Stormy Mornin' Chores

Uncle Billy Gilbert woke up earlier than usual but just laid in bed for a good while. His ol' bones ached this mornin' an' he knew just what it meant. He wanted to roll over an' get a bit more sleep, but it was goin' to be an early mornin'. He could doze in his chair later in the day, there'd sure be time later. His ol' bones told him so.

He sat on the side of the bed an' reached for his sock, slipped them on an' rose to put on his dungarees an' work shirt that hung on the ancient ladder back chair sittin' by the bed. He moved slow, not wantin' to wake Aunt Del. He stopped to hear her slow, steady breathin' and knew she still slept on. No sense in them both wakin' this early. Arthur would keep plenty of company, "good ol' Arthur-itis" he chuckled to himself. "You sure did wake me early. You an' that storm movin' across the ridges yonder." he thought.

Even as he dressed he could see flashes of lightnin' high on the mountain in the distance. He was hopin' to get the milkin' done before the thunder got too bad. His ol' milk cow Sue got cranky durin' storms an might either kick him or the bucket over. 'Course, folks used to say a cow's milk would sour if a feller milked durin' a storm. Uncle Billy didn't take no truck to them ol' wive's tales.

Uncle Billy eased toward the back door real quiet like. Aunt Del made him keep his work boots by the back door. His son Will had bought him some real fine leather slippers to wear indoors, but he was content with just his monkey socks if he couldn't wear his boots. The leather slippes sat under the bed, side by side. If Will ever came to visit he would slip them on an' brag on them heartily an' then slide them back under the bed when Will left.

"Billy, Billy are you up already" Del asked softly. Though no one else was in the ol' cabin she still whispered in the early mornin'.

"Yes, Darlin'. Storms a'comin'. I need to get ol' Sue milked." he answered.

"Get what eggs is our there too. That way I won't have to go out in the rain. You want me to start fixin' breakfast early?"

"Nah." he said, "Stay right there in that bed for a while. I'll milk an gather the eggs. Them hens won't be out in the yard this mornin' either. I'll feed them in the hen house. I reckon their layin' might be off if'n it storms hard."

"Yes, I'd imagine so. You sure you don't want me to cook you some breakfast now?"

"Lands no, Sweet Darlin'. I'd get my belly full an' never get the milkin' done. You jest lay there an' get a little shut eye. I'm thinkin' I'll brush ol' Joe this mornin'. He'll be wantin' out an' I don't want him a'boltin' when it commences to thunderin'."

"Alright, Billy. Maybe just for a few more minutes. I wouldn't mind dozin' a bit longer." She said as she laid back onto her feather pillow. "Don't let that dang mule kick you, you hear me?"

"Yes mam." he chuckled. Joe was a little ornery an' didn't like thunder one bit. He kicked through his stall more than once durin' storms.

Uncle Billy worried about Aunt Del right smart these days. She was awful frail an' just didn't bounce back when she was sick. "I'll be back in later. I expect I'll bring the milk in in a bit an' then back to feed the chickens an' brush Joe."

He sat down to put his boots on an' tie them up tight.  He called Ol' Dog who was layin' by Uncle Billy's easy chair. Ol' Dog had been watchin' an' waitin' for that call. His ol' tail started thumpin' the floor an' he stood up an' bounced over to the door. Ol' Dog would get breakfast when Uncle Billy did. While Uncle Billy milked an' saw to his other chores,

Ol' Dog would make his rounds, inspectin' the farm for any sign of foxes, coons or possums. If he sniffed up trouble he might disappear for most of the mornin', wanderin' back when he finally gave up his hunt.

When the door opened Ol' Dog ran out to the barn, Uncle Billy followed a good but slower, milk bucket in hand. Sue heard him as he headed for the barn an' let out a low beller, lettin' him know she had been waitin' what must seem like forever to a milk cow.

"Hold on Sue. I'm a'comin'. I'm a'comin'. He grinned as he walked into the barn, opened her stall an' let her out to the center of the barn. She walked over too the manger on the side wall an' waited as he filled it with silage. She started eatin' slowly an' turned her head to watch as Uncle Billy picked up his milk stool an' positioned it an' the milk bucket. He had filled another bucket with water an' carefully washed Sue's udder before he started to milk. With practiced care he leaned his head onto Sue's side an' began to fill the bucket. Warm streams of creamy milk squirted into the bucket. The smell of the barn, warm milk an' ol' Sue warmed his heart.

Sue was part Jersey an' had lots of cream in her milk. Aunt Del made butter several times a week an' had Uncle Billy take her around to sell her butter up an' down several hollers. She would churn it an' then mold it in one of her butter molds. Hard to believe but some folks didn't milk anymore an' even bought that nasty white margarine that had to be squished around with the yellow colorin' to get it to even look like butter. Give him real butter any day.

He took the bucket of milk inside an' sat it on the side table. Del was still sleepin' as he went back out, closin' the door quietly. He filled a pan with cracked corn which he scattered on the ground in the hen house. The hens were waitin' for him as he stepped in. He gathered the eggs, placin' each in the empty pan. He sat the pan an' eggs on a table an grabbed his curry comb as he walked over to Joe's stall.

He stopped to pull off part of a bale of hay that he put in the other manger on the wall opposite from Sue who was still slowly eatin' her silage. He opened Joe's stall an' Joe walked out an' over to his manger to begin eatin' his hay. Uncle Billy slipped his hand through the curry comb and patted Joe on the side.

As he an' the mule stood side by side, Uncle Billy saw the thunderhead movin' toward his place, pushin' up the holler pretty fast now. The sky lit up several times an' the thunder rolled an' echoed up an' down the holler. Rain hit the tim roof all at once. Man an' mule had turned their heads to see the lightnin' an' see the rain head toward them. Joe finally turned back to his feed an Uncle Billy turned to his task.

"Mornin' Joe. You doin' OK this mornin'?" he asked. Joe's ears perked up but the ol' roan mule just kept on a'eatin'. Uncle Billy Gilbert grinned, started brushin' his mule an' commenced his mornin' prayers...

"Mornin' to you too, Lord. This here is Billy Gilbert. I've got a few folks on my mind this mornin'. Thought I might lift 'em up to y'all an ask for a couple blessin's for 'em."

Hens, eggs and Uncle Buck

Much of the time when I post stories or poems they tend to be warm or even bittersweet. Today I have a story on my mind that is not so much of either. It is a story of childhood, of the harshness of nature and the love of a kind and gentle Uncle that had a terrible task.

When I was a boy I loved wanderin' around my Grandma and Grandpa Hollen's farm. The smokehouse was dark and full of mystery. It smelled of old corn meal, salted meats an' oiled tools. The barn was down a path, just a little further than the smokehouse, but off limits till I was a bit older. When  I was finally old enough to go there I would climb the steps of that log barn, look down the square openings to the mangers below where the two mules, Joe and Dick would eat hay. It was wonderful place to explore.

Between the smokehouse and log barn was my Grandpa's orchard. The trees were ancient, low and

gnarly an' the apples sometimes just as gnarly as the parent tree. They were, however, most wonderful to a little boy who could go out and pull one from a branch an' eat it right there on the spot. Grandma would patiently gather the apples, peel and slice and make fried apples, canned apples, apple sauce or maybe dry them and later make fried apple pies in her cast iron skillet.

The branches had been twisted and formed low so fruit was easy to harvest. I always thought Grandpa or maybe my Uncle Buck (his real name was Bert, but he was always Uncle Buck to me) shaped and nursed them trees in the ol' orchard to that shape just for us to play on. The trees grew together with age and for a little boy it was hard to tell where one tree ended and another began. It was a paradise made for little boys an' my brother and I played there sometimes for hours.

When the sun would start to set it became mysterious an' scary. There were secrets in the orchard too. Secrets I didn't know till I was a grown man. Secrets mostly forgotten by all but me an' one or two older relatives. Secrets not evil, but sad. That, however, is a story for another day.

Behind the smokehouse was the hen house. It was sort of a lean-to that was attached to the back of the smokehouse. Grandma would open the door, step in an' gather eggs in the folds of her apron. If I was there she would give me an egg or two to carefully carry inside an' place in the big bowl that all the eggs were placed in.

The chickens roamed the farm, only goin' into the hen house at night. Grandma fed them in the yard between the house an' the smokehouse each day. A big ol' tractor tire had been cut in half an' she would pour the dishwater into it. Them chickens would rush for that water to find tidbits of food that had fallen into the dishpan. A few hens an' the rooster would fly into the apple trees to roost. I loved to hear the big ol' red rooster startin' to wake up an' crowin' back in the orchard.

Most of the hens nested in the hen house. Now an' again one would start nestin' in the weeds an' it was my job to watch an' find their nests. Young hens would lay eggs in a nest in the weeds an' just leave it. Critters would often get the eggs an' sometimes folks had egg suckin' dogs that would rob ever' nest they could find. Occasionally an ol' hen would nest long enough for chicks to hatch an' out of the weeds a hen would stroll one day with little ol' yellow chicks right behind like some sort of parade.

When I found a nest with chicks I would tell Uncle Buck so he could get the nest an' take the hen to the hen house. Chicks didn't live long out wanderin' around in the weeds. Uncle Buck could put the hen an' chicks on one end so she couldn't get out while they grew up.

One summer day I was playin' at the end of the orchard, climbin' one of the low limbs an' playin' Tarzan. As I surveyed my domain I heard a quiet "peep" an' searched the grass below. I saw a nest an' an ol' hen an' realized I had missed her nest. I went to get Uncle Buck an' he followed me back to the nest.

He shoo shoo-ee'd the hen off an' started to pick up the eggs. He stopped an' knelt down for a closer look. I bent over to see what he was lookin at. The eggs were hatchin' an a couple chicks were strugglin', not yet out of their shells. Uncle Buck was right quiet like an' told me to go into the smokehouse an' get a basket for him.

I was sort of surprised but did as he asked. Normally he would just gather nest an' all in his hands, carry it to the hen house with the ol' hen cluckin' an worryin' right behind him.  This time he gathered the eggs an' chicks up one by one an' laid them in that basket. I asked him what he was doin' an' he said he had to do somethin'. Told me to go to the house.

Then he walked down the hill to the creek - named Little Creek an' headed toward Red Bird River. I followed him an' he kept sayin', "Stevie, go on back now. I don't want you to see this."

I followed him anyway an' when he got to the river he walked downstream a way an' knelt down. He sat the basket on the ground an' I realized he was gonna drown them chicks. I started cryin' an' ran to him, beggin' him not to drown them. I cried an' he took me in one arm, sat me on his knee an' showed me the basket.

When Uncle Buck got upset or mad he would stutter a little as he did now, "I di-didn't want you to s-see this, Stevie. Them flies have done blowed these eggs as the chicks would b-break a little hole. That damn hen left them too much an' the flies blowed them eggs."

I looked an' saw that the chicks were covered in fly larvae... maggots. Uncle Buck didn't want them to suffer an' be eat up alive. I stared an' cried. I asked him if I could pray for them an' he said yes. I don't remember my exact words but it was something like, "God, I am sad them chicks are hurt an' mad at them flies. I am sad Uncle Buck has to do what he has to do, so take care of these chicks an' help me an' Uncle Buck get over bein' sad an' cryin'. Amen"

Uncle Buck told me to go stand where Little Creek ran into Red Bird River. He walked further downstream an' knelt again. Carefully he laid each egg into the deep water. I sort of figured it was like a burial at sea an' told him so when he walked back to me.

He didn't say nothin' as we turned to walk back to the house. I reached up an' took his hand. He carried the basket in his other hand as we stepped from stone to stone in the creek. He held my hand the whole way an' helped me in the "slippy" places.

When we got to the little dirt road that led up to the house I pulled on his hand, "I reckon we had to do that, didn't we,Uncle Buck?"

"Yessir, we did, Stevie."

"I love you Uncle Buck."

Uncle Buck just grinned that bashful grin he had. My Daddy's family was never much for sayin' that mushy stuff. Instead he tucked that basket under his arm an' rubbed my ol' burr haircut real good. Uncle Buck was my favorite.

Many years later I sat by his bed as he breathed his last few breaths. I held his hand for a long time. I don't know that he was aware I was there, that I held his hand, but I did. I leaned over an' whispered to him, "I love you Uncle Buck.". As he was takin' those last few breaths tears rolled down his cheeks.

I'm told that happens a lot in those last few minutes, just a natural thing an' he probably didn't even know I was there. Didn't matter to me. I stood an' held his hand an' remembered all the times I spent with him. Memories of eatin' watermelon right in the rows of the garden, goin' swimmin' an' jumpin' off his arms as he threw me up an' into the river.

An' I remembered holdin' his hand as we walked home that terrible day. I don't remember ever sayin' that to him before that day. I don't know how many times in my life I told him that. Only thing I remember now are those two times

Those two summer days, the first time and last time I said, "I love you Uncle Buck".

Stolen Heart

 My heart was stolen long ago
Not by a gal who winked an' smiled
Nor a beauty with angelic voice
It was not captured by feminine wiles
Or even kisses tender, soft

I cannot note a certain time
A point I knew it true
It was'nt love at the very first sight
Not second or even three
Wasn't smitten with much ado

My heart was taken away from me
In a quiet and subtle way
I did not know or realize it then
Just how my love had grown
How could I not have known

Then one day I just stopped and knew
Just had to look around
My heart was rooted deep you see
Sunk down, tied in, anchored deep
In the hills all around me

 In my dreams I wander there
Through oaks, magnolias, pines
I walk in hollers deep and old
Along a rugged ridge
Each footstep planned and sure

I trace the grain of chestnut wood
On planks of tobaccer barns
As if I touch my beloved's face
Or hold her tender hand
For I am smitten by this place
The mountains and this land.

Snow Drifted Dreams

From his window the old man sits close to the coal grate an' watches sleepily as snow curls an' drifts around the barn on the hill.

It finds crevices and crannies to sink into, forming swirls, whirls and spirals of glistenin' white as the wind lifts and throws snow like a youngin' explorin' their first snowfall.

As the lumps of coal crackle and pop his mind looks back an' peeps into windows of memory, to times when he was young an' full of himself. Times when he would lace up his boots, throw on a coat an' wander up to the barn to make sure doors were tight latches, mules were fed an' content. Times when he would throw kindlin' into that ol' barn stove, light 'er up an' create a small spot of warmth an' escape from his cabin.

Not that they was chores that had to be done right smack dab in the midst of a winter storm, you see. A feller just needs to get out of his little ol' cabin an' see the world, work his hands an' body now an' again.

When the stove was goin' good a few lumps of coal thrown in would burn for such a long time. Then the real chores could be looked to. His tobaccer had been stripped an' was sent to the big warehouses to be sold not too long after they opened the sales floors in late November. He kept a good eye on the leaves as they hung in the barn. When they came into case there was always a flurry of work as the leaves was graded an' tied into hands. His tobaccer base weren't so very big back then, but it made for a fair to middlin' income when he was a raisin' tobaccer.

On them long winter days a feller would sweep the dirt floor to get up the remnants of the tobaccer gradin'. Tobaccer knives would be sharpened, oiled an' hung back up. Tables an' benches checked for boards needin' replacin'.

One of his favorite chores was to repair an' oil his harnesses, lines an gear for his mules. Inch by inch he would pass the well oiled leather through his hands, lookin' for cracks or dry spots needin' oil. Them ol' mules would snort an' cough, wantin' to be put into harness an' sent out to work. They got just as tired of the weather but icy ground could mean a broke leg for an ol' mule, so they stayed put.

There were times when chores could wait. Times when mules was fed an' brushed down, stalls were shoveled out, dirt floors swept clean. Those times was the best, the finest. Those times he would put a chair close to the stove an' just sit, damp boots close to the heat an' steam risin' from them as they dried. Don't know why men sit an' stare at an ol' stove as it crackles,pops an burns. He always suspected they was a studyin' on somethin'. That is what he would do, just sit an' study on the deep things of life.

The ol' man grinned an' blinked. He sat in his cabin for ever so long lookin' into the embers of coal that wormed an twisted in the grate. Yep, he could an' should get his coat on an' wander up to that ol' barn. They was always chores to be done.

He leaned back into his chair, pointed his feet toward the coal grate and smiled. Them chores could wait for a while yet. This here fire felt pretty good too.

Rainy Mornin' in the Mountains

Down yonder in the mountains, deep in the holler
A right smart drive from any little ol' town
Little ol' cabins sit coveyed up in a wide spot
Not much more than a couple fields an' a creek
Sittin' in the flat place made as two hills run together.

It is early mornin' an' the mist still clings tight
Seems to wrap tendrils around the trees an' weeds
Writhes an moves an' reaches out here an' yonder
Hangin' on a might longer since it is rainin'.

Soon enough a weak an' ancient sun will rise
Tryin' to punch through the mist, rain an' clouds.
Birds will wake up an ruffle their damp feathers
Roosters, hoarse from the damp will crow a scratchy "cock-a-do".

Cows in beat up an' broken down barns are gonna beller
Hopin' someone will be out soon to milk.
Ol' dogs will rise out of the dust under them cabin porches
Shake an' look out at the rain only to drop down again.

 Lights are soon to come on an' little streams of smoke
Will start to rise from chimneys as coals are poked
An' big ol' potbelly stoves are stoked.
It is a rainy ol' mornin' in the mountains.

Folks are just a' risin', breakfast just a' cookin'.
Ol' men will be movin' slow this mornin'.
Bones just achin', feet a' hurtin' as they pull on their shoes.
But they is chores to be done, stock to feed.

It is a rainy ol' wonderful, blessed mornin' in the mountains.
Y'all come home.  Come on home.

old barns by Stephen Hollen

I Love the Fair

Cousins,
First of all, I have to tell you right off that I love county fairs. There is nothing better than going to a fair and walking around just to watch all that happens. I especially love going during the day. There is not the press of folks common in the evenings when all the city folks come to ride the rides and the boys try to win prizes and impress their gals at the midway games.

The daytime is dedicated to showing 4H animals, judging, grooming cows, sheep, goats, rabbits and chickens of every variety. Kids in blue jeans and boots move with serious dedication to their goal of herding an animal into the ring.

Today I took a long lunch to go over to the County Fair and walk through as I ate. I had a fish boat. It was filled with fried catfish, hushpuppies and French fries that I covered with vinegar. I couldn’t eat and play games, so I felt safe walking through the midway. I listened to the carneys calling to boys, “come on now, fella, win one for that pretty gal there.” Or maybe, “Hey there, everyone is a winner. Only two to play and one of the two wins a prize”.

Then I walked through Cow Barn 4. There were younger 4H kids with calves in that barn. As I walked I saw a little Jersey calf lying on a thick pile of fresh straw. She was curled up and sleeping peacefully. A little blonde headed girl of about 7 was curled right up against the calf with her head on the calf’s neck. Her hand carefully rubbed the calf’s ear as she grinned up at me.

I walked through the goat barn, the rabbit and chicken barn and stood at the side of a show ring and watched some boys and one single girl show their pigs. I have to say that I grinned constantly as I heard the pigs squeal and saw little boys trying to make their cantankerous pigs move in the right direction.

The Grange displays were full of beautiful tomatoes; gallon jars of soybeans or corn, squash, huge heads of cabbage and baskets overflowing with beans. There were jams and jellies that delighted the eye, cakes that just cried out for eating.

I believe I could live at the fair. I could eat rib eye sandwiches or butterfly pork from the Clay County Pork Producers. At lunch I would snag an ear of fresh corn on the cob covered with butter, salt and pepper. Dessert would be home made strawberry ice cream one day and maybe the thin crisp county fair waffles all covered with powdered sugar. For supper I would go into the Methodist Church Ladies Missionary Group tent and have their sit down chicken dinner.

I’d have to have a job, so I would bring back the sideshows and I would be the barker. I would be resplendent in a striped jacket with a straw hat and bamboo cane. There I would stand on a big wooden box all painted up in primary colors as I called out;

“Ste-ep right this way folks, come one come all and see the greatest show ever to grace this county fair. Perhaps the most amazing accumulation of oddities, talent and unexplainable phenomenon the world has ever seen. Come see Johnny the dog eared boy, the chicken with 3 legs, the dinky doo. Come right this way, sir and bring the little lady to see the world’s largest, yes I said the world’s largest bull, the horse faced man, see Zambina, the missing link as she changes from beautiful modern woman to gorilla. Yes, folks, I said Zambina the gorilla woman, fresh from her tour of New Orleans French Quarter.

Here it is folks. This is the real thing. Never before and never again will you see anything like this. Step right up now and see the bearded lady, the world’s largest rat. We have it here folks, all right here in your little town for this week only. Don’t go home and wonder. Don’t walk by only to dream years from now about what you missed by passing this wonderful show by.”

Published July 26, 2004

Hen Scratchings

Dusty barnyard
Chickens scratchin'
Sanscrit
In the dirt.

Just a Taste of Fall

I reckon the weather will be changin' fast now.
The tomaters have done all they're gonna do.
There's plenty of green ones to fry still.
Doubt any will ripen, weathers turned a bit.

Up in the hillside there's a buck workin' his antlers.
Just a rubbin' that velvet off hard an' fast.
He's gettin' ready for courtin' days right soon.
Listen, hear him thrashin' agin the tree?

Tobaccer's in, hangin' up there,high in the barn.
Stand in the barn door an smell real deep.
Nothin' sweeter smellin' than a cash crop dryin'.
Soon enough folk's be a strippin' 'baccer again.

Dang squirrels are a cuttin' on hickory nuts.
Sittin' on the tin roof, cuttin' an' a cuttin'.
They's gettin' fat, ready soon for a long nap.
'Course, one or two of 'em might be comin' for dinner.

Field corn stalks are turnin' brown, whispery dry.
Tractor's sittin' ready for work tomorrow.
Couple o' days an' the corn cribs will be full.
Them deer will be gettin' their fill 'bout now.

Yessir, weather's changin.
Just a taste o' fall in the twilight.
Light'nin' bugs havin' one last dance.
Mist creepin' down like a quiet quilt.

Miss Hazel

One of the problems with bein' an older man in a small community is the older women, or more specific, the older women what think a feller needs another wife. Uncle Billy has his share of "women friends" as folks call 'em.

He hardly has a week go by without one of the ladies of the Booger Holler Holiness Church stoppin' by with a hot pie...knowin' he has a weakness for pie in general an' berry pies in particular. They drive up, get out of their ol' cars and start a bellerin', "Bill, oh Bill! Y'all home? Howdy in the house." or somethin' like that.

Well, first off, anybody what knows Uncle Billy knows he don't take to folks callin' him Bill. His Daddy named him Billy and he has been Billy from day one. If he is in a feisty mood he'll plain tell folks, "Name's Billy".

He don't mind visitors, he just don't want the church ladies to come a courtin'. He's heard 'em talkin' 'bout how he needs a woman to take care o' him since Aunt Del died. They took him on as a project, kinda like makin' a quilt for a new baby. Them women folks saw he was alone and they just don't like it one bit. No one bothered to ask his opinion.

Ms. Hazel was the worst o' the bunch. She set her mind on marryin' up with Uncle Billy and she was after him like a chicken after a june bug. "Bill, O Bi-illl" she called when she stopped by. "Bill, I was a makin' pies an' thought of you just a sittin' here by your lonesome all the time. What with no woman-folks around to take care of you. I thought y'all might like a little sweetnin'. Oh Bill..." That was the words out a her mouth ever' time she stopped.

Uncle Billy was sittin' out in the barn workin' on a chair he was a makin' for Roscoe Collins over on Little Creek. Roscoe already had two of Uncle Billy's chairs an' wanted two more to sit out on his porch. Said they sat better than store bought chairs when a feller was takin' it easy in the evenin'.

When Uncle Billy heard Ms. Hazel callin' he jumped up an' looked our through a crack in the logs of the barn. He had been meanin' to rechink them logs, but today he was mighty glad for the clay that had fallen out.

"Oh Lordy, it is Ms. Hazel, Old Dog. She's got another pie." he looked to Old Dog for support, but Old Dog was a sleepin'. "You ain't no help a-tall."

Uncle Billy looked around. There was only the one door to get out. He had thought of makin' another door in the back of his workshop to get into the barn without goin' out and back in through the big barn doors, but there was never much need...till now. He was like a cornered rat in a corn crib. He scrambled 'round an' round lookin' for some relief.

Finally he looked up into the hayloft. There was sweet escape. Without a second thought he grabbed a' hold of a plank and pulled his way into the top of the barn and hid behind a tall stack of hay bales.

When Ms. Hazel stuck her head in the door and called, "Oh Bill, Mr. Bi-iilll." she saw no one and would have gone on, leavin' the pie in the kitchen with a note she had already written. Old Dog, however had turned traitor. Old Dog had woke up an' was sittin' an' starin' straight up into the hayloft where Uncle Billy had made good his escape.

"Bill, are you up there?" Ms. Hazel called. Old Dog wagged his betrayin' tail and stared up into the hayloft ...and barked! Old Dog barked! It was as if to say, "Here he is, hidin' like a treed coon. Shoot 'em down, shoot 'em down."

Uncle Billy sheepishly looked down. Hidin' was one thing, hidin' when a feller was caught was 'nother. "Lo. Ms. Hazel. It's Billy, not Bill, mam."

"Oh Bill, I am right proud I caught ye. I have a blackberry pie I made. When it came ot to the oven I thought of y'all sittin' here all alone. Why don't ya come on down an' we'll have us a piece?"

"Much obliged, Ms. Hazel, but I reckon I'll be up here for a right smart while."

"Why's that, Bill?"

"Well mam, y'all never lived on a farm, have ye?"

Ms. Hazel laughed, "No sir, but I wouldn't mind a farm."

Uncle Billy grinned a little, "Well mam, I reckon I better keep on lookin' 'round up here. They is a snake up here somewhere. One o' them hoop snakes."

"Hoop snake?" Ms Hazel asked weakly as she stepped back a step.

"Yes mam. A hoop snake has been gettin' into the chickens an' eatin' the eggs. I reckon it is eatin' near a dozen a night."

"Hoop snake?" she asked as she stepped out the door and looked around.

"They is the worstest kind, Ms. Hazel. They don't crawl like mos' snakes."

"They don't?"

"No mam. When they want to travel fast the get hold of their tail with their teeth and make a round circle...a hoop like. Then them things can roll down a hill like nothin' I have seen a whole herd of 'em rollin' after a young deer. I reckon they could run down a youngin' or old folks like us." Uncle Billy added this a little too gleefully as he looked down from the hayloft.

"What do they do when they run a feller down?"

"Well, they eat 'em I reckon. I ain't never stayed around to see. When a critter is caught and starts to squealin', I usually get gone." As Uncle Billy spoke, he took out his Case knife an' rubbed it agin the log close by. It made a sad squealin' noise. He looked back into the hayloft innocently.

Ms. Hazel heard the sound and looked around the farmyard with eyes big as dinner plates. Then Ms. Hazel remembered something she had to do in Beloved and told Uncle Billy she would put the pie on the kitchen table. Her leavin' was faster than it had ever been.

As her car pulled away, Uncle Billy climbed down from the hayloft chucklin'. He stood in the yard and watched the dust fly from Ms. Hazel's ol' car as she made her way as fast as the dirt road would let her.

That very afternoon Uncle Billy cut in a back door from his workshop into the barn. He also made sure to oil the rusty hinges of the door leadin' out into the field back of the barn. He didn't use it often, but a feller never knew when it might come in handy.

Old dog slept on the porch that night...not at the foot of Uncle Billy's bed.

Smell of an old barn

Cousins,
Don't know what it is about a barn that draws folks into it. It is the look, surely. I love the careful clutter of an old barn. Tools placed on the walls or hangin' from a beam. Nails driven in just far enough to be convenient for an ol' sheep shear or maybe a shovel handle.

Up to the hayloft there is always a surprise. I reckon y'all might see that ol' yaller striped cat with another load o' youngin's. I don't care much for her morals. She's always got an ol tom from some farm hangin' round, courtin' her till it's time to care for the youngin's. Then it's up to me when she starts bringin' em round the back door to the cabin

All these things make a barn a wonderful place...but it is the smell that I love. A tobaccer barn has a sharp smell different than others. Like a giant cigar when you walk in and smell. Take another deeper whiff and you'll smell the fertilizers in the corner. Get too close to ol' Joe's stall an' all ya will smell is mule droppin's. That adds to the smell though. It is rich and earthy as you smell the rest.

Close to the harnesses and tools the air becomes slick with oils rubbed careful like on tools and leather for a hundred years. In some places the ground is dark with the remains of the oils that fell to the sweet, sacred earth of our beloved Appalachia.

The ground underfoot is hard like an ol' rock from feet comin' and goin' day after day, year after year...generation after generation. The path is one that could be navigated in the dark because it is so familiar.

Walk over to the harnesses and collar and smell deeply. There, there is the smell of rich leather soaps used to clean and keep supple. The oils added to keep the leather for dozens of years and help it shine in the hot Kentucky sunshine.

Here and yonder it will smell dusty, but no the dust of neglect or abandon. It is the dust from generations using a barn well.

Look, see, smell...remember. Do not let our barns and farms fade in your memory. They are callin' us home even now. The homeplace beckons. The barns that stand empty now ait for us to know what we have lost. The soil cries out to its tenders...

come home. Come home to the hills, to the hollers. Come and work me, till me, walk my hills and know your blessing, your heritage. Daddy's generation left, but did not forget the call. Again and again the roads were filled with children of Appalachia goin' home. It just was never long enough.

The hills call us back. they call to our youngins. They call to our blood, no matter how thin, they are haunted by the call of the soil in our blood, the smell of the barns, the sight of an ol' cabin. Stop and listen, quiet like it calls, it sings in our ears, beats a rhythm in our blood...

Come home, youngin's, come home.