Old Times in Virginia

William H. Lawson, shoe repairman Big Stone Gap, Virginia.  Mr. Lawson was my grandmother's uncle.

As is often the case in genealogical research one finds many relatives not directly in ones line. Such a case, for example, would be great great uncles or a great aunt and their descendants.  We are related, yes, but the pursuit of their lives and their offspring is not our primary concern.

A few years ago I received a packet of pictures which included  a number of the offspring of my great great grandmother.  William H. Lawson was among them.  I know from his mother's obituary that he was "a well-known shoe repairman" in Big Stone Gap.   From the photo I infer that he not only could sole your shoes he could block your hat and "French dry clean" your whatever,   whatever that is.  The picture is really cool though.

Word of the day:  infer
STSTT post #2200

*French dry cleaning is a process whereby hand spotting and hand pressing and close attention to detail is employed. I looked it up.

Grandma, meet Grandma #T

I met a man the other day who said he was from East Tennessee.  I told him my mama's people were from East Tennessee.  Something in common.  We shared a few stories.  I told him an abbreviated version of this one.

My mother's uncle, her mother's youngest brother, married my mother's daddy's first cousin, a relationship which has no bearing whatsoever on the story, but it is interesting and something for you to puzzle over.  Mama's cousin, a granddaughter of this couple, told me this story many years after both the elders had passed.  She said

I did not know my grandmother chewed tobacco  until many years after her death. Grandpa and Grandma had dressed for an ocasion and Grandpa had gone ahead, was sitting behind the wheel of the car waiting, as men are wont to do.  Grandma came to the car, opened the door and got into the seat.  She reached back, pulled the door closed and died.  Grandpa realized she was gone and reached over, tenderly removed the chaw from her mouth.

Grandma was fifty-five years old.

My new acquaintance then shared this tale.

Our family has a big ol' reunion in the hills ever' summer. Always have eighty, hundred or more people.  To raise funds to continue the tradition we have an auction every year, the items mostly being family trinkets or heirlooms which get returned to the sale time and time again.  The item that brings in the most cash, ever' year for the past several years, is Granny R's spitcan.  She was the matriarch of the clan and has been gone now for twenty years.  Last year the can brought seven hundred dollars! 

Word of the day: chaw

Sharkey's Picks

Friend Joan, aka Sharkbytes, or Sharkey, who shares her quality life with us at My Quality Day weighed in on post choices on STSTT.  She kindly said "it was hard to choose" but she picked the selections from Dora's Diary.

Dora Marlene Rutledge was the little girl who lived in the Appalachian hills and heard Uncle Jep relate stories when she was a young 'un.  Some years after Uncle Jep and Aunt Grace had passed, Dora gave her childhood diaries to Uncle Jep's amanuensis who transcribed some of the Old Uncle's tales which she had recorded.  Two additional entries from Dora's journal may be accessed here and here.

Epilogue #T

A note from Uncle Jeptha's auditor.

Jeptha Miller was born in Hawkins County, Tennessee in 1876.  Right proud he was that he was an American when the nation celebrated its centennial, though of course he did not remember that celebration.  He always hoped and often said that he would “be around fer the 200th anniversary, too.”  That was not to be, though, as Uncle Jep passed away in 1968 just two days after his 92nd birthday.

Jeptha moved with his family across Clinch Mountain to Scott County, Virginia when he was but a slip of a lad, nine or ten years old, I think.  In 1894 he and Aunt Grace were married and established their home in Hawkins County.  Grace was my grandmother’s sister, and hence my great aunt.  To me, she was always  "Aunt Grace."  Jeptha and Grace left Tennessee in 1902 and moved West where they settled on the High Plains of Eastern Colorado.  They lived out the rest of their lives a few rods and a skimmer handle from Holly and came to love the dry land and its people.

These tales spun by Uncle Jep are no doubt true, for never truer man lived.  And whether the characters and events existed in the hills or on the plains, or only in the mind of the Old Uncle, they all contain within them the truth of life and living.  Uncle Jep was kindly and generous to a fault.  Should you need it, he would give you the last scrap of food in his house, or literally the coat off his own back.  But he would kick your butt, too, if you slacked off on the job or carried less than your fair share of the load.  He was a flawed man, though.  He did not take kindly to being interrupted when he was spinning a yarn, and he could not abide a person who would kick a dog.  This latter was because, he opined, “A dog will not turn on his friends, which is more than can be said of some people.” 

While some of these tales are represented as having been told me during breaks as we worked together, or around the supper table of an evening, many of them I heard from Uncle Jep in his last four or five years during visits to the home place some years after I had moved away from the Plains and had a family of my own.  Some of them I heard many times, for Uncle Jep did not believe that a tale was diminished by repetition.

The family believed Aunt Grace died of grief and a broken heart. She passed a day and a half after Uncle Jep died.  They were buried side by side on the same day in a little cemetery on a prominence on the High Plains they so dearly loved.

Uncle Jep’s patois, or lingo does not represent itself to be a dialect, so one should not look for that.  Imagine you hear the Old Uncle’s delivery in a deliberate way, not quite a drawl, but slow nevertheless.  We recall that Mr. Miller grew up in East Tennessee and Southwest Virginia, so it is natural that some of the expressions he used may well originate there.  But remember also that he lived sixty-six years of his adult life in a very specific Western locale.

© 2014 David W. Lacy

A note from vanilla

I hope you have enjoyed this little experiment in fiction we cooked up over the past year.

Uncle Jep's stories are displayed in two collections, the tabs at the top of the page labelled "Short Stories" and "More Stories" will open them.

A History Lesson in Rogersville #T

Caney Creek, Tennessee

October 1, 1901

“Hidy, Miss Dora!”  It was Uncle Jeptha.  I was in town with Mama.  “Miz Rutledge, Ma’am!  Fine day.  Might Dory sit here on this bench with me whilst you shop?  I get her a sassparilly.”

“Please, Mama?”

“Certainly.  Now you be right here when I get back, hear?”

“Do you know about the war thet was fought right here, Chile?”

“You mean the War Between the States, Uncle?”

“Thet’s the one.  Waal, they was a big ol’ battle right here where we are a sittin’, oh, thirty-seven, thirty-eight year ago.  Way afore your time. Afore mine, too.  Ha!" 

“My Grampa Rutledge was in the war.”

“Most ever’one hereabouts were.  See, the thing is, Tennessee were with the South, but lots a fellas hereabouts had fit for the United States years afore, ‘n they join with the Union.  Lots a families plum split apart account a thet.   Your Aunt Grace Grandaddy were one a them.  He join the Union army, go off to fight for the North.  But one November he get a short leave, come home to see his wife ‘n kids.  ‘N whilst he were here, His cousin Avery, Avery were Reb all the way, Avery tell the sojers in grey thet ol’Steven were at his house.  So they capture him, send him to prison camp.  Waal, sad ending account a Steven tuk sick there an’ die.  Never get home again.

"So thet is how come your Aunt Grace fambly have nothin’ to do with Avery’s chirren ‘n gran’chirren to this day.”

“Oh, that is a sad story, Uncle.”

“War is a sorry bidness, Honey, a sorry bidness.”

Mama pick me up then and Nellie Belle carry us home.

Please, God, don’t ever, ever let there ever be war again.

Goodnight, dear Diary.



© 2014 David W. Lacy 48

Making a Mountain of a Molehill

I read through Dora's diaries.  They covered her life from age seven to her eleventh birthday.  I shared a sample of the diligence and effort she expended in keeping the journals, and while entries were not made on a daily basis, they did present a picture of the life of a little girl in the Appalachian hills at the turn of the century.

My purpose in obtaining the diaries was to find stories from Uncle Jep as told in his younger day, a time before I knew him.  So I am not sharing further the intimate details of Dora's life, but rather I have selected a couple of stories as told by Uncle Jeptha and recorded by the youngster who listened to them.

Caney Creek
June 29, 1900

I was in Uncle Jeptha's garden today.  He was hoeing the corn.  Aunt Grace was picking snap beans.  I would help her with them later.

"Girl," Uncle Jeptha said, as he stopped and leaned on his hoe handle, "you see thet biggest ridge yonder?  The Great Ridge?  Do you know whut thet is called?

"Of, course, Uncle Jeptha.  It is Clinch Mountain.  Everyone knows that."

"Good.  But do you know how it come to be?"

"A course, Uncle.  God made it.  He made everything."

"Waal, yes, I s'posin' He did.  But do you know how He make hit?"  'Course you don't, but you need to know, so I'ma tell ya.  Way off north an' east a here, way up in Ol' Virginny, way back afore any these ridges was made, there live a mole.  You know whut a mole is, Girl?"

"Course I do.  Look yonder just the other side the fence, a runnin' through the grass there.  There is a molehill, right there!"

"Why, so there is, Chile.  So you know how it come thet a mole will burra in the earth, jes' so."  Waal, this here mole I'ma tellin' ya about was no or'nary mole.  He were the King of all the Moles, 'n he were the hugest mole thet ever was.  Why, he was so huge, thet when he stood on the ground his head reach mought nigh ta the sky!"

(I see Aunt Grace set her bucket down, stand up straight and lean against the fence.  She is looking square at Uncle, but he pays her no nevermind and go right on with his story.)

"So it happen one sunny day King Mole stick his head in th' groun'.  Mole don't like the sunlight, doncha know, 'n he start a flingin' dirt with his giant claws, twel he gone plumb underground, then he start to move along, as a mole will do.  An' he head off to'rd Tennessee, 'n he keep agoin'.  Why, he never come up out the ground twel he were all the way 'tother side a Rutledge.  You know where Rutledge is, Girl?'

"Course I do, Uncle.  My daddy come from Rutledge.  He grew up there.  He says the town is named for his people."

"Good Girl!  Why, yes hit were named for yer Daddy's people.  There is another story there.  But anyway, as you can see, that mighty molehill make by King Mole is now call Clinch Mountain.  Yep, thet were some mole, thet were."

"Now, Jeptha Miller," that was Aunt Grace a chiming in, "why are you fillin' the child's head with such foolishness?"

"Now, Hon, whut can I say?  Thet was the way hit was."

"Run along to the house now, Dora, Sweetie," said Auntie. " I'll be right in 'n we will make some nice lemonade, then we'll snap these beans."

So I did, and we did.
Good night, Dear Diary

© 2014 David W. Lacy 47

Dora's Diary

The postmark was "Rogersville, TN."  I ripped the package open, and there inside were the two "books" Dora had written as a child, obviously very old but remarkably intact.  The edges of the paper tended to crumble a bit as I thumbed through them.

The covers of the books were pasteboard, carefully cut to enclose Dora's handmade pages.  On the front cover of the first one was painstakingly printed

DORA MARLENE RUTLEDGE

PRIVATE

VOLUME 1

The second book, or Volume 2, was labelled similarly, but it was done in cursive writing, appearing to have been written by a girl of ten or eleven, a little heart dotting the "i".  

I opened the first "volume" and on the first page, I read this, all in painstaking manuscript.

August 11, 1895

Caney Creek, Tennessee

Today is my birthday.  I am now seven years old.  My friend Myra and cuzzins  cousands Leroy and Effie came over for cake this afternoon.  Leroy give me a willow whistle he had carve, and Effie give me a hankie she had embroydee.  Myra's was the best, tho, coz she is my best fren.  I shall keep it near my hart, and you will have to guess.

Mama say now I am seven I kin go over to Aunt Grace and Uncle Jeptha house by myself tomoro.

Good night, dear diary.

Dora M. R

Second page:

August 12, 1895

Caney Creek

Oh, Diary! Today I walk by myself over to Aunt Grace house.  As I walk thoo the gardein in front the house, I hear Uncle Jep call "Dora! Over here!"

"Hidy, Uncle Jep!"

"Oh, my ain't you all grown up?  Those shoes are new.  Do they feel as good as they look?"

"Oh, yes, Uncle.  Mama and Daddy give them me for my birthday.  Acourse I know they's my new go-to-school shoes, an' I won't be a wearin' of them again until school, but are they not the pertiest shoes?"

"Sturdy, nice lacing, good support for yer ankles.  Bet they got 'em in Kingsport?"

"I don't know, but I surely like them!  Is Aunt Grace in the house?"

"Not really, cause here she come now with goodies for the good.  That would be you and me.  And her, a course."

Good night, dear Diary, Mama jus come in to put out my light.

Dora M. R

Editor's note:  The young girl was a credible writer, a fairly good speller, and faithful to the tales.  However, she was not much on punctuation, so some has been added for clarity.  Entries otherwise presented as Dora recorded them.

© 2014 David W. Lacy 46

Dora's Treasure

[A note from vanilla before today's tale:  Today is the 106th anniversary of my mother's birth.  Mother has been with her Lord and Savior many years now, but I still miss her here on this orb.]

Years after Uncle Jep and Aunt Grace had passed, I was conversing one day with one of their nieces.  Dora was daughter to Aunt Jean.  She was a mere slip of a girl when Jep and Grace got married in 1894, but she remembered being at their wedding.  At the time of my visit with her, Dora was set to turn ninety the following month, and although she may have lost a step or two, she was still in full possession of all her marbles, so to speak.

Dora had grown up in the area with Aunt Grace and Uncle Jep, knew them well in her formative years.  As you know, my time with this wonderful couple was during their later years.  I shared a few of Uncle Jep's stories with Dora, then she opened my eyes to a side of Uncle Jep I had not known.

"Uncle Jeptha used to tell me stories, too.  They seem to be somewhat different, though, from the tales he told you.  Fortunately, when I was a girl I kept a diary, and when Uncle Jep would tell me a story, I would faithfully record it in my journal.  I was but thirteen when they moved to Colorado, so you must remember that the stories were told to a very young girl.

"My diaries from that time in my life were recorded on newsprint Daddy got in Rogersville.  Mama always said fancy books for writin' down stuff simply were outside the range of our needs.  'But,' she said, 'if you really think your life is worth writing about, you will find a way.'  And I did. Leftover ends of newsprint rolls and stubby pencils, that was my way.  I cut nice sheets, kept them in a special drawer, then when I had enough done, I would punch holes in the corners and tie them together with knitting yarn.  I am not long for this world, and there is nothing in those books of which I am ashamed, so if you would like to have them, I will get them to you."

I felt as though heaven had opened and manna had dropped into my hungry mouth!  To actually have records of Jeptha's early stories seemed a dream bigger than any I had dreamed before!  I was so excited that I actually told Cousin Dora that very thought.  She smiled and quipped, "Waal, as Uncle Jep would have said, don't get yer hopes higher'n you can reach.  They are only the scribbles of a youngster, and the tales are certainly different from what you are used to."

Dora was true to her word.  She could have been home not much more than a few days at most when she mailed the package to me.  It contained two "books" bound with red yarn.  Though she had started the diary when she was seven years old, and though it was written "with a stubby pencil," the treasure was every bit as wonderful as I had hoped.

I mailed a thank-you note with birthday wishes the very next day.  Crossing it in the mail was a letter from Dora's son, Ephraim, telling me that his mother had passed, and that she had mentioned, during her last day of life, how much she appreciated the time spent with me reminiscing about the Old Auntie and Uncle Jeptha.

© 2014 David W. Lacy 45

Dog Tales and Pickle Jar #T

Did I ever tell you about Coonrod Smithers 'n his hounds?

Uncle, says I, you told me about Coonrod and the congressman only a week ago.

Why, says Uncle, so I did.  I recollect we leave Coonrod standin' aneath the big sycamore along of the congersman, 'n Jack 'n Jill.  So le's move 'em fum under there whilst we wait for Sam.

Waal, Al 'n Smithers, they leash the dogs an' head on back home, amblin' along, fur piece to go, but no hurry to get there.  'Sides, the dude is not use ta scrabblin' thoo rocks 'n scrub ina dark.  Anyways, they greeted loudly by the dogs pen up ta home, 'n jes' as they open the gate, Abraham let out a fe-rocious "Ur-A-ur-urrr," an' sure 'nuff, the first crack a daylight appear in the East!  Thet ol' speckled cock shorely keep time, right enough.  He think he make the sun come up, I do b'lieve.

Coonrod stir up a farr in the kitchen stove, crack open a dozen brown hen eggs, stir 'em up with a drap a milk, chunk a hunk a butter size a yer fist in thet ol' black skillet, let 'er sizzle, 'n thow in them eggs.  Bit a streak o' lean sizzlin' in Henry Adam, Rod's gran'ma's fryin' pan, 'n whilst breakfas' a cookin', Al 'n Rod partake a couple snorts a Peck's pizen.  "Whoo-ee!" say Alfred.  "'Em are some squeezin's!

Waal, they get down to bidness, devour them vittles 'n talk hound.  "I tell ya, Al, ol' pal, I once shuck the dumbest dog on God's green earth off on a slicker fum Asheville.  Dog one a them accidental dogs.  Dam was a beagle, 'n sire was on'y God above know whut.  But hit were a purty thang, an' I work her anyway.  Good nose, but no sense, ya see.  Anyways, she'd track 'n she'd bay, but on'y heaven know whut she mought tree.  Let her off leash one moonup, she catch scent 'n holler fum here to Kentuck, mought nigh.  Wind up the crack a dawn twenty mile fum home with a chipmunk up a tree!

So this Everett guy, fum over to Carolina, here lookin' my dogs, see this oddball, tricolor she were, but dumb.  "Thet dog hunt?' he says.

"She shorely do," I say.  Bein' the righteous fella I am, I went on,"She will fin' scent or tree quarry, but whut she tree may not be the biggest coon you ever see."

"Wha' cha want for her?"

"Oh," says I, "she not yet thow'd a litter, 'n I sorta 'spect ta use her fer stock, accounta she have such a fine nose."

Anyway, we haggle back 'n forth a bit, 'n he pay me seventy dollars* fer the bitch.  Three week later I get a letter fum Everett.  He write, "First time out with Mollie she raise a coon right off.  Coon knows he is tailed, runs to my pond other side the pasture.  I came up on her in time to see the coon take to water, swim out about twenty feet and wait for the dog.  She come up, leap into the water.  Coon waits.  When dog gets near enough, that raccoon jump on the damn dog's head, hold her under until she doesn't move any more.  Coon swims off, and $70 floats to the surface, deader than last week's pork chop.

"Not that you didn't warn me that that was one sorry dumb dog, but could you make some sort of adjustment on my loss?"

I write back 'n say, "Certainly.  I got a whole passel a pups ya kin pick from, 'n prices range from $70 and up."

Well, the congersman got in his swell rig, head home with two fine Redbone Coonhounds trottin' along ahind on they tethers.  An' Coonrod is chunkin' a sack a new Morgan's an' a couple a banknotes inta the stone crock where he store his not-likker.

*If seventy dollars seem small potatoes to you, consider that in 1888 a retail clerk might earn $10 a week for eighty hours work, while a skilled workman in a factory could make perhaps twelve dollars a week.

© 2014 David W. Lacy 42

Coonrod, Coon Hounds, and the Congressman #T

Did I ever tell you about Coonrod Smithers ‘n the Congersman?  I know Coonrod when we live over to Virginny, ‘twoulda been, oh, 1888 thereabouts when I first met him.  I, a boy, ‘course was always attracted ta dogs, ‘n a' course huntin’ was a big thang, too.

Now Coonrod’s real name were Rodney Smithers.  He breed ‘n train Redbone Coonhounds,’n more, he would drop ever’thin’ to go a huntin’, so ever’one call him “Coonrod.”  He tell me one time thet he was born a couple ridges yonder, ‘n down in the holler, thet his birth name was Rodney Smith.  But he grow up to fin' thet ever’one thereabouts was name Rodney Smith, or so it seem to him.  Why, he said, I could pick up a rock, shut mah ahs, give hit a heave, ‘n hit a Rod Smith whutever way she went.  Anyways, he think on a way to solve the prollem, make hisself more unique, ya mought say.  He first think to change his first name, but he was afeard he mought need ta pick one a them Bible names, you know, that no one else have never heard of, like Hophni, or, Zeruiah.  Nah, he din’t like thet.  Too unique, mayhap.  So then he thought, Why, I shoulda thunka this afore.  I’ll jes’ add “e-r-s” ta th’ enda mah las’ name.  Fum this day for’d I’ll be Rodney Smithers!  An’ thet work fer him.  So like I say, ever’one call him “Coonrod.”

Waal, Coonrod raise Redbone 'hounds, train ‘em, run ‘em.  An’ he hev a few other hounds aroun’, too, you know, beagles an’ the like.  Kep’ a brace a big ol’ bloodhounds, Ezra an' Nehemiah was they names.  Kep’ 'em fer the sheriff who use 'em right frequent in thet region, I mean a man could get lost an’ hid out twel the resurrection, were he a mind to.  Anyway, people come fum all over the Cumberland, even fum as far away as Washington Dee Cee.  No, really.  He one time had a senator or such-like drive all the way down to see his animals.  Man drive inta the burg an’ ask aroun’ where kin I fin’ Redbone Coonrod?  Like he think that is Smithers’ name.  Well, people thereabouts moughty suspicious people in tailor cut duds ‘n drivin’ a carriage with a pair hosses woulda cost a king’s ransom anywhere on earth.  

Waal, Ed Markham, you shoulda known Ed.  Whut a character!  Ed had been around some, an’ he not on’y had seen the elephant, he could tell the tale twel tears run out your eyes fum laughin’!  Or f'um cryin', for thet matter, if'n hit were a sad tale.  Ed Markham know this dude, re-cog-nize he is the Yewnited States Congersman fum the next district to th’ north.  So the man’s bonafides is establish.  An’ he din’t really drive thet rig all the way fum Dee Cee; he were home durin’ campaign time, take a day off fum stumpin’ to clear his mind, he tell Coonrod.

Waal, this congersman know his hounds, ‘n excited?  I guess not.  He tell Coonrod he never see purtier dogs anywhere, ‘n he been lotsa wheres.  So nothin’ would do but thet the gentleman stay over ‘n run some dogs with Coonrod thet night.

Waal, Smithers have a pair a hounds he like ta run together, on account one has the better nose, yet t'other is better at tree.  An' atween 'em, no coon gonna escape.  The sun set; darkness settle on, slow-like, then the moon rise, 'n the hunt is on!  Coonrod an' Alfred, the guest's name is Alfred, walk up the ridge 'bout a mile, Jack and Jill to leash.  Jill have the nose.  They settle aneath a huge beech tree, unclip the leashes.  Away!  Soon enough, Jill excitedly cries "Scent!" then settles into bay as she and Jack follow the quarry through the woods.  Coonrod, listenin' carefully, know ever' meanin' of ever' yip 'n beller, know right where the dogs are at ever' moment, and soon know right where they headin'.  He and Al, they are now "Al" and "Rod" to each other, begin the long night walk, knowin' that at the end the prey will be high up a tree.

Then, Jill still speakin', Jack cries, "Tree!" and the arrh! arrh! arrh! that signals the end of the chase continues until our stalwart hunters join the hounds at the base a huge sycamore.

© 2014 David W. Lacy 41

Heaven #T

Did I ever finish tellin' you about the day Jonas Hurd damn me to hell?  Waal, Preacher gone on out ahead, 'n Grace and I, we were a walkin' tord the door 'n th' whole time I'ma thinkin' whut am I gonna say to Hurd if he's awaitin' there on the porch to re-ceive the congrat-u-lations a th' people on his fine sermon this mornin'.  Sure 'nuff. There he stand.

Now, you know me.  I have allus been one to strike whilst th' arn is hot, take th' bull by the horns, doncha know?  So when he put out his hand to shake mine, I quick-like grasp all four a his fingers in my hand an' squeeze.  He have a moughty big hand befittin' a moughty big man.  But I know if he grasp my han' I will not get home twel he was ready to let me go home.  So I have a pretty powerful grip, and as luck would have it, my hand reach around his fingers.  "Fine message, Brother Hurd," I say, "I shorely pray thet them whut need it will heed it afore it is too late."  Grace standin' aside me have her right hand in the crook a my left elbow.  She make a fist an' poke me in the ribs.  Hard.  I look at her, and her face is all made up in a disapprovin' scowl.  Lies!  Account I look into her eyes, an' the truth is dancin' there to the tune of laughter.  But she keep silence.

Waal, I release a startled an' still silent Jonas an' say, "By the way, do let us know when thet new young'n get here!"  And we traipse on down the steps, past the hitchin' rails, an' inta the road, where we turn left tord home.  We scarce ten steps along, an' certain'y not yet outa earshot the door a the church when Grace bust out full-bore with thet musical laugh she have.  She catch her breath in a minute and say, "He truly skin you this mornin', stretch, n salt yore hide, 'n nail it to the woodshed wall!"  Then she laugh some more.

Waal, you have to b'lieve me when I tell ya thet the rabbits in the grass poke their ears up, whilst the squirrels climb down headfirst, ahangin' on the trunk a th' trees to get a glimpse a th' wonderful creature whut make such musical sounds in their woods.  Even Owl open his eyes, right in broad daylight, to get a peek at this wonder!

Then we start to skip.  I'm not a lyin'.  We were skippin'!  Skip near halfway home, twel we mos' near use up the strenth we need to get us the last mile a the journey.  We sit for a few minutes on a big branch thet lightnin' had knock out th' walnut tree last week to catch our breath.

"I love you, Silly Man," crooned Grace.

"And you know I love you, Darlin' Angel.  I'ma livin' in Heaven right here on Earth!"

© 2014 David W. Lacy 39

Damned #T

Did I ever tell you about the time the preacher send me to hell?  Oh, yes; right there in church, too, of a Sunday mornin'.  I was still a young man, 'n Grace 'n I had walk over ta Church on a glorious Spring mornin'.  Now our reg'lar preacher, Harley Marston, had been ask ta preach at the big First Church in Kingsport, huge brick buildin', white steeple a pointin' ta heaven.  Why, it seem thet steeple almost reach to heaven, sometimes. He accept, a course.  He arrange for Jonas Hurd to fill the pulpit on this day, and fill it he could!

Now Jonas were a deacon in th' church, 'n a jackleg preacher.  Mountain of a man, he were.  Goliath come to mind.  In fact, the kids over to Plum Grove School call him Goliath.  Ahind his back.  To his face, they call him "Mr. Hurd, Sir."  Hurd farm over by the school, an' he is the trustee that oversee the teacher, 'n he is responsible for the properties 'n all thet sorta thing.  Jonas work five or six acres tabaccy, 'n it's a well-known secret thet he run a still sommers back in his woods.  Take good care his fambly, though, an' this mornin' there sit Maudine Hurd, center th' front row to the right of the preacher, three a her kids on one side a her, four on th'other.  She set to deliver the eighth, too, any day now, hit look like.

Anyway, Hurd takes the platform, plops his Bible down on the pulpit, raises both hands, look to the ceiling 'n holler with a mighty voice, "Lard, give us a voce a thunder 'n a tongue a farr as we divide thy holy Word of truth to these sinners among us.  Ay-men, 'n ay-men."  I do believe the Lord coulda heard him wheresoever He moughta been.  All creatures could have heard him two mile around.

Then he light in.  "Look to God's Word, Revelation, chapter twenty-one, 'n verse eight."  His Bible is sittin' there on the pulpit, but he not needin' to look at hit, account he know what he gonna say.  An' he quote, "But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is "the second death."  

Now he is loaded for bear.  "Now we good folk, here.  Wouldn' you say we was good folk? They's no fearful unbelievers, no a-bom'nable nor murderers amongst us, well as fer all those sinners I jes' read about, we are not them.  Are we?  But wait!  Liars!  All liars!  But Brother Hurd, you say, we'ns not liars.  Really? Whut is a lie?  Is a lie vicious 'n mean?  Oh, it kin be.  Is a lie told to hurt someone, or to gain a  edge on someone?  Oh, it kin be."  And right here, Jonas step from behind the pulpit and walk to his left, all the way to the left side th' platform.  Where he stood direckly afront of me, me a sittin' third row back, next th' wall.

"Oh," he shout, "but a lie is any untruth.  It is a tale told big, stretch beyond the limits of whut really happen.  It is in innocent fun.  NO!  It is a lie, an' all liars shall have their part in the lake of farr.  Oh, sinner,"  'n he is lookin' direckly inna my eyes, "do not let your lyin' tongue be cast inta hell farr, along a the rest a yore body, where parched 'n swollen hit will writhe in agony along of th' rest a yore body, forever 'n ever.  For all eternity.

"Kin you imagine?  All eternity.  You cannot.  See brother Seth a sittin' just yonder?  Brother Seth has live ninety an' nine years, 'n yet the span a his life is no more'n a flyspeck on th' vault a God's sky above, compared to whut eternity is.  Oh, sinner, repent of your lyin' ways.  Prostrate yourself afore God Almighty 'n plead, beg, I say, for His gracious mercy on yore sorry soul afore it is too late." 

With that, Goliath step down fum the platform, Bible under his arm, 'n march straight down the aisle 'n out the front door.

I look at Grace, she look at me, 'n 'thout a word, we rise together and head tord the door.


© 2014 David W. Lacy 38

Aaron Gets Home #T

Did I ever tell you how Aaron Moss make his trip to Virginia after I tell him "no"?  Waal, I bleeve I tell you Moss was some mad when he left here.  I tell him check for trains, 'n I learn much later thet he drive on in to Lamar to do jest thet.  He park his Ford by the depot, 'n is walkin' over to the agent when he run inta Estel Estep.  Then I get the story from Estel when I take Grace over to town to get some yard goods, 'n "notions," as she call 'em.

"Hidy, Uncle Jep!" say Estel as I was astandin' afront th' Mercantile.  I am surely glad to run into you, on account I been needin' to see you.  Not on'y do I have a tale to tell, I have a package for you under the back seat the car.  Can we walk on over and get hit?  There, the Reo, just yonder."  He points.

"Sure, Estel, I'll walk with ya.  Needin' sump'n ta pass the time.  How you?  Marcy?"

"Oh, just swell, Uncle.  We come in from McClave this mornin', Marcy doin' some shoppin'.  You know how it is with the ladies.  Now see, it was the middle July when I run inta Aaron.  He tell me his daddy die, 'n he wantin' to get home.  "Wouldn' be a chance you could drive me over to Clinchport, would there?"  he says.  "I'd pay fer the gas and th' eats on the road."

Well, now.  Marcy had jes' been on me about she wantin' to see her mama, an' I been a draggin' my feet.  Opportunity often knock on'y one time.  I say, "Why, Aaron, I am glad you ask.  Marcy 'n me would be glad to carry you over to Clinchport.  What say we leave, five of a mornin'?"

"I spare you the details, but we got our campin' gear together, tie four spare tires to the top, 'n take off for the hills.  It warn't twel we were on the road thet Aaron start in on you.  'Dod busted, dad blasted, ding blamed. . . 'n on and on. . .  cheapskate, miserable ol' Coot."  Man, you musta really rub his fur the wrong way!"

"Waal." says I, "if you spend long enough time to get him to Virginny and back, then there is nothin' I could tell you thet you don't already know."  Estel roared with laughter.

Estel continue with his report.  "So we get to the hills, Aaron look up his sister, 'n she's no spring chicken.  Did Aaron tell you his pa was over a hunnert when he die?  Yep, had ta be, too, on account Mavis gotta be more'n eighty.  Well, they two 'n 'm gonna take care they pa's bidness, 'n we will pick the old man up on Monday-- four days down the road.

"Then as we are standin' aside the car sayin' our farewells to Mavis, she hand a package to Aaron and say, 'Please to take this to Jep Miller, Brother.  There are some little things there for him, and for Grace, too.'  'Har!' snort Aaron.  'Take it with ya when ya die, 'n give it to him in Hell!'  He drop the package on the ground, scoot around and get in the car.

Long story short, I pick up the package an' sneak it into a spare tire, then later when we a campin' the night, I hid hit under the back seat.  Here, I'll get it for ya."

"Waal, I thank ya most kindly, Estel.  I'll let Mavis know we got hit.  Most likely Grace is done shoppin' by now, 'n here come Marcy, too."  Tip my hat.  "Howdy, Ma'am.  Fine day, idn't hit?

"Oh, by the by, Estel, did Aaron ever thank you fer the trip?"

"He did, Uncle.  Paid all the expenses, too, and give me a exter five dollar bill when I drop him ta home."

© 2014 David W. Lacy 37

Hot Day, Hothead, and Hay #T

Did I ever tell you about the time I get crossways of ol' Aaron Moss? You know Aaron.  Crankiest ol' man ever walk the earth.  You think I'm cranky?  Spend a day with ol' Moss.  No, spend five minutes with him.

Now I know Aaron since the bear come over the mountain.  He 'n his daddy live over on the Clinch when I was a kid.  Waal, Aaron come on out West along a th' rest a us when we all come out here in oh-three.  He settle over atween Bristol and Granada, do all right.  Jes' on'y hisself, ya know, ol' hard head bachelor.  Never marry, luckier the women, I say.

Anyway, one miserable hot summer day, '27 I think hit was, maybe '28, me a mowin' hay on Mark's place.  I have thet mower I get from Ames over to Towner.  You remember Ames?  Nah, not Robert, thet's not hit.  What was his name?  Sorta uncommon name, hit were.  Oh, yes.  Oren.  Oren Ames, married Mildred Tuttle fum over to Lamar, y'know.  Her daddy was the Express agent over there.  So I have this team, Clyde and Aubrey, a pullin' 'n a ring come loose on the doubletree.  Din't break off, y'know, but needin' attention afore it does.

So I'ma sittin' there on a stump, a bindin' and a twistin' some hay warr around the thang, when this rattledy ol' T-model drive up 'n stop.  I first din't re-cognize thet Ford, then ol' Moss, he get out, amble over where I'ma workin', asnappin' his galluses 'n atwirlin' thet toothpick he allus have atween his teeth.

"Hey, Miller!" he say.  "I see ya broke down agin, allus sump'n breakin' on account a ya too cheap ta buy new.  All a time buyin' someone else's headaches."

"And a good day to you, too, Moss.  Whut kin I do fer ya?"  See, I know he din't come all th' way out here fer nothin'.

"I get right to the p'int.  Too hot ta stand here ajawin'.  I want you ta keer me back to Virginny.  I jes' get word my pa die.  Hunnert two year ol', he were.  I need to get back 'n settle up his affairs, see he had anythin' worth savin'."

"I am sorry," says I, "for the loss a yer pa.  But, no, I cannot take you back there.  Aside fum my work and responsibilities, I hev no car, on'y thet ol' double T truck."

"No, no! No is not a cherce.  We take my car, a course."  I look at thet flivver, 'n not a recent one, either.  Prolly twelve year ol' if it's a day.

"I said 'No', Aaron.  Now run on into Lamar an' check about train schedules.  You kin get to Kingsport on the train."

Waal, Moss allus did hev a short fuse.  Hoppin' mad?  I guess not!  I thought he die on th' spot, a jumpin' up 'n down, beatin' his arms in th' air, a cussin' 'n a stompin'.  Call me ever'thin' but a gentleman, 'n as he get to his car, he turn back and holler, "I'll get ya fer this, Miller.  Jes' you wait 'n see.  You'll be sorry!"

He jerk the crank, jump in an' putt on down the road.  I prolly shoulda been a little skeered.

© 2014 David W. Lacy 36

Not for Want of Trying #T

Waal, I don't have ta ask; I know I have never tole you this one.  Don't talk about it, but hit's been many year a gone now, 'n I know your curiosity is higher'n a kite, now thet I mention this a while ago.

I was a lad, seventeen, I was, a growin' up in the hills.  Stringbean, I moughta been called.  Six-three, thereabouts, 'n a hunnert seventy pound.  Wiry.  Tough, too.  Could work a fourteen hour day should it need be.

Anyway, your great grandparents live with their fambly over to the next holler.  I know them all my life.  Got six chilren, they did, 'n your grandma was the oldest the bunch.  Now she turn nineteen, she marry ol' Sam.  The next girl to her is Grace.  I know Grace since we were both in nappers, but you know, she jes' one of the kids.  Then, like I said, I am seventeen and of a sudden 'n I know not why, hit hit me thet she was the gorgeousest, most angelic creature what ever walk, an' I know I want her to my side forever and ever.  'Course I had to convince her thet is where she want to be.

Waal, thoo good fortune more than great skill, I woo that girl, win her over.  No detail needed; we jump the broomstick, I have jes' turn eighteen, 'n she is seventeen.  Now to be clear, "jump the broomstick" is on'y a manner of speakin', for we got the papers we need over to Rogersville, 'n Preacher Marston perform th' ceremony right there in Palmer Baptist Church.  Everythin' legal and righteous.

We have agree thet we want kids.  Lots and lots a kids, on account she come from a happy fambly with lots a kids, 'n my parents have a right smart passel 'n 'm, too.  Seem the right thing to do.  So we do the right thing, 'n behole! Grace is with child.  Two happier younguns you never see!  But it warn't to be.  On'y two month after she tell me the good news, she tell me when I come in from work of an evenin' thet she lost the child thet afternoon.

We grieve some, 'course we did.  But soon enough, she tell me good news again.  An' this time it go the same as it did with the first one.  Two sadder people you never hope to meet.  So this time we go over to Doc Barrett, an' we talk with him, 'n he examine the little lady, 'n we talk some more.  He advise us that it is likely Grace cannot bear chilren, an' it would be wise for us to take steps to avoid pregnancy.

This is when we decide to pull outa the hills and start a new life away fum the folk we grow up with.  We move to Colorado.  After a while, we go to the city to talk with a special sort of doctor.  He tell us the ol' doctor in the hills was right, 'n the best thing for us is for Grace to have surgery, insure her well-being, doncha know.

Thet was a long time ago.  The rest of the story you know.  You see afore you the two barren ol' people we have become.  Plans in this ol' life don't always work out the way we want, but we are blessed.  We have whut we need, we have friends and neighbors, lots of lovin' nieces 'n nephews, 'n I still have the most angelic woman on this Earth, an' life goes on.

© 2014 David W. Lacy 34

Captain George

Did I ever tell you about your fambly's military hero?  Captain George, that would be.  Amazin' how a man rises in rank after the service is over, idn't it?  Waal, a course you don't have any idee whut I'ma talkin' about.

George was your Aunt Grace's grandfather.  Oh, yes; that would mean he was your grandma's grandfather, too, so he is your great-great grandfather, if I count aright. At any rate, George was born around 1825, so by the time hostilities were a wamin' up atween us and Mexico, this strappin' young fella decide he is fit to fight, so he join th' army, an' the army in its wisdom ship him aroun' here 'n there, have him clerkin' mos'ly.  Now I check this out with the archives, on account I had been tol' so many stories about the glory of "Cap'n George" when he serve in th' army.  His record clearly show that he rise all the way to "Private" in the service, 'n that he had a spotless record, so far as performin' his duties.

So he get out the army 'n go on back home to Hawkins County, 'n I reckon on account he served the country honorably, folk begin to call him "Cap'n."  An' it stick, twel his chilren and gran'chilren actual come to believe he was a officer in th' US Army.  People begin to tell tales of his military exploits, 'n by the time Mary an' Grace are young women, ever'one know that ol' George was a mighty hero, a fightin' man, successfully engage th' enemy and live to tell about it.

Waal, sir, you know me.  Ol' Jep Miller allus believe in honor to him to who it is due.  But th' tales was jes' a gettin' too powerful to believe, 'n thet is why I research ol' George's military history.  Now I want to take nothin' away fum th' man.  Un'erstan' that he perform his duties as they was give to him, and thet he was a honorable man.  But he never get farther fum home 'n Richmon', 'n he never engage anyone in combat, lessen he hafta protec' his personal gear in his quarters.  I dunno about thet.

So Private George in the US Army get a mighty promotion to Captain George in private life.

© 2014 David W. Lacy  32

Shoemaker, Make Me a Shoe #T

Did I tell you about the time my Uncle Mumford broke the Hammer?  Not what you are thinkin’.  Uncle Mumford an Aunt Louise live over to Rye Cove, Louise were a Boxley, you know from over to Pennington Gap.  The Boxleys quite prominent, they was.  Own the grist mill, have a bakery and run the general store over there.  Prosperous, too, they were.  But Louise, she fall hard for Mumford.  Meet him at a community sing.  Mought be his mellow voice win her over afore she even get to know him.  I dunno.  Anyways, they been wed now over fifty year, so I guess things work out.

But the time I speak of now, Mumford were still a young man, oh, not all that young; had teenage kids ‘n all.  Now he work for Carter Boskin.  Carter were the Hammer.  That’s whut I call him, on account ever’body look to Carter like he is a nail needin' ta be driv.  Demandin’est, meanest, onriest ol’ skinflint ever come through the Gap.  Like the Boxleys over to Pennington, Boskin own up most the main bidness in Rye Cove.  But he nothin’ like the Boxleys who is the kindest, honestest folk on the face a th’earth.  Anyway, Carter, he think since Mumford work for him for fifteen year that he had him pretty well hammered, could tell him to do whatever he want.  Now Mumford, he run the shoe shop for Boskin, an’ he were a fine craftsman, make leather goods and shoes the envy of ever’one.  So Boskin get it in his head to open another shoe shop over to Big Stone Gap, an’ he tell Uncle Mumford to go on over to the Gap two days a week and work out that shop.

“Say what?” my  Uncle ask.  How I’ma get to and from Big Stone Gap?”

Carter not used to being questioned, roar, “What good is that new Ford you got, you don’t drive it?  You take your car, of course."

”What kind travel allowance I get for thet?”

“I give you two dollars a week.  More’n enough to pay fer the gas for two trips. You come out ahead.”

“I come out ahead?  Whut about the tarrs, an’ whut about th’ wear ‘n tear on my vehicle?  Whut about th' extry time?  I cain’t do that fer two dollars a week.”

“You cain’t do that?”  Carter raises his voice even higher, shout, “You cain’t do that?  You will do that.  You work for me, ‘n I give the orders around here.”

“No.”

“Whut did you say?”

Very calmly, and with no rancor in his voice, Mumford reply, “I say ‘No.’  I will not do that for two dollars.  You add hours to my week, you give me no raise, an’you jus’ tell me to wear my car out to make you e’en richer’n whut you already are. No.”

“That, Mr. Miller,” in his iciest tone, “is insubordination.”

“Duly noted.”

“Yer farred!  Get offa my propity.”

So then, you mought ask, were you attendin’ to my tale, how did Mumford Miller break the Hammer? Mumford start a shoe shop in his home, a back-alley operation ya mought say.  Warn’t hardly weeks gone by twel Mumford had all the bidness he had over to Boskin’s store, ‘n Boskin with the new shoemaker he had harr’d, youngster fum Kingsport, had nothin’ goin’ on in his store.  Couldn’t pay the he'p, whole place a drain on his re-sources.  Carter were some mad, but he swallow his pride and go to Mumford, beg him to come back, offer him more money, no foolishments about travelin’ ta Big Stone Gap.

“No,” said Mumford.  “I have a thrivin’ bidness my own now, I don’t need ta work fer any old penny-pinchin’ skinflint, and thet 'specially means you, Mr. Boskin.”

“I understand.  But, truth be told, thet store is killin’ me.  Tell you whut I’ll do.  I’ll sell you the equipment an’ the building as she stand.  Nothin’ down, say $90 a month twel you pay me off.”

“I din’t hear anything about how many months this $90 go on.”

“Why a bargain like that, you will want to retarr in twenty year.  So, until you retarr.  Then I will pass the deed over to you.  You sell or rent the buildin'.  Nice nest egg fer your old age.”

“So again I am workin’ for you.”  Tell you whut I will do.  I’ll move my bidness into thet building, change the name to “Miller and Boskin,’ give you one American dollar, cash money, an’ in exchange you will give me the deed to the buildin’ and a bill of sale for the contents.  Your name will still be in the eye a the community ‘n you will have nothin’ whatsoever to do with the bidness outside a thet.”  Take it or leave it.”

He tuk hit.

© 2014 David W. Lacy

Name Game

"Uncle," I said, "I was telling Mama some of your family history story, about how your  great- great grandfather had five children, and all their names started with 'J' except for Elspeth.  She told me to ask you how did it happen that Jephthah Loughmiller name all his kids with a first initial 'J,' but then name the second girl 'Elspeth.'"

"Whut?" said Uncle Jeptha. "I tol' your mama how thet come to be.  Did she ferget?'

"No, Uncle.  She remembers, but she thought I would enjoy the story more if you told it to me."  Stroke his ego a bit, you see.

"Waal, then." replied Uncle Jep, as he stroked his whiskers.  When he does that, I am never quite sure whether he is searching his memory for a fact, or working his loom to create the whole cloth of a new tale. "I ask my grandmother about thet one time.  She tell me this Jephthah Loughmiller have a beautiful wife name Juliana.  They have three boys and the girl, Joanna.  Then during her fifth pregnancy, tragedy come to the little fambly and Juliana pass away.  This leave Jephthah with four chilren to rear, includin’ the little girl who is now but three year old.

"But good fortune befall Loughmiller when he marry another young woman who love him dearly, but more, she love the chilren.  She do her best to care for 'em all.  Then she find herself with child.  While they awaitin’ the happy day, Jephthah an’ Elena, his wife name is Elena, discuss the namin’ a the chile.  They have pick 'Jeptha' if it is a boy, but they have a time decidin’ on a girl’s name.  Jeff, he want to call the girl 'Jillian' but Elena know thet is a dimin, diminu, oh, a pet name for 'Juliana,' an’ while she love Jephthah dearly, she draw the line at namin’ the girl after his first wife.  So they finely agree on 'Elspeth' an’ when she come, that were her moniker.

© 2014 David W. Lacy

Tennessee Reunion #T

I mention a while ago thet my cousin, Harvey Loughmiller stop by to visit.  Did I tell you about the fambly reunion he thow fer ever'body back in '28?  Waal, Harvey, he decide that all the fambly should get together, rebind the fambly ties, ya see.  So he start invitin' one 'n all to his farm over by Caney Creek.  Harvey have him a amazin' spread over there.  Hundreds of acres, he has accumulated, hills and hollers, timber and bottoms, and he has prospered, that would be the word for hit.

Well, gettin' the word out, fambly scattered 'round as they were, got to be a problem fer him and his wife, May Dean.  So he decide to take out ads in the newspapers, had hit printed up in Rogersville, in Kingsport, in Stone Gap and Newport.  Run it in Bristol, too, an' for the Lockmillers what go to Texas, and the Millers now out here, he send invitations to all he could locate.

His ad say, "Big Family Reunion! to be held at the home of Harvey and May Dean Loughmiller, September 1,2,3, Caney Creek Farm, Rogersville, Tennessee.  Bring your musical instruments, your tents and blankets, and bring your big, open and loving hearts.  Loughmillers, Lockmillers, Millers, Whitacres, and Whitakers, all descendents of Jephthah Loughmiller should be here!

"Shucks, if you are a friend of any of the Jephthah Loughmiller clan, come along too.  Plenty of space for everyone's tent, and plenty of food for everyone!"

Well, sir, near as we could figure they were three hundred seventeen people there!

Harvey had put his har'd hands to work gettin' the place ready.  They had fix parkin' space for a hunnert cars, they had dug latrines and set up extry outhouses.  Set up a dormitory in the barn loft for them as din't have tents.  Th' old ones would stay in guest rooms in the main house.   They prepare pits for hog roastin' 'n I believe they go through five, maybe six hogs.  May Dean an' all the cousins who live in Hawkins County pitch in an' prepare baked goods twel you would not believe.  Bread, pies, an' cookies by the hunnerts.

Reconnectin', that's what hit's all about!  Why, catchin' up with kin! Little kids from near-newborns to great-grandpas.  The oldest ones there was the Elspeth Whitacre granddaughters, 94 year ol' twins, they was.

Entertainment?  Oh, my.  Hill people allus been able to make they own.  Mandolins, fiddles, dulcimers, ever' sort a string instrument, many build by the musician whut play 'em.  Singers!  Lord 'a mercy, thet clan were blessed with voices to thrill th' angels.  The Lockmillers from Texas had a quartet, sing in closest harmony you ever hear!  An' my uncle, Rumford Miller, baritone voice transport you to heaven. Anyway, the music go on day 'n night. Townfolk drive out ta hear the music!

Excitement?  Waal, you might imagine the thrill of seein' uncles an' cousins you ha'n't see in ages.  An' sport?  Baseball fer ever'one 'n games fer the kids.  See thet horseshoe nailed above the barn door there?  Thet there is my trophy fer winnin' the horseshoe pitchin' contest.  Hah!  Fool them ol' buzzards, I did.  I allus been purty good at shoes, an' I kep' my hand in over the years.  You know that, boy; I whup up on you right frequent, don't I?

The best show, though, were put on by Cousin Abe Miller f'um over to Rye Cove an' Cousin Marvin Lockmiller from Dothan, Alabama.  The singin' were goin' on, prolly a hunnert people gathered 'round listenin'.  The group whut tuk the stage jes lay a finishin' touch on "Wildwood Flower."  I tell ya, those folk over on the Holston got nothin' on this fambly, come to singin'.  Waal, sir, Abe 'n Marvin were standin' to'rd the back the crowd.  Standin' nose to nose, they were, an' they voices startin' to gettin' louder 'n louder, twel when the music stop, they coulda been heard to Rogersville.  Marvin screamin' "Anyone vote for Hoover is a mo-ron!"  An' Abe come back with, "Who you callin' a moron?"

Hunnert or more eye witnesses by now, an' yet not one could ever say who thow the first fist.  But go at it?  I guess not!  They was punchin' an' kickin', grabbin', and dreckly they was rollin' on the groun', clench in a death struggle, bitin' 'n clawin', an', no lie, still hollerin'.  Now it was "Say Uncle!"  'n "Hah! You say Uncle!" So four five a th' ol' uncles finely separate 'em.  They stagger to the well an' bathe they wounds 'n by the time they was breathin' steady again, they was best pals.  Hang out with one another along of they wives the whole rest of the party.

We wind it all up Labor Day afternoon, all gather together, hold hands in a big ol' double ring and sing "Will the Circle be Unbroken."

© 2014 David W. Lacy

Jed Miller

Uncle Jep and I  climbed down from the roof of the new shed.  Our shingling job was blessedly finished!  There is never a good time to shingle, in my opinion.  But it is a satisfaction when it is done.  We dropped our hatchets and nail aprons on the grass and sat down on the well-curb to enjoy some of that cool refreshment from the depths.

"Did I tell you that Cousin Harvey Loughmiller drop by for a visit last week?"

"No.  You are a Miller and you have a cousin named "Loughmiller?

"Oh, indeed.  A lot an 'em.  Ha'n't I ever tell' you 'bout my kinfolk?  Well, sir, I grow up in Hawkins County and Scott County, too, a bit later on.  Now, see, the Millers, our Millers, I mean, descend f'um the Loughmillers.  So how come I'm not a Loughmiller?  Long story, but the roof is done, we have time.

"George Loughmiller come over from Holland back afore the Yew-ess-ay were a nation, 'bout 1760, folks reckon.  He land in Pennsylvania and settle there.  He have a son, Jephthah, 'n Jephthah decide  after the Revolution is over to move Westward. That is how he happen to be in Hawkins County.  He settle there, raise a family.   He have three sons, Jedidiah, Jonathan, and Jerome-- some folk say his whole name were Jereboam, I dunno, anyway, he alway call hisself Jerome.  Plus Jephthah had two daughters, Joanna 'n Elspeth.

"So Jedediah grow up and have a fambly his own, start to prosper real good.  He decide he need to learn to sign his name, as he like to buy up property now an' again, an' he din't wan make a "X" for his mark.  But he soon l'arn that writin' 'Jedediah Loughmiller' were a real chore. Not on'y that, but many people see his name call him 'Low miller,' or  'Loff miller,' 'n he get tired correcting them.  So he decide to call hisself  'Jed Miller.'  An he done hit, make hit legal, too.  Oh, he talk hit over with his brothers, 'n they's no hard feelin's, in fack Jonathan decide to call hisself  'Jonathan L-o-c-k-miller' in order to he'p people call his name aright.  Then on'y Jerome, he stay a 'L-o-u-g-h-miller.'

"Joanna and Elspeth both marry into th' Whitacre clan there in Hawkins County.  Now, Jed Miller were my great-great-grandpa, an' I have lots a Miller cousins.  But they's a whole raft a shirt-tail cousins, Loughmillers, Lockmillers, 'n Whitacres.  Had us a big ol' fambly reunion onc't, right there in Rogersville, '28, I think hit was.  Yep, '28, on account thet were the year Hoover were runnin' agin Al Smith fer President.  Oh, yes.  Smith take on'y eight states, an' Tennessee go fer Hoover, but not ever'one in that fambly gatherin' were republican.  Good times, thet get-together!

"Oh, here come your Aunt Grace.  We best be gettin' ready to put the feed bag on!"

© 2014 David W. Lacy