School's Out #T

 Burrell:  Chapter 1 here.

Chapter 2

The boys had celebrated their thirteenth birthday on a Sunday.  This was a particular boon to them, for chores, except for milking, and tasks of all sorts were laid aside on Sunday, the "day of rest."

There was no big party, of course, but their nine sisters and the parents made over them something fierce and there seemed to be nothing they would not do for them.  Thirteen!  In that time and place they had been conditioned to believe that attaining the age of thirteen was tantamount to achieving manhood.  And they were, indeed, strong young men, not yet quite as tall as Father, but they had long since passed their mother in height.  And as great as birthdays are, each boy felt in his heart that the coming Friday was even more significant.

On Friday, February 13, 1850, Cooter and Scooter along with a gaggle of sisters made their way, shuffling through a skiff of new snow, to the log schoolhouse.  And today was the last day for the twins.  Just at noon, Schoolmaster Jenkins pushed all the benches against the back wall and assembled the children in a celebratory circle around Ansel Williford, Daisy Norton, and the twins.

 "These four scholars," intoned Mr. Jenkins, "ahem, have successfully completed their studies here at Little Flat Lick School.  I suspect I have little left that I could teach them, but I pray fervently that they have learned enough here to keep the fire of learning burning within themselves that they might continue to be Learners so long as they shall live."

"Now I have the honor of presenting these certificates to the honorees.  Ladies first.  Miss Daisy Norton, these eight years with you have been my pleasure and I wish you God's blessings and all happiness throughout your life.  Congratulations.

"Ansel Williford, you have challenged me for ten terms in more ways than you will ever know.  The row was sometimes hard for you to hoe, but you persevered, stuck with it until you were able to pass all the prescribed courses.  Congratulations.

"Scooter Burrell, Cooter Burrell, if I call one of you I would never know if the right one turned to to receive his certificate."

"Oh, no, Mr. Jenkins, sir.  We would not trick you on this day, lest perhaps we would not be official!"

Everyone laughed, including Mr. Jenkins.  "All right, then, Cooter please step forward."  He did.  "Cooter, the challenges that you and your brother have laid at my doorstep have been many and memorable.  Yet I am proud that you have come to this moment in your life.  You have a burning interest in the affairs of the community and the country.  I foretell that you will serve your community in a capacity which will make us all proud.  Congratulations.

"Scooter, for the times you have taken a test for your brother, and for the times you allowed him to take your punishments, I forgive you."  Scooter's face blushed redder than his hair. "You fellows continue to labor under the delusion that you have me deceived, that I cannot tell you apart.  And for some time that was the case.  But I know you both too well now. A few words from your lips betray the owner of those words.  You, like your brother, have a burning passion.  Yours is for history, where we came from, and I think, the puzzle of where we are going.  I scarce need to urge you to continue your studies in history and civics.  I know you will.  I predict that you will read law and perhaps one day stand in the courts in Richmond.  Congratulations."

And with that and much back-slapping from the younger children, these four were released from school to pursue their life dreams.

TBC

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.

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

Aunt Ida #T

Wherein two merry widows set off to see the world.

Did I ever tell you about the time Aunt Ida set off on vacation?  

Ida get to Kingsport, look around a bit and think, "It's not New York, but it is a sight better 'n the Mountain.  She find a job right quick-like, an' a room in a boardin' house.  Waal, Ida were sharp, an' most afore you could say "Jack-in-the-Box," she had married.  She married good, too, on account a though the man were a bit older 'n Ida, he were right well to do.  Widower, he were, lived at the top of the city.  He din't have kids, but he had money.  Lots a money.

Well, sir, tragedy strike whoever it want, and here tragedy struck.  First off, Ida and Paul try to have chil'ren, and it look like it will happen, but the girl miscarry.  An' yet again it happen.  Then Paul drivin' in to work one mornin', same road he always take, beautiful mornin', but a truck comin' through from the left T-bone Paul's car.  Kill him outright.

Anyway, after while Ida an' her friend, Laura Biggs, Laura were a flatlander, come up from Columbia, I think it were, they decide to take a extended vacation.  Ida go downtown and buy a spankin' new Hupmobile.  The girls pin  a big roadmap the Yew-ess-ay on the wall.  Laura blindfold Ida, spin her around three times, and aim her at th' map.  Jus' like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Ida stagger to the map and stick a straight pin in it.  Pin stick smack dab in th' middle a Lake Erie.

Waal, the girls pack up they car and head on out. They drive on up to Cleveland, leisurely, doncha know.  They warn't in a hurry.  Taken in the sights along the way.  So they get to the shores a Lake Erie an' behol' it to be a ocean, so far's they can see!

It din't take the girls long to find that fun were awaitin' at Cedar P'int, so they head westward along the lake.  Arrivin' at the park, they decide to do a run-through to see what's hit all about.  Well, sir, one afternoon 'n they get hooked on them roller coasters.  Never had so much fun in they lives.

Ida says, "We got to find us a place to stay tonight so's we can do this again tomorrow."

And they did.

© 2014 David W. Lacy

Grist for the Mill

Playtime: 35 seconds.

The stories I garnered while we were sawing lumber have been written and are ready to post, and thus it is that one needs to prepare another tale. I find that my mill is turning, but there is no grist.  As I ponder this sorry state of affairs, suddenly I hear, as though he were sitting in the lounger opposite me, the voice of the Old Uncle.

Uncle Jep went on to fill me in on Aunt Ida's life in the City.

Yes, Uncle, thank you.  I think that may get me started.