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The Curse of Satan's Collar
The Curse of Satan's Collar
The Curse of Satan's Collar
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The Curse of Satan's Collar

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He was big . . . the biggest of the litter . . . big enough to wrestle bears, and he did, two, maybe more; but he killed many. When he woke up in that black inky night he couldn’t see, thought he was blind, and had a massive hangover from his daddy’s Cherry Jump moonshine. He thought a buzzard had died in his mouth and with it came rotten buzzard breath. A headache like someone had hit him with a pole axe made him feel like he was dead, dead as four-o’clock. And did he smell! Wow! His torn bib overalls were soaked in sour mash. Other than not knowing where he was, he still thought he was alright, and that too was a problem. Was there any hope or any salvation? He had been weather hardened by war.
He stood up and he tired to walk, but ran into something. It knocked him down. When he fell, he heard something rattle. It was a trace chain attached to a leather dog collar around his neck. But in the inky dark he couldn’t see his hand in front of him. He got up again and found the trace chain wrapped around a tree, and locked.
Shocked, he screamed out, “Goddamn! I’m chained to a tree,” then screamed louder, “They have chained me to a tree like a wild cur dog!”
Now mad as hornet with his stinger busted, he felt around and found something else about the tree.
This time he screamed even louder, “Son of a bitch! It’s my goddamn tree! Who in the hell would chain me to my own tree?”
He sat back down against the family tree stunned, and then realized; “It’s got to be my . . . family. Chained me like a goddamn cur dog to a tree. But which one of them would have the nerve to do this . . . to ME?”
Then he realized it could be only one person.
He stood up and screamed, “Mama!
Then he fell down again, pounded the ground, cried like his heart tore out. He got up off the ground, went into a wild-man’s rage then fainted with exhaustion.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJohn Miller
Release dateJan 10, 2012
ISBN9781465927521
The Curse of Satan's Collar
Author

John Miller

John Miller's first novel, The Featherbed, received stellar reviews and earned a devoted readership upon its release in 22. Besides novels, Miller has written on culture and politics, and in his spare time he provides consulting services to local and international non-profit organizations and governments. He lives in Toronto

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    The Curse of Satan's Collar - John Miller

    Introduction

    You can take the man out of the mountains, but you can’t take the mountains out of the man. I once heard an old gray beard say that a long time ago. He looked like a typical mountaineer standing there chewing tobacco. His worn bib overalls, homemade shoes, old pea-picking straw hat, marked him as a mountaineer. I could pick him out of a crowd anywhere. And he was talking about my Dad, a mountain man forever.

    This here story is about the hanging of my gr,gr,gr,gr, great grandfather by the British in 1774. It seems the British had been lead to thinking he had stole their gold shipment. Everybody knows Indians and mountain men never steel anything.

    All the characters in this novel speak in homemade talk, a soft mountain dialect. It doesn’t obey many rules of grammar or punctuation. If written in hard mountain dialect, you would need a codebook to read it.

    A social worker, a lowlander, known as a furriner by the mountain folks, met an elderly man that could read. The man lived his whole life on top of Sterling Mountain. The social worker gave his new friend a book written in hard mountain dialect and asked what he thought about the writing. The furriner hoped they could talk about the dialect. Did the mountain man find anything wrong with this writing? If so, what’s wrong with it?

    His mountain friend replied, This here fellow can’t spell! And I ain’t so happy about his writin’ either. His writin’, hit’s all wrong! Why I even heard Old Andy Jackson way back there said, ‘He who spelled a word only one way was a mighty poor excuse for a man.’ I make no time fer him.

    Noticing that his new friend was disturbed, the social worker tried to explain to that there is a special link between the spelling of mountain dialect and its pronunciation. If there weren’t, the life, soul, and flow of it would be lost. Some think its musical.

    Upset, his mountain friend replied, This feller is misspellin’ our mountain folk’s talk on purpose. He are’s makin’ fun of the ways we’uns talks. You’uns educated furriners don’t comes near spellin’ your own words the way you’uns says them.

    The social worker furriner had an awakening, and he understood. Mountain folks believe their speech is correct, natural, and proper. To them it is. But the judgment belongs to the ears of the beholder. One man’s dialect is two or more men’s language. Certainly, the mountain dialect is a language of its own.

    Storytellers have their own language. I never met a grammatically correct storyteller. That’s how the narrator tells this story, in everyday language, mostly just plain talk. It would be an insult to this story if written in any other way.

    This is a novel about the stories of my father growing up in the mountains, and the customs of the mountain people. There is some truth, some historical fact, some fiction, and a whole lot of embellishment. It seems embellishment is just part of mountain stories someway or another.

    Dad was born in a place called Panther Creek, right in the middle of the Smoky Mountains. Not only was he a mountain man, but a hard-nosed hunter and angler to boot. Yes, he could make moonshine, and he did for the US Marines Corps at Paris Island in North Caroline in 1916 during World War I. An officer found out he was sixteen and was ready to ship him home, but changed his mind once he knew Dad could make moonshine. He never left the base. They kept him there for the war’s entire duration.

    Dad said he really liked those factory made shoes, that big overcoat, and all that food. But the Marines didn’t know anything about long underwear. Dad thought somebody had cut the arms and legs off the ones they gave him.

    Uncle Festus (1799 to 1919) with Revolutionary Riffle

    Prologue-Wild Willy's Situation and Others

    He was big . . . the biggest of the litter . . . big enough to wrestle bears, and he did, two, maybe more; but he killed many. When he woke up in that black inky night he couldn’t see, thought he was blind, and had a massive hangover from his daddy’s Cherry Jump moonshine. He thought a buzzard had died in his mouth and with it came rotten buzzard breath. A headache like someone had hit him with a pole axe made him feel like he was dead, dead as four-o’clock. And did he smell! Wow! His torn bib overalls were soaked in sour mash. Other than not knowing where he was, he still thought he was alright, and that too was a problem. Was there any hope or any salvation? He had been weather hardened by war.

    He stood up and he tired to walk, but ran into something. It knocked him down. When he fell, he heard something rattle. It was a trace chain attached to a leather dog collar around his neck. But in the inky dark he couldn’t see his hand in front of him. He got up again and found the trace chain wrapped around a tree, and locked.

    Shocked, he screamed out, Goddamn! I’m chained to a tree, then screamed louder, They have chained me to a tree like a wild cur dog!

    Now mad as hornet with his stinger busted, he felt around and found something else about the tree.

    This time he screamed even louder, Son of a bitch! It’s my goddamn tree! Who in the hell would chain me to my own tree?

    He sat back down against the family tree stunned, and then realized; "It’s got to be my . . . family. Chained me like a goddamn cur dog to a tree. But which one of them would have the nerve to do this . . . to ME?"

    Then he realized it could be only one person.

    He stood up and screamed, "Mama!

    Then he fell down again, pounded the ground, cried like his heart tore out. He got up off the ground, went into a wild-man’s rage then fainted with exhaustion.

    Recollectin'

    It was not daylight yet, what Dad called gray dawn. I looked over to the right of our duck decoys and saw something or somebody slipping up on our decoys.

    I whispered, to Dad, Dad I believe there’s someone or something stalking our decoys. It’s still too dark to tell.

    Dad whispered, Yeah, I see him, spotted him a minute ago. I know what he’s about to do.

    Then we heard three shotgun blasts.

    Dad laughed, turned to me, He just killed three of our duck decoys.

    Then he turned back and hollered at the man, You son of a bitch, welcome to decoy hunting. You just killed three of our decoys.

    Most Saturdays we would go hunting and fishing, even a few Sundays. Long before sunup, he was gone and I with him. We headed for the woods, riverbanks, and lakes…our favorite places, and his church.

    As a hunter, he believed that rain was no excuse not to sit in goose pits on those cold, wet, rainy days. I thought he might be confused about hunting in the rain and those long days in a boat catching nothing. But I found out he was never confused; he thought it couldn’t get any better. We spent a lot of time in those duck blinds and goose pits, and hunting rabbits and fishing. And I always felt we were cowards and showed bad manners to ambush those geese and ducks.

    To pass the time, Dad would tell about growing up in the mountains and stories of our relatives that I met only a few times. I really loved the story of one of his uncles who killed a bear with only a hickory wagon-wheel spoke.

    When we went fishing and the fish stopped biting, or hunting and the geese and ducks quit flying, Dad would sing mountain songs. Songs like Barbara Allen, Lord Jim, Maggie Nell, Lady Margaret and Sweet William, and many more. It seemed strange that he could sing them in the mountain dialect, called shape singing, and in correct grammar. For a long time I thought he knew two languages and could speak both mountain and furriner, or lowlander, in good grammar. I told all the kids on the block my Dad is smarter than theirs is, he can speak two languages.

    The story I like to hear him tell is the one about Uncle Festus and the Big Fog. I’ll never forget it. We were in duck blind and it was one of those bluebird days with no ducks flying. I said, Dad, tell me one of your favorite stories.

    Dad leaned forward in the duck blind and spit a wad of Red Man chewing tobacco on a big spider. That meant the beginning of a tale, but it also meant I lost a good chance to stomp on a critter. Maybe I’d get one later.

    Dad tilted back on a wooden bench and looked out into the distance as if seeing the scene. Up on the top of Sterling Mountain there is a plaque on a giant Hemlock tree with your Uncle Festus’ name on it. It reads, ‘In 1885 under this Hemlock tree Uncle Festus and Jesus walked for two days and two nights. Western North Carolina and the Smoky Mountains experienced the longest, thickest, and blackest fog ever seen before that night.’

    Dad bent forward, "It was early that October morning when they started back from their annual trip to Merryville. Winter was coming on and Uncle Festus knew a big fog was due, so he wanted to get back to the mountains. He made that trip twice a year to pick up supplies. When you live twenty-three miles from town, you can’t be making too many trips with only a mule that you don’t even ride. It was a thing with him, and he just walked along side of that mule. It was something none of the townsfolk, or anybody else, ever understood. He always had a white mule, a life-long string of fourteen of ’um.

    "By late afternoon they had reached the foot of old Sterlin’ Mountain. It had gotten colder than a well digger’s ass. And a front moved in bringin’ that black fog. He saw something unusual about that black fog; it was heavy, heavy, like no other he had seen. It was really thick and black like a black hole in a cave.

    By the time they had reached the top, they couldn’t see and the temperature had dropped 40 degrees, now freezing. Now I’ll just tell you, Uncle Festus had no fear of anything, critter or man. But when it comes to weather, you might have to lick you calf again, jest start over. Uncle Festus had seen men freeze right before his eyes. It was so cold you could throw a bucket of water in the air and it would freeze before it hit the ground.

    Dad stopped for a moment to spit on another spider. Dog gone! I missed my chance again.

    "Poor Uncle Festus made a habit of never carryin’ a lantern or torch of any kind at night. He could see better in the dark. But this weather was different.

    "From the way Uncle Festus told it, that mule just quit walkin’, set right down on his backside, hee-hawed, and refused to go any farther; something that mule had never done. Festus always said that mule was smarter than he was, and that mule knew this was no ordinary weather. That black fog had grown thicker than new fleas on an old dog, and it put the fright in that mule.

    Step on that critter, John W., it’s out of my range.

    As I stepped on that spider, I thought, I got one, but I sure would like to shoot a duck.

    Dad paused, looked up in the sky for ducks, and then continued, "Uncle Festus said that mule weren’t no way goin’ another step. And he knew why. Festus had already given that mule a big scare one night when he almost walked off the side of a mountain. That mule remembered it, and this situation was getting’ bad, real bad. That mule couldn’t see, and Uncle Festus sure had no rights on seein’ either. Their eyes felt like that black fog had washed them with sand. But he knew they couldn’t stop or they would freeze up.

    Uncle Festus got an idea to walk in front of his mule. That’s the only way that white mule would move. It was a you-go-first stipulation with that mule. Stumbling in the fog, searching out with one foot at a time, and placing one foot in front of the other very carefully, Festus managed to find a big Hemlock tree.

    "Even with scarves over their eyes, they were still half blind. But he still walked, leading that white mule around and around that giant Hemlock tree. That’s what they did to stay alive.

    "He also knew two dogs that slept together wouldn’t freeze. Uncle Festus had to ride to keep both of them from freezing. Riding that mule was something he had never done before in his life. They couldn’t build a fire, couldn’t see to strike a match. So Uncle Festus rode that mule around that tree all night.

    "When gray dawn came, the fog didn’t lift. And they didn’t know when it would let up. Nothin’ would do but for Festus to ride and walk his white mule around that Hemlock till the fog lifted. Finally, after one more night, it lifted.

    "I always thought it was two things that saved them: two quarts of Uncle Festus’ shine, and his hair. Uncle Festus never had a haircut in his life. He carried his hair around in a bag over his shoulder, all twenty-six feet.

    "Someone later asked him how it felt to be in such a fog, the thickest and longest in North Carolina history, and was he scared?

    Uncle Festus said, ‘Hell no! But I sure was tired when we got home.’

    I asked Dad, Uncle Festus must’ve been religious to say he walked with Jesus two days and nights.

    Dad grinned, Hell, he wasn’t religious! Uncle Festus thought religion was a fairy tale. I think he’s what people called a Deist. He said that all of his mules were white all over, born again Christians, and named Jesus! Just like that mule Jesus road in the Bible. I guess he baptized all of ’um too.

    Dad looked up and whispered, Get down, here comes a solo Miss Susie. We’ve killed enuff spiders. Don’t shoot till she lands, John W.

    I threw up my gun waiting for Miss Susie to land, but Dad shot the duck before she landed.

    I looked at Dad, I thought we were gonna let her land.

    First rule of shootin’ ducks, he who hesitates is gonna be the dog. That’s you! Now you gotta fetch that Solo Susie. and Dad laughed.

    Dad had told me about all of the Messers, some Millers, and said a few others could be located in the Panther Creek Cemetery.

    He said, You can find that cemetery because it has a large wooden sign at the entrance that reads, Witches Not Allowed. And you’ll find all the Messers and Millers buried with their feet pointin’ east.

    Well, Miss Joan and I found that cemetery, but the sign was gone. And sure enough, buried there in that old cemetery on a grassy side of a mountain were Messers, Millers, and a few others that he mentioned. All feet pointed in the easterly direction. Some had two and three wives, but Uncle Festus held the record with five. We found only a few Millers, but one of them was a five-dollar Indian.

    I took a picture of the cemetery and wondered what it would feel like buried behind a sign that read, Witches Not Allowed.

    The most intriguing of all Dad’s tales is the story of Satan’s Collar, trace coins called half-ass George III British crowns, and the account of one of his distant uncles chained by the neck to the family Chestnut tree for ten days. The story has its roots in the Revolutionary War era and, with embellishments, continues into the 1900s.

    Chapter One-Public Performance

    It’s 1920 in Haywood County, North Carolina, middle of June, and the Messer-Miller family is finishing breakfast. Mama stood up from the cherry wood kitchen table and untied her apron strings.

    Don’t y’all forget where we are’s goin’ today. I don’t want to miss that new preacher-man. Have you girls got your Sunday dresses ironed? Has anyone seen Willy this morning?

    No one said a word. There was a long pause, still no answer.

    Mama looked disappointed, Ok, lets everybody get ready to go to town.

    Mama took off her apron and hung it up on a nail by her stove.

    A new preacher-man had come to Merryville, in Haywood County, North Carolina. With a big phony Hurrah for God shout, he announced he would be at the big revival tent meeting, an annual meeting held in the month of July. From all the talk, this preacher-man was something special. The entire town and county were going to be there and, Mama thought, maybe more.

    The new preacher-man, Moses Trumpeter Pureliver, billed as God’s Trumpeter of East Tennessee, had a persuasive loud mouth on him that would stop a female bear and her club and almost anyone in a hurry on their way to the outhouse.

    Mama wanted to hear what this East Tennessee preacher sounded like and see if he knew the Word, as she called the scripture. It would be unthinkable for her not to be there, and she wasn’t about to miss him.

    Gifted with an awful, excitable religion, we didn’t want to miss this preacher-man Pureliver. He was from East Tennessee; that eastern part of the state noted for peculiar preaching style. Some say it appeared to be head jerking and the sound of a dog barking. Word spread fast about this extremely awful and excitable style of preaching. Preacher-men described as awful were the top banana, the best that one could be. Now Mama and the rest of us just had to see that preacher-man, but Dad could have cared less.

    Dad pleaded his case, and wanted a stay to remain at home and maybe escape any possible chloroforming. I pray this ain’t another one of them chloroforming preacher-men that puts me to sleep. I’ve already heard enuff of that jerking and barking. I got my own dogs that do that. Hit ain’t jest natural fer a preacher-man to act that way!

    But, unfortunately, it didn’t work. His stay was overruled. He had to go, no appeals, and no more plea-bargaining. It would be useless for him to plead his case. He was going to the Sunday meeting. Judge Mama had ruled on his sentence.

    Early that Sunday morning, Mama said she had seen the Mountain Spirit playing in the kitchen window and it gave her a sign. She didn’t say what the sign meant, but we found out later. Mama, born with a veil over her face, had something mountain folks call the sight.

    I’ll never forget that hot, sticky July Sunday afternoon, and neither will anyone else. It changed all our lives.

    But we didn’t get started immediately. Mama wanted to wait a while to see if Willy would show up. We had a feeling she was wasting her time.

    She finally gave up when Dad said, Nancy Abigail, let’s git! I don’t think Willy is comin’ home today. He’s somewhere up in them mountains. I heard him say a couple of days ago he were plannin’ a trip over to Cataloochee. He wanted to see Jason Plott’s new bunch of bear dogs and check on those rumors about that National Park business. We better go on and eat if we are goin’ to that big tent meetin’. It’s pretty near ten miles over there to Merryville. Now, I’ll stay here and wait for Willy if you’uns thinks I ought to.

    Good try Dad, his second try for an appeal, another failure. He had to go. We all knew Willy not showing up for two or three days was a common occurrence, nothing new.

    Mama replied, Yep, I guess you’uns right, Dad. We better get on the road. I wants to get a seat up front. But I was prayin’ that boy would show up. I got this feelin’ that somethin’ is gonna happen.

    David looked at me, then said aloud, Willy wouldn’t go to no big tent meetin’ unless hit were to wrestle a bear.

    We all giggled, but Mama put a stop to that real quick. You could tell she was getting’ upset.

    She stomped her right Dutch brogan and looked at David, All right that’s enough. Let’s git on over to Merryville cause I don’t want to miss that Head Jerker.

    We had learned a long time ago that when Mama stomps her right foot, that’s the end of it; you better do or go. Dad had even commented that she was going to break that wooden shoe one of these days. So far, she hadn’t.

    About ten o’clock, Frank picked up Grandpa Messer and his rocking chair and put it in the back of the wagon. Then we started down Panther Creek Road that led to the Pigeon River Bridge. Dad always drove when we went to town. Mama sat by the side of him, then Willy beside her and the rest of us in our pecking order.

    We always rode according to our birth order, like special seating arrangements. It was to make sure the one above you looked after you, and you looked after the one below you. It was that way to make sure we didn’t lose anyone, which has happened in some families. We never needed a head count.

    Wagon riding back in those days was no fun on long trips. Those field wagons didn’t have springs like our buggy. The only way we could drive five miles or more and not be all sore, stiff, and tired was to make portable benches across the wagon. Then at least we could set up while riding.

    Mama had been after Dad for sometime to get a bigger buggy, but where are you gonna find one that will carry the ten of us? Dad already had a big collection of wagons, probably about twenty-five. That was one of his hobbies, collecting old wagons. His two favorites were the Studebaker two-horse farm wagon and a two-horse Babcock buggy that was the Cadillac of its day. Mama couldn’t understand why he couldn’t take some of the parts off them and make a buggy that would carry us all.

    John A., why don’t you take some of those old wagons out there in the side barn yard and make us a wagon we could haul all these kids in?

    You can’t do that, Nancy Abigail. Nobody has never ever done it before.

    Mama tried to outmaneuver Dad, Well, you’uns can be the first. I know you can do hit, smart like you are’s.

    Dad shook his head firmly. I ain’t gonna do hit, Nancy Abigail. And don’t call me Ambrose either.

    Mama’s way of getting Dad’s attention or changing his mind was to call him by his middle name, Ambrose, which he hated. But sometimes she put a little curve on it.

    Mama smiled, OK, John A., I won’t call you Ambrose either.

    We passed over the old iron bridge at Fines Creek on the Pigeon River, and it still wore a rust color of iron and no paint. We crossed, turned left, and went south toward Jonathan’s Creek to Merryville. Mama took a long look up the road on the other side that led to Cove Creek and Cataloochee. We knew she was looking for our Willy, her first-born and pride of the stable. But on this Sunday afternoon, Willy is out of sight.

    She tried to disguise her concern about Willy while we rode along. Dad, you and the boys did a good job on them planks on that old iron bridge back there, but Uncle Markus hadn’t done nothin’ a’ tall on the paint. You need to get aft’ him or there ain’t gonna be no bridge to put planks on.

    Yep, replied Dad, I thinks they gonna get Aaron McCabe to do the paintin’. When he paints something, it’s painted.

    Our family was responsible for part of the upkeep on the bridge, but just the wood rails, surface planks, and the road in front of the house. Uncle Aaron Markus was supposed to paint the iron bridge. All the mountain people were responsible for the part of the road that ran in front of their farm.

    Mama kept looking up the road, but finally spoke, disappointed, I guess George Washington is with Willy. Jon said he didn’t see George Washington in his stall this mornin’. They’ll be all right; doesn’t you’uns think so, Dad?

    Dad tried to ease her concern, Mama, wherever Willy and George Washington are’s, they’re doin’ fine. Willy came through that war and not any of them there Germans could kill him. There ain’t anything around here that could make Willy hit the road. Anyway, George Washington would go through the gates of hell for Willy and kick the devil into the next county. You know how much that mule loves Willy. They’ll be OK.

    Dad’s effort to ease Mama’s mind helped a little, but she still eyeballed every road, cove, and hollow looking for our Willy. It was a good ride that we always liked. It was easy to ride a wagon along Jonathan’s Creek.

    I especially liked to look up at all the green on the mountains with the sound of the streams full of ducks and geese splashing, rushing water over rocks in the Pigeon River and Jonathan’s Creek. Just about every farmhouse we passed was a two story painted white, trimmed with some color of bright paint, green, pale blue, or even a light red. Some had colored gingerbread trim along the roofs. Almost gone were the wooden shingled roofs of split white pine, now replaced with the modern shiny tin. But the best part was the smell of all that honeysuckle on the creek banks. I guess that was Becky and my favorite, smelling that honeysuckle.

    Finally, we reached Uncle Chester Pink’s flat grassy meadow. He always lent his meadow to the revival people.

    Mama once said, Uncle Pinky is the only Messer I ever knew that spends more time in our jail than the High Sheriff, your Uncle Frank. And even then he wasn’t an employee; but he was saved by bein’ in jail. He got religion. That brother of mine calls Uncle Pinky his original jailbird.

    And there was Uncle Chester Pink, dressed up in his Confederate uniform, waving that Confederate flag he always carried.

    Mama said, Somebody ought to take that uniform away from Uncle Pinky. It put him in jail more than anything else did, runnin’ up and down the street on Saturday night, drunk, and shoutin’, ‘Here comes the damn Yankees, here comes the damn Yankees!’ Look at him out there, carryin’ on like that!

    And what a crowd it was! Mama was right; folks were thicker than a swarm of spring locust.

    The big tent revival was something we looked forward to, and the only time we sat together. Normally, at the Sunday Meeting House the women sat on one side and the men on the other. When they pass the hat around, it’s only for the men to donate; no one expected women to donate unless they wanted to. One of the elders, our own Uncle Prig, started the donations with a quarter. Some folks wondered if sometimes Uncle Prig took back his quarter, since it was his hat. Quarters are bigger and easier to retrieve than dimes.

    The revival tent was bigger this year and a good thing. We parked the wagon, turned Big Mike into the corral, and started walking to the tent entrance.

    Then something strange happened. We thought it might be the meaning of Mama’s sight this morning. The biggest black crow I have ever seen flew right across the top of Mama’s bonnet, grabbed it, flew to the top of the main tent pole, perched there for a minute, and then fell off dead. Mama’s bonnet rolled off the top and down on the ground. She didn’t bat an eye or say a word; jest picked up her bonnet, put it back on her head, and kept walking.

    We thought it strange how that crow dropped dead, but not Mama, always cool. Dad said if he had to choose someone to cross that prairie with, it would be Mama.

    Then Grand mumbled something under his breath, Dead black crows means someone gonna die.

    We walked through the main opening of the tent, down the main aisle covered with sawdust. There on the preaching platform was that preacher from East Tennessee. Mama always sat on the front row when we went to the big tent revivals, and this time we were glad. We wanted to see that preacher jerking and howling like a dog. We hoped it would be awful.

    One of Mama’s little sayings, and she had plenty, was The family that sets together, stays together. And she meant it. She didn’t hold with that idea of families not sitting together at regular Sunday house meeting back home.

    Dad said, Mama jest hadn’t had time to change it, yet.

    And that East Tennessee preacher, the most reverend Moses Trumpeter Pureliver, was shoveling out fire, hell, damnation, and brimstone; but he hadn’t started jerking and barking yet. After about a half hour he did. George Henry and I watched him strut all over the stage in his new shiny boots like a horny rooster, jerking and barking. We couldn’t help being tickled.

    It was a sight when some of the folks around us started to jerk, barking like a dog, and snapping their heads up and down. Whatever it was, they had it too.

    Stella kicked my leg and whispered under her breath for us to stop giggling. Mama looked over and stopped us with those cold Dutch blue eyes.

    Then we heard the folks in the back start to laugh and we stood up.

    We thought they were laughing at the preacher jerking and barking, but they weren’t; it was something else.

    Laus Jallus! someone shouted, Hit’s Willy Messer-Miller!

    We turned around to look, and there was a man, naked as a jaybird. Then a woman screamed like a jersey cow with her tits caught in a swinging gate. That banshee scream stopped that jerking, dog barking preacher right in his track.

    Stella said, Aw hell, Jallus! It’s Willy, naked and drunk as a hoot owl! And she fainted away.

    Well, things got real crazy after Willy’s arrival. That good sister let out her scream; the preacher stopped jerking, and strutting in his new shiny boots, and howled out, Here comes a wild man running right at me.

    There was Willy with his red hair standing straight up, flapping his arms like a bird. He took off running, streaked down that middle sawdust aisle, jumped right up on that stage, and peed all over that preacher’s new shiny boots. It shore did help that preacher to stop jerking and barking, but I don’t think it did much for his new boots. I thought Willy would never ever stop spraying that preacher. It sounded like a red-eared bull pissing on a flat rock!

    That preacher stopped his jerking and strutting, and looked at his new boots, now soaked, and howled out, Phew!

    That’s when the big fight broke out. And it didn’t help when some of those good sisters started those bloody screams. Those screams were enough to frighten everybody. And I still think it was those screams that made some of those good Christians wet their pants, both men and women.

    But what happened next was bad. Two good sisters behind Mama made a grave mistake when they hollered out, Nancy Abigail, you’uns Wild Willy are’s dancin’ with the devil again. He shore does know how to stop a jerker.

    Then they laughed, which was another mistake. They shouldn’t have done it. That’s when their bird nest hats were no longer on their heads. They were down on the floor spinning around. Mama had turned around and slapped the hell out of both of them. Hats that did look like bird’s nest didn’t anymore. Big Foot Harry stepped on both hats. Now they looked like morning pancakes, never to wear again.

    Mama turned around, Where are’s Willy? But Willy was gone. And the fight got bigger. That revival tent had become a cloud of flying sawdust, flying wooden chairs, flying songbooks, and even a few well-placed umbrellas. One of those good sisters tore a man shirt right off his back. What happened next didn’t shock anybody. Four good sisters that we had suspected had something false about their hair . . . lost their wigs.

    But the best show of the night was the two preacher-men of chloroforming fame fist fighting down on the floor. It was the good preacher-man Brown Leaf Waters, no doubt a high water, foot-washing, blanket Missionary Baptist, and his worthy opponent, the good preacher-man Humphries Dryer, a Methodist, that hated both water and the Rev. Brown Leaf Waters.

    If Willy hadn’t done anything else, he had unveiled some surprises in the characters of these good people. But the best show was watching those two preachers payoff past grudges. Everybody had heard the two reverends go at each other in the pulpit. For years, the two had abused each other with accusations and threats from behind the safety of the pulpit. Finally, one of them had sued the other for slander and the other retaliated by winning the case in court. The sheriff repossessed the accuser’s saddle, bridle, and saddlebags for court cost.

    The preacher-man got mad and you would have thought his church had just blown down. He complained that this terrible act bordered on the edge of professional insult and embarrassment. He didn’t think the sheriff should have repossessed his saddle, at least not while on his way to church. However, this was the night to get even, not forgive.

    Finally our sheriff showed up, our own Uncle Frank Messer. The first thing he did was shoot a hole in the top of that tent. Then he waited. That pistol shot stopped everybody dead dog still in their tracks and those in hearing distance. It also made a hole in the tent top that Uncle Frank couldn’t forget. Reminded later, he paid to have it mended.

    Uncle Frank hollered out, Whar in the hell is goin’ on in here? I’ll bet its’ Willy again. If it ain’t Willy, then it’s that furriner from East Tennessee with the strange preaching that ain’t natural.

    Aunt Raspy Elvira Price-Messer shouted, Sheriff it was Wild Willy. He’s dancin’ with the devil again!

    And some say that’s how our Willy got his new name, Wild Willy, from his Aunt Raspy Elvira Price-Messer.

    Uncle Frank shouted back, I knowed hit, I knowed hit! Where’s Nancy Abigail?

    Someone pointed him to the stage, She’s over there by the stage where one of her daughters had a touch of faint. I think its Stella. They’re also pourin’ water on that East Tennessee jerking preacher-man. He were a’barkin’ like a dog and jerkin’ till Wild Willy pee all over his shiny boots. That stopped him in his tracks, but the preacher-man fainted too.

    Uncle Frank said to Mama, Sissy, we are’s gonna have to do sumthin’ about poor Willy. Acting out like this here, hit’s gonna put our business to shame.

    Mama looked like she wanted to crawl in a hole. She felt hurt, but mad-dog mad, and had the look that said, I’m gonna kill him when he comes home.

    Still embarrassed and conscious of the eyes of the few not fighting, she answered, Yep, Frank. We are’s gonna git the boys to catch him tomorrow, right boys?

    Yes Mama. We replied quickly.

    Finally, we got out of that revival tent. We were with the lucky ones. It was jest before somebody pulled the rope on the main center pole. Then the entire damn thing came down on the ground with all those people under there still fighting. Frank and I had jest cleared the entrance of the tent with Grand when it came down. It looked like a bunch of ants crawling out from under a big leaf.

    A group of Indians from the reservation standing outside the back jest fell down on the ground laughing.

    I overheard one of them say, that preacher-man looked like he was doin’ a war dance for a minute, all that jerking and barkin’. Then someone bring big teepee down. But I liked the way he danced.

    It was a long time before we got home. On the way home we tore poor Willy apart. In between tears, we sentenced Willy to every type of punishment known, from hanging to castration. My brothers, Dad, and I wept for Willy. Mama and the girls were crying.

    Some think that it’s strange for men to weep. But for some reason, the men in the Miller line have all been weepers. Why, nobody knows.

    But we are not short on laughing, either. Having fun has always been one of our greatest pastimes, especially funnin’ each other. Everybody who ever said something about the weeping has always said that the Miller men just felt deep about things. And there is a difference between weeping and crying.

    But what surprised us about tonight, along with Willy’s naked run, was what Grandpa Messer said, I thought the whole damn thing were funny. I’d seen a jerker before over in Tennessee but this one was funnier. He reminded me of the time my father, Jon Waldo, caught my brother, Henry Markus, swimming naked with the five Palmer sisters. After the swim, Henry claimed that all those girls were bowlegged. Those sisters never did get married, and they blamed it on Henry.

    We still today wonder what that had to do with that preacher-man.

    But we were disappointed that preacher-man didn’t get to do more jerking and howling. Stella liked it. But I don’t think we’ll be going back next year.

    Finally, to stop all the chatter, Mama said, You’uns will need all that strength you can git for what we got to do tomorrow.

    We just looked at each other and wondered what Mama meant about needing all our strength. It was midnight before we got home and when we got out of the wagon, nobody said a word.

    We filed in and fell in our beds like ghosts. Nobody wanted anything to eat; we just hit the bed. Later that night, I heard a soft weeping sound. I thought I knew what it was, but then realized it wasn’t Dad playing his black violin. I slipped out of bed, crept halfway down the stairs, and saw Mama, sittin’ in her rocker, staring up at a corner in the ceiling. I wondered who in the world she could be talking to.

    Even if I didn’t know it at the time, we would soon know what or whom Mama was talking to up in the ceiling corner.

    Chapter Two-Wild Willy’s Bath in Sour Mash

    We came down the stairs early Monday morning for breakfast. Just as we got in the kitchen, we heard Mama say that she had seen the Mountain Spirit, a jaybird, earlier this morning.

    It was playing in the kitchen window when the morning sun danced across the window pane. Its wings brushed against the dew-covered petals on my rose bush. A big old morning dewdrop landed on the top of the windowpane. It started out slow, picked up speed, hurried down, splashed off at the bottom of the pane, and left a big puddle.

    She turned slowly toward Dad in her ankle-length everyday dress made from number 4 flour-sacks, and her wooden Dutch slippers. Everybody knew Mama for those low cut, brogan-like Dutch shoes with a top strap. Mama never went anywhere without her yellow brogans with the painted tulips. They were hand-made by her Uncle Snook.

    Mountain spirit says hit gonna rain tomorrow all day and night; one of them there pouring rains. A rain you’uns calls a gully-washer, John A. She rubbed an itchy spot on her right ankle.

    Then she turned back to her big iron skillet.

    Dad rested on one end of our kitchen table in his work bib overalls, still barefooted. He put down his coffee cup and, never doubting her prediction, said, What you jest said, Mama, makes me worried. How much did you’uns say it’s gonna rain?

    Mama broke an egg in her iron skillet, didn’t turn back, and broke another. She will break one more for Dad, her three-egg man.

    She kept talking as she minded her skillet, It’s gonna be a whole lot. It’ll start kind’a slow, like Lady Frankie leavin’ the barn in the morning, but by midday it’ll pick up like a train a’comin’ fast, then goes out at night like a March wind; a mean rain.

    She turned over the eggs.

    During Monday morning breakfast, no one talked much, if any at all. After Willy’s one-act performance last night down in Merryville, no one wanted to believe what happened yesterday. But everyone wondered where Willy might be. I couldn’t help but think about that dead black crow. The kitchen was quiet, but you could still hear the crackling of hickory wood in the fireplace, the clanking of forks and knives, pass the butter, and give me the biscuits. The only movement was the scuffing of my sisters’ bare feet, and the clogging sounds of Mama’s wooden brogans. They moved around Grand, Dad, and my brothers while our sisters served us our breakfast, a custom that Stella hated.

    We could hear Mama’s voice above the breakfast sounds that let us know what she expected today. We knew what she wanted, to find Willy.

    Now with breakfast finished she untied her apron strings, but didn’t take it off. She folded her arms, and said with more than her usual serious look, You’uns knows what we got to do today. Jon, you and the boys go get George Washington and a field wagon. George Washington didn’t come home till gray dawn and he probably has a hangover. Dad and me suspects he’s been with Willy. Lordy mercy, that mule does love moonshine. Give George Washington a honeycomb and a half-gallon of shine along with his feed in his bucket. Then he’ll be able to travel. Take a long rope and you’uns’ rifles. George Washington will know where Willy are’s holed up.

    This made us feel uneasy.

    Mama moved to the kitchen back door, stopped, gave a big sigh, then smiled, Your Dad is goin’ over this mornin’ to talk to Uncle Frank about the damage Willy done to that there big tent. He’s gonna be back before dark. But I wants him to make me something before he leaves.

    Mama pulled her little clay pipe and tobacco out of her apron, packed the pipe, lit it, took a big draw, I told him if he didn’t come back before dark, he don’t live here anymore. And if you’uns don’t bring Willy back with yo, you’uns don’t live here anymore either. She didn’t laugh.

    Bring Willy to the big barn when you’uns catches him. Last night your dad and I agreed he didn’t have any business chasin’ down a son. We wants you’uns boys to find him. It’s also washday. Girls, gather up all the dirty clothes.

    Dad stood next to Mama and hugged us, Good luck boys. I hopes your brother don’t fight you’uns too hard ’cause he is gonna to try. You’uns gonna have to rope him like a steer, but don’t hit Willy. Hit’s no fair to hit one of you’uns own.

    We were a huggin’ family, very sentimental. We’re not like the coldness you sometimes see in the mountain people who remained very independent and kept the Scottish ways they brought to the mountains.

    Frank didn’t like what he heard. Dad, what if he hits us first?

    Mama was quick to defend her number one son, Willy ain’t gonna fight back. He won’t hit any of you boys. He never ever ever never has, has he? Then she retied her apron strings.

    We reassured her, No, Mama. We hoped she believed us, ’cause he hadn’t.

    Dad looked straight into our eyes, Willy ain’t gonna hit you, even if he are’s full of shine. Hit would disgrace me and his mama and he ain’t gonna do that, yet.

    Stella stood by the stove with a skillet in her hand and shouted, Yet, yet! What does you’uns mean, not yet? What does you think Willy was doin’ runnin’ down the middle aisle buck naked like one of them there nudist people, goin’ swimming? Willy has already disgraced you and Dad. He’s dancin’ with the devil again! That’s what everybody shouted last night. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. I can’t ever go to town again. We girls ain’t never ever gonna git married. Who’s gonna marry a crazy brother’s sister?

    Mama can smooth over a bad situation quicker than a stuttering preacher-man who forgot his Bible. She slowly untied her apron and looked at Stella.

    Stella, I understands, but your brother ain’t crazy…jest confused.

    After Stella’s outburst, it got quiet. Nobody else said a word. I just wanted to get out of there. You could feel the pent-up tension in that kitchen. But we just stood there for a minute and looked at the kitchen floor. Then David stepped on a dead bug.

    Mama gave David a different look, Don’t do that, David. A dirty kitchen floor is the last thing I need right now.

    I thought we were never going to leave that kitchen and find Willy. It was just like trying to leave the Sunday meetin’ house. After two or three hours of chloroformed air by that circuit preacher we’d be wore out, ready, and eager to get out of that church, usually way after midnight. But Mama and Dad would still be talking at the front door. Sometimes we had to resort to encourage David to have what we called his after-church sickness.

    David could throw up at the drop of a hat. How he could do that always amazed us kids. What could Mama and Dad do after that…nothing but take their sick boy home. David was their baby. And we were dumb enough to think Mama and Dad hadn’t caught on. While we stood there in the kitchen, I motioned to David with a wink, but Mama saw me.

    She took her apron off, hung it on its peg, and shook her head, You boys better get started before David has one of his church attacks. I don’t want him throwin’ up on my clean kitchen floor. He’s already stepped on a bug. By the way, say hello for us to Uncle Angel up at the cave. Mama knew we’d stop at Uncle Angel’s, and we wondered about Dad. We just laughed and started out the door in a hungry hound run.

    As we were leaving, I heard Mama ask Dad something that surprised me. Dad, does you have any new leather out there in the shop? That kind of leather you makes horse reins out of.

    Dad replied when we shuffled out the kitchen screen door, Sure do, what are’s you goin’ use it fer?

    As I closed the door, Mama told Dad, I want you to make me something. I’ll come out there in a minute and show you after I get these girls started on the washing.

    George Washington was one of our best mules. He’s Willy’s pride and joy. Nothing came before George Washington in Willy’s eyes. Willy traded four striped-back New Zealand hogs for George Washington during the county fair one year. Nobody wanted the little mule. But Willy saw something that no one else had seen. He brought the mule home and named him George Washington. If there ever was an animal and a man put here on the earth that belonged to each other, it was Willy and George Washington. Both shared other pastimes; they liked to drink Dad’s moonshine and eat Mama’s buttercups. If anybody could find Wild Willy, it was George Washington.

    Ever since that jerking, dog-barking preacher-man Sunday down in Merryville, everybody had been wondering what Mama was going to do. Actually, we felt somewhat frightened, confused and wondered where Willy holed up now.

    I knew Mama was serious when she gave us a hard look, Find him; don’t come home until you’uns does. Now git!

    In the wagon, my mind kept going over what Mama said. What bothered me a little was not the rope, rifles, and not coming home till we found him, but her words to Dad, make me something with leather. Now those words really did worry me.

    It’s a long way in a wagon over to the backside of our farm. That’s where Dad has his still, under a big rock overhang on Wolf Creek.

    On the way over there, George Henry started to talk. Normally, he didn’t say five words a day. Maybe all this had made him nervous. He was six before he uttered a word. I remember when he said his first words. Usually at dinner or any other time, we put food on George Henry’s plate. He would eat what he wanted and leave the rest.

    One night at supper that all changed. Unexpectedly, he looked over at our sister, Becky, please pass the beans.

    We gasped and just about fell out of our chairs.

    Mama cried out, Thank God! The child cans talk. He’ll never starve!

    Now as we rode along, George Henry said, Jon, I’ll bet you Willy’s not at that still? You know he hasn’t been right for a long time. Not since, he came back from the war over in France. Does he ever tell you his head hurts all the time?

    I turned to look at George Henry and said sadly, All the time. Them there doctors don’t knows what makes it hurt. They can’t figure it out.

    We went to Dad’s still. Willy wasn’t there, but Uncle Angel was.

    Our Uncle Angel started out as a temporary guest on a rainy night, but wound up as a permanent attendant for Dad’s still. His history was a mystery, but we didn’t care. Mama gave him the name Uncle Angel Pinky Absalom, but most people called him The Monk.

    Uncle Angel told us in hand language that Willy had been there yesterday morning with the twins, Uncle Atmore Henry’s Tick and Tock, our Messer cousins named after their father’s pocket watch.

    I asked Uncle Angel what else he could tell us about Willy and the twin’s whereabouts.

    They was all three drunk and jest about to dance with the devil. They said they were goin’ to Sunday tent revival and run down the center aisle naked. You’ll probably find them over on Plott’s ridge. They told me they knew the whereabouts of a honey tree.

    I turned George Washington around toward the mountains, George Washington, take us to where Willy’s holed up.

    Then I jest dropped the reins on the front seat. George Washington knew the way. He could smell a running moonshine still three miles away.

    George Henry said, Told you he wouldn’t be there. But can you believe what Willy did last night?

    Frank said, Nope. But we’ll soon find out if they found that there bee tree.

    When we reached the bottom of Plott’s ridge, we heard them before we saw them. Worse than that, we could even smell them back apiece before we saw or heard them.

    George Washington almost bolted once and that tipped me off there was a polecat around here somewhere. That mule hated skunks. He could draw wind on a skunk two miles off. Then we got a whiff. That’s when George Washington stopped, barely up that ridge. He planted both front feet, reared slightly backwards, sat down on his haunches, and hee-hawed three times. We knew that meant a skunk. It was walking time for us. That’s as

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