Tears in Beloved

Cousins,
I won't go into the details of my Uncle Bert's death here and now, just know a dear person I loved went home.

I stayed at his home with family for many hours after his passing before leaving to stay at a cousin's home for a few days.  I'll share more about all that later.  Now I want to tell you of the journey in between.

On Tuesday I really needed some time to recover.  It is a traumatic thing to see a loved one die.  It is a blessed thing also, but it has such an impact on me each time I have been there... and as a pastor I was there more often than most folks.  Being with my Uncle was a moment that will change me more than most, I suspect.

I made my apologies to my cousin and left for Clay County - over to Double Creek, Little Creek and Gilbert's Creek where my family has lived for over 155 years.  My Great Great Great Grandpa and his brother were surveyors and between them they owned over 40,000 acres of the hills from 1804 on.  They would go across Cumberland Gap and sell land they had surveyed and claimed to folks.  They then took them to their property and helped them homestead.  The brother was John Gilbert - a State Senator for Kentucky and pretty well known in the hills.  If you have ever been in the Daniel Boone National forest in eastern KY then most likely you have been on family land taken by the government with little or no compensation.

First I went to the hillside where my Grandparents, Stephen and Myrtle Hollen lay.  Later I traveled to the head of Double Creek and met an old man whose name was a Wagers and was a distant cousin of mine.  He led me to the place where Jimmer Gray lived - another person in my stories - from "The Devil, The Dumbbull and Jimmer Gray"  a true story I tell.  I saw where my Grandma's family settled in 1844 and then went up to the fork of Big Double Creek  to wander  for a while.

I drove past Little Creek and the home where my Daddy was born.  I saw where the old apple orchard once stood.  My Grandma and Grandpa had a son they buried in that orchard 2 days after his birth.  Grandma named him Stephen, after my Grandpa.  He would have been my Uncle.  I am the 3rd Stephen Hollen, you see.

I went way back on an old road just past the park on Double Creek.  I drove slowly, way deep into the hollers and found a meadow full of wild flowers.  I pulled in and turned off the car to just sit and think for a while.

As I sat there the air was filled with hummingbirds.  Dozens of them flew through the meadow to feast on nectar of a thousand kind of wildflowers... cone flowers, black eyed Susans, Queen Anne's lace, purple loosestrife.  Their buzz filled the air.  If you sit quiet you can hear it and will recognize it as theirs.  The flowers were azure, butter yellow, purple and blue and tiny bright yellow flowers that hurt the eye to see they were so beautiful.

Like a host of dive bombers, the hummingbirds flew through a thousand dragonflies.  I have never seen so many dragonflies in my entire life.  It was like a flying circus as they played on the winds and flew all around me in the meadow.

Then other movement caught my eye.  Quietly, gently, not as dazzling were butterflies, black, yellow, blue and white.  They flew low from flower to puddle and back again.  As they flew they danced.  They danced a dance of frantic, season-ending love.  They danced a dance that has stepped to the rhythm of the seasons for all of creation.

I listened to the crickets, the tree-frogs and dozens, no hundreds of tiny musicians as they added their harmonies to the song of the hills.  They sang and danced just for me, dear cousins.  They sang of a Balm in Gilead; of a promise of more than this life.  They sang of the hills that call to those it loves.  They sang to me.  They danced a dance of healing for me.  It was as if the Creator called them from cleft and corner, from crevice and cave, from twig and vine to give me a gift me that day. 

With tears in my eyes I said, "Thank you" for this precious gift.  I sat for hours and perhaps I dozed.  As I thought to leave I saw a movement in the far end of the meadow.  Thinking it was a deer, I paused.  It was not a deer, cousins.  I was not sure what had wandered into my meadow.

I knew that elk had been released in that area, but had never seen one till that day.  I sat and watched a cow elk pace through the tall sweet grasses and part them like a sleek ocean liner parts the waters of the sea.  It was the "Amen" to a hymn of praise for the glory of the hills of my home.

I sat within a mile or so of where my ancestors had lived, toiled and died.  Just a piece from where my Daddy was born, where Aunts and Uncles laughed and loved.  I sat just down the creek from the best years of my childhood and it was like honey out of a rock.  From that meadow a balm of healing was poured.

I wish I could take you there, dear cousins.  I would that you had been at my side so I could grab your hand and say, "looky, looky there...and there, do y'all see it?  Wait, there is more, over there, cousin, see, do you see?"

I have no doubt I was lead home, to be with Uncle Bert, to be home, to pause and be refreshed.

I have traveled a lot recently, not been home as much as I want.  I am off to Delaware on Monday again and I needed that.  I needed that.  I needed to be there for my Uncle Bert and I am honored that I was called to his side.  I am blessed that I found that meadow and the balm of peace it held.

Junebug's Tattoo

Junebug Burns was one of the first to get to the cattle barn at the fairgrounds.  Carney folks had started arriving midweek and the midway was setup as Junebug's truck pulled into the gates of the grounds with ol' Sneezer in the cattle trailer.  Sneezer was the only animal in the trailer an' filled it from side to side.  Junebug just knew he was goin' to do well this year.  His last had to be his best.

As he unloaded his gear he headed into the back of the cattle barn.  The stalls an' such in the back had bigger bars for the big steers an' bulls.  Some of them big ol' Angus an' Bramas could lean on a lightweight gate an' bend it sure enough.  The small stall next to the great big stall reserved for Sneezer was Junebug's home for the next week.  Cot, mattress, clothes trunk an' tack box all went into the stall.  When it was organized to Junebug's liking, he took one more look around to make sure it would meet the critical eye of Mr. Jim Mosley, the 4H advisor for the cattle barn. 

Mr. Mosely was a former Marine an' ran the barn like a boot camp barracks.  "Keep it clean, beds made, tack put away, clothes stored an' the poop scooped up." was Mr. Mosley's mantra.  Junebug had started the rumor two years ago that Mr. Mosely had them words tattooed on his backside.  Joey Hoskins had the misfortune to believe Junebug enough that he asked Mr. Mosely about the alleged tattoo.  After Joey Hoskins was dressed down like a new recruit, Drill Sergent Mosley came lookin' for Junebug to chew on him for a while.  There was never a plug of burley tobaccer that was chewed any harder than that boy.  4Hers learned that you just didn't spread rumors about the cattle barn advisor.

In private Mr. Mosely shared the story with several of his buddies an' they all had a good laugh.  Uncle Billy Gilbert offered to pay for it if Jim Mosley would offer up his backside to the tattoo needle.  Jim Mosley graciously declined.  He did, however have his wife write the words back yonder with a fine point magic marker.  Late one night he walked into Junebug's stall where he lay reading, dropped his drawers an' showed the magic words in all their glory.  He never said a word an' walked away proudly afterward.  Junebug just sat in teenage awe...not daring to laugh or make a sound.  He felt it was some kind of "rite of passage" for Mr. Mosley to share that moment with him.

When all was ready in his stall, Junebug made the over-sized stall ready for Sneezer.  Fresh water in the big bucket, the portable manger hangin' from the side rail full of hay an' a few oats to make Sneezer feel welcome.  The dirt floor was well covered with straw, an' a grain shovel an' pitchfork stood at attention outside the stall, ready for the whims of nature to fall...ahem.  Nearby was a wheelbarrow ready to haul any "whims" outside to the compost pile.

With the gentle hand of a farm boy who loved his animals an' the quiet voice of a practiced handler, Junebug backed Sneezer out of the cattle trailer.  Cattle don't take much to walkin' backwards, so it was a testament to the trust Sneezer had that he slowly walked back an' out of the trailer with no hesitation.  'Course, Junebug had worked with the bull hundreds an' thousands of times over the last several years.  The pair paused an' Junebug patted Sneezer on the nose.  Sneezer responded by lickin' out an' almost slappin' the boy's face with his big warm tongue.  Junebug laughed an' put his face to the bull's as they stood for only a moment.  They then walked through the door of the barn an' into the stall.

After about an hour of brushing an' combing, Junebug was satisfied.  It was several days till the cattle judgin' an' the bulls were very last, so there was no real need to have the bull combed an' fluffed quite yet.  Junebug reminded Sneezer that there would be plenty of company an' they both had to look real good this year.

Before he left the barn he took out the wooden sign his Daddy had routed out for him on a solid piece of cherry wood an' hung it over the gate of the stall.  It said, "Thanks to the Farmers and Mercantile Bank for buying my Champion Steer last year."  Junebug had also showed a steer the previous year along with a Jersey heifer.  The steer had given Junebug a Champion ribbon an' had provided a nice amount of cash to go toward his college funds.  Sneezer had come in as a Champion last year as a two year old but did not win Grand Champion.  Junebug had not auctioned off Sneezer as a two year old since he wanted to enter him as a three year old - the last year that Junebug an' Sneezer would be eligible.  After this year Junebug would be off to college an' Sneezer would be out to pasture to sire dozens of offspring in the hills an' hollers around Beloved.

A quick trip through the produce barn told him Miss Hazel hadn't put out her entry yet.  There was a tradition that had to be kept.  One or two of Miss Hazel's prize tomaters always came up missin' each year after the judgin'.  Junebug an' Uncle Billy Gilbert would celebrate Miss Hazel's victory an' toast to her success with a little salt an' a wonderful, sinful red globe in hand.  Junebug Burns figured Miss Hazel deserved this for all the chasin' of Uncle Billy she did each year.  Since Aunt Del had died, Miss Hazel had made it her life's goal to end up with Billy Gilbert.  'Course, the fact she called him "Bill" instead of "Billy" told most folks she didn't know a thing about him an was about as likely to get him as a fish was to get fleas.

Down at the end of the midway was a big tent, worn lookin' if folks got too close in the day, but full of mystery at night as the barker would call to the crowd to come see Zambina the Gorilla Lady.  Zambina had become a pal of Junebug's an' he looked forward to talkin' with her over hot black coffee early one mornin' before the "rubes" showed up.  Junebug liked it that Zambina called folks "rubes" an' shared stories of the road, circuses an' countless county fairs with him.  She had showed him all the secrets of the "Gorilla Lady" show several years ago when he was a young pup.  He had looked on with wide eyes as each secret was revealed to him.  True to his promise, sworn on the shrunken head of a monkey, Junebug had never revealed the secrets to even his best friend.  Zambina was a late riser since she had late night shows, so he went on by an' down the way.

The roll of money in his pocket called to him.  The promise of food an' games an' fun seemed just a flip of a switch away.  Come dark tomorrow night an' this quiet patch of dust an' grass would become incandescent magic.  The sights an' sounds would pull at the wallets of even the most stingy.  Junebug was lookin' for the tattoo tent.  His Daddy had told him he could get one small tattoo.  Although he wasn't a Marine an' probably didn't deserve it, he had considered "semper fi" to honor Mr. Mosley.  Instead he would follow Eddie Carpenter's lead an' get a simple cross tattooed just to the side of his hipbone where it could be hidden by jeans or underwear.

It was goin' to be a good year at the fair.  Junebug just knew it.  After findin' the tattoo tent, he went back to the middle of the fairgrounds, picked out a bench an' sat down with his Case knife to whittle an' wait for friends.

Junebug's Last Fair

Junebug Burns was finally on his way with his last entry as a 4Her for the Clay County Fair.  He had an Angus bull named Sneezer that most 'round Beloved, Kentucky thought was the finest bull ever raised in the hills of Kentucky.  Junebug named it Sneezer when it was a calf because it would sniff at things an' then just sneeze up a fit, sort of like it was allergic to the whole world.  No one ever believed that calf would grow to win a prize as a year old bull much less be the amazin' animal that it was.

Sneezer was loaded into the cattle trailer an' was pushin' against the side with powerful shoulders.  Junebug could hear the metal of the trailer groanin'.  He grinned and knocked on the side of the trailer, whisperin' for Sneezer to stop that an' be on good behavior.  That bull was like a big ol' puppy dog with Junebug.  Folks said Junebug could probably teach it to dance if he took a mind to.  With just that one whisper ol' Sneezer relaxed an' stood still.  It was like he was a waitin' to get to the fair an show off in front of all them folks.

In the back of the pickup was a cot, a duffel full of clothes, two hat boxes with Stetson straw hats, a trunk of gear an' several buckets an' bags full of this an' that.  Most 4Hers lived at the fair for the week.  Junebug was sure goin' to be there an' enjoy his last fair.  He had shavin' cream to use when someone fell asleep as well as a new whoopee cushion ordered from the back of a Superman comic book.  It was goin' to be a great week.

The wallet in his pocket was full of cash this year.  Junebug had saved for a year so he would have the money to do whatever he wanted to do this year.  He was goin' to go out with a bang.  Him an' Sneezer would have the best year ever.

Comes the Fair

A County Fair isn't something that springs up overnight in the hills of Eastern Kentucky.  It is more like a covey of quails, sneakin' through the back roads an' wanderin' in when folks are asleep or lookin' the other way.  Maybe it is the gypsy nature of Carney folks that causes this quiet entrance.  Not like a circus with all the fanfare, parades an' carryin' on.  Piece by piece, truck by truck they come from all directions to settle into the fairgrounds close the Beloved, Kentucky.

At night you can hear the heavy grumble of diesel trucks as they pull the Tilt-A Whirl or maybe a Merry-Go-Round into the gates, free an' open to the public for anyone to watch.  Shame is no one stops to see the wonder of a fair bein' born.  Listen close an' hear the old pickup pullin' Collin's Famous Racing Pigs.  As it turns a corner the pigs are jostled from their rest and squeal their indignation.  They are stars and athletes after all.  They need their sleep.

At night folks can hear the rustling clank of chains as machinery is tightened an' moved to place.  Stop if y'all will an' see a Ferris Wheel borned right before your eyes in a matter of hours.  First it is just a flatbed platform, waiting for birth an' then with the help of strong men it rises from that bed to the blue Appalachian sky, just waitin' to take youngin's up an' show them the glory of the surroundin' hills.  If they take time to look, that is.  Most likely they will only have eyes for their darlin's an' never see the hills filled with holly, rhododendron, sassafras, hickory an' red oak trees just up yonder.

The Carney folks get in early, set up their village of tents an' travel trailers.  They become a village within our village of Beloved.  Soon enough the Fair Board an'; all the volunteers will descend on the fairgrounds an' begin the magic.  Folks from round here will begin to come with baked goods, baskets of the best of the harvest an' a whole rainbow of displays.

Soon enough the 4H youngin's an' their families will pull in with cattle, goats, sheep, pigs, poultry an' rabbits.  The barns will fill with the laughter of families separated by just a generation or two come together to watch their brood compete just as their Mamas an Daddies, Aunts an' Uncles did years back.  Some folks will stay in the same barms with their livestock that their Great Grandpas built, that their Grandparents showed sheep or cattle in.  They bring cots an' clothes in trunks to settle in for the glorious week of County Fair.

You come too, they'll make room for you.

4th of July Report

Well Cousins,
I have to tell you that the 4th of July in my hometown of Beloved was quite a big deal again this year.

Main Street was just loaded with buntings.  Annie Pankey, owner of Pankey's Hankies (the antique and lace goods store in town) got hold of a catalog from a flag company an' used her business to get the wholesale price on buntings.  Folks all up an' down Main Street kicked in an' bout them things to decorate storefronts, homes an buildings along the way.  Y'all have never seen anything as wonderful as red, white an' blue buntings movin' gentle like in the breeze down a busy street in some little ol' town like Beloved.

The Carnegie Library an' Pappy Yokum Masonic Lodge #149 ordered the great big ol' buntings for their buildin's right in the center of town next to Founder's Square.  The Square was decorated an' even the gazebo like buildin' that houses the still sleepin' form of Sleepy Jean had buntings all around.  All that hammerin' an' carryin' on actually made Sleepy Jean roll over to one side for a week or two.  Imagine that, after sleepin' for all those years undisturbed, she actually rolled over... course Sleepy Jean is another story.

You may have heard me tell the story of my Cousin Peanut's fried turkey a couple years back.  Seems he injected a small tom he shot with a quart of cajun sauce and 2 gallons of the best moonshine that the hills of Appalachia ever produced.  When that thing hit the hot peanut oil in the fryer, it took off,  going interstellar almost and ended up feedin' them American boys what was livin' on that Russian Space station a fine turkey dinner complete with little plastic flags attached to each wing...but that ain't the point of my story.

Since it is customary to do fireworks on the 4th of July, the town Elders - that's John and Fred Elder who are the only folks who will come to the 4th of July plannin' meetin's, the Elders decided that usin' the basic idea of injectin' chickens, Cornish hens or turkeys with moonshine an' then firin' 'em off fit right in.

They was a Cornish hen race for the youngin's - ages 5 to 12.  They each was given a one pound Cornish hen and four ounces of moonshine to inject into the tail of the bird.  They was allowed to decorate it anyway they wanted as long as they didn't add more than the four ounces of shine and 1 additional ounce of decorations.  They placed the birds in a trough made of gutter pipe with an open end an' aimed them dang birds no more than 12 degrees in the air.  Longest flight wins.

Johnny Ray Sizemore added little bat wings to his an' painted it black in honor of his favorite comic book hero an' won!  Believe it or not his bird went 17 miles before sputterin' out.  Charlie Jenkins got honorable mention 'cause that dang coyote got a-hold of his bird before folks found it and measured.  It may have went 16.4 miles or the coyote might have found it an' carried it that far before it was ate... no one knows so they gave him the benefit of the doubt.

For the adults they was a limit of a 7 pound turkey with no decorations an' 12 ounces of moonshine.  The FAA put that limitation on due the the plain fact that last year's races messed up the flights of folks goin' in an' out of Lexington, Kentucky's airport.  The winner was Birdie Sue Poovey who saw her bird go 4 miles into the air before explodin' in a show of outer space oyster dressin' filled with sparklers on little ol' hankie parachutes that floated down just a twinklin' like fallin' stars.  'Course her daddy is Percival Poovey, "Purveyor of Potent Potables"... that is to say, he makes the moonshine.  We suspect he did up a special batch just for her.  So she is "Flyin' Shine Turkey Queen" this year.  We had a little ol' turkey crown made up with real Saworski crystals an' everthin'.  The back end of the turkey fits on her head an' the tail hangs down on her forehead like some jewel.  Man, was she somethin' to see.

We fried turkeys all day, but did not allow any to be injected with moonshine.  FAA rules an' all, you know.

The night ended with fryin' hens filled with fireworks an' injected with just a few ounces of moonshine shot off about a mile or so into the  air.  The fireworks an' moonshine burnin' would cook them fryin' hens as they came down, explodin' them into nicely broasted legs, thighs, wings and perfectly split breasts done to perfection.  Folks who had been there before brought sheets, butterfly nets an' the occasional bow an' arrow to try to snag a piece as it fell to earth in the fading light.

Dozens of youngin's ran around through the crowd chasin' each other like youngin's do.  A few couple sat an' gazed deep into each other's eyes an' missed the whole display.  Older folks sat an' talked quietly while they watched, rememberin' the way it used to be an' all.

It was a good 4th of July in Beloved.  I can't wait till Sheep Dip Days.  Now, that is one great festival!!!