em. I gritted my teeth, picked up the saw, hung it back on my shoulder, opened the branches, and started to climb. Dagburn deer. Grandpa once told me that a deer will hide under a tree to stay out of the cold and wind, and that ya ain’t supposed to hunt them when they’re hiding like that, because it’s like cheating. I woulda liked to have shot that one, though. I kept mumbling like that until I heard my Grandpa holler, “Mike! Stop right there!” I looked around and realized I was quite a ways up. I could see for miles up here. Grandpa hollered again. “Start your cut about shoulder height.” “Yes, sir,” I hollered back. Just as I got the saw ready for the first cut, Lenny hollered up to me. “Ya better watch, there might be a family of squirrels up there, just waiting for a big nut like you!” I could see he was right below me, so I stomped down on the branch I was standing on, sending a big clump of snow right down onto his face. See, there is a God. |
| Boy, did I feel dumb, I didn’t know one tree from another. I’d heard them called evergreens, so I thought trees that stayed green all year round were just called evergreens. I didn’t realize they had other names. I knew my grandpa meant no harm, but them dagburn brothers of mine were a different story. That’s all they needed, more ammunition for making fun of me. As we trudged along, I could hear their snickering behind me. I guess Grandpa heard them too, because he said to me, “Ya know, Mike, your brothers fell for the same thing.” “Really?” “Yeah, a few years back. I think they forgot all about it until I came out of the gun room with just one rifle. I’m thinking that’s when they remembered and realized what we were going hunting for today.” I felt a lot better. Grandpa stopped walking and waited for Lenny and Lanny to catch up with us. He paused and looked them each in the eye for a moment, just long enough to make them uncomfortable, wondering if they were in trouble or something. “Things are funnier when you’re not the one being laughed at, ain’t that right boys.” “Yes, sir,” they both replied. And that was it. Grandpa didn’t see the need for long lectures when a look and a few simple words could get his point across. He switched his rifle from one shoulder to the other, then turned and gestured to the landscape before us. “What do you boys see?” My brothers and I exchanged looks that said, What’s he up to now? and after a moment, we answered as best we could. “A pasture.” “Some scattered trees in a pasture.” “The woods behind some scattered trees in a pasture.” Grandpa laughed. “Nope, you don’t see what I’m seeing.” We looked again and we still hadn’t a clue of what he wanted us to see. He gestured again. “Just look at that hillside covered with virgin snow, nary a track on it.” He reached down and grabbed the knapsack off the sled and flung it across one shoulder, then picked up the bag. “Well, I built this sled last Christmas for you boys, why don’t you hop on it and I’ll meet you down the hill. Go on, get on it. Lanny, you in front, then you, Mike, then Lenny. When you’re ready, I’ll push you off.” He didn’t have to ask us twice! We jumped onto the sled, each taking our places. Grandpa put his foot on the back and off we went, flying down that hill. We hit a bump, and just for a heart-stopping second, we were airborne. I could feel myself lifting off the sled only to land hard back down on it, the very next instant. With the wind in our faces, we were hooting and yelling as we raced down that hill. As we reached the bottom, the sled started to turn sideways. The runner on one side began to lift and we all came tumbling off in different directions. We could barely sit upright in the snow, we were laughing so hard. Finally, I stood up and brushed the snow off my clothes. As we retrieved the sled (still laughing), we could see Grandpa still walking down the hill, laughing with us. When he got near enough, Lanny asked him, “If you want, Grandpa, I’ll take the sled back up so you can ride it back down.” “No thanks, Lanny,” he said, “I’m a little too old and I’m not gonna walk back up the hill just to come back down again.” Grandpa placed the knapsack and bag back on the sled and we headed towards the woods. When we got over to the end of the pasture, my brothers slid the sled under the barbed wire fence and climbed through. Grandpa and I, however, walked about another twenty yards and went through the other gate. They met up with us and we headed out deeper into the woods. We kept going this way, then that way, then this way again, until I was totally confused. I had never been so far into the woods before. I’ll admit I was feeling a bit nervous, and I could tell my brothers were feeling it too. Our footsteps quickened to stay closer to Grandpa, and still we kept going. I thought to myself, Why, I seen all kinds of trees that would have been just fine with me. Just then, we heard a loud crack sound followed by a rustling in the bushes. My brothers and I stopped dead in our tracks. My grandpa smiled as he reassured us, “That’s just a tree giving way to the weight of the snow.” We sighed with relief and put our eyes back into our heads. After all, we needed them there to see what might be coming at us. In my vivid imagination, there were creatures behind every tree and at any moment I expected to be faced with a bear, elk, moose, or some other large creature that was probably not even found in those parts. I was so busy on the lookout for large and carnivorous creatures, that I almost ran right into Grandpa when he suddenly stopped. I was comforted to some degree that he wasn’t lifting his rifle to his shoulder, but I still didn’t know why he’d halted so abruptly. In almost a whisper I asked, “What is it, Grandpa?” He turned around, looking down at me as if he was wondering why I was so close. “There’s the tree, boys.” All three of us looked ahead. We looked to the right. We looked to the left. I finally spoke up. “I don’t see any Christmas tree, Grandpa.” “Well,” he drawled, “you just can’t see the tree for the forest.” |
| My brothers were there in the kitchen when we went inside. Grandpa set down his bucket and I made a sound of relief when he finally took the turkey from me. My brothers were both smiling as their eyes followed that big bird. Grandpa placed the turkey on the counter and we both took off our jackets. All three of us watched quietly as he turned the turkey legs up and tied them with string, then tied the wings in a similar manner. He wrapped the bird up in wax paper, followed that with a layer of aluminum foil, and placed the whole bundle into the refrigerator. He wrapped and stored the other meats the same way. As he washed his hands in the sink, Grandpa spoke up and said, “You boys did a mighty fine bit of work today. The air is clean, there’s hardly no wind, and there won’t be no more snowfall until later tonight. I think we’ll go a-hunting.” At hearing those words, my brothers lit up brighter than the north star, just as I had. Grandpa pulled a towel from the drawer handle by the sink and wiped his hands. “Right now, I’m going into the front room and put up my dogs for a spell.” As soon as he was seated, the orders started. “Lenny, you go a check the coffee pot in the parlor, make sure it’s full. Lanny, you go and fetch us some biscuits and beef jerky, and Mike, go get my two thermoses from the pantry and lash on a couple extra cups.” We scattered like mice at a cheese festival. Each of us ran back in with our reports. “Coffee pot is full, Grandpa.” “Biscuits and beef jerky are ready, Grandpa.” “Thermoses and extra cups are ready, Grandpa.” There were more preparations to be done, so the next round of orders were issued. “Now Lenny and Lanny, you two fill up the thermoses and be careful not to burn yourselves. Mike, fetch my knapsack and put the thermoses, biscuits, and beef in it.” We hurried to our tasks. The sooner the preparations were done, the sooner we could be on our way. When I came back to the kitchen, my brothers were still carefully filling the thermoses. Just as I started to place the biscuits into the bag, I heard my Grandpa’s bow strike the fiddle and Grandpa began to sing. Some folks like the summertime when they can walk about Going through the meadows green is pleasant there’s no doubt Just give me the wintertime when the snow is on the ground ‘Cause I found her when the snow was on the ground I traced her little footprints in the snow I found her little footprints in the snow Oh Lord, I’ll bless that happy day that Nelly lost her way ‘Cause I found her when the snow was on the ground. We finished up and brought the knapsack into the front room while Grandpa was still singing the song. We sat down quietly, smiling as we watched that bow fly over the strings. When he finished, he let out a roar of laughter and placed his fiddle and bow next to his chair. “You boys look like you’re ready. I guess I’d better go and get the rest of the gear.” Grandpa got up from his chair and went towards the kitchen. Near the back of the house were two doors. The one on the right was to the pantry, and the one on the left was to what Grandpa called “the gun room.” He kept it locked and he carried the key with him all the time. From where we were sitting in the front room, we couldn’t see him, but we could hear him as he unlocked that door, went in, came out, and locked it again. He came back into the front room carrying his prized possession, a 1907 Remington Rolling Block. This was the only one out of all the guns he had, that he had bought new for himself. Others he had either traded for or bought used. I looked over at my brothers, and they both looked kind of disappointed. For the life of me, I didn’t know why. As for me, I was happy. I didn’t know what was up with them. Grandpa told Lenny to pick up the knapsack. “Let’s get going, boys, times a-wasting.” He asked Lanny if the back door was locked and Lanny assured him that it was. Locking the front door as he followed us out, Grandpa reached over to the pile of hand-carved signs that he had made to hang on a nail beside the door. He hung up a sign that said “I’ll be back when I get here.” Other signs said things like “Gone fishing to let the big one get away,” and “Gone hunting, just missed you, hold still will you?” Grandpa had a great but sometimes interesting sense of humor. He led the way down the front steps and then turned to the left, going around the side of the house. I was a bit confused, thinking There’s four of us and only one rifle? but I kept tagging along. My brothers must’ve been having the same thoughts, because I heard one of them mumble, “I thought we were going real hunting.” I didn’t care what they said. Grandpa said we’re going hunting, then we’re going hunting, because he never said he was going to do something and then not do it. Grandpa went up next to the house and reached down into the snow, pulling up the sled he had made for my brothers and me last Christmas. He shook the snow off the sled, then grabbed the rope that was attached to the front of it and pulled it out further into the yard. I thought to myself, Whatever we’re hunting must be really big, because the sled was eight feet long so my brothers and I could ride on it all together. That’s why we don’t have guns, I thought, our jobs will be to pull the sled back. I looked at my brothers and they still looked like bulldogs baptized in lemon juice. Grandpa told Lenny to put the knapsack onto the sled then pointed out a long, flat bag that was half-hidden by the snow. “Lanny, fetch that bag and put it on the sled, too.” “Alright, we have everything,” Grandpa announced, “let’s head for the woods.” As we reached the fence gate, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I asked Grandpa, “Is what we’re going hunting for really big?” My grandpa stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to look down at me. “What did you just say?” So I repeated myself. “What we’re going hunting for, is it really big?” Grandpa looked over at my brothers who had stopped also, then back at me. “You don’t know, do you?” My brothers started to say something and my Grandpa, “Fiddlin’ Uncle John Douglas” told them to hush, in an authoritative voice. He turned to me, looked me right in the eyes and said, “We’re going to hunt another Douglas.” I nearly lost my breath. I couldn’t believe what my ears were telling me. Grandpa had intention to go hunting for one of our kinfolk! “What?” My throat was dry as I asked in a panic, “Who?” My grandpa and my brothers busted out laughing. “No, no, Mike,” Grandpa said, “we’re going hunting for a Douglas fir, one that’ll make us a fine Christmas tree.” |
| About fifty feet away from my grandfather’s house was a small building. He’d built it himself, about twenty feet wide, and twenty five feet long. On one side of the building, sticking out about seven feet, was what appeared to be a small tunnel made of stone, about two-and-a-half feet tall and two-and-a-half feet wide. The building itself, made of tongue-and-groove wooden planks, stood off the ground about the same height as the tunnel and was supported by the same type of stonework around all four sides. The single door in the front of the building was made of tightly-fitted planks with a small staircase and landing, sheltered by an overhang that was supported on both sides with four-by-fours. The roof was made of the same corrugated metal as the barn roof, but was covered over with multiple layers of roll roofing. There were no windows in the building at all. Grandpa, still carrying the bucket of hot coals, went first to the stone tunnel. Leaning against the stonework was an iron rod he’d fashioned himself, into a shape that resembled a shepherd’s crook. He knelt down and opened a small door at the end of the tunnel, reached in with that iron rod, hooked the handle of a large iron pot, and dragged it out into the open. The coals in the pot were still smoking a bit. I watched as he started poking around the charred remains with the iron rod until we could both see a red glow. Grandpa then picked up the bucket he’d brought and dumped those hot coals on top. There were two small galvanized metal trash cans by the side of the building and he asked me to hand him some hickory chips out of one of them, and some pine needles out of the other. He added a few handfuls of snow, explaining to me that the moisture would ensure that the chips and needles would smolder instead of burning up. Using the iron rod, he pushed the pot back into the tunnel and then closed the small door. Though he was in his seventies, he was lithe and limber for his age. He got up off his knees with no trouble at all and walked around to the front of the building. Knocking the snow off the steps with his boot, my grandpa climbed to the landing and unlatched the door. Inside the building, the smell of hickory filled the air. It wasn’t a dense smoke like you might think, no, more like a light fog. The floor was constructed with spaces between the boards to allow the smoke to enter the building. Hanging from the ceiling were all types of meat: pork, beef, and poultry. There was a table to the right with an array of meat-cutting utensils, all kept razor sharp. Grandpa pulled out his pocket knife and reached up and sliced a piece off of a nearby ham. He tasted it, then handed me a piece to try. His eyebrows lifted in a silent question, so I said, “It tastes just right.” He chuckled and said, “Tastes fine to me too.” He lifted the ham off the hook, took it over to the table, and began to cut it into smaller portions. When he finished that, he chose and cut a slab of bacon, too. I am of the opinion that one can never have enough bacon.  Grandpa placed an old flour sack inside the coal bucket. As he was putting the cut up meat into the sack, he told me to go and pick a bird for Christmas dinner. My folks would be coming to Grandpa’s on Christmas morning, and would take us home that night, but we’d all be eating dinner together, so I knew I needed to find a pretty big bird. I went over to the side where he kept the birds. There were turkeys, ducks, pheasants, quail, and geese. I remembered that he had told me he put the fresher kills towards the back, so I looked for a bird in the front because it would have been in the smokehouse longer. And there it was. It was a beauty, light golden brown in color, and at least a twenty pounder. I hollered over to Grandpa, “I found it!” He turned around to see me pointing up at a turkey that was hanging above my head, well out of my reach. Walking toward me and smiling, he said, “Good choice. That tom will be joining us for Christmas dinner.” He reached up, lifted the turkey off the hook and to my surprise, he handed it to me. “You picked it out, you can carry it.” Carrying it wasn’t that easy. It was all I could do, to hold it up high enough so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. As we walked back to the house, my Grandpa paused for a moment, reached into his overalls and pulled out his pocket watch. Sounding a little surprised, he said, “Why, it’s just a quarter past two.” He looked up at the sky and sniffed the air, then looked at me, smiled, and said, “It’s a good day.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was still holding that big turkey, so I didn’t ask. As we came up the stairs to the porch, my grandpa set down his bucket and reached for the broom. I stood there, kinda dumbfounded, as I couldn’t exactly put that turkey down on the porch floor. Grandpa stomped his feet and told me to stomp mine. I noticed that Grandpa stomped his feet pretty hard, I think it was to let Lenny and Lanny know that we were about to come in. While I stood there, my biceps straining, still holding the turkey, Grandpa broomed his feet and broomed mine for me, then paused again, sniffing the air. Now I had to ask. “Why are you doing that, Grandpa?” He just smiled and said, “Today will be a good day for a hunt.” |
| Once back inside the house, we had a few more chores to do, such as putting another log on the fireplace, feeding the potbelly stove a few more lumps of coal, and washing up the dishes from the morning. Then started the preparations for lunch. We set the table while grandpa set a big pot of water on the stove to boil and got out the roasting ears. Oh, that’s right, some folks refer to roasting ears as “corn on the cob.” My brothers and I shucked and washed twelve ears of corn, enough so that each of us could have three. What we didn’t eat at lunchtime, we’d save for supper. For lunch, along with the corn (and other vegetables from my grandfather’s garden), we were going to have sandwiches made with the leftover ham from breakfast. When the corn was ready for the pot, Grandpa would put a little sugar in the water “to sweeten the cob,” as he put it, and fresh homemade butter was put in a pan to melt for dipping the corn in. Right before the meal, the buttery ears were placed on a rack with aluminum foil under them to catch the drippings. Dang, now my gut’s a-growling. When everything was ready, we took our places at the table. Grandpa said grace and we commenced to doing some serious eating. There were a few rules to eating at Grandpa’s house. Don’t put your elbows on the table. Always ask to pass a plate or bowl. Never reach over another person’s plate. And last, but not least, eat as much as you want, but eat whatever you put on your plate. For dessert, my grandpa surprised us with blackberry cobbler that he’d picked up from Dot’s, a cozy diner across the way in Russell. Dot made some of the best homemade pie and cobblers in the region. Served with a scoop of ice cream, Dot’s blackberry cobbler was surely a slice of heaven. Man, this growling’s getting bad. Even the cat’s looking at me funny. After all was said and done (and a few belt notches looser), Grandpa laughed and said to me, “Boy, you got a hollow leg.” I smiled back. Yep, I can put away the food. “That was sure good eats, Grandpa.” My brothers chimed in, “Sure was, Grandpa.” “Well,” Grandpa stood and stretched, “I need to go and fetch some meat from the smokehouse.” He looked down at me. “Ya wanna go with me?” “Yes, sir!” I jumped up from my seat and ran over to retrieve my jacket and hat where they were hanging on hooks by the back door. As I pulled my jacket on, I glanced over at my brothers, and as expected, they were giving me the evil eye. I could tell they would have whopped me a good one if they could. “You boys,” Grandpa said to Lenny and Lanny, “clean up and make sure you separate what the pigs can eat. Oh, and save the ham bones for Bowl.” I kept my back to them so they couldn’t see that I was about to bust a gut. I knew that as soon as Grandpa and I would step out that door, my brothers would start saying stuff like, “He’s always getting out of work ‘cause he’s younger,” and “Grandpa likes him more,” and stuff like that. I knew the real reason Grandpa gave them work to do was because, as Grandpa said it, “Idle hands is the devil’s work,” and guaranteed, if those two boys’ hands were idle, the devil would be working overtime. I followed Grandpa into the parlor and watched as he got an empty coal bucket, placed it on the floor in front of the potbelly stove, and opened the stove door. He reached in with a small coal shovel and started pulling out bright hot pieces of coal and put them into the bucket. When it was almost full, he slammed the oven door shut, grabbed the bucket by the handle, and led the way out through the kitchen and out the back door. I was excited to be going to the smokehouse with my grandpa. The building itself had always fascinated me. |
| Okay, perhaps I better clear this up before I get flack. Yep, we went coon-huntin’. I know, I know, those cute little furry bandit-masked raccoon varmints. You, like, hunted them? Well, I know on TV and in books, they’re so cute, when the fact of the matter is, you never want to get a-hold of one or let it get a-hold of you. But that wasn’t the reason we hunted them. Ya see, if you had a farm, those coons would get into your cornfield at night, climb up a stalk of corn, and tear it down. What’s so bad about that? Hush, now, don’t go saying nothing until ya hear the rest. They’d only take one ear of corn from a stalk they’d ruined, then they’d go on over to another stalk and do it again. So if you had enough of those varmints in there, you lost a lot of your crop in just one night. See, that’s the reason why we hunted them, and that’s why my grandfather had Bowl. Now that I have that cleared up, can I go back to my story now?  The chicken coop was about ten feet from the barn’s left rear corner. By the time my grandpa and I would return to the barn, the dung brothers were finishing up and cleaning off the tools of their trade and putting them back where they belonged. Grandpa told me to go on up to the loft and pitch down more hay. From the floor down below up to the peak of the barn ceiling was about thirty feet. Up in the loft there were stacks of hay bales and more hay scattered around to provide extra insulation. I eagerly climbed the ladder, looking up to see whether there was a barn owl on one of the beams. Some years, an owl would make a nest up there, a welcome visitor because they were good to have around to keep the mice or other rodent populations down. There were two sets of doors up there, one in the front and one in the back (kinda like input/output: in the front, out the back when needed). The latch on the door consisted of a two-by-four cradled in handmade wooden hooks. There were ropes on the inside of the doors, which were attached loosely to the frame so when the doors were open, a person could pull on the ropes to shut them. Now there was a reason why Grandpa sent me to pitch the hay down. From experience he knew if he sent one of my brothers up there, there’d be more hay flying around the top of the barn than coming down where it was needed. Funny thing I can tell you about pitching hay is, the stuff defies the laws of gravity. No matter how careful you are, you’re bound to come out looking like a scarecrow. I found the pitchfork sticking out of a pile of hay, so I started tossing the hay down through the opening in the floor. After a time, Grandpa hollered up saying, “That’s enough!” I stabbed the pitchfork back into the stack and commenced to trying to brush the hay off my clothes and peeling what I could find out of my hair. By the time I climbed down the ladder, my brothers and grandpa had already moved all the hay to where it belonged. As I was standing there, still knocking the last of the hay off of me, my grandfather pulled his pocket watch from the pocket of his overalls and said, “Between the four of us, we’re done in record time. It’s only a quarter ‘til eleven.” I was just grinning from ear to ear, proud to have helped my grandpa set a record of some sort, I and could tell my brothers were relieved to be done. I made sure that Bowl had fresh hay to lay on and petted him and pulled his jowls one last time before we left the barn. We put our jackets back on and Grandpa shut down most of the lights, but left a few on so it wasn’t totally dark. We stepped back outside into the cold, kicking some of the snow away from the doorway, and with me trailing again in his footsteps, Grandpa and I made our way back toward the house, leaving Lenny and Lanny to make sure the barn door was shut and latched. We enjoyed the quiet broken only by our crunching footsteps in the snow, for maybe about thirty seconds, when my brothers emerged from the barn and the ruckus behind us started up again. I grinned as once again I saw my grandfather start shaking his head back and forth. Up ahead near the porch steps, I could see the imprints in the snow from my brothers’ morning follies. We climbed the four steps (visible now after being swept off) and I fetched the broom so we could all remove the snow that clung to our boots. Inside the back door, we wiped our feet on the throw rug that was there. Once inside, I paused to take a deep breath, drawing in the warmth and the gentle scent of the cedar that covered the walls combined with the cooking smells leftover from breakfast. To this day, there is little that compares to that particular combination of smells. |
| When Grandpa opened the door, a gust of cold almost took my breath away. Grandpa and I paused on the porch to take in the view, but not my brothers, they just had to go out there and mess up perfection. Off the porch they went, but didn’t get far. It’s funny how a body can go different directions, legs one way, arms another, as they went flopping and flailing off the porch step and down into the snow. My grandpa shook his head as he reached for the broom that was standing up against the wall. “Them two are a-gonna have a rough road ahead.” See, they didn’t realize that the step they could see wasn’t the first step from the bottom, it was the second step that the snow was up even with. As for the broom, it served two purposes: one, to sweep off the steps (you can count them better that way), and two, to sweep your boots off before going back into the house. Of course, the arguing between my brothers started, one pushing the other until my grandpa hollered, “Hush!’ and then said softly to me, “Let’s get going.” I followed my grandpa off of the porch as we headed toward the barn, stepping in his footprints to make it a bit easier on me, since I wasn’t quite as tall. We left Cain and Abel there to get the snow out of their collars (and from other places inside their clothes). I could hear them coming, flinging snow and pushing one another. I knew Grandpa did too; I could see his head shaking from side to side as we kept on walking. Those boys knew better than to try and bean me with a snowball, ‘cause I could move quick enough. They might hit Grandpa by mistake and probably wouldn’t be found until the thaw of spring. Grandpa had a simple rule: get your work done, then you could have all the fun you wanted. My grandpa’s barn was painted in the traditional colors of red and white, and the roof was made of corrigated metal. We entered through a smaller door which was next to the two big ones (that during the winter he only opened if he had to). As we went in, he started turning on the lights instead of turning up the lanterns. As the lights came on, it was like a whole ‘nother world was being illuminated. To the right was his tractor and various gardening equipment. Behind that, further into the barn, were the stalls where his animals were kept. The very back part of the barn was his workshop and forge area, where the now-forgotten and almost-lost art of handmaking things like buckets, barrels, and furniture were accomplished. Now in the middle of the right side was a special stall that should have had a plaque with my brothers’ names on it. No animal was placed in there, but in the back of the stall was a small trap door, on the other side of which was a chute. Yep, I won’t even write here what it was referred to as, but I’ll give you a hint: it started with the letter “s” and ended with “chute.” And you all thought CC, Tor, and PlannerDan could fling the dung, , well, I’ll tell ya, my brothers had it down pat, or patty, however you want to look at it. When my brothers would come in, they would realize without even being told, to get the wheelbarrow and their shovels. They would take off their jackets and hang them up, knowing that they were gonna work up a sweat. My grandpa, seeing them settin’ to work, tossed me a grin, and I knew he was thinking like I was, They ain’t gonna be bored for a while. Grandpa would go and milk the cow, and my job was to feed and groom the animals. After I got done, extra time allowed for me to pet them and talk to them. They never answered me back, but they looked like they knew what I was saying. I went on over to where Grandpa was and offered help. He was pouring the last bucket of milk into the large copper milk can, and I knew what came next. With me trailing right behind him, he headed over to the chicken coop to retrieve eggs from the hens. Ya had to watch the old rooster he had, he was a gamy bugger and didn’t like his territory messed with. But all it would take was for my grandpa to point a finger at him and remind him that he could end up on a plate, and the old rooster would settle down and just watch us. Also out in the barn was Bowl. Bowl was my Grandpa’s dog, an old saggy-faced bloodhound that preferred to stay in the barn. He didn’t much care for staying at the house, he liked being around the other animals and he was a good protector, wouldn’t let nothing harm them. I used to pet him and tug on those droopy jaws and get a kick out of his little pointy tail wagging ‘til his whole rear end would shake with it. He got his name, Bowl, because that was how he sounded when he barked, “Bowwl! Bowwl!” It was something to watch when my grandpa would let him loose. Bowl would take off for the woods and you could hear him bark and bark as he treed a coon, for that’s what he really was, my Grandpa’s coondog. |
| In the morning, I was the first one up, or that’s what I thought. As I stepped out into the parlor, I could smell breakfast cooking. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get up before Grandpa would. I went carefully back into the bedroom and made my bed as quietly as I could so I wouldn’t wake the others. This meant I had Grandpa all to myself, even if for just a little while. I brought my clothes out and set them on a chair in the parlor. Still in my pajamas, I headed for the kitchen. As I came through the door, I could see my grandpa using a fork, moving a piece of ham around in an old cast iron skillet. “Good morning, Grandpa,” I said. He chuckled and answered back, “Good morning, young man. You’re always the first up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like you were gonna miss something if you didn’t.” “Yes, sir,” I replied. He just chuckled, not even looking my way, and said, “Well go on, look out the back door window and tell me what you see.” I scurried over to the back door and peered out. The lighting was perfect, between the sun coming up and the moon going down. I gazed out at what had been green pastures last time I was here and saw that they were now covered with a blanket of pure white snow, clean and smooth. Remembering something my grandpa had said the night before, I quickly looked over at the barbed wire fence. There appeared to be about four inches of snow on top and about six inches of snow on the post tops. Even to this day, I don’t understood quite how snow could build upon that puny wire, but it does at times. I turned to my Grandpa and said, “Wow, there must be another half a foot of snow from last night.” “Yes,” he said as he turned and placed the cooked ham on a plate in the center of the table. “You like the snow, don’t you?” “Yes sir,” I replied, “there’s something about it, makes things look different. Cleaner.” Again he chuckled and said, “There’s a reason for it, whether it’s deep or not, there’s always a reason.” He always said that, no matter what the weather. If there was a drought, he’d say there was a reason for it, if it rained heavy, he’d say there was a reason for it. Instead of complaining like most people might, he just accepted that the elements were a part of nature and God knew what he was doing. “Now you go and get yourself cleaned up and ready for breakfast.” “Yes sir.” I left the kitchen, got my clothes from the parlor, and headed for the bathroom. I hurried up and got myself ready and came back as quick as I could. I found Grandpa sitting down at the table with his hand around his coffee cup. When he saw me, he smiled and said, “Well, it seems like them brothers of yours need a little persuading getting up.” He got up from the table and walked into the parlor area and I could hear him from the kitchen as his usual calm voice changed into a gruff voice of authority. “Git outta that bed, you got folks waitin on you,” he barked. Almost instantly, I could hear the thumping and mumbling start. Grandpa came back with a stern look that changed to a grin when he looked at me. He was just sitting back down at the table when in walked Lenny and Lanny with cowlicks all over their heads, wiping their eyes and staggering like they had been drinking from a jug of shine. Grandpa put his hand up by his cheek in order to block his grin from their view and waited. They each managed a mumbling slur of “Good morning, Grandpa.” He answered them back with a morning greeting followed by “Go and get yourself ready to eat.” As they headed out to get ready, Grandpa spoke up again and said, “No pushing or shoving to see who gets there first, ya hear?” He paused for a moment and barked out, “Ya hear me?” They replied, “Yes, sir” and their mumbling voices trailed off to the bathroom. Boy, does he know them or what? I thought. They finally came back, looking almost human-like, and took their place at the table. Grandpa always said grace and kept it simple: “Thank you for bringing us together and in health. Thank you for what we have and making a way for us to have it. Amen.” I couldn’t hardly wait to dig in, there was ham and sausage right from his smokehouse, and eggs, well I think you know where they come out of, and a big pile of flap jacks. Boy, now that’s eating. After we were finished with the meal, he told Mutt and Jeff to go make their beds and “Don’t mess up your brother’s neither.” When they came back, we got dressed to face the cold, and out to the barn we headed. |
| My grandfather had stories and old sayings that became a part of my life. When I was around him, I was always the listener. I had two brothers that were twins, well, only in looks, that is. They were the exact opposite of one another. Grandpa used to refer to them as Cain and Abel (cause he’d wonder which one was going to kill the other). Their real names were Lenny and Lanny. Unlike me, they didn’t care much about anything except arguing, hating what the other liked, or picking on me because they were five years older. But not around Grandpa, he had raised eleven kids; these two were no match for him. The year I was twelve, I couldn’t wait for school to let out for Christmas vacation. My brothers and I were going to spend part of our vacation at Grandpa’s. I was excited that I’d get to spend time with Grandpa, even though the original Dumb & Dumber were going to be there. My parents drove us over to my grandpa’s house, the three of us boys in the back seat. It annoyed me that I always had to wait until one or the other brother got out of the car, because I always got stuck in the middle to keep them separated. Grandpa came out to greet us with a warm smile. We went inside his house and there was a fire in the fireplace and next to that was his chair. He kept a combination woodbox/bench across from where he sat, and that was where I liked to sit, to listen and watch him as he told his stories. As for my brothers, one of them sat on the couch, the other sat on a chair, never together unless forced to. Above the fireplace was a mantle with pictures and whatnots, some of them handmade. Above that mantle hung a Kentucky long rifle that had belonged to his dad. To me, being in that room was heaven on earth. He would tell us stories and sometimes he would use his fiddle for special effects, like a train just starting to turn its wheels or the lonesome sound of its whistle blow, or a car screech, or a dog bark. I was so amazed how he could make that fiddle talk those parts. My brothers on the other hand, were bored. I would have beat the tar out of both of them if I could, for showing disrespect to my grandfather. But I knew my grandpa would help them to get over being bored the next morning. See, there was a foot of snow on the ground, which meant all the livestock was in the barn. Let me just say it wouldn’t be snow they’d be shoveling. My grandfather would ensure that my brothers wouldn’t be bored for long. When we stayed at Grandpa’s house, he’d give us milk and cookies, even coffee if we liked. Sometimes we would make snow cream (ice cream from the snow). He only had two things to read, the newspaper and the bible; that was enough for him. He had a TV, but only watched it for weather, nothing else; a radio that was turned on only for listening to baseball games; and a phone that was only used if it had to be, other than that it just hung on the wall. Those things didn’t mean much to him. What did matter was taking care of his animals, his garden, and folks who needed his help. He’d say, “When you stop living for yourself and start living for others, you become an adult. For childhood ends with egotism, maturity begins when one lives for others.” I rewrote what my grandfather said and turned it in for a junior high reading class. My teacher was very impressed. My grandfather never got credit, nor did I, but I heard she did. Ah, well, back to the story. That first night at his house, we went off to bed early cause we had a full day ahead of us. The bedroom we slept in was off to the side of the parlor. He would leave the doors open so the heat from the potbelly stove that stood in the middle of the large parlor would keep us warm (that and the handmade quilts). As I lay in the bed, I could see the warm red glow of the stove after the lights went out. For some reason it would put me to sleep. Maybe it was the thought of its warmth. All I know is, I felt an ease and comfort just watching it. And yes, he finally had indoor plumbing put in, which was a comfort too, considering that foot of snow that was already on the ground – and more to come. |
| When I was ten or eleven years old, after reading a book about Casey Jones (the famous railroad engineer of the Cannonball, who was known as the man who always brought the train in on time), I couldn’t wait to ask my Uncle Clyde about him. Uncle Clyde was an engineer for the C&O Railroad and during World War I, he even drove trains wearing an Army uniform. I figured if anybody would know about Casey, it would be him. Finally the day came when we went over for a visit. When we got there, he already had company. There was Whitie Sword, his fireman from the train, and his wife, and Bill Moore, another Engineer. Also, my Uncle Shep was there, he was a machinist with the railroad. Boy, was I excited, I couldn’t hardly wait to ask them my question. We had a fine dinner and then afterward, as always, the men would go in the parlor to talk. Being a kid was hard because I wasn’t allowed to speak until I was spoken to. I thought I was going to burst, but I held my tongue and waited. Finally, my Uncle Shep turned to me and asked how I was doing in school. Uncle Shep reminded me of the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, and looked a lot like him, too. Not that he was brainless , he was just happy, smiling all the time, and loved a good joke or two.That question from him was all I needed, I had my chance. “School is good, I found a book about one engineer by the name of Casey Jones.” Man, you could have heard a pin drop in that room. I mean, I felt like a penny waiting for its change, with the looks I got from that group. My Uncle Shep spoke up to relieve the sudden tension. “Tell us what you read and let’s see what we can tell you,” he said. So I proceeded to tell them what I’d read in the book. I said, “They said he was hours behind schedule and—“ My Uncle Clyde butted in real quick and stated, “No he wasn’t. His departure time was 11:15, and he left at 12:50, so that’s only one hour and thirty-five minutes. That ain’t hours like they’re saying.” Now my Uncle Clyde was one for keeping time and schedules. He always wore a pocket watch and checked it constantly. He’d even look to see if the news came on when it was scheduled to. Then Mr. Moore spoke up. “Yeah, that’s what the schedule book said, some say he left even earlier than that. Why, they don’t even know for sure why he was on that train, it wasn’t his to begin with.” Well, they started talking back and forth and I was doing everything I could to keep up. Mr. Sword spoke up and said that back when he started working the railroad as a muleskinner, he had met Casey in person. (Now in case you were thinking it, a muleskinner doesn’t kill mules and skin them. A muleskinner’s job was to ride the lead mule of a team of anywhere from ten to twenty mules, that pulled the wagon carrying the crossties and other equipment they needed to build the railroad.) Mr. Sword went on to say, “Even then, Casey Jones seemed to be too big for his britches.” My Uncle Clyde piped up, “He should have paid attention to his flag man and slowed her down!” And so it went on, each of the men adding their own take on the story. If I learned one thing that day, it was not to believe everything you read. I finally lost track and couldn’t quite keep up with the can of worms I’d opened. My Uncle Shep must have been able to tell because every now and then he’d look over at me and smile and wink. When it was time to head home, one thing I was taught by my parents to do was to shake everyone’s hand and thank them. When I shook my Uncle Shep’s hand, he leaned down and told me, “If you’d like, I’ll come by in the morning and take you over to the roundhouse.” (The roundhouse is where train engines are brought in, it works like a large turntable to switch tracks, send an engine to the barn for repairs, or just to turn an engine around.) The next morning, he showed up at my house, and sure enough, we went on over to the roundhouse. There were a lot of men there, working, and they all greeted me with a smile. Some pulled off one split leather workglove to shake my hand, some just tipped their hats as I waved. I had a lot of questions for Uncle Shep and he did his best to answer them all. At one point he took me to his workbench where he was a machinist. Up above the bench were pictures on the wall. He pulled down one of the pictures and handed it to me. He explained that the train in the picture, though it wasn’t the Cannonball, it was one of the trains Casey Jones had been the engineer of. This particular engine exploded, tearing the smokestack and lantern clear off, and half the boiler. In the picture, my Uncle Clyde was standing next to the engine and my Uncle Shep was sitting up on the front of it. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This next picture gives you an idea of how massive this train was. (Look how small my uncles look!): ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** And this is my Uncle Shep. He does look a bit like Ray Bolger, huh? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Every year, the hillfolk would get together and have a hoedown. On a Friday, the men would start building a platform and drag out hay bales, chairs, whatever they could find. A lot of folks brought blankets, women would even bring their quilting stuff. There were all kinds of games and contests, from hatchet-throwing to long-rifle shoots (Kentucky Black Powder Long Rifle or sometimes called a “punkin-ball” rifle after the lead ball it shot). The best part of it was, for me anyhow, the bluegrass music. My grandfather was known as “Fiddlin’ Uncle John Douglas.” My Uncle Hayes (aka CatHorse) flat-picked the gitfiddle (guitar), and Uncle Harold (aka RainCrow) played the 5-string banjo. Other local musicians included Bigfoot Keton (never knew his real first name) on the fiddle and Peggy Callihan on the slap bass. Mr. Callihan’s nickname was Peggy because he worked in the railyard and had gotten his feet caught between the tracks then whey were switching them, and a train took off his legs. He had two peg legs, so that’s why they called him Peggy. Never knew his first name either. My Uncle Clayt (short for Clayton) with this three boys, Skeeter (or Skeet), Les (I guess short for Lester), and Cotton would all come for the hoedown. I don’t know any of their real names still to this day. Most years Bill Monroe and (some of) his Bluegrass Boys would come. (Bill Monroe, known as “The Father of Bluegrass,” was a regular at the Grand Ole Opry for years.) Sometimes Tom T. Hall would stop by for a spell, he lived over on Olive Hill. (Tom T. Hall is known as “Nashville’s Storyteller.”) Anybody could join in whether they played an instrument or blew on a jug or strum thimbles on a washboard. No electric instruments were allowed, wouldn’t have helped if anyone did bring it, there wasn’t any electricity anyway. After dark there’d be a cookfire and they’d hang lanterns for light. I can still hear my Grandpa singing “Blue Moon of Kentucky” (one of Bill Monroe’s most famous hits), slow and easy at first and then he’d holler “Let ‘er go, boys!” and they would play so fast and sing with the tune, you thought their instruments would catch fire. It still brings a chill when I think of this and I still bring out my bluegrass music and listen to it from time to time. For sure, Cec was there. The jugs would start passing, no charge (they’d pay for it the next day if they had too much, only in a different way). Of course the womenfolk would be there to remind the men what fools they had been and to provide plenty of homecooking. This would all start at daybreak Saturday morning and wouldn’t stop until the wee hours of Sunday morning. Mostly just the women would make it to church that day and say an extra prayer or two for their husbands who couldn’t be roused. Some of the survivors would come back and help put stuff away and clean up from the night before. We would save all the jugs and jars and give them back to Cec (kinda like returnable bottles). It sure was a high old time we had. Things are not like that these days, and it’s a shame we have lost it. The people who live behind me have lived there for years, raised up their children and all, and I don’t even know their names. They put up a big wooden fence, to keep it that way I guess. Before they did, I tried to speak to them and they would just turn and go back into their house. That’s not the way I was raised, all somebody had to do was ask and neighbors would help or when people saw each other, they’d stop and talk. That’s just the way it was in the hills, if you needed help fixing your barn or even if you needed a whole barn built, the neighbors would hold a barnraising and would chip in the best they could. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This is my Grandpa, "Fiddlin' Uncle John Douglas." |
| The feud between Sheriff Howell and Cec went on for years, then finally came to an end. Sheriff Howell retired and Cec kept on making his whiskey, but the new sheriff was too busy making a name for himself and didn’t want to waste time on the shiners. One day, a car pulled up at Cec’s house, and a man got out. Cec didn’t recognize him at first, but it was Sheriff Howell – no uniform, no cruiser, no longer Sheriff. They said their howdy’s and the ex-Sheriff came upon the porch and pulled up a chair. Now Cec still called him “Sheriff,” but others got used to calling him “Mister Howell,” a name he hadn’t answered to for over twenty-five years. When I was thirteen or fourteen, Cec told me the story of what happened on the porch that day. Mr. Howell reached over, got a stick out of the box that Cec kept on the porch, and reached into his pocket for his knife. Looking up at Cec and then back down at his stick, he realized that Cec wasn’t gonna start the conversation – just like a thousand times before. Finally, he broke the ice. “Cec, you know I’ve been retired for a while.” “Yes, Sheriff, I know.” “Dang it, Cec, I ain’t Sheriff no more!” Mr. Howell snapped back. Cec still had a way of getting under his skin. “Yep, I know it ain’t your title anymore.” Mr. Howell knew that Cec didn’t trust him, and was frustrated, trying to think how to put into words what he wanted to say. There was a long pause, and then Mr. Howell began to speak. “For years I knew you were behind making and selling the whiskey around these parts, and if I could, I would have done my job.” Cec spoke up, “Yes sir, I know that but—“ Mr. Howell cut him off. “Now don’t start that again, that ‘I don’t know nothing’ stuff, trying to be innocent and all. Now I’m asking you where and how you hid it, as man to man. I give you my word it will go no further than this front porch.” Cec eyed him over. Seeing it bothered the man so much, he reached out with his hand. Ex-Sheriff Howell reached out with his and they shook. Cec said he could feel and see the defeat in the old sheriff. See, that’s all it took, was for a man to give his word and a handshake. That was the real law of the land, the law that no one ever broke. Cec leaned back in his chair, as did Mr. Howell, and then Cec busted out laughing. He was a-laughing so hard, his eyes were tearing. Mr. Howell didn’t find the laughter amusing at his own expense. “You making fun of me, Cec?” he barked. Cec, wiping the tears from his eyes, gained enough composure to say, “No sir, I”m not,” then thought better of it and said, “Well, yeah, sorta,” and started laughing again. Mr. Howell’s face was stern, waiting for Cec to try and catch his breath and wipe the tears away. Finally Cec calmed down and apologized. “It just hit me all at once, all the years, all those years you and your boys tried to prove something and couldn’t, me sitting here on this very front porch with you poking around, me trying my best to keep a straight face. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.” “Well, are you gonna tell me or not, dang it?” “Sure, sure, give me some time, ya waited this long, haven’t ya?” Cec looked down at the box where the whittling sticks are kept, and then back up at Mr. Howell. Misinterpreting why Cec was looking at the box, Mr. Howell said, “You’re pulling my leg, right?” Cec laughed, “Yep, it ain’t that close.” He looked out into the yard then and smiled. “You fellows must have passed it a thousand times a thousand.” “What are you talking about?” Mr. Howell followed Cec’s gaze and looked out into the yard. He didn’t see anything different than he’d ever seen before: a couple big oak trees, a few homemade decorative wood whirlygigs, a dirt driveway that arced around the remains of an old pickup truck which was overgrown with weeds, and an expanse of tractor-mown grass between the house, the woodshed, and the barn. Cec said, “Yep, there it is, my first pickup truck.” Mr. Howell’s jaw dropped as Cec got up to show him. “There ain’t nothing in that old truck or in the back of it, but weeds.” They walked the forty feet from the porch to the old truck, and Cec poked at it with one of his canes. “Go ahead and open the hood.” See, it wasn’t uncommon to see an old vehicle up in a yard if it broke down beyond repair. You sold what you could off of it, bought yourself another one, and just made a new road around the old one. And that’s what Cec did. He did, however, make a few changes to his old one. Ex-Sheriff Howell approached the hood – from the outside he would have sworn it would be rusted shut, but it moved pretty easy thanks to the nicely oiled hinges on the inside. And there it was, right where the motor should be... a hand-operated well pump. Cec told him, “Look where you put the gas in,” and there he found a pipe that disappeared below the ground. The old Sheriff just smiled and asked, “How big is your tank?” Cec replied, “Oh, somewhere about two thousand gallons.” What he didn’t tell him was that it was one of those big tanks off a milk truck. It had broken down on a nearby dairy farm, and so Cec’s boys had buried it in the ground. Mr. Howell shut the hood, shaking his head, and started laughing. Now it was his turn to wipe the tears from his eyes. As he did, he told Cec, “I’ve sampled sips of your shine, and could even tell when it was yours. I’d like to have a real drink of it, if you would be so kind as to share some with this old Sheriff.” The two men went back upon the porch, sat back down, and Cec reached over to his wood box, dug down under the sticks, and pulled out a jug of moonshine. The two adversaries looked at each other and began to laugh. They laughed on into the night, drinking and sharing stories from each other’s point of view. Ex-Sheriff Howell was a man of his word. He never told to anyone where Cec kept his shine. |
| TV gets folks confused, so I thought I’d clear this up: a bootlegger is a person that sells illegal whiskey and a moonshiner is a person who makes the whiskey illegally. And depending on where you’re at, moonshine has many names. Here’s a few: corn liquor, white lightning, sugar whiskey, skullcracker, popskull, bush whiskey, stump, stumphole, ‘splo, ruckus juice, catdaddy, mulekick, hillbilly pop, panther’s breath, blue john, wildcat, and my favorite... sweet spirits of cats-a-fighting. You also had to be careful when you were out in the woods, just in case somebody was a-making it. I’ve even stumbled on a few. I’d hear somebody call down at me, “Where ya goin’, boy?” I knew I’d better answer them back quick-like for I knew there was a rifle-bead on me. “The fence broke down, I’m looking for strays,” I’d say. Then the voice would answer back, “None up here, no need to look. We’ll send ‘em back if they do.” I’d go back the same way I came, stepping easy-like. These entrepreneurs had to have a safe place to store their product. It wouldn’t do to get caught with 500 gallons of shine right after an explosion shook the hills. As for Cec, he would be home sitting on his front porch a-whittling while echoes of his still going up could be heard. Why, there was no way a man with braces on his legs could move so quick, right? Of course, nobody ever thought of looking under the hood of that old truck – he didn’t put his money into the paint job, he put it in the engine, and that Ford could move faster than you’d imagine. Sheriff Howell figured Cec had a tank hidden somewhere on his property. I don’t know how many times they checked his place and went away madder than a wet hen. But Cec was always a good host, even offering the lawmen coffee if they wanted. Sometimes the Sheriff would show up by himself to visit and ask Cec a few things, just to see if he could get him to slip, and to let him know he was watching him. Why, they even whittled together. Sheriff Howell would hint things, like “Did you hear that blast?” And Cec would say, “Yep, I heard it.” The Sheriff would nod. “Another still blew up, sooner or later I’ll find them.” Cec, looking concerned, would ask if anybody was hurt. The Sheriff would eventually get frustrated and leave. You’d think by then he’d figure out that there was just no use because Cec would hold his ground whether it was his still or not. That’s the code amongst shiners. You mind your own business and never say nothing about another man’s whiskey. Now Cec wasn’t like those gangster types you have seen and heard about, he would help anybody out if he could. Down at the corner church (and that’s what it was called, “The Corner Church”), the preacher was a-whaling away on the podium, a-preaching hellfire and damnation, when a jar fell out from behind the pulpit. The preacher never missed a beat, told the congregation how he removed those evil spirits and set the man on the right track. Cec caught wind of that and confirmed to anyone that asked that yes, the preacher-man had removed it from him, alright, in exchange for a dollar. Cec wouldn’t have ever said nothing if the preacher wouldn’t have accused him of something he wasn’t. He wasn’t evil, he was just making a living. Cec was pretty smart for a country boy. He’s the one that made a code. For example, if a man were to ask about the hunting or fishing up at Big Bend, Cec would say, “Yup, the fishing’s good up there.” Then the man would make mention that he needed to stop and get a quart of bait, and Cec would give him specific directions to the best fishing spot, and the man would pay Cec for the information. No liquor was mentioned or exchanged during this transaction, it was just an innocent conversation with a buck or two for the information. Later, though, a quart of shine would be found at that exact location that’d been described. And that’s how people got their shine. But one thing was sure, nobody could figure out where Cec’s supply was kept. Only Cec knew that. |
| As I mentioned before, I had Hillfolk as kin in Kentucky. I’m gonna have to explain a few things to help y’all to understand what that was like. Most of us had nicknames or abbreviated names. If you went and asked where my dad, Glen, was, they wouldn’t have known who you were talking about. Yet if you asked them where Shoodhe (pronounced should-he) was, they could tell you where at that exact moment. Well, this is about my cousin, Cec (Cecil). Cec had polio as a child and ended up wearing leg braces on both legs. “Poor Cec,” some would say, others knew him as one of the finest Shine makers around. You see, in that part of Kentucky it was still dry. If you wanted liquor, you either went to Ohio or you went to find Cec. He drove around in an old ’53 Ford pickup. It was painted (at one time) a primer rust color to match the rust. It had controls on the steering wheel for Cec and nobody else could drive it. In the back, he kept a case of Ball’s mason jars filled with Shine – except for the one he kept between his legs. Medicinal purposes, ya know. The Sheriff couldn’t say nothing if you only had enough for yourself and you weren’t selling it. But we knew the jars in the back were his samples. Everybody liked Cec, even church people would look the other way, figuring he needed the extra income. That was, except for Sheriff Howell, who swore he would catch him with more than he should have, or catch him making one of his famous disposable stills. Now these fellows (Cec and his friends) worked hard to make the Shine. Let me give you a tour of one of their stills. First there’s the location. It has to be near a creek or some other water resource. They’d bring up barrels to soak in the creek so they swelled up nice and tight, and this took about a week. The coil you’ve seen on TV – this is how it was really made: they’d find a tree about eight inches in diameter, take copper pipe, one fellow would hold it at the bottom of the tree, the other fellow starts bending the pipe around it. They’d cut the top off the tree and there they’d have it. They’d save the top and use it for firewood too. The still was made of sheet metal and two-by-fours, with an extra sheet for the bottom so they didn’t burn their two-by-fours. A steam pipe came off the top and went into the first barrel called the thumper barrel. This barrel has a piece of wood inside that stops half way up the barrel and can move up and down inside. The steam comes inside this barrel, lifts this piece of wood, and the weight of the wood pushes it back down and into the next barrel. When the steam gets-a-going, that piece of wood thumps against the top, drops back down and thumps against the bottom. Thump-thump-thump. Guess that’s why they called it the thumper barrel. The next barrel is where the coil tube is, the vapor is transferred into a third (empty) barrel, and this resulting condensation is Moonshine. They let it age for about five minutes or until it cooled down enough to drink or sell. Okay, okay, I’ll give you the ingredients (just in case ccstring wants to try it out ): corn meal, sugar, water, yeast, and malt. After ya mix, ya gotta put it in the still and let it ferment. How quickly depends on how warm your mash is. (I feel like Julia Childs here). Now check yer temp – 170 to 180 degrees. You’re all probably wondering how I know so much about this. Thanks to my Uncle Haze (Cat Horse) and my cousin Cec for inviting me. It’s kinda funny, I know it, seen it, but don’t drink alcohol at all. They made 500 gallons at a time and sold it for 5 dollars a gallon. Remember I said it was a disposable still? After they were done, they’d blow the still up. Sheriff Howell couldn’t stand that sound because it meant no evidence. They had that dynamite so well-timed that they were miles away before she blew. |
| You know, when I first started this, I wasn't sure how people would react. My wife always said, "You need to write some of this stuff down and let people enjoy them as much as I have." I was watching my wife having fun here and she had told me she would like it if we could do this together. Well, I hesitated because I had seen some of the other writing places she had been in, and instead of having a good time, it seemed to me like work. Instead of making you feel positive, they were always telling you your faults. So she gave me a breakdown of this site. Well, with me, seeing is believing, so I started reading everybody's blogs and even deciphering CC's and I read the comments and how you all lift one another up to go on.I was highly impressed, even with the joking that David McClain  , ccstring, and PlannerDan do and yet the professionalism and seriousness you all put into your writings. I felt very welcomed with the wonderful comments that everyone was giving me, I just want to thank them all for taking the time to do so.Tonight when my wife excitedly told me to check my email, I was floored (me? Editor's Pick?). So when I went to the Blogville Weekly News and read it for myself, I said to my wife (pointing at the screen), "That's me! I have never had anyone do anything like this for me before!" (Boy, this is a lot of words for a person who just told his wife, "I don't know what to say," huh.) Well, to put it simple, Thank you, David McClain and thank you everyone.Mike |
| Off we went, hand over hand, girder to girder, resting on the larger ones and increasing the distance between us and the water below. Again, we made it! Through a viewing hole we went, our hearts pounding with excitement, our eyes searching for our deserved reward, and there it was. Ever so delicately placed on the floor of the tunnel was... A Spud wrench. That’s right, a Spud wrench. For those that have never heard of such, a Spud wrench is used to align the holes in girders to insert a rivet or bolt. It has a ring shape on one end and its handle tapers almost to a point. A Spud wrench is heavy and is a little more than 15 inches long. Oh, boy. We had a Spud wrench, yeah. We just sat there, a little disappointed, but did end up using the pointed end of the wrench to write our names, just like “Kilroy was here,” only we wrote “Elwood and Mike was here.” When we finally decided it was time to get out from under that bridge, it suddenly occurred to us that we couldn’t exactly climb up the side, up and over the guard rail. We were directly under the part of the bridge where the toll booth was, and the toll booth operator would see us. We had to go back the same way we came, we had no choice. Elwood headed out of the viewing hole, swinging from the girders, and I was about ready to follow him when I heard a metallic sound to my right. Suddenly, a man’s head popped down and a voice yelled out, “What the hell are you doing in there?” He like to scared the life right out of me! The man barked for me to get over there. When I came closer to the end of the tunnel, I saw that the man had opened a hatch. Until he’d opened it, you couldn’t even tell it was there, not from the inside nor from the outside. Man, that would have made things much easier. To get back up on the top of the bridge, I had to come up between him and the fencing on the side, and he helped me over the top pipe. The man had on a large leather belt with two straps that hooked to the side of the bridge. At least he didn’t have to worry about falling. I didn’t even hear some of what the man was saying to me, all I could think about was that Elwood was still hanging on a girder outside that viewing window. I did hear some of what he was saying, like how stupid I was and was I trying to kill myself. I thought for sure he was going to call the police, but instead he just marched me off the bridge. The one thing that struck me funny (but I didn’t laugh out loud) was when he said, “If I ever catch you on this bridge again, I’ll throw you off myself!” I could have lost my grip at any point and cut this middle man out anyway. After the man went away, I just kept looking to see Elwood. I didn’t hear a splashing sound, so that was a good sign. We had a place where we would meet up if at any time we got separated, so I went directly there to wait. Finally, here came Elwood, laughing at me because I got caught. I was relieved to see he was still alive. I asked how he got off of there and he told me that after hearing that guy yell, he probably out-swung Tarzan back to the first tunnel. He found the hatch, waited a few minutes, then climbed up over the rail and ran back like the Devil was a-chasing him, back to the Kentucky shore. He said he rested for a bit and then just walked back across. Elwood said he had something to show me. I followed him as he retraced his steps a little ways, and there were our fishing poles. He had that sparkle in his eye and a grin on his face, so I looked closer. There with the fishing poles was that dang Spud wrench. |
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