Western North Carolina Writer's Underground

Protected from the Night

2010-11-12T22:16:00.000-08:00

The kind of night where all huddle protected from the
wind and cold—the rain slashing down—seeming death to any traveler.
The predators and their prey snuggled in their dens securely from the storm
burrowed in mounds of leaves heads sleepily bowed.
Yet I walk alone through the blackness with a measured step
frigid drops dripping off my old rain jacket—ice forming in puddles—glassy and smooth.
Tramping through the leaves, up hill and down
spying the occasional glimpse of cheery lights
from little houses in the valley so far below.
Imagining what it is like for those inside
warm and dry and protected from the night.
Am I one of them, fearful of the night?
Or am I something different, closer to wild?
Does it really matter which I am?
Perhaps I am both whether I like it or not.

Chuck Connors, October 12, 2010

Wy Don't We Dance?

2010-11-12T21:47:00.000-08:00

Why don’t we dance, dance through the leaves,
Celebrate the autumn of another year?
Each one us pirouetting on the graves of family long gone;
Doing the two-step of our very lives.

Why don’t we dance, dance to celebrate, the ending of another year, finally gone by?
Our whoops and our shouts amongst the bonfires,
All cheerily burning, the pyres around us,
Maybe the last year, the last we will ever know.

Yes, why don’t we dance at the death of the world?
Celebrating the end of all things that we know?
Releasing to the universe our blood and our pain,
Letting go of this life—stepping through to what comes next.

Chuck Connors, September 17, 2010

Unbreakable Bonds

2010-11-12T21:40:00.000-08:00

Darkest night—endless highway,
Speeding small universes whooshing along.
Dazzling head lights, light up the sky lights,
Cones of sight, cut through the inky forever.

Each month I go on--I take this journey.
West from the mountains,
East to the coast.

What drives me onward, mile after mile,
Down the ribbon of highway,
Across the endless flat land?

There’s nothing greater
Than the pull of a son’s love
To a mother who cared from the very beginning

These unbreakable, unshakable bonds,
Forged by father and mother in ecstasy,
Continue on, a remembrance of love.

Chuck Connors, August 11, 2010

Old Barn

2010-07-01T20:55:00.003-07:00

Old barn sittin’ on the edge of a grown up field
roof fallin’ in, boards comin’ off, covered up with kudzu.

How many mules did the old barn shelter;
tractors with implements—hand tools and such?

Old barn made it through the flood of 1940;
held up through the blizzard of ’93.

Old barn heard all the kids playin’ in the stalls,
seen the teenagers lovin’ up in the hayloft too.

A way of life that came, thrived, and now’s
goin’—old barn’s been through it all.

My granddaddy built the old barn with
a quick mind and strong, rough hands.

He’s no longer here—been gone almost 20 years;
yet the old barn just lives on and on.

Chuck Connors, July 1, 2010

Loved You So

2010-06-20T06:39:00.000-07:00

Well dad, how long has it been
since you passed from
us to wherever
it is that we all go?

I’m sorry I couldn’t say the
things that needed saying,
when I know I should have said them
to you while you were still here with us.

I remember all the places
we used to go and the things we used to do;
all the great stuff that I learned
from just listening to you.

If I could travel back in time
So many years ago, to
when I was just a boy;
and live it each and every day.

I’d listen so much harder;
try to be a better son,
let you know each and everyday
my love and gratitude you’d won.

Chuck Connors, June 19, 2010

Rays of the Sun

2010-06-19T17:38:00.000-07:00

Weeding out in the yard
Late one afternoon;
Daisies, marigolds, daffodils,
Violently blooming on the threshold of summer.

A warm humid day—the air barely stirring.
Sweat darkening my armpits;
Dripping off my nose.
In the distance rays of the sun
Beaming down—searchlights from Heaven.
Casting a golden glow
On everything they touch.

Chuck Connors, June 18, 2010

A Burning Anger

2010-06-07T10:56:00.000-07:00

Little tourist towns way up in the mountains
With fancy-pants cafes and snooty up-scale bistros.
“Come save with us—our prices rolled back!”
Smiling, sweating shop owners chasing the almighty dollar.
While regular, poor folks, willing to work for an honest day’s wages
Fret and starve back up in the hills.

Empty store fronts and half-constructed tacky hotels,
Money-hungry small-town politicians bowing and scraping
At the beady-eyed millionaire’s feet.
Meanwhile, back in the coves and hollers,
Hidden from all but the most perceptive gaze,
Grows a burning anger in the hearts of the people.

Chuck Connors, June 3, 2010

Blacksnake

2010-05-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

Blacksnake livin’ in the pottin’ shed
hangin’ from the rafters just fine,
in walks a lady spots the Blacksnake,
screaming and hollering “oh my.”

Poor old Blacksnake just hangin’ there,
not hurtin’ nobody in the world.
Seems some folks don’t like no Blacksnake,
Don’t matter if he’s good or bad.

If you see a little old Blacksnake,
hangin’ from the rafters of your shed.
Just leave him alone that Blacksnake,
and he won’t drop down on you head.

Chuck Connors, May 2, 2010

Smoky Mountain Rain

2010-04-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

Smoky Mountain rain, fresh and clean, driven through the cracks and crevices
of the cold crystalline aquifers in the deepest dark far below our warm, sunny world.
This precious resource filled up the gargantuan canyons of Earth’s oceans eons ago;
long before we humans strutted the stage of creation.
It was and is the source of all life, a gift from the Unknowable.

Smoky Mountain rain—life-giving moisture;
borne on racing continental winds from two great oceans.
One warm and tropical, the other perilously cold, far to the setting sun;
both contributing the life-giving elixir;
falls on some of the oldest mountains in existence.

Smoky Mountain rain, sometimes falling gently with a mother’s touch on the trees and plants. Other times, pounding the earth in sheets, washing away needed soil;
surrounded by jagged shards of lightening,
followed by the booming of ear-splitting thunder;
seemingly mad like two human’s passionate embrace.

Smoky Mountain rain, driven, sinks into the earth
through the humus and topsoil, trickling into the depths.
A joining of two elementals, water and earth;
bursting forth in springs, streams and rivers,
giving life to everything it touches.

Smoky Mountain rain, nobody owns it; although some might think so.
All share in its benefits.
All suffer from its absence.
No one owns the Smoky Mountain rain.
Smoky Mountain rain—the source of all life.

Chuck Connors, March 26, 2010

What If?

2010-04-26T10:49:00.000-07:00

‘Big men’ come and swoop down upon us
like hawks diving down on cowed, helpless mice.

They come, whether we want them to or not,
like bad weather or other natural disasters.

What if ‘big men’ didn’t come,
staying away and left us free and unmolested?

What if, when ‘big men’ came, swooping down upon us;
expecting to take all they want (and more);

one mouse turned around, holding and aiming a rifle
and shot the hawk out of the sky?

What if?

Chuck Connors, April 24, 2010

Sweet Surprise

2010-04-26T10:39:00.000-07:00

A riot, an explosion, a conflagration of colors;
Spread across the land according to the laws of the Creator.

Brilliant yellows, dark forest greens, gentle pinks, and dazzling whites;
A collage of colors burst forth from the earth.

Every spring, life comes springing up like a colorful jack-in-the-box
With a big stupid grin, silly hat, and surprising you when you least expect it.

Silly, ignorant humans; always being surprised by spring springing
like we’d never seen such a sight before.

Yet if I was never surprised, and maybe even a little bored with the prospect
of the rejuvenation of life every year; would life be worth the living?

Count me among the silly and stupid for if I were to live for a thousand more
years through such beginnings I’d always be amazed at nature’s sudden, sweet surprise.

Chuck Connors, April 11, 2010

Vigilant Gray Cat

2010-04-06T23:21:00.000-07:00

Tree swallows, Blue birds, and little Finches hop around;
A couple of Starlings fighting at a feeder.
While under them, hiding, hungry in the grass;
A vigilant gray cat waits for his chance.

Chuck Connors, April 3, 2010

Cold Rains of Spring

2010-03-21T10:44:00.000-07:00

The cold rains of spring come every year;
Driving down from the heavens,
Flashing from the dark cloud masses,
Creating a muddy mess of bogs, puddles, and torrential streams.

Humans hunched over against the gusts scurry about
Encased in Gore-Tex and plastic grimacing at the windy wetness.
Cars and trucks driving on dirt roads and grass driveways,
Spinning tires helplessly boring tracks into the sodden turf.

Cold winds whip the rain into a pagan frenzy,
Piercing every crack and cranny,
Thundering upon the rooftops, battering against windows and doors,
Wetting all, inside and out, like the waves of a stormy merciless sea.

Beasts of the fields huddle furtively under bushes and rocks;
In their dens praying in their primitive minds while
Hungry bellies rumbling, beseeching, cry out for a coming soon of
Sunshine, warmth, dryness and life-giving food.

Only poets and madmen wander around on such days
Staring upwards with mouths agape
Feeling the pressure of the rain on their upturned faces
Laughing joyfully, manically—with complete abandon.

Wondering, hoping, willing for the wildness of it all,
The spiritual connectiveness to all things—praying that the
Cold rains of spring last forever;
For at least this year…

Chuck Connors, March 17, 2010

See What Attracted Me!

2010-03-01T10:16:00.000-08:00

Giant bulldozers cut across contour lines;
Up and down hillsides, slicing through the forest mat;
Grinding and crushing the bones of the mountains.
“See what attracted me!”

Cutting back hillsides, leveling out home sites;
Raw red earth spilling into streams;
Lifeblood of the land spurts away.
“See what attracted me!”

The sound of hammers echo off the mountainsides;
Power saws rip down trees for ‘million dollar’ views;
Construction trash and empty liquor bottles despoil the land.
“See what attracted me!”

Trout streams buried in plastic pipes;
Non-native grasses kept artificially alive;
Fertilizer run-off of golf courses poisons the drinking water.
“See what attracted me!”

The landslides slip and slide
Way down the mountain sides,
Just like groupie panties in the locker room.
“See what attracted me!”

Later, when all is destroyed
Having created this artificial ‘paradise;’
Only then do the people cry and scream:
“See what attracted me!”

Chuck Connors, February 22, 2010

A Good Cause

2010-02-24T14:31:00.000-08:00

A roomful of people,
All there for a good cause.
Tickets sold for a fundraising supper;
Proceeds to neuter homeless dogs and cats.
Singer-song writer crooning in a corner;
Cheery groups talking animatedly at tables.
Fraternity boys serve drinks and food;
Your choice tonight, meat or vegetarian.
Are we being smug and self-serving,
By just donating money,
Signing up for a raffle,
Thinking the problem’s solved?

Chuck Connors, February 23, 2010

Terrifying

2010-02-05T13:14:00.000-08:00

Record snowfall, second of the season;
Winter world, everything white.
Lines of vehicles stalled in the drifts;
Others like me slip-sliding along.
Terrifying long, long minutes;
Unsure if I will make home safe and sound.
Staring at the blowing snow;
Thinking of your warm embrace;
Your tender lips, your sweet, sweet taste.
When I am next to you—the terror leaves me;
Enfolded by your loving embrace.

Chuck Connors, January 31, 2010

Heart's Desire

2010-02-05T13:10:00.000-08:00

You are my heart’s desire,
through you I gain my strength.
Your caring and compassion,
help me to live fully each day.

When I see your face,
hold you in my arms,
whisper in your ear,
life becomes a wonderful song.

The sun seems so much brighter;
the flowers all ablaze;
the scent of you when we embrace
overpowers all my cares.

You are my heart’s desire,
the one I searched for so very long.
With God’s help we will be together,
as long as He Wills it to be.

Chuck Connors, January 21, 2010

Wonderful Dream

2010-02-05T13:04:00.000-08:00

Sitting in another business meeting,
Daydreaming about things I want to do with you.
Last night I couldn’t kiss you enough,
Cross-eyed crazy in your embrace.
What would it be like to be with you,
From here on out to the end of time?
To wake each morning—look into your eyes,
Taste your lips and inhale your musk.
I’ve waited so long for my dream girl,
Are you the one He sent to me?
A kindred soul on the journey of life;
You’re a wonderful dream I haven’t earned.
Millions of people constantly searching;
Only a few joyfully finding each other at last.

Chuck Connors, January 17, 2010

In the Fields

2010-02-05T12:31:00.001-08:00

In the fields lives my loneliness,
Out in the fields in the middle of nowhere.
Totally naked I hide in the grass,
Shivering in the emotional cold.
Staring out to where the people are,
Not interested in what they say or do.
Since you’re gone I’m filled with loneliness,
Not caring whether I live or die.

Chuck Connors, January 19, 2010

Home Again

2010-01-18T10:51:00.002-08:00

Picking you up from the airport;
jet airliner bringing you home once again.

Waiting for the plane in the cold wind,
while the sun brings glory to the West.

How long has it been since I’ve touched you?
Almost a million miles ago it seems.

Absence doesn’t get any easier,
when your face won’t leave my dreams.

Seeing your smile, hearing your laugh;
they fill every room that you’re in.

Eagerly searching for you,
finding you at the baggage claim.

Could my mind be playing tricks on me?
Or are you more beautiful than before?

Overwhelmed, I rush to your side;
feeling the resonance of our two smiles.

Feeling your warmth I hug you closely;
safe in each other’s arms—home again.

Chuck Connors, January 15, 2010

Halls of the Dying

2010-01-09T06:41:00.001-08:00

Late at night, when only a few ghost-like workers are stirring
I enter the hallowed halls of the dying.
Like a crypt, everything dark, I feel my way from doorway to doorway
hearing the groans and the cries of the dying.
Ghastly sounds reverberate through these forbidden caverns;
lost souls forever grasping for salvation.
Creeping along, my senses alert for hidden dangers
I pause in front of one room and
the smell tells me where I am.
Stepping into the room, almost stumbling over tubing and wires,
I see the form of something on the bed;
it’s chest rising and falling slowly.
Peering more closely at it
I see my father’s body, and my face.
I recoil in horror…

Chuck Connors, January 6, 2010

White Crosses

2010-01-02T11:20:00.000-08:00

White crosses alongside the road
honoring the memory of the recently slain.
How did it come that these people died
here—what were they like, while they still lived?

Cars and trucks speed past obliviously,
ignoring the ghosts of the freshly passed.
Each one of us hopes that we’ll still be remembered;
long after we’re gone to the other side.

But what if no one
visited us or mourned?
Left us for dead,
our faces forever forgotten in time.

What must it be like to have a memorial,
all painted and white,
with flowers and trinkets,
alongside a road where no one ever stops?

Chuck Connors, January 1, 2010

Early Morning Departure

2010-01-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

Driving you to the airport for an early morning departure,
Wind blowing the rain against the wipers of the truck.

Lifting your heavy bag it thumps on the pavement,
Wondering to myself just what you could have packed?

Ducking out of the storm, bursting into the check-in,
Runaway children caught in a moment of time.

Saying my farewells I look into your eyes;
Wishing you a safe journey, Godspeed to your kin.

Sharing one last long, tender hug;
My eyes linger on you, wanting to remember always.

Dazzled by your smile and the blue of your eyes,
The warmth of your body radiates into mine.

Tearing myself away,
I venture out into the dawn.

Trudge to my truck,
Look up at the sky.

Driving away, lost in my musings.
I smell your perfume, the scent of your hair.

Rolling through the storm, staring at the road;
Praying for your safe return; wishing you were here.

Chuck Connors, December 25, 2009

My Daddy's Funeral

2009-12-16T14:39:00.000-08:00

My name is Kenny Zachary LaRue. Everybody calls me K.Z. though. When I was in school a bunch of stuck-up town kids kept following me around and calling me “krazy, krazy, krazy larue.” They stopped that pretty quick when I cut a couple of ‘em with my KA-BAR pig sticker. The sheriff come by and took me to the county reform school for a couple of months. I weren’t mad at ‘em. They was just stupid. I don’t mind folks calling me K.Z.

Oh, I about forgot. This writer fellow is helping me with my writing and all so if you can make it out you got him to thank for it. I prefer to write like I talk—its more natural you see. I don’t like to write much though. I like to paint picture-paintings like my daddy did.

Yeah, that fancy-pants Yankee magazine up there in New York City wanted me to write about my daddy’s funeral here in Judaculla Rock and the entire goings on. The magazine editor said all them artist and writer folks would be interested since daddy was a famous picture-painter and all. I think them snooty Yankee artist folks are glad that daddy isn’t around no more so that now folks will buy some of their paintings.

Anyway, my daddy, Jackson Lee LaRue (everybody called him J.L.), was one of them Vietnam veterans. He went over there twice, flying in them helicopters and shooting at the gooks. Daddy told me it was the best feeling in the world that when he walked his gun up on one of them V.C. and ‘kapow’, there wouldn’t be no more V.C.! I guess that’s what a fifty caliber machine gun will do to somebody if it hits you just right. Daddy once said it was all about spreading democracy around the world and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Biggest rifle-gun I ever fired was a 30.06.

Turns out, my momma, Betty Jo, told me that when daddy come back from there he just wasn’t quite right in the head—staying up for days drinking and painting pictures of folks shooting and stabbing each other. Hell, I guess painting pictures of folks shooting at each other is better than actually doing it—though if somebody shoots at me; I’m going to shoot at them.

Them snooty rich folks down in hot-‘lanta found out about my daddy painting what they called “hillbilly modern” and thought his paintings was better than anything they had ever seen before or since. At one of my daddy’s showings I heard one wimpy little guy wearing a dress whisper to his buddy that daddy’s paintings was “outsider master pieces.” Them city-slickers was a coming up here to the mountains of western North Carolina and just a going ga-ga over his paintings—especially them rich divorced women.

Them rich hot ‘lanta women would come up here and practically swoon over daddy and his paintings. Of course it might have helped that daddy would give them some moonshine liquor in an old coffee cup and pretty soon he’d have them in the back room on that cot he keeps back there and you could hear them cot springs just a squeaking to beat the band. Some of them women would holler out “Oh God” like they’d seen the light. I didn’t really pay no attention though. I’d just finish painting what ever daddy was working on ever since he taught me how. And them rich women would just write big checks for his picture-paintings.

My momma stayed around ‘till I was five, six year old maybe. She run off with a traveling salesman driving a big, fancy Cadillac car. Momma left a note saying that she was tired of daddy taking them “rich hot-‘lanta divorced women into the back room of the garage and making them holler even if he was selling the hell out of his paintings.” I guess he hadn’t been paying much attention to momma seeing that he pretty much slept out in the back room in the garage on that cot of his.

Well, back to what I was supposed to tell you about: daddy’s funeral. The day daddy died he was painting in the old garage we live in. I was chopping wood out back. I heard daddy holler out “K.Z. come here.” There was a big crash like somebody busted down a wall or something. I run in there and daddy was a laying on the floor with a bunch of painting canvas on him. I run next door to Cicero’s store and hollered for him to call the ambulance.

They come pretty quick and put daddy in the back of the ambulance and hauled him off to C.J. Brinkley hospital up in Scotsford. Cicero closed up his store and we jumped in his truck, peeled rubber, and followed the ambulance.

When I got to the emergency room a doctor come out directly and told me, “K.Z., I’m sorry your daddy’s gone.” Well I didn’t know much of anything to say so I just set there in that waiting room kind of numb-like staring at Oprah blabbing about something or other ‘till Cicero come in and took me back to his place. Cicero’s wife, Mildred, give me a big hug and fed me and put me up in their guest bed room.

The next morning I woke up and realized, “shit, daddy’s gone; what am I supposed do now?” I went down stairs and Mildred fed me a big breakfast of ham and grits and coffee. She told me Cicero was at the store and to go down there.

When I went down to Cicero’s store he looked kind of gentle at me and said, “K.Z., everything’s been took care of. The viewing’s tonight at Moody’s and all you needs to do is to get yourself cleaned up and put on a clean pair of overalls and a clean shirt. Me and Mildred will take you down there and set with you.”

That evening we went down to Moody’s Funeral parlor and I weren’t even prepared for the parade of folks that come in. It looked like the circus was in town. Sheriff Hooper told me that the only difference between these folks and Barnum & Baileys was these characters didn’t have any lions, tigers or elephants with ‘em—other than that, they was all a bunch of animals.

I seen a whole crowd of them too-much-money-not-enough-brains divorced women that drove up from hot-‘lanta in their Beemers and Mercedes. They was all dressed in black shorty dresses wearing lots of pearls and gold jewelry and smelling like the girls over at Sam Bob’s Cat house in Hog Wallow Cove. They had drug up a bunch of cases of some fancy California wine to get drunk on and they was playing old Bob Seegar songs on a boom box. A couple of them had put up a banner with “Jackson’s Girls” in big red letters painted on it. Lordy!

Just when I thought that maybe we might be able to have daddy’s viewing I heard a sound like a thunder storm coming over Painter knob. A whole pack of them Hells Angels pulled up on their Harley motor-scooters in front of Moody’s. Now I knew that daddy liked to take off ever so often on his old Triumph motor-scooter. Shoot, he sent me a post card from Daytona Beach one time of a girl in a bikini swimming suit (she was just about nekkid) all bent over and straddling a big hog motor scooter and smiling like she was inviting you to take a ride. But daddy never told me how he used to hang out with the Hells Angels motor-scooter men.

The leader motor-scooter rider had a patch on his front pocket that said “Eat More Cooze” and his wings on the patch on the back of his jacket was red. Them motor-scooter men and women (yeah they had their women riding on the p-pads) had a moving truck following them full of kegs of beer. As soon as they all pulled up in front of Moody’s and quit revving their engines they jumped off and man-handled some of them kegs of beer onto the lawn of the funeral parlor and commenced to getting drunk. I guess they was a little thirsty from riding up from Florida and all.

As I was standing on the porch of the funeral parlor and thinking that all this was just about enough for little Judaculla Rock I heard a bunch of horses clop-cloppin’ down the street. Damn if there weren’t a bunch of men dressed in Rebel uniforms marching in from out of town. The general-guy leading the soldiers looked right smart and he had them all dismount and point their swords at me and the funeral parlor. All them rebel-men tied their horses to trees and they proceeded to get drunk with the motor-scooter men.

I heard the sounds of singing and testifying coming down the road before a couple of school buses followed by a van with big loud speakers on top of it pulled up in front of Moody’s. Preacher Lonny Watson, from the Holiness Church over towards Glenville was preaching over them loud speakers about salvation and the book of names St. Peter will open up on the last day. Them buses was packed with men and women singing God’s praises and hollering “Amen” ever time Preacher Watson paused to take a breath. One of them Holiness folks was a playing a portable organ and I started tapping my foot in time with the music. Hallelujah!

About that time Cicero come up to me and said, “K.Z., we better get on in and get ready to thank all these folks for coming.” We went in and only a few of them weird people come though. It was mostly town folks. Everybody said that daddy looked real natural and all. I thought he looked dead.

Cicero and Mildred took me back to their house and a bunch more folks come—mostly daddy’s kin from across the Cowee in Macon County. There was a mess of fried chicken to eat, pinto beans, and lots of ‘tater salad. Somebody was passing around some hard liquor too. I got plenty full and tired and went on up to bed. I could hear the shouts way late into the night of the people singing and whooping and hollering on the other side of town in the field by the cemetery. It sounded like they was having a big festival or something. Sheriff Hooper told me later that he and his boys arrested a bunch of them for drunk and disorderly conduct and something called “crimes against nature”, especially after somebody hung a dog from a tree.

The next morning I woke up when Mildred hollered for me to come right down and eat me some breakfast. I ate good; took me a bath, put on a pair of clean overalls and a white shirt and some clean work boots—then we went down to the Church.

Now daddy never had been much for the Church even though he’d been raised Baptist. But since Cicero and Mildred was my daddy’s kin (first cousins) they wanted him to have a little praying over in the Church before we put him in the ground.

Cicero, Mildred and me went on down to the First Baptist Church of Judaculla Rock and we walked on in to the Church basement. Them Church ladies had fixed up a big spread and there was a whole drove of folks stuffing their faces and talking and telling stories about my daddy. Aunt Mimi was there with her husband Judd and she give me a big hug. I about got smothered by her big tits.

A whole bunch of other women come over and hugged me and told me how sorry they was about my daddy and how wonderful his paintings were. I heard a couple of them whispering about how they thought daddy was still going to Hell even if he had been good to me and the town of Judaculla Rock. Their men-folk just shook my hand and looked kind of mournful—like they’d rather be just about any place but there.

Preacher Bryson run the service and he kept it short and sweet. One of the Shuler girls sang “Amazin’ Grace” and we was ready to take daddy up to the cemetery. As Cicero and some of the Sheriff’s boys was carrying daddy out a couple of the rich divorced women started shrieking and having conniption fits over the coffin.

We finally got daddy loaded in the hearse and Cicero, Mildred and me got in the limousine; the motor-scooter men, the rebel-men, the rich divorced women, the holy rollers, an most of the townspeople got behind us and we started driving real slow out to the cemetery. As we was going past the ballfield of the school, Johnny Blanton and some of the town hooligans set off a bunch of firecrackers that liked to scared to death the rebel-men’s horses. A couple of them reared up and almost bolted. The sheriff made Blanton and his bunch clean up after the horses later on.

We finally made it to the cemetery and got the coffin out of the hearse. Thank goodness it weren’t raining or else trying to haul daddy up a muddy hillside would have been a trick and a half as most of the town’s folks was wearing slick-soled Sunday shoes.

When we got up to the hole that Lester Moody and his boys had dug with a backhoe there was a tent thing over it with some chairs for us to set in. Cicero, Mildred and me and a couple of other of daddy’s kin set down and the rest of the crowd stood off aways. Preacher Bryson gave a short prayer where he prayed for “God to take this poor man’s soul into Heaven despite all his iniquities” and Aunt Mildred and them Church ladies was just a crying a river. Then he let Preacher Watson have a crack at it.

Preacher Watson started in on about how “at the resurrection all men will be judged for their carnal, earthly sins” and you could see most of the town’s men-folk kind of drop their heads and look sideways at each other. Preacher Watson got real worked up about the “lake of fire” and how “a lot of the folks standing here today probably would be taking a little swim in it.” Before you knew it all them Holiness folks was a whooping and a hollering, “Praise Jesus” and screeching about “Heaven’s streets of gold.” About a half dozen of them fell out rolling on the ground; speaking in tongues like to beat the band.

About that time one of Moody’s boys hit the switch on them straps that’re supposed to let the coffin down easy into the grave. The coffin jerked once and the straps busted with a loud ‘pop.’ Daddy’s coffin fell down and landed at the bottom of the hole with a boom like a shotgun going off. Before you could say “Jack and the beanstalk” there was a riot commenced amongst the motor-scooter men, the rebel-men, the hot-‘lanta divorced women, and the Holiness folks. Sheriff Hooper and his boys tried to move in and stop all the rioting but there weren’t no stopping them crazy people. Cicero, Mildred an’ me escaped down the hill and piled in the limousine and the driver tore out of there.

Sheriff Hooper told me later on that he had the Governor call up a company of the Army Guard and they had been waiting on the edge of town just in case the sheriff needed them. Well he needed them because all those crazy people commenced to going nuts and tearing up stuff in downtown Judaculla Rock.

The Holiness folks broke into all the restaurants that served beer and liquor and tore ‘em all up. They threw all the alcohol and such out in the street. The Sheriff told me it was something else to see them Hell’s Angels fellers get down on their bellies and lap up the spilled beer and liquor like dogs.

Them rich divorced women commenced to fighting with the rebel fellers and not a few of the rebel fellers beat a hasty retreat back to the cemetery side of town. Although a couple of them rebel fellers did manage to hog tie a couple of them Atlanta women to their saddles and make off for the woods behind the courthouse.

Before the Army Guard was able to clear all them crazy people out of town, the liquor store and a bunch of other places got looted. Marcy’s Furniture Emporium got burnt to the ground because somebody was going nuts shooting emergency flares all over and making it look like the Fourth of July and Halloween all rolled into one.

The last to leave were them Hell’s Angels. All them motor-scooter men had shaved their heads except for a strip down the middle from front to back, and was painted up like they was on the warpath. Their motor-scooter women weren’t wearing no clothes and they was painted all over—even their private parts.

The Hells Angels had been drag racing their Harley’s up and down main street and riding into stores and terrorizing everybody. At the very end of the riot the last of the motor-scooter men rode out of town dragging a nekkid store manikin he’d looted from Parsons Department Store on a rope behind his Harley. He was hollering that they weren’t done with Judaculla Rock and they’d be back.

Well I guess I guess I done cried enough about my daddy’s funeral here in Judaculla Rock in Jefferson County. If that fancy-pants New York magazine wants to print it, I could care less. It weren’t their funeral. I got to get back to my picture-painting like my daddy taught me. Seems like them snooty hot-‘lanta folks like my paintings too. Lord, I’ll always miss him though. He was a helluva picture-painter and a good daddy too.

Taking Them Home

2009-12-09T08:28:00.000-08:00

Christmas parades all over the land;
High school bands marching down Main Street.
Baton twirlers leaping towards the sky;
Fire engines with flashing lights and blowing sirens.

Pretty girls waving from convertibles;
Fat, laughing Santas throw candy from the floats.
Little children chase after the tossed treats into the street.
Everyone laughing, all are smiling.

Yet back in the shadows, some watch in silence;
Little girls and boys who didn’t make it to Christmas;
Their lives cut short by horrible abuse.
None wants to remember or even to care.

After the parade,
The noises extinguished,
The bright lights darkened,
Families gone away.

An angel floats up the street
All smiles and love.
Embracing the waiting children;
Taking them Home.

Chuck Connors, December 8, 2009

Gray Missiles

2009-12-09T08:09:00.000-08:00

Sleek gray missiles knifing cleanly through the air;
Winging their way through the skies wide and clear;
Thousands of birds borne upon the winds;
Hundreds of squadrons on an ancient mission.

The oldest and strongest lead the flights;
The young and the weak follow behind.
“Honka, honka,” the lead ganders give the cry;
Straight on, fly true, for thousands of miles.

The lead birds slipping back from time-to-time;
Resting in the slipstream of others ahead.
Primitive missiles slipping through the gray fog of clouds;
Flying by the stars—a wing and a prayer.

Up ahead, up ahead, far on the horizon;
A shining sheet of water beckons the birds.
A scout—a mature gander, surveys the sectors;
Reconnoitering the ponds for hidden, deadly dangers.

When the “all clear” signal is given,
The squadrons land flight by flight.
Until all come to rest in blissful cacophony;
Home again—until the great migration—next year.

Chuck Connors, December 1, 2009

Another Universe

2009-12-06T20:59:00.000-08:00

Riding over to Asheville on a chilly wintry day,
Going to the movies at a Sunday matinee.
Will I meet up with my new friend?
Or will I fail to connect again?
Only time will tell about us—
Whether we hit it off or not.
Saw a Sandra Bullock film;
It just might win an Oscar too.
Afterwards, conversation over coffee;
Gazing into her dark eyes;
Diving into another universe.

Chuck Connors, December 6, 2009

Secrets of the Past

2009-11-25T09:11:00.000-08:00

Dark fall days, night falls early
Mountains loom black, against an indigo sky
First star of the evening, twinkles brightly in the west
People scurry home, like squirrels scampering to their nests
Early Christmas decorations, light up the avenues
Window shoppers gaze expectantly, at toys in store windows
Strangers pass in the night, mouthing holiday greetings
Houses in the neighborhoods, cozy and warm
Yet something’s not right, not quite definable
Could it be something else, too dark to share?
Hiding secrets of the past; tortured memories in today.

Chuck Connors, November 18, 2009

Pass This Way

2009-11-21T03:46:00.000-08:00

Blue, blue farscape,
Wave upon wave of mountains.
What others strode here before me?
Did they marvel at what they saw?

Earth seems so empty,
Trackless forests, fields and hills.
I feel the spirits of the old ones
As they pass this way still.

Chuck Connors, November 21, 2009

Dress Rehearsal

2009-11-16T08:57:00.000-08:00

Little girl running on the sidewalk, how far from your mother will you go?
Is running a dress rehearsal for adulthood?
Or is it just a game,
Something only a child would know?

Skipping back and forth on the sidewalk
A little further every time
Seems like so much of my life
Has been wasted on song and wine

And when I vacillated so much
Not sure of what to do
Shying away like a young fool
From a lover’s gentle touch

Little girl running away from her mother
So pure and innocent still
All of us running away from something
Things hidden too well from each other

All of us run on the sidewalk
A poignant leave-taking we all must make
Leavings are full of heartbreak
A journey we all must take

Chuck Connors, October 30, 2009

Who You Really Are

2009-11-16T08:43:00.000-08:00

Whenever I think of you
It’s always your wonderful eyes
Windows of the soul
Love lights on the world

At times I’ve seen your anger
Flashing eyes, storm clouds and wind
Other times I see the hurt and pain
The past re-played again

Our eyes show our soul-strength
The strength to hold to life itself
A tremendous strength of will
Who of us perseveres, only time will tell?

Through your eyes sometimes I see the joy,
A girl’s heart shining through
Now the loving, caring woman
Someone special and brand new

Chuck Connors, November 8, 2009

Second Life

2009-11-16T07:17:00.000-08:00

Past the midnight hour, way into the small hours of the night
I sit staring into the blackness, pondering what’s wrong and what’s right
Should I have grimaced and told the truth, risking all on trust and empathy
Or told sweet lies with a straight face, getting what I want without frippery

No answers come this late, only questions seem to grow
The pain of living hits me hardest when I’m all alone below
My only chance is to help another—someone facing more pain than I
When I give my hope to others—it takes away the lie

And when the sun finally rises, another chance will come my way
Receiving the opportunity, sharing hope for another day
I finally shed my guilt and pain, renewed in heart and form
A second life I’m given, for today I am reborn

Chuck Connors, November 1, 2009

How I escaped from the craft store with my masculinity intact

2009-10-26T01:51:00.000-07:00

Editor’s note: This is a work of autobiographical fiction. Some of the facts have been changed to protect the dumb, foolish and outright scared.

I was taken to the craft store the other day searching for Halloween costume brick-a brack. Two other wusses, I mean men were there and they were obviously terrified.
As they were pulled along by their female captors they had anxious fearful looks on their faces which shouted silently, “Help Me!” Glancing over my shoulder, I caught them, like me, making furtive, trapped glances towards the exits hoping to catch an unwatched moment by their torturers so that they could make a last ditch dash for freedom and the life of blissful masculinity that they once knew.

Despite my protests I was dragged further into the suffocating, poisonous atmosphere of scrap booking sets and evil-looking Vanna White crocheting books and I immediately became lost trying to discover the “finding” aisle (whatever that is). Although my lady friend Catherine had explained several times, “oh it’s where the beads and bangles, clasps and pins—bracelet wires of every description and a whole lot of other neat stuff are.” All of this useless information (to me) was enough to make my head swim with strange forbidden thoughts such as, “my isn’t that pink bauble thingy pretty” and “ oh, how that color goes so well with that other color on that shiny fabric.” Needless to say she grabbed me roughly by the arm and pulled me towards my impending doom. Fortunately, just as I thought that I was going to have to call my local community college and enroll in the home decorator classes Catherine said looking at me sadly, “well, since you’re sooo hungry I guess we’d better go if we’re going to get a seat at the restaurant before it closes.”

As we were leaving the woman at the cash register took my money for the costume ‘gee gaws’ I had gotten and said “ya’ll come back now, okay?” I smiled a nervous smile at her and stuffing my change hurriedly into my pocket, rushed for the front doors flanked by the huge black cat statues hoping desperately that the electronic locks would let me through. Thankfully they malfunctioned and I broke free into the cool, masculine-redeeming night only a somewhat tainted man—for now. Happy Halloween ya’ll!

Chuck Connors, October 24, 2009

Dream Girl

2009-10-26T01:47:00.000-07:00

I catch brief glimpses of you late at night when I fall asleep.
In my dreams we pass each other, your hair flying in the wind.
Your eyes shine with excitement and
You boldly laugh at the promise of a new day.
Waiting for you seems like forever.
Yet I must wait, for there can be no other.
Will we ever meet dream girl? Or will we smile and pass each other,
Moving on to other worlds and dreams?

Chuck Connors, October 22, 2009

Zoom Zoom

2009-10-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

A magic carpet of colors
Flying up the highest ridges
Swooping down the mountain sides
Engulfing the valleys in lakes of light

Zoom zoom across the rivers
Way up high in the air
Reflecting the reds, oranges, greens, and gold’s
Splashes of rainbow colors slide down the streams

Autumn is the season of change
Wet and chilly, crisp and clean
Trees shimmer in the afternoon light
A smorgasbord of colors everywhere

Nature performs a shiveree—
raucous celebration of the transition of life
Puts on Her wanton best; dares you to condemn Her
Picks up Her skirts, smiles and flies away

Theatrical Play

2009-10-19T22:15:00.000-07:00

A blanket of color, a riot of rainbows
Clothes the ridges and peaks of my home
Moving beams of golden sunlight
Light up the mountains
God’s theatrical play in motion

Leaf-lookers on the Road

2009-10-19T22:11:00.000-07:00

Sunlight slanting on the ridge tops
Burning polka-dots of red, orange and gold
A glowering of dark gray clouds

Sharpens the sunset,
highlights the colors,
gladdens the eye

Leaf-lookers like ants along the highways
clogging up traffic, taking pictures of the trees
Why can’t these gawkers appreciate God’s creation

in their own towns,
backyards,
and fields?

Fairy Walking

2009-10-05T20:58:00.000-07:00

The magic of walking under the gaze of a full moon,
leaves me breathless in its stunning entirety
Walking by your side I can think of nothing else;
the two of us wraith-like, holding hands

Our actions balanced on a knife-edge;
between two worlds—the past and the future
Small animals rustle in the leaves,
inviting us to rustic delights

What magic happens when two people meet each other,
Intersecting lives from two different paths?
Looking at you, smiles pass between us;
knowing without a doubt, what Forever means

Chuck Connors, October 5, 2009

Harvest Moon of October

2009-10-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

Squash, beans, corn, tomatoes,
ready for the gatherin’;
summer’s bounty ripe in the fields

Full moon of October
turns night into day
Creator’s gift to help us reap the goodness

Under the light of the big fat moon;
working in the fields, gathering in the crops,
the harvesters seem more ghostly than real

Throwing the hay bales on the wagon,
digging the taters from the ground,
pulling the last ear of corn off the stalk

Put up the jars of beans on the shelf,
store the taters and apples in the cellar,
hang the gourds in the rafters to dry

A chill’s in the air, first frost’s comin’ soon;
finishing up the harvest—barn’s burstin’ at the seams
under the glow of the Harvest moon

Chuck Connors, October 3, 2009

Gateway to the West

2009-10-05T20:54:00.000-07:00

On animal trails, aboriginal footpaths and settler traces;
men, women and children moved across the continent
Struggling through the narrow cracks in the cliffs;
twisting, winding, ever moving upwards into the clouds

Settlers trudging up from the lowlands;
into the gaps they came,
into the gaps and mountain passes,
through the open places in the Great Blue Wall

Animals and men toiling together up from the piedmont,
choking on dust, slipping on clay
Leaving the old life behind, looking forwards,
ever westward towards the setting sun

Families moving with packhorses,
sometimes a rickety old wagon
Moving a few miles each day,
making camp before dark

By the wayside, piles of possessions
folks just couldn’t carry anymore
Pass a battered dresser, an old shadow cut of grandma;
family keepsakes—left behind

Rising before light; fry some side meat, boil some coffee;
hitch up the team, move a few more miles
Each day a little closer, just a little closer
to that Eden somewhere far to the West

All those people, moving westward;
settling a continent, building a country
Would I have the courage
to do the same—today?

Chuck Connors, September 20, 2009

Tree Frogs

2009-10-01T10:10:00.001-07:00

Tiny tree frog, tiny tree frog,
Though there’s millions like you;
You’re unique and individual,
One of a very few

Chirping tree frogs, chirping tree frogs,
The roar of your voices drowns all;
I see you among the leaves,
Covering the tree bark in the fall

Little tree frogs, little tree frogs,
Going chirp, chirp, on a branch;
Your voices tell me summer’s almost over,
Time to get ready for winter’s chance

Dying tree frogs, dying tree frogs,
You’re lives are almost done;
Will I see you next year?
How will I know you’re the one?

Chuck Connors, September 26, 2009

'Coons Across the Creek

2009-09-24T23:08:00.000-07:00

Late at night the ‘coons would come from across the creek
to noisily eat at our dog’s bowl.

The mama ‘coon would bring her kits,
stepping so lightly on the dry stones in the creek.
One-by-one each would quickly leap
from dry stone to dry stone until all were safely across.

They would cross the old country road in front of our property,
carefully looking both ways for errant farm hands coming back from town after an evening of drinking in the town’s one saloon.

Parading up the hill single file, like wild Indians on the warpath; the ‘coons came to the back of our house to eat their supper from Butterball’s bowl. Squabbling noisily amongst themselves to see who would get the last tidbits the ‘coons would lick the bowl clean.

Until the moon rose in the east casting ghost-like shadows across the world,
when the ‘coons would file one-by-one disappearing across the creek.

Chuck Conners, September 19, 2009

Playing with the Cows

2009-09-24T21:54:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid everybody said cattle were about the dumbest animals around.
Uncle Homer said “you can’t drive cattle from one 20 acre field to another
without some of ‘em trying to go through the fence instead of the gate!”
But I knew it wasn’t true because my friends the calves and me would play games during the summer in the field behind the barn.

Each summer’s morning when the dew was still damp upon the grass I’d take the sweet feed for the half-grown heifers and steers up to where they were pastured. I’d call the calves with a song—a song of playfulness, until all of them came near.

One-by-one and two-by-two the big calves would prance up to me. Sometimes it would seem as if they were almost smiling, happy to see me; and frisky, kicking their heels this way and that.

After all were fed it was playtime and I’d tag one and say, “you’re it” while the rest of us scampered in all directions. The chosen calf would chase each one of us until the whole field was a free-for-all of flying hooves and swinging tails. When we were tired we’d all pile up under the shade of a big old oak tree and pant for breath while my friends switched lazily at flies with their tails.

Too quickly, autumn came and I had to go back to school. It was the year that I was nine and was in fourth grade. But each afternoon when I came home the games of hide-in-go-seek and chase-the-tail were renewed with my friends the calves.

One day I came home to an empty field. I ran desperately looking everywhere. My father came to me and said, “son we had to sell the calves to make the mortgage on the farm.” I was distraught for days.

From that time onwards I never played with the new calves because I knew someday they’d be sold too.

Chuck Connors, September 19, 2009

Little Foxes

2009-09-21T21:31:00.000-07:00

Dreary, foggy, rainy days;
days when most people
want to stay inside and read and sleep

While little birds hide in the bushes,
feathers wet and dripping, looking dejected;
peeping forlornly, fearful of predators

The land covered with a diffuse, mellow light;
neither day or night, it seems to go on forever,
twilight from early morning until black night

One late summer’s day I took a walk in the rain
Listening to the raindrops pattering on the leaves;
like an army of magical munchkins marching rowdily across the sky

Climbing a mountain, the cold rain wetted me to the skin;
the shards of wetness trickled like icy fingers running down my back
Topping a rise I saw two little foxes cavorting, dancing with each other

One moved right, the other moved left, their eyes intent on each other;
both standing shakily on their hind legs,
like small children taking their first uncertain steps

Chuck Connors, September 16, 2009

Land of Puzzling Tales

2009-09-21T21:29:00.000-07:00

What about relations between men and women?
Why is it that we fuss and fight (or worse)?

Do you think it was different in the beginning
when we were running around in fig leaves?

Could it be we’re opposite sides of the same coin;
Human and definitely not perfect also?

Or are we really from different planets;
women from Venus and men from Mars?

We live in a time caught between good and evil,
a strange place seemingly neither here or there.

One day its scream and shout; the next, kiss me darling;
sounds bipolar to me—pretty crazy yeah.

I only know we share a common goal:
the continuation of the human race.

One day we’ll travel out to the planets,
to the stars and maybe beyond.

When that day comes I know one thing won’t have changed.
Men and Women will still live in the land of puzzling tales...

9
Chuck Connors, September 14, 2009

Purple Harvest

2009-09-13T11:55:00.000-07:00

Padding through the forest feeling kinda’ mean
Sniffed peculiar bushes, their leaves the palest green

Got a bit closer, what’s hangin’ from them leaves?
Dark, round blueberries, a purple harvest just for me

Pop ‘em in my mouth, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch
Big juicy blueberries, cheeks, fill ‘em up like a chipmunk

Can’t stop eaten’ ‘em as I move from bush-to-bush
A blueberry feast goin’ swoosh, swoosh, swoosh

Uh oh, what’s that? I hear a strange noise
Them two-legged things, two big-mouthed boys

Here they are a comin’, stealin’ all my winter’s food
Can’t get a full meal, how could they be so rude?

Take off down the mountain with a grunt and a snort
Headin’ to the campground, I’ll take some of their gorp!

Chuck Connors, August 29, 2009

The Campfire--Redux

2009-09-12T15:13:00.000-07:00

Deep in the primeval forest
Way past the back of beyond
A cheery glow in a secret glen welcomes the traveler anon

Outside the sphere of the campfire
The shadows dance around
Our faces contemplative—no cares and certainly no frowns

The fragrant logs pop and hiss
And slowly disappear
We think we control nature and so have lost our fear

I step out in the darkness
And look up to the sky
Beholding God’s creation and still I wonder why

What does it all mean?
Is there anyone who cares?
It seems to me the dark power has set these little snares!

For while I scan the heavens
A shooting star comes to earth from sky
God’s perfect picture, sent to me before I die

With so much self-importance, we strut across the stage
We disregard the wisdom, of all the ancient sages
Hoping that our childish acts will somehow last the ages

What measure of a man?
Does he leave anything at all?
Or can he only face death, standing straight and tall?

We live to help each other
A kindly word, a little smile
Giving love and helpful friendship, to each other all the while

And so seems it must be
For us to pass on to the night
Some how I believe, it gives us second sight

And if I could live forever more
And pass each day as one
It would be around a campfire, sharing with all until we’re done…

For Jimmy Thomas, September 7, 2009

Chuck Connors, September 7, 2009

The Mountains are on Fire

2009-09-12T15:11:00.000-07:00

The mountains are on fire, the mountains are on fire,
Great jagged peaks burning one-by-one,
Outsiders comin’ in, settin’ the mountains on fire;
Wide swatches of destruction across the land.

Whole ranges of the mountains are on fire,
Giant trees fall--soldiers in a vicious war,
Furriners crowd in, build huge trophy homes;
Infest the ridge tops—light up the sky.

Our precious homes, the mountains are on fire,
Another heart-rending turn on an ancient wheel,
Will you and I stand up to the mountain destroyers?
Will you and I become soldiers for the land?

A whole world of mountains are on fire,
What is it that you want me to do?
Take action my friend; take action against the rapists,
Before the annihilation is complete and our whole land forever gone.

Chuck Connors, July 18, 2009

Aunt Lucille Whups the Bear

2009-07-12T23:18:00.000-07:00

This story is about to be published in an anthology from the North Carolina Writer's Network:

Some of ya’ll might have heard about the bear that staged a break-in at the
WNC Nature Center in Asheville awhile back. Accordin’ to media reports a yearling black bear scaled a ten foot fence and dropped in to do a little visitin’ with the center’s herd of deer. Bob Fay, the nature center’s critter curator, said the deer “didn’t much appreciate the visitor.” Why wouldn’t Bambi welcome a friendly visit with his ole buddy Smokey the Bear?
Speakin’ of visitin’ that reminds me of the time brother bear visited my Aunt
Lucille. Aunt Lucille was a nurse up at C.J. Harris hospital and a lot of times she’d work over-time and get back to the house pretty late. Her husband Rufus would leave the back door unlocked when he left to go to work at the mill in Sylva ‘cause sometimes Aunt Lucille would forget her key to the house. The bolt on the back door didn’t catch too well and Aunt Lucille had been pestern’ Uncle Rufus to fix it for the longest time.You know how us men-folks can be with those honey-do’s though.

It had been a cool spring with a late freeze and most of the berries and such that bears and other critters in the woods ate just weren’t coming out. A big ‘ole black boar bear happened to be huntin’ up some garbage cans close to town and scented Aunt Lucille’s pot roast simmerin’ on the back of the stove. He peered into the house and spotted a plate of cookies settin’ on the kitchen table like they was just waiting for him! Well it weren’t long ‘fore brother bear just happened to nose up to the back door and give it a little push. The pearly gates opened up and brother bear was in heaven!

First, brother bear devoured the oatmeal-raisin cookies on the kitchen table.
Like a lot of us folks brother bear’s motto was dessert first main course later.
Next he attacked the pot roast on the back of the stove—sliding it frontwards and spilling the juicy meat and vegetables all over the kitchen floor. A perfect mess!

After devouring the tasty pot roast off the kitchen floor, brother bear smelled a strange scent coming from the pantry. He ambled over to the pantry door pushing it open. There sittin’ in the corner was Uncle Rufus’ beer crock plum full of strong bubblybrew. After chowing down on the cookies and the pot roast brother bear had a powerful thirst. He knocked the heavy clay top off and commenced to slurpin’ up Uncle Rufus’ best homebrew.

When ‘ole brother bear was done he belched contentedly and feeling a little
sleepy padded up the stairs wobbling from side-to-side. Nosing the bedroom door open
brother bear saw Lucille and Rufus’ bed which looked just fine for a post-feast nap.
Aunt Lucille came home to find the back door wide open to the world. She
took one look at the hog wallow in her kitchen and just about had a hissy fit.
“That man,” she thought, “he’s a gonna get my broom on his backside” as she
commenced to cleanin’ up.

When Aunt Lucille got done cleaning up the mess she was plum wore
Out. As she started to the head of the stairs she could hear the snorin’ and thought to herself, “Rufe ate all that pot roast, cleaned out the brewin’ crock of homemade beer and now it sounds like he’s logging the whole forest. Can’t I ever get any rest?”

The light was burnt out in the hallway and Aunt Lucille felt her way up the stairs to the bedroom that she and Uncle Rufus shared. As she opened the door the snoring from brother bear sounded like hogs tussling over the feeding trough. Aunt Lucille got into her night gown and slippin’ into bed gave brother bear a poke with her elbow and said “Rufe quiet down so’s I can get a little sleep.” Brother bear grunted and shifted in his home brew induced stupor.

When brother bear wouldn’t quit snoring Aunt Lucille gave the bruin a little
nudge with her hip. Well brother bear didn’t like that too much and gave out a little growl that made Lucille sit up and take notice. She took one look at who her bed partner was and sprang out of bed like she’d seen the Booger man himself!
Aunt Lucille grabbed the broom settin’ in the corner and commenced to chasin’
brother bear ‘round the room. Just when she was gainin’ on him the bear would give a
little jump and get away. Finally, Aunt Lucille cornered the poor drunken bruin by the dresser and gave him a good whop with the broom. Brother bear saw his chance and
leaped towards the window like one of them gold medal winnin’ Olympic high jumpers
and crashed right through it. Aunt Lucille rushed to the window and all she could see was brother bear high-tailin’ it for the woods like a thirsty man headed for his still.

After that little incident Aunt Lucille made sure Uncle Rufus fixed that bolt on the
back door. So the next time you see brother bear pokin’ ‘round the backyard of your
‘little house in the big woods’ just remember he’s hungry and it’s his front yard!

The Bones of the Hills

2009-07-12T23:16:00.000-07:00

The bones of the hills, these ancient rocks,
First laid down untold eons ago

The foundations of the Appalachians, strong and cold
Hidden away from prying eyes, secrets in the earth

These ancient mountains, the backbone of Pangaea
super continent, of the entire world!

The super Appalachians fierce and proud,
stretching to Scotland--all the way to Africa!

Mighty Granite, Schist, Gneiss, Shale, Igneous and Sandstone rocks,
Their weathered forms, what we see today

Ancient volcanoes, continents forming,
Ripping apart, change from a restless earth!

Stretching out on the rocks, in the bright sunlight
Absorbing the warmth, of a summer’s day

From what once were the fires of hell itself
Bones faded and exposed, now only warm to the touch

Chuck Connors, June 30, 2009

Nighttime in the Country

2009-07-12T23:10:00.000-07:00

Nighttime in the country, the shadows dark and deep
Fireflies all a’ glitter, the frogs chirp a roaring peep!

The critters of the night move stealthily from bush to hay
The baby skunks and tiny possums come out to snack and play

The riot of nocturnal flowers, their scent so sweet and full
The first cutting of the hay, the greased implements in the shed of tools

I gaze across the land, breathe in the wonder of the night
Could it be that I am hungry for more than just the sight?

To live a good and just life, a life that gives back to all the rest
Sharing with each other is really the ultimate test

We stare up at the lights, each one alone it seems
What gains a man the whole world if he cannot share his dreams?

Nighttime in the country, the quiet takes my soul
Under a billion stars I once again become whole.

Chuck Connors, May 30, 2009

The River Rolls

2008-12-09T06:38:00.000-08:00

by
Chuck Connors

The river rolls, the river rolls, all the way to the big wide sea
But who could really understand when you and I can’t see?

The river rolls, the river rolls, laughing across the rocks
It chuckles softly “come along,” you can play without your socks.

The river rolls, the river rolls, two lovers once loved along its banks
Years later when they were old and gray they came back and gave their thanks.

The river rolls, the river rolls, so deep and far and wide
It travels winding ways to the ocean and the tide.

The river rolls, the river rolls, it seems forever to me
One day I must follow it to find my destiny.

An Open Letter to the Citizens of Jackson County

2008-06-19T15:21:00.000-07:00

by Chuck Connors

By and large our county manager, Mr. Ken Westmoreland, has done a good job with our county’s proposed 2008 – 2009 fiscal budget. I do have some questions and comments relating to the budget and to the g
eneral state of Jackson County.

Why do we need an Economic Development Commission (EDC)?

Whatever happened to the $568,000.00 the EDC loaned the Jackson Development Commission (JDC)?

When are we going to have the audit that was promised over two years ago? Audits were not done in 2006 and 2007.

I understand this loan was supposed to be paid back in one year. That was six years ago!

Now, that loan would be worth (with interest) approximately $620,000.00. Where is the money?

If the EDC has not forgiven that loan and the JDC is now defunct, do the taxpayers have to pay the EDC that loan of $620,000.00 as is being rumored?

Some people have said we don’t really need a full time EDC director because in a small county like ours there isn’t enough interest or need.

An ad hoc committee, activated from time to time, could work more effectively and be more responsive to the taxpayers.

The EDC doesn’t need another county employee working for it. We already have some financial accountability with the county’s financial director also acting as the treasurer of the group.

On other issues:

Why is the county allowing the Army Corps of Engineers to deny due process to the citizens of Jackson County in the coming environmental disaster of the elitist compounds of “Webster Ridge” and “Riverrock (Legasus)?”

Does the Balsam Mountain ‘Preserve’ (Chaffin/Light) really believe that folks are taken in with the public relations stunt of a has-been golf professional brazenly opening one of his trout-killing courses on the anniversary (June 7, 2007) of the Scott’s Creek disaster? To paraphrase Charlie Daniels, “the eagle is flying low,” isn’t it?

This whole sad state of affairs has become a “Jacksongate” where the taxpayers get their pockets picked one more time by free-booting loose cannons. If the citizens of Jackson County aren’t getting the shaft from a herd of greedy developers, they’re getting it from our elected and appointed officials! I would strongly urge you, the Jackson County Commissioners, to take action now on the EDC/JDC fiasco, take a strong stand against re-building the dam on the BMP golf course and take immediate legal action to force the Army Corps of Engineers to hold a public hearing/public comment on the “Webster Ridge” debacle. These and other incidents have been “white elephants” on the taxpayers for too long. All we’re getting is a huge mess costing us hundreds of thousands of dollars (perhaps millions) and destroying our county with no end in sight. Is anyone else waiting for positive leadership on these issues? Cut to the chase gentlemen and do it now.

Frat Boys on Spring Break

2008-04-28T20:12:00.000-07:00

by Chuck Connors

There’s a pattern happening here. A pattern insidious, hateful, destructive, and it’s aimed at you and me. In just the last few years Jackson County has taken on a tone, a dreadful resemblance similar to the destruction of the state of Florida. Build, build, build and the land and the public be damned.

For too long developers in Jackson County and the rest of Western North Carolina have been running hog wild like frat boys on spring break in Panama City. Our county has been their golden goose with dollar signs for eyes and guess who’s paying through the nose? It may turn out that the land development/steep slope ordinances need to be ‘tweaked’ and made more effective in stopping the developers in their race to destroy what little we have left—especially when there’s ‘cheaters’ such as the Balsam Mountain ‘Preserve’ neatly halving the just fine that was imposed upon them for the illegal dam which caused the Scott’s Creek disaster. The public relations flim flam of a bought and paid for eagle imported from Tennessee won’t fly either. Nobody’s fooled.

Don’t forget Legasus and their Riverrock water pollution fiasco in-the-making on Cullowhee Mountain. If you think that Legasus hasn’t been doing everything they can to subvert the decision of the Army Corps of Engineers relating to all the streams that Legasus is going to bury in a pipe, you were born yesterday.

Two of the candidates running for county commissioner are obvious ‘plants’ by the developers. One candidate is the Eastern Band’s attempt to subvert the rest of Jackson County and another candidate is a sex offender.

The incumbents may not be perfect, but they see what is going on and are doing something right to preserve the old Jackson County for the future. They don’t want their grandchildren and yours to be forced out of Jackson County by sky-high land prices and elitist gated communities with signs reading, “Locals Keep Out.” Will you stand on your two legs and fight for what is right or will you be a slave on your knees? I know who and what I’m going to vote for May 6. Do you?

Balsam Mountain Eagle a 'No Fly'

2008-04-09T20:43:00.000-07:00

by Chuck Connors

Some of ya’ll might remember from a few weeks back all the hoopla in the papers and on the television about the eagle over there at the Balsam Mountain ‘Preserve.’ Now being a bit ignorant when it comes to worldly things I figured to ask my Uncle Curtis what he thought about all these goings on. For those of you that don’t know my Uncle Curtis, he’s lived in these mountains for quite a spell; besides, he’s done a bit of traveling also.
“Uncle Curtis, did you hear about that eagle they got up there at that Chaffin/Light development?”
“Yea boy I heard about it,” he replied.
Now if you know my Uncle Curtis, he may not say much but what he says means a whole lot. “Well what exactly do you think about that eagle, ‘Spirit Augustus’, they got penned up there,” I asked.
“Boy, when you goin’ to learn that there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch. None of them big corporation people is going to give you or me the time of day unless they figure they can get somethin’ out of our pockets.”
“But Uncle Curtis, don’t you think it’s all good to be bringing back eagles to the mountains?”
“Shoot boy, all them corporate ‘charla-tans’ are trying to do is pull a sack over your pea-brained head. Didn’t you ever stop to think what that eagle’s name means? The Latin of spirit is spiritus which can mean either a ghost or liquor. All them Chaffin/Light money boys are trying to do is sell you a ghost. And if you ever heard about anybody seeing a ghost all they thought they saw was smoke. And anytime that any of your cousins said they saw a ghost they was all liquored up anyways. When somebody don’t want you to look someplace they’ll do some sorta neat trick to get you to look somewhere else. In the magician business they call it ‘smoke and mirrors’.”
When I got to thinking about it I figured that Uncle Curtis just might be right. What has the Balsam Mountain ‘Preserve’ ever really done for me. Shoot, you can’t go in up there at Sugar Loaf anymore to do any hunting or fishing. They might as well have a sign that reads, “Locals Keep Out.” Remember that dam they had that burst? Chaffin/Light’s been trying to get out of payin’ for that disaster from the get go. Do ya’ll think that the Balsam Mountain ‘Preserve’ really gives a hoot about our mountains and our ways? Like Uncle Curtis told me, “you can’t get something for nothing and them corporate bean counters want somethin’.”

Another Christmas Day

2007-12-25T22:12:00.000-08:00

Waiting in the cold dark winter’s night
The gusting wind blows with the Arctic’s might.

Remembering the loved ones who have passed
I shiver so slightly as my thoughts are sad.

Although I’ll always love them so
Life’s still worth living this I know.

As I sit waiting for the gift-giving Saint
I search my soul to discover no taint.

Be grateful for another Christmas Day
‘Cause it’s with family and friends here I stay.

And when it’s time to go through the door
I’ll see the loved ones who’ve gone on before.

But that won’t come just yet I pray
‘Till then I’ll be grateful for another Christmas Day.

Chuck Connors,December 25, 2007

Laurie's Song

2007-12-09T21:47:00.000-08:00

by
Chuck Connors

Joe got into his truck and squinted at the sky. He didn’t see any sun. “Must be behind a cloud or something,” he thought to himself as he cranked up
the motor and pulled out of the driveway. “It’s gonna be a good Thanksgiving,
even if we aren’t gonna be together for the turkey and everything. Shoot, after we’re done at each of our folks we can get together and go to Asheville or something.
Maybe take in a movie or go hear us some music. Then it’ll be about time for some
all-night good lovin’.”

Joe had called earlier when he was getting dressed but all he got was her
answering machine. He didn’t think much about it because she was probably in the
shower or something. Laurie was like that. One time he came to pick her up for a date early. He slipped into her apartment quiet-like, tip-toed into the bathroom,
and ripped the shower curtain open. Laurie screamed and darned near knocked him
out with a shampoo bottle. His head had hurt for a couple of days after. Whenever Joe had reminded Laurie about the joke, she usually punched him in the ribs and told him “don’t ever try that again Herbie Joe or else you’re gonna be missing something real special to you, like the family jewels.” To this day, Joe hadn’t dared to try her on it. He knew when she was serious.

Traffic was non-existent going through the small college mountain town of
Judaculla Rock near where he lived. “Seems like everybody’s at Granny’s house today”, he thought, as he passed a guy in a red Volkswagen jacking up his rear end to change out his flat tire. In the back seat Joe thought he saw a coffin-shaped box. “Strange,” thought Joe, “why the hell would somebody be carryin’ around a coffin in the back of a VW? Folks are getting’ weirder and weirder every year.” The guy didn’t look like he needed any help though.

Joe thought he’d give Laurie another call from his cell phone. He punched in the numbers he memorized almost from the first time she’d given him her number. He hit send and it started the first ring.

Joe could remember the first time he’d seen Laurie. He’d been in a club over in Asheville sitting at the bar sipping on a cold one when a dark-haired beauty in a black miniskirt, tube top, and black stiletto high-heeled boots had walked through the front door. Joe couldn’t believe the energy the woman gave off. She wasn’t putting up with any crap though. The dark-haired mystery woman fended off two guys who tried to stop and talk with her by icily ignoring them and brusquely walking on by.

She came and sat down on an empty stool just a couple away from Joe. She lit a cigarette as the barkeep hustled down the bar to take her order. Joe took a deep breath and a hefty swig from his bottle and turned to the mystery woman and smiled.

“Hey, name’s Joe. What’s yours?”

“You tryin’ to pick me up too?” she said as she looked him suspiciously.

“Just trying to find out your name so I can make some polite conversation.”

“Keep your shirt on cowboy, the name’s Laurie an’ nobody picks me up unless I

know who they are. I already know what they want. What do you do when you’re not in

here?” she asked.

“I go to school and I’m a part-time disc jockey at the rock station at Scottsford in Jefferson County. What do you do mystery lady-named-Laurie?” She smiled when he said that. He was dazzled by that smile.

“I work with computers; office systems stuff. Kind of boring. It’s a living
though.”

Joe didn’t get a date that night but he got a phone number; which eventually led to a date, and to a relationship which took his breath away. She was the most exciting woman he’d ever dated, and she knew it too.

“Damn answering machine again,” said Joe as he thumbed the stop button on the

cell phone. “She must be in the shower or using the hair dryer.”

Laurie always kept herself looking good—classy good. Hell, the short skirts she wore made it extra hard for Joe to keep his hands off of her, even in public places. Laurie was that attractive. He remembered one time they were sitting in a café in Asheville.

She was wearing one of those frilly miniskirts. All the guys in the place were looking at Laurie’s legs, especially when Joe put his hand on her thigh and slowly started moving it upwards….

Joe pulled into the road along the river that Laurie’s apartment was on. The light was golden and diffused, yet the river looked flat and dark. Joe still couldn’t see the sun. “Normal for these mountains for it to get behind one and you not to see it,” he thought.

Laurie was more than some sweet-lookin’ eye candy too. In the past couple of
years Joe’s mother’s dementia had been getting worse. She needed somebody to do for
her—help her take a bath, get dressed; help her with memory exercises. Laurie was there when Joe needed her. Laurie knew about problems. She’d been abused when she was a kid. It haunted her despite her seeing a shrink. Joe still wanted to kill the bastard that had messed with her.

Joe pulled into the driveway that led to the apartment complex Laurie lived in. He always felt a charge of anticipation when he was coming to see her. He could
remember waking up of a morning in her bed, looking up at the pictures and awards hung up on the wall. He’d hear the covers rustle next to him and Laurie’s husky voice would ask him, “would you like some coffee or something else cowboy?”
Mostly he couldn’t keep himself from saying “something else Laurie darlin’.”
They always ended up breathless, with hearts pounding; too exhausted to move from each other’s embrace.

Joe pulled up in front of Laurie’s apartment. He cut the motor; let the radio play low. Laurie was a big one for rock ‘n roll. He’d come in the door and she’d have the stereo on. Laurie would be dancing, some eighties or nineties rock ‘an roll blasting, eyes closed, lost in it. She’d open her eyes, see him and smile. It made him love her more.

Joe got out and went up the walk to Laurie’s door. Usually one of her two cats were sitting in one of the two front windows. Joe didn’t see ‘em. He knocked a couple of times on the door, stuck his key in and turned the lock. The door opened a couple of inches and stopped. Joe pushed against what looked like a couple of chairs propped up against the door. When he got in, he could see the apartment looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Joe’s heart started to pound. He walked real fast through the mess on the floor. Joe turned the corner in the hallway to Laurie’s bedroom door. She was there by the bed, lying on the floor. He got down on his knees, grabbed her arm and started shaking her; no life. Joe jumped up and ran into the living room. “Where’s the phone, dammit?” Joe roared to an empty apartment. He spotted it lying on the floor, picked it up, and punched in the emergency number. Joe told the dispatcher he needed an ambulance quick at Laurie’s apartment, gave him the address, and hung up. Joe noticed a piece of paper on the coffee table at the end of the couch.

“Dear Herbie Joe, Mother and Dad, I couldn’t take it anymore. The pain was too much. Please forgive me. Take care of my cats. Love you Mom and Dad. Joe, I will always love you. Do not resuscitate.”

Joe went into Laurie’s bedroom while he was waiting on the ambulance. He knelt down and kissed Laurie on the cheek one more time and prayed for a few moments.
“Laurie, I love you so much. Why did you have to leave me?” He didn’t know if he’d
ever know the answer to that question. Joe got to his feet and walked out of the
apartment. A deputy was getting out of his patrol car and putting on some rubber gloves as Joe walked up to him. “I checked for a pulse,” Joe said in a flat voice. “She’s cold. I didn’t try cpr.” The cop came out a minute later and spoke into his radio; “cancel that 10-52; cancel all first responders on that last call.”

Joe felt a sharp pain, like somebody had kicked him in the back of the head.
Crazy, dark thoughts were spinning round and round like a million fireflies going nuts in his mind. The only thing he could focus on was how good a drink would feel right about now. He doubted it would do anything for him but he didn’t much care. He wanted to get totally obliviated and forget that this day ever happened. Joe looked up at the sky and didn’t see the sun. He didn’t think he ever would.

Carolina Sky

2007-12-04T09:05:00.000-08:00

The couple scamper home
aware of each other’s breathing
Like children they feel
the irresistible call of joy

Waking up with you
deliciously tired and sated
Takes me back to the moonlit night
where we clutched each other
under a boundless Carolina sky

Chuck Connors, December 4, 2007

The Last Few Miles

2007-11-07T08:01:00.000-08:00

The last few miles are the hardest
my feet are sore, the pack chaffs my back

Staying close to the rock face
the terror of the cliffs is soon past

The scent of the mountain pours down on me
the sun is warm, the shade is cold

I gaze out to the far mountains
across the valley so deep and low

The first stream rushes merrily onwards
it’s waters taste of ice and snow

I reach the lowlands and look back upwards
the mountain patiently waits for my return

Chuck Connors, November 7, 2007

Cold

2007-11-06T09:23:00.000-08:00

Huddled close to the warming rays of the candle
Its feeble glow gives the illusion of heat

My belly full, a sheaf of dead writers in my hand
Lost in the past I share the moment with them

The sleepers grunt, snuffle and wheeze in their dreams
Morpheus comes not for me, not yet!

The stars wheel in their ageless rounds
The Balsams give off their Christmassy smell

A last bit of chocolate to stoke the body furnace
Its bittersweet taste lingers on my tongue

I shiver against the night, the cold in my bones
Put out the candle, time for sleep

Chuck Connors, November 6, 2007

To the Moon

2007-11-06T09:08:00.000-08:00

Trudging along it seems this path goes on forever
Has it been that many years since I’ve been here, now?

The sharp rocks cut and bloody me like a knife
As I clamber tiredly over them inches from the void

A hawk glides over close enough to touch
I see his sharp eyes, smell his hunting smell

When will I reach the top of the mountain
Or does this path go up to the moon?

The hoarfrost is freezing in nooks and crannies
I can hear and taste the biting of the wind

Divine Principle of the Universe, Ruler of all
Give me strength and courage to reach the summit

Chuck Connors, November 6, 2007

Hate to Walk

2007-11-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

This damn trail
little more than an animal track
takes me forever higher
amid the sharp rocks and slippery clay

Why did I come
on this foolish venture to nowhere
The top of the mountain
grows no closer to me

Around the bend
a beautiful vista
A cooling breeze
a place to rest

I hate to walk
but love to arrive
at the highest peak
the ultimate goal

Chuck Connors, October 31,2007

Into the Woods

2007-11-01T13:00:00.001-07:00

It is the day,
the day we hike,
into the woods,
to escape from modernity.

Why am I anxious?
Do I long for the civilized life?
Or am I fearful,
of entering God’s cathedral?

Into the woods,
to the back of beyond.
Insanity can wait;
God cannot.

Chuck Connors, October 31, 2007

The Rifle

2007-10-23T08:36:00.000-07:00

Drill Sergeant: Platoon, ten-hut! At ease. This – is – your – rifle, you SOB’s.
For the rest of your time here you will clean your rifle every day.
You will go to the latrine with your rifle. You will sleep
with your rifle. Your rifle is your friend. You WILL take care of it,
because one day your rifle will save your sorry asses!
Do - you - understand – me you apes?
Platoon (shouts in unison): Yes, Drill Sergeant!
Drill Sergeant: Platoon, ten-hut! Right, face. Forward, march.

This is my rifle, this is my gun.
This is for fighting, this is for fun.

A soldier’s rifle is a tool that any fool may use
but when it comes to life or death it’s definitely time to choose.

When I was in the army we cleaned our rifles well
‘cause we knew one day we’d have to shoot the enemy all to Hell.

Sound off…one, two…

But since my term of service I’ve learned a thing or two
‘bout the difference ‘tween a rifle an’ a gun and what they’re made to do.

A rifle’s d’rect fire makes it very good indeed
when the enemy’s comin’ ta kill ya with all good haste and speed.

Sound off…one, two. Sound off…three, four…

A gun’s another animal of a totally different stripe
it shoots its projectile in a curve to do it’s duty right.

A soldier nev’re confuses a rifle with a gun
his rifle is for fightn’ and his gun is jus’ for fun.

Sound off…one, two. Sound off…three, four.
Sound off… one
two
three
four
One two, THREE FOUR!

Chuck Connors, October 23, 2007

Roscoe the Fireplug Dog

2007-10-22T20:49:00.000-07:00

by
Chuck Connors

Roscoe was some kinda dog. Roscoe’s owner Pete, loved to take Roscoe to the
leash-free park everyday. Roscoe loved it. He could run like a wild dog without having
to drag Pete behind on one of those nasty throat-choking leashes. Only these days’ folks
are worried ‘bout just what ole Roscoe might do to Hondo’s monument in the park.
The leash-free park in Hillsboro, Oregon was dedicated to Hondo, a brave police
dog who died in the line of duty a few years back and the park's designers put up a
special monument to Hondo; a glorious fireplug all painted up in our country's patriotic
colors--red, white, and blue! Now the designers figured that dogs were gonna do what
they were gonna do on and around this special patriotic monument to Hondo. So they set
the fire plug up on a big pedestal at least two feet high. They even went to the trouble of
plantin’ prickly bushes around it so pups like Roscoe couldn't cock their hind legs an'
take a shot at Hondo's special monument.

Well it turns out some media type found out about the monument and took a

picture of it for one of the local papers. Naturally, this created a big hullabaloo all up and
down the west coast an' people started sendin' in lots of emails against dogs cockin' their
legs at Hondo's patriotic monument despite park officials not receiving any reports of
dogs lettin’ loose on it.

To say this might be somethin’ of a "tempest in a teapot" wouldn't be exaggeratin’
much as some of the emailers were pretty irate. “That gallant dog must be turning in his
grave at the thought of the flag being desecrated every time a dog pees on that hydrant!”
wrote an individual who shall remain anonymous. Say what? I saw that Robin Williams
movie ‘bout goin’ to Heaven and I think old Roscoe is chasing a lot of rabbits and havin’
himself a good ole time up there.
Well I don't know what you think about this sorry state of affairs out in the leash-
free park in Hillsboro Oregon but I got the answer and its pretty simple. Paint the fire
hydrant the colors of the Iranian flag, take the prickly bushes away an' let every Roscoe,
Rover and Ranger take their best shot. The way I figure, it would be a whole lot cheaper
than sending a bunch of our soldiers over to Teheran an' a lot less dangerous too. But I
guess that would be too easy and un-socially correct. I doubt Hondo is rolling in his
grave over this foolishness. I think it’s a bunch of dog haters laughing from theirs.

Later, ya’ll.

The High and Windy Places

2007-10-16T21:07:00.000-07:00

In the high and windy places, the places above the stairs,
lives a furious untamed wildness up in the thin and freezing airs.

It’s when I go a marching, a tramping from the start,
to those wonderfully empty places
that quickens the beating of my heart.

Though I’m a stranger in high places, I strive to understand;
those high and windy places, the special places of the land.

Chuck Connors

Little Candle

2007-10-16T21:01:00.000-07:00

Little candle in the deep dark woods,
your yellow flame so cheerily bright;

your warmth and glow means so much,
little candle, hold me tight.

Little candle always protect me please,
save me, little candle from my own fright.

If I should wake and you be out,
little candle please dispel my doubt.

Little candle how I love you so,
‘cause we’re always together, this I know.

Chuck Connors

A Day in the Life

2007-10-07T08:58:00.000-07:00

By

Chuck Connors

The dream is always the same. The sun is hot and bright as I enter the tool
shed at Uncle Doyle’s place. The old, uneven boards are rough on my bare feet.
I can hear the squeaking from the old bed with the dirty mattress in the back where it’s dark. The voices are barely audible to my ears.

“Now turn over while I take real good care of you honey. C’mon baby doll its
good an’ you know it.”
“You ain’t gonna tell my Daddy are ya?”
“Naw, you just be a good little girl an’ everythang’s gonna be alright. Hell, I’ll even get you another Barbie doll.”
“Shush, what wuz that?” the young female voice said.
“Must be them damned cats fuckin’ and fightn’ up in the crawlspace again.”
Just about then I knock over a can of nails. It always happens, can’t avoid it.
Hey! Who the hell’s there? Is that you Jeremiah? Get yore ass in here boy. I wanta show you sumptin. We’s gonna make a man of ya ain’t we Doreen?”
Doreen giggles and I hear slurping sounds.
I feel myself pulled towards the speaker, Uncle Doyle. He’s about 50. He takes me fishin’ sometimes. Uncle Doyle let me drink a beer once when we was fishin’ on the lake. My Aunt Lily plays the piano in Church and makes good apple pies.
She’s a nice lady. The girl is Doreen Stokes. We ride the school bus together. She lives down the way with her widow mother Elberta. Doreen was twelve a ‘couple
of months back.
As I move towards the back of the shed it’s dark and my eyes can’t adjust. I hear the slappin’ of sweaty flesh hittin’ together. It kinda sounds like a hog fartin’.All I can make out is two bodies laying on the dirty mattress movin’ in
ways that make me squirmy.
“Are you comin’ boy? Where you at? Aww, there ya are. Come over an put
yore hand on Doreen’s butt.”
I hear my ten year old voice shakily saying, “Uncle Doyle, I don’t wanna touch Doreen’s butt.”
“Boy, I told ya to get over here an grab Doreen’s butt or I’m gonna whip yore
ass.”
I start to do it. One part of me wants to an’ the other part don’t. Then something like a fire alarm goes off. I piss my shorts.
The alarm clock is jangling and the wife is hollern’ for me to come into the
kitchen for breakfast. The kids (Jerry jr’s eight and Lori’s six) are fightin’ over who gets gets the Cheerios first.Manda, my wife, is tellin’ ‘em to shut up an’ eat or they’ll miss the school bus.
I’ve got it real good; decent marriage, happy kids, money-making business. Not bad for a “Bubba” who’s only got two years of junior college. There’s still
that rotten place in me deep down I can’t talk to nobody about. God help me.
After a cup of coffee an’ some raisin bran I give Manda a kiss an’ a big hug—tell Jerry junior an’ Lorri if they do good in school this week we’ll go out
fishin’ on the lake.
I love my family. They make the pains of when I was a kid growin’ up a little easier—even though they don’t know it.I know its time for another trip
outta town.These days I don’t want to do it.I know it ain’t right. But I got to.
The dreams stop for awhile when I do.
My daddy was the one who took me down to Knoxville for my first time with the
young ones. “You don’t shit where you eat,” he said. So I go to Knoxville. I can’t hold my head up though— look folks in the eyes.
After I eat I head to the shop an’ make sure Mike, my head mechanic,
made it into work an’s got something to keep him busy for the rest of the day. I tell him I got to go to Knoxville to get some parts for a Mustang that’s been
sittin’ for three days. Mike gives me a sly smile and says “sure Jeremiah,
anything you say.” He don’t know shit.
I took off south down the four lane to Knoxville. Cruisin’ along at 70 per,
I wonder what it could have been like. Got married right after graduation; first kid came along ten months later. Inherited the garage that the old man started when
he got home from the war; hell I’m even a member of the Rotary. Seems like it
don’t mean nothin’ though.
Made good time. Got off the four lane onto East Magnolia. Cruised past the bus station an’ there they wuz. Hell, they wuz always thare. All dressed up
an’ hot lookin’. My hands were shakin’ a little; ya know, kinda anticipatin’.
Who knows ware they come from. They got to have the money to smoke their crack.
Makes ‘em feel good. Makes ‘em want it.
I cruise past a couple of times checkin’ for cops. If ‘n ya look careful, you ken see the cop spy van parked down the block. They got ta have ya on tape or it won’t stand up in court. Nope, not today.
I slow up ‘side a little blonde honey. She’s cute. Gotta little polk-a-dot mini on with a black low cut top. Hmmm, something ain’t quite right though.
“Hey, how you baby? How much ya lookin for ta get ya some new clothes?”
“It’s a hunnert dollars mister. Fuck an’ suck till yure done.”
“Maybe next time doll baby. I’m lookin for a red head today.”
“Wanta buy some weed?”
“No thanks baby. Beer’s more my style. Later.”
Further down the street I spot her. This one’s got bright red hair done up with a pony tail. She’s wearin’ one of them red shorty cheerleader-like dresses
with a halter top to match that shows off what she’s got real good.
“Hey! Where you been honey?”
“Why mister I jus’ got into Knoxville last week. You wanna party?
“How ‘bout I get ya some new clothes sweetie?”
“I think I could use ‘bout a hunnert dollars worth okay mister?”
“Get in baby”
We cruise to one of the cheap flops I use further down Magnolia Avenue.
In the room, I tell her to strip.
“Gimme my hunnert dollars first mister,” she replies.
“Strip first cutie ‘cause I gotta know if you got a mic or sumptin’ on ya.”
She takes ‘em off and I marvel how much she looks like Doreen looked in high
school when we’d skinny dip at the blue hole on the little Doe River. Doreen would
stand on top of the rock we used to dive off, her body just a shinin’ in the sun. Made my heart ache for her. Hell, my tallywacker shore did.
I pay her and we do it. It’s always too quick. Soon I’m on the four lane headed north.
I get back to the shop with the parts—had ‘em stashed in the back of the dually from gettin’ ‘em yesterday over at the NAPA place. Mike’s workin’ on a transmission in a pick-up.
“Got the parts for the mustang boss?”
“You can start work on the mustang tomorrow boy. Why don’t ‘cha take off early ‘an go home to that cute wife of yore’s?”
“Thanks boss. I guess I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
I go in the office, shut the door, ‘an take the .38 snubbie out of the drawer. It feels warm an’ real in my hands. What the fuck. I stick it in my
mouth an’ pull the trigger.

Eye Witness

2007-10-05T07:42:00.000-07:00

By

Chuck Connors

I’m just a regular guy, at least for a writer. I’ve rode a few miles, been a few
places, but I’ve never been an eye witness to a robbery; that is until now.
Most people think a robbery is pretty simple and most are. You see the closed-
circuit camera footage on the news. Some idiot comes up to the counter of a 7- Eleven or
your local bank, jumps over the ounter, grabs the cash out of the register, knocks the
clerk a couple of times on the side of the head and runs out the door. The crook gets
caught in a day or two; the cops get a confession; the prosecutor gets a conviction;
and another dumbass goes to jail; case closed. You commit the crime, you do the time.
That’s why I was surprised when an acquaintance from high school who’d been in
prison a time or two, called me up one afternoon and asked if I wanted to see how a real
rip-off went down.
The high school ‘friend’, whom I’ll call ‘Jack,’ said “hey man, how you been
doing?”
“Pretty good. Been doing some writing; mostly humor columns for a local
rag,” I cautiously responded.
“Chuck, I’ve read some of what you’ve written an’ it’s pretty good. It’s mostly
made up though ain’t it?”
“Jack, the stuff I write is all true and some of it may have actually happened,”
I shot back. Then he got to the meat of the conversation.
“Do you wanna write about something that’s going to happen; something one
hundred percent factual? Do you wanna be an eye witness to a real ripoff?”
This left me speechless for a couple of seconds. “You’re bullshitting me dude.
And if you aren’t I’m not going to let you put me in some Handy Andy or worse, a bank
and watch you or who ever get their shit blown away by some “Harry Callahan” type
looking to make a name for himself.”
“No man. It’s for real. I can hook you up with some professionals who’re gonna
rip off a “big box” soon. They don’t play man. They know how to handle weapons an’
they know tactics. They’re gonna do it and it’s gonna be beautiful. Whatcha’ say?”
“Besides the obvious one, what’s the catch? What do you want? Hell, what do
‘they’ want?”
“Hey, all I want is for these dudes’ story to get out. I don’t want no money or
nothin’. So if you’re not interested, I’ll just fuckin’ hang up.”
“Wait a minute partner; didn’t say I wasn’t interested; just want to know where you’re coming from. As for whether this whole thing is on the up and up, I reserve
judgment.”
“Ok. These dudes have read your stuff an’ they think you can put their story
down how it really happens. They know that the government, starting with the local
yokels, all the way up to the feds, are gonna lie, ‘cause they’ve done it before. An’ they
want the real deal to get out. They’re not “Robin Hoods.” They’re just a bunch of
professionals who believe in getting’ it right the first time.
“All right. I’ll bite, at least for now. What do I have to do to meet these
‘professionals’?

Writer’s note:
Here’s where I’m going to get a little vague for obvious reasons as I don’t want
the State or Federal types seizing my computer and grilling me in some windowless room
for days on end.

“Chuck, you be at such and such a place at such an’ such a time an’ the dudes will
meet with you. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Alright Jack. If you’re not being straight up about all this, I’m going to make
sure you get a little visit from the Sheriff.”
“It’s the real thing man. If you’re not satisfied that these guys are for real, you
can go ahead an’ turn me in to the Sheriff.”
A couple of days later I was at an unnamed place in the middle of night waiting
on who knows what. I felt a little stupid. After I’d smoked a couple of cigars I walked
over behind a bush and took a leak. A stick cracked.
“Don’t turn around Mr. Connors.”
“Alright guy. Just let me do my business first and then you can get my money.”
“We’re not here for your money. Stay facing the way you are and put this blind-
fold on,” the voice commanded as some material was thrown over my shoulder. I zipped
up and put the blindfold on and stayed facing in the same direction.
Hands grabbed me roughly, turned me around and I heard the voice say. “Just had to be
sure it was you Mr. Connors. We don’t want any fuck-ups.”
“Who the hell did you think it was out here in the middle of nowhere in the
middle of the freakin’ night?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just get into the vehicle. We’re taking a little ride.”
I was pushed into a vehicle and sat in the middle of a seat with two guys sitting
on either side of me. One of them farted. The other one stank of garlic. Since I’d rea
novels and seen movies using this sort of thing I kept my mouth shut. The car moved for
what seemed like a long time (I was glad I’d taken a leak) turning and going up and down
steep curves numerous times. One time we were on a gravel road which seemed
to go up forever. Finally we stopped. I was pushed out and stood shakily on my
now asleep feet.
“Mr. Connors, we’re going to take you into a building and put you in a chair.
Bright lights will be shining in your face.
“I don’t really have much of a choice do I?”
“No. Just do what I tell you and you’ll get the story of your life; and live to tell
about it also.”
I was pushed roughly through a door into what felt like some sort of basement.
Arms set me down into a chair and a rasping voice told me to “stay put.” I was told to
remove the blindfold and just like they said, the light was bright. I really couldn’t see
anything.
“Do you have any questions Mr. Connors?”
“Yea, like what the fuck is going on?”
“Your acquaintance already told you. We’re going to rip off a “big box” soon and
we wanted you to write the story for us. We believe you’ll do an honest job. If you
don’t…well we know where you live.”
“Why a fucking “big box” and not a bank or something?”
“That’s the beauty of it Mr. Connors. There’s so many ‘Edward Abbey’ types
running around Western North Carolina that any monkey wrenching that happens will
be blamed on them. We’ll be in South America before the F.B.I. even suspects just who
it was.”
“Okay. So it’s just robbery. Why should I give a damn that your story gets out
sans the usual bullshit and lies we all get from our so called leaders.”
“Besides us, you are the only one that’s going to know exactly what’s going on.
You get the exclusive. We don’t plan on killing anybody because we’ve done stuff like
this before. Plan the ‘op'. Follow the plan. Spend the money. It’s all about precision.”
“Okay. I’m in. What’s the plan,” I asked.
“Simple, Mr. Connors. We’ll create a diversion; a little explosion i
another part of the store. Propane can get out of hand if it’s ignited improperly; if you
catch my drift.
“Gotcha. Now how do you get to the real cash; not the cash registers, but where
the store’s safe is at.
“You catch on quick Mr. Connors.” The real cash, actually well over a million
dollars, is in the money room. The room has a key punch to get into it. We grab a
supervisor, give them some encouragement to punch in the code and we’re in. We stuff a
couple of duffel bags full of cash and leave. Two minutes tops.”
“How do you get out?”
“An emergency exit is next to the money room. The sprinkler and the fire alarm
will be activated so those diversions, the smoke, plus the bad emergency lighting after the
power’s been cut will create lots of panic. It should keep people busy while we leave the
store.”
“You didn’t tell me two things; how you cut the power and how you get in.”
“We have an employee who will pull the main switch. His motivation is ten
thousand dollars and we know where his family lives. Getting in is too easy. A high
school kid could do it. I’ll let you figure it out. In the mean time all you have to do is
stand where I tell you and keep your eyes and ears open. It’s pretty likely there’ll be a
panic so you might want to watch out that customers, who’ll be trying to get out the front
doors all at once, don’t run you over.
“This almost sounds like that Peter Fonda movie, “Dirty Mary and Crazy Larry.”
I suppose you have a ‘get-away’ car?”
“Actually several. And of course we’ve got something to get us south of the
border. There’s a bunch of governments down there that could care less about the U.S.,
especially for a bribe or two.”
“Okay. What store and when?” He told me.
“One last thing Mr. Connors: I’ve told you where to be. Stay there. Don’t try to
be a ‘hero’. We’re going to have select-fire rifles and shotguns plus body armor and
other ordinance. If we have to take somebody out we will.”
“Understood.” I was blindfolded again, driven back to my vehicle and told
to wait five minutes before taking the blindfold off.
On the day and about a half hour before the time he told me, I was at the “big
box” in a dirty little southern Appalachian mill town. It wasn’t very far from where I
lived. Hollywood types had shot a couple movies in and around the town because of the
local scenery. Yea, there was plenty of it, scenery that is—lots of little Abner and Daisy
Mae types running around in jacked-up 4X4’s. “Dueling Banjos” came to mind.
I walked in and positioned myself where I was told—the camera section. I wasn’t
bothered. This “big box” chain is notorious for poor customer service. I didn’t notice
anything unusual; just another day for low prices and cheap, Chinese made junk. A
Hispanic man put a sign on the men’s restroom saying “Closed for Cleaning” and put a
mop bucket in front of the door to drive home the point.
Suddenly there was a ‘pop’ in the back of the store and a loud whooshing noise
with what looked like a fireball. The store started to fill with smoke and the sprinklers
and fire alarms went off. I saw several guys dressed in tactical gear holding rifles and
shotguns at the ready exit the men’s room. Their body armor had ‘Police’ stenciled in
big white letters across the front and back. The leader grabbed a supervisor, some kid
with a mullet and pimples, and pointed a large semi-auto pistol at his head.
“Don’t shoot mister. I’ll open it for you. Nobody who works here gives a damn
about the store’s money anyway.”
Just like “Mr. Smith” had said, the customers were screaming and running down
each other trying to be the first out of the door of this low prices now turned seeming
death trap. In a way it was almost funny.
The kid let the heavily armed gang members into the money room and it wasn’t
two minutes before they reappeared with three bulging duffels, cut left and exited the
store. I heard a couple of loud booms from outside and the roar of a big block motor with
the screeching of tires as I ran out. It wasn’t more than a couple of minutes later that
the police showed up and immediately starting herding people away from the doors.
After the heist was all over and the ‘bad guys’ had gone I saw how quickly the
B.A.T.F. guys influenced the town manager to lie; not that he didn’t have a lot of practice
telling whoppers with a straight face. The Sheriff went along because it was in his best
interest to go along—he wants to get re-elected. Of course the media regurgitated what
they were told to.
As far as the cops actually figuring out who had pulled off the heist, well all the
‘boys in blue’ zeroed in on the decoys that the gang had purposeful sent undisguised in
range of the security cameras. They’re still looking for them as “persons of interest.” It
really doesn’t take much to fool someone who doesn’t have a clue what to look for,
especially when they’re looking for some wild-eyed tree hugger type.
I went ahead and wrote up the details—took me a couple of days to go over the
notes and get it all straight. Then I posted it on my blog. Haven’t got any comments yet,
but then, I’m not really expecting any.
I did get a postcard from Brazil the other day. The picture had a couple of topless
beauties soaking up rays on a perfect white beach. On the back was printed “Thanks,
keep up the good work. Wish you were here.”
I laughed until I almost cried.
As for whether you, the reader, believes a word of what I’ve written, I could
care less. I know what I saw. I was there and an eye witness. Like I’ve said before, all
of its true and some of it may have actually happened.

Editor’s Post Script:

According to police, on Wednesday September 26, 2007, there was an incident at the Wal-Mart Superstore in Sylva, North Carolina. Reportedly there was a triggering of some kind of explosive device. Several people were injured. The store was closed until 6:00 am the next day. Persons of Interest, recorded on surveillance footage, are being sought. The Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, along with State and local authorities, are still investigating.

Aunt Martha and the D.E.A.

2007-10-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

By

Chuck Connors

Here lately the sheriff an’ his boys have been collectin’ some of them
“wildwood” weeds from up around Glenville. Yea, there he was in the papers, just a
smiling, surrounded by a forest of those pesky plants. Looked like he was in a jungle or something.I half expected a monkey to jump out screechin’.

Evidently it’s a BIG problem ‘cause deputies managed to round up about a
hundred or so of them loco weeds an’ save us law-abiding citizens from a life of
depravity an’ shame living under a bridge. Shoot, if they gather a few more truck
loads of ‘em it might be enough to keep that plant cooker goin’ for awhile
up at that “green” energy park just outside of Dillsboro!

Seems our mountains are good for growin’ stuff, flora or fauna; and with lots of National Forest land there’s plenty of room.Unfortunately though, certain government agencies just got to take an interest in some folks’ plantin’ habits.

Every once in awhile you see one of them helicopters flyin’ over real low, like
they’re lookin’ for somethin’. They just buzz around like skeeters for awhile an’ then they go away—I guess back to Washington D.C. maybe.

Seems like I remember one time some of them D.E.A. boys found more than they
was lookin’ for when they visited Aunt Martha an’ Uncle Gus’ place over on
John’s Creek.

Aunt Martha an’ Uncle Gus pretty much kept to themselves except when they had
to come into town for staples. One afternoon in the late summer Aunt Martha was
workin’ out in her garden and she happened to hear something like a pack of motorcycles roaring up the road. Up over the ridge came one of them big helicopters,
kinda like a big horse fly. Well it circled around for a minute and set down
in the pasture below the house. Aunt Martha just knew that somethin’ must be wrong
like maybe they was in trouble or somethin’ an’ she trotted down to see if she
could help.

Well those government boys was all dressed up in camouflage—like a lot of them
Yankees that come to play “batman in the boondocks” in these mountains of ours. They
looked like they was goin’ bear huntin’ ‘cept you generally don’t go bear huntin’ with M16 rifles. Aunt Martha come up to the D.E.A. boys an’ hollered
"ya’ll need some help?” The leader of the gang of agents put his hand to his
ear questioningly.
“I say ya’ll need some help?” Aunt Martha yelled. She was persistent if nothing
else.
The leader shook his head ‘no’ an’ shouted at Aunt Martha, “Maam, you need to
get away from here—go on home.”

Aunt Martha kinda looked at him peculiar, like he didn’t have much sense.

“Well I thought you might of needed some help thare young man,

‘specially since you set yore 'heelocopter' down right next to our beehives.”

About then all them bees from Uncle Gus’ dozen or so hives came flyin’ out
angry and ready to go to war. Aunt Martha skedaddled back up to the house and the bees swooped down on them government fellas like there was no tomorrow.
The D.E.A. fellers commenced to jumpin’ ‘round an’ swingin’ their arms like they
was nuts. Shoot, anybody with half a brain knows you can’t fight bees like that.

Uncle Gus fell out right there on the front porch he was laughing so hard.
Just about then the sheriff and some of his deputies pulled up, saw what was
happening and joined Uncle Gus in laughing like Hyenas. Aunt Martha said some of ‘em
was laughing so hard they was cryin’.

Well the government boys spotted the fish pond at the other end of the field and
decided to make a tactical retreat. Uncle Gus’ bees chased all them government boys
into the pond and the leader of the gang was the last to dive in—clothes an’ all. It was a full scale rout!

Later on, Uncle Gus put the smoke to the bees and calmed ‘em down so the
D.E.A. boys could get a flatbed to come get their helicopter and the rescue squad had the opportunity to come an’ practice a little first aid on ‘em.

The government being what it is I imagine they’re still going to fly around
our mountains looking for the wildwood weeds. I guess next time though they’ll
be a little more careful exactly where they land.

Later, ya’ll

The Rapacious Nudist

2007-10-02T10:49:00.000-07:00

by
Chuck Connors

Were I to be a rapacious nudist,
someone with an unscrupulous way of looking at things you say.
I think you might find that on my birthday,
a bit of an insane snicker to celebrate the day.

Were I to be a rapacious nudist,
it's perfectly alright you see;
as long as I'm true to my calling
and become the swinging dick I was meant to be.

Those Crazy Tourists

2007-09-25T22:32:00.000-07:00

By
Chuck Connors

Up in Minnesota where the ‘skeeter is the state bird folks got a powerful interest
in airport restrooms. No, not them ‘happy’ guys ya’ll might be thinkin’ about; but people
on vacation out to see really weird stuff. Yeah. Folks want to see the stall where that
U.S. Senator from Idaho got arrested. “It’s become a tourist attraction.” “People are
taking pictures,” said Karen Evans, an information specialist at the Minneapolis-St. Paul
International Airport. Get outta here!

Americans will travel thousands of miles to gawk at, take pictures of and
generally go nuts over just about anything new, different or strange. Mark Twain
loved to play the tourist traveling the world. Teddy Roosevelt, one of our greatest
presidents, was awful fond of traveling and seeing strange critters too. Shoot, my
Uncle LeeRoy always said “them tourists come up hare ta tha mountains ta see thangs
so let’s show ‘em some ‘Kodiak’ moments."

He practiced that sayin’ for a lot of years too.

First, he had him a pettin’ zoo. Don’t ‘cha know kids just love them pettin’
zoos? Then he had ‘em a reptile farm an’ bear menagerie filled up with snakes an’ bears
an’ such. It even had a six foot ‘gator Uncle LeeRoy won in a poker game down in
Georgia and smuggled ‘cross the border. If that wasn’t enough, Uncle LeeRoy was
always takin’ them Floridians on tours to see strange sights like Judaculla rock over on
Caney Fork or goin’ on huntin’ expeditions up in the Plott Balsams for the Beejum;
Western North Carolina’s answer to Bigfoot. The tourists loved them squiggly marks but
they never found the Beejum.

Every one of them tourists got their money’s worth seeing something a little
different and educational and all too. Every year there’d be whole droves of ‘em just
a beatin’ down Uncle LeeRoy’s doors just to see the new and different stuff right here in
these famed Smoky Mountains of ours!

Ladies and gentlemen, is there anything educational or worth taking a picture
about of a stall in a men’s room in an airport? If there is I just ain’t figured it out yet!
But then I never was one to hum a tune and tap my toes anyways.

Later ya’ll.

Tastee Freeze Nightmare

2007-09-25T22:09:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

How had they ended up here? The piles of trash, the rats, the screaming kids;
nobody wanted to be here. ‘Here’ was a squatter’s camp in the woods not far from
the Interstate. Joe and Rachel were on the run.

Joe had a history of brushes with the law in the small town where he grew up.
He had started drinking and drugging when he was a kid. Every time Joe got into
trouble with the law he was drunk and high. He had tried a hitch in the Army but respect
for authority was not one of Joe’s strong points. Since leaving the Army he had a
progression of jobs which all ended abruptly because of his ‘attitude.’ Joe believed
none of this shit was his fault and that the “assholes were out to get him.”

The whole fucked up episode started when Joe met Rachel in a mall a few
miles from his hometown. Joe told himself that it would be different this time.

Yea, right.

He could still remember how her ass had looked in the tight pair of
jeans she was wearing when he spotted her sauntering along in front the food court. Joe came up behind her, calling out “hey good lookin’,” and she had turned
around and smiled.

From there it was a lot of tall boys in a beer joint that Joe occasionally shot pool
in and continued with a weekend of rutting like two dogs in heat back at his dingy little
basement apartment in a shitty part of town.

Rachel, it turned out, was just separated from her husband. Her momma had
convinced her that the ex was Rachel’s ticket out of the trailer park she’d grown up in.

Yea, right.

Rachel had come home one morning from her store clerk job at the Quick Sack to
find her hubby busy in bed with her slutty store manager. Rachel screamed “you two-
timin’ motherfucker” and smashed an empty 40 ounce against the side of his head.
Rachel scared the bitch so bad she ran neckked out of the trailer. Rachel filed for divorce
divorce the next day. For the last several days she’d been living in her rusted-out Escort
dodging the bastard.

Joe came to Monday morning with the sound of someone making a god-awful
racket beating on his door. His head felt like a mule had kicked the shit out of him. The idiot didn’t seem to understand that some folks might be sleepin’ in.
“Keep your shirt on asshole”, Joe shouted as he threw on a pair of shorts and stumbled to
the door.

“Let me in you cheatin’ bitch”, shouted an angry male voice on the other side.

It sounded like trouble to Joe as he grabbed a pool cue leaning against the door
jam. Joe threw open the door to a fat, red-faced fool. He was holding a bottle of cheap
wine and had dried puke running down the front of his shirt.

“Hey motherfucker”, the asshole shouted, “you fuckin’ my woman?”

“Fuck you dick head”, Joe replied in a tight voice. “You done lost yore honey to
a real man who knows how to take care of her. I ain’t playin’ yore stupid-ass cheatin’
heart games this morning fool. Get outta here ‘fore I bust yore head.”

The red-faced fat fucker lurched forwards and swung his bottle at Joe’s
head. Joe stepped back but the end of the bottle caught him on the head splattering cheap
wine everywhere. As Joe recoiled he reached over and grabbed the dropped pool cue
and swung on the fat fool. The pool cue made a solid ‘whap’ sound as it connected with
the drunk’s head. The ex slumped to the floor and started pissing himself. Prettysoon he went still. Rachel came through the bedroom door with just a pair of panties on,
took one look at the vomit covered drunk on the floor and started screaming.

“Shut-up dammit, you’ll get the neighbors ‘roused up.”

“Herbie Joe, you killed the bastard.”

“The fucker had it comin’ Rachel. Now we got to get this shit cleaned up.”

They rolled his lifeless body into a ratty carpet and threw it into the back of Joe’s
truck. When night came Joe drove the truck to a dumpster and threw the seemingly
lifeless body into it. The couple packed up a few clothes and such in Joe’s truck, drew
out all of Joe’s slim savings from an ATM and headed west. Joe kept to back roads and
drove at night. They stopped at seedy run-down places to avoid the law. He wasn’t
taking any chances.

The last campground Joe and Rachel stayed at a couple of friendly women
had taken pity on them and loaned them a tent to sleep in. Joe had promised the two
women he’d return the tent when they found a place to stay indoors.
Even as Joe promised the women he knew he was lying. “Fuck those broads, he thought.
It’s about survival.”

Yea, right

Sitting around the campfire, Joe took a hit from the joint he and Rachel
had conned out of the guy at the gas station. Joe held the toke in for as long as he
could. He followed it up with a man-sized slug from the bottle of cheap vodka.
Later, he’d get some pussy for dessert.

They’d eaten pretty good. Larry and Nina had made the chili. Joe and Rachel
had met them in a bar a couple of weeks ago. Joe and Larry had hit it off when neither
could beat each other at pool. Rachel and Nina got along well enough although both were wary of each other. The two couples had hung together since then working odd
jobs here and there. They stole from stores when no honest work showed.

Earlier that afternoon Bill, a single dad with three kids, had pulled into the camp.
He claimed to be from Illinois and seemed a friendly sort. They invited him to supper.

It was a bad decision.

After the chili, a loaf of bread and a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best
were scarfed down they sat around the fire passing around the half gallon of cheap
vodka and twisting up a couple of joints from carefully saved roaches. They were
pretty far gone when the conversation turned to politics.

“What’d ya think about Ross Perot?” Joe said, asking no one in particular.

“Some of tha' things he says sound good,” trumpted Larry.

“Yea if he could get us some fuckin’ work I’d vote for him,” Nina said.

“I think he’s fulla’ shit,” Bill snidely remarked.

“Aw man I think the guy’s pretty stand-up,” said Joe. “He talks like he has a plan to put people back to work.”

“You guys don’t know shit,” Bill said. “The fucker’s just another corporate jerk-
off tellin’ you want ya wanna hear.”

“You’d better watch your mouth ‘round my woman,” Larry said. “I’ve heard too
much of your shit already and I’m about ready to shove my fist down it.”

“Hey guy,” Joe said to Bill, “just chill out.”

“Chill out my ass mother fucker,” Bill said. “What the fuck ya gonna do about
it?”

“For one thing asshole,” Joe said, “I’m gonna pistol whip you with this forty-
five hog leg I got strapped to my hip. And second….”

About that time Larry came out of nowhere with a round house punch
to Bill’s jaw. Joe jumped in and smacked Bill a couple of times with the barrel
of his Colt. After that it was just a flurry of punches and kicks; then nothing but a
blackout.

Joe was getting a blow job from Rachel. She gave damn good ones. “Hey
baby,” Joe said, “just keep lickin’ like it’s a Tastee Freeze--yeah, right.” Something was wrong though. He couldn’t get it up. Joe came out of the dream with Rachel
shouting at him from the door of the tent.

“Herbie Joe we got to get packed up. The deputies say we got a half hour ‘fore
they’re gonna start arrestin’ people.”

“What tha' fuck?” Joe groggily replied. Joe moved and his head felt like it had
been pounded with jack hammers and his mouth tasted like a cat had pissed in it. Joe
thought, “that stupid-assed mother fucker Bill, why the fuck couldn’t he have left well
enough alone?”

The Climb

2007-09-10T10:14:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

The sunlight seemed magical as the shifting patterns of light danced along
the ridges and hollows. The trees swayed in the wind gently murmuring to each otherand the birds’ mating calls proclaimed the age-old rites of spring. It was the day
for the climb up the mountain. Crossing over an old foot log Eddie paused to look down
at the trout holding position in the current of the stream. He wondered what those
trout thought in their tiny fish minds of the huge creature seemingly suspended in
another universe above their lies?

Something caught Eddie’s attention on the bank. An old man shabbily dressed
and leaning heavily on a walking stick hobbled on a path by the creek towards the boy.Eddie wasn’t sure what he might be up to.

“Hey who you be?” said the old man. Grimy and ragged he limped closer and
showed a snaggled-toothed grin.

“My folks named me Eddie, sur and I’m climbin’ to the top of the mountain
today. Have you been up thare?”

“Yep, many times,” replied the old man. “On a clear day you can see all the way
to the settin’ sun—some say even further.

“Is the way passable?”

“Yep,” replied the old man, “but its growed up an rocky an’ steep in
places. Last year another boy was charged by an old boar bear who dens near
the top. The boy ran and the bear caught an killed ‘em. You’d best be careful.”

“Oh I’ll take care,” said Eddie. “No old boar bear is goin’ to stop me from
gettin’ to the top.”

“Keep yur eyes peeled,” said the old man. “he’s liable ta show up when you
least expect ‘em.”

As the old man disappeared in the bushes downstream Eddie gazed up at the ridge
and said a silent, but fierce prayer of determination to the God that the preachers
shouted about. He gripped his stout walking stick, checked his hunting knife
in its sheath and thought “enough, time to do it.”

Eddie walked silently on the path as it gradually wound above the stream.
From time to time he saw dark shapes leaping through the trees. Their piercing
barks and furtive movements marked them as fox squirrels. He had hunted them
with his blow gun in the hollows near his families’ cabin. At other times Eddie
heard loud crashes deeper in the woods. He thought these were probably Elk but
he wasn’t sure. The noises sent shivers down his spine.

Eddie crossed the creek, now only a yard wide and followed the overgrown
path as ancient steps led into a cave-like cleft in the rock. The ceiling was low.
Eddie bent to keep from cracking his head on the jagged rock. Lichen grew on thewalls of the cave. It smelled of bat droppings and things rotten.

Eddie finally emerged from the cleft and stood on a bluff overlooking the
valley. He took a short break. He could see down the drainage for several miles.
A tiny spring came out of the ground between two rocks. Eddie greedily drank all
he could hold.

As Eddie climbed onward, the character of the trail and forest changed.
The trail became steeper and rockier while tall incredibly dense mountain
laurel, impenetrable to humans, replaced the hemlock and rhododendron of the
lower elevations. Eddie looked upward as he heard a high pitched ‘kree kree,’
just able to see the tiny outlines of hawks against the clouds.

Suddenly there was a loud commotion in the bushes just ahead. Cat-like
screams pierced the air as the laurel rocked backed and forth. A fully grown
catamount burst out of the bushes and bounded up the path. Right on its heels
a huge panther leaped out with a roar it’s claws raking at its opponent. Both
cats disappeared quickly leaving a few startled birds and the shaken boy.

Eddie grasped his staff tighter and climbed higher. He finally came
to tremendous sheer cliffs that fell from the top of the mountain far above down
to the valley below. There was only one possible way. A tiny ledge, only a
couple of feet wide, seemed to cross the cliff face. Beads of sweat covered
Eddie’s face as he carefully placed each foot on the loose shale. He used his
staff to test for dangerous spots. Weathered hand-holds helped him to cling
to the rock.

Eddie inched his way several hundred feet across the cliff face when
from around a sharp bend he heard a low menacing growl. Eddie froze.
The sound came again and now it was a roar of defiance and hate. Something
long, dark and low, with lots of teeth and claws came around the bend in the
cliff face. The demonic creature launched itself directly at Eddie’s throat.
Eddie instinctively brought up the end of his staff in a defensive posture.

The thing, mean looking with red eyes and slobbering jaws hit the end of the
staff with its chest, jarring Eddie to his knees. Eddie ducked as the beast flew
past his shoulder. One of its sabered paws reached out and tried to rake Eddie’s
head. Instead its claws ripped the shoulder of Eddie’s hunting shirt. Eddie
managed to pivot the staff and watched as the hell-beast fell into the valley
below. Its crazed screams were extinguished as the faint sound of its body crashing
into tree limbs reached Eddie’s ears. He stood upright and wiped the fear-sweat
from his brow.

Just around the bend the ledge ended. Running in a zigzag pattern up the
cliff was a crack not much wider than his body. Eddie tied the staff to his back
with a short piece of rope and began crawling up the indentation. Each foot he
climbed was taken literally hand over hand and he dared not look down.

Eddie finally clawed his way between two gigantic boulders which were poised
on the edge of the cliff. Crawling up on a flat area Eddie was amazed at what he saw.
Several circles of rocks, each stone larger than a man, stood one inside the other on the
summit. In the very center was a tall flat stone with strange markings on it.
Eddie had heard legends about the top of the mountain but he hadn’t really believed
any of them until now. There was something eerie about the flat stone. It seemed to
somehow not be of this world as it shimmered in the dim light. Poised just over the
summit a gathering of huge blue-black clouds gave Eddie a feeling of an ominous threat.

As Eddie slowly moved towards the summit stone he heard a deep woofing
sound just to the south of the summit. Small Spruce trees were knocked down
or pushed aside. As in a feat of sorcery a huge bear suddenly appeared limping into the clearing.
Its ancient grizzled snout snuffling at the air. Eddie quickly reached behind his back and
untied the staff. The old boar bear, Eddie estimated, looked bigger than one of the heifers
his mother owned. Its fur was shaggy and a nasty stench came from the gigantic beast.

The bruin caught the scent of man-flesh and let out a roar of anger as it began to
lope towards him. Eddie crouched low with his staff extended point first and prepared
to meet the charge of the angry animal. The slavering monster slid to a stop just
a few steps in front of Eddie and reared up with a gigantic roar. Eddie desperately
speared his staff into the chest of the bear before the bear batted the point out and away.

Eddie took a step back keeping the point of the staff directed at the bear. He
told himself that he probably didn’t have much longer to live but he refused to give
up. The bear charged and Eddie thrust the staff into the side of the bear and jumped
to one side. The bear roared, broke the staff into two pieces and tried to wheel.
Its two hind legs slipping on the very edge of the precipice as the monster struggled
to keep from going over. The taloned front paws dug huge furrows in the rocky
soil. The bruin stopped its fall and pulled itself back on to the summit plateau.
The horrible thing was insane with rage. Eddie pulled the large hunting knife
from its sheath. Balancing the heavy blade in his hand he threw the knife as hard as
he could point first into the chest of the bear. The bear swiped at it with one of its
paws but couldn’t brush it free. It charged Eddie.

At that moment a strange blue light seemed to envelope both the boy and
the bear. The air crackled and Eddie’s hair stood on end. He threw himself to one side as
the bear, its huge canines dripping with saliva, attempted to engage him in a death grip.
A bolt of whitish-blue fire streaked from the heavens and struck the ground just in front
of the bear. Eddie was knocked unconscious.

When Eddie regained consciousness he lifted his head and realized his hair and
clothes were smoking from the tremendous heat generated by the bolt. He saw that the
bear had been cooked in a split second and its pelt was on fire. The bear’s eyes still
gleamed with a seeming hunger-hatred.

Eddie staggered to his feet with the noise of the thunderclap still ringing in his
ears. He stumbled over to the tall flat stone and pulled himself up to the top by steps that
had been hollowed out of the side. The stone seemed to vibrate with power.

As Eddie stood it seemed he was on top of the world. Eddie turned to the
West and saw far towards the horizon, where the sun goes to sleep at night, a
tremendous range of snow-capped mountains. Eddie knew now that this had just
been the beginning.

Tootles the Dancing Cat

2007-09-07T10:12:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

Ya’ll might of heard about Oscar the ‘death cat’. He’s the furry nursing home‘therapy’ animal up in Rhode Island that likes to be there at the end. Some folks claim he’s got special powers that give him the inside dope on a patient’s passing. Shoot, adoctor even wrote about him in the high brow New England Journal of Medicine. It all may be true but I sure wouldn’t bet my last dollar on it. Speakin’ of dollars that reminds me of my daddy’s friend Delmar Judaculla Moses and his dancing cat, Tootles.

Now Delmar was always the fast talker—willing to trade for just about anything.
He usually got the best end of the deal too. Delmar ran a produce and souvenir stand
just outside of Dillsboro on Highway 441. When he wasn’t fleecing tourists at the stand
he was installin’ indoor plumbing for the snooty town folks.

One day after school I went over to Delmar’s house to go huntin’ squirrels with
his two boys Elbert and Willie. Delmar had a big cardboard box up under the porch and
said “you boys ken take a look if yore real quiet like.

We poked our noses up under the porch and lo and behold the box was full of
kittens! They was all black ‘cept for one—a scruffy lookin’ gray with four white
slippers. Lookin’ closer, the girl-kitten had something we’d never seen before—a blue
eye an’ a gray eye. After a bit Delmar told us to git and to leave the critters alone.

The next year was a dry spring an’ not much rain a ‘tall throughout the summer.
Hershel Greene, who’d been drilling wells for the folks that just couldn’t cotton
to perfectly good spring water was havin’ a hard time findin’ water for some of ‘em.
Delmar heard about it and called up Hershel sayin’ he figured he had just the thing.
Hershel, knowin’ that Delmar had studied up on some geology when he’d gone to
college figured that Delmar might could help him out, said to come on up to the
drill site near Cashiers.

Delmar drove up bright and early the next morning and got out of the beat-up
Ford pick ‘em-up he drove with a cardboard box that had a bunch of holes poked in it.

“What’ch got thare Delmar?” Hershel said with a big grin on his mug just knowin' that Delmar was gonna pull some sort of trick.

"Oh just this here cat I trained to find water Hershel," said Delmar.

“I know you ain’t trying to mess with me with some kinda foolishness Delmar.”

“Naw, it’s the real thang Hershel. I’ve been trainin’ up this cat for the best part of
a year and she always hits it right on.”

“Now this is somethin’ I’ll just half to see,” said Hershel with a look a pure
skepticism that woulda made one of them college types proud.

Delmar reached in the box and pulled out a scruffy gray queen with white feet
and said “Tootles, its time to go to work.” Delmar pulled out one of those cat toys, a fake
mouse on a string, that you could buy in the dog and cat section of the hardware store
downtown and commenced to dangle it above the cat’s nose. Tootles half-heartedly
batted at it a couple of times and gave Delmar a look as if to say, “is this what you
brought me here for?"

Delmar said “okay Tootles you always want a treat first, here’s ya one. Now
dance for me and find the water,” as he threw the gray a sardine out of a can he’d opened
Tootles leaped for the sardine, ate it and suddenly started to jump up and down like she was on a hot stove. “C’mon now find it girl,” Delmar urged as Hershel looked
on in total disbelief. The cat continued to bounce around on its back paws for about a
minute and suddenly sat down and began to wash its paws. All of a sudden Tootles quit
washing, jumped over to a spot off under a bush and began howlin’ like she was in heat.

“Hershel, that thares whare yore water’s gonna be at—probably purt close to the
surface, the way she was howlin’ and all.”

“Now if that don’t beat all,” said Hershel disbelievingly. “Jus’ how in the name
of all that's holy does that cat now whare the water’s at?”

“That’s were it’s at Hershel and if ya don’t believe me and Tootles well you ken
jus keep hittin’ dry holes” said Delmar as he picked up the cat and got in the truck. “Oh
by the way Hershel that one won’t cost you ‘nothin’—but the next one, well me an’
Tootles charge by the job,” said Delmar as he took off towards Tuckaseigee. It weren’t
but a day or two ‘fore Delmar got a call from Hershel.

“Darned if you weren’t right Delmar. I didn’t drill twenty foot ‘fore we hit a
gusher. I got a ‘nother couple of drill sites up near Highlands if you’d like to brang that
cat.”

Pretty soon word got around that Delmar had a cat that could beat the dowsers
with their sticks just about every time. One afternoon a big fancy Cadillac pulled up
and a flatland city-slicker got out smoking on a big cigar.

“How’re you doin’ today Mr. Moses? My name is John May Pettigrew, pleased
to meet you suh.”

Eye’n the city-slicker up and down, Delmar noticed the Florida plates on the
caddy. “Well I ‘spect I’m doin’ fair to middlin’ Mr. Pettigrew. Kin I get ‘cha some o’
these ripe ‘maters I jus got in?”

“No thank you Mr. Moses, I’ve come to see about buying that amazing Felis
silvestris catus you’ve been using to find water here in these magnificent Smoky
Mountains.

Well I’d be real put out to part with such a valuable cat Mr. Pettigrew,” Delmar
said as he looked the flatlander up and down and knew that he had ‘em in the palm of
his hand.

“Mr. Moses, would $1,000.00 make you more agreeable,” said Pettigrew as he
pulled out a fat wallet?

“I might re-consider let’n you take this here cat off’n my hands for say
$2,000.00,” Delmar said as he scuffed the toe of his beat-up Redwings in the dust.

“Done, Mr. Moses,” Pettigrew said excitedly as he fanned out a sheaf of bills.
Pettigrew tore out of there with Tootles like his pants were on fire. Delmar laughed all
the way to the bank!

‘Course ya’ll know how the story ends. Delmar had trained the cat to dance and
howl when he made a little signal with his hands as folks would be too busy watchin’
Tootles do her bouncin’ and howlin’ act. What happened to Tootles, you say? Well after
the word got out that Tootles was just a good performer Delmar gave her to me. Two or
three kittens in each one of her litters would come to have those strange blue and gray
eyes an’ at least two white paws. They got to be right smart mousers too. Least that’s
what them snooty town folks I sold ‘em to tell me.

Aunt Lucille Whups the Bear

2007-09-07T09:55:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

Some of ya’ll might have heard about the bear that staged a break-in at the WNC
Nature Center in Asheville awhile back. Accordin’ to media reports a yearling black
bear scaled a ten foot fence and dropped in to do a little visitin’ with the center’s
herd of deer. Bob Fay, the nature center’s critter curator, said the deer “didn’t much
appreciate the visitor”. Why wouldn’t Bambi welcome a friendly visit with his ole buddy
Smokey the Bear?

Speakin’ of visitin’ that reminds me of the time brother bear visited my Aunt
Lucille. Aunt Lucille was a nurse up at C.J. Harris hospital and a lot of times she’d
work over-time and get back to the house pretty late. Her husband Rufus would leave the
back door unlocked when he left to go to work at the mill in Sylva ‘cause sometimes
Aunt Lucille would forget her key to the house. The bolt on the back door didn’t catch
too well and Aunt Lucille had been pestern’ Uncle Rufus to fix it for the longest time.
But you know how us men-folks can be with those honey-do’s.

It had been a cool spring with a late freeze and most of the berries and such that
bears and other critters in the woods ate just weren’t coming out. A big ‘ole black boar
bear happened to be huntin’ up some garbage cans close to town and scented Aunt
Lucille’s pot roast simmerin’ on the back of the stove. He peered into the house
and spotted a plate of cookies settin’ on the kitchen table like they was just waiting for
him! Well it weren’t long ‘fore brother bear just happened to nose up to the back door
and give it a little push. The pearly gates opened up and brother bear was in heaven!

First, brother bear devoured the oatmeal-raisin cookies on the kitchen table.
Like a lot of us folks brother bear’s motto was dessert first main course later.
Next he attacked the pot roast on the back of the stove—sliding it frontwards and spilling
the contents all over the kitchen floor. A perfect mess!

After devouring the tasty pot roast off the kitchen floor, brother bear smelled a
strange scent coming from the pantry. He ambled over to the pantry door pushing it
open. There sittin’ in the corner was Uncle Rufus’ beer crock plum full of strong bubbly
brew. After chowing down on the cookies and the pot roast brother bear had a powerful
thirst. He knocked the heavy clay top off and commenced to slurpin’ up Uncle Rufus’
best homebrew.

When ‘ole brother bear was done he belched contentedly and feeling a little
sleepy padded up the stairs wobbling from side-to-side. Nosing the bedroom door open
brother bear saw Lucille and Rufus’ bed which looked just fine for a post-feast nap.

Aunt Lucille came home to find the back door wide open to the world. She
took one look at the hog wallow in her kitchen and just about had a conniption fit.
“That man,” she thought, “he’s a gonna get my broom on his backside” as she
commenced to cleanin’ up.

When Aunt Lucille got done cleaning up the mess she was plum wore
out. As she started to the head of the stairs she could hear the snorin’ and thought to
herself, “Rufe ate all that pot roast, cleaned out the brewin’ crock of homemade beer
and now it sounds like he’s logging the whole forest. Can’t I ever get any rest?”

The light was burnt out in the hallway and Aunt Lucille felt her way up the stairs
to the bedroom that she and Uncle Rufus shared. As she opened the door the snoring
from brother bear sounded like hogs tussling over the feeding trough. Aunt Lucille got
into her night gown and slippin’ into bed gave brother bear a poke with her elbow and
said “Rufe quiet down so’s I can get a little sleep.” Brother bear grunted and shifted in
his home brew induced stupor.

When brother bear wouldn’t quit snoring Aunt Lucille gave the bruin a little
nudge with her hip. Well brother bear didn’t like that too much and gave out a little
growl that made Lucille sit up and take notice. She took one look at who her bed partner
was and sprang out of bed like she’d seen the Booger man himself!

Aunt Lucille grabbed the broom settin’ in the corner and started chasin’
brother bear ‘round the room. Just when she was gainin’ on him the bear would give a
little jump and get away. Finally, Aunt Lucille cornered the poor drunken bruin by the
dresser and gave him a good whop with the broom. Brother bear saw his chance and
leaped towards the window like one of them gold medal winnin’ Olympic high jumpers
and crashed right through it. Aunt Lucille rushed to the window and all she could see
was brother bear high-tailin’ it for the woods like a thirsty man headed for his still.

After that little incident Aunt Lucille made sure Uncle Rufus fixed that bolt on the
back door. So the next time you see brother bear pokin’ ‘round the backyard of your
‘little house in the big woods’ just remember he’s hungry and it’s his front yard!

Uncle Billy Ray's Sheep Get Baptized

2007-09-05T15:57:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

Down in the flatlands of Eastern North Carolina there’s an Apex man that’s
got a powerful interest in sheep. Now just wait a minute ‘for you get the wrong
idea ‘cause this ain’t one of them kinda stories. According to the A-ssociated
Press, David Watts was arrested for having 77 sheep in his house just outside of
Raleigh. The police were called when someone happened to notice “sheep grazing
in the town cemetery.” Investigatin’ further the police discovered Watts kept “some
of the younger sheep on the ground floor of his house” and “others in pens in the
yard.”

Now all this tomfoolery reminds me of the time my Uncle Billy Ray’s sheep
got baptized. Say what? Uncle Billy Ray had a place up Cullowhee creek and was
something of a free spirit and a practical joker. He was known through out the
county for the menagerie of critters he kept too. Besides dogs, cats, pigs, cows and
the odd ‘possum , Uncle Billy had a small flock of Merino sheep. One day Uncle
Billy heard about a new circuit ridin’ preacher in the county so he thought he’d have
a little fun.

Billy Ray invited the new preacher to stay up at his place and the circuit
rider, a Reverend Henry T. Willis, accepted hoping to win another soul for the Lord.
Preacher Willis rode up to Uncle Billy’s place ‘bout a week later on a decrepit old
mule. Billy Ray welcomed the preacher and invited him in to have some victuals.

During the meal Uncle Billy poured the preacher a cup of clear liquid (XXX)
from an old clay jug Uncle Billy kept for special occasions. The preacher took a sip,
made a peculiar face, and said, “Brother Billy this here’s some strange tastin’
water.”

Uncle Billy told the preacher, “why Reverend that thare’s some special water
from my ‘sacred spring’.” “Sacred spring”, remarked the preacher, "I ain't heard a any
a’ them kind a’ miracles ‘round these parts!”

“Yes suh,” said Uncle Billy Ray, “we was havin’ trouble with it runnin’ so’s I got
the old circuit rider, Preacher Jones, ta bless it.” “I dug a pond on the hill out
back and folks been comin’ from all over to get baptized right here in the ‘Holy
waters’ of tha ‘sacred spring’.”

“Praise the Lord,” said the preacher (who was fully took in by Uncle Billy’s ruse),
“it tastes powerful strange but I likes it. Can I git another?”

Much later, after a lot more cups of ‘water’ from the ‘sacred spring’, Uncle
Billy had to pour the preacher into his bed. Billy Ray said the man of the cloth was
just a snoring up a storm.

A little before sunrise Uncle Billy poked the preacher sayin’ “Preacher
wake up there’s sinners to be baptized and souls to be saved from the Devil.”
The preacher, all bleary-eyed and far from sober said, “Brother Billy,
give me a ‘nother cup a’ that sacred spring water so’s I can wet my throat.”

Uncle Billy did, helped him to his feet, and led him in the dark to the
‘baptizing pond’ out back of the house on the hillside. Earlier that morning
Uncle Billy Ray had penned up his sheep right next to the pond and he also had
invited a whole crowd of his friends and neighbors from up and down the creek.
Little did they know just what Uncle Billy was plannin’.

Preacher Willis said a long prayer, not much of which anybody could understand,
and ended with a loud “A-men.” He stepped into the pond and immediately
proceeded to fall flat on his back-side sending a wave of ‘sacred spring’ water
soakin’ the legs of the gathered crowd. Preacher Willis struggled to his feet with a kind
of pinched look on his face and drippin’ wet cried out “Brothers and Sisters we’re
gathered here this fine mornin’ ta’ bring sinners to tha Lord.” “Who’s gonna be
first to be saved?”

Uncle Billy Ray replied, “Preacher, I got a whole bunch of repenters for ya”
“They wuz at a house party up the way an’ lightnin’ struck the house. I think they’s
got the fear of the Almighty in ‘em. They’s ready ta come ta the Lord.”

“Thank ya Brother Billy,” said the preacher. “ Bring me the first sinner.”

Uncle Billy Ray started to open the pen and grab the first ewe. Right then,
my cousin Eugene who’d just come back from Asheville on a late night moonshine
run and had over indulged hisself in several heaping plates of pinto beans and cornbread
at an Asheville greasy spoon, cut loose with what I believe to be the loudest flatulence
ever produced by a human being on Cullowhee creek.

A woman screamed and Uncle Billy’s sheep stampeded knockin’ the pen flat.
Most of the crowd of folks was plum run over by the crazed ruminants. The
‘baptizing pool’ became a riot of floundering humans and struggling sheep.
Preacher Willis had a look of absolute terror on his face as a large ram jumped
up and ducked him under with a loud ‘Baaaa’. Uncle Billy managed to escape a
dunkin’ until one of the angry women threw a lamb in the water at his feet an’
drenched ‘em.

Later on Uncle Billy made a public apology at the Church and even sent
a bushel of apples to the Bishop. I imagine the folks down in Apex will be talking for
sometime about Watts and his sheep just like folks up on Cullowhee creek still
remember the day Uncle Billy Ray’s sheep got baptized.

Cousin Eugene Fights the Train

2007-09-04T07:02:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

Ed Stephens of Dillsboro has a problem with the Great Smoky Mountain
Railroad. According to the Sylva Herald Stephens says the railroad is abandoning
old train cars on his property. Stephens “called them and asked them to remove the
cars.” “They told me to get a lawyer.” Now this wouldn’t be much more than a
‘tempest in a teapot’ ‘cept Stephens drove his pick-up truck up on the tracks and
left it there for a couple of days. Now why would he do a thing like that?

Up here in the mountains where folks have been livin’ real close to each
to each other, cousins and all, for longer than anybody can remember, you got to
expect a little craziness now and then. I don’t know who done what to who
but it sure does recollect me of my Cousin Eugene and the time he fought the train.

Cousin Eugene was a few cards short of a full deck mentally speaking. He’d
got that way by racin’ his homemade chopper-style bicycle through the woods.
For Eugene it was ‘live to ride and ride like hell’ and it seemed that every time I
stopped by to visit he’d hit another rock, flown through air like Evel Knievel the
motorcycle daredevil, and knocked a considerable amount of bark off of a hapless
tree with his head. In fact Cousin Eugene had been held back in the third grade three
times and twice in sixth for his mental deficiencies. Sayin’ he actually graduated would
be kind ‘cause when Eugene turned sixteen he quit darkenen’ the school house door.

Cousin Eugene’s need for speed eventually led him to make a deal with Fred
the junkyard man on Scott’s Creek to let him work stripping cars in exchange for
a beat-up 1962 Chevy pick-up. It back-fired and lurched a lot but it got Eugene
on down the road. Soon as Eugene had real wheels he made a deal with some fellers
(no names please!) up the branch he lived on to haul certain illicit distilled spirits
over to some warehouse in Asheville.

On the way home Eugene always liked to sample a pint (yep in a Mason jar)
of the latest product. By this time the ‘shine might have aged a whole day! Somewhere
between Waynesville and the house Eugene would get a little drowsy from sampling
that Smoky Mountain mother’s milk and usually fall asleep right on one of the
railroad crossings that cut over U.S. 74.

Now Southern Railway, which by the early ‘70s was pretty much running
one passenger and one freight train a day, would sometimes put on an extra freight
to haul cardboard out of the Mead plant in Sylva. All of the regular engineers
knew about Cousin Eugene and had figured out that the easiest way to get him off
the tracks was to drive the engine right up to Eugene’s truck and slowly rev the big
diesel motor. Cousin Eugene would come to, see the immediate necessity of moving
his truck off the tracks and slowly pull off down the road.

One time for some reason or another the extra freight had a substitute engineer
driving it. He was from up north somewhere and had a low tolerance for Southern
‘Hillbillies.’ Cousin Eugene had made it as far as Balsam before passing out on the
crossing and was slumped over the wheel with the beat-up Chevy blocking the tracks like
he owned ‘em. The Yankee engineer gave out a couple of short toots on his air horns.
These warnings weren’t successful in cuttin’ through Eugene’s befuddled head. The
frustrated trainman pulled the train a little closer to Cousin Eugene’s truck and hit
the air horn with a longer, much louder blare, kinda like a thunderstorm reverberating
off Waterrock Knob. Finally the engineer moved right up to Eugene’s truck, gave
it a nudge and cut loose with a blast that could have raised the dead down at Ochre Hill.
Cousin Eugene jumped up, grabbed his 12 gauge double-barreled shotgun and blew the
engine’s head light into a thousand pieces. This scared the Yankee engineer so much
he wet his pants and backed the train up almost to Barber’s Orchard. Eugene calmly
cranked up the truck and headed down to the house.

Later on Cousin Eugene had to pay for the engine’s headlight. I don’t know
if he ever apologized to the substitute engineer though. I reckon if Cousin Eugene
was to pass on a little experience to Ed Stephens of Dillsboro he might say “Don’t
let’em try to scare you with a huff an’ a puff an’ a big noise, ’least as long as you got
a 12 gauge double-barreled shotgun in your pick‘em-up truck.”

The Day Uncle Curtis' Bunnys Did the Town

2007-09-03T17:03:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

Well if this don’t beat all. Over in eastern Germany where lederhosen,
apple strudel, and skin heads are tourist attractions, Karl Szmolinsky is
fixin’ to feed the world’s hungry. Maybe not the whole world, but you’ve got
to start somewhere. And what better place to start than North Korea where
thousands are starving to death every day!

It seems some of Kim Jong Il aka ‘Wacky Kim’s’ people found out
Szmolinsky raises really big rabbits to dress up that sour cabbage that Germans
like to eat. These rabbits, called ‘German Giants’ are as least as big as
Cocker Spaniels. Arf arf. The North Koreans “came here and they checked
out the rabbits,” Szmolinsky told the Associated Press. “They really liked them.”

Well all this foolishness reminds me of my Uncle Curtis. Uncle
Curtis was a good old boy raised right here in the mountains. He was looking
at the Sears and Roebuck catalog one afternoon while taking care of business
in the outhouse. One of the advertisements Uncle Curtis just happened to spot
was selling breeding pairs of rabbits. “Start Your Own Rabbit Farm—Guaranteed to
Make Money,” the ad said. Next thing we kids knew Uncle Curtis was pullin’
up the road with a big crate in the bed of his rusty old Ford. Curtis told us kids to not
mess with nothin’. When he turned his back we peered through the slats in the crate and
poked sticks inside.

The only thing we could see was big floppy ears and brown rat-like noses.
These rabbits didn’t look anything like Bugs Bunny in the cartoons they showed before
the movie in town. Uncle Curtis ran us off and moved the crate into the old tobacco
curing shed and locked the doors. It wasn’t too much later we kids forgot about the
rabbits and went back to fishin’, stealing apples from old man Carter up the road, and
laying out of school when we could get away with it.

Every once in a while Uncle Curtis would haul some big sacks of rabbit
pellets from the general store in town. This was in addition to the sacks of ground
corn and sugar he brought in as raw materials for the still up the branch.

One day, a couple of years later, the whole county was as excited as a hive
of stirred up bees over the news that the Governor was planning on makin’ a
speech in front of the court house. A big fair was planned with a livestock show,
pie eating contest and best of all to us kids, a dunking booth with the Chief of Police
in the seat of honor.

On ‘The’ day Uncle Curtis backed his truck up to the shed and loaded
it with a dozen large crates and threw a big tarp over all of ‘em. He drove to town
and backed right up to the livestock tent. The fair manager ran over and began to
raise a ruckus with Uncle Curtis ‘cause he hadn’t reserved a stall.

Uncle Curtis and the manager disappeared around the corner shoutin’ at
each other. Little Johnny Blanton, who was probably the meanest kid in our school
saw his chance. Johnny snuck up to the truck and unlocked all the cages. The
Governor was just starting to ‘speechify’ up on the stage in front of the court house
when someone cut loose with a string of firecrackers .

That was all she wrote for Uncle Curtis’ bunnies. Seemingly hundreds of
the scared rodents broke free of their prison and started hopping like mad through
the crowd. Women screamed, kids shrieked and men jumped. The Governor’s
bodyguards hustled him off the stage and into a State Patrol cruiser. It looked
for all the world as if downtown Sylva had gone mad.

Later on when things got sorted out Uncle Curtis had to promise the Judge
not to raise anymore rabbits. I believe that eventually the rabbits went to feed the
convicts at the county work farm. Humm, did I say work farm? I guess that’s why
‘Wacky Kim’ wants some rabbits for his people. He better watch out though.
Uncle Curtis could tell him a thing or two about loud explosions and keepin’
rabbits penned up.

Tipping One Back With Baby

2007-09-02T21:20:00.000-07:00

Chuck Connors

Gee, what’ll they think of next. In Olympia, the capital of Washington state,

there’s a state representative that’s proposing that dogs be allowed to drink in bars.

Well not exactly drink although I’m sure that some dog owners might pour a cool

one in one of those collapsible doggy bowls for their thirsty purebreds now and then.

The bill will allow bars and restaurants with liquor licenses to “welcome

dogs, as long as they accompany their owners and remain leashed. Establishments

wouldn’t be required to allow dogs except for service animals.”

This whole business reminds me of the time I was hoisting a few with an

acquaintance of mine in another state when I was much younger and only half

as smart as I am now. My drinking buddy Vic and me were in his pickup

careening down dusty back roads one hot southern summer afternoon. In the back,

as he barely kept the truck between the ditches, was his gigantic female Mastiff

‘Baby’ who occasionally gave out deafening howls. Which upon sober recollection

much later, was probably an indication she was coming into season.

Vic was speeding along and had just spotted a box turtle up ahead to play

‘chicken’ with when I shouted “hey there’s a bar up ahead let’s get some more beer.

Vic immediately forgot all about running the box turtle over and shouted “hell yea

I’m as dry as a bone—we need some more brewskys before we pick up the girls.”

He gunned the motor and simultaneously hit the brakes and we did a near

perfect power slide, with only a little skittering of the rear end on the graveled lot.

The truck came to a stop just a tad cross-ways in front of the place. We both jumped

out slamming the doors on the rusty Ford and ‘Baby’ launched herself out of the bed

and landed in the dirt with a loud ‘woof.’

We all walked in through the open screen door. As our eyes began to

adjust to the dark interior I couldn’t help but notice the juke box blaring an old

George Jones/Tammy Wynette song which instinctively made me feel in my

pocket for my Gerber lock blade—just in case. The honky tonk seemed to have

all of the standard furnishings for a red neck bar in the deep South—a huge

Confederate Battle Flag tacked up on one wall, pictures of NASCAR drivers with

their cars, half-neckked girls posing on out-of-date wall calendars, several tables

and chairs, a pool table, and a long bar at the back.

Behind the bar stood a balding fat man wearing a tee shirt that looked as if

he’d been fixing cars and drinking chocolate milk. “What ya’ll boys drankin’?”, the

Junior Samples look-a-like bellowed at us. Vic hollered back, “give us a couple a

drafts and a case of Bud to go mister.”

While the barkeep was busy drawing us a couple of beers I happened to look

over past the end of the bar. Just to the left of the door that said “This way to Outhouse”

I noticed a big mottled Bull dog spread out in the cool stillness. I thought

sure as all get out there was going to be a dog fight. Next thing I knew Mr. grease

and chocolate stain tee shirt was setting down two dog bowls full of cheap beer

for the Bull dog and Vic’s Mastiff. “It’ll keep them dawgs more socialable boys”,

said the barkeep.

Damned if it wasn’t so. After a few more rounds we all three staggered out

to the truck with our case-to-go and both me and Vic had to load ‘Baby’ up

in the bed ‘cause she sure couldn’t have made the jump in her condition. We sped

off into the gathering darkness all three of us howling at the moon.

So I guess its okay for some Washington state left-coasters to make legal

what we Southerners have been doing on the sly for years. If you want to take your

canine riding partner into the bar with you just make sure you show the pooch

where the outhouse door is.