Smokey Mountain Breakdown

Stir with a Knife ~ Part One

The dance let out into the chill night air with lighthearted smiles and laughter. The night was brightly lit by the moonlight and no one needed a lamp to take the road home. But they all had taken these paths thousands of times before and knew them as they knew the the path to the outhouse back at their own homes.

Bessie smiled and waved goodbye to them all. The preacher patted her golden head and said, “You’re a good girl, Bessie. You tell your mother I hope she’s feeling better real soon.”

“Thank you, Preacher.” Bessie smiled up at him. “I ‘preciate you letting me come tonight. I don’t get out much since Mommy’s been sick.”

Bessie took off home with a song in her heart and the music from the dance still sounding in her head. She tripped along the gravel road, humming “Turkey in the Straw”, her feet still tripping to the tune.

The man walked behind her on soft soled boots making no sound. Bessie had no reason to look behind her and was caught up in her own little world. She didn’t hear the man gradually catching up with her and when she felt his hand cover her mouth it was too late.

He grasped her around the chest and pulled her to him…his breath sour with moonshine blowing close to her ear.

“Mmmm,” he said, “I bets you want some sugar, don’t you?” He rasped breathily to her.

Bessie struggled against him. He had her firmly from behind and her thrashing didn’t seem to be doing anything to free her. She smelled the strong scent of tobacco on his hand and it was hard to breath with it against her mouth. Finally she was able to stamp her heel against the man’s foot.

He screamed in pain and relaxed enough for Bessie to escape. She whirled and faced her attacker, her eyes flashing in anger. She hauled off and punched him across the face, hard, then pulled her hand back and shook it out.

“Damn you, Bart Roach!” She hollered. “You leave me alone!”

He brought a hand up to his face where she had hit him. It was going to leave a shiner, for sure. Enraged, he advanced on her, grinning and spitting.

She stood with her arms rigid in indignation. Her fists clinched tight. Her face was flushed in fury as she breathed hard.

He grabbed her again and forced an open mouthed kiss upon her.

Bessie bit hard down on his tongue and kneed him in the groin. He stepped back holding his mouth, with blood dripping from his lip.

“Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” He screamed the words out in pain, running them together so they sounded like one word.

She scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand and spat in the dirt. Then she turned on her heel and ran for all she was worth.

She ran so fast that she didn’t hear Bart Roach hollering after her, “I’ll git you Bessie Stark. Just you wait, you’ll be sorry!”

Bessie just kept running, her happy evening now ruined.

She pounded the path up to her house and came in the door bolting it behind her. She threw her back against the door and stood there breathing hard and tearing.

“Bess, is that you, honey?” Her mother called weakly from her bed.

“Yes, Mommy, it’s me. Nothin’ to worry about, go on back to sleep.”

Bessie’s mother was the only family she had left. Her Pa had died in a mine cave-in and her two brothers had died a year later, working in the same dangerous mine. Now it looked like she was going to lose her Mommy, too. She often wondered why God seemed to take the good and leave the evil.

Bessie sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. Silent tears streaked her cheeks. She wondered if her life would ever ease up. She wondered if she’d ever meet a fella who would strike her fancy who she’d marry and have babies with. But she knew that life was likely to get harder, because that was the way of life on the mountain.

When she curled up on her bed that night, the scent of the wood fire embers drifting in and out of her consciousness, she couldn’t know the terrible form that Bart’s retribution for her rebuke of his attentions would take, or the price she would pay.

Stir with a Knife ~ Part Three

Sugar and Brimstone ~ Part One

They said they named him “Tarnation” because his mother almost died carrying him. She had to lay-in at Granny Wilson’s for a month and a half before he was born. And when he did enter the world, kicking and screaming, she bled to death. And he seemed to live up to his naming. It was as if he carried a curse of violence around with him like a badge of honor.

He was a small man in most ways. But there was something very square about him as well. He was short of stature with a boxy frame, but everything else about him was small. He had delicate little feet and hands and small facial features. His voice was small and soft and you often had to strain to hear what he said. Often, you were sorry that you had. There was something decidedly incongruous about his small mouth, nose and eyes that seemed out of place on his square, boxy head. Perhaps it was this smallness of stature that made him so mean. Or perhaps it was his smallness of spirit.

His one great vanity was his flowing mane of silver hair. It fell in curling waves down his shoulders like Samson’s tresses. It was a crown of glory that any woman would be proud to have flowing down her back. His other great asset was his lovely singing voice. Perhaps it was his voice that Tulah loved, or perhaps it was his beautiful hair.

He was thirteen when he killed his first man. Some said it was an accident. Some said it wasn’t Tarn’s fault. Some said Tarn’s daddy shouldn’t have been cleaning his gun drunk. But Tarn was found standing over his father’s corpse and all he said was, “He sorta deserved it, didn’t he?”

But no one wanted to believe a kid would kill his daddy. Some now thought, maybe they should have.

Tulah, of course, knew all this. Hers was a very small mountain community where there were no real secrets. Everyone knew everyone’s business and sometimes more. But in the way of young girls, his dangerousness only seemed to fascinate her more.

She tried to put herself in places where she knew Tarn might pass by. She tried to find herself in situations that she thought he might likely find himself. Once she balanced in the middle of the Deep Hole footbridge waiting for him to pass by for three hours with the plan of throwing herself in the creek so he could rescue her.

He never came that day. Her pa whipped her when he found out.

But today she came across him at that same spot. Tarn was out in the creek washing blood out of a shirt. She briefly considered throwing herself from the footbridge as she had planned that day, but decided a subtler approach was in order.

“Hey, Tarn,” Tulah called down to him. “Whatcha’ doin’?”

Tarn looked up from his laundry. The water flowing away from the shirt was tinged with blood. His pretty hands looked skinned and wounded, or maybe it was just the blood coming off of the shirt.

He said something in his soft, snake-like voice and brushed a wet steel-colored curl from his shoulders.

“What did you say?” Tulah called down.

“Ah said, I killed a coon last night and it bled all over me.” He said, marginally louder but with a rasp.

“Oh. What did you do with it? I cook up a real good coon stew.” She coyly smiled at him.

Tarn looked up at her and cocked his head a bit. He looked at her like she was a new kind of bug he’d never seen before.

“I gave that coon to the dogs. They ripped it to pieces.” He hissed. “You should go on home, little girl. I’m sure your mommy has told you I’m not to be tarried with.”

“Pshaw! I don’t care about that! I just wanted to see how you was doin’.”

“Well, you’ve seen. Now git.”

Tarn came out of the creek with rusty water flowing off of his clothes. Tulah took a long heartsick look and danced off home. She played the meeting over and over in her head on the way and imagined deep searching looks Tarn surely threw her and how his voice might have sounded fond of her at one point.

Running into him there had made her day, that’s for sure. But her heart sank when she got home and saw her parents and brothers gathered in a worried knot on the porch with the local lawman.

She slowed her skip to a walk and saw everyone’s heads bowed in conversation. Her mother looked up and saw her.

“Tulah! Thank God!” Cinnie said. “You’re safe!”

“What’s going on?”

“Ned Frank’s been found murdered. It’s terrible.”

“What happened?”

Ned Franks had been found dead that morning floating in Staines Creek. He’d last been seen at Johnsay’s Market that evening where he bought a tin of Red Man and an RC Cola. As far as anyone knew, he was on his way home. He usually took a short-cut through Staines Creek to get to his house.

The law didn’t know exactly what to call it. Frank’s head was almost separated from his body and the murder weapon, a chainsaw chain, was just barely hanging around his neck. It looked like something between strangulation and decapitation. But one thing they did know. Ned Franks had been alive when it happened.

Sugar and Brimstone ~ Part Three

Somebody said they wanted to see my view. Above is my house and part of the land. There is a good bit of it....20.5 acres of it. And here is part of my view.



And here's another part of it.....


I began the sad business of packing up my house so that the realtor can come over and take pictures to list it. Yes...I am selling out. It's a financial decision more than anything else. I'm hopeful that an equally wonderful place as this one, that I'll love every bit as much as this one will make itself known to me. Preferably someplace even more secluded and with a barn and outbuildings.

Honestly though, I will leave huge chunks of my heart here. My first real home.

Happy Sunday.

He peered though his bifocals and fingered the photograph, turning it nervously in his hands. His now snow-white hair still started low on his forehead as it had on the young man in the photo.

He had a nervous tic involving his pipe he indulged in at such times. Times when he wanted to talk but wasn’t sure he should. He tapped the corncob pipe against the palm of his hand. Tap, tap, tap. It was as though he thought he could empty the world of cinders if he could only keep tapping that pipe.

“Yep, that were me. I never talked about that night. Never wanted to.” He said, his ice blue eyes watering slightly and bloodshot from the pipe smoke that still filled the room.

“It’s like the war, you know? Most fella’s don’t want to talk about the war, or if they do, they don’t talk about the real stories. The blood, the pain…what you went through.”

He rubbed his hand against the flannel of his shirt, wiping the pipe soot off and reached for his bag of Prince Albert.

“We saw a gang of things running those steam engines. Things we weren’t meant to see. Hideouts of criminals, moonshiners, rum runners….we saw it all. We saw people die and couldn’t stop…and that’s not counting the fools who got in the way of the trains.”

He gave all of his concentration to the filling of his pipe for a moment. He filled the bowl and tapped it down with a tobacco stained forefinger. He kept tapping it as he had tapped the ash out of the pipe moments before. He seemed to know exactly how firm to get the shredded tobacco but he kept tapping.

“But that night,” he said, “that night was the night I figured I’d stay back at the yard and fix trains ‘stead of running them.”

He was just 20 years old that fall evening in 1919 when the Carolina Special took off from the Spartanburg train station for a red-eye run to Knoxville. He was young and jaunty and wore his rail cap slightly askew. The fall leaves were ablaze in the sunset as he bent his young strong back to the task of shoveling coal into the firebox.

“Alrighty, then, Floyd…that’ll do her.” Said Dusty, the senior fireman he was working with. He shut the grate to the big firebox and tuned his ear to the sound of the engine chuffing.

Dusty poked his head out of the window and waved at the engineer to let him know the box was stoked.

They had a little time before they needed to start seriously stoking the fire for the tortuous climb up Saluda Mountain. Dusty fiddled with the oil gage a bit and checked the steam guage.

The old fireman sat back on the bench and cocked his head at Floyd.

“Well, it’s up Saluda mountain we go, son. It’s the trip down that’ll kill ya. Tell me boy, have you ever hear tell of the Brown Mountain lights?”

Floyd looked at the old fireman.

“Can’t say that I have, Dusty.” He said.

“You just might see them tonight when we climb up Saluda. Just look out there to the west and you might see them lights.”

“What are they?”

“Some say they are the wandering spirits of dead Injuns. Some say they are the spirits of runaway slaves lost in the mountains.”

Floyd grinned. “Sure it ain’t just some of those old boys firing up stills up there in the hills?”

Floyd looked up into the darkening sky. The light was mostly gone now, but the full moon cast an otherworldly light over the mountains. You could just see the rising peaks out to the west where the Smokies pierced the sky. The stars were dimmed slightly by the moonlight but you could just make out the Milky Way spiraling in the night sky. If not for the blazing heat of the firebox, you would be able to feel the chill of the autumn night.

“We won’t have much of a break now, son. Here comes Saluda Mountain…get yourself a’ shoveling!”

When they forged the rails up the Mountain, they took them straight up the Saluda. It was the most treacherous stretch of rail in the nation and had killed dozens during runaway train incidents. It was often said that if you didn’t drive the train on the Saluda, the train would drive you.

“Shovel, son, shovel!”

Floyd loaded the coal into the firebox, the heat supplying the steam needing for the long steep climb up the Saluda. Dusty adjusted the oil and steam flow valves on the boiler. The train began building speed and they started climbing the mountain. The engine went chuff, chuff, chuff as they used more and more steam to power the climb.

They made it up the mountain without incident then balanced the train on the peak while the air monkeys went to work on the brakes for the trip down the mountain. Dusty pointed out into the night sky.

“Do you see them?”

Floyd looked out to the place where the mountains met the night sky. Twinkling there in the mist were little twinkling lights that danced on the horizon. Below them the track disappeared into a solid wall of fog that seemed to glow in the darkness. It was like a veil... a doorway they would soon plunge the train right through like a knife into the darkness.

And Floyd thought he could see those little lights twinkling through the fog. Maybe it was his imagination, or maybe he really did see them. At any rate, it was the last moment of rationality Floyd would have that night.

Carolina Special ~ Part Two

I’m of the opinion that a superb country ham biscuit is a thing of great beauty. The ham just seared in the pan and laid out on the biscuit like an offering to whatever gods hams pray to. Drizzled with honey to cut the salt of the cured ham and perhaps a bit of real butter. The biscuit is often key to the success of a good country ham biscuit. It must be made from scratch and must melt in your mouth.

Finding such ham biscuits should be an adventure. To find really authentic ones, you often must go to places hidden off the beaten path. I’ve had very good luck in following the trails of those warriors of the road, those men and women who make the world run by making sure our good are where they need to be when we wake up. Often, if you frequent the places where the truckers and railmen go, you’ll find a country ham biscuit that will make your heart sing.

I found one many years ago by stumbling into a railway café in Perry, GA. It was in a run down old mercantile building with board plank flooring and sawdust on the floor. It was dark and moody with a few clabbered together tables with plastic tablecloths stapled to them and weathered rail back chairs. The back door stood wide open and had a six foot drop down to the rails below with no stairs. It was so the railmen could just step off the train right into the little café. The place smelled of creosote and diesel. The clientele wore striped overalls and rail caps and carried the dust of their travels with them.

I found a very wonderful ham biscuit that day. I still remember it.

This past week my adventuresome streak kicked in and I found another such lovely ham biscuit.


Just off of I-40 on the Wilton Springs exit is the Mountain View Truck Stop. This isn’t one of those big mega stops where you can find anything from soup to nuts and that glare neon from the interstate. It’s a small stop servicing the truckers coming from the long torturous stretch of highway that winds through the mountains between Asheville and Knoxville. They can only occupy one lane during that stretch and often you will run into long lines of them coming out of the mountain pass. It’s a jarring stretch of interstate with wire nets to catch falling bits of mountain.

I spoke with an older trucker who was in there about the history of the place. He had been stopping there since it opened shortly after they built I-40. Originally, the place was a bit more “full service” than was strictly legal, if you get my drift. A small deserted strip of hotel rooms still stands from those days.

But the truck stop has changed hands many times since those days and is owned by very law abiding family folk. In fact, I believe one of the owners works with the sheriff’s department. You will see local people eating there as well as the truckers traveling on I-40.

Stop by and have a ham biscuit if you are in the area. They make awfully good ones.

They do have a dress code, so please be sure to put your shirt on. It’s state law.

A bright harvest moon beamed down over the cornfield. Bloody shadows flickered over the corn sheathes that stood like scary sentinels, leaving ragged shadows that moved nervously in the windy night.

But all was bright and happy in the church hall by the road where the Harvest Dance was being held. The musicians tirelessly worked their banjos, fiddles and dulcimers. Bright voices sang loudly dispelling the fall chill. Pretty Bessie’s bright blond hair flew and whipped around her shoulders as she danced around the floor. She swayed and changed from partner to partner, each hoping for a fond glance from her bright blue eyes.

But Bessie had eyes for no one and laughed in delight at the music. She had no thought but the freedom of her movement. So she didn’t notice the man in the corner watching her hungrily. Watching her with the want of a starving man.

The dance was soon over and Bessie bent over where she stood and breathed heavily. Then she stood and her sparkling laughter boomed out breathless into the hall.

The man watched and waited.

Other girls were there, but none so lovely as Bessie. Her dress was a exquisite example of her needlework, which won many a prize at the local fair. Her quilts were prized for their workmanship and many wondered how at such a tender age she had mastered skills that only the grannies seemed to excel in.

The other girls stood in a group at the edge of the dance floor while the musician took a break. Some sipped glasses of cider and they whispered behind their hands and cut their eyes at Bessie.

“Who does she think she is?”

“No shame, that’s what she’s got. No shame!”

“ I heard she led on Jenny’s beau and met him out by the milk house!”

“I heard she drank likker after church last Sunday with Billy!”

“ I heard she kissed Dottie’s fella and he didn’t even want her to!”

Tiny bright Bessie walked over to the girls, laughing.

“Lawd!” she cried, “That sure was fun, weren't it!”

All of the girls looked at Bessie like they smelled something bad and turned their backs on her, pretending to talk about something else.

Bessie’s beautiful face frowned briefly at the snub, then she went to get some cider.

It was too lovely a night to waste on the likes of this lot.

And the man's eyes followed every move she made.

Stir with a Knife ~ Part Two

Tulah sat looking out the small window into the morning light with dreams of love in her fourteen year-old noggin. Her eyes were dreamy and unfocused as she imagined her love all dapper and fancied waiting for her at the alter.. His hair was long and curly and salt and pepper. He had the purtiest hair. She saw herself being led up the aisle by her Daddy and the preacher man waiting for her with Tarn beaming and smiling. That gold front tooth of his glinting like a diamond. Her dress was long and new and covered in lace and ribbons and he just couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

She gave a long, loud sigh and hugged herself closing her eyes with a delicious shiver.

It was about that time that her ma gave her a good swat with the wet dish towel.

“Ow!” she cried. “That hurt... Mommy!” She drew out “Mommy” in the way that teenagers do and rolled her eyes.

“I’ve about had it with you mooning around here after that no-count.” Her mother, Cinnie, said. “He don’t even know you’re alive…and a good thing too. “

Cinnie scrubbed the stove top with more force than was strictly necessary. She scrubbed, then poured a measure of lye water on it to sit for a while. Then she pulled the butter churn from behind the wood stove and began churning it with more force than she needed. She drew her lips into a tight line and stayed tersely silent.

Tulah gave another heavy sigh.

“Oh, Mommy, he’s bound to notice me. He just must! I just love him so! I swear he looked right at me and winked at the homecoming. I know he did!” Tulah twirled around the cabin floor, hugging herself.

Cinnie stopped her churning and looked down into the opening of the churn. She cut her eyes at Tulah’s young face.

“Baby. You have to listen to me. Tarn Rickson is a bad, bad man. He’s done terrible things. If I thought he were after one of my babies, I’d kill him. I’d shoot him dead. I really would. I just don’t understand why you set your cap for him.”

Tulah frowned and gave a little pout.

“Oh, Mommy, you just don’t understand! I could change him. I know I could!”

And Tulah felt in her young girl’s soul that this was surely true. All Tarn needed was the love of a good woman. And she knew in her heart of hearts that she was that woman.

And Cinnie prayed to herself, Lord, don't make my baby learn this lesson the hard way.

Sugar and Brimstone ~ Part Two

It's one of the most beautiful crops to see this time of year. And it will get even better than this. It reminds me so of the rape seed fields of France. They turned this amazing yellow color that stretched in patches for miles over rolling hills. If not for the crashing sinus headaches they caused....you could swear they were the prettiest sight you'd ever seen. Tobacco turns a color like that.

I went to church today. I hadn't seen Jimmy and Pam since the viewing for Mizz Kay-reen. I actually need to start getting up early enough to go to my church and then be at Jimmy's for his 1:00 service. It's not that I'm hyper religious or anything. Really, I could use more in the belief and faith department. Indeed, I'd have to say that I'm a very poor practitioner of any faith. I believe in science more than anything else. But I really miss listening to my Episcopal pastor's thought provoking sermons. They are as different as chalk and cheese from what Pastor Jimmy does. But I do come away from both experiences feeling really good.

Pastor Jimmy handled a northern copperhead today. I hadn't seen one of those before.

But 9:00 a.m. is really early for someone like me who stays up until 3:00 a.m. writing. I like the stillness of that time of day. I've been doing something really weird too. I've been writing and watching TV at the same time. I guess because I plot things out ahead of time, it's already sort of floating around in my head and I can just dump it into the laptop without thinking about it. Weird, huh?

Anyway...I'm sort of out of my depth with the train story. It's more the logistics of what it's like to be a fireman on a steam engine. I really don't have any idea what that feels like. So...I'll prolly do the story then go back and fix the technical bits later. I do like the feel of things to be right...so I guess I'll need to get someone to help me with that part.

Happy Sunday

...that the clarity of the light from my balcony this morning was simply stunning.

Beginning on Monday, I will begin the SMB horror-grotesque-spooky-ghost story-a-thon. One entire month of me working out four full length, original short stories here on the blog. This is a challenge I have put up for myself...you can follow along if you wish.

I will be posting segments of the stories on Monday through Wednesday and on Saturdays for the entire month of October. Thursday will be optional. Fridays will be FPF as usual and Sunday's will be Happy Sunday as usual.

Here are the stories. They are plotted out, but unwritten so I'll be writing from the seat of my pants as usual. And I sort of like the idea of writing all these at the same time.

1. Carolina Special

An old man finally relives a terrifying night that he worked on the Carolina Special traveling from Spartanburg, S.C. to Knoxville, TN on October 31, 1923. As if scaling Saluda Mountain, one of the most treacherous stretches of rail in the US at the time, were not enough...the veil between the worlds grew dangerously thin...and he sees things from the engine of the Carolina Special that no man is meant to see.

Yep, folks...looks like we got us here a ghost train!

(note...I'm hoping and pretty sure I'll get lots of research tips from rail enthusiasts on this one!)

Rated for: Supernatural, Fantasy, Ghost Stories, trains

2. Sugar and Brimstone

A young mountain girl harbors a crush on a very, very bad man. Luckily, for her, it is entirely unrequited. She witnesses his crimes, his death and has as disturbing vision of his damnation.

Rated for: Violence, Gothic, Horror, Supernatural

3. Stir with a Knife

You've already met my evil quilter. But how did she become an Appalachian version of one of the Fates? How did she get that way?

Rated for: Horror, Supernatural, Grotesque

4. The Dark Hole

The most difficult story I've attempted. Dark, racially charged and dealing with many of the stereotypes of Appalachia that I've wanted to avoid. It's been festering like an open sore since I put it down last. It is the most O'Connor-esque story I've ever attempted. I'm determined to finish it this month.

Rated for: Grotesque, Horror, Violence

Are you excited? I am.

FPF, goes east….far east!

My Asian readers will want to snicker to themselves quietly. Just keep in mind…I’m doing my best and I have to drive an hour and a half to get even the most rudimentary ingredients for a meal like this. Our konbinis don’t sell no seaweed.

This is the sort of food I prefer to eat. Even though I’m known for my artery clogging recipes and sinful jaunts into the world of Southern cusine…I’m actually much happier with a bowl of miso soup or some ramen, some white rice and sashimi. Even if I have to make long trips into K-town to the Asian grocery to get a few very basic things like sushi nori, kombu and miso.

So, last week, Friend Scott was down in the dumps and he’s told me he enjoyed sushi so I decided to prepare a Japanese meal. Hmmmm…what to fix to fill up a six foot nine guy?

Shabu-Shabu, (しゃぶしゃぶ) of course! I’m not going to trouble you with my interpretation of Shabu-Shabu…but will refer you to Food Network’s excellent rendition of it. I will also refrain from offering my recipe for chicken fried tofu. Shabu Shabu restaurants are very popular in Japan and are often owned and operated by retired Sumo wrestlers. Thus…perfect food for my six-foot nine buddy. Filling…yet fun!

All you need in a small crock or fondu pot to put in the middle of your table to swish the thinly sliced beef in the boiling broth. It’s really a fun dining experience.

I also prepared a plate of sushi. I wasn’t sure exactly how experienced Scott was with it so I kept it rather simple. But Scott is fairly experienced with it…so maybe an excursion to an actual sushi bar is called for.

We were a bit amused when a brightly colored sign was posted down at the rafting canteen down in Hartford announcing that they now had fresh sushi. I won’t even buy fish in town so there was no way I was going to try sushi down the mountain. I usually get fish at the Shrimp Dock in Knoxville when I go to my monthly doctors’ appointments at UT.

My Japanese menu was as follows:

Typically, as a Southern cook, I prepared way too much. But it was a big hit!

I guess, what I'm suggesting...is it's okay to be adventuresome with food. Don't be afraid to try new things...It's part of what's wonderful in life.

Taking a break to work on my super secret squirrel stories.

But thought I'd offer a research teaser for one that I might run next month.

It involves....

My grandfather who worked on the Southern Railroad and worked the trains round these parts. (Actual grandfather and actual train pictured.)

and....

The Carolina Special and the New Market Train Wreck.

and...

The mysterious white cross poised on the cliff above the river in Newport...the ACTUAL story...not the one everyone likes to tell.....

I'm still smushing these together into a bit of fiction....but it feels good. But they always do...even the crappy ones at first so we'll see how it goes.

Also...if anyone has Charlie Oat's lyrics to "The New Market Wreck" laying around...I'd love to see them.

So, once again, I've missed a program that I was supposed to watch. I was wondering where all the hits for Pastor Jimmy and Popcorn Sutton were coming from. And why a production company out of the Midwest was caching the entire blog.

But a new reader filled me in.

This past Sunday the History Channel aired "Hillbilly The Real Story".

The two-hour special, hosted by celebrity Billy Ray Cyrus, brings these mythic people to life through stories that span 300 years. Outcast immigrants, war heroes, isolated backwoodsmen, hard working miners, fast moving moon shiners, religious warriors, musicians and statesmen make up the rugged cast of characters.

I assume this is the program that they were filming all day during Pastor Jimmy's homecoming celebration. Popcorn Sutton is evidently in it. Hopefully my mug will not be getting in any shots, but it would be nice if they got Friend Scott singing.

But not to worry...they are re-airing it tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. and at 2:00pm.

I've heard some mixed reviews about whether or not they got it "right" or not.... but will reserve comment until I've actually seen it. Not sure about the use of his Achey-Brakey-ness for a narrator. I guess Wilford Brimley was booked.

This morning I let "Old Man" out and he evidently went on one of his rare walk-abouts.

They seem to be unintentional and are sort of like when an alzheimer's patient goes missing. It happens maybe once a year. At 18, Babe is happily senile and just wanders from place to place without any sense of direction. His mouth is in dreadful shape and his heart murmur can be felt through the the bones of his rib cage.

"Don't you think it's maybe time to put him to sleep?" Scott asks.

I bristle a bit as I do when the subject comes up.

"It's not time." I say. "He'll tell me when it's time. It's not like he's in pain and he's not incontinent...he just forgets where he is when he has to go."

The truth is, Babe has pretty much destroyed my hardwood floors. He will spend the entire day dozing outside on the porch and forget to do his business. Often the first thing he does when he comes inside is hike his leg on my favorite chair.

Scott seems to think it's funny that Babe will go on a wander for a mile or so then come inside to use the toilet.

But he's my sweet, ancient "Little Old Man". No matter that he was only supposed to live three months when he arrived here. Now, three years later, he's one of my babies. Every year, I brace for his passing and he just seems to keep toddling around.

So, he disappeared for a little while this morning. I looked in all of his usual places. He falls asleep very deeply and because he is almost deaf, he can't hear you call him. You have to wake him up with a pet or a stomp on the porch.

I waited round for him and he finally came back. And he brought a friend with him.

A very tiny little Mountain Feist. These are great little dogs and I hadn't seen this fellow around before. They are excellent on squirrels. I picked him up and when I tried to put him down, he didn't want to get down. He had the radar-like bat ears and a tiny little button nose. Very sweet. I gave him some water...he seemed very well cared for, if a bit shy.

He finally trotted off and I hope he found his way home. If not, I'm sure he'll be back and we'll find out where he belongs.

Dogs know Rosie. I'm the weird old dog lady.

We have a few new lurkers here on the Breakdown, some of whom may not really be aware of exactly what they are looking at. I thought I'd take a moment to update and let you know about future plans as well.

Here is the first official SMB FAQ (frequently asked questions).

1. Arghhhr! What is this?

The SMB is a blog, which is short for "weblog". It's an online journal composed of one individual's thoughts, usually. In the SMB's case, this is a fiction blog. That means that virtually everything here is pretty much made up. In fact, the more I write, even the stuff I thought might be true, turns out to be made up. It's called creative writing. If you think you recognize yourself here...well good. That means I'm doing my job well. If your really think you see yourself here, may I suggest the works of J.K Rowling. You might be Dumbledore!

2. Is this a "secret" blog?

No. The SMB has been on the web since 2003 and alternately active and inactive. It has been easily accessed through the web since it started and I've made no secret that I was writing it. Everyone I know, online and off-line, has been told about the blog since I started writing it and my emails have held it's url since I started working on it. If you are just getting around to checking it out, let me offer you a warm welcome.

3. Do you hold a copyright on all this stuff?

Yes. I don't have a notice because I don't need one legally. All rights are reserved for all of my images and written material. While I certainly don't mind you copying off a story to take to bed to read, if you are making copies and passing them around, you are committing a crime. You are welcome to refer others to my url, but please don't steal my work and take it out of the context in which it was written.

4. You must make a gang of money off this thing, right?

Not a sou, not a red cent, not a dime, nada, nothing. My google adds have yet to do anything, even. I write this as a service to my county and for myself. This blog brings in many tourism dollars into my community and helps the local economy.

5. So who reads this thing?

My readership is is spread across the world. Many of my readers are referred from Appalachia-friendly sites who appreciate my sensitive portrayal of the Appalachian people. A good portion come from academic sites where scholars and intellectuals find the social history and linguistics I include interesting. I get anywhere from 100 to 200 "hits" per day. Mostly people are looking for good recipes from my food articles or entertaining stories. I also get a fair number of "hits" from men and women serving in the military. It makes me feel good that I might bring a smile to someone trudging through a distant desert, far away from these hills they call home.

6. How do you know all of this?

The SMB is a highly moderated and closely monitored blog. Stats are checked often and suspicious or inappropriate searches are banned from the blog. Essentially, when you look at the blog....the blog is looking at you. I know the number of the computer you are on, the location, your isp, what you looked at, how long you spent here and other things. This may seem intrusive, but I had to start this after the blog came under attack for my writing about faith. Particularly the Christian faith. Not sure why this is...I don't have a bone to pick with anyone's religion and it's impossible to write about Appalachia without writing about Christianity as well.

7. Are you really 40% evil?

It's a joke. Actually I think my evil rating has been slipping considerably. I think I'm down to only 28% evil at this point. So there may be hope for me yet.

8. Do you actually handle serpents?

No. I am not one of the anointed. I am an Episcopalian. But I feel privileged to be an observer in their services. I have a great deal of admiration for the Signs Followers. They really practice what they preach on so many levels. I've found them to be some of the sanest and most consistent people up here. They have a true kindness and generosity of spirit.

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Upcoming on The Breakdown.....

For the month of October I'm planning to do some new scary stories. I may take Stir with a Knife and expand it even more. I'd like to do a prequel of how my evil quilter got that way. I think she was good to begin with. I've got a really good hellfire and brimstone story that I've got mapped out that should be very chilling. I'm in a dark and angry enough head space now that I may be able to get back to The Dark Hole.

I've decided to actively pursue submitting a novel. I've been putting it off for far too long. It will be written off-line since that's how submissions work. So...it will be a complete surprise when it comes out! But I'd like your input as to the type of story you might like to see in print from me. Any ideas?

It was a week ago that Mizz Kay-reen went forth to the bright light of heaven and left us alone here. I know she stands somewhere now in the great beyond with her beloved Otis, happy and free from the pain of this existence.

I know this because I believe that was her wish and I wish it for her as well.

I only met her twice, but she made a very big impression upon me. I was struck by her gentleness and faith. I treasure the sound of her girlish voice singing those bars of "Beulah Land" and I thought I knew why that song was so treasured by her. When I first met her, the song really did seem to tell me so much of what I sensed about her. It somehow said so much about the conflict of being left on earth without the great love of one's life for twenty years, yet being thankful for the gift of long life.

I went back to see her after I heard that the doctors didn't think she had much time left. I wanted to just hold that frail hand one last time. It was a really good visit. And the one thing I sensed most about that second visit was that the conflict was no longer there. She seemed joyful and radiant. She knew she was finally going home.


But she did leave many souls here longing for her and weeping. I attended her viewing this past Tuesday. There must have been 8,000 people there. She was very beloved in this community. Her family stood stately and gracious, accepting the many condolences for the loss of this lovely woman.

It took me an hour to make my way to them and the casket.

I'm looking now across that river,
to where my faith will end in sight
There's just a few more days of labor,
then I will take my heavenly flight...

She always said that she wanted to see Jesus first and Otis second. But I can't imagine Jesus making her wait. I have a feeling He was standing there with Otis waiting for her.

As I said the things I had been taught to say at such times, "I'm so sorry for your loss..." and "She was a very lovely woman..." and knowing how much I meant these things...I glanced to where she lay in her casket.

I noticed that the kiss-shaped marking on her left cheek was no longer there. It may have been just the skillful application of the mortician's art.

But I prefer to think that Otis had claimed his kiss.

Happy Sunday.

As you know…I’m a big fan of grilled, smoked and barbecued meats. I have a few very select preparations, one of which I’m going to share with you today.

The history of the Wilderness Chicken Marinade began on St. Simon’s Island, Georgia where my grandparents ran an Episcopal summer camp called Camp Reese. They used to grill chicken in an open pit dug on the beach and the campers would enjoy it there by the surf.

I’m not exactly sure if the Marinade was developed for the ocean side barbecues or if it was developed afterwards to duplicate the taste of chicken grilled over an open pit fire for the back porch grill. Either way…it really gives chicken the flavor of campfire roasted chicken.

This chicken was a weekend tradition at my home when I was growing up. I would sometimes be given the task of holding the water spray bottle to damp down the flames. The chicken always comes out a bit blackened and that it part of the recipe.

I didn’t actually use the marinade on the photos of the chicken I’m showing here. I grilled that out over my fire pit on my birthday. But it tastes and looks exactly like the Wilderness Chicken, complete with the smoke blackened skin.

Combine all ingredients and marinade chicken parts overnight. Cook over charcoal turning frequently. Keep a spray bottle handy to damp down the flames.

This chicken is excellent cold the next day and also makes a fabulous smoky chicken salad mixed with walnuts, grapes, chives and fresh dill.

If you are really good, I might share my Jerked Wings Marinade. It’s a bit more complicated.

Get on The Ark....at The Modulator.

Everyone's lined up to stuff their faces.

And Yes, Mutton and Chops (the sheep)....That outfit DOES make your butts look fat.

In the more information than you probably wanted to know department.....

What you are looking at is a device to place on a pop can so you can spit your chaw juice discreetly into said pop can. Public spittoons bing a thing of the past, it's prolly a very good idea for all of you snuff dippers out there.

This was at a local market where I had an unusually long wait to pay for my English Mountain Bottled Water. Gotta be careful with me with that sort of thing. The digi is likely to come out of my purse and take advantage of the too much time I suddenly have on my hands.

They were very busy with the lunch crowd though. Perhaps I'll go back and review them.

I think it was during one of our movie nights that he mentioned it to me. We were watching whatever Cyrillic subtitled movie offering of the week that Scott had brought over.

“You know, the guy who invented the Moon Pie is buried in Newport.” He says offhandedly.

I see him cut his eyes at me to see my reaction. He knows this is exactly the sort of tidbit that I live for.

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Dunno.”

“You know,” I say, “We must visit his grave and pay homage to his greatness.”

I’m deadly serious. The Moon Pie is such an icon of Southern culture that such a visionary should be honored. The least we could do was visit his grave site.

But first I had to do a bit of research. I found some text with the story of the Moon Pie’s history and the name of Earl Mitchell. Then I headed off to the local library to find out if it were indeed true.

I asked Meschelyn Barrett, the director of the library, “Scott told me something and I need to find out if it’s a 8,000 dollar hound dog or if it’s true?”

The hunters up here will often refer to their favorite hound dog as an 8,000 dollar hound dog…or whatever exorbitant price they think up. I’ve spoken with lots of hunters and they all tell the same version of the story. Some hunter from “outside” will admire their dog and offer 8,000 dollars for it. The dog’s owner will always say no, the dog’s not for sale. Then when times are tough, they’ll bemoan not selling the dog to “that man” who offered so much money for it. But that dog will forever after be known as the “8,000 dollar hound dog”.

“What happened to the dog?” I’ll ask.

“Bear got it.” They’ll sometimes say.

I’ve come to think of it as a euphemism of some of the tall tales I hear.

Not that Scott would ever, ever tell a tall tale. But I thought it best to check first.

And Meshelyn did indeed confirm that it was true! They held a tour of the cemetery and ended up at Mr. Mitchell’s grave and handed out a Moon Pie to everyone. She also told me where the grave was located.

So, yesterday, after having Chinese, we went and bought some Moon Pies and some RC Colas and tooled over to the cemetery in The Red Claptrap of Death and paid homage to Earl Mitchell and his wonderful invention. We toasted him with Moon Pies and offered a libation of RC Cola.

As we clattered off, I wondered what his life was like.

Friend Scott’s primary vehicle is an enormous white pick-up truck. Despite removing the tailgate to improve its aerodynamics, it still gets about 2 miles to the gallon. So, when he got his now wonderful permanent job in Morristown, he started looking around for a less gas-guzzling vehicle.

Enter The Red Claptrap of Death.

The first I heard of the red Honda, was after it broke down right after Scott bought it, leaving him stranded on the interstate. I think the timing chain broke the same day he got it and something about the engine. I don’t know much about cars but the engine had to be replaced. Towing was involved.

“It’s only got 260,000 miles on it!” He proclaimed.

He bought it locally. These are wonderful people up here, but they have a typical Scots-Irish attitude toward finances. A much more stringent “Caveat Emptor” strategy must be applied in all business dealings. Frugality mixed with charming blarney can get you in a whole mess of trouble if you aren’t careful. And the car business is full of this sort of thing anyway…so it’s not like you wouldn’t see it coming.

So, the next time Scott drove The Red Claptrap of Death …surprise!...It broke down again! Fuel pump failure or something like that. At this point he had found a mechanic who was a preacher who was doing the work for much less.

I know when I tried to find someone locally to align the jeep, they quoted me a price far above the dealerships and handed me some nonsense about how hard it was having to do each wheel and how much more it would be if they found something wrong with some imaginary part. They just wouldn’t shut up and I said, “Fine…the dealership is much less so I’ll take it there.”

This is one of the few places in the world where the dealership costs less to repair a vehicle than a private garage.

At this point I refused point blank to ever set foot in the thing.

He tried to get me in it to go visit his father for his dad’s 70th birthday party.

“No. We will take the jeep.”

“I don’t have enough money for gas for the jeep.” He says.

“So we’ll split it. I’m not getting in that car and ending up stranded on the highway.”

“But it’s got a new engine!” He says.

“Scott,” I say reasonably, “That car has broken down every time you’ve driven it.”

“No it hasn’t!” He says.

“How many times has it broken down?”

“Uh…twice.”

“And how many times have you driven it.”

He glares at me.

“Fuck you!”

I don’t mind this since I know it’s frustrating to be around a person like me who is always right.

So, today I am going into town with Scott and am forced to finally take a ride in The Red Claptrap of Death. I don’t have enough gas money to get to town to deposit my birthday check my sister sent me…and so, Friend Scott has me over a barrel on this one.

I’m packing my purse with provisions in case we, predictably, end up hoofing it down the interstate. Lets see…we’ll need water, dehydrated camping food, sleeping bags…and I should wear some very comfortable shoes.