The Last Grace: None

The Last Grace

A Novel

Sid McCoy

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Last Grace

Copyright © 2012 by Jean White McCoy

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4697-9634-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4697-9635-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/20/2012

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Part One

The Pond Fork River Valley

Chapter 1

Western Virginia

Chapter 2

Williams Mountain

Chapter 3

Turkey Creek, Kentucky

Chapter 4

The Road to Sycamore Creek

Chapter 5

Tow Head

Chapter 6

Preachers

Chapter 7

Politicians

Chapter 8

Elk Rock Sadness

Chapter 9

God and Gray

Part Two

Jackson Creek Valley

Chapter 10

Jackson Creek, Virginia

Chapter 11

Boston

Chapter 12

Seeing Boston

Chapter 13

The Lawyer Flinches

Chapter 14

Marlowe the Businessman

Chapter 15

Money Does Not Buy

Everything

Chapter 16

A Lonely Night

Part Three

The Civil War

Early Wins And Losses

Chapter 17

Pond Fork’s Little War

Chapter 18

Near Chancellorsville, Virginia

Chapter 19

Songs and Secret Orders

Chapter 20

A Marlowe Place Visitor

Chapter 21

Not Every Devil Is A Horse

Chapter 22

Petersburg

Chapter 23

The Mission Begins

Chapter 24

Big Daddy, The Protector

Chapter 25

Spies Spying On Spies

Chapter 26

Freeda Town Attractions and Distractions

Chapter 27

The Cemetery

Chapter 28

Not At The Hands Of The Enemy

Chapter 29

A Wedding And A Song

Epilogue

Mandy and Her Friends

Afterword, by Jean Margaret White McCoy

In Memory of the Author

Sidney Lewis McCoy

September 30, 1921 – April 7, 1989

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)

That sav’d a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now am found

Was blind but now I see

-John Newton

John Newton, captain of a slave ship, wrote the song "How sweet the name of Jesus that is now widely titled Amazing Grace" while waiting for a shipment of slaves in an African harbor. Later he renounced his profession, became a minister, and joined in the fight against slavery.

Foreword

Sid, my husband, wrote The Last Grace, a title of his choosing, over many years prior to his passing in 1989. It has always been my wish and that of our children, to see this work published. All members of our family, our relatives, our friends—all who will read this story must know that within these pages, the fictional characters come to life in the manner of many of the people Sid knew and admired and in places where he lived, worked, and loved.

The places, such as White’s Branch and the West Fork of Pond Fork River Valley in Boone County, West Virginia, he often spoke of with reverence as where he was born and grew up before going off to join the United States Navy at the onset of World War II. The scenes he depicts in that section of what was then Virginia in the Civil War days are authentic, both researched by him and walked by him as a teenager seventy and more years after that war. The bee hunting and harvesting are described as he did them, and the forests with their tea tables and the fishing holes with their welcoming platform of rock he paints with words as he knew and loved them in his youth.

The Boston and its environs he describes are the wonderful world he discovered following his Twentieth Century War in the Pacific. It is where he found me, and where we, with our sons and daughters lived all or most of their childhood. Sid was educated by the places he discovered and lived in, and by the people he met, admired, and loved.

Sid never knew why Granma, Mandy, chose him to hear her story. He spent many an evening on the porch of her house, most of the time, he said, with just her and him present. He said she told him a lot more when her suitor-boy was not there. He thought that maybe she told him because he was just a boy and that he would never tell anyone else, but over the many years that followed, the story stayed with him, and he gradually became convinced that she told him the story so he would tell it to others.

But, Sid had a problem—really two. The first was that he grew up right there on White’s Branch, where Mandy grew up, and in the nearly ten years after she told him the story, he had his own wonderful growth to young manhood in the places she named in her story. Over the years, his story became intermixed with hers. Imagination is a wonderful trait, and Sid had more than his share. That is where the second problem came in. He took himself back, as a teen, to the days of Mandy and the Great War between Americans. He took his mother and father, and siblings, as well as other family and friends back with him. Many of the family names are only slightly changed: Hildebrand became Holderbrand, Corns became Korns. Many of the given names he did not change.

In these pages, Sid reflects his great love of life, God, people, places, and cherished memories. In many ways, while a story of fiction, it is thinly veiled autobiography, portraying some of his discoveries in Boone County and around Boston as those of his fictional characters. He extends this to loaning the names of his mother and father, John and Hiley, of the Twentieth Century, to his imagined couple living in the turmoil of mid-Nineteenth Century America.

Here also is the romantic imagination and sentiment that he never feared to show, whether among wiry-hard, coal mining men or salty men of the sea. In his words, you can sense his own wistful thoughts that it was he, not a fictional take-off on his own father, who sat the big Roan horse there in Turkey Creek, Kentucky, ready to prod the stallion on a Life Journey of great speed and determination.

I must add that the story is rich with his beliefs about the proper treatment of people—all people, but especially Blacks and women. His take on the War Between the States, the Civil War, is clear, and he was guided by his sense of justice, and injustice. He was, in his own way, highly religious, but he does take the club of Biblical criticism to some of the practitioners of fundamental religion that he tried to cope with and understand in his youth. His love of family, from his mother to me and our children and grandchildren was a sustaining influence, especially in his later years.

I think of The Last Grace as a story of families, and the one big family of fellow humans. For those closest to him, the story is a reminder of his love of wife and family, and of the courage with which he savored his last years with us, and inspired us all.

Goodbye, Sid.

Jean White McCoy

Warrenton, Virginia

2012

Introduction

In Nineteen Hundred and Thirty, I was nine years old and living where I was born, in a place some said was far and remote, a place called Van, West Virginia, in the Pond Fork River Valley, not far from Madison. My mommy sometimes asked me to go pay the rent for the house we lived in and I remember one particular evening that she gave me four dollars and two quarters and sent me on my way. Mommy, daddy, three girls, and two boys lived in the house that we rented from a lady we called Granma. She was not really our grandma, but we called her by that name. This kind, old lady was forever talkin about her courtin days, and she still practiced the courtin every time she could find a suitor. The four dollars and fifty cents was her total income each month; need I say more of what a nickel would buy in those depression days.

I learned a lot about her courtin when I took her the rent, more than once. Sometimes, she and her male companion, rockin in a porch swing, would not say a word to each other for four hours—Folks, I pon my honor.

I was born actually a little up-river from Van, near a coal tipple in a place they called Cazy. It sat beside the river and the railroad track. I would walk down along the tracks to the place where the old lady lived. On this particular day, Granma didn’t mention courtin, much to my delight. I was gettin disgusted with it anyway. I don’t want any courtin if all I can do is sit and stare. Besides, I was a dreamer, and I had other things on my mind that I don’t wanta share right now.

This one evening, I thought I should leave after I gave her the money, but Granma said, out of a clear blue sky, Sonny, down there where you go to school, I once danced with the President of America.

Now, Lordy God, I was a boy who believed that the President had the biggest job in the whole, wide world. Granma had just shocked the livin hell out of me. As her words were sinkin in, I could name only three men who had been our president. The man in office now, most people wanted to forget. He was Mr. Hoover. The other two were Mr. Washington and, of course, Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Washington would be too old to have danced with Granma, and if Mr. Lincoln had ever made a trip up Pond Fork River Valley, someone had kept it one hell of a big secret.

My heart was in my throat, and Granma had taken my voice. All I could do was think, a president of America had traveled up Pond Fork River Valley. This day, Granma said, We get some visitors who look around and their mouths never stop makin fun of our valley, with words like, ‘This god-forsaken place actually has a name?’ And some of our strange visitors ain’t nothin to brag about themselves. As I was puttin my heart back where it belonged, Granma continued.

Sonny, I’m sorry if I excited you, but those days often come to my mind. I was young and their memory still haunts me with some sad moments. But there also were many, many lovely times.

She added, Yes, and I was in love, and my man was the greatest singer ever heard.

By now, Granma was almost makin me cry. She had a pretty smile when she spoke of her singin man. She went on to say, He was my first love, and his name was Wills. She paused for a bit, looking out beyond me and added, They called me Mandy.

Granma seemed to let her mind fade into the past and, as I watched her, I could see how an old lady can be beautiful. She wiped her eyes. She was so old—some said over ninety—they say her tear ducts had dried up. I suppose her tears were comin from her heart.

A few more seconds passed before she came back to the present. I guess she remembered she was talkin to this small boy whose mouth was still hangin open.

Sonny, he wasn’t the president at the time. Then she smiled more broadly and her voice rose, But a few years later he became our president.

Once more, my heart was approachin my mouth, and if Granma didn’t tell me soon, I was goin to have a young boy’s heart attack.

Very calmly, she brought me back to the full livin again. With a soft voice, she said, Sonny, he was General Ulysses S. Grant. Lordy, lordy, you should have been there. That handsome general made me spin like a top as we danced around the meadow. Granma’s smile lessened. She continued, Although America was fighting a war, those were beautiful days. I suppose it was because I was in love and those were the glorious days of my youth.

I got my voice back, and I could think again. Lord God Almighty, I thought, we are livin where American history was made. A man became President of America and he had been a visitor on Pond Fork River Valley.

I want you to picture this: it is early evenin. Granma wipes her eyes and says, Sit down and I’ll tell you a story of this far, remote place.

Lord god, I couldn’t sit still. I was excited. Granma sits there, lookin at me, and laughs softly.

Some of those visitors who make fun and ask, ‘This god-forsaken place has a name?’ They’ll think twice when they find out that General Grant was here. They’ll keep quiet about our remote place.

Granma pauses again. She has that look I call Old Lady Beautiful. Her voice is even softer as she says, "O’course, the general was not my singin lover. That was Wills, a local boy. He would stand on the Devil’s Tea Table and sing that beautiful song, Amazing Grace. His voice would carry across these mountain tops and down in the valley, and all within hearing would receive a blessing. Granma stops and looks up on the mountain where the Tea Table rests. She smiles with a far look in her eye. In those days we ate those little red berries growing around the Tea Table, and romance always followed. Lordy, me and that boy shared them every time we had a free moment." Granma had once more shocked the hell out of me. I had heard them stories about the tea tables and the red berries. They were Indian legends, and I didn’t believe them. But I recall every time me and my Mommy shared them, her smile got more beautiful and lasted for days.

It’s like the Elk Rock, a lucky place to fish if you believe the Indian stories. And I admit, every time I sat on that rock in the middle of West Fork River, I hoped I would catch a whale. That was my favorite fishin hole.

About the red berries, I wasn’t sure what happened, but one day a pretty little girl and I shared them berries. Lordy, I couldn’t get her out of my mind for weeks. Lordy, I thought then, if that legend is true and word gets out, a lot of people are gonna climb up that mountain and share them little berries.

Granma brings me out of my dreamin by hummin a song. She starts to sing:

"Amazing Grace, how sweet thy sound

That saved a wretch like me …"

Lordy, she had taken my voice away again. That was my favorite song. I was almost cryin ‘cause that beautiful song seemed to reach down and twist my little belly. It always ended by embracin my heart, and I thought of all the good things and good people I knew. I asked myself, why does it make me think of good and only good?

I really don’t know who was in deepest thought right then, me or her.

I don’t see a day pass, she says, that I don’t recall him singing his song of Grace.

I was next to cryin again. She stopped and this time I could see the real tears rollin down her cheeks. It was quite a while before she quit weepin.

Sonny, if you or the other children see me in a moody frame of mind, or if you think I’m acting strange, please look away. I’m an old lady, and every day of my life I ask, ‘Why was he taken from me?’ I’m afraid you children are going to think there is something wrong with me. Lordy, my loss was so great that my anger sometimes turns on God. I ask God, Why, why did I lose him?" More tears pour down the beautiful old lady’s cheeks.

Dear God, she says. I lost the most important one in my life. I was young, and there were times I wanted to die. She pauses and wipes the tears. Slowly, she seemed to gain renewed spirit.

Lordy, lordy, what a voice. He warmed the hearts of all who heard him. She laughs and with her voice rising she says, Lord God Almighty, he was so wonderful and he could melt the heart of the devil. Her voice softens again. Sonny, I knew the people around me were whispering about me and the time I spent with him. I acted as if I didn’t hear. I was a proud girl and in love.

Granma stared into space before she continued and her beautiful smile appeared again. Yes, yes, he was my lover-boy. West Virginia was not quite born then, and General Grant lifted the hearts of everyone. My lover-boy wasn’t here during the general’s visit. He was a Confederate soldier, but I remember him as if it was yesterday as he sang that beautiful song for the last time—before he went off to war. She wiped her eyes and continued. Park your little fanny down here, and I’ll just tell you about this far, remote place we love and live in.

We called her Granma, and this is her story.

Sid McCoy

Tucson, Arizona

Spring, 1989

Part One

The Pond Fork River Valley

Chapter 1

Western Virginia

1861

Down where the two rivers, the Pond Fork and Spruce Fork, meet in western Virginia is Madison, seat of government for Boone County. The river formed by that junction is Little Coal River, which makes its way north to join first Big Coal River, then farther north to flow into the Great Kanawha River, and finally into the Ohio River many miles to the northwest. Madison lies in the western mountains that make up the western third of the State of Virginia. It is a small and rural place. The workers here are farmers, loggers, and a few miners—coal miners. Surrounding the town, back in the hollows and mountains are the richest coalfields you will find on the earth. The people know that someday, when the railroad track is laid up the river, the coal will bring the greatest economy ever to flourish in these mountains.

Bubbling out of little, hidden springs is cold water as pure as there is anywhere. But there’s a smell, an odor rising from some of the springs. Boys laugh when girls drink the water and make a face. The girls drink the water from a cup, but the boys lie down, stretch out, and drink, letting the water splash up in the face.

The young lady’s beau may think she’s just pretending in making the face, but if he is in love with her, she doesn’t know it, but she can’t make her face unattractive to him. The young man may smile and offer her another cup of water, encouraging her to make another face. When she does, it only enlarges his love for her.

Most people who drink the bubbling water are concerned with the foul odor. They don’t realize, especially the young people, that they are walking on yet another economy boom—natural gas. The earth under these mountains holds an abundance of natural resources. The people will have an economy matched nowhere else—the riches and resources put on a large scale—when they get the railroad.

The leaders, who make up the officeholders and have the power to vote on important projects, have won their legislative positions by pushing tax reform. All over the mountain area of western Virginia, they have wanted more tax money funneled into this part of the state. It seems to be the cry from every political leader. The eastern part of Virginia is being developed at a faster pace. Most of the tax money is being used there, in the cities and larger areas east of the mountains.

The battle had gone from tax reform to the call for this part of Virginia to be annexed and brought into the Union, as a separate state.

Some wished to see a state called Western Virginia, some suggested Augusta, and some thought it could be called West Virginia. Another group said it could be called the Mountain State. A large group of people liked that last name. Others smiled, just shook their heads, and said, Maybe.

The little rural community of Madison has a right to be proud. They have just completed a handsome structure—a new county Court House. This new building is where court records, deeds to property, and every record that needs to be recorded may be found. The people talk about the new Court House that will also house a small detention room in the rear of the building for people who stray from society and break its law.

The Court House sits high above the river where a rampaging flood will do it no harm. It is built to last. The dedication is an outstanding gathering of important people from throughout Boone County. The political leaders and other leading citizens have been asked to attend and to speak at today’s dedication.

There is talk of war in the air.

A conflict is starting to take shape and the leaders hesitate to decide which way they will turn if there is war. One of the early speakers remarks that if it comes to dividing the country, he will stay with the Union. He shares his feelings, saying, I wish to see the Union united—not divided. Some in the crowd challenge him about his loyalty to the state of Virginia. He says, I have made myself clear on several issues. He repeats, with greater commitment and volume, one of his earlier remarks, I believe that all men are created equal. The shouts of disagreement cause him to pause. He tries to make himself heard over the loud shouting. Finally, he turns the platform over to another politician.

This second man knows that to make his speech successful, he must use a different approach than the man just shouted down by the crowd. He knows how to get these people on his side. He smiles, pauses, and says, I will stay with the state of Virginia. At once, he knows he has succeeded as the crowd applauds and praises him. He smiles, stands and waits as the cheers go on. He knew how to get them on his side, right or wrong.

The speaker who had been shouted down spoke to a few people standing at the side of the crowd with him. I believe that if we split up the states and war comes, the southern half of the country will be led down the darkest path of suffering the people will ever see. It will never be forgotten, and we may never come back to what we are today.

A schoolteacher stands nearby. He has been invited here today also to speak. He is from a little settlement farther upstream where two other smaller, but important rivers meet. Headmaster Crossland stands with his wife and some friends. He is hurt by what is happening in this gathering. To his friends he says, Here we have gathered to dedicate a new building … His voice tightens, fails him, his hurt even greater. Maybe, he tries to speak strongly, it will be a rich way of life for our people here in Boone County. However, his face shows much worry.

He is a respected leader in Crook District, the area he represents. His wife looks up at him, concerned, and says, You don’t have to fill your obligation to speak. She showed the same hurt as her schoolteacher husband. She knew, as did he, that the politicians had turned a pleasant event into a day of hate.

He says, Maybe. But maybe I can do something to repair the damage they have done. When it comes his time to speak, he walks to the podium and raises his hand for silence. The people present from his district, supporters of his or not, have the respect to quiet the others down. They want their Headmaster to be heard.

He begins, softly, but clearly. He speaks of the rich life they have today. He knows he must try to repair the damage, and he thinks to himself—today has been a terrible day for the good people of Boone County. He speaks of a growing economy that, someday, will come full and strong. He speaks of hope.

There is little applause as he backs away from the podium. The careless speakers had shaken the people with their words of dividing. He had done his best, and his best was not enough. Crossland was also the last speaker for the day.

Madison, this site of gathering and talk of separation, has one main street. It bends with the river, which clings to the foot of the mountain on the south side. The first place of business is a printing company, a small building, which faces the Court House across the street on a small rise. The building houses the Coal Valley News, now in business for five years. Already this small paper has taken up the fight for the area to be annexed as a new state, while towns and cities farther north in western Virginia have given up the fight, rewarded by the government in Richmond with money from taxes. The same tax money that counties like Boone had not received. The people up there, however, are now moved toward complete separation from Virginia and annexation by the Union. They wish to become a new state. This small newspaper, the Coal Valley News, had played a role and now yields a powerful hand in Boone County politics.

The editorial page of this paper argues for a proper use and division of the state’s taxes. The tax fight is known as the first fight for this little newspaper. Still, Boone County, and the rest of western Virginia, received no added tax money. It was then that the editor, Mr. Linville, had concluded and announced to all, We are getting nowhere. We now must push for annexation. We must become a state if we are going to make economic gains for our people. He wrote a special article. He said that war couldn’t be avoided because of the way the leaders were talking in the east and south. All were encouraging war. Mr. Linville was brave as he wrote that the North had everything to fight with. He pointed out that the government in Washington has the natural resources and the steel mills. His list of northern advantages was long and impressive. He described the South as lacking production of major products like the steel that would go into muskets, trains, ships, and cannon. The South, he argued, was a land of great production of tobacco and cotton, but the region had little transport or industry to move and change these products into items the people, or an army, needed. They are farmers and they have very little industry, he wrote. He mentioned only two or three cities in the South that had industries. He stressed this again and wrote flatly, I will not support the South.

Mr. Lively, a young man, had shown his daring and guts. He loved the area where he lived, and its people. He was born on White’s Branch Hollow, a small settlement about fifteen miles up the Pond Fork River. He stood proud in his newspaper article of where he came from and where he now lived. He wanted always to live here in Boone County.

One uncouth gentleman who was upset with Mr. Linville’s editorial is a brute of a man. He has today talked long and built up his daring and nerve to a high point by drinking the beer of nearby Corbins, a place turned over entirely to the serving of liquors and other alcoholic drinks. The man had been encouraged by some of Boone County’s lesser citizens who can’t speak for themselves. The man is foolishly drunk. In this drunken state of mind, he charges into Mr. Linville’s newspaper office. Ignorant or uncaring of the law, he attacks Mr. Linville viciously, leaving the paper editor with bruises and a broken arm.

Mr. Linville didn’t go looking for the law, but for a doctor who splinted his arm and sent him back to his newspaper. He didn’t hold a grudge, despite his arm, broken at the elbow. For the rest of his life he would carry a crooked left arm. None of this stopped him from writing about the Boone County leaders who were directing the people down the wrong road, the road, he thought, to total destruction. He remained an outspoken supporter of the North and of the new President, elected in the fall, Abraham Lincoln.

When the Southern Army visited Madison in early summer of ’61, they shut his newspaper down. The local leaders spoke in loud voices in support of the new Confederacy. Over the next two years, first the South and then the North would send in small detachments or a company of soldiers to convince the local people to support their side of the conflict. Finally, the area would be on the edge of becoming a new state in the Union, and a Yankee general returning from Washington to his command in the west would visit at the request of President Lincoln. His mission: to show the flag and to reassure the people of their protection from Southern retribution.

The general was aware that Mr. Lincoln himself had been told there was support here in Madison for his policies, especially support from the small newspaper called the Coal Valley News. But, since the outbreak of the war after the firing on the Union Fort Sumter in South Carolina, the President hadn’t seen many copies of the little paper. He had asked the general to drop by the newspaper office and assure Mr. Linville that he should continue his supportive editorials and keep copies of his paper coming to Washington City. He, of course, knew the town of Madison had been in and out of the control of the Confederate soldiers. He had said, General, I think those people are special in Boone County. Just drop by and tell them that Old Abraham has not forgotten them. He had smiled at the general, winked, and sent him on his way. Mr. Linville is told he can print his paper again, and he does. That pattern of first one and then another Northern or Southern group of soldiers coming in to insure loyalty had continued into early ’63, when the Confederates seemed to lose interest, or simply did not have the soldiers to keep watch over the Pond Fork River Valley.

Up the left-hand fork of the river from Madison, the Pond Fork Valley is a land of steep mountainsides and fast dropping brooks, or branches, that flow like a fish skeleton into one of the larger branches of the Pond Fork called West Fork. A short distance upstream from where the West Fork joins the Pond Fork is the mouth of White’s Branch. This was the land of Mr. Linville’s youth and of schoolteacher Crossland. It is also the land of our Mandy and of a young boy and girl who have traveled separately from Kentucky to the Pond Fork River Valley before the coming of war. But more of that later. Now, it is worth a ride out of Madison and up along that Pond Fork River, the branch to the left, or West Fork, and the small stream, White’s Branch, so you will know of the land in which Mandy’ story unfolds.

Starting back at the new Court House, in the days before and after it was burned and rebuilt during the Civil War, the main street of Madison curves to the right. Along the street are your usual stores. Hardware, iron stoves, a saddler, a harness shop, and other stores that make a town. It is the busiest little town for miles around. And, for men who have money, you can purchase everything. There is game aplenty in the hills and fish, large and small, in the rivers and their branches. A man of modest means can live and eat well here too.

Oh yes, don’t miss the last building on the right as you leave the town. It’s the mortuary. As I said, you can purchase anything in this rural little town in western Virginia.

Just outside the town heading southeast, you move close to the Pond Fork River, which then bears left. This is not a river big enough for transport, like the Big Coal River way downstream to the north. It is a small river with clear, sparkling waters. Several people could live off the fish in just one short section the year round. The valley now widens to accept us as we continue southeast. It is about thirty miles to the headwaters of this river, well beyond where it is joined by the West Fork. The high ground and town where the very first small branch of Pond Fork begins is called Bald Knob.

The large, flat bottomland of the valley is where the people farm. As the population grows, more fields are opened on the sloping hillsides, good land for growing corn. But, most farming is done down where those flat bottomlands are. Rich soil, from the loam washed off the mountainsides. The loam varies in depth, in some places as much as two feet. Through the centuries, leaves, and trunks of trees have decayed and heaped rich soil on top of rich soil.

The mountaintops on either side of the river roll on out of sight. The river too, in the distance, also curves out of view. The largemouth bass lie in every deep hole of water along the river. In some places, a large part of the mountain has dislodged tons and tons of rock and soil. The rock has slowed the river enough for it to gouge out a large cavity in the riverbed. Sometimes the resulting deep holes of water will be six to ten feet deep. Farther up the West Fork River is a place called Elk Rock, where the water is twelve to fifteen feet deep. The largemouth bass like to lie around or under those large rocks. To get at this fish, you have to know the rock and how to fish around it. A largemouth bass likes to take your bait and go to the deepest and hardest places to get at. Sometimes a log or limbs of a tree will be bothersome to you. My, the power the bass has as he dives to that hardest to get at place.

The Pond Fork has another fish which gives the sporting man a thrill—the smallmouth bass. He is a fish who will take your line and run with it, run away from you. He doesn’t dive to deep waters. He comes to the surface with lightning speed. He breaks water in a display of beauty by dancing on his tail. He dances as no other thing can dance. He will thrill you by coming to the surface at least twice. Dream about this fish and you will think of a graceful ballet dancer. Sometimes you wish that you hadn’t caught him.

And then there is the Pond Fork delicacy.

In large cities here in America and in Europe, a gourmet food can relax a dining man or woman to heights of great pleasure. In those few eating places along the Pond Fork that serve a variety of the best and most delicious food from these waters, we pay the highest price for one of those delicate and rare foods—frog legs. Frogs are measured from the tip of the nose to the bottom of the feet, and some measure twenty inches long and more.

I ponder, folks, that’s a fact. In Boone County, many a family can serve up frog legs just as delicate, tender, and delicious as in any fine restaurant anywhere in the world. With a special batter, which some like to keep a secret, they prepare the meat and place it in a skillet of hot, hot, melted lard. Anyone who has watched the cooking is fascinated as he watches the clear muscle meat do a quivering or a few jumps in the pan. Sometimes, you may think the leg will jump right out of the pan. And Pond Fork has more than its share of these frogs.

Maybe part of the reason for all this water life is the clear water that runs down out of the hollows. It is pure, cold, and it sparkles. Some of the hollows are very narrow; some widen as they flow into the larger valley. The sun penetrates well into these wider hollows, but many narrow hollows never see the sun under the thick trees. Everything here is coated with green moss. Cold water running over the rocks in the brooks and rainwater on roots and hard ground make for dangerous and slippery footing. Some decaying trees lie where they fell, hundreds of years earlier. In places, a man can fall through a layer of leaves, rotted tree limbs, and pine needles and find himself buried to the waist. Some trees are thicker than two tall men lying head to toe are long. Many people never see this world underneath the trees, but they see the tree-covered mountains from afar, and they know their beauty.

The beauty is here for the people—free. In other places, men of means may pay large sums to see what the people here have, and it is free. Everywhere you look, there is a mountain, and in most months of the year, it is all green, and even in winter, the evergreens, pines, spruce, and cedar, splash the brown hillsides with green. In the warm months of summer, they are colored a dark green. Mound after mound of rolling, lush green. In a breeze, the green beauty will roll and sway. When the winds change, the greenery sways in the other direction, with the wind. These mountains are steep, but there is no mountain too steep to climb. Once you climb a difficult mountain, you want to climb them all. You stand on top of a mountain you feel you have conquered, and the next one already is encouraging you to conquer it too.

The wild flowers that grow in these mountains are many, but the most appealing is the pink and white blossoms of Rhododendron. You think you are in a garden. There is also the Wild Dogwood, flowering pink or white in the spring, you wish the spring would never end. These flowers of bush and tree are also free.

Many local people who leave for a long time and return to these mountains look up at the rolling green hills against a blue sky, thankful they have been allowed to return to this place. Even for people who have traveled all over the world, there is no beauty like this.

The mountains are loaded with deer, bear, squirrels, rabbits, and turkeys, pheasants and other fowl of the air. Some folks live off the land and what the land holds dear. There is plenty for everybody. Hunger has never been known on Pond Fork River Valley.

Among the trees are those that bear nutmeats—walnuts, beechnuts, chestnuts, hazelnuts, butternuts, hickory nuts, and more. A boy who can remember where the nut trees are is anxious for the time of the leaf coloring in the fall. He knows what his father knows: where the trees are, when and where to harvest the nuts, and how to crack them open. From his mother he knows how to roast them and use them in breads, puddings, and cakes.

A feast is to sit before the fire inside a warm house, while outside the wind, rain, ice, or snow pounds the countryside, and to crack open the nuts and eat them, right then, fresh and pungent. With your mother’s heavy pressing iron held tightly between your knees, bottom side up, holding a walnut against the iron and tapping it open with a hammer. Gloves are a good idea if you are cracking black walnuts. The blue-black liquid juice, better known as stain, was once used by the Indians to mark and paint symbols on their animal skin clothing. It won’t come off the skin; it just has to wear off over time. You share that nutmeat in later life with a lady rocking by the fire and watching you. You smile and reach for another walnut. These black walnuts are much tangier in taste than the so-called English walnut that is sometimes present in a local store. The lady’s smile lets you know that some love goes with the next walnut, and the next, and the next. For the man who remembers where those rich nut trees are, there are rewards that come from the rest of the family.

If you are a traveling man, or if you are a native of the Pond Fork Valley, at times your burdens may seem too much for you to carry. You may be out on a lonely mountaintop, or somewhere on a hillside or in a valley. Wherever you are, you may at times need help, and you seek that help. You need only to look up. Up at the sky that seems always so blue, the deepest blue you have ever seen. Sometimes, there will be misty clouds floating by. The clouds are good. They bring water that the mountains need to keep this beauty alive.

This is a time to talk to the mighty one. If you have sinned, pray that you will not repeat. If you have offended someone, ask to be forgiven. You need only to ask to be made holy and be kept that way. We know the mighty one moves in mysterious ways.

Sometimes, you have to try to understand when the mighty one takes a loved one back into his hands. You try. You thank Him for the joy the loved one who has departed gave you. You thank him for the many riches you have here in the beauty of these mountains. If you are on a mountaintop, as you think of the rich valley below, thank Him for the gifts he has given to you and your loved ones. There are times you think of that valley below, or one like it, as the Lonesome Valley. The loneliness comes when you are overloaded with burdens. Thank Him for the life here, peaceful and good. Ask Him: walk with me and assist me through this lonesome valley. Walk with me and assist me to make my walk easier. Walk with me daily. I thank you.

When it comes time to walk down off the mountain, your face seems to come alive, your smile broadens, and your load seems easier to carry. Look up and smile. You know you have to face that lonesome valley, but smile wider. You know one sure thing.

You are not alone, He is with you.

As you can tell, I like being the writer of a story—a storyteller. It lets me slow down in the life of my characters and share with you some of the things that have a close relationship to our characters and who they are and how they act and how they ought to act. The people that I imagine reading this story in future years shape what I share of my own thoughts and beliefs. They are, and always will be, close to me and important to me. I want the story to have meaning for them, and, I hope, to help them in some way, as the beliefs and thoughts have helped me. But, back to our story.

As we continue up the Pond Fork River Valley, there are more rich farmlands. The corn rises to the knees in the fields, swaying slightly with the wind, and the edges of the fields bend with the river as it slices into the tracts of land. A little farther on, we see a field of sugarcane. It looks as if it is a mile long. From a small rise, you can see the dancing tassels atop the cane that rolls on and on. The tassels sway like the trees atop the mountain ridges. The field goes on and on, never seeming to end.

We come upon the little town of Uneeda. It is an Indian name given to this settlement over a hundred years ago. Before the white settler, the Indians owned the place of the town and all the land around it. Those Indians we pushed on west into Kentucky and Ohio.

Some say we never did the Indians wrong. Did we do him wrong? We know we did take their best lands. We must admit that.

Just upriver from Uneeda, the river flows at the foot of the mountains on the right, or south side. The fields of grain are at their widest here. This is the place of the largest corn and cane crops in the entire valley.

As we travel farther up the river valley, the mountaintops grow higher. We pass many smaller hollows, creeks, or branches that flow into the river. There is Robinson Creek, Jack’s Branch, Bull Creek, and one by the name of Lick Branch. These hollows have names that go back as far as can be remembered. A few of the old timers can tell you why they have the names—some of them.

On a clear day in the colder months of the year when the trees are bare of leaves, you can see dark gray or black scars on the mountainsides. A prospecting miner has cut into the mountainside and found a small trace of a seam of coal that then played out after a few feet into the mountain. Someday, maybe soon after this coming war, coal will be the life and heartbeat of this valley.

Lick Branch is the last hollow before we come to Freeda Town. Most people actually call it something like Freedytown. This hollow has been logged out. That means, a logging company has gone in and cut down all the larger trees, leaving it bare of all but the smallest trees. The workers of one such company provided timber to the sawmill located at the hollow called Robinson Creek. Already, new trees are growing down near the floor of the hollow. They are young and thick of leaves. The trees are nourished with cold, cold water from the brook that flows down the hollow. Where the hollow no longer feels the sliding logs, feet of lumberjacks, or hooves of horses or oxen, the green moss is again overtaking the surface of roots, rocks, and soil. This is where the sun, again, cannot shine, the ground blessed by the shade of the new trees. Lick Branch is not used for much of anything anymore.

Freeda Town is important because that is where the West Fork and Pond Fork Rivers meet. The main river, below and above the junction is called Pond Fork, but our interest turns to West Fork, which flows more from the southeast, while Pond Fork comes more from the south. Both rivers carry a strong current, especially in the early summer when storms dump many inches of rain back in the mountains where these rivers begin as small branches. With these levels of water, the two rivers can be a threat to the peoples’ safety. A big storm can send these hollows and rivers into a state of roaring destruction.

Freeda Town is a small place. Here the river clings to the left side of the valley. Several houses line the riverbanks and the large fields on the right. A one-room schoolhouse is perhaps the most important building in this part of the valley. That is because of the present teacher, who has been here over forty years. He teaches boys and girls to read and write. If he hears of a boy or a girl who is not attending his school, he will travel on horseback to distant places to find out why. He will talk to them and go to great lengths to get a boy or a girl to attend his school. He is charming, witty, and he knows boys and girls. He has used tricks of all kinds, convincing a boy or girl of the advantages of reading and writing.

We go back now in time some twelve years to join this teacher as he is cleverly using the most beautiful way to reach a boy and girl—romance and love. In his urging of them to begin attending his school, he has read them a story, one that took a long time. As he finishes, he is smiling and waiting to see which one will make the first remark. He glances at the girl. The girl is flushed, touched by the words of romance. She says, I think the story is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. The boy is backward, shifting in his chair. He says nothing.

The girl places her hand on his arm. She wants to encourage him. They have heard a beautiful love story, and he has never before looked at her the way he does now. But he then looks away. She smiles, trying to encourage him, without words, to speak. He finally says, Yes, I liked the story. The teacher looks at the girl, noting that she is happy. He knows the story has stirred her in ways that never has happened before.

He has done this type of thing many times over the years. It would not be the first time he has brought a boy and girl, walking together into his classroom. He has started more than one romance to blossom in this way.

A few days later, the teacher enters his school, smiling as he always does to start the day. It is a bigger smile this day because he is about to welcome a new, smiling, young lady, Mandy, to his class. Her hair is brushed and gathered into a long, neat ponytail. She offers the pretty smile, as if comfortable in her new life of learning to read and write.

As he entered, the teacher saw the shy, young man in high boots at the back of the room. The teacher walks slowly back to where the boy stands in a corner behind the back row of seats. He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy seems to relax under the soft touch and the easy voice.

Good morning, Wills. Welcome to our school.

The boy smiles and surprises the teacher with a firm question, Sir, which is my desk?

The teacher leads him up the middle aisle and points to the vacant desk just behind the pretty young girl who is the boy’s distant, but closest neighbor.

The teacher, who the other students call, Headmaster, has done it again: brought two new people into his schoolhouse, to learn, but also lured them with the knowledge that someone else, attractive, is going to be there too. The title, Headmaster, is not common for such a small school, but this man is widely known, and has been well respected for many years. His teachings on what he calls modern science, sometimes lead to conflict with his friends and fellow teachers. He is widely read on many subjects, has charming and romantic ideas, and he believes in God.

The boy knows why he is here—the girl. She told him she was going to enroll and wanted him to attend also. He has known her all his life, but he has never seen her as pretty as she is today. She is wearing shiny boots, and her flowered print dress hangs just above the arch of her boots. He had seen her the evening before, walking all the way to her house just to make sure she was still going to start school today. But he knew something was strange. He really wanted to see her. She had offered to show him the dress she was going to wear and she had gone into the next room. After a time, she came out wearing it and the new boots. He knew she had sat for hours rubbing in saddle soap to get the soft, rich shine on the brown boots. He had seen then how pretty she was, and he guessed she was more to him than just some girl.

Later, as he walked home in the dusk from her house he thought of how he would like to say something to her, something nice, or pretty, or whatever boys say to girls. He had wanted to speak up, even with her mother standing nearby, but he hadn’t. The words he did think of he could not bring himself to say to her. He walked slowly with his hands in his pockets, unmindful of the coming darkness. He thought he would like to touch her, maybe put his arms around her, and hold her close. He liked her. He knew he liked her. When he got home, his mother was waiting. She asked where he had been. He told her. He said he needed to go to bed just as soon as his chores were done. His mother noted that he was smiling.

Later, when she told him goodnight and closed his door behind her, the boy’s mother could not recall when he had taken on the chores so easily without being reminded. She would have to tell his father, already preparing for bed, about that—about the chores, not about the young girl he had visited. And that smile, it had lasted all evening. She looked back at the door, a knowing smile on her face.

Sitting behind the girl now in the schoolhouse, he thought of his last words to himself last night before he slept. I know I like her. I like her more than anybody in this world. He wanted to touch her hair. He would like to see her reaction if he pulled her hair. He would not want to cause her pain. He wished only to get her attention. He cannot concentrate on what the teacher is saying. He is daydreaming—about their walk together to school this morning.

They have no books, but he carries her lunch, wrapped in a brown bag. She is beaming with excitement. She takes small jumps and hums a song. At times, she sings softly. Her beauty, he thinks, and her youth, have been turned loose to go wild and free. She had mentioned with a smile the night before, After I learn to read—after we learn to read—and write, we can read stories to the older people. They would like that. Smiling, she continues, Just think of the little ones with their cute little faces listening to us read. Oh, we are going to have fun. She looks at him for approval. He smiles.

Now they have to cross a small footbridge in front of Mr. Tripples’ Store. He holds her hand as they walk across the bridge. She remarks that he is so strong and steady. He is a little embarrassed, but he likes her praise of him. He is slow in releasing her hand. Their eyes meet. Her smile tells him that she likes him too. He is happy he has decided to come to school. It has brought him together with the person he thinks is the most wonderful girl in the world.

In the schoolhouse now, sitting behind her, he remembers again the smile on the face of this pretty, ponytailed girl.

Crossland had gotten his attention again as he tells the class the full names of the new boy and girl. Please welcome them, he says. You can meet them at the morning recess.

The teacher begins one of his stories of great Americans who have honored the nation with acts far beyond the call of duty. He talks of Revolutionary War leaders, General Washington, Paul Revere, and others. The new students hear names they have never heard before. No one had told them, and they could not read; nor did their home hold books with such stories in them.

It is all so interesting to the new students. They keep their eyes on the teacher, listening closely. They are ready to learn to read about these people—and others. Later in the day, they study the ABC’s, the building blocks of reading, the teacher explains. All day he brings up new subjects of interest, things they want to hear and to read about.

He announces they will be taking a field trip before noon up the West Fork River Valley.

We will talk about that huge boulder that sits in the river, Elk Rock. It is the rock the ice age left us many, many years ago.

The new students have not heard of the ice age before, but they know about Elk Rock.

Then we will continue on up to our outside church in the Sycamore Grove. You will enjoy the bubbling springs of cold, cold water, Mr. Crossland says. He adds, And water that some of our girls have said before smells like rotten eggs. There is laughter, but Wills notes that some of the girls do make funny faces. The boys laugh long and hard.

I’m sure everyone will enjoy the field trip, the teacher says, bringing the class back to order and quiet.

Mandy turns, smiles, and says, I think it will be fun, and Wills agrees.

The trip will be the first of the times that Mandy and Wills will share over the next dozen years as they grow up in the Pond Fork River Valley.

Back to our trip, as we leave Freeda Town, we travel up the left fork, the West Fork of Pond Fork River. Just over a mile up the river, the road turns sharply to the right, as does the river, both pushed that direction by a large finger that drops steeply down from the mountain on the left. As soon as we get to the tip of that finger, we see another finger that pushes the river back to the left. The road follows those turns, staying on the left side of the river, which is up close to the mountain on the right side of the valley. On the left, before and after the first finger juts out, the ground slopes slightly at the base of the mountain and the finger. The first open ground is planted in three separate fields of corn. The