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More From the Folks of Muddy Fork

A Bit of Luck

I was sitting with Pa and Uncle Fred on the high ridge that overlooks Grandpa Bishop's old farm. The three of us had climbed up this ridge every Friday night with our hounds to watch them chase foxes. No one in town knew of this secret pleasure we shared, and no doubt many would think we were a little touched in the head if they did find out.

We kept a small camp fire burning for warmth, and also to fry our bacon and keep the coffee hot. Our hounds lay silently by our side, having caught no scent of fox. Some nights those old red-furred varmints didn't stir out of their dens, and it's those times that we gave Pa's brother, Fred, a chance to tell us one of his stories.

"Now, Mitch," Fred started, "I want to tell you a story about the time I got to be about twenty years old. You were only ten at the time, so you won't remember this. Something sparked inside my head, and I got a hankering to go out on my own to make some kind of life for myself, other than farming. It seemed to me that growing corn and tobacco was not the best way for a man to live, especially since Pa barely made ends meet year after year.

"I told Pappy and Mammy that I was tired of working in the cornfields, and since I was a grown man it was high time I found out what lay outside Muddy Fork County. Mammy tried her best to talk me out of leaving, but I had a stubborn streak in me a mile long.

"I'd heard there was plenty of work up in Ohio, and that it was a prosperous place to settle. Taking my good riding horse and saddle, I left in the spring, after helping Pappy plant his corn crops. I hugged Mammy and shook Pappy's hand, and rode off with a burlap sack filled with vittles. It was hard saying goodbye, but like I said, I was set on going out on my own.

"I traveled mostly in the daytime, and camped at night. Along my way, I ran into another young fellow about the same age as me. He was sort of like me, a wanderer, by the name of Jake Dotson. He came from Crooked Branch, which was in the southern part of Muddy Fork. I recalled Pappy saying there were some Dotson's who lived in that area, so I guessed he was from that set of folks.

"We became partners, so to speak, and got along well. It was good having someone to talk to as we journeyed to Ohio. We stopped at some of the old scrub farms we came across and found ourselves a bit of work here and there. At least it was enough to buy some bare essentials along the way.

We were about halfway to reaching Ohio when our luck ran out finding work. We were out of food and down on our luck, and when we arrived at a deep hollow, we decided to follow it to see if we could find someone who lived down there. We rode about half a day in the same direction, and when we arrived at an old shack, it was set in a little cleared farm. We found an old man and his daughter living there and asked if he would give us a bite of food, telling him we hadn't found work for a good spell, and that our intentions were to get to Ohio to find employment.

The old man told us he would give us a job that would last for quite a long time.

"What kind of job?" I asked.

"Well, boys, I have a moonshine still down in the hollow and, like you, I've been having a hard time making any money at all. I've got this daughter to raise by myself and we're both hungry."

"The old man explained that his wife had died from a fever, and that he had to do something or starve. His farm was run down, but he did have enough cleared ground to either grow corn or make moonshine.

"I knew better than to get involved in whiskey making, but when a man is hungry he does things he would not usually do. So we hired up with Hank Wilson and worked real hard to get about three acres of corn in the ground. The old man allowed us to sleep in his barn shed where chickens were roosting on the tier poles. We both got chicken mites all over us.

"The daughter was called Rosy Ann. She was mighty pretty and about the same age as Jake and me. The old man was pleased with our corn growing, and the crop did really well. When fall came, we gathered the hard dried corn and before too long we were running moonshine. It was a hard job toting corn down to the cave that the old man used to make moonshine, but he was a whiz at it. He'd take a mule loaded with fruit jars of moonshine to the nearest little township, Cozy Corner, and peddle the lot. We did all the hard work and our little operation ran smoothly. Things were looking up for all of us.

"I knew that if we got caught, we could end up in prison for several years, since whiskey making was illegal if no tax money was being paid out. It was a gamble but, like I said, hunger can make a man do wrong things. Rosy Ann washed all the fruit jars and helped put the moonshine in them as well as making sure the tops were screwed on all of them real tight. Rosy and I had got really well acquainted since we'd arrived, and I had taken quite a liking to her. I expect Jake liked her too. I could tell by the way he looked at her while we were making whiskey, but he never let on to me that he was even fond of her.

"Fall came, and squirrel season had arrived. One evening Jake borrowed old man Wilson's shot gun and went off down the hollow to hunt squirrels. In the meantime, I was in the barn shed shaving. Rosy Ann came in and we talked for a while. I knew she was fond of me, and before I knew it, our lips had met in a kiss. All of a sudden, Jake came busting into the barn and saw us kissing. He threw himself a cussing fit, shouting at the top of his lungs, 'I am stuck on Rosy. She was supposed to be my gal, not yours.

"He looked me right in the eye and told me he was going to Cozy Corner to turn me and old man Wilson in for making moonshine. Before I could say a word, he was out of the barn shed, cussing as he went. We could hear him galloping off towards Cozy Corner. Quick as could be, Rosy and I hurried over to tell her pa what Jake was about to do. He told us to hide all the moonshine that we had bottled that was ready to sell.

"Well, boys, to make a long story short, the law came that next day. There were some men from the federal government riding fancy horses, with big stars on their chests. They hogtied me and Wilson, and led us into Cozy Corner like we were a cow or a horse. Jake testified against us at our trial by jury and old man Wilson got five years and I got three. They sent me off to a prison that was near a rock quarry, and every day the warden had me busting up big boulder rocks with a sledge hammer. Every rock I smashed I imagined to be Jake's head. Here he was, as guilty as me and old man Wilson, and he was free. I figured he'd stayed on at old man Wilson's farm with Rosy Ann, so I made me a vow that when I got out of that hog pen prison that I would go back to old man Wilson's farm and kill Jake. He'd tried to get rid of me and old man Wilson so he could have Rosy Ann for himself.

"The grub in Brownville prison was not fit for a hog to swallow and I hated every day that I was there. The warden was a man who liked to beat on prisoners for nary a reason, and I tried hard to avoid even being noticed. The three years I spent there seemed like twenty or more, but one day the end finally came and the warden told me that my three years were up. He gave me fifty dollars that he said I had earned for three years of labor, together with a new suit of clothes.

"When the warden opened the prison gate, he told me to come back as soon as I could; that they had a heap more rock in Brownville that needed busting. I called him a son-of-a-bitch and ran like a turkey. That day I found me a ride with an old man who had a wagonload of all kinds of plunder - pots and pans and all kind of things that he was peddling over the countryside. He had an old worn out pistol that I bought off him for ten dollars and a box of shells that cost me three more dollars. I asked the old peddler if he was going close to Cozy Corner, and he told me yes, that he'd be passing pretty close.

"It seemed to be a lucky break for me, not having to walk all the way. I was determined to kill Jake and my anger kept growing as we rode along. The peddler let me off at the mouth of the hollow that led down to old man Wilson's farm, and bid me farewell. He advised me not to shoot anybody with the pistol he had sold me. He was just kidding, of course, but little did he know that I was in a mind to kill a fellow named Jake.

"It was quite a long walk down that hollow to the Wilson farm, and when I got there a lazy smoke was coming from the chimney of the farm house. I hid in a thicket and watched for a while. Since three years had passed, I wanted to know what was going on there. I knew someone was living there because of the smoke coming from the chimney.

"I was not in the thicket for more than ten minutes, when I saw Jake stagger out of the farmhouse and sit down on the porch. He looked to be drunk. A few moments later a small dirty child came toddling out to where Jake was on the porch. The boy could barely walk and looked to be about two years old. Not long after, Rosy followed, looking as fat as mud. She must have weighed at least three hundred pounds and her hair was sticking up every which way. This was not the same pretty Rosy Ann I had kissed in the barn shed three years before.

"The three of them looked dirty and greasy. Jake was lying on the porch as Rosy picked up the baby and handed him to Jake. He played peek a boo with the child – lifting the little fellow up in the air, trying to make him laugh.

"At that moment I changed my mind about killing old Jake. By the look of things, I felt I actually owed him a favor. After they all went back in the farm house, I walked back out of the hollow a happy man, knowing it could have been me on that porch with a big, greasy woman to look after until the end of my days. You boys know the rest of the story.

"I came back here to Muddy Fork and bought myself a farm. Although I never married, I have cattle running on my place and two of the best fox dogs in the county. What better luck could any man have? Yessiree, that was some good fortune!

The Woman Hunt

Some men just have a certain way about them that others notice. Earl Madden is one of those men. He lives over on Copper Creek, just past the swinging bridge. He works alongside me at old man Moore's sawmill and sometimes he and I will go fishing at the Muddy Fork River.

Earl is twenty-seven years old and has never been married, nor has he ever courted a woman. He said just the other day, 'Jake Freeman, we have been friends a long time, and I respect you as a good friend, but I want to ask you a simple question. How does a man like me go about meeting a woman, and what does a woman like in a man?'

Well, to beat it all, I was not able to give him one bit of advice, because that question could have been the same one that I could have asked him. I wasn't able to answer him because I have never courted a gal here in Muddy Fork County either. As a matter of fact, I have never even spoken to a gal, let alone courted one. Here's one thing pappy told me a long time ago: if a man has a purse loaded with money, and lots of it, most women will love him. Unfortunately, neither Earl nor I have any. We are both just regular men. Not too ugly and not too handsome. 'We are somewhere right in the middle of the road on that,' he said, giving me a funny look.

Earl thought some more on this, and then said, "I got to thinking just the other day, after my sawmill work, just how lonesome it is being still under your pappy and mammy's roof and being a full grown man. Why don’t me and you ride our mules over to Taylor County next Friday where folks don’t know us and see if we can find us a gal to spark. Maybe some woman will come along and see fellows like you and me, and want to be friends," he added hopefully.

"Well, it's like going out hunting rabbits and squirrels," I said. "Them varmints won't come up to a man that is hunting them and say, 'Here I am, shoot me.' I guess we'll have to hunt a woman like a man would a rabbit or a deer or a squirrel."

"Well, Jake, if I ever do find me a mate, I hope she chews tobacco just like me and smokes a pipe like I do at times. I want a woman who will go right along with me on a hunting trip, and one that might even like to go on the ridge and hunt ginseng, who won't be a powder puff woman," said Earl.

You're right, my friend," I answered. "Seems like you want your woman to be just a mite manly. But Earl, you might want to study that for a while. Most women want to sit around and have nice pretty things to look at, and some of that smell good stuff to splash on themselves every now and again."

"Shucks, Jake, those kind of women is what I call spoiled. They want a man to help them down off a corn wagon, lead them around like a man would a blind coon dog, and carry in pretty things for them to look at. I know a man named Woodrow Collier who lives alongside Turner Hollow. He's married to a big pretty woman who has him cooking all the vittles, doing the rag washing and serving her food. He even has to roll her cigarettes. Ain't it a shame that a man would hunker up right under a woman's apron and carry on like that?" said Earl. "Pappy calls him a man-woman," he added.

"If you keep talking like that about womenfolk, I don’t know whether I want to hunt me one or not," I told Earl. "The fact is we might be better off as single gents."

"Well, that could be right," replied Earl, "but that don’t keep me from wanting a gal. Wouldn’t it be good if a man could just buy a woman like a cow or a mule," he mused.

"Well, human beings are different," I told him. "It's against the law to sell or trade human beings."

"I'll tell you what," said Earl. "Next Friday night, let's me and you go gal hunting. We can spruce up and comb our hair, and slick up right proper looking, and head off to Taylor County. The first place we will stop at will be the saloon. There are always a few gals hanging around a watering hole."

"That's a darn good idea," I told my big eyed friend.

"When those saloon gals see two slick dressed gents walk in, they will want us right off," Earl said, puffing out his chest.

"How much of that hair oil have you got left that you bought a while back?" I asked Earl.

"About half a bottle, I think. I used a lot of it last month when we went to the barn dances. That stuff sure makes a man's hair shine like new pennies. I think I have enough to grease us both down pretty darn well."

"I think a new pair of britches and some brogan work shoes will do the trick," I said.

"We'll be the two slickest men this side of the Appalachia Mountains," Earl crowed, his eyes wide.

I started to consider the matter and wondered out loud if a saloon would be the proper place to look for a respectable woman. Earl nodded his agreement. "Maybe we should think on it awhile. Those women have been slobbered on a lot, and I want a fresh woman that others men ain’t pawed over," Earl declared.

"Maybe we'll find a fresh one," I said hopefully, "one who will be there for only her first or second time."

As we spoke about women, a memory sparked in my mind of a funny thing that happened to my Aunt Nora when she was about twenty years old. Her folks had one of those tall outhouses. Uncle Cal had built the toilet himself, but the only mistake he made was that it was a mite too high off the ground. When a body pooped, the piles of poop could be seen under the outhouse. When Nora's mother fixed corn for dinner, the chickens would go under the privy and stomp through that poop to find the corn grains.

One evening, Aunt Nora went to do her business and she capped her rump over the diamond-shaped out-house hole that Uncle Calvin had made. One of the chickens saw a mole on Aunt Nora's rump, and starting pecking away at it. She busted out of that privy and from then on, would only do her private business in the woods.

"She was a right smart woman to do that, I guess," Earl laughed.

"Life can be dangerous, even for us country folks," I remarked, "but let's get back to the subject of our woman hunting. You meet me down at the old rotten swing bridge this coming Friday and we'll go woman hunting. And remember to use extra oil on your hair, and comb the rat's nest out for sure," I added.

When Friday came, I spruced myself up pretty darn well. I looked at myself in Ma's old mirror several times, from different directions, and what I saw was a man half handsome and half ugly, which was a split anyway you looked at it. We turned our mules' heads toward Taylor County and arrived at the saloon two hours later. Taylor County's little saloon was called Travelers' Rest. What a name for a watering hole! Should have been named Hurting Head Shack, or something like that.

We tied our mules to the hitching post and moseyed into the saloon. Four gals were there along with several well-watered corn farmers and an old man who looked to be about eighty who was playing a fiddle. He looked to be stewed drunk and that tune he was playing made me want to cry, it was such a lonesome tune.

Earl called for a shot of Wild Turkey whiskey and I called for the same. We sat down at a beat-up old table that looked as if it had been whittled to bits by drunks with pocket knives. Just a little way from our table was a big hefty gal with red colored hair, some of it frizzed pretty darn bad. She made doe eyes at Earl and even winked at him. I whispered in his ear that she was more woman than he could handle, so he shouldn’t get any sparking ideas.

"Pa told me to never marry a woman who can whip you in a fair fight," I whispered to Earl, and he agreed.

A tall slim woman came to our table who looked to be about the same age as Earl and me. "What brings you two gents to our fair township?" she asked.

Earl shot down a swallow of Wild Turkey and blurted out that we were prospecting to find us a woman.

"You've come to the right place," she laughed. "How long do you want? One hour or two?"

"We want one for keeps," Earl replied.

"Honey, these women are surely not keepers," she said with a chuckle. "They love whiskey, cuddling and money. Maybe you boys should wait till Sunday and go down to the church house down the road from here to find two church-going keepers." She gave a broad laugh and slapped her thigh.

I wasn't pleased with her advice and told her so. "Earl here wants a woman to fish and hunt with him. A woman who will chew tobacco. A church woman surely won't favor those ways."

The slim gal looked us up and down, and then batted her blackened eyes and asked, "Would you boys be willing to buy a lady a drink?

Apparently Earl gave her the wrong answer. He said, "If a real lady comes in here, we would be glad to buy her a drink."

That sparked a raging fire. The Wild Turkey he'd drunk made him give the wrong answer for sure. Three tall strong-looking corn farmers, who were a little more drunk than Earl and me, came over to where we were sitting. One of them grabbed Earl by the nape of his neck and tossed him into the saloon's drinking table.

I never was a scrapper, but duty called. We were not as full of whiskey as the corn farmer crew, and with a lot of socks and kicking, and even some biting, we lived to see daylight out of two black eyes.

Our mules didn't recognize us what with all the blood and gore, and mine tried to throw me off just a little way out of the Taylor County township. Earl's mule kept turning his head toward Earl's leg, smelling the blood. He kept twitching, as if he wanted to buck Earl off. As we sat on a ridge just outside Taylor County, we made a vow that our woman hunting would be done in our own home county of Muddy Fork. Earl said bitterly, "You tell me one time that we ever got a black eye hunting or fishing, and I will give you my sawmill wages for a week

I guess we will just have to wait until nature takes its course, and if the Lord God almighty wills it, perhaps some day soon we might find ourselves good wives. Until then, we will fish and hunt as single gents, living under the roofs of the shacks we were born in.

Daisy May

Some men strive to buy land and others strive to find themselves a wife to marry and settle down with. My friend, Fred Whitewall, had his mind set on some bottom land that lies along the Muddy Fork River and it was all he could talk about it when we stopped off at the Muddy Fork saloon one day to have ourselves a brew.

Fred and I work at the same sawmill and have been friends since childhood. When old man Whitsun died, leaving his grown sons the farm, they put it up for sale, and Fred couldn't get it off his mind. "I'd love to buy it," he said, dreaming out loud of the tall standing corn and the cattle in the pasture. "I can see those hogs growing big and fat in the hog pen I'll build 'em."

His incessant chatter about this farm was driving me crazy. Times were hard here and it seemed to me it would be impossible for Fred to make a living, let alone trying to pay for a farm on his

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Stanley Mcqueen
Bildmaterialien: Lazlo Kugler
Lektorat: Valerie Byron
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.04.2013
ISBN: 978-3-7309-2543-0

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