Doc Hollen's Traveling Medicine Show 2013

Step right up now folks, come on in, don't be bashful now.You are about to see some of the most amazing wonders of the modern world.  In just a few minutes you may see Madam Salsaberry dive from 100 feet in the air into a five gallon bucket filled with damp sponges!

Let the little ladies up to the front gentlemen, I know it is a stretch to call you gentlemen, but I am feeling gracious, indeed.  Let them come closer men, destiny calls to them and they may faint from female weaknesses at any time.

I am feeling genteel and honorable, even generous today, as you will soon see when I present an amazing offer to you.  Not since the time of the pyramids, since Cheops the 4thor Bud Vizeer the 5th have common folks had the opportunity to gaze upon such miraculous potions and purees.

Folks, I'm not talking a sham hoozie or a whacka doodle Dice a slicer or any other gimmick sold to you by tinkers, tramps, gypsies or thieves. Not a get rich quick scheme suggested to you by a shyster or politician.  I'm talking the real thing, no fakes or switcharoos here, my friends AND I do call you my friends because just the moments we have spent together thus far has infatuated me toward each of you.

Right here, right now step up and see the wonders of patented medicines direct from the ancient cities of the dead in Egypt, the great lost continent of Atlantis or the mysterious and wondrous mountain hide away fo Shangri La via the hills of Appalachia...

Where they have be brewed, distilled and laid up for hundreds of years. A veritable treasure trove of elixers, balms, tinctures and extracts handed down to this humble servant of the people, not for financial gain but for the sheer pleasure of seeing simple minded folks cured of their ailments.  Folks just like you today.

I'm talking also about ancient secrets handed down from Cherokee, Choctaw, Lackawannee and the Wha-Nah-Bee Tribal Ancestors to their children and children's children. handed to me as rightful heir and designee. Promised to me by the last great Medicine Man of Appalachia - Handin Pock Et

Written on the preserved skins of Elk, Eland, Coon, Squirrel, Buffalo, Whitetail Deer and the ubiquitous, unseen and deadly Squeezel.

Recipes and potions preserved by our ancient and revered Celtic forefathers who brought cherished books and journals wrapped in oilcloth and placed in the trunks and travel bags of Scotch, Irish and Welsh ancestors... right beside their Scotch...

Pardon me neighbors, I digress, remembering an ancient liquid refreshment laid up for me in a clear Mason jar back home. A potion awaiting my return having aged days if not weeks as I travel.

Yes friends, secrets found written in caves in the ancestral homes of clans in the highlands of Scotland, runes that whisper secrets of healing, of potions both potent and potable.

Runes traced back to the secrets and hieroglyphics of Egypt and now found in Doc Hollen's Tincture of Papyrus...

We take ancient papyrus documents, snatched from the hands of wizened, bedazzled and dried up mummies, smuggled from far away lands, grind them up and put just a pinch in each bottle along with a preservative composed of a distillation of amazing, all natural and organic ingredients including pure organic spring water, sugar, corn mash and yeast.

I know you are asking yourself if it really works.

I see on your faces your mind working and thinking, "Is what this dear, wonderful, kind and handsome Doc Hollen, man of integrity and veracity that he is, help of the widow and orphink, lover of justice and the American way, being straight with us?"

Well, my friend, never fear. The answer is yes, of course, I wouldn't dare lie to you, who I have come to love and revere in this short period of time together.  I have looked down upon you with compassion and pity.  I call out to you to give me your tired, your poor, your yawning messes wanting to get something for free.

Our amazing line of products have been scientifically proven to make the lame to see and the deaf to walk. It is magnanimous, my dear friends.

It can make one young again, make your skin look youthful.

Take a look at any Egyptian mummy in museums across this land. thousands of years old...

Buried with papyrus...

Yet preserved for hundreds of generations.

You too can look as well preserved as they are. Your skin can last, can glow with renewed vigor with just a dash of this tincture each morning.

Why, one day I accidentally dropped just a small splash of Doc Hollen's Tincture of Papyrus onto a boiled egg in my ice box...

And low and behold, a few days later I heard a noise, a veritable peep.

Dare I say it, yea and verily, an actual cheep coming from the environment of that very same ice box and there it was...

A hot chick in a cold icebox!

Newly hatched from an unfertilized, yes, a hard boiled,

I'm talking a fully cooked egg.


All thanks to the healing power of Doc Hollen's Tincture of Papyrus.

Step right up now, ladies.  I can see from the sun ravaged skin, the wrinkled brows that look more like burlap than skin, eyes not with just crows feet but whole crows around them, cheeks that should be sanded with sandpaper to smooth them, I can see from all those subtle signs that I am just in time.

And gentlemen, as I said I use that term lightly and with no confidence, you too are in need of a modicum of refreshment, a renewing of that time ravaged hunk of skin and bone on your shoulders that you call a head, bald and sun blistered though it may be... you too can look renewed and refreshed.

You see men, those of you that are folliclulary impaired, yes, you, bald as a turnip and likely as dense, you too can see new growth on that pate.  Realize today that hair is like any other cover crop.  It has to be watered and fertilized.  Notice my full head of hair and you will see I have more fertilizer than most men!

Doc Hollen's Tincture of Papyrus can bring new growth to that hair free punkin you call a head.  It can release the hidden power of the mummy and grow hair on a rock.  Step right up gentlemen, push through that line of ladies waiting to see if someone one else bites first and take the plunge!

Celestial Shades

The morning sky was washboarded
With red and orange hued clouds
As if God was raising celestial shades
Pulling back the curtains on a glorious day.











 Stephen Hollen is an award winning storyteller, humorist and Mark Twain Impersonator living in Beavercreek, Ohio.  He performs and tells stories in Dayton, Cincinnati, Columbus and all through Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, West Virginia, Michigan and throughout the USA. 

Early Morning Passage

Even as I pass through quickly
In the dark and misty dawn
The hills call to me, sing to me
The engine races in my old truck
My heart races in my chest
Glimpses of hollers, left and right
Catch the corners of my still sleepy eyes
Old dogs rise from the yards
Of a dozen sturdy houses
They look at me as if to say,
"Where y'all been so long?
Why run off so fast?
Can't ye come on up
And sit a spell?"









 Stephen Hollen is an award winning storyteller, humorist and Mark Twain Impersonator living in Beavercreek, Ohio.  He performs and tells stories in Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, West Virginia, Michigan and throughout the USA. 

Narcotic Naptime.

It is a lazy dog, hang dog, sleepy rooster afternoon
Though it is not yet summer there is a haze
Thick, damp and sticky hangin' over the house
Weighin' down my eyelids an' smotherin' my thoughts.

Sleep sings a lullaby and hints at such lovely dreams
Junebugs fall into the grass just too tired to dance
To weary to spread chitinous wings in the hazy day
Faceted eyes seekin' a welcomin' twig or leaf.

A wind pushes through once, twice but fails
Not enough bluster or strength to sweep through
Cobwebs seem to hang over my gumption
Nap time whispers like a wicked woman.












Stephen Hollen is an award winning storyteller, humorist and Mark Twain Impersonator living in Beavercreek, Ohio.  He performs and tells stories in Dayton, Cincinnati, Columbus and all through Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, West Virginia, Michigan and throughout the USA. 

First Peep

Not too very far
In the darkness
Of unrealized morning
Peepers cling tight
To bark and twig
Grass and branch
Singing long and loud
Calling to lovers
Peeps of high pitched harmonies

Dark Morning

Dark and muggy morning
Storm pushing its way
Through the dawn
Pushing away yesterday
Dampening down the birdsong
Throws a dark opacity
Over the eastern sky
As Sunrise struggles
To light the day.

Fullness of the Heart

The fullness of the heart
Spills out to tongue and pen.

Better the sweetness
Of what shall be
Than bitter
With what has been.

copyright Stephen Hollen  10/18/2005

The Big Boy

When I was in grade school (7th grade) I was smaller than most boys my age.  I was extremely thin and had not started growing yet.  I really didn't have a growth spurt till my freshman year of high school.

For some reason that is lost in my past, one of the "big boys" had it in for me.  I don't remember why.  I was quiet, wore glasses and it was my first year at E.J. Brown Elementary School. I don't remember why he didn't like me or why he came after me. I was terrible at sports, couldn't make a basket in gym at all! I was the nearsighted kid that brought a stack of books home from the library every time I went. I was the little nearsighted boy who read Jules Verne, Andre Norton, L Frank Baum, Edgar Rice Burroughs and JRR Tolkein.

Maybe it was because his team lost some dumb game in gym class, maybe because I was the kid on his team that couldn't climb that stupid rope all the way to the ceiling. I just don't remember why he wanted to "pound me".

One day in the spring of my 7th grade year this "big boy" told me he was going to beat me up at the end of the school day.  Every time he saw me he looked at me and told me, over and over.  Can you imagine the fear and dread?  Imagine the stress I felt the whole day. He really didn't have to beat me up. I was already beat up inside just hearing him tell me over and over "I am gonna pound you, beat you up, hurt you real good".

Being smarter than him, I planned my escape from the building that afternoon. All the books I had read, all the narrow escapes of Frodo, John Carter of Mars, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. even made me wise and crafty at the escape game. I'd done it before. Donnie and I had escaped the big boys before.

Donnie was my best friend. Another skinny little guy with glasses like me. I told Donnie that I needed an escape plan and together we determined to go through the kindergarten area, sneak across the big back playground, across the street, past the small family run market and up another street before the big boy was even out of the building.  If we could get to that street we were safe.  I was safe. 

I knew the big boy went out the side door after school and onto the side playground. That was the way I usually left the building also. I hoped to leave just as the bell rang, go down another hall and get out onto that big back playground. If I was lucky, I might be lost in the crowd of kids rushing home (no bus service back then).

The bell rang and Donnie and I walked quickly through the kindergarten area ("no running boys, no running").  We blended into the crowd and I felt better.

I don't know how he caught up with us or how he found us, but as we were walking past the gym building the big boy ran up, grabbed me by my right arm and swung me as hard as he could into the brick wall of that building.  My books flew everywhere.  My glasses flew off and I hit - BAM-forehead first into that brick wall.  I fell like a calf at a stockyard hit with a sledge hammer. I went down stunned and unable to move.

If my friend Donnie (who was no bigger than I was) hadn't started slugging the big boy, I am sure the big boy would have continued his rage filled attack against me... the little boy.

I sat up and heard Donnie cussin' the big boy, heard the splats of meaty fists hitting Donnie, giving him my licks.  I felt for my glasses and put them on.

I then realized I could not see.  There was just darkness. Nothing, no light, no blurry figures, just darkness. No blood, no swollen eyes.  I just could not see.  I cried out several times; "I can't see, I can't see!" 

Donnie got away from the big boy and came over to where I was. My skinny little friend had stood in the gap for me when I was helpless and then came to help me up. 

"Don, I can't see. I'm blind. I really can't see anything." The words didn't sink in for him at first. I said it again, "I'm not foolin', Donnie. I can't see."

The big boy was heading toward us, Donnie told me later a group of kids including the "big boy's gang" had gathered to see the "fight" and the big boy was trying to give his gang a show.

When I said I couldn't see he stopped and just stood there.

I wouldn't let Donnie take me inside for help.  Both my folks were working and I knew my Mama (who had a beauty shop in the back of our home) would freak out.  I just wanted to go home.  I had Donnie lead me.  The "big boy" and his friends ran away and went home.

As we walked home, a huge goose egg - a hematoma swelled up on my forehead.  It was huge, bigger than a duck egg (which is bigger than a hen egg).  My vision began to come back a little as we walked.  By the time I was in my yard most of my vision returned. I went in the house with Donnie and to my room to lay down.

The "big boys gang" had gone home as soon as I said I couldn't see. One of the kids in the gang must have been a little worried because he told his mom.  That mom called the big boy's mom... who called my Mom and insisted I be taken to the hospital.  Remember, I had not seen my Mama yet.  She flew into my room all wound up.  I was taken to the hospital where the big boy and his mom met us.

Apologies, assurances of punishment and x-rays, which confirmed I would live.  I had a mild concussion. Mama had to check my eyes every hour overnight to make sure I was OK.

I don't remember a lot about the days following that incident. It was a pretty normal year after that. I do remember I didn't get beat up by the big boy again.

I still have a donut shaped knot in the middle of my forehead still.  It isn't big, but you can definitely see it, especially when I frown.  It is scar tissue from that injury and the hematoma.

At 6'2" and weighing 220 or so, I am not afraid of too many folks today.  I haven't been picked on or beat up for the last 40+ years, but that day left a mark, on my forehead and my psyche. 

I don't suffer fools or let bullies get their way.  I have walked between "big boys" and their victims more than once.

When you are my size you don't have to lay a finger on a "big boy"  A time or two I had to grab a boy by the scruff of the neck and pull him off his victim.  Usually I just stepped between the boys.

Each time I just stepped in, looked quietly deep into the eyes of the "big boy" and waited. ( giving my best evil eye look at the time)

Funny how "big boys" shrink when they aren't the biggest dinosaur on the playground.

Mist on the Water

The mist rests uneasily
On the water.
It moves lightly
Stirred and twirled
As if by unseen hands.

Copyright 3/5/05 Stephen Hollen

Invited back for Sheep Dip Days!

Cousins,
I am just all a flutter this morning.  I just opened an invite to come back home to Beloved - my hometown in the hills of eastern Kentucky for Sheep Dip Days in June.  More important, they have asked that I be the official "Glutton For Mutton"! 

For those folks who don't know, that is the Grand Marshall of the Sheep Dip Days Parade.  It includes other duties such as being the Head Judge for the Sheep Dip Recipe Contest, startin' the official Sheep Dip Wrassle and crownin' Miss Sheep Dip.

I have to confess, the Sheep Dip Recipe Contest is my least favorite.  The judges must taste every item submitted.  After twenty or thirty recipes containin' sheep dip, my belly gets a little uneven.  I am fond of Birdy Sue Poovy's Dark Chocolate and Sheep Dip Cake.

The Sheep Dip Wrassle is a good time for all.  A huge mud puddle is made and 2,000 gallons of sheep dip are added.  One hundred and seven real silver dollars are tossed in (by me as the "Glutton For Mutton") and a shotgun is fired. (side note; We now fire the shotgun into the air since my Cousin Peanut fired it into the puddle and peppered all 87 contestants with birdshot!)  Oh Lordy, what a sight!  Folks reachin' down, grabbin' for silver, wrasslin' each other for what is found.  Of course, there is no bitin' allowed.

The winner is hosed down for free and gets their winnin's matched with more silver dollars!  Now that is good clean fun.

Orvina Snoddy was crowned Miss Sheep Dip last year.  Now Orvina is 78 years old, but she won since it was the "Sheep Dip Year of the Environment".  The Judges had determined the gal that recycled the most in one month would be declared the winner.  Orvina won because Henry Kay had all the old cars that were up on blocks back behind his barn hauled in and weighed.  Fourteen cars, imagine that!

Well now, Cousins, I reckon I better get on the phone and order my official "Glutton For Mutton" fleece kilt and matching vest.  If I don't order now the hide won't have time to cure an' the smell of uncured fleece kilts in summer can be what folks call "off puttin".

Crazy Quilt

It is like a quilt
Sewn carefully
From patches and
Scraps left
Yet lovingly
Made and
Well used.
Warm and inviting
Wrapped around me.

copyright 4/1/06 Stephen Hollen

Tattoo

Tattooed man sits
Skin crawls
Little devils dance.

Hillside Memories

In the heart of Clay County
Down by the Red Bird River
Not too far from Peabody
Is a hillside lush
With mountain laurel.

Walk up the hill slowly
Go quietly an' take off your hat.
Be silent, look around you
There sleeps pilgrims an' pioneers
Waitin' for the trumpet call.

Under the shade of a sycamore
Facin' the eastern sky
Lie grandparents, aunts an' uncles.
Restin' in silent slumber
Waitin' for their reward.

Ain't no famous folks there
No president or king.
Just plain ol' kin an' cousins
More cotton than sateen
Listenin' for the call.

Some stones are timeworn
No name or date to read.
Yet someone lays in slumber
Loved and mourned for once
Nameless, yet named on that day.

Stand there in revered silence
Look around in awe.
These gentle folks came before you
Made straight the paths
Await their reward.

copyright 1/8/05 Stephen Hollen

Pot Belly

Pot belly stove burns cherry bright
Gut full of embers - coal an' wood.
Stirred up now after burnin' all night,
Now puts out the heat it should.

Splits of wood wait their turns
Stacked close - hickory, ash and oak.
Pot belly stove whistles, spits and burns
Happy that its stoked.

copyright 1/2/05 Stephen Hollen

Bottlecap Bobby D. Clark

Christmas Eve morning in Beloved is glorious, as y'all'd most likely expect.  

There was a good bit of snow on the ground like folks had ordered a white Christmas.  The decorations an’ lights just glowed in the soft mornin’ light.  Annie Pankey was up an’ directin’ traffic on Main Street.  Somewhere she had gotten an orange “safety patrol belt that went around the waist and over the shoulder.  Never mind it was for youngin’s to wear…never mind that it had the badge from Dayton, Ohio City Schools on it.  It looked right official an’ folks was followin’ Annie’s directions all mornin’ long.  Most of the directin’ involved keepin’ folks from parkin’ in front of “Pankey’s Hankies” – Annie’s antique store.

The Henny Penney was full, as usual on any given mornin’. Men folk gathered each mornin’ to discuss weather, crops an’ politics.   Christmas Eve mornin’ was no different.  There was good-natured kidding’ about what one man or another bought his wife.  Beanie Collins had slipped a Sears and Roebuck ad for women’s underwear into Buck Smith’s coat pocket an’ had Uncle Billy Gilbert just happen to find it.  Everyone roared when Uncle Billy innocently grabbed it an’ pulled it into view an asked, “why, Buck, what in the world is this?  You getting’ Lucinda somethin’ frilly an’ unmentionable from Santy?”

Buck Smith turned four or five shades of red an’ Roscoe Goins suggested that one particular shade of red would be a great color for some silk drawers for Lucinda.  ‘Course, Buck got him back when he beaned Roscoe with a snowball as they was leavin’.

As folks were laughin’ an’ enjoyin’ the company of friends, the door to the Henny Penny opened an’ in comes Bottlecap Bobby D. Clark.  Everyone cheered when Bottlecap Bobby walked in.  He was sort of a local celebrity these days an’ was from over to Peabody, close to Double Creek.  His family had lived for many years just on the other side of the low water bridge just across the Red Bird River.  Uncle Billy made room for Bottlecap Bobby in the booth where he was sittin’ with Hap Collins.

Bottlecap Bobby D. Clark was Bobby’s stage name.  Bobby had played bluegrass music for many years an’ he went with the tide as it became popular across the country.  Now there was a big ol’ bus parked out in the back of the Henny Penney parkin’ lot with his name – “Bottlecap Bobby D. Clark and The Glass Bottle Band” on the side of the bus.  Bobby traveled all over the country an’ had even been to Europe playin’ ol’ bluegrass tunes on his banjo, guitar an’ dobro.

No matter where Bottlecap Bobby was durin’ the year, he always took a Christmas break an’ ended up in Beloved.  After he visited for a while he would head over an’ across that low water bridge over the Red Bird River to where his Mama an’ Daddy still lived.  ‘Course, their standard of livin’ was a lot better these days.  When Bottlecap Bobby’s career had first taken off, he had bought them the biggest doublewide that he could get up Route 66 an’ over that bridge.  Three years ago he had moved the doublewide out an’ built them a big ol’ house with a full basement AN’ attached garage.

Hap Collins didn’t know Bobby as well as some of the fellers sittin’ ‘round the Henny Penny an’ was right taken by this star sittin’ with plain folks.  He said how honored he was an’ Bobby laughed.  Told Hap he was just an ol’ drunk the good Lord saw fit to straighten up an’ bless a little bit.

Hap didn’t know the story an’ apologized for bein’ nosey.  Bobby laughed an’ told him not to worry.  He even asked if Hap would like to hear the story of his life.  Hap an’ all the rest of the men said yes an’ Bobby went out to the bus to get his banjo.  By this time a couple of the boys in the band had roused an’ came in.  They headed out to the bus to get instruments an’ Bessie Bowling grinned as she opened the back meetin’ room.

“Y’all need to move it back here for this.  I need to make some Christmas tips an’ y’all are keepin’ them seats way too long.”

Everyone grinned sheepishly as they got up an’ moved to the meetin' room.  Bessie noticed that several of them men shelled out way bigger tips than they usually left.  She didn’t know if it was a Christmas tip or if she had shamed them into leavin’ it.  Bessie didn’t much mind, though.  Them tips would help pay for more college up to Berea College where she went to school.

Bottlecap Bobby D. Clark an’ his band settled in an’ started to tune up.  They played a few riffs as folks got settled in’ an’ then took off with some of the best bluegrass a man will ever hear this side of Ralph Stanley.  The upright bass player did one of the longest bass fiddle solos ever heard in bluegrass music an’ the fellers listenin’ clapped and carried on for a long time.

Then things got quiet an’ the band played real slow an’ low as Bobby began to talk.  His story started out with his birth to good folks over at the Red Bird Mission Hospital.  He came from good stock an’ his folks were some good people.  Bobby was another story.  He told of a youth wasted early on with drinkin’, gamblin’ an’ runnin’ with the wrong bunch of boys.

He learned to play about anything a feller could play.  His Daddy taught Bobby the dobro, mandolin, bass fiddle an’ banjo.  His Uncle Delmer taught his the guitar an’ even the trumpet.  For a while Bobby traveled around playin’ for honky-tonks an’ bars.  Folks said he might amount to somethin’ if he straightened up.

One branch of the Clark family got involved in a feud years back with some Delvins an’ it had gone on for years.  Bobby got right in the middle of it an’ shot a boy in the back.  He was egged on by his cousins who was too scairt to shoot.  Bobby stood there when that boy fell an’ rolled over.  That boy laid there an’ looked at Bobby for a long time.  Bobby’s cousins told him to shoot the boy an’ get on with the feudin’.

Bobby looked into the eyes of that boy an’ his heart broke.  He asked the boy’s name an’ the boy said it was Charlie Delvin.  Bobby picked Charlie Delvin up an’ carried him in his arms for miles to his Daddy’s home across that low water bridge.  He cried out to his Daddy an’ they loaded that Delvin boy into a truck an’ drove him to the Red Bird Mission Hospital.  The Doctor was able to remove the bullet an’ Charlie’s folks came as quick as someone could get up to their home.

When asked who shot him, Charlie Delvin told his folks he didn’t know, but that if it weren’t for Bobby D. Clark comin’ along, he reckoned he would have laid on the side of that hill where he was shot an’ died.  That single lie effectively ended the feud between the Clarks an’ the Devlins.

Bobby didn’t get over the shootin’ as easy as Charlie did.  It haunted him an’ drove him with demons that he could not shake.  Charlie’s gift had changed his life an’ kept him from goin’ to the pen…but it couldn’t get rid of the guilt that haunted Bobby.

Bobby tried to drown his demon with good corn likker.  He tried to drown it with homebrew, muscadine wine an’ even pure grain alcohol.  Bobby tried to kill it with hard livin’ an’ takin’ risks, but the demon an’ Bobby D. Clark lived through all of it.

Eventually, Bobby D. Clark ended up with the soiled reputation and wasted life of the town drunk.  He was the man folks walked over when he laid passed out behind a bar.  Bobby would try to play his banjo for a couple of drinks, but eventually his talent left his shaky hands an’ Bobby sold all his instruments.

Bobby paused for a while as he got to this part of the story.  He played quietly on his banjo an’ the boys in the band followed along.  Tears ran down his face an’ his short pause became a long round of playin’ as the boys took out an’ played some sad songs.  The boy on the fiddle had come in an’ ended the playin’ with “Blue Christmas”.

Bobby cleared his throat an’ continued.  He told of wakin’ up behind the ol’ barn that Peanut Chappell had turned into an illegal bar.  Peanut called it “Peanut’s Palace”.  Bobby woke up feelin’ more like the fool than a king.

Bobby saw Charlie Delvin goin’ into the barn an’ called to him.  Charlie came over an’ Bobby asked if he would go in an’ get him a little somethin’ to drink.  Charlie stood for a while lookin' at him an’ then went in.  A moment later he returned an’ handed him a bottle.  Bobby thanked him an’ sat there holdin’ the bottle in shame.

When Charlie left, Bobby looked an’ realized Charlie Delvin had brought him a Coke.  After he cussed Charlie for a while he found a bottle opener an’ opened the Coke.  He held the bottle cap in his hand for a long while as he drank the Coke down in one long swallow.

Then he looked at the bottle cap.  He stared at it a long time.  Bobby turned it over in his hands again an’ again. More than once he read the bottle cap.

At this point Bobby stopped an’ all the band stopped too.  “That bottle cap changed my life.  I stopped drinkin’ that day.  I worked in the tobaccer till I had money to buy back my banjo.  For weeks an’ months I sat on the porch of my Daddy an’ Mama’s ol’ house an; relearned all that likker had taken away.  Daddy retaught me all I had forgotten an’ all I did was work in the tobaccer, sweat the alcohol poisons out of me an’ practice.  Daddy bought me a dobro an’ I kept playin.”

Bobby grinned, “After a while I got me a hat to keep the sun off my head an’ I put that bottle cap on my hat.  I never from that first day drank anything stronger than Coke.  About six months later I saw Charlie Delvin an’ stopped him as he was goin’ into the Dobson’s General Store.  I asked him if I could buy him a Coke an’ he grinned an’ said “Yessir”.  I did an’ when he took the cap off the bottle he looked at it an’ handed it to me.”

“I think this here cap is yours.” Charlie Delvin said.

“Bobby continued, “I took the cap an’ looked it over.  I shook his hand right there, asked him to forgive me for that day long ago an’ Charlie Delvin hugged me right there in front of the Dobson’s Store.”

“I took that bottle cap home an added it to my hat.  I have worn it to this day with them two bottle caps.  That’s why they call me ‘Bottlecap Bobby D. Clark, Hap…’cause of them two bottle caps.”

Everyone grinned as they listened to a tale of rags to riches.  They grinned because all it took to drown them demons was a good bottle of Coke.  Bobby went on to play all over the country – even on WSN an’ the Grand Ol’ Opry.

Hap asked what it was about that first bottle cap that turned Bobby around.  Bobby took his hat off an’ handed it to Hap.  The first bottle cap had two short sentences on it…”Drink Coke.  Play Again”

Bobby explained that even though he knew that cork lining was a game piece for a contest Coke was havin’, it was his wake-up call.  He took them words to heart, never drinkin’ again.  He did exactly what the bottle cap told him to do.  He drank Coke AN’ he played again.

The second bottle cap?  The one Charlie Delvin handed him outside of the Dobson’s General Store?  It said, “You’re a winner!”

The band played for a long time with Bobblecap Bobby D. Clark playin’ one song after another.  After a while he stopped an’ the men gathered ‘round clapped an’ slapped Bobby on the back.

Bobby put that hat back on his head, called to Bessie Bowling for some breakfast an’ the men of Beloved settled in for good natured talk about the weather, crops an’ politics.  Later that mornin’ the big bus left the Henny Penney Restaurant an’ headed up Route 66 toward that low water bridge that crosses the Red Bird River over close to Peabody, Kentucky.

Ladybug Revival

In a sidelined church
Black shutters stark
Against chalky white wood
Hundreds of ladybugs
Creep to a corner
Huddled in a mass
Of insect communion.


Copyright 11/1/2004  Stephen Hollen

Mama's DVD

Cousins,
I have to share with you a wonderful true story about my Mama.    You may remember I lost my Daddy in May to cancer.  Since that time my Mama has been learning to pay bills, balance her checkbook, budget...all the things she hated to do.  She used to sneak checks out of the back of the checkbook so my Daddy wouldn't find them.  First of the month was sometimes a time of wailing and gnashing of teeth 'cause Mama liked to spend.

She has been doing fairly well with all this, but a couple weeks ago she went into Wal-Mart.  There was a display of the DVD, "The Passion of the Christ" and a sale price of about $16.  Sounds good, but she didn't have a DVD player.  Well, right beside the DVDs was a real live DVD player for $59!!!!  She bought both and took them home.

Of course, she didn't know how to hook the thing up, so Oh My Darlin' and I went over that weekend and hooked 'er up.  I patiently showed her how to turn it on, put in a DVD and play it.  I put the "Passion" DVD in and demonstrated several times.  She did it right and everything was fine.  I put the DVD back in the plastic sleeve and we left a bit later.  We left several other DVDs for her to watch.

A week later she told me she was having problems with the DVD player.  It wouldn't play the DVDs.

I reviewed the process with her and she said she did all that.

I asked if it acted funny when she put a DVD in.  She told me there was one already in the player.  Did she put it in?  Nope.  It was the one I left in.

I clearly remember putting the "Passion" back in the plastic sleeve and telling her to be sure and put DVDs back into the sleeve so they would not get scratched.

She told me in no uncertain words that I had left her DVD in the player.  I said I didn't.

"I know you did and it won't play." Mama said.

"How do you know I left a DVD in it?  Have you looked in the plastic sleeve?" I asked.

"No, I don't need to.  The DVD player let me know the "Passion" was in the machine when I turned it on, but it won't play."

"It let you know?  What did it say, Mama?"

"The little screen lights up when I turn it on and it says 'HELLO LORD'.  I mash the play button and nothing happens." she told me.

Now cousins, I had to think for a moment and I started giggling.  She got a little offended and asked what I was laughing about.

"Mama, the little screen didn't say "HELLO LORD" to indicate "The Passion of The Christ" was in the DVD player.  When the player comes on it says "hello" then the screen says "LOAD".

"Well, I thought it was some kind of message about the movie."

She was pretty offended that I was laughing pretty hard.  I told her someone was at the door and I hung up and giggle for a long time.

God works in mysterious ways.  Moses heard Him in a burning bush...why not my Mama through a DVD?

Copyright Stephen Hollen   9/2004

Christmas Dreams

Dream with me...

Somewhere deep in the hills of Kentucky
There is a place
Way down a holler
Down a road, paved
But windin' along beside
A chilly creek, not yet frozen
Past an ol' one room school
Past neighbors and kin
Yonder on past four barns
Still yet full of tobaccer.
Follow the road
Keep your eyes on the fences
They'll lead you there
Down where a small branch
Runs into that chilly creek
Turn just there and go back a ways.
There is a cabin
Perhaps just in my dreams
Good sized an' sturdy
Red metal roof half covered
With new fallen snow
Smoke wanders out
Of a tight rock chimney
A few lights are on
Mostly you see a twinkle
Of tiny lights near a window
Blinkin' an' twinkin' on a tree
Topped with an ancient angel
That survived three generations
Of youngin's an decades of Christmas times.
Park near the old barn and just look...
Barnyard covered in snow
A few crazy chickens sneakin' out
An ol' dog rises an shakes
Comes from under the porch
Tail a waggin' in greetin.
Porch swing is lonely an'
Waitin' for warmer weather.
Up the hillside holly is green
An berries red bring birds
Hungry for a holiday feast.
Your feast is waitin'
Inside, yonder where there
Is warmth, and love...
And Christmas.


Copyright 12/26/07   Stephen Hollen

Why I believe

First of all, let me say that we are mountain folks. Our family'sAppalachian. We've been in the Appalachian Mountains since the 1750s. 

Mountain folks are simple, soft spoken and on the quiet side (I broke out of that mold). My Daddy fit that mold perfectly. He spoke little, was not one to say things like "I love you" or "I'm proud of you". He used to tell folks that he told Mama he loved her when they got married. He said if that changed he'd let her know.

Mama was the gift giver, the hugger, the talker. She was the one who decorated lavishly for the holidays, especially Christmas. She was the one who bought the presents, who read us stories. 

Daddy just "hmmphed" when we talked about Santa and Christmas. He watched us open presents, but never went on and on about them presents like Mama did.

Christmas was a wonderful time, a time for food, comfort food, mountain food.

It was always a time for family - yes lots and lots of family gatherings AND presents. Big extended families always meant lots of presents. Many were simple. Sure there were family members that had little to give. Everyone gave what they could. 

My Grandma was the best. She started buying right after Christmas so every single person had a gift under her tree.

After the family gatherings on Christmas Eve we would come home. My little brother and I would get into our PJ. With the awe of a child, we'd pour a glass of milk and put out two - exactly two cookies (one from each of us). 

Mama told us we had to be in bed and asleep for Santa to come. We giggled and snickered, promising each other we would stay awake though we never really did.

Each Christmas I remember hearing the jingle of sleigh bells and the sound of hooves hitting our roof. I just was never able to wake up enough to go to the window and look. 

Sometimes we would be up at 3:00 a.m., excited to open the presents Santa left.

When I was 11 years old my Daddy brought home a helicopter with a 3 foot cable and a crank on the end. He would crank like crazy and that helicopter would fly! It was a Daddy toy. When he finished playin' withit he would put it up high in a closet so we couldn't get at it.

In the summer our next door neighbor Kitty took care of us while Mama and Daddy worked. I couldn't get that helicopter off my mind one day. I told Kitty I needed to go in our house to get something. 

I suspected Daddy had hidden his helicopter in the tall shelved closet at the end of the hallway.

I went in and down the hallway, opened the two doors to that closet. I used the shelves as a ladder. When I was at the top I hung on with one hand and felt around the top shelf with the other. 

Several things fell out with a jingle and jangle.

I looked down... and climbed down. There in the pile of things from the top shelf were sleigh bells on a leather strap. I picked them up and shook them. I immediately recognized the jingle I heard each Christmas as I fell into slumber. 

I was horrified. I was betrayed. My childhood came crashing down around my ears. I put everything back, knowing that what the bigger boys said had to be true. 

There was no Santa Claus.

I never told my little brother, didn't tell anyone. I did determine to stay awake Christmas Eve and look out the window. I figured it was my Mom. She was the one that decorated and went on and on about Christmas.

The year went quickly, too quickly for an 11 year old who had grown up too fast. I was quiet during the Christmas Eve celebrations. I obediently helped pour the milk and put out exactly 2 cookies, knowing it was for naught, wondering who actually would eat them.

Mama told us we had to go to sleep so Santa could come. 

I teared up and cried in my pillow a bit, hiding because I knew big boys don't cry. I cried because I knew Santa wouldn't really be there.

I stayed awake, waiting. I was going to look out this time, see the lie in person.

Maybe I'd look my Mama in the eye.

After my little brother was sleeping soundly, my Mama looked in. I breathed slowly, pretending to be asleep. She left. 

The front door opened and closed quietly.

Then I heard the sound of sleigh bells and the thumping on the roof that I always thought was tiny reindeer hooves landing on the roof.

I quietly got out of bed. The bedroom door was open a crack and I looked out. Mama was quietly putting presents under the tree. 

So, who was jingling the sleigh bells?

I ran on tiptoes to my window, pushed back the curtains just enough to look out. 

And there he was, he was real! Santa was real!

Y'see, there stood my Daddy, coat on, cigarette in his mouth as he made snowballs and threw them on the roof, one after another in a pattern that the next day would look like eight tiny reindeer had landed. Occasionally he would shake the sleigh bells quietly so 2 little boys would hear them in their sleep. 

The whole time Daddy had the biggest grin on his face.

Somehow the mantle of Santa had wrapped itself around my Daddy that night as he stood there. It wrapped itself around that simple mountain man and he was transformed in my little 11 year old heart. 

My Daddy WAS Santa that night.

The next morning I watched Daddy closer. He had a quiet smile on his face as little brother and Mama went on and on about Santa. I never told anyone about that night for years.

Many years later I asked Daddy for those sleigh bells when I had a little girl named Kelly. I told Daddy the story I'm telling you. He got up, went to his closet and brought them to me with tears in his eyes. 

I hugged Santa right then and there and told him I loved him. 

He told me "Same here". 

As I drove home the power of who I was to become hit me and I wept. My Daddy had passed a heritage of quiet love along to me.

That Christmas I waited till my little Kelly was asleep, The mantle of Santa fell on me as I quietly went outside and began to throw snowballs on the roof. I occasionally jingled the sleigh bells.

My little one is grown now, the sleigh bells are still in my closet but they still have the same magic. 

Occasionally, when no one is around,  I shake them bells, just to hear them jingle.

And I believe all over again.

Winter in Beloved

Cousins,
The winter has been mild in my hometown of Beloved, Kentucky.  The snow has held off except for one big snowfall in early December.  That was a historic week in the journals of home as that snowfall saw the death of Homer "Bud" Clavens from up on Brushy Butt Creek.

Seems like Bud Clavens noticed his outhouse was pretty near full an' in need of the hole bein' filled an' a new hole dug.  Bud got the idea of puttin' sled runners on the outhouse an' waitin till it snowed real deep to just move the outhouse to a new location hangin' over a steep ravine.  He figured he would just push it to the edge, secure it an' never have to dig an outhouse hole again.  Pretty good idea, as far as it went.

When it started snowin', Bud hiked the outhouse up a bit so the sled runners would be on top of the snow.  Him an' his wife, Etta figured they would use a slop bucket for a few days, haul the outhouse to the edge of that ravine an' be livin' in high cotton from them on.

Problem was, Bud was out feedin' his hogs an' nature called.  He couldn't make it back to the house, so he figured "one for the road" an' stepped into the hiked up outhouse.

His weight in the outhouse made the dang thing break off the jacks an' land on the sled runners.  As he stood up to see what in the heck was goin' on the whole kit an' kaboodle took off on them sled runners, headed downhill to the ravine.

Bud saw where the thing was goin' an sat down, holdin' on th a Sears an Roebuck catalog that he was readin' an' grabbed hold of the sides to keep from fallin' through the hole as he bounced over the river an' through the woods!!!

Well, when he hit the edge of the ravine, he had planned to drop an old Model A Ford tire rim through the hole tied to his scarf from 'round his neck.  He was movin so fast he whizzed right past the edge (pardon the pun) in the outhouse an' fell to his death over 100 feet to the bottom of the ravine.

The fall jammed the outhouse so deep into the ravine that his wife an' youngins decided it were a waste to undig ol' Homer "Budd" Clavins when he was near buried already.  They threw a few buckets of dirt over the top of the outhouse an' left Bud to his eternal rest.

A lovely memorial service was held at the top of the ravine an' a mess of flowers was thrown over the side to rest on the mound of dirt below.

Homer "Budd" Clavins was 102 years old an' is survived by 17 children, 85 grandchildren an a mess of cousins, brothers an' his Mama, Eunice Poovey Clavins.