A Look Back at Bee Tree Creek

Samuel Paris McKinney (1822-1898)


The following story is about my wife Shirley's great-great-great grandfather. This story has been handed down for several generations, and was shared with me. Now I am sharing it with you.

Samuel Paris McKinney was born in 1822, and he lived most of his life in the rugged, wild mountains of Wyoming County, West Virginia. He received a land grant on Barker's Ridge where he made his home, but more often than not, could be found near his favorite hunting spot on Bee Tree Creek (which borders present day Wyoming and Raleigh counties). In Samuel Paris' days, there weren't many people in the Bee Tree Creek area and the hunting was excellent, perhaps even the best in the region. It was also considered so wild of an area that many men avoided it. People told tales of ferocious animals, evil spirits and even wild Indian hold-outs when speaking of the area. The tales grew even more frightening when they spoke of the great laurel thicket, a defining feature of the area. Samuel Paris liked it when he heard these stories; to him as long as people were afraid of the area it would remain wild and free of settlement. Taking advantage of the situation, he was often alone when he hunted, trapped and spent a great deal of time along Bee Tree Creek even though his official home was on Barker's Ridge, several miles away.

When Samuel Paris hunted, he carried with him a pack bag typical of men of the time. By his side was a mountain rifle and a tomahawk. His rifle was so long that many men found it nearly impossible to hold because the barrel was so long. There were newer rifles available to him, but his daddy had given him his rifle and it was a good rifle so he saw no need to "upgrade". He was known to be quite fearless in his exploits, taking chances that many deemed unnecessary but to him they were just everyday actions of living. Samuel Paris was known throughout the region as one of the first to raise hunting dogs, and his dogs were considered to be among the best bred and most well-trained in the region. Men would come from miles around to trade or buy a pup off of him, and it soon came to pass that having a good hunting dog by your side was essential to every hunting man in the area.

One time over on Bee Tree Creek, Samuel Paris had his favorite dog with him, and it wasn't too long until the dog picked up the trail of a great bear. When the bear realized it was being trailed, it broke into a full run right into the great laurel thicket. He had trained his dogs never to go into a laurel thicket after a bear because more often than not that action was a death sentence on the dog and quite often the man, too. But this time and against all its training, his favorite dog found a low trail and went into the laurel thicket after the bear.

Since this was his favorite dog, Samuel Paris saw no other option besides to go in after the dog. If it hadn't been his favorite dog, he probably would have just made camp and hoped the dog returned out of the thicket, but he just couldn't wait and hope when it came to his favorite dog. So against his better judgement he entered the laurel thicket after the dog. He planned on just retrieving the dog and getting out as quickly as possible, and his decision was justified after he entered the thicket. The laurel grew so thick that he was forced to crawl in many places, and seldom was there an area where a man could even stand upright. He was about a hundred yards into the laurel thicket when he located the dog, but soon realized that simply retrieving it wasn't an option. You see, the great bear had the dog penned up in a corner between two vertical cliffs on Bee Tree Creek, and was slowly closing in on it.

At this point, Samuel Paris was crawling along through the thicket as quickly as he could manage, trying to get to an open area where he could raise his gun. As it was, there was no chance of getting off a shot at the bear since he was practically dragging the rifle alongside of his body. He finally made his way into Bee Tree Creek, where the flowing water offered a slight opening in the laurel. But as he raised his rifle to shoot the bear, the bear had moved in so close to the trapped dog that it was impossible to get a shot at it for fear of hitting the dog.

Quick thinking coupled with the inherent and passionate bravery of a mountain Scotsman, Samuel Paris McKinney instantly came upon a plan. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled out the tomahawk from his belt, ran up to the bear and grabbed the great beast by the hair on the nape of its neck, quickly and deftly swung the tomahawk once and split the bear's skull wide open, killing it instantly. For years afterward, stories were recounted about how Samuel Paris McKinney had killed a bear with only a tomahawk and in the process had saved his favorite hunting dog, all without getting so much as a single scratch on him.

In the years following this account, progress inevitably took its toll upon the region, and the great laurel thicket was cut down and the area along Bee Tree Creek was settled. Later, coal mines dotted the landscape. As the area grew in population, Samuel Paris began to stay on his land high up on Barker's Ridge, and in his last days raised and sold hunting dogs to make a living. Men would come from miles around to buy his dogs and hear him regale his tales of yesteryear. The time of the rugged mountaineer had come to an end and those times were now found only in story form. And oh what great stories Samuel Paris McKinney told.

Gypsies

I remember while growing up I always heard stories about the gypsies visiting the mountains of home. In fact, during times when I was especially annoying, people would threaten me that they were going to sell me to the gypsies. Lucky for me, by the time I came to be the days of the gypsies coming through were long past. People still talked about them though. It is their stories that I will relate to you.



The gypsies travelled in a wagon train, and it was said you could hear them coming from miles away. I remember hearing people talk about how the squeaky wheels of the wagons would echo up every holler along the way, and this was how people would know that the gypsies were back. It was said that the gypsies never greased their wagon wheels. I’m sure this was a sort of calling card of the gypsies.

The gypsies were led by a gypsy king. It was said that the gypsy king was from down around Romney but nobody ever knew for sure. The gypsy king ruled the camp and his word was law. He kept everyone in order. When there was a problem in the community, he would deal with it. He was respected both in the gypsy camp and in the greater community. While gypsies had the reputation of being thieves, nobody could ever point out any instance to verify this. Now they would haggle when trading and try to get the best possible deal, but that can’t really be considered stealing.

They said that the gypsies would come about every other year and would set up camp along the river in an empty field. The gypsies were never invited to your house, but it seemed that everyone went to visit the gypsy camps. The gypsy camps were favorite area’s to trade for horses, and pretty much anything else you could think of. My granny always bragged on a pot that she bought off of the "wandering gypsies", as she referred to them. The gypsies especially liked to trade for medicinal herbs and roots and such when they were in our neck of the woods. I reckon they got those things in the mountains, made medicine out of them and traded it back down in the more populated areas. They always seemed to have money.



Local people really looked forward to the return of the gypsies, and many local farmers would vie for the title of having the gypsies to camp on their land for the summer. The gypsies brought news from all over, and had items to trade that were hard to come by in the mountains. If the gypsies camped on your property, you’d get better deals and the first pick of the trading. I was told that one time the gypsies camped on Burns property. While our place was up on the mountain, there is a creek there to supply plenty of water, and the gypsies set up camp in the flat part of the property. My granddaddy Burns supposedly got a team of good horses to allow them to camp there, and people came from all around to trade that summer. The local store merchant loved it too because his business was boosted to an all time high.

The last time people remember the gypsies coming through was in the early 1940’s. People remembered that on this last trip, the gypsy camp was really small and times were very hard for them. The gypsies couldn’t offer as many good deals as they had in the past, and they were going hungry quite a bit. Their clothes were old and worn out, and gone were the flashy jewels that they wore. The gypsy king was very old and was sick, and many of their wagons were in bad repair and it was pretty evident that this would be the last time the gypsies would come through. Everyone reckoned it was the automobile and the better roads that allowed people to travel further away from the mountains to shop had rendered the time of the gypsies obsolete.



It was said that of all the places the gypsies went, the gypsy king liked the mountains of Pendleton County the best and he said that it was here that people treated his people with kindness and fairness. In fact, on that last trip of the gypsies, the gypsy king married off his daughter to a local man. She was not an attractive girl, but she was very skilled in making medicines and reading fortunes, and she was his pride and joy. When I was a little boy, I remember the gypsy kings daughter, who by this time was an old woman. The most memorable thing about her was the silky, shiny scarf she wore around her head, and the clothes that she wore were not the same type of clothes that everyone else wore. Her clothes were really bright colors and were made out of shiny cloth of some sort, and she wore a big green bauble around her neck. People referred to her as “Old Hog Face”, well, because she really did have a face like a hog. Her given name was Belle but I don’t recall anyone ever calling her by that name.

I remember one time when my brother was a boy, he got poison ivy really bad, and people were afraid it was going to swell his eyes shut he had it so bad. Mom said that if his eye’s started swelling up, she was going to have to take him to the doctor. Word got around about my brothers condition and Old Hog Face sent word to my Mom to put white shoe polish on the poison ivy, and Mom did, figuring that Old Hog Face used to be a gypsy and she might know what she was talking about. The next day, my brothers poison ivy was nearly all dried up, that shoe polish sure did the trick. I do remember people would come from miles around to ask for medical advice from Old Hog Face, and while she was kind of an outcast, people did seem to respect her, although there were some people who called her a witch.



It was said that when the old gypsy king died, the remaining gypsies brought his body to Old Hog Face. He is reportedly buried somewhere along the river near Cherry Grove. After his death, the gypsy camp broke up and scattered to the winds, and nobody ever heard from any of them again.

I’ve often thought about the gypsies that came through the mountains, camping for a season and then moving on. Where did these gypsies come from? Where all did they travel? Do any of you all have any stories about the gypsies?

Adventures in the Mountains

This past Monday, my new travelling buddy Larry and I braved the elements to go rampin' in the mountains. The mountain where we went is called the Birthplace of Rivers, because it contains the headwaters of the Potomac, Cheat, James, Tygart & the Monongahela Rivers. What this sign doesn't tell you, if you walk due east about 1,000 yards, take a left and go another 1,000 yards, then take another left and walk 1,000 yards, and finally take yet another left and go another 1,000 yards, you will come upon the headwaters of even more rivers...the Tigris, the Euphrates, the Yellow, and the North Fork of the Possum Branch of the Nile. This mountain truly is the Birthplace of Rivers.



The temperatures hovered around freezing and we were bombarded with a mixture of rain, and snow, and sleet, and refrigerators...all amid warnings of giant bears that rip out tree stumps just for fun. We were even shown one of these stumps at one point, a stump that would have taken ten men to reach around. We were concerned but nothing could dissaude us from our goal of digging ramps.



On our way to my secret rampin' spot in the mountains, we found none other than my mother sitting alongside the road in a warm vehicle. I wasn't having none of that, especially for MY mother, so we dragged her along with us kicking and screaming. After all, we needed someone to carry the ramp bag (and when I say "ramp bag" I am referring to the sack that carried the ramps and not my mother).



Lucky for me, Maw doesn't read this blog!!!!

After finding the ramps were not up very much on the highest point in West Virginia, Larry and I dug just enough for a good mess for each of us, but let it be known far and wide that our shortened trip had nothing to do with us being "skeert" of the gigantic, megafaunal bears that rip out tree stumps just for fun. And finding that big pile of steaming bear crap in the ramp patch had nothing to do with our hasty retreat to the warm and steel reinforced car. We just figured we had plenty of ramps! And we were a might cold.



Luckily, Granny Sue who doubles as Larry's wife in the evening hours, packed us two warm quilts soaked in kerosene to wrap up in. She was so nice to do this so we wouldn't get too very cold. I think she might have had an ulterior motive, she wanted us to take photo's for her and she couldn't have either of us losing a finger to frostbite because then we wouldn't be able to shutter the camera.

After we got thoroughly warm from Granny Sue's carcinogenic quilts, we proceeded off the mountain with ramps in tow and away from the gigantic, stump-eating bears. We then hit upon the idea of doing a little fishing up on the mountain. We checked the signs and determined that it was the right time of year for the Salmon to be spawning, and sure enough, we caught a peck or three of fresh mountain salmon and even two wayward halibut. Sorry, but we didn't take and photographs since we didn't have a government stamp on our fishing licenses, and we didn't want any photographic evidence of our crime. But here is the stream in case any of you all want try your luck with the West Virginia salmon run.

We were now loaded down with ramps, salmon and the two wayward halibut, and we were making good progress off the mountain, and we knew we had to do something to preserve the fish or else they'd go bad on us, and there ain't nothing worse than a passel of gun toting fish that rob banks and cause mayhem. We'd always heard that one bad fish will ruin the barrel, so this was of special concern for both Larry and me because we had two wayward halibut in the mess. I had heard tales of a Fort nearby so we decided to go there and get some salt to preserve our fish. On the way to the fort, we passed another warm and welcoming vehicle that now offered a cold and hostile interior so I dropped my mother off at it so she could drive up another mountain to home. Larry and I proceeded on to the fort. We drove down the valley and tried to follow the rising smoke of the settlement, but finding none we figured that the Fort had probably passed some no smoking legislation so we just followed the road signs. After we arrived at the fort, we noticed that they were apparently still closed for the winter so we couldn't get the supplies to preserve our salmon. Just our luck! I know we were at the right place, too, because the fort still had their shingle sitting out by the road.

We were then left with a carload of rapidly decomposing fish, so we decided to go ask my Granny if she had any idea's on what to do with the salmon or at least the two wayward halibut. We drove up to Granny's house, and I remembered that it had been awhile since I last visited Granny. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had stopped by. The house looked abandoned and it appeared that the big bad wolf had succeeded in blowing the house down.

I knew that Granny would be safe and I wasn't a bit worried about her, she liked nothing better than warm wolf stew, and I knew she knew her way around a wolf, but we were in a hurry so we didn't scout around to find Granny to get the advice on preserving the fish. Anyhow, I figured she was probably up on the mountain hunting fur seals in the salt-petre caves. Nothings warmer than a fur seal cape. After all, it was that time of year.

After leaving Granny's cabin, we drove back into Riverton, and was surprised to find a monument commemorating the Battle of Riverton, from back in the days when the North invaded America.

We stopped and took some pictures and I was reminded of a legend about buried treasure that was supposed to be located nearby. I also recalled a method of "dowsing" out water and other treasures by weaving together fish bones and making a divining rod of sorts. I mentioned this to Larry and we were soon neck deep in fish guts and bones, and were swatting away the seagulls, pelicans and California condors. After a few hours of this work, we had completed our homemade, fishbone divining rod, and set out to finding the buried treasure of Riverton. Well no sooner did I start "treasure witching" that divining rod took to spinning around in my hands like a whirlygig and danged if it didn't twist out of my grip and it commenced to drilling down through solid sandstone.

After a few minutes of drilling and grinding, all of a sudden the noice stopped. Larry and I were puzzled about this and wondered what could have happened. Then it come to Larry that the fish bone divining rod probably hit upon a piece of gut that we missed while cleaning off the bones. He said that little piece of fish gut had probably acted like a spot of grease and most likely it had made the drilling fishbone divining rod change course. Larry said that it was his experience that while cleaning fish guts off of salmon bones is extremely hard to get them impeccably clean if the salmon haven't been taking their shark cartilidge supplements. He said he should have thought of that before, but in our haste to make waste, he had forgotten about how hard cleaning nutrient deficient salmon bones can be.

Oh well, at least we were now rid of the peck of decomposing wild, wonderful West Virginia mountain salmon, but we still had the two halibut and the bag of ramps. We decided that it would probably be best if we just called it a day and headed back westward into the sunset. We did this and had crossed the Eastern Continental Divide out of West Virginia into Randolph County and lo and behold if we didn't come upon two mountain lions sitting alongside the road. Evidently the recession had hit the mountain lions the same as it has the rest of America because those two big cats were just sitting there, each holding a large placard that read, "Brother, could you spare a dime?". Well, Larry always did have a soft spot in his heart for catamount's and barricuda's, so he jerked the car off the road and gave each of the two mountain lions a twenty dollar gold piece, a Daniel Webster cigar and the two halibut. They were very grateful for his generousity, and lamented to him that they were in dire straights since the National Forest had laid off 80% of the deer population, and how they had been surviving solely on porcupine and beenie weenies ever since December. They said Santy Claws had even forgot to stop by at Christmastime, because they reasoned, he probably got wind that they were planning on ambushing the reindeer. The two mountain lions, who we came to know as Nelly and Mart thanked us even more when Larry told them about the stimulus funds that was pouring into the area, and how the mountain loins were supposed to get 40-acres and a sheep out of the deal.

I would like to say that after leaving those now jubliant mountain lions on the mountain, that we had a relatively uneventful trip back to the Kanawha Valley, but in fact, it wasn't. We got attacked by a giant chicken in Elkins, and we had to eat that sucker in order to get past him. The only thing was, that giant chicken wouldn't give up the ghost until I dressed up in a white suit and put on a fake beard and offered him a package of 11 herbs and spices. No sooner than I did that, he up and ran clucking into the deep fryer, and we soon filled our gullets. I reckon it is true that the Colonel has his way with chickens.

I would continue recounting the events of Matthew and Larry's great adventure but I have a feeling you all wouldn't believe some of the more outrageous things that happened to us that day. That is why I only told the things that were the most believable to you today, I wouldn't want you all to think I was stretching the truth. I reckon I'll have to write a fiction story about the other things sometime.

Doc & Killdare

Growing up I spent a lot of time in the old hardware store in Riverton. It was one of those old community gathering places that you hear so much about these days. I remember there were benches on the porch for people to sit in and there were a few chairs inside near the cash counter. There always seemed to be a bunch of old men gathered around there telling lies about their lives and trying to pass it all of as the gospel truth.

On a typical summer day, old man Doc would be sitting out on the bench on the porch, he was some kin to us and my Granddad always talked to him and asked if he needed a ride home. You see, Doc didn’t have a car and he either walked or hitched a ride from his house to the hardware store every day. Doc would always take him up on the offer for a ride home, which to me at the time was pure torture. Old man Doc was notorious for not being able to control his bowels and as often as not, we’d end up having to clean off the truck seat after dropping Doc off at his house. But of course, it couldn’t be cleaned immediately, no siree-bob, we had to wait until we were up the road a ways so Doc wouldn’t know that we were having to clean up after him. Doc was always a pleasant enough old man to talk to, it was just having to clean up after him that was the bad part. I never knew my Granddad to ever not offer a ride to Doc if he needed one though.

Another familiar face at the hardware store was old Slack Hand. You can read about Slack Hand by clicking here. Old Slack Hand would always be sitting in an old split-bottom chair with what looked like the bottom nearly hanging down to the floor. I imagine it was his immense girth that led the chair to have the sagging bottom in it, and it was an on-going joke among many people that if the straining buttons on his shirt ever broke loose, they would likely injure somebody really bad. I remember it always seemed that his chair would be in the way of getting to the pop cooler. You could neither get to it from the front of him, nor by going all the way around the store to reach it from behind him, somehow he always managed to position himself just so he’d completely block access to the pop cooler. I know now that this was because if you asked him to move for a second so you could get into the pop, he’d inquire “So, are you gonna buy me a pop?” As often as not, someone would say, “Give him a sody so he’ll shut up.” and so Slack Hand would wrangle a free pop out of the deal.



Another common face at the store was a man called Killdare. He was the pseudo-hunter of the group and was always telling about his exploits of hunting in the mountains. I remember several of his far-fetched tales, and I’ll share with you the two most memorable stories of his. The first was about the time he was hunting out on the Huckleberry Plains. It was mid-summer and it was a warm day when he left with his plott hound, Sam. Killdare and Sam were in search of grouse which would be feeding on the ripening huckleberries. Well ole Killdare said him and Sam were several miles out on the plains when a big black cloud came approaching from the west, and he figured it was a thunderstorm and decided to seek cover. When the storm finally reached them, it brought with it a snowstorm.



Killdare said that in a matter of minutes, the ground was covered with snow, and it was still snowing so hard that he couldn’t tell which way was up and which way was down. He said it snowed for several more hours during which time he made a lean-to between two boulders and set up camp. He said it soon grew dark, and seeing that there was already over a foot of snow on the ground, he settled in for the night and bedded down.



In the middle of the night he said he was awakened by some sort of bellowing, the likes of which he had never heard in these mountains. The sound kept coming closer and he was increasingly puzzled as to what it was. After a few more minutes, he said that a great shaggy head poked around the corner of his lean-to and he was face to face with a giant moose. Well, Killdare, being always at the ready for such a chance encounter with big game, up and shot the moose and killed it dead right then and there. He said he got up out of bed and dressed out the moose, and cut him off a big hunk of the meat and roasted it over the fire. He went on the say that was the best tasting meat he’d ever had. Well, his telling of the story at this point would always lead somebody to ask, “How did a moose get all the way onto the huckleberry plains of West Virginia?” to which Killdare would respond that he reckoned the moose got lost in the snowstorm and he figured it was thinking it was headed towards the Rocky Mountains instead of the huckleberry plains. Of course, nobody believed his story and they would try to trip him up in it by inquiring how come nobody had ever seen the moose head that he had killed, (Killdare was notorious for collecting mounted animal heads), and he’d answer them, “Well the next morning, it stopped snowing and it got hot, real hot, and all of the melted like that (he’d snap his fingers) and it caused a big flood right up on the huckleberry plains. He said the floodwaters washed away the entire carcass over the moose except for the hunk of meat he had roasted over his fire, and it was all he could do to save himself and ole Sam. Then someone would ask him how come nobody living down the valley from the huckleberry plains had reported any flooding, and Killdare would say the flood waters all ran towards the low end of the huckleberry plains and it all dropped down into a big cave, and from there he doesn’t know where the water ended up. He said he reckoned the unexpected summer snowstorms and the ensuing floodwaters were the reason why there wasn’t any trees that grew out on the huckleberry plains.




The other hunting tale told by Killdare involved his hunting wild turkeys in Germany Valley. He said he was walking up Dolly Ridge and came upon a big downed tree and it was plum covered with turkeys. He said he had never seen a sight like that in all of his days, and he decided to count them all to see how many there were. He said he counted exactly 100 turkeys, and as he was finished counting them he noticed that they were all lined up in a perfectly straight line from where he stood, so the idea came to him that perhaps he could shoot more than a couple of them with only one shot. He said he drawed up and took careful aim and fired, he said there was a great rustling noise and he seen turkeys flopping everywhere but he only noticed one turkey gobbler flying away. He assessed the situation (that was a favorite saying of his “assessed the situation”) and he seen that his one shot had killed 99 of the 100 turkeys. Of course, nobody believe his great hunting prowess and someone would always ask him, “Why didn’t you just say that you killed all one hundred of them turkeys with just one shot, why did you have to say that one got away?” to which Killdare would incredulously report, “I’ll be damned if I’ll tell a lie over just one turkey!”




There were many other colorful people who came into the store and who I got to know during our frequent trips there, people like Mabel Mack and Wild Indian Turnip, and Waltaddie and his daughter Hoghead, but those are stories best saved for another day.

Vernon & Stubs

Growing up on the mountain was not without its colorful characters and hilarious moments. One of these characters was Vernon. He was our next door neighbor, and was a distant relative of ours, as was his wife. Vernon always started his sentences with “By God…”! While Vernon had grew up on the mountain, he had also been out in the world, he was in the service and had served in Korea, and after getting out he went to work up in Dee-troit at the GM plant. Vernon worked in Dee-troit for several years but the call of the mountains brought him back home. He would sit around in his front yard and talk to himself and to anyone else who would listen, and he was generally a nice old man, and his disposition was the polar opposite of his wife, whom all the neighborhood children had nicknamed “The Squawnk”.

Vernon liked to drink beer. He would sit under the pear tree in his front yard and drink all day long. He never really got drunk, or perhaps he never really got sober, but he was always fun to be around, hear and watch. I remember he would regale us with tales of how he’d drive home from “Meech-e-gun”, as he referred to the state of Michigan. He told us that he travelled Route 250 almost all the way home, and he made his frequent trips home in a 1947 Nash. “By God,” he’d say, “me and that old Nash had some times together. The thing about a Nash is that it looked the same from the front and it did from the back.” I remember him telling us about how one time when we he was driving home from Dee-troit, the Ohio River was flooding and had covered the bridge he needed to cross. He figured he’d come too far to turn back, so he got out and looked at his car, and it struck him that his old 1947 Nash looked a lot like a boat, so he figured it’d float, and he decided to put it to the test. He started across the flooded bridge, and used the tops of the bridge signs to guide him. Soon, he told us, the old Nash started to float so he hit the gas pedal and the car pushed forward across the muddy Ohio, being powered by the spinning wheels. About halfway across the river however, the motor flooded out and he seen he was in a pickle. Vernon, always accompanied by his loyal rabbit beagle Stubs (who according to Vernon, was the smartest dog that ever lived), said he looked over at ole Stubs and asked, “By God, Stubs, how are we gonna get out of this one?” He said Stubs looked at him and swatted the air with his paw and gave him an idea. Vernon said, “I knew then that Stubs was telling me that I had to row us the rest of the way across”. He said he rolled down his side window and using his hand, paddled them the rest of the way across the Ohio River in his car. He said once they got to the other side of the river, they got out and worked on the carburetor and got the car started again. Vernon said that once they got the Nash started up again, ole Stubs looked over at him and barked “Whew!"


The Moundsville Bridge across the Ohio River.

Like I said, eventually Vernon and Stubs moved back to the hills and they were quite the rabbit hunters. Vernon would tell about the time they were hunting rabbits up at Teter Gap. He said that Stubs had jumped up a rabbit from a big rock pile. Vernon said that Stubs took after the rabbit and the rabbit tripped over a rock and went rolling across the rockpile, hitting his head as it rolled along. Vernon said that rabbit’s head bouncing off the rocks made a sound like “conkety-conk-conk-conk”! He said that hitting the rocks had knocked the rabbit unconscious and that ole Stubs picked up the rabbit in his mouth and brought it back to him. He said that at the time he thought the rabbit was dead so he stuck it in his gunny sack and he and Stubs went back to hunting. Vernon said that after about a half hour or so, the rabbit came to and started clawing at the sack, and that the clawing had alerted Stubs. Vernon said he knew he’d have to turn the rabbit loose and then shoot it because if he just smacked the sack against some rocks that he’d bruise the rabbit up so bad that he’d never be able to eat it. Well, Vernon called Stubs and set the sack on the ground and turned the rabbit loose, and the rabbit just took off running for a nearby thicket. However, this time Stubs didn’t take to the trail of the rabbit, never in all of his days of rabbit hunting had Stubs seen a dead rabbit come back to life and he didn’t know what to make of it, so the rabbit got away. “By God”, Vernon said, “I’ll bet that rabbit had a headache the next morning.”



I also remember one time Vernon was trying to mow his lawn with his old push mower. The mower looked like it had been through the war, and before that came over on Noah’s Ark…it was really just a pile of rust with a motor hooked to it. Well, Vernon hadn’t mowed for quite a while and his grass was pretty high, and was too much for the old mower to handle. He’d mow about 2 feet and the mower would die. Every time the mower would die, Vernon would take a break and have another beer. This continued throughout the afternoon. After a couple of hours of this, Vernon took to cussing at the mower every time it’d quit on him. He’d say “By God lawnmower, if we’re to get this grass mowed today, we’re gonna have to work together. I can’t do it by myself and neither can you.” Well, then he’d again fire up the old lawnmower and mow another couple of feet before the mower died again. He then took to cussing the mower, and was standing by it and pointing at it with his finger, a sure sign that Vernon was fed up. You knew he was to his limit when he started pointing. Well, by this time, most of the neighborhood was watching (without appearing to), and it was veritable street theatre right there on the mountain! Soon Vernon mustered up enough patience to start back to mowing, but he said to the lawnmower before he started it up, “By God lawnmower, this is your last chance. We need to get this damn grass mowed.” Everyone in earshot was laughing their butts off at Vernon for talking to the lawnmower. Well, ole Vernon got the mower started and he mowed about a six foot swath, and the mower died yet again. “By God,” Vernon told it, “that was your last chance. I told you (he pronounced it “I toad you”) that you’d better by damn cooperate with me” and he calmly walked off toward his house. Well everyone around there just figured Vernon was giving up and was going inside to sleep it off, but oh no, within a couple of minutes here came Vernon out of his house, walking toward the old mower…and carrying his old double barrel shotgun. He calmly walked up to the lawnmower, sighted it with his shotgun, and shot it with both barrels! He then said to the dead mower, “By God, I’ll bet you won’t bother nobody else!” Vernon then walked over to his chair under the pear tree and sat down. After a few minutes had passed, my Dad hollered down the hill to Vernon and asked him if he needed some help with mowing. Vernon hollered back up to Dad, “By God, my mower ain’t wanting to run today!” Well, that had us all in tears of laughter, but somehow Dad managed to hold a straight face and told Vernon he could mow it for him if he wanted. Vernon was happy to get the help, and Dad later told us that every time he mowed past Vernon’s old shot-up lawnmower he couldn’t help but laugh.

I also remember that Vernon was always giving out free advice and witty quips to the neighborhood residents. Some of the topics were completely off the wall and totally out of the blue. Like the time he told my mother about the miracles of corn starch. Vernon said to her, “Corn starch is a very versatile product. You can use it to thicken your gravy or powder your ass!”

I still remember that one and to this day, every time I see a box of corn starch, I am reminded of Vernon.

Me & Wilse Lambert

I remember my granddad used to always tell tales about the time him and Wilse Lambert went to Kansas. As far as I ever knew, my granddad never was in Kansas so these were tales that he either came up with by himself or he borrowed them and made them his own. I remember they always used to start, “One time when me and Wilse Lambert was down in Kansas….”!

I recall that one of these stories was about the time him and Wilse were riding their horses through a heavy snowstorm and come about evening, they had to stop and rest. They knew they were near the town they were headed for because they found a hitching post to tie their mounts to. Well, they hitched up their horses and set up camp for the night, thinking they’d go on into town in the morning. Well, it just so happened that night there was a big change in the weather and it warmed up a good bit, so much so that when they awoke, it felt like a heatwave. They also found that they were camping in the middle of a street. They wondered about this but were most concerned because they couldn’t find their horses. Wilse, after thinking for a moment, whistled for his horse and listened for it to whinny in response. Sure enough it did but the whinny was coming from on top of a building, and they looked up to find both horses hitched to the town church steeple. When they came in the night before, the snow was so deep that it made the church steeple look like a hitching post.



My granddad would tell about a story that Wilse used to tell all the time about one time when he was in Kansas. Wilse was riding along and it come to be that he was being chased by Indians. Well, Wilse tried to outrun them and thought he had lost them by running up in a small gully. Well, it turned out that the gully was a dead-end with cliffs that were at least 100 feet straight up. Wilse saw the only way out was the way they had come in, but just as he figured that out, the Indians were starting up the gully blocking any escape. Wilse found himself face to face with a group of wild Indians. At this point in the story, Wilse would stop talking and someone would inevitably ask “What happened then?” My granddad said Wilse would then just lean back in his chair, rub his whiskers and indignantly answer them, “By God, they killed me!”

I remember my granddad told countless, “Me and Wilse Lambert” stories, I wish I could remember more of them. They were always good for a laugh, and the best part is that my granddad never let on that they were anything less than the gospel truth!

Sicily Burns Wedding

From Sut Lovingood: Yarns Spun by a "Nat'ral Born Durn'd Fool" (1867)
by George Washington Harris
edited by: Angel Price 11/96

Sicily Burns Wedding

"Hey Ge-orge!" rang among the mountain slopes; and looking up to my left, I saw "Sut," tearing along down a steep point, heading me off, in a long kangaroo lope, holding his flask high above his head, and hat in hand. He brought up near me, banteringly shaking the half-full "tickler," within an inch of my face.

"Whar am yu gwine? take a suck, hoss? This yere truck's ole. I kotch hit myse'f, hot this mornin frum the still wum. Nara durn'd bit ove strike-nine in hit I put that ar piece ove burnt dried peach in myse'f tu gin hit color better nur ole Bullen's plan: he puts in tan ooze, in what he sells, an' when that haint handy, he uses the red warter outen a pon' jis' below his barn; makes a pow'ful natral color, but don't help the taste much. Then he correcks that wif red pepper; hits an orful mixtry, that whisky ole Bullen makes; no wonder he seed 'Hell-sarpints.' He's pisnt ni ontu three quarters ove the b'levin parts ove his congregashun wif hit, an' tuther quarter he's sot intu ruff stealin an' cussin. Ef his still- ous don't burn down, ur he peg out hisse'f, the neighborhood am ruinated a-pas' salvashun. Haint he the durndes sampil ove a passun yu ever seed enyhow?

"Say George, du yu see these yere well-poles what I uses fur laigs? Yu sez yu sees em, dus yu?"

"Yes."

"Very well; I passed 'em a-pas' each usher tuther day, right peart. I put one out a-head jis' so, an' then tuther 'bout nine feet a-head ove hit agin jis' so, an' then kep on a-duin hit. I'll jis' gin yu leave tu go tu the devil hatf hamon, ef I didn't make fewer tracks tu the mile, an' more tu the minis, than wer ever made by eny human man body, since Bark Wilson beat the saw-log frum the top ove the Frog Mountin intu the Oconee River, an' dove, an' dodged hit at las'. I hes allers look'd ontu that performince ove Bark's as onekel'd in histery, allers givin way tu dad's ho'net race, however.

"George, every livin thing hes hits pint, a pint ove sum sort. Ole Bullen's pint is a durn'ed fust rate, three bladed, dubbil barriltd, warter-proof, hypockracy, an' a never-tirein appertite fur bal'-face. Sicily Burns's pint am tu drive men folks plum crazy, an' then bring em too gin. Gin em a rale Orleans fever in five minits, an' then in five minits more, gin them a Floridy ager. Durn her, she's down on her heels flat-footed now. Dad's pint is tu be king ove all durn'd fools, ever since the day ove that feller what cribb'd up so much cotn down in Yegipt, long time ago, (he ran outen his coat yu minds). The Bibil tell us hu wer the stronges' man hu wer the bes' man hu wer the meekis' man, an' hu the wises' man, but leaves yu tu guess hu wer the bigges' fool.

"Well, eny man what cudent guess arter readin that ar scrimmage wif an 'omen 'bout the coat, haint sense enuf tu run intu the hous', ef hit wer rainin deaf cats, that's all. Mam's pint am in kitchen insex, bakin hoe-cake, biling greens, an' runnin bar laiged. My pint am in taking aboard big skeers, an' then beatin enybody's hoss, ur skared dory, a-runnin frum onder em agin. I used tu think my pint an' dad's wer jis' the same, sulky, unmix'd king durn'd fool; but when he acted hoss, an' mistook hossflies fur ho'nets, I los' heart. Never mine' when I gits his 'sperence, I may be king fool, but yet great golly, he gets frum bad tu wus, monstrus fas'.

"Now ef a feller happens tu know what his pint am, he kin allers git along, sumhow, purvided he don't swar away his liberty tu a temprins s'ciety, live tu fur frum a still-hous, and too ni a chu'ch ur a jail. Them's my sentimints on 'pints,' an' yere's my sentimints ontu folks: Men wer made a-purpus jis' tu eat, drink, an' fur stayin awake in the yearly part ove the nites: an' wimen wer made tu cook the vittils, mix the sperits, an' help the men du the stayin awake. That's all, an' nuthin more, onless hits fur the women tu raise the devil atwix meals, an' knit socks atwix drams, an' the men tu play short kerds, swap hosses wif fools, an' fite fur exercise at odd spells.

"George, yu don't onderstan life yet scarcely at all, got a heap tu larn, a heap. But 'bout my swappin my laigs so fas' these yere very par ove laigs. I hed got about a fox squirril skin full ove biled co'n juice packed onder my shut, an' onder my hide too, I mout es well add, an' wer aimin fur Bill Carr's on foot. When I got in sight ove ole man Burns's, I seed ni ontu fifty hosses an' muels hitch'd tu the fence. Durnashun! I jis' then tho't ove hit, 'twer Sicily's wedding day. She married ole Clapshaw, the suckit rider. The very feller hu's faith gin out when he met me sendin sody all over creashun. Suckit-riders am surjestif things tu me. They preaches agin me, an' I hes no chance tu preach back at them. Ef I cud I'd make the institushun behave hitsef better nur hit dus. They hes sum wunderful pints, George.

Thar am two things nobody never seed: wun am a dead muel, an' tuther is a suckit-rider's grave. Kaze why, the he muels all turn intu old field school-masters, an' the she ones intu strong minded wimen, an' then when thar times cums, they dies sorter like usher folks. An' the suckit-riders ride ontil they marry; ef they marrys money, they turns intu store-keepers, swaps hosses, an' stays away ove colleckshun Sundays. Them what marrys, an' by sum orful mistake mlsses the money, jis' turns intu polertishuns, sells 'ile well stock,' and dies sorter in the human way too.

"But 'bout the wedding. Ole Burns hed a big black an' white bull, wif a ring in his snout, an' the rope tied up roun his ho'ns. They rid 'im tu mill, an' sich like wif a saddil made outen two dorgwood forks, an' two clapboards, kivered wif a ole piece ove carpet, rope girth, an' rope stirrups wif a loop in hit fur the foot.

Ole 'Sock,' es they call'd the bull, hed jis' got back frum mill, an' wer turn'd intu the yard, saddil an' all, tu solace hissef a-pickin grass. I wer slungin roun the outside ove the hous', fur they hedn't hed the manners tu ax me in, when they sot down tu dinner. I wer pow'fully hurt 'bout hit, an' happen'd tu think SODY. So I sot in a-watchin fur a chance tu du sumthin. I fus' tho't I'd shave ole Clapshaw's hoss's tail, go tu the stabil an' shave Sicily's mare's tail, an' ketch ole Burns out, an' shave his tail too. While I wer a-studyin 'bout this, ole Sock wer a-rosin 'roun, an' cum up ontu a big baskit what hilt a littil shattered cotn; he dipp'd in his head tu git hit, an' I slipp'd up an' jerked the handil over his ho'ns.

"Now, George, ef yu knows the eater ove a cow brute, they is the durndes' fools amung all the beastes, ('scept the Lovingoods); when they gits intu tribulashun, they knows nuffin but tu shot thar eyes, belier, an' back, an' keep a-backin. Well, when ole Sock raised his head an' foun hissef in darkness, he jis' twisted up his tail, snorted the shatter'd co'n outen the baskit, an' made a tremenjus lunge agin the hous'. I hearn the picters a-hangin agin the wall on the inside a-fal in. He fotch a deep loud rusty belier, mout been hearn a mile, an' then sot intu a onendin sistem ove backin. A big craw-fish wif a hungry coon a-reachin fur him, wer jis' nowhar. Fust agin one thing, then over anuther, an' at las' agin the bee-bainch, knockin hit an' a dozen stan ove bees heads over heels, an' then stompin back'ards thru the mess. Hit haint much: wuf while tu tell what the bees did, ur how soon they sot intu duin hit. They am pow'ful quick-tempered littil critters, enyhow. The air wer dark wif 'em, an' Sock wer kivered all over, frum snout tu tail, so clost yu cudent a-sot down a grain ove wheat fur bees, an' they wer a-fitin one anuther in the air, fur a place on the bull. The hous' stood on sidelin groun, an' the back door wer even wif hit. So Sock happen tu hit hit plum, jis' backed intu the hous' onder 'bout two hundred an' fifty pouns ove steam, bawlin orful, an' every snort he fotch he snorted away a quart ove bees ofen his sweaty snout. He wer the leader ove the bigges' an' the madest army ove bees in the worild. Thar wer at leas' five solid bushels ove 'em. They hed filled the baskit, an' hed lodged ontu his tail, ten deep, ontil hit wer es thick es a waggin tung. He hed hit stuck strait up in the air, an' hit looked adzackly like a dead pine kivered wif ivey. I think he wer the hottes' and wus hurtin bull then livin; his temper, too, seemed tu be pow'fully flustrated.

Ove all the durn'd times an' kerryins on yu ever hearn tell on wer thar an' thar abouts. He cum tail fust agin the old two story Dutch clock, an' fotch hit, bustin hits runnin geer outen hit, the littil wheels a-trundlin over the floor, an' the bees even chasin them. Nex pass, he fotch up agin the foot ove a big dubbil injine bedstead, rarin hit on send, an' punchin one ove the posts thru a glass winder. The nex tail fus' experdishun wer made aginst the caticorner'd cupboard, outen which he maade a perfeck momox. Fus' he upsot hit, smashin in the glass doors, an' then jis' sot in an' stomp'd everything on the shelves intu giblits, a-tryin tu back furder in that direckshun, an' tu git the bees ofen his laics.

"Pickil crocks, perserves jars, vinegar jugs, seed bags, yarb bunches, paragorick bottils, aig baskits, an ' delf war all mix 'd dam permiskusly, an' not worth the sortie, by a duller an' a 'elf. Nex he got a far back across the room agin the board pertishun; he went thru hit like hit hed been paper, takin wif him 'bout six foot squar ove hit in splinters, an' broken boards, intu the nex room, whar they wer eatin dinner, an' rite yere the fitin becum gineral, an' the dancin, squawkin, cussin, an' dodgin begun.

"Clapshaw's ole mam wer es deaf es a dogiron, an sot at the send ove the tabil, nex tu whar ole Sock busted thru the wall; tail fus' he cum agin her cheer, a-histin her an' hit ontu the tabil. Now, the smashin ove delf, an' the mixin ove vittils begun.

They hed sot severil tabils tugether tu make hit long enuf. So he jis' rolled 'em up a-top ove one anuther, an' thar sot ole Missis Clapshaw, a-straddil ove the top ove the pile, a-fitin bees like a mad wind-mill, wif her calliker cap in one hen, fur a wepun, an' a cract frame in tuther, an' a-kickin, an' a-spurrin like she wer ridin a lazy hoss arter the doctor, an' a-screamin rape, fire, an' murder, es fas' es she cud name 'em over.

"Taters, cabbige, meat, soup, beans, sop, dumpling, an' the truck what yu wailers 'em in; milk, plates, pies, pudding, an' every durn fixin yu cud think ove in a week, wer thar, mix'd an' mashed, like hit had been thru a thrashin-meesheen.
Ole Sock still kep a-backin, an' backed the hole pile, ole 'omen an' all, also sum cheers, outen the frunt door, an' down seven steps intu the lane, an' then by golly, turn'd a fifteen hundred poun summerset hissef arter em, lit a-top ove the mix'd up mess, flat ove his back, an' then kicked hissef ontu his feet agin. About the time he ris, ole man Burns yu know how fat, an' stumpy, an' cross-grained he is, enyhow made a vigrus mad snatch at the baskit, an' got a savin holt ontu hit, but cudent let go quick enuf; fur ole Sock jis' snorted, bawled, an' hissed the ole cuss heels fust up intu the air, an' he lit on the bull's back, an' hed the baskit in his hen.

"Jis' es soon es old Blackey got the use ove his eyes, he tore off down the lane tu out-run the bees, so durn'd fas' that ole Burns wer feard tu try tu git off. So he jis' socked his feet intu the rope loops, an' then cummenc'd the durndes' bull-ride ever mortal man ondertuck. Sock run atwix the hitched critters an' the railfence, ole Burns fust fifing him over the head wif the baskit tu stop him, an' then fitin the bees wif hit. I'll jis' be durn'd ef I didn't think he hed four ur five baskits, hit wer in so meny places at onst. Well, Burns, baskit, an' bull, en' bees, skared every durn'd hoss an' muel loose frum that fence bees ontu all ove 'em, bees, by golly, everywhar. Mos' on 'em, too, tuck a fence rail along, fas' tu the bridil reins. Now I'll jis' gin yu leave tu kiss my sister Sall till she squalls, ef ever sich a sight wer seed ur sich nises hearn, es filled up that long lane. A heavy cloud ove dus', like a harycane hed been blowin, hid all the hosses, an' away abuv hit yu cud see tails, an' sends ove fence-rails a-flyin about; now an' then a par ove bright hine shoes wud flash in the sun like two sparks, an' away ahead wer the basket a-sirklin roun an' about at randum. Brayin, nickerin, the bellerin ove the bull, clatterin ove runnin hoofs, an' a mons'ous rushin soun, made up the noise. Lively times in that lane jis' then, warnt thar?

"I swar ole Burns kin beat eny man on top ove the yeath a-fitin bees wif a baskit. Jis' set 'im a-straddil ove a mad bull, an' let thar be bees enuf tu exhite the ole man, an' the man what beats him kin break me. Hosses an' muels wer tuck up all over the county, an' sum wer forever los'. Yu cudent go eny course, in a cirkil ove a mile, an' not find buckils, stirrups, straps, saddil blankits, ur sumthin belongin tu a saddil hoss. Now don't forgit that about that hous' thar wer a good time bein had ginerally. Fellers an' gals loped outen windows, they rolled outen the doors in bunches, they clomb the chimleys, they darted onder the house jis' tu dart out agin, they tuck tu the thicket, they rolled in the wheat field, lay down in the krick, did everything but stan still. Sum made a strait run fur home, an' sum es strait a run frum home; livelyest folks I ever did see. Clapshaw crawled onder a straw pile in the barn, an' sot intu prayin yu cud a-hearn him a mile sumthin 'bout the plagues ove Yegipt, an' the pains ove the secon death. I tell yu now he lumbered.

"Sicily, she squatted in the cold spring, up tu her years, an turn'd a milk crock over her head, while she wer a drownin a mess ove bees onder her coats. I went tu her, an' sez I, 'Yu hes got anuther new sensashun haint yu?' Sez she

"'Shet yer mout, yu cussed fool!'

"Sez I, 'Power'ful sarchin' feelin bees gins a body, don't they?'

" 'Oh, lordy, lordy, Sut, these yere 'bominabil insex is jis' burnin me up!'

" 'Gin 'em a mess ove SODY,' sez I, 'that'll cool 'em off, an' skeer the las' durn'd one ofen the place.'

"She lifted the crock, so she cud flash her eyes at me, an' sea, 'Yu go tu hell!' jis es plain. I thought, takin all things tugether, that p'raps I mout es well put the mountin atwix me an' that plantashun; en' I did hit.

"Thar warnt an' 'oman, ur a gal at that weddin, but what thar frocks, an' stocking wer too tite fur a week. Bees am wus on wimen than men, enyhow. They hev a farer chance at 'em. Nex day I passed ole Hawley's, an' his gal Betts wer sittin in the porch, wif a white hankerchef tied roun her jaws; her face wer es red es a beet, an' her eyebrows hung 'way over heavy. Sez I, 'Hed a fine time at the weddin, didn't yu?' 'Yu mus' be a durn'd fool,' wer every word she sed. I hadent gone a hundred yards, ontil I met Missis Brady, her hans fat, an' her ankils swelled ontil they shined. Sez she,

" 'Whar yu gwine, Sut?'

"'Bee huntin,' sez I.

"'Yu jis' say bees agin, yu infunel gallinipper, an' I'll scab yer head wif a rock.'

"Now haint hit strange how tetchus they am, on the subjick ove bees?

"Ove all the durn'd misfortinit weddins ever since ole Adam married that heifer, what wer so fon' ove talkin tu snaix, an' eatin appils, down ontil now, that one ove Sicily's an' Clapshaw's wer the worst one fur noise, disappintment, skeer, breakin things, hurtin, trubbil, vexashun ove spirrit, an' gineral swellin. Why, George, her an' him cudent sleep tugether fur ni ontu a week, on account ove the doins ove them ar hot- footed, 'vengeful 'bominabil littil insex. They never will gee tugether, got tu bad a start, mine what I tell yu. Yu haint time now tu hear how ole Burns finished his bull-ride, an' how I cum tu du that lofty, topliftical speciment ove fas' runnin. I'll tell yu all that sum uther time. Ef eny ove 'em axes after me, tell 'em that I'm over in Fannin, on my way tu Dahlonega. They is huntin me tu kill me, I is fear'd.

"Hit am an orful thing, George, tu be a natral born durn'd fool. Yu se never 'sperienced hit pussonally, hev yu? Hits made pow'fully agin our famerly, an all owin tu dad. I orter bust my head open agin a bluff ove rocks, an' jis' wud du hit, ef I warns a cussed coward. All my yeathly 'pendence is in these yere laigs d'ye see 'em? Ef they don't fail, I may turn human sum day, that is sorter human, enuf tu be a Squire, ur school cummisiner. Ef I wer jis' es smart es I am mean, an' ornery, I'd be President ove a Wild Cat Bank in less nor a week. Is sperrits plenty over wif yu?"