Mrs. Chappell's Wild Ride

Well sir, yesterday was full of excitement over to Booger Holler and at the home of my Cousin Peanut Chappell! I was not there, but heard all about it over to Buster Hollen's Barber Shop when I stopped in to get a trim.

Seems Cousin Peanut's Mama, Mrs. Chappell (we pronounce it MIZZ in the hills, of course) had determined to face the 8 inches of heavy snow and get out of the house to get some root vegetables an' gather the eggs from her hens over in the henhouse. Now that henhouse is actually a shed sort of thing built onto the side of the barn and there is a door from the barn into it. This makes it easy to go into the barn, get some corn and step in to feed and gather eggs.

She put on her husband Vergie's worn out ol' work boots that she often wore in muddy or icy weather. She thought they had better soles than her day to day shoes an' they came up over her ankles. She sort of figured they would keep the snow off her feet better. As she left the house she grabbed a big ol' dishpan so she could gather the eggs in it an' carry in some taters an' other root vegetables from the barn to make supper later that afternoon.

Goin' out weren't no problem. She was careful an' grabbed onto the clothesline post along the way to steady herself. The deep snow was covered by a sheet of ice an' her feet crunched through as she walked.

Once in the barn, she shelled some corn off the cob and put it into her apron as she held the bottom hem up to make a pouch for the corn. Steppin' into the henhouse caused a flurry of feathers an' cluckin' as the chickens gathered round her to peck at the corn as she tossed it to the ground. Though there was a small door for the chickens to get outside, they hadn't ventured out much in the snow an' it had almost closed up their exit.

She was right disappointed that they was only three hen eggs in the nestin' boxes. This cold an' snow had put the layin' hens off for the last few weeks. She gathered the eggs into her apron and went back into the barn.

After she carefully laid them eggs in the dishpan, she went to the back of the barn an lifted the angled door that led from the barn into the root cellar. Vergie had been right smart to build the barn with the henhouse an' the root cellar built on. She stepped down the two steps an' turned on the flashlight that hung from some balin' wire just inside the door. It gave her enough light to grab some taters, carrots an' turnips before she went back out an' into the barn.

That is when things went from normal to excitin'. She put them root vegetables in the dish pan, went out the barn door, turned to make sure it was latched an' turned back to start to the house. She noticed that it had started snowin' hard again when she turned an' took a step.

It was that turn that did her in, I reckon.

Y'see, Vergie had got himself a new pair of work boots a couple years back because the old ones was worn out and the sole was rubbed as slick as a slate rock from years of work an' wear. When Mrs. Chappell stepped out an' turned around she lost her feet out from under herself an' went down on her backside.

She let go of one side of that dishpan an' the eggs an' root vegetables flew out. When she put her hands down to catch herself the dishpan somehow got under her backside an' she landed in that dishpan on that icy snow.

That was just enough to start her skiddin' over the yard an' toward their ol' Ford truck. As she saw it comin' up fast, she laid back like one of them luge sled fellers goin' feet first. She went right under the truck an' out the other side but went to her left an' right into the dry branch that runs along the yard.

Once she hit that dry branch it was all down hill an' feet first. She commenced to squallin' an' carryin' on to beat the band. Vergie is a good bit hard of hearin' an' he thought it was just the snow an' wind comin' down the mountain an' through the holler. He sat back in his easy chair, closed his eyes to take a little ol' nap, smiled an' just listened, glad to be in on such a bad day. He couldn't wait for the hot beef an' vegetable soup Mrs. Chappell was goin' to make that evenin' for supper.

Well, things weren't goin' so good for his wife. She was a goin' down that dry branch like a locomotive, squallin' into the wind, the snow hittin' her in the face an' beginnin' to cover her all over. Folks paused all over the mountain, wonderin' what they heard. Most thought it was just the snow storm that had hit.

Then her foot caught on the branch of a cottonwood tree an' she commenced to spinnin' round an' round in that dish pan! The spinnin' made her squeals an' squalls sound like some sort of police (pronounced po-leese) or sheriff car or fire truck. Ever' one knew they was no fire trucks close by an' a few, includin' Dr. Percival Poovey (a purveyor of potent potables - he made 'shine an' sold snake oil on the circuit), was hopin' the sheriff weren't comin' after them an' made themselves scarce.

Just imagine that sight! Some critter comin' down the dry branch, all white an' snow covered, spinnin' like a top an' bustin' your ear drums with its carryin' on. It scared several youngin's who was sleddin' behind Booger Holler Hard Shell Baptist Church. They ran inside the church, found the preacher an' confessed they had stole some cigarettes an' had a smoke! They wanted right there to get themselves right in case that was judgement that had screamed down the mountain an' by them

Mrs.Chappell commenced to doin' some very unladylike cussin' an' carryin' on as she continued her wild ride, twirlin' like one of them there dervishes folks read about in the National Geogramic. Snow had completely covered her an' she almost looked like a purdy white weddin' cake or some store bought sweetnin' spinnin' on display in a big ol' picture window.

Finally the branch started to level off an' she dug the heel of one boot into the snow to slow her wild ride down an' stop the spinnin'. She hit a log across the branch, flew into the air, still hangin' onto the dishpan an' landed on the hood of her middle boy, Walter Nutt Chappell's (Folks call him WalNutt) vintage AMC Gremlin. Her face smashed up agin the windshield an' the wipers started to clean the snow an' ice off her face.

WalNutt had been startled as a huge snowball landed on his Gremlin. Y'all can just imagine how shocked he was when the wipers revealed the face of his little ol' Mama, all squishy agin the windshield.

She blinked a few times, grabbed an' held the wipers and stared fierce like only a Mama can. She pointed a finger at WalNutt an' spoke quiet like, "Get me off'n here an' get me home.

He lifted her off the Gremlin, shook her good an' hard to get all the snow off an sat her down. She didn't take too well to the shakin' an' slapped him hard.

"I said GIT me home, boy! An' never tell anyone about this." She said to him as she looked up into his frightened eyes. She threw her dishpan into the back seat, got in the AMC Gremlin and sat starin' straight forward.

He swore he wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone. He drove her home, helped her in an' went out to the barn to gather the eggs an' root vegetables. He was plain ol' shocked that not one of them hen eggs was broke. He took them into the house, woke Vergie to say "Howdy" and was on his way.

WalNutt Chappell went directly to Buster Hollen's Barber Shop an' waited till he was in Buster's barber chair to say, "Fellers, do I have a story to tell you!"

I didn't hear it first round. I was over to Knuckle's Dollar Store when I was told I needed to stop in the Barber Shop to hear about Mrs. Chappell's Wild Ride!

I heard it there and now have told it to you just as it happened. I wouldn't lie to you 'bout it! That is just how it happened. I'd rather eat fried chicken than lie to friends.

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.

A Cabin Waits

In my early morning dreams and sleepy drifting I wander down an old dirt road and just as I turn the bend I see an ol' cabin just waitin' for me. It is carefully placed at the head of a holler, sourwood trees full of bees just a buzzin' on hillsides that rise high above. Though it is day, there is a light in the window to let me know I am welcome an' the cabin waits for me.

I ease up onto the porch an' sit in one of the sturdy rockin' chairs, ancient an' well worn but made well, just as the cabin is. I look out on the road an' realize the view is perfect. The sound of cicadas catch my ear an' I sit back to listen as they hum a mountain tune.

Just over to the right of my vision I see a creek slappin' an' dancin' over rocks an' divin' deep in them calm spots. Water skippers skate along an little ol' minnows dart here an' yonder. As I watch my vision almost glazes over, like they are a hypnotizin' me. But they ain't, I see it just then, they are a spellin' my name, tellin' me I am home.

Come with me to a place down home

There is a place, in my dreams and daytime imaginings, down yonder in the hills of home where the whippoorwill's forlorn cries sing counterpoint to the hum and buzz of cicadas. A place not so very far from my hometown of Beloved, just up the road from OZ and not so very far from Brigadoon. Way up a holler you'll find this place after you cross through two shallow creeks and over a low water bridge. You'll know you are goin' down the right road when you see an ol' swingin' bridge crossin' the river and an ol' red barn proudly remindin' you to "Chew Mail Pouch".

Down at the end of the road is a holler wrapped round the place in my dreams. The hills on either side rise up with the worn look of all mountains in Appalachia. Full of red an' white oaks, tall pines an' here an' yonder are sourwood trees aburden with blooms. Bees are a workin' the sourwood as you pull up an you can hear the constant buzz as they carry away the sweet sourwood nectar. Spring has filled the mountains with promise.

An ol' dog rises up in the yard to see who it is an' drops right back down, too worn out to make a fuss. On the edge of the hill chickens scratch an' whisper "cuck a cluck" as they seek out bugs an worms in the dirt.

There is a short white fence with gate wide open, more for looks than keepin' anyone out or in. Ramblin' roses follow along the fence, new red blossoms are layin' agin the white fence.

The ol' log cabin don't look so big from the front, but it fools folks when they see it. It is deep inside and wide open so those within can sit an' talk an' visit. Though it is still daylight you see lights in each window that welcome and wait for those who might be tryin' to get home.

Inside the front is open with plenty of chairs, love seats an' couches for folks to find a place an' rest their bones. A fire is already goin' in the stone fireplace an' you smell soup as soon as you walk in. Books rest on 'bout every table, a fiddle, banjo an' a couple guitars sit in stands. A couple dulcimers stand in a corner as if a band just walked away. You know somehow that they are there for you to pick up an' strum if you can.

Though the front room is warm and welcoming, you make your way to the big eat in kitchen where  Oh My Darlin' is busy with buttery rosemary yeast rolls in cast iron skillets. Mismatched soup bowls are stacked high on the counters an' soup spoons rest in mason jars. I am at the stove with a huge pot of soup foggin' my readin' glasses. I turn an' see you an' both of us stop to come over an' hug your neck. Others stand to greet you with hugs an' introductions an' the kitchen fills with joyful laughter as new friends become old friends, friendships are renewed as you find that one person you know an' love that was waitin' for you to arrive.

You just know it is goin' to be a wonderful weekend, filled with music an' stories, good food, laughter, maybe some bittersweet tears shared over a memory or remembrance of those gone home to glory. The basket full of goodies an' meal fixin's you brought are fetched out of your car and put away as a cup of coffee is put into your hands.

You warm your hands on the coffee and are invited to look around. As you look around you see that there are fewer bedrooms than folks an' wonder about where everyone will sleep... especially you as you seem to be one of the last to arrive. Yes, each room is laid out with huge featherbeds loaded down with beautiful old quilts. There are a few couches that could be recruited as a bed, but you suspect folks will have to sleep on the floor. It is a wonderful day, however an' you decide you will take whatever piece of floor offered to you.

Warm soup an' them rosemary rolls fill every belly an' folks settle down as guitars an' fiddle are taken up. Dulcimers find laps an' that ol' banjo is tuned up. An old feller pulls out a harmonica an' plays a mournful mountain tune. Others join in an' those that know the song join in. Oh My Darlin' opens an ottoman an' pulls out well worn songbooks, turns to the right page an' hands you a book.

Oh, we all wish that night would never end as stories are told, songs played an' sung, faces about to crack from laughin' an' smilin' so much. It is finally time to turn in. I accuse folks of bein' sorry ahead of time, knowin' sunrise come early in the mountains an' I plan on all of us hikin' to the ridge to see the sunrise. I hand out lanterns an' flashlights in preparation for the hike an' you ask where you can unroll a sleepin' bag you always keep in your car.

Folks chuckle at your question an' I take you by the arm an' tell you I'll take you to your sleepin' place. As we go to an' through the back door you get a worried look, wonderin' if I intended for you to sleep in the barn or on the back porch.

Others follow an' stand around, waitin' as I point into the holler an' up the hill. All around are lights strung in the trees that are filled with buds an' new leaves. The strings of lights are illuminatin' several elevated walkways and miniature swingin' bridges leadin' up high into the trees. Forty an' fifty feet an' more you see five small tree houses wrapped around ancient oaks an' hickory trees. Lights are on in each one an' folks are already walkin' toward them with bags an' suitcases. Each tree house is between 15 and 30 feet in the canopy of trees. The lights strung throughout the trees make the scene look like an Appalachian Fairy Land. You look around, expectin' to see elves peekin' from the trees.

Some of the tree houses have bunk beds, one bigger tree house has three sets of bunk beds, another has two ol' iron beds. All have featherbeds fluffed high an' covered with quilts, just invitin' folks to rest. Right in the center is a tree house with no beds but with a sink an' even runnin' water! Yep, there is even a compostin' toilet in there so you don't have to wander all the way to the cabin in the middle of the night.

You find a place to lay your head an' find that the day has left you and your roommates wide awake. You tell stories as each lay in bed too excited to sleep. Sleep finally sneaks in but all to soon I knock at the door, telling everyone that coffee is on, bathrooms are available an' "dawn won't wait for y'all!".

With travel mugs in hand we all make our way to the top of the ridge in the dark. Our lanterns an' flashlights bob along to illuminate our path but all are extinguished at the top. There are planks elevated on rocks so folks can sit an' sip their coffee as we wait real quiet like, as if a show is about to begin. Whispered comments are met with smiles an' muffled laughter.

Then it begins. You know then and appreciate why we chose that spot to live our lives together, Oh My Darlin' and me. Not jealous, but wishin' you too could stay there for the rest of your days, knowin' we were blessed. The wind is gentle as it pushes through the trees. Birds begin to wake, a couple squirrels bounce an' dance through last fall's leaves. Down the hill a deer walks cautiously along a path, stoppin' to nibble at new blades of greenery.

The sunrise is glorious with bright yellow, oranges and reds. The sky is so dark along the ridges but graduates to the purest silver blue high in the heavens. No one speaks for ever so long as we watch the glory of the mountains. Oh, what a grand day we have been given.

Together we walk back down an' begin preparin' a breakfast of cat head biscuits, dozens of fresh eggs gathered from our hens, ham, sausage an' bacon, country gravy peppered just right, fresh fruit in bowls, a deep dish of pears an peaches comes out of the oven, each one sprinkled with cinnamon and dabbed with butter. An ancient bowl is filled with fried apples that make your mouth water. Large pitchers of milk from our neighbor's dairy sit in bowls of ice. Over to one side a feller shows off his muscles as he squeezes fresh orange juice for all. There are grits, of course an' maple syrup an' fresh churned butter. Two coffee pots simmer on the stove, Tea cozys cover tea pots for those that choose tea. Of course there is sourwood honey, robbed back last fall from my four hives just out back by the sourwood trees.

We eat and sit forever at the long table. No one wants to get up, each enjoys the magic of good company. We laugh, remember, tell tales on each other an' finally smile as someone says, "That reminds me of a story...".