tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31403253249987761702024-02-20T16:15:05.135-08:00Western North Carolina Writer's UndergroundChuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-76135332241014372242010-11-12T22:16:00.000-08:002010-11-12T22:16:47.269-08:00Protected from the NightThe kind of night where all huddle protected from the<br />
wind and cold—the rain slashing down—seeming death to any traveler.<br />
The predators and their prey snuggled in their dens securely from the storm<br />
burrowed in mounds of leaves heads sleepily bowed.<br />
Yet I walk alone through the blackness with a measured step<br />
frigid drops dripping off my old rain jacket—ice forming in puddles—glassy and smooth.<br />
Tramping through the leaves, up hill and down<br />
spying the occasional glimpse of cheery lights<br />
from little houses in the valley so far below.<br />
Imagining what it is like for those inside<br />
warm and dry and protected from the night.<br />
Am I one of them, fearful of the night?<br />
Or am I something different, closer to wild?<br />
Does it really matter which I am?<br />
Perhaps I am both whether I like it or not.<br />
<br />
<br />
Chuck Connors, October 12, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-48566475181277608062010-11-12T21:47:00.000-08:002010-11-12T21:47:35.478-08:00Wy Don't We Dance?Why don’t we dance, dance through the leaves,<br />
Celebrate the autumn of another year?<br />
Each one us pirouetting on the graves of family long gone;<br />
Doing the two-step of our very lives.<br />
<br />
Why don’t we dance, dance to celebrate, the ending of another year, finally gone by?<br />
Our whoops and our shouts amongst the bonfires,<br />
All cheerily burning, the pyres around us,<br />
Maybe the last year, the last we will ever know.<br />
<br />
Yes, why don’t we dance at the death of the world?<br />
Celebrating the end of all things that we know?<br />
Releasing to the universe our blood and our pain,<br />
Letting go of this life—stepping through to what comes next.<br />
<br />
Chuck Connors, September 17, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-27673313975448367642010-11-12T21:40:00.000-08:002010-11-12T21:40:26.258-08:00Unbreakable BondsDarkest night—endless highway,<br />
Speeding small universes whooshing along.<br />
Dazzling head lights, light up the sky lights,<br />
Cones of sight, cut through the inky forever.<br />
<br />
Each month I go on--I take this journey.<br />
West from the mountains,<br />
East to the coast.<br />
<br />
What drives me onward, mile after mile,<br />
Down the ribbon of highway,<br />
Across the endless flat land?<br />
<br />
There’s nothing greater<br />
Than the pull of a son’s love<br />
To a mother who cared from the very beginning<br />
<br />
These unbreakable, unshakable bonds,<br />
Forged by father and mother in ecstasy, <br />
Continue on, a remembrance of love.<br />
<br />
<br />
Chuck Connors, August 11, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-75981039339028774852010-07-01T20:55:00.003-07:002010-07-03T23:35:52.599-07:00Old BarnOld barn sittin’ on the edge of a grown up field<br />
roof fallin’ in, boards comin’ off, covered up with kudzu.<br />
<br />
How many mules did the old barn shelter;<br />
tractors with implements—hand tools and such?<br />
<br />
Old barn made it through the flood of 1940;<br />
held up through the blizzard of ’93.<br />
<br />
Old barn heard all the kids playin’ in the stalls,<br />
seen the teenagers lovin’ up in the hayloft too.<br />
<br />
A way of life that came, thrived, and now’s<br />
goin’—old barn’s been through it all.<br />
<br />
My granddaddy built the old barn with<br />
a quick mind and strong, rough hands.<br />
<br />
He’s no longer here—been gone almost 20 years;<br />
yet the old barn just lives on and on.<br />
<br />
<br />
Chuck Connors, July 1, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-31696705555045897712010-06-20T06:39:00.000-07:002010-06-20T06:39:29.219-07:00Loved You SoWell dad, how long has it been<br />
since you passed from<br />
us to wherever<br />
it is that we all go?<br />
<br />
I’m sorry I couldn’t say the<br />
things that needed saying,<br />
when I know I should have said them<br />
to you while you were still here with us.<br />
<br />
I remember all the places<br />
we used to go and the things we used to do;<br />
all the great stuff that I learned<br />
from just listening to you.<br />
<br />
If I could travel back in time<br />
So many years ago, to<br />
when I was just a boy;<br />
and live it each and every day.<br />
<br />
I’d listen so much harder;<br />
try to be a better son,<br />
let you know each and everyday<br />
my love and gratitude you’d won.<br />
<br />
<br />
Chuck Connors, June 19, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-27537145919105591722010-06-19T17:38:00.000-07:002010-06-19T17:38:44.494-07:00Rays of the SunWeeding out in the yard<br />
Late one afternoon;<br />
Daisies, marigolds, daffodils,<br />
Violently blooming on the threshold of summer.<br />
<br />
A warm humid day—the air barely stirring.<br />
Sweat darkening my armpits;<br />
Dripping off my nose.<br />
In the distance rays of the sun<br />
Beaming down—searchlights from Heaven.<br />
Casting a golden glow<br />
On everything they touch.<br />
<br />
Chuck Connors, June 18, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-67466798917670156012010-06-07T10:56:00.000-07:002010-06-07T10:58:32.404-07:00A Burning AngerLittle tourist towns way up in the mountains<br />With fancy-pants cafes and snooty up-scale bistros.<br />“Come save with us—our prices rolled back!”<br />Smiling, sweating shop owners chasing the almighty dollar.<br />While regular, poor folks, willing to work for an honest day’s wages<br />Fret and starve back up in the hills.<br /><br />Empty store fronts and half-constructed tacky hotels,<br />Money-hungry small-town politicians bowing and scraping<br />At the beady-eyed millionaire’s feet.<br />Meanwhile, back in the coves and hollers,<br />Hidden from all but the most perceptive gaze,<br />Grows a burning anger in the hearts of the people.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, June 3, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-52180628581764652122010-05-21T10:40:00.000-07:002010-05-21T10:44:06.846-07:00BlacksnakeBlacksnake livin’ in the pottin’ shed<br />hangin’ from the rafters just fine,<br />in walks a lady spots the Blacksnake,<br />screaming and hollering “oh my.”<br /><br />Poor old Blacksnake just hangin’ there,<br />not hurtin’ nobody in the world.<br />Seems some folks don’t like no Blacksnake,<br />Don’t matter if he’s good or bad.<br /><br />If you see a little old Blacksnake,<br />hangin’ from the rafters of your shed.<br />Just leave him alone that Blacksnake,<br />and he won’t drop down on you head.<br /><br />Chuck Connors, May 2, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-58996846437272849782010-04-26T10:55:00.000-07:002010-04-26T10:59:17.943-07:00Smoky Mountain RainSmoky Mountain rain, fresh and clean, driven through the cracks and crevices<br />of the cold crystalline aquifers in the deepest dark far below our warm, sunny world.<br />This precious resource filled up the gargantuan canyons of Earth’s oceans eons ago;<br />long before we humans strutted the stage of creation.<br />It was and is the source of all life, a gift from the Unknowable.<br /><br />Smoky Mountain rain—life-giving moisture;<br />borne on racing continental winds from two great oceans.<br />One warm and tropical, the other perilously cold, far to the setting sun;<br />both contributing the life-giving elixir;<br />falls on some of the oldest mountains in existence.<br /><br />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;<br />surrounded by jagged shards of lightening,<br />followed by the booming of ear-splitting thunder;<br />seemingly mad like two human’s passionate embrace.<br /><br />Smoky Mountain rain, driven, sinks into the earth<br />through the humus and topsoil, trickling into the depths.<br />A joining of two elementals, water and earth;<br />bursting forth in springs, streams and rivers,<br />giving life to everything it touches.<br /><br />Smoky Mountain rain, nobody owns it; although some might think so.<br />All share in its benefits.<br />All suffer from its absence.<br />No one owns the Smoky Mountain rain.<br />Smoky Mountain rain—the source of all life.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, March 26, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-86442525100805673932010-04-26T10:49:00.000-07:002010-04-26T10:51:51.581-07:00What If?‘Big men’ come and swoop down upon us<br />like hawks diving down on cowed, helpless mice.<br /><br />They come, whether we want them to or not,<br />like bad weather or other natural disasters.<br /><br />What if ‘big men’ didn’t come,<br />staying away and left us free and unmolested?<br /><br />What if, when ‘big men’ came, swooping down upon us;<br />expecting to take all they want (and more);<br /><br />one mouse turned around, holding and aiming a rifle<br />and shot the hawk out of the sky?<br /><br />What if?<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, April 24, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-91213473449485372722010-04-26T10:39:00.000-07:002010-04-26T10:47:12.204-07:00Sweet SurpriseA riot, an explosion, a conflagration of colors;<br />Spread across the land according to the laws of the Creator.<br /><br />Brilliant yellows, dark forest greens, gentle pinks, and dazzling whites;<br />A collage of colors burst forth from the earth.<br /><br />Every spring, life comes springing up like a colorful jack-in-the-box<br />With a big stupid grin, silly hat, and surprising you when you least expect it.<br /><br />Silly, ignorant humans; always being surprised by spring springing<br />like we’d never seen such a sight before.<br /><br />Yet if I was never surprised, and maybe even a little bored with the prospect<br />of the rejuvenation of life every year; would life be worth the living?<br /><br />Count me among the silly and stupid for if I were to live for a thousand more<br />years through such beginnings I’d always be amazed at nature’s sudden, sweet surprise.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, April 11, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-3650189796529877582010-04-06T23:21:00.000-07:002010-04-06T23:28:50.939-07:00Vigilant Gray CatTree swallows, Blue birds, and little Finches hop around;<br />A couple of Starlings fighting at a feeder.<br />While under them, hiding, hungry in the grass;<br />A vigilant gray cat waits for his chance.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, April 3, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-81803177224121629482010-03-21T10:44:00.000-07:002010-03-21T10:51:07.014-07:00Cold Rains of SpringThe cold rains of spring come every year;<br />Driving down from the heavens,<br />Flashing from the dark cloud masses,<br />Creating a muddy mess of bogs, puddles, and torrential streams.<br /><br />Humans hunched over against the gusts scurry about<br />Encased in Gore-Tex and plastic grimacing at the windy wetness.<br />Cars and trucks driving on dirt roads and grass driveways,<br />Spinning tires helplessly boring tracks into the sodden turf.<br /><br />Cold winds whip the rain into a pagan frenzy,<br />Piercing every crack and cranny,<br />Thundering upon the rooftops, battering against windows and doors,<br />Wetting all, inside and out, like the waves of a stormy merciless sea.<br /><br />Beasts of the fields huddle furtively under bushes and rocks;<br />In their dens praying in their primitive minds while<br />Hungry bellies rumbling, beseeching, cry out for a coming soon of<br />Sunshine, warmth, dryness and life-giving food.<br /><br />Only poets and madmen wander around on such days<br />Staring upwards with mouths agape<br />Feeling the pressure of the rain on their upturned faces<br />Laughing joyfully, manically—with complete abandon.<br /><br />Wondering, hoping, willing for the wildness of it all,<br />The spiritual connectiveness to all things—praying that the<br />Cold rains of spring last forever;<br />For at least this year…<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, March 17, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-37594635016575674392010-03-01T10:16:00.000-08:002010-03-01T10:17:26.637-08:00See What Attracted Me!Giant bulldozers cut across contour lines;<br />Up and down hillsides, slicing through the forest mat;<br />Grinding and crushing the bones of the mountains.<br />“See what attracted me!”<br /><br />Cutting back hillsides, leveling out home sites;<br />Raw red earth spilling into streams;<br />Lifeblood of the land spurts away.<br />“See what attracted me!”<br /><br />The sound of hammers echo off the mountainsides;<br />Power saws rip down trees for ‘million dollar’ views;<br />Construction trash and empty liquor bottles despoil the land.<br />“See what attracted me!”<br /><br />Trout streams buried in plastic pipes;<br />Non-native grasses kept artificially alive;<br />Fertilizer run-off of golf courses poisons the drinking water.<br />“See what attracted me!”<br /><br />The landslides slip and slide<br />Way down the mountain sides,<br />Just like groupie panties in the locker room.<br />“See what attracted me!”<br /><br />Later, when all is destroyed<br />Having created this artificial ‘paradise;’<br />Only then do the people cry and scream:<br />“See what attracted me!”<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, February 22, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-22198155165191523262010-02-24T14:31:00.000-08:002010-02-25T13:43:14.169-08:00A Good CauseA roomful of people,<br />All there for a good cause.<br />Tickets sold for a fundraising supper;<br />Proceeds to neuter homeless dogs and cats.<br />Singer-song writer crooning in a corner;<br />Cheery groups talking animatedly at tables.<br />Fraternity boys serve drinks and food;<br />Your choice tonight, meat or vegetarian.<br />Are we being smug and self-serving,<br />By just donating money,<br />Signing up for a raffle,<br />Thinking the problem’s solved?<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, February 23, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-53516195850262129992010-02-05T13:14:00.000-08:002010-02-05T13:16:43.698-08:00TerrifyingRecord snowfall, second of the season;<br />Winter world, everything white.<br />Lines of vehicles stalled in the drifts;<br />Others like me slip-sliding along.<br />Terrifying long, long minutes;<br />Unsure if I will make home safe and sound.<br />Staring at the blowing snow;<br />Thinking of your warm embrace;<br />Your tender lips, your sweet, sweet taste.<br />When I am next to you—the terror leaves me;<br />Enfolded by your loving embrace.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, January 31, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-5813376942358024492010-02-05T13:10:00.000-08:002010-02-05T13:12:41.717-08:00Heart's DesireYou are my heart’s desire,<br />through you I gain my strength.<br />Your caring and compassion,<br />help me to live fully each day.<br /><br />When I see your face,<br />hold you in my arms,<br />whisper in your ear,<br />life becomes a wonderful song.<br /><br />The sun seems so much brighter;<br />the flowers all ablaze;<br />the scent of you when we embrace<br />overpowers all my cares.<br /><br />You are my heart’s desire,<br />the one I searched for so very long.<br />With God’s help we will be together,<br />as long as He Wills it to be.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, January 21, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-67576669775736977432010-02-05T13:04:00.000-08:002010-02-05T13:09:12.261-08:00Wonderful DreamSitting in another business meeting,<br />Daydreaming about things I want to do with you.<br />Last night I couldn’t kiss you enough,<br />Cross-eyed crazy in your embrace.<br />What would it be like to be with you,<br />From here on out to the end of time?<br />To wake each morning—look into your eyes,<br />Taste your lips and inhale your musk.<br />I’ve waited so long for my dream girl,<br />Are you the one He sent to me?<br />A kindred soul on the journey of life;<br />You’re a wonderful dream I haven’t earned.<br />Millions of people constantly searching;<br />Only a few joyfully finding each other at last.<br /><br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, January 17, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-91457752098819952582010-02-05T12:31:00.001-08:002010-02-05T12:48:54.051-08:00In the FieldsIn the fields lives my loneliness,<br />Out in the fields in the middle of nowhere.<br />Totally naked I hide in the grass,<br />Shivering in the emotional cold.<br />Staring out to where the people are,<br />Not interested in what they say or do.<br />Since you’re gone I’m filled with loneliness,<br />Not caring whether I live or die.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, January 19, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-89755863521867140712010-01-18T10:51:00.002-08:002010-01-18T10:55:56.957-08:00Home AgainPicking you up from the airport;<br />jet airliner bringing you home once again.<br /><br />Waiting for the plane in the cold wind,<br />while the sun brings glory to the West.<br /><br />How long has it been since I’ve touched you?<br />Almost a million miles ago it seems.<br /><br />Absence doesn’t get any easier,<br />when your face won’t leave my dreams.<br /><br />Seeing your smile, hearing your laugh;<br />they fill every room that you’re in.<br /><br />Eagerly searching for you,<br />finding you at the baggage claim.<br /><br />Could my mind be playing tricks on me?<br />Or are you more beautiful than before?<br /><br />Overwhelmed, I rush to your side;<br />feeling the resonance of our two smiles.<br /><br />Feeling your warmth I hug you closely;<br />safe in each other’s arms—home again.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, January 15, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-37234149545513873052010-01-09T06:41:00.001-08:002010-01-09T06:44:15.179-08:00Halls of the DyingLate at night, when only a few ghost-like workers are stirring<br />I enter the hallowed halls of the dying.<br />Like a crypt, everything dark, I feel my way from doorway to doorway<br />hearing the groans and the cries of the dying.<br />Ghastly sounds reverberate through these forbidden caverns;<br />lost souls forever grasping for salvation.<br />Creeping along, my senses alert for hidden dangers<br />I pause in front of one room and<br />the smell tells me where I am.<br />Stepping into the room, almost stumbling over tubing and wires,<br />I see the form of something on the bed;<br />it’s chest rising and falling slowly.<br />Peering more closely at it<br />I see my father’s body, and my face.<br />I recoil in horror…<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, January 6, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-55370166042816863902010-01-02T11:20:00.000-08:002010-01-02T11:24:00.266-08:00White CrossesWhite crosses alongside the road<br />honoring the memory of the recently slain.<br />How did it come that these people died<br />here—what were they like, while they still lived?<br /><br />Cars and trucks speed past obliviously,<br />ignoring the ghosts of the freshly passed.<br />Each one of us hopes that we’ll still be remembered;<br />long after we’re gone to the other side.<br /><br />But what if no one<br />visited us or mourned?<br />Left us for dead,<br />our faces forever forgotten in time.<br /><br />What must it be like to have a memorial,<br />all painted and white,<br />with flowers and trinkets,<br />alongside a road where no one ever stops?<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, January 1, 2010Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-57108607258275053982010-01-02T11:13:00.000-08:002010-01-02T11:17:48.256-08:00Early Morning DepartureDriving you to the airport for an early morning departure,<br />Wind blowing the rain against the wipers of the truck.<br /><br />Lifting your heavy bag it thumps on the pavement,<br />Wondering to myself just what you could have packed?<br /><br />Ducking out of the storm, bursting into the check-in,<br />Runaway children caught in a moment of time.<br /><br />Saying my farewells I look into your eyes;<br />Wishing you a safe journey, Godspeed to your kin.<br /><br />Sharing one last long, tender hug;<br />My eyes linger on you, wanting to remember always.<br /><br />Dazzled by your smile and the blue of your eyes,<br />The warmth of your body radiates into mine.<br /><br />Tearing myself away,<br />I venture out into the dawn.<br /><br />Trudge to my truck,<br />Look up at the sky.<br /><br />Driving away, lost in my musings.<br />I smell your perfume, the scent of your hair.<br /><br />Rolling through the storm, staring at the road;<br />Praying for your safe return; wishing you were here.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, December 25, 2009Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-35032554299108688692009-12-16T14:39:00.000-08:002010-02-07T12:14:47.973-08:00My Daddy's FuneralMy 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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. <br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br /> 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. <br /><br /> 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!<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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!<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /> <br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br /> 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.Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3140325324998776170.post-48595963408888649942009-12-09T08:28:00.000-08:002009-12-10T21:32:45.626-08:00Taking Them HomeChristmas parades all over the land;<br />High school bands marching down Main Street.<br />Baton twirlers leaping towards the sky;<br />Fire engines with flashing lights and blowing sirens.<br /><br />Pretty girls waving from convertibles;<br />Fat, laughing Santas throw candy from the floats.<br />Little children chase after the tossed treats into the street.<br />Everyone laughing, all are smiling.<br /><br />Yet back in the shadows, some watch in silence;<br />Little girls and boys who didn’t make it to Christmas;<br />Their lives cut short by horrible abuse.<br />None wants to remember or even to care.<br /><br />After the parade,<br />The noises extinguished,<br />The bright lights darkened,<br />Families gone away.<br /><br />An angel floats up the street<br />All smiles and love.<br />Embracing the waiting children;<br />Taking them Home.<br /><br /><br />Chuck Connors, December 8, 2009Chuck Connorshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16581627286283875168noreply@blogger.com0