Listen as I tell you a tale. In the Eastern Kentucky hills there lives a monster, a being, a hunter. In the fall, the season of change, he can be briefly seen. Few live to tell about their sightings, for these witnesses disappear into nothingness. I saw it. Let me tell you about it.
One fine fall day, I went into the woods with my dog and my camera. Oh, it was a lovely day, the leaves were turning into hues of gold and red, swirling about in the breeze. The sun was warm and glowing, though starting to lose it's friendliness. I moved into the treeline, leaves and twigs crunching beneath my feet sending out grasshoppers jumping on stalks of thistle and queen anne's lace. The birds were beginning to gather in the treetops, talking about their plans. I watched them dart and dash about, swarming together in dances, shooting upward toward Heaven and low into the brush, their wings carrying secrets beyond my understanding. I heard low sweet calls from thrush and sparrow and loud screams from jays and crows. I steadied my camera to capture these scenes in the waning sunlight eager to capture such visions. The forest today is at peace with itself, nature is telling us that soon it is time to shut down for the winter. In the low brush, I heard footsteps. Unafraid, I think nothing of the crashing up ahead. Hurrying forward, my breath starts to come in quick gasps, goosebumps rise: and stay. I part the brush in front of me, expecting to see an elk or maybe even a bear. I see an old woman. She is dressed in rags and tatters, mumbling to herself. As she spies me, her eyes enlarge as if she is enraged that I have disturbed her. "Leave!" she commands. "Go!" she demands! Something in the tone of her voice alarms me, and I turn without question. As I backtrack out, I hear her singing softly, "Hush little baby, don't say a word." I am unnerved, sudden in my desire to be in my own home with my dog. Wait! Where is he, where is my dog? "Murphy" I call, calm at first, then panicky, "MURPHY!". With a sudden snap in the twigs, he's by my side, a big ole stick in his mouth. As I begin to calm down, I tell myself that once again my imagination is playing tricks with me while realizing that the birds have quietened down, the woods aren't as noisy as before. The sun is a bit lower in the sky, night is beginning to seize control of the day. I shouldn't linger, photo ops will have to wait, for my focus isn't as steady as earlier. I begin the long walk back to the car. Murphy is bouncing about, chasing leaves and picking up pine cones and stray bits of nonsense. I begin to feel silly for letting a weird old woman throw me into such a panic. Surely there's a reason for her behavior, for her being out here. The reason is probably just craziness, Lord knows there's enough of that going on around these days! So I begin to relax and gaze upon the sudden brilliant hues of the upcoming sunset, the pinks and oranges of the fall sky. The sky is again filled with birds, their anxious flitting about renew my faith in all things good. Pulling my camera up, I shoot a few beautiful shots of the sunset, amazed at God's creativity. That's the way photography is: you never know what nature has in store for you when you go out and explore. As I begin to relax into my camera, changing settings and views, zooming in and out on sun and sky and earth and wings, I hear a noise. Low and growling, I suspect that Murphy has found a chipmunk to spar with and I pause to look about. Murphy is beside me, actually he's on me, climbing my frame, hackles up, afraid. The growling, once low, is now louder and appears to be all about me. Terror fills my soul and I feel my blood drain and my legs began to shake and quiver. I was certain that I would have no ability to walk, let alone run. Once again I hear the silence of the woods. The birds and bugs have silenced themselves as if they have stopped in mid flight. Turning slowly to my left I see the faint glow of two yellow eyes. They are slitted and cold and hot at the same time. Menacing. I instantly am aware that he is crouched in the brush, he is much taller than I. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck are standing at alert sending signals to my brain. A faint smell of sweaty muskiness fills my nostrils. I am frightened into stone. Murphy has quietly slunk under my car and I can hear him whimpering and I am relieved to have hope that he is safe, at least for a few moments. I've walked in these hills for my entire life, and have heard indian legends of a being. They call him Grubsnot Serp. Legend say that the Grubsnot Serp is a backward being. He hibernates most of the year and comes out in the fall, close to Halloween. He walks on two legs with feet as big as logs. He has big brown teeth with a wicked grin, and evil yellow eyes that can see for miles. He lives in the small caves that dot the mountainsides of Eastern Kentucky and seems to roam from town to town. They say many years ago he was taken in by a woman who helps, keeps him calm and safe. My mind whirls and all these tales and legends and stories from my childhood suddenly spring forth making my knowledge complete. Instantly he also realizes and we both understand: we can read each other's mind. I know who he is: Grubsnot Serp and the woman is his keeper. He needs to feed, to fill his craw for he is hungry. I know I have little time, I know that I will never outrun him, I know he has a keeper - a woman nearby who will likely do anything to help him. Suddenly he moves, quick and powerful, straight up in a maneuver no human could best. I hear a scream leave my throat at the same time that I press down my shutter release. My flash is strong and bright and lights up his full frame as I snap. How did I live to tell this story? Every being has an Achilles Heel. Grubsnot Serp's is that he has very weak eyes, he cannot stand bright lights. My flash, though involuntary, blinded the hill monster, sending him shrieking back to the old woman, both of them snarling and cursing me, their anger and wrath and hunger unfulfilled today. My ears are filled with the sounds of brush and timber and rocks skittering, growing faint until quiet. A low chirp of a sparrow, a cricket's song and the distant hoot of an owl slowly start to fill my ears. I look toward the sky and watch as a V of geese head toward Dewey Lake to find their home for the night and my mind fills with relief as Murphy runs from underneath my car and leaps into my arms. Slowly I start to walk out of there,camera in hand, and peace in my heart. Some things you can tell your family and friends, your dream especially. It's tougher to tell them of your nightmares. Grugsnot Serp is often in my head, nightly in my visions. We're in that time of year again, a time not safe in the hills of Prestonsburg. Grugsnot Serp is out there. And he's hungry. Oh, and one day, maybe I'll post that picture.Friday, October 23, 2020
Simplicity
Simplicity. That was the way of life on Burke Avenue when I was a young child. Go back there with me. Prestonsburg Drive In was at the end of the street. The entrance to the drive in was on University Drive, the screen was about where Food City's Gas N Go is now. But the kids of Blackbottom would climb through the barbed wire fence at the end of Burke Avenue. The Harmon's lived at the end of the street, I think Mr. Harmon was the caretaker because if he caught us, he would yell at us to get out of there. During the day we would love to ride our bikes over the humps, getting airborne for a brief moment if we went fast enough. The neighborhood kids would go down there during the day and feed the horse who lived in the pasture on the other side of the huge drive in lot. But as the sun went down, and the cars started streaming in, we would return to watch the opening cartoons, brightly shining on the really big screen. Naturally, we also would sneak around the cars, looking at the steamed up windows.
Another favorite business was Cooley's Store. They had just about anything you would want in a neighborhood store. I remember it had two big plate glass windows in the front with low iron poles stretched across to keep cars from plowing in to them. I always thought they were hitching posts for horses. Man you were rich if you had a quarter. You could get a cup of ice cream and eat it with a little wooden paddle. On hot days we might get a bottle of red pop, ice cold, out of the cooler in the back and use the bottle opener on the front of the machine. Naturally we would fish out the bottle cap and keep it! Then we would head up to the candy aisle for penny candy. Little wax bottles shaped like pop bottles, full of sour liquid, Bazooka gum, Turkish Taffy, Chocolate Ice Cubes, cinnamon suckers were favorites. I remember Mr. Cooley, or Uncle Bill as we all called him, leaning back in an old chair in the rear of the store. He would sit back there and doze, but always ready to slice off some bologna if anyone opened the front door and rang the bell. Us kids would ride our bikes over there, load up on a quarter's worth of goodies and head back into the bottom, one big swarm. Community Methodist Church was an active place in the neighborhood, the women of the church always there to clean the sanctuary or organize a yard sale. The ladies sold spices to raise money for choir robes and these horrible looking fruit cakes at Christmas time. The church parking lot was a great place to ride bikes because it was always full of mud holes and puddles just begging for someone to split. Simplicity. Food was so simple. Cereal for breakfast, then out the door you went. I never remember my mother watching me ride bikes or play. Who knows what she did! Unless you were bleeding, and bleeding badly, you didn't go back in the house until lunch. For me lunch was a bowl of tomato soup or my favorite - a mustard sandwich! Then back outside to find other kids to play with. Dana, Sabrina, Becky, Bobby, Beverly, Ronnie, Terri, so many kids with different likes and interests. Becky loved Barbies while Terri loved cowboys and horses. I was friends with both, so I had bow-legged Barbies who got that way from riding Breyer horses. Skates boards and bikes with banana seats, yo yo's and paddle balls, badminton, Frisbee and lawn jarts, Ouija Boards and Twister, these I remember with fondness. My parents got us a trampoline, very cool, and it became a popular neighborhood hangout spot. In the afternoon we might load up in the car and head to Archer Park for some swimming. I swam so much that often dad would have to bring "New Skin" home from the drug store, which I would paint on the bottom of my toes to keep them from bleeding from the pool. 4 o'clock. Time for 3 things to happen: Mr. Cartoon then Gilligan's Island, Mom would start supper, and then she would turn on the big air conditioner. No matter how hot it was, she would not start that big ole monster up until she started to cook. The rest of the meal would vary but one thing always was there - mashed potatoes! You either ate what she cooked, or starved, she was not going to cater to anyone. After supper it was time to play in the street. We would play badminton under the street lights, play red light, of course always bare footed. I always had a good pair of Red Ball sneakers, but seldom wore them. Naturally we would end the night capturing lightning bugs and storing them in jelly jars with tiny holes poked in the lids. Simplicity. It was a good life.Preparations
Prespective
You are ever present in my heart and mind. I find myself seeking you out on a daily basis because you give me insight to life. I search longingly for you, even when you're near, because you help me so much. You help me find clarity and direction. I need you beside me each and every day for I am helpless without you around me. My love for you knows no bounds and I always want you near me. I am lost without you. I'm writing this love letter to you and publishing it for the world to see because I never want to lose you. I know you won't read this though, and it's obvious that you never, ever listen to me. You never talk to me, our relationship is wordless. Sometimes I want you to shout to me, "Here I am, ready always when you need me!" But you don't. You just sit there and stare at me, wordlessly. So, there it is, my secret shame, my lust, my need, my desire. For my glasses...
Mary Todd Lincoln
Around this date in 1875 the insanity trial of Mary Todd Lincoln was held in Chicago. In the ten years since her husband's death, Mary suffered through the slow, agonizing death of her son Tad at age 18. She and Tad had traveled extensively throughout Europe in search of healing hot springs and curative waters. Upon their return to the States, Mary and Tad roamed between boarding houses, essentially homeless. Upon returning to Chicago, Tad quickly grew ill, probably TB, and after a horribly long illness died early one morning. Repeating her pattern, Mary did not attend the funeral. During one of her short stays with her son Robert, Mary was in Chicago and fled for her life during the Great Chicago Fire, spending the night standing in the lake. So if Mary was crazy, she certainly had been challenged with more tragedies in that decade than any poor woman deserved. Among the offenses that Mary was charged with during her trial was were purchasing $600.00 worth of curtains during a time she was homeless, telling her doctor that an Indian came to her hotel room at night and lifted her skull up and clipped the wires to her eyes. Her only living son, Robert, arranged for his legal partner to pick Mary up and take her to her hearing. At the time of her being taken into custody she had $56,000.00 sewn into the petticoat of her dress.
In 1871 there was a famous adventurer, George Francis Train. It is widely assumed that Jules Verne's novel "Around The World In 80 Days" was based on Train's life. In the days before the Great Chicago Fire, Train was speaking at an event in Chicago. He said, "This is the last public address that will be delivered within these walls! A terrible calamity is impending over the City of Chicago! More I cannot say, more I dare not utter!" In less that 24 hours flame were seen shooting out of a barn owned by the O'Leary family. At this time Mary was living with Robert on Wabash Avenue, and they watched showers of "red snow" rain down on the city, floating into open windows igniting mattresses and curtains as people slept. Flaming shingles were blown off roofs and hoisted across the Chicago River by high winds. The last headline of the Chicago Times, before the building went up in flames was, "The entire business portion of the city is burning up, and the TIMES building is doomed." Robert, feeling that his house is safe, leaves to help his law partner save the law library. He tells Mary to stay put. She does not. It is believed that she spent the night along the shores of Lake Michigan. Thousands of terrified citizens, rich and poor, gather at the lake, thinking that the water would be a natural protection against the flames. Young girls covered their heads with shawls to stop the embers from torching their hair. Holes were dug in the sand, women and children crawled in them for shelter, leaving just an air hole to breathe. Mary Lincoln stood in the waters for an unknown period of time. Her experiences in this year of 1871 would in themselves be enough to drive anyone mad. Tad had died in April, and she had survived this conflagration in October. Now, 4 years later, Mary's mental state was one of permanent agitation and sorrow.Mary's son Robert was a person of contrast. History tells us that he felt his father and mother were bumpkins and an embarrassment, he was not happy when he father won the Presidency. He often stayed away from his parents, embarrassed by his father, especially the very attributes that made him so mesmerizing to the American public. He claimed fatigue the night of the assassination, thus did not attend the theatre. He hated his father's looks and appearances and disliked Abe's high pitched voice. But his mother, now that was a different problem all together. His mother was a hoarder and liked to show a little skin. Mary always wore her dresses low, showing her ample bust as much as possible, an embarrassment to Robert as a teenager. Mary was opinionated and domineering. So here he is, his father has been assassinated, and has become a martyr. His mother has become crazy. Robert then realized that he was the last living Lincoln, the last heir of President Abraham Lincoln. His poor mother is spiraling out of control, visiting psychics and giving away what little money she has. Mary believes that if she purchases something for a loved one, then they cannot possibly die. After all, if they have a new watch, then fate must dictate that they be here to wear it! And if she has $600 bucks worth of lace curtains, then that surely means that she will be given a home to live in by the people of the United States. So she shops, in one day alone she buys Robert 3 new watches. She wanders the streets of Chicago each day, visiting shops dressed in somber black and in a heavy black veil, charging goods to the estate of Abraham Lincoln. She visits drug stores, requesting Laudanum, a tincture of opium used in that day for just about everything from a baby with colic to female hysteria. Mary also begins to imagine that strangers are following her and plotting to murder her. Robert makes a bold decision: charge his mother with insanity. In order for things to go smoothly, Robert stacks the deck quite nicely. He builds a witness list of various doctor friends, doctors who have never even examined Mary. He consults with a Dr. Patterson who owns Bellevue Place, a private asylum for women, located about 40 miles from Chicago. Dr. Patterson agrees to accept his mother as a patient and charges Robert ten dollars for the consult. Curiously, of the six doctors who agree to testify against Mary, three of them were present when her son Tad passed away. Mary is being led like a lamb to slaughter. She has no idea… Quickly, Mary was deemed quite insane by a jury of her "peers". After the trial, she was asked to disrobe so they could check her bloomers for hidden money. Pinkerton detectives and a matron delivered her back to The Grand Pacific Hotel to relieve her of her hidden treasures: $56,000.00 sewn in to her petticoat. Naturally she was upset saying, "Is it not enough to lock me up in an insane asylum, but now you are going to rob me of all I have on earth!" But Mary is a tricky old broad. She manages to sneak past her guards and heads directly to Squair & Co. and orders enough laudanum to kill herself. Ole Doc Squair, sensing her despair, substitutes her order with burned sugar, which she drinks immediately. She goes to two other drug stores, followed secretly by Doc Squair who uses hand signals to prevent the other pharmacists from filling her order. Finally the Pinkerton guards realize her escape and return her to her room to await the train that will take her to Bellevue. Her admitting report is as follows: "Mary Lincoln admitted today. Age 56 - Widow of Ex-President Lincoln - declared insane by Cook County County Court, May 19, 1875. Case is one of mental impairment which probably dates to the murder of President Lincoln - More pronounced since the death of her son, but especially aggravated during the last two months." Mary, finally resigned to the fact that she was being committed, willingly boarded the train bound for Bellevue Place. It was an exclusive sanitarium for the insane of the private class. All the patients were ladies of position and culture. One patient refused to eat, some were epileptics, some heard voices and music in their heads. One woman's head was shaved because she couldn't stop pulling her hair out. Screams of these tortured souls resounded throughout the building. Treatment was simple: rest, quiet, peace, good food. Physical exertion was severely restricted, limited to piano playing, croquet, and carriage rides. The fee for treatment here: fifteen dollars a month, forty five dollars for the best room with a private bath and unlimited carriage rides. Mary resided in the best room there. But naturally Mary was not happy. She spent her time writing letters to well connected friends, sneaking the letters out in letters to her sister. One Mary's contacts was a woman attorney, Myra Bradwell. A "so-called attorney".that is. Myra was a brilliant woman, read the law for 3 years in the days following her marriage to another attorney, and passed the bar examination with the highest honors. But her formal application for a law license was denied twice by the Illinois Supreme Court first,"by reason of the disability imposed by your marriage condition" then secondly, simply because she was a woman. So Myra, had an ax to grind with the government of the day. Myra went to various newspaper editors and told of Mary's plight. This along with Mary's sister's willingness to have her move in with her gave Robert no choice. Robert Lincoln stepped out of the way of his mother's release. She was committed for almost 4 months. Mary felt a tremendous amount of hatred toward her son and his wife as she blamed them for all of her troubles. She was convinced that Robert only wanted her money. Upon her release she immediately wrote Robert demanding all of her possessions saying in part, "Two prominent clergy men have written me since I saw you and mention in their letters that they think it advisable to offer up prayers for you in Church on account of your wickedness against me. Send me all that I have written for, you have tried your game of robbery long enough. You have injured yourself, not me, by your wicked conduct." She signed it. Mrs. A. Lincoln Robert Lincoln was shattered by his mom's letter. And shattered that his mom was obviously going to continue down her dark path. Robert had established himself as a great attorney and businessman. He found success as chief counsel of The George Pullman Company, the makers of rail cars. He allowed his mother to slip away from his life and they were estranged for many, many years. They never fully reconciled. President Garfield was the 20th President of the United States, 4 presidents after President Lincoln. In 1881 Garfield was speaking at his Alma Mater, Williams College, when he was shot by an assassin. The first person to reach him as he fell was his Secretary of War. His Secretary of War and the witness to his assassination: Robert Lincoln! Robert actually had associations with 3 Presidential assassinations, his father's, Garfield's and he was present at William McKinley's assassination in 1901. For obvious reasons, Robert Lincoln never ran for office. Robert and his wife, Mary Harlan Lincoln, had 3 children: Mary "Mamie" Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln II, and Jessie Harlan Lincoln. Mary Lincoln, her final years After Mary's return to "sanity" she decided that it was time again to travel. She hired her nephew, Lewis, and traveled from Chicago to New York City. She stopped on the way in her home state of Kentucky. She visited her old house in Lexington on Short Street and visited her parents' graves at The Lexington Cemetery. She took her nephew to Mammoth Caves and took the same tour that is given today. After a few days in the Bluegrass State, they continued on to NYC. From there she boarded a steamship bound for France. Even though she was still estranged from her son, she followed his career as Secretary of War. She often allowed herself to daydream that one day Robert would be President and she could once again reside in The White House. She spent her days as she had since the assassination: crying and shopping. After several years in exile, the anger slowly ebbed out of Mary's soul and she longed to be home. She wired her sister Elizabeth and informed her that she would be returning. And return she did! When she landed in NYC she brought along with her 65 trunks of goods that weighed an estimated 4 tons! The trunks actually caused the floor in Elizabeth's house to buckle. Mary retreated to Elizabeth's house, staying in her room bathed in darkness. She was nearly blind, a condition made worse by years of constant crying. In 1956 Elizabeth's granddaughter, Mary Brown, was interviewed by Life Magazine. She was a spry 90 year old with vivid memories of Mary Lincoln living in her grandmother's house. Mrs. Brown said, "To put in bluntly, Mary Lincoln was a lot of trouble. In the room next to Mary, she had 65 trunks. Grandmother's maid left because she was afraid to sleep under that room, with all that weight. The trunks were filled with bolts of curtain materials & dress goods. Mary had a lot of dresses in her trunk made out of elegant foreign material. She had about 100 shawls. Every day she would go through those trunks for hours. Grandmother said it was funny that if she was so sick, then how was she able to be up all day bending over her trunks." Near the end, Robert and his daughter Mamie made a pilgrimage back home, to Springfield Illinois. He met with his mother and apologized, even though he didn't feel that he did anything wrong. He felt he had made proper peace with his mother and left to return to Chicago. Mary made one last trip in her life, to New York City to seek healing waters again. A new German doctor was offering a new remedy for pain. The treatment was called a sitz bath, taken from the German word sitzen, meaning to sit. One of Mary's personal physicians, Dr. Lewis Sayre, paid her a visit there. He was from Lexington Kentucky and his textbooks were the standard reference of medical professionals. I know that name from "The Sayre School" in Lexington. Dr. Sayre rallied support for Mrs. Lincoln and was quoted, "She cannot move without assistance. She is, in fact, deserted and friendless." After a few months in NYC, she had no choice but to move back to Springfield to her sister's house. She had one more tribulation to face before death. She was stricken with boils. Her death was imminent. Robert was summoned home. Mary told her loved ones that she knew she was dying. Those were her last words. Her family requested an open casket at the funeral. They were able to place her wedding ring on her finger, she had been unable to wear it for many years because of edema. On the day of her funeral, the ring, worn with age, was where Abraham Lincoln had placed it on her wedding day. It was of Etruscan gold, inscribed, "A.L. to Mary, November 4, 1842. Love is eternal." The Reverend Reed's sermon was touching. When Abraham had been killed in 1865, Reed said, Mary had died with him. "The lightning that struck down the strong man unnerved the woman. The sharp iron of this pungent grief went to her soul." The marriage of Mary and Abraham brought to the minister's mind two tall and stately pine trees he had observed in the mountains. The trees stood on a rocky ledge and had grown so close to each other that they were united at the base, with interlocking roots penetrating the soil. But the taller of the trees had been struck by lightning years ago, leaving it scarred & dead, while the small tree lingered in fellowship until it died too in solidarity. Both trees had suffered from the same calamity. They had virtually been killed at the same time." And so it was with Mary LincolnHands
The hands. They tell a lot about a person. You can see deep into the soul of someone just by looking at their hands. Soft, unlined hands, beautifully manicured nails can sell cosmetics and diamonds on tv. But the hands before me could not sell a diamond. In fact they hint at grit and coal and a well worn life. Fingernails bitten down to the quick with ragged cuticals are on my counter, awaiting me to finish our banking transaction. Her face is a blank page, unsmiling but not unpleasant, but I find myself gazing at those hands wondering what story they would tell. As I reach into my drawer full of money, I can feel her anxiousness, and somehow I know that every single dollar bill she is to receive is important and already has a purpose. It's very cold out today, 22 degrees and falling and a moderate snowfall is forecast for this afternoon. In anticipation school has already let out, the kids are in their big yellow school buses heading for home and an afternoon of video games and snowball fights and sledding. Somehow I know within me that this woman has small mouths to feed, and with the economy as it is, this small amount of money will not last long. My training has taught me to call customers by name as I have their information before me, and I notice her name: Wren. What an unusual name, but it fits as my customer has the nervous energy of a small brown bird, her eyes darting about, freting about unseen troubles. She has on a coat, but its much too thin for the whipping winds of winter, no gloves or hat. Her hair is brown, about the color of a wren and dull and uncombed. I'm tempted to guess that she is about 30 years old although I realize that people in Eastern Kentucky age quicker than expected, so she is likely younger than that. "Wren, that's such a pretty name." I tell her. Shyly, almost at a whisper she mutters, "Thank you", her eyes averted downward. "Are you from around here?", I ask. Painfully she finally says, "Yes from Town Branch, across the bridge". As I count back her money, $117.12, she watches each coin and bill. Like a starving dog she reaches for it quickly, then recognizing my astonishment slows and relaxes. I hear a muffled remark that I fail to understand, then she disappears out the door and is gone. The bank is busy today, so she is easy to forget, just one of many customers of the day cashing checks and changing coins into bills.
A few days later, Wren reappears, I notice her standing in the lobby, waiting. Her eyes again darting about, her fists shoved into the same worn coat and I notice a finger poking out. I find myself wondering if she is part of the recent bank robberies in the area. Other tellers notice her, and I hear remarks about her strangeness and ragged appearance. Suddenly I see an expression of recognition and she hurries to my window. I am handed a rusty dirty coffee can with a piece of tin foil covering the top. "Hello", I say and I see just a hint of a small smile. As I reach for the can I again notice her hands. They are not covered by gloves. Black coal dust coat her hands slightly, but the soot cannot hide the redness of her skin from the cold. It leaves me again with questions in my soul. Inside the can are coins, pennies mainly, likely not more than a few dollars. Totaling $4.13, I start to count out the money she is to received. "No!", she says, louder I'm sure than she meant, "I need quarters." I am very good with money, but hastily I give her a few more quarters than due, and I'm not sure why. "This is a whole handful of quarters, do you need a bag?" I ask. I believe anything that she is given will surely be appreciated, so I turn to grab a bank bag. In a flash though she is gone. Into the cold wind and I can hear quarters jingling in her pockets as she flees. The next morning there is a slight bit of warmth in the air. Spring is still a distant friend but there is a least the attempt by Mother Nature to give us hope. As I walk up to work, I see her again. This time she sees me and gives a slight wave of her hand. She is seated on the steps of the bank, waiting for some unknown entity. Again I notice her hands for a different reason. On her dirty well worn hands is a little ring. A little pink ring, almost a child's play ring. It sparkles against her skin that smells of wood burning and coal. Gathering up my courage, I ask, "Wren, are you ok? I'm sorry I don't really know you, but you've been hanging out here for the past few days. Is there some way that I can help you?" Her eyes fill with silent tears, brimming over and spilling down dirty cheeks. This is the story she told to me. "My husband is a good, honest, hard working man. He's worked in the mines since he quit high school when he was 15. He never went much for the book learnin', he likes to work with his hands. We ain't got no money to buy him any tools, so he can't fix cars. We ain't got no flat land, so we can't farm. Going to the mines was his only choice, so he did. We started dating when I was 14, we met up at the Church meeting. I always liked school, I did my lessons and got all A's. I even had a teacher once tell me I should go to college, that I actually could make a teacher myself. I never missed school neither, mommy and daddy took me in the truck if the weather was bad, on account of that bad bus wreck years ago. Jay and I started up and soon got married, had to I reckon. So I figured I should just go ahead and quit school on account that them other girls would make fun of me. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my children! We want to do right by them. We got a little house, I guess most folks would say it's a dump, but it's our home and I keep it as neat as a pin. I help them with their lessons and I keep their clothes clean and I make sure that they are clean when they go to school. We go to church on Sundays and I ask the Lord to help us and we were makin' it okay. Then Jay got laid off. They shut the mine down. Said nobody wants that black stuff anymore, so he came on home. They give him some money for a while, he went to that building down here in Prestonsburg, signed some papers. Told him he had to try to find a job somewheres else. He goes around and asks if he can get a job, but where can he work? He ain't the kind of feller to work in a store, can't hardly read or write. Now them checks they give him, they've stopped comin. We got two little babies to feed, so I figure it's my turn. I like to sew, my mammaw taught me when I was little. I reckon I can turn out them hair bows that them cheerleaders wear in their hair. But I gotta have some ribbon and hair pins to start with, so I took that money from that check and went to the Wal Mart. I start making them bows and I take them around town but so far I can't find anyone who wants to buy them. I guess they smell a little like smoke on account of the fire we have to use to heat the house. That's what one woman told me anyways. Well then Bubby come home from school the other day, he said they were having a store at school where kids could buy presents for their family. He was so excited, he wanted to go so bad! So I found an old coffee can and I walked all over town and found pennies along the streets, and some quarters. When you gave me my quarter money, there was more than I thought there would be and I counted it as a miracle! Bubby got to go to the store and look here, he bought me this pretty little ring. He got sissy a little bracelet too. He was so proud! Me and Jay have been takin' the truck along the cliffs and picking up pieces of coal to burn to heat the house on this little stove we got. It takes the chill out of the air and I expect we'll make it till spring. Then maybe we can plant a little garden, grow some taters and beans." Wren tells me her story, and I watch her face. And her hands. Her voice is even and firm, though soft and quiet. She speaks with little emotion and her face is a tearless, blank page. But her hands tell a different story. Her hands are knotted like the vines of summer, twisted fingers, spinning that little ring on her bony knuckle. You know a woman can will her face to lie but her hands will betray. It's like she has so much resolve in her soul that she knows that whatever decisions she and Jay made they have had few options. It's like their lives are on a train track with no way to turn around or go in a different direction. We sit quietly on that concrete step that late winter morning, the birds chirping without a single care in the world. I've known money during my lifetime but I've never had to worry about heat and food and clothing for my children. I've always had options. Wren and her family don't have options, they don't have a credit card, parents who can help, resources or savings for a rainy day. I believe Wren's future will be full of rainy days and want and need. For once in my life I have no words, no advice, no sunny side of the street. And I feel empty. Wren continues: "What I don't reckon I understand is this. I ain't been out in this big world, hardly been out of the county. I know Eastern Kentucky ain't got much to offer, but it's home, it's my home. It's where my mommy and daddy are, where my mammaw and papaw are. It's where my granddaddy's grave is. They give us the little bit of land we got. Ain't worth much to the world, but it means everything to me. If we can't raise crops to sell, if we ain't got tools to work with, if our menfolk can't go to the mines anymore, what are we to do? I may not have a college education but I'm smart, all my teachers told me so when I was a youngin. And I can't figure it out, it troubles me at night. I watch the tv and see the news about the government helping other places out, why can't we be helped? We want to work, we want a better life for ourselves and for our kids. Someone please tell me how to do it!" How indeed. Our world is filled with Wrens and Jays and Robins who need a voice. Eastern Kentucky is worth fighting for.Gone Fishing
The fall morning was destined to be glorious. Trees were in full fall display, showing their colors before the cold winter set in. Down in the valley at Dewey Lake the fog was still thick and soupy. I stood silently and listened to nature all around. The gentle lapping of the slight wave in the water stilled my soul. A gentle chilled breeze stirred the saplings along the bank as I listened to a vee of geese soaring over the lake, obscured by the fog. The calmness of the water broke near me when a large fish jumped, splashing back down causing rings in the water. You know, Dewey Lake has not always been so calm and safe. My mind travels back to what happened here in 1920. No one speaks of it. Until now.
Thurman loved to fish, especially in the fall when the winds blew cold and the lake was free of swimmers. He had been fishing at the lake since he was a boy back before the Depression. His Ma would filet his catch and whip up wonderful dishes after the sun fell behind the mountain. He was so proud of his ability to help feed his family. Money was tight then, and with 7 brothers and sisters to feed, it was his responsibility as the oldest to provide. Pa had died during the winter of 1916, the lungs just quit working as the sun rose and the stars faded into light. The heavy weight hit Thurman hard, his 12 year old body and mind switched from thinking about schooling to scraping up a living for the young ones and his Ma. The days were hard, chores around the house filled every minute from daybreak till he laid his tired head down. Thurman went door to door, begging for work - chopping wood or whitewashing fences. His Ma took in sewing for folks and ironing to earn a few dollars here and there. At night, the family would gather around the fire, swap tales of their days and Ma would get that far away look in her eye. Occasionally she would tell them about the tragedies her family has suffered, especially about her brother Dewey. “It happened one hot summer afternoon”, she recalled while sitting in her rocking chair, mending a sock. “We all went down to the lake, it was swelled up by the summer rain. We was havin’ fun, splashin’ and floatin’. All of sudden, we couldn’t find Dewey. We started to search, up and down the stream, yellin’ loudly for him, but we never did find him. All we found was his hat wrapped up in some crickweeds. I miss his curly brown hair and his dimples when he smiled.” Thurman and his siblings listened to Ma’s tale, wishing they didn’t have to see her so sad.
Thurman’s youngest brother became his shadow during those lean days. Arlie was 5 years younger than Thurman, his wiry body held a mischievous mind. Arlie loved to follow every step Thurman took. He followed him to the barn and to the general store in Prestonsburg. Arlie would talk and talk, while Thurman pondered life and hard times. Arlie’s heart was light and he had an adventurous soul. Thurman often found himself scolding Arlie, keeping him out of trouble was quickly becoming another chore. Arlie would kick over the milking bucket, spilling the precious commodity over rocks and cow pattys. Arlie loved to run into the chicken coop, scaring the poor things until it affected their egg-laying. One chore though, brought peace to Arlie; fishing. In the early morning, Arlie would wake early and shake Thurman awake. “Come on, time’s a wastin’! I’m goin’ worm diggin”, Arlie would exclaim in a loud whisper. Thurman would obediently shake off sleep and rise to begin another long day of hand to mouth living. Each boy would grab a cold piece of corn bread off the wood stove and head to the lake with their fishin’ poles slung over their shoulders.
One late October morning, Thurman and Arlie scooted out the door extra early. It was Ma’s birthday and she loved catfish. The fog held close to the dark mountains as they ambled down the hollow toward the lake. Night critters, still hunting, skittered away from their path. Early birds were awake, loudly exclaiming that the time to head south was near. As they approached their spot at the lake, Thurman sensed a presence. The air felt thick and heavy, as if it might engulf him. Arlie, on the other hand, was happy go lucky, singing something about muskrats or something crazy like that. Thurman looked at the still water and noticed a small pea green boat that had never been in this spot before. “Arlie, I think someone is here, shh.” Thurman whispered. “Ain’t no one here, stupid, someone just left this here boat, git in!” Arlie happily shouted. He leaped in causing cold black water to spray. Thurman scratched his head and pondered. It was true that the boat looked abandoned, and it look sound and waterproof. It was also true that a boat would certainly help their chances for a good fishing day. So with great doubt and worry, Thurman slowly climbed aboard and grabbed the oars. It troubled Thurman, though, and he felt a sense of dread overcome him. Thurman steered the small vessel away from the shore as Arlie chattered on about skunks and nickleodeons and a hula hoop. Suddenly the fog thickened on the surface of the lake and the boat became easier to row. “Must be in a current, I’m not rowing at all!” Thurman mumbled basically to himself. Thurman tried to steer the boat in another direction, but the craft steadily flowed in the same path. It was so dark, thickly foggy, but Thurman suddenly realized that the sun should have started to lightened the deep darkness. Where was the sun? Maybe we are in a deep hollow, he thought. Maybe it’s earlier than I think it is. Maybe we aren’t in trouble. Yet again.
The scream came from behind them, the large human form shot up from the dark water, hunger filled his red eyes. A roar and scattering morning birds filled the dark sky. The lake monster hurtled itself toward the tiny boat. Thurman grabbed Arlie with one hand and armed himself with an oar with the other. “Lord have mercy, it’s a haint!”, yelled Arlie as his little body grew weak and wobbly. The monster, covered in crickweed and smelly vines lurched toward the two terrified boys, it’s fangs dripping with digestive juices ready to go to work. Thurman’s mind raced as the distance between that borrowed boat and the monster shrunk. “Dang it, if we hadn’t gotten into this blame thing, we’d be on the shore! This will destroy Ma! We need help!” Suddenly out of no where, a man appeared. Well, he wasn’t really a man because he seemed to be floating and he wasn’t solid. He could see him clearly, but there was nothing to grasp. He had brown curly hair and had a slightly evil smile on his face. With incredible speed, the man turned the little dinghy around and shoved it back toward the shore. Suddenly the sun started to lighten the dark sky as the man lit into the lake monster with a fury not often seen. The lake monster fought back, and the two twisted deeper into the misty fog. As the battle waged on, the tiny boat with Thurman and Arlie drifted slowly back to the shore. Arlie trembled against Thurman’s side, softly crying and gasping for air. “Calm down, little buddy, we’re going to be ok.” Thurman said as he stroked Arlie’s wet hair. He wished he was sure of it. The invisible fight continued on hidden by fog and darkness, although it sounded like it was coming to an end. Thurman decided to hasten their retreat toward the shore, just in case the lake monster was the victor. He made Arlie lay down in the bottom of the boat and started to row toward land. When he heard a final weak scream, he knew the battle was finished. Breathlessly, the boys watched as a lone figure started to emerge from the fog. Thurman watched as the man he recognized from him mother’s description as Dewey, walked toward them in their little boat. Dewey winked and smiled, his dimples so easily recognizable from Ma’s description. They knew that he was the master of the lake, Dewey Lake. Dewey disappeared back into the fog as natural order returned to the lake. The sun rose, the birds sang and the waves lapped against the shore. Thurman helped Arlie out of the floor of the boat and hugged him hard. “Boy I wish I had a turn against that monster, I would have whooped him good!” Arlie exclaimed. Thurman chuckled at the meanness that was his little brother. But as he reached down to rub Arlie’s thick head of hair, he noticed that it had turned white.
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