Ghost Story 1 [The Black Sheep]

A great uncle of ours walked a country lane towards home. It was twilight, and the tall trees shaded the road. It must have been late summer or early fall, because the air was cool.  It was very quiet, no bird calls, his footsteps sounded loud, crunching the dirt under his feet.  He felt very alone, and wished he hadn’t stayed out so late. He didn’t relish walking home by the light of the moon.

He heard rattling metal, and heavy footsteps approaching, coming towards him. Being a wise young man, he jumped behind the bushes lining the road, crouched down and hid. You were never quite sure what you might meet at twilight in the hills of Kentucky, and it was always best to be safe.

He peered out from his hiding place and saw three figures walking awkwardly along the lane. They seemed to be having trouble standing, all three leaning forward a bit. He heard them talking, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. The closer the three got, the odder they seemed. Their heads looked misshaped, and their skinny legs and feet too thin to support their bodies.

He peered out more closely, and then he saw they were sheep. All three were as black as night. A rattling chain connected them at the neck, and as they walked they strained against it.  They spoke to one another in low tones, and seemed to be arguing.  Whenever they turned their heads, the chain would rattle, and their heads would jerk.

The middle sheep held a bottle, and every time it tried to take a drink, one of the other sheep would jerk it away. The sheep would baa and moan. The other sheep tried to steal the bottle away, and they would all stumble.  To our uncle’s amazement, they seemed to be drinking rye whisky, a drink he had recently become fond of.

When they came to where he was hiding, he crouched behind the bush and prayed. He smelt the acrid aroma of sulfur. It burned his nose and he suppressed a sneeze. After the rattling of chains passed, he again peered out on the road. He could see the backs of the sheep as they walked and stumbled up the road.  He wondered if he should follow them, or if anyone would believe his story.

Just as he was about to come out, and start on the way home, he heard someone or something else coming up the road. He crouched down once again into his favorite hiding place. He saw a tall man on the road. The man strode at a good pace. He carried a long black whip in his hand, and on his head were long horns.  Even without seeing his red skin, our uncle knew it was the devil.  

The devil walked right by him  and rapidly gained on the sheep. Our uncle heard the whip crack, and the sheep cry out in pain. He sprang out from behind the bush and ran towards home as fast as he could.

Mamaw said that after this, our uncle lost all interest in drinking and was saved the next Sunday at church.

Spike 1

Skippy and Spike

They said he was a bad dog. He had bitten some fellow and was a vicious animal. But, he was just the kind of dog Dad was looking for and he was free. People had been stealing his chickens and tools, and Dad had invested too much money for both to have them disappear.  Spike spent his first few days tied up with a strong chain by the barn. Spike’s job was to protect the barn. We were told to stay away. Mom was very afraid we might be hurt by this aggressive guard dog.

Of course, the first chance we got, all three of us went down to take a look. We thought it would be like seeing a lion at the zoo.  He could snarl and growl at us all he wanted, but we’d be safe and secure, just out of his reach. And besides, we never owned a DOG before.  Even if he was vicious, he was our dog.

At first sight, Spike did not disappoint. He was a muscular brown dog, with a large square head. It was not hard to imagine the size of his teeth.  We approached him cautiously, making sure we didn’t get too close. He crouched on all fours, lying in front of his old dog house. The chain rattled when he looked up to see us. His tail began to wag. It was a very short tail, but a very thick one as well. He had brown eyes and seemed to be smiling. He did not rush at us, but politely walked to the end of his chain. He smiled again, and lowered his head. His tail was wagging furiously.

We waited for him to attack, or snarl, or growl, or, at the very least, give us a mean look. But, he just sat down and smiled at us. He seemed genuinely glad to see us. One of us took a step closer, and Spike lowered his head.  We reached out a hand, half expecting it to be bit off.  Spike strained to get his head closer to the hand. We petted his head and quickly jumped back. He just sat there. He liked being petted. Soon all three of us stood next to him, patting his head and scratching behind his ears. He wasn’t a vicious dog after all. Dad was going to be very disappointed.

Soon the secret was out. Spike liked people. At least, he liked us. He didn’t have to be tied up. There was more than enough room on the farm in Louisa for him to run around. But he knew where he lived and didn’t stray too far.

Dad also discovered that Spike liked chickens, too. The brown dog killed a couple until Dad knocked him unconscious with a hammer to the head. We were all very happy when Spike woke up, and Spike seemed to lose interest in chasing hens around the yard.

Considering his size and temperament, it was hard to imagine that this dog was afraid of anything. But the old fellow did have a few things that turned him into a coward: Dad, Mom with a broom, and thunder.

In Clifford, Kentucky in the 1960’s, there wasn’t much on the one TV channel we got. We spent most evenings sitting out on the front porch. The adults all got a rocking chair. They’d rock and tell stories or gossip a little. We didn’t listen to the radio. The kids sat on the steps or on the floor.  The cats slept along the wall of the porch, and the dogs sat with the kids.

The summer evenings were usually cool and dark. The only light came from inside the house, or from a porch light. Most of the time the porch light was off, we didn’t want to attract mosquitoes. The talking and rocking was done in the dark.

One evening, the wind blew in heavy, dark clouds. The air was a bit chilly, and the trees shook in the breeze. Everything seemed to turn gray, and the stories being told became ghost stories. Despite the weather, no one wanted to go inside. Mamaw was telling tales, and it was nice we were all together, even if we couldn’t see each other. The kids all huddled with the dogs to keep each other warm.  The front door was open, and the inside lights shone through the screen door.

Rain pattered on the tin roof.  A flash of lightning lit up a cloud. A large clap of thunder rattled the window panes. And, the screen door seemed to explode.  There was a large hole in the bottom panel. The wood was broken and the metal screen was torn. I thought I had seen something large and black dash through it.

Spike was missing. The thunder had startled him and he had bolted into the house. We never had a dog in the house before. We had never seen a dog in a house where people actually lived. Imagine our surprise when we found Spike in Mamaw’s bedroom, cowering under her bed. He did not want to come out. We couldn’t coax or scare him out. As long as there was thunder, he wasn’t moving.
 
When the storm passed, we finally got him out from under the bed. He looked embarrassed, but I know he thought he didn’t have any other choice. Whatever thunder was, he was hiding out from it.
In the future, we learned to shut and lock all the doors when thunder came up. Spike found a different place to hide, up under the house.

Louisa Kentucky

It was a ride that never seemed to come to an end. The road wound up and around the hills, dark green trees covered, overhung of the road, and the last lights of town had disappeared it seemed hours ago. The drizzling rain made the road slippery and shiny in the headlights. Everyone was sleepy, but afraid to fall asleep, worried we might miss our destination. Dad knew where he was going. He hadn’t grown up at his mom’s new house, but he knew exactly where it was, out in the country, near the town of Clifford.

We had been told about our Mamaw. She’d known us since we were tiny, but it was hard for us to remember her. But still, I looked forward to it. I’m not sure why we were going to see her.  Maybe we were going to stay a while. We all knew she’d be glad to see us.

We parked in a cut alongside the road just below the house. It was a two story with two large silver elms in the front yard. She was at the car before we could even get out, ignoring the dampness, giving us all hugs and kisses. I was glad to see her again, though I couldn’t recall ever seeing her before.  She led us up the steps, by the porch that surrounded the front of the house.

We met Mr. Hughes. He was a large, older man. He walked with a cane and wore suspenders. He looked a lot older than Mamaw, but he was her new husband. Mamaw had already outlived at least two others. He ran the country store where we’d parked the car. He had on a white shirt and dress pants and wore a hat. We probably were strangers to him, but he welcomed us all into his house.

After we had all sat down in the living room, Mamaw brought out the sweets and coffee.  The adults, Mom, Dad and Mamaw, were all catching up on things. We stared at Mr. Hughes as he sat there in his rocking chair with his cane across his lap. We were sort of afraid of him. With his bald head and pale white skin, he looked kind of spooky.

When my sister got up to walk into the kitchen, he reached out and hooked her ankle with his crane. She tumbled to the floor, surprised as he dragged her over closer to him. Then he tickled her foot. She giggled and kicked herself free. Soon we all were running around, daring him to catch us with his cane which he did quite well. It was great fun and seemed to like to do it himself.  That was the game we would play whenever we stopped by.

They had a dog, Old Trouble. He was a black and white, part collie. He liked his new visitors and did his part to make us feel welcome as well.  He’d run and play, even though he was quite old.  He was an outside dog, and made his home on the front porch. He never made a nuisance of himself, and knew when to leave people alone. I don’t remember him even barking at us when we arrived.

Early the next morning, Mamaw was up cooking breakfast. Country eggs, smoked thick slice bacon, gravy and biscuits. There was plenty of blackberry jam on the table. We ate in the kitchen.  There was a screen door off the kitchen and you could see the hen house and the barn.  The hens lived closer to the main house, the barn was about 100 yards away.  After breakfast we ran outside to investigate this new territory.

The old hens stood behind the chicken wire, looking at us expectantly. We thought they were glad to see us, too, but they just wanted to be fed. There were Rhode Island Reds, White Leghorns and Barred Rocks. They all looked old, wise, and perfectly at peace. At least how I imagined creatures at perfect peace would look.

There were no houses in view. Across the narrow paved road was a field and beyond the field, a line of trees along the creek.  There wasn’t much of a backyard. A steep incline led up the hill. There were flower beds planted around the house, and a porch swing hung between two posts just behind the root cellar.  Down where the road curved was Mr. Hughes’ store. I never saw anyone buy anything there, but it was filled with all kinds of canned goods and sundry items. Dad’s old black Zodiac was parked in the gravel parking lot.

We spent most of our time outside. There was nothing on the old B&W TV we would want to see anyway. All the older folks seemed to like Hootenany or Country Music Jubilee, but we’d rather run around outside, or sit on the porch and listen to mamaw’s stories.  We found an old bicycle with no brakes, or chain. The tires were solid rubber and couldn’t go flat. We’d push the bike up behind the house, past the swing, and coast down the hill.  We had to make a hard left turn into the front yard or we’d wind up in the road. All of us took a turn, even the youngest, Bev.  I don’t remember anyone ever getting hurt.

One of the old hens, a barred rock, was slower and more docile than the rest. She was loaded onto a wagon, and we pulled her all around the yard. She never seemed to mind. Mamaw said she was sick, so we made sure she had plenty to eat and drink.  She was a good friend and playmate until she died, just as Mamaw said she would.

The hens usually passed their days outside the pen, chasing bugs and scratching in the flower beds. At night they’d be locked up to protect from the raccoons and other varmints that lived out in the country. Occasionally, one of the hens would wind up in the frying pan, or in some dumplings.  Sometimes they would even volunteer to eaten.  The volunteer hen would rear back and crow like a rooster.  Mamaw saying was “Whistling woman, crowing hen, both come to a bad, bad end.”  We know for certain this was the case for the crowing hen.  We didn’t know any whistling women at that time.

It was not in Mamaw’s nature to speak ill of someone else, and it really seemed to bother her when someone else did. Everyone thought a distant cousin of ours was a drunk, but she’d only say he was very kind to children. Another young man was wild, and always getting into trouble. She’d let everyone know how much he loved his mother. I didn’t know how unusual her attitude was, until I grew into an adult. Nowadays, talking bad or making fun of your neighbor is the norm, and the subject of most of what we call reality TV.

Once we had settled in, we all were assigned our chores. One of mine was to water the chickens. Dad kept them all down behind the barn. There was an old bathtub that Dad had put near the little branch that flowed down to the creek. Water from the branch would slowly fill the tub, and I’d dip an old metal bucket into it. There were many roosters, all in their own private pen, since game rooster cannot get along. Dad made their water holders out of old bleach bottles. The handle of the bottle hung on the wire, and he cut a hole in the front, large enough for the rooster to stick his head in.  The water stayed fairly clean, and the chicken wasn’t able to scratch and knock it over.

We fed them in the early morning. They were always wide awake and chipper, scratching around in the dirt, pecking at imaginary kernels of corn.  They’d all crow challenges to each other, no rooster wanting his rival to get the last word.  So the crowing continued until they were distracted by the handfuls of grain Dad would throw them. Feeding the roosters was a bit complicated, since they all had a special diet. Watering them was easier, but I was always sad they weren’t as happy to see me as they were the person with the chicken feed.

Watering, however, was very important. And to forget to water them, especially on a hot summer day could be disastrous. I remember forgetting to water them once. When Dad got home from work, he immediately saw something was wrong. The roosters stood with their beaks open, and their wings drooped to the ground.  He sent me down with the bucket. This day they were glad to see me and rushed to the water containers, dipping their red heads into the bleach bottle, and then looking up at the sky, letting the cool water run down their long necks.  They drank and drank until the water came out of their nostrils. That day I was demoted from Private First Class to Japanese prisoner of war.

I was paid 25 cents a week for my chores. I kept each quarter in an old piggy bank shaped like an owl. Every week the owl got heavier and heavier, and I’d imagine what I would buy with all that money. The bank stood on a shelf by the kitchen table. We’d line up and receive our pay there. I’m not sure how much Kathy and Bev were paid.

Money was something that was scarce. Mr. Hughes, however, did seem to have quite a bit of cash, I guess from his sales in his store. He would always count it in the backroom of the house. I watched him through the window, amazed to see some much money (mainly nickels, dimes and quarters) in one place. He kept a few toys there, but I can’t remember if there were any I wanted to own.

Fox Hunting

 

Fox HUNTING

Late in the afternoon we pulled up to the foot of the hill we had to climb. We loaded up our sleeping bags, water bottles and lunches on our backs and unloaded the barking hounds out of the back of the pickup truck.  My dad brought four or five.  It was hard enough leading one dog up the hill, but leading two or three was a real chore.  Leading is really the wrong word, it was more like following.  None of the dogs were trained to lead, they more less pulled you behind them as hard as they could.

It was a good size group hunting fox that night. There was Frank Waugh and his son, Tom. In addition to his sleeping bag and lunch, Tom was carrying a lizard in his pocket. There was my cousin Thomas, and counting me, the Toms were well represented. My dad’s name was Tommy Joe, so really there were four Toms on the trip.  There were a couple of other gentlemen, whose names I can’t remember right now, but they all had hounds to lead and were in a hurry to get the spot where they’d turn their hounds loose.

I didn’t have the foggiest idea where we were going. I just let my two hounds drag me along behind the group, through the brush and trees. We crossed over and under several barbwire fences. We came to one with a strand of electric wire along the bottom. I let the hounds cross under first. Only one got shocked and it yelped out in surprise, giving me a sad look.  I think it thought I had kicked it.  The theory had been proven correct, though.  It had several black and brown spots. We believed that the dark areas conducted electricity.  None of the white dogs were shocked, so it must have been true.

It was a cool evening, just the start of fall. Tom Waugh’s lizard didn’t look very healthy, and he turned it loose. We leaned against trees, catching our breaths. Some of the younger hounds kept pulling, huffing and puffing, sounding as if they were about to strangle to death.  The older hounds sat patiently, waiting for the slower humans catch their wind.

We finally found the clearing. The hounds were tied to trees while we all gathered up wood for a fire. Everyone threw down their bags and goods where they planned to sleep for the night. The clearing was along the top of ridge. This was the best place to hear the hounds barking as they chased the fox through the woods and hollers.

When twilight came, they untied the older, wiser dogs.  Their job was to find the fox. They immediately put their noses to the ground as they ran down the hill.  Everyone sat down, got out their coffee thermos and began telling stories. Most of them were hunting tales, of good old foxhounds or hunters. Sometimes jokes were told, or ghost stories recounted. This would continue until someone hissed: “Listen!”

We’d hear a single bark ringing from one of the hollers below. The younger hounds’ ears would prick, and they started jerking against their collars. We stood up and walked towards the direction of the barking.

“That’s old Maude!” Thomas said. No one argued with Thomas, he had the best ears of the group. Soon Maude’s tenor mouth was joined by a deeper bark.

“That’s old Kingfish!,” Dad said. Everyone listened intently as the two hounds barked in a slow regular duet as they tracked the fox.  It looked like the race was about to start.  We ran over to the younger hounds, now jumping and jerking against their leads. They stood pushing off with their hind legs trying to get to the tracking hounds. We turned them loose, they put their heads down and ran after the two old-timers.

Soon the duet became a chorus. Fine, high pitched, quick barks were joined by the baying of the coarser mouths. The race was on, and everyone hoped the hounds were after a red fox, and not a grey one.  The greys tended to find their dens as quick as possible. The red fox didn’t mind leading the hounds a merry chase around the ridge for a while.

The fox race was on. It didn’t take the hunters too long to get the general direction the fox was heading.  He was going to cross the ridge, just a hundred yards or so below the camp.  We all started heading that way.  We hoped to see the fox, but we, at least, wanted to see the hounds. 

I had only seen a fox once before. It had been a spring morning. The hounds had been chasing foxes all through the night. It was just Dad and I. A few hounds had taken up the chase, and we headed down the ridge to see what they were after.  Down the hill, I saw a red fox trotting across the field. He was a pretty red, and his white chest stood out in the green grass.  He didn’t seem to be in that big a-hurry, and he certainly didn’t look like a pursued animal on the run.  He crossed the field and disappeared into the trees beyond. A few minutes later, the first foxhound appeared, barking and panting, where the fox had stood.  She ran full speed in the general direction the fox had travelled, but then had to stop and backtrack.  Her nose was to the ground as she made short, quick barks.  Soon the other hounds ran out into the field. They scattered about as they tried to pick up the scent. Once they picked it up again, they barked excitedly, running after the fox, but having to stop many times to make course corrections.

That day I realized that the wise fox had nothing to fear from the hounds. As long as they were following his scent, it was unlikely they’d ever catch him. If they were to get too close, he’d find a den to hide in. However, every once and a while, he would come up against a “cunning” running hound.  These hounds would figure out the fox’s route, and try to get in front of him.  Fox hunters typically despised this type of “cheating” dog.  Very rarely did he catch the fox, but he did convince the red to hole up as soon as possible, disrupting the race for the “honest” hounds.

There weren’t any cunning dogs in our hound pack that night. There was no moon, and it was very dark.  We trotted with our lights to the crossing point. Thomas caught a glimpse of the fox as it ran for the bushes.  Minutes later came the pack of dogs. One hound clearly held the lead, and the owner was very proud. He’d told everyone all along she’d been in the lead, her clear fine mouth ringing out above the yelping of the other hounds. Soon the other dogs appeared, panting and barking, crossing the ridge and plunging into the brush where the fox had crossed. The excitement over, we all went back to our places around the fire and settled in for lunch.

Lunch was a very important part of the foxhunt. Everybody usually brought their favorite things to eat, probably things they wouldn’t eat every day at home. Probably couldn’t anyway, since the food in our lunch bags wasn’t very healthy.

The staple fox hunter’s lunch was the bologna sandwich, usually on white bread and loaded with mayonnaise. Some would bring hard-boiled eggs, or ham sandwiches. I don’t think it every occurred to anyone to bring peanut butter and jelly. Coffee was drunk from silver thermos bottles, and by the time morning came it was either gone or cold. Most of lunches were bought at the store on the way to the hunt.  A favorite was the Vienna Sausages in the easy open can.  We called them “WHY-EENIES”.  They were good right out of the can and some of the gourmet hunters liked to add some vinegar to them. Cold fried chicken was also a popular choice. I had my first taste of chicken gizzards on a foxhunt. They tasted a lot better when I didn’t know what they were. I don’t remember eating too many chips or vegetables on any hunt. Dessert was usually a TWINKIE, or SNO-BALL or some sort of cupcake. Others liked HONEY-BUNS. Sometimes the healthier hunters would eat raw turnips and apples.  They’d peel and slice them with their pocket knives.

If you were lucky enough to have a REALLY good lunch you had to be very careful.  Hunters liked to share lunches, and they did so with or without your permission.  I remember a hunt where my Uncle Charlie ate my turkey sandwiches and pumpkin pie. He’d found them in the cabin and thought they looked very tasty. I really didn’t know what to say, and had to fill up on WHY-EENIES.

Sitting around the fire, we’d listen for hounds.  Most of the time, we didn’t hear them, so the time would be passed telling stories.  The stories were usually about past hunts, hunters or foxhounds. Occasionally a few jokes would be mixed in.

The famous foxhounds had names like: Maude, Fanny, Kingfisher, Blue, Fuzz and Batman. The Famous Foxhound wasn’t necessarily the fastest, nor did it always have the prettiest mouth. The famous foxhound was the one that DID NOT QUIT.  Once it got on the scent, it barked and chased after the fox, until the hunter had had enough and was ready to go home.  These dogs had DRIVE.  They were single minded. When the other hounds were sleeping under the trucks or in the bushes, the famous foxhound was still out, trying to run a fox. They were deer-proof and they knew why they were out there.  They did not fraternize with other hounds or hunters. I think these epitomized the attitudes of the people that hunted them. Don’t quit.

I remember a story my grandmother used to tell about two frogs, a smart one and a dumb one. They fell into a churn of milk. They hopped and hopped but couldn’t get out. The smart frog said to the dumb one, “There’s no hope, we can’t get out. I’m giving up.”  This frog drowned. The dumb frog kept hopping because it was too dumb to see the situation was hopeless. Eventually the milk turned to butter, and the dumb frog hopped out. It survived because it didn’t quit.  This also probably explains why frogs aren’t that smart.  All the intelligent ones drowned.

The famous foxhound was like the dumb frog. It never (or very rarely) caught a fox. Every hunt it just chased and barked all night, trying to catch something it had never caught before. In fact, the hound probably hadn’t even seen the fox, he was just chasing after the scent of one. It had what the hunters liked to call “grit”.

The old hunters were like their hounds. They had grit. My grandfather died on a foxhunt. His hounds stood by him and waited until he was found, dead by a barbwire fence. My uncles hunted until they were too sick to hunt. And even then they wouldn’t quit.  The old hunters didn’t brag, although they liked to talk about their favorite hounds, just like proud parents like to talk about their favorite sons or daughters. All the stories about the old hunters told about how tough these old-timers were. 

All good things had to come to an end. The sun came up, and the ground was wet with dew. Many of the hounds were sleeping, curled up in the leaves under trees.  One or two hounds’ barks still echoed in the holler. Some of the hunters had gone to bed, others were hunched over the dying embers of the fire. It was time to call the hounds in.  Some liked to just call in the hounds: Y’ERE, Y’ERE WOO-EEE!” Uncle Charlie liked to use a hunter’s horn. It was an old cow’s horn and it took some skill to get any noise out of it at all. But its low tone carried over the ridge and down into the hollers. 

The hounds came trotting back.  As they came in, they were caught and tied to a tree.  Once all the hounds were in, we packed up our gear, cleaned up the trash and began the slow walk off the hill. The walk out was usually all downhill, but still we just stumbled and trudged our way down.  The hounds were tired, no tugging or pulling now.  We had time to look around and see what we missed on the way up.

I remember once we had gotten our drinking water out of an old open well on our way up a hill. The well had brick walls, and we had lowered our drinking jugs into the water with a rope. We had done it the evening before.  On the way out, in the daylight, we stopped at the well to refill our jugs. That’s when we saw the big red salamander swimming around in the well water. The water that had tasted so good the night before, suddenly became undrinkable.

Growing up, I wasn’t a big fan of the foxhunt. I didn’t like mosquitoes, I didn’t like sleeping bags. I didn’t like staying up all night or the way I felt the next day. I didn’t like the way I smelled. But I did like being with my kinfolk and being out with my dad. I did like the lunches and the stories that the hunters told. I liked being outside in the cool night air and the damp morning mist. I liked the old hounds and the old hunters. I liked the smell of the campfire, and the bright night stars. And I liked doing what my kinfolk had done before me. And those are the parts I miss.

Banana Pudding Feeding

Our dad worked at the steel mill. It was good, hard honest work, but due to the ups and downs in the demand for steel, there would be stretches of time when he would be laid off.  Laid off meant he didn’t go to work. Or if the union was on strike, he might have just his sub-pay to live on and he stood on the picket line.  It was during one of these times, sometime around 1965, we moved to a tiny house a small piece down the road from my Dad’s mom’s place in Louisa, Kentucky.  The name of the little town was Clifford.  I can’t remember the house very well, but I have many memories of living there. It was out in the country.  A place where you could garden and raise livestock, and a place to raise game chickens.

I’m sure moving was hard on mom and dad, but except for leaving a few friends behind in Flatwoods, I grew to become very content in Clifford.  I liked being out in the hills with a creek to play in and trees to climb.  I liked being close to Mamaw and I liked that we were all at home together.  Mamaw kept a garden and a few laying hens. Dad brought along some of his games, but he didn’t keep them in the henhouse.  He had his own pens for them.

The games were more aggressive than Mamaw’s laying hens.  The roosters especially liked to fight, mainly each other. It was a great place to raise chicks, and Dad would let the mother hens roam free with their broods during the day.  After one or two floggings we learned to give the mother hen and her chicks a wide berth.  I don’t think the flogging hurt that much.  It was just the idea of something chasing and hitting you.

We were never hungry or lacked for anything. There was always home-cooked something around. Sometimes Mom and Mamaw would get in cooking contests, or at least it seemed to me.  Both were good cooks, and we were at the age when we didn’t know we should never brag on one over the other.

There was a narrow path from our house to Mamaw’s. It went by the barn and through a fence gate. About the only stored in the barn was chicken feed and tools. On the other side of the path were the many pens with the game roosters.  Tall weeds grew up along the sides and there was a small ditch to cross.

One sunny spring morning I walked over the path to see Mamaw. All of us kids did this a lot. As long as we didn’t have any chores or work to do, we’d go back and forth between the houses.  Mamaw’s was a very good place to show up hungry.  She was always baking or cooking something.

When I stepped into her kitchen this day, I smelled something different.  It didn’t smell at all like her normal cobbler, or dumplings or biscuits. In fact it sort of had a foreign smell, and when I looked at the stove, I saw she was making banana pudding. I wasn’t very old, but I never remembered her ever making pudding. I would certainly have remembered since banana pudding was by far my favorite food.

I was curious, and skeptical that she knew what she was doing.  Maybe she was making it for me, and maybe she’d seen my mom make it and she decided to try it. I don’t know for sure, but she did seem glad to see me, and she offered me a bowl without me even having to ask.

The pudding was a darker yellow than I was used to. The first bite didn’t taste right, either. I think she made the pudding with the banana peels. She hated to see things wasted, so maybe she had decided to try pudding with the whole banana.  Or the bananas were too overripe.  No matter, it tasted funny.

I told her so. She looked surprised. I explained that Mom probably made the best pudding ever and in fact she had just made some the night before. Mamaw said that was nice, but didn’t I want to give her pudding a second try. I said no, but told her I would go and get some of Mom’s pudding so she could taste how banana pudding was supposed to taste.  She was agreeable.

I ran along the path back to our house. The bowl of pudding was there on the kitchen table, half empty. I picked up the entire bowl, and ran out the screen door heading back to Mamaw’s. I got to the barn, and heard that dreadful clucking noise of the mother hen. She had, at least, a dozen tiny yellow chicks, and they were all looking at me and the bowl. I couldn’t go forward, she was blocking my path, her wings hung low, and she was circling all around.

I tried to go back, but she cut me off. They wanted me to feed them. They wanted the banana pudding. I held tightly onto the bowl and tried to edge my way along the path.  The weeds were too high, and there could be a snake in there.  Frozen in fear, I could not move.

The hen rushed at my feet. I dropped the bowl and ran at full speed back to Mom’s house. As I ran, I heard the happy cheeping of the chicks as they ate my banana pudding.

I never told Mamaw why I never came back with the banana pudding. I sneaked back later and picked up the bowl. Not a banana slice or vanilla wafer remained. They had pecked it dry. I wonder if they would have been so keen for Mamaw’s pudding?

Blackberry Picking - Dog Baptism

Her name was Pearl.  She was probably in her early seventies, long gray hair wrapped into a tight bun on at the back of her head. She was not skinny, but not fat either.  She was substantial and walked slowly, but with a steady step. She was slightly bent at the shoulders, and when she walked long distances, which she did a lot, she always carried a walking stick.  Her walking stick changed daily or weekly, depending on when she found a small tree or sprout, long enough or strong enough to support her weight. She’d cut it off at the root with the heavy “grubbing” hoe that was never too far away.  She used the hoe to dig potatoes, weeds and to separate any snake head from the rest of its body.  She lived during a time and in a place where wasting what you had was sinful. Anything you found to eat that you didn’t raise yourself was a gift from God.  And there weren’t that many of those gifts that you didn’t have to work or look for.

We’d go on long walks on the hill, ascending the steep slope slowly, she took frequent stops, resting on her stick.  She was always looking down and around. She knew what we could eat and what we shouldn’t.  If she found something, she’d take a long butcher knife from the pocket of her apron and cut it.  She’d stick it in her “poke” and we’d eat it later as “poke” salad. The paths we walked were well-worn cow paths, or most of the time along an old dirt road a bulldozer had cut back on the hill years ago to make it easier to get to the ridge.  The road eroded and became overgrown over the years, but there was enough clear space to avoid the briars and poison ivy that grew under the trees.  We always came back with a full sack from one of those hikes.

At the top of the hill along the ridge, walking was a lot easier. There was a gas pipe line that was well maintained by the state, twenty five yards wide, with short grass growing between the metal posts that marked the line’s location. They looked like up-right cigarettes, painted white with an orange tip.  The pipe line was a good place to walk, way back behind the house, but as far as “poke” salad went, mostly barren.  About the only thing we’d find along the line were blackberries.  But these were by far our favorite treat.  They tasted sour, sweet and bitter all at the same time. And the things she could make it with them!

July was the time for serious blackberry picking. From our walks, she would know where all the blackberry canes were.  She would round up all the buckets and hand them out to the pickers. But before we could even start picking, she had to make sure we were all safe. 

In her eye there were four main dangers during the picking; #1 SNAKES, #2 Briars, #3 Sweat bees and #4 the sun.

For the snakes, she kept her hoe handy. We also picked with our old dog “Jake” a pretty competent snake killer, poisonous or otherwise. He was never content to just happen upon one, but was always keen to track one down. When he found one of these unfortunate reptiles, he’d bark excitedly and look over at you, as if asking, “Do you want to handle this, or do you want me to?”  Usually he took care of it.  If we didn’t seem interested, he’d dispatch it with a quick grab and a hard shake.  I never saw a live snake during any of the blackberry picking trips we made.

Blackberry thorns make you pay the price for picking the berries. They stick in your clothes and into your hands.  They scratch your wrists and arms. When we picked, we ALWAYS wore long sleeves buttoned down to block the thorns.  We’d wear long pants and boots.  We’d still get scratched and pricked on our ankles and legs, but nothing serious enough to make us stop.

The sweat bee loves people.  And in the case of the sweat bee, love hurts.  These small insects love to drink up our sweat.  And like most people, we’d sweat more around our joints: inside the elbow, the back of knee, under the arm or around the neck. A small black bee would get stuck or feel trapped when we bent or moved one of these joints and give a pretty potent sting. So, we kept our sleeves rolled down and our collar buttoned. We made sure the bee could not crawl up our leg.  Despite all our efforts, we always came home when several bee stings along with the buckets of berries.

She was always worried about being in the sun too long or with uncovered head.  We didn’t know what “brain fever” was, but we all knew we could die from it. So, the girls all wore bonnets and the boys wore caps.  Of course, during July in Kentucky, it can get quite warm, so we had a lot to offer to the sweat bees. With our long sleeves, long pants and hats, we must have been walking buffets for them. But on the positive side, not a single one of us died or even suffered from “brain fever”.

One hot July day, she announced we were going to pick blackberries. If we didn’t pick them today, the birds might eat them all, or even worse the berries would fall to the ground where they would attract SNAKES. Nobody could explain why berries on the ground would attract snakes. I always thought the snakes ate them, but now that I’m older, this seems absurd.  If the snakes wanted berries, they could pick them off the cane just like us. And they probably wouldn’t have any problems with the sweat bees.

We put on our long sleeve shirts and pants, donned our caps and bonnets, rounded up the buckets and called for the dogs. “Jake” had a partner in those days: “Skippy”.  Skippy was a Norwegian Elkhound and as we stood their sweating in our clothes, I developed a fair amount of empathy for him. He couldn’t take off his heavy coat, but it never seemed to bother him.  He spent a lot of his downtime under the porch or soaking in rain puddle. Yet, when it was time to go, no matter how hot, he never complained. Both dogs were very excited, since Skippy had developed a knack for dealing with serpents from his association with Jake.

The blackberry patch wasn’t that far away, but technically it wasn’t on our property. We had to cross a narrow creek, fun for us, but a bit harder for her. Even though there wasn’t much water, the sides were steep and slippery.  After we crossed, we all marched down along it, the dogs running ahead like Indian scouts. We found the patch, really several smaller patches and began to pick. The berries were large, juicy and dark purple. We began to fill our buckets and she filled up her apron.  She held it like a sack, and when it was full, she poured the contents into one of the larger gallon buckets we had brought along. 

It was a hot day, just a few fluffy white clouds and the sun was bearing down mightily, but none of us seemed to notice. We had hit the jackpot and whenever we felt thirsty we’d eat a berry.  We could tell she was quite content, and thinking of how she was going to can, bake, or boil the berries.  It was early morning and still some dew on the canes. 

At noon, we’d be finishing up.  “Brain fever” was much more likely at noon or after.  Most of our buckets were filled and we were getting tired of picking, anyway.

We heard Jake and Skippy barking.  We all looked in their direction, we knew something was up. Across the creek, we saw the Sturgill boys coming along with their two collies.  I can’t remember the dogs’ names, one was a young spotted collie, the other darker, older and a bit crankier.  He had taken a nip at my ankles before.

All four dogs spotted each other and charged. They met in the middle of the creek, and the battle began. We all stood along the banks, cheering for our favorites. The contest really wasn’t a fair one. Jake was a veteran of many such fights and rarely lost. Skippy, despite his cute name, was a large dog, and able to take care of himself. Within a few minutes, it was obvious the collies had had enough.

At one point, Jake was holding the younger collie under the water. We all gasped, it was always embarrassing when your dog whipped someone else’s dog (and even more embarrassing if your dog got whipped).  The youngest Sturgill boy shouted out from the other side of the bank:

“Hey, look! Your dog is baptizing our dog!”

Everyone laughed, the battle was over. The collies ran for the house. Jake and Skippy didn’t pursue, they had done their job and protected the blackberry pickers.  We invited the Sturgills up for some blackberry cobbler, or blackberry dumplings or blackberry ice cream, I don’t remember which.

Once we got the berries into the house, our work was done. But the work had just begun for her. The berries had to be washed, and the leaves, bugs and thorns removed.  She’d mix some of them up to make cakes, cobbler or dumplings.  The others she’d boil down to make jam.

When we ate the jam on a hot biscuit on some cold winter morning, we’d remember the hot days in July. We’d tell the story of the doggy baptism service again, and it got funnier every time we told it.