Tales from the Hogback #10, Smedley's Christmas Adventure

Smedley's Christmas Eve Adventure

There was a strange, burning ache right between Smedley's shoulder blades.  He knew it well.  In fact, whenever he felt the stabbing pain he thought of his childhood.  He and his brothers would make kites, and during the blustery days of March would go out to fly them.  Often Smedley would return with that ache.  "Growing pains," the old folk called it, but he hadn't grown out of it yet. 

"That was a long time ago." thought the parson.

Surveying his situation he knew it was months until March and miles until home.  The ache in his back and the numbness in his toes & fingers only reminded him of the fix he had gotten himself into.

The family had eaten supper early that Christmas Eve.  Jim Bob was sure he knew where that big buck passed just before dark and he wanted to get there in plenty of time, so he would be still and quiet before he came through.  After the meal, Jim Bob left with his shotgun, and the younger Smedleys settled down to read their new books, while Flora Jean cleaned up the kitchen.  There were a couple of hours before the Christmas Eve Service at the little white meeting house, so Parson Smedley decided to go see the Widow Douglas. 

Flora Jean didn't much like the idea.  For one thing, Sairee had pulled up lame earlier in the week, so her husband would have to walk, and for another, she didn't like the look of that sky.

"You worry too much, Flora Jean,"  Smedley said as he put on a canvas slicker over his old black Parson's coat.  The walk'll do me good.  Lord knows I need it after that meal."

Flora Jean was about to say something about the second piece of pie, but Smedley already had the door open.  "I'll see you at the church," then added with a chuckle, "Tell Ole Dead Eye, I'll help 'im skin that buck after the service."

Smedley knew there was more to it than just a sick mule and a threatening sky.  He'd been through it before and wasn't really ready for a round on Christmas Eve.  The Widow Douglas was--well, Smedley put it this way:  "Right many big muckety muck preachers 'n' such is goin' to be might surprised when the crowns is passed out.  They'll be way back yonder 'n' some angel will come 'n' fetch a few of 'em to help that sweet ole lady carry the load a crown's she'll be gettin'"  Flora Jean loved the old saint as much as her husband, but on Christmas Eve? 

"I can't see why that no-account son a her's can't leave that jug alone one night out of the year."  If she had time to talk it out she would have told Smedley to go on with her blessing, but right now she just wanted her husband near.

By the time Smedley arrived at the Douglas house he was more than glad for the fire that Rachel, the widow's kind neighbor, had built in the stove.  Mrs. Douglas knew from the blast of cold air that rushed in and snuck under her quilt that it was cold outside, so she said nothing while the Parson warmed himself by the fire.  She couldn't speak loud enough for him to hear and she knew he was too polite to ignore her, so rather than pull him away from the circle of warmth she just smiled and waited.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Douglas. Don't you look fine this evenin?"

"Oh, this old thing?" she replied, pulling at the collar of the lace gown Rachel had helped her into earlier.  "My Granny did the tatting, afore you wuz born."

"Well, it sure becomes you."

When Smedley pulled out his Testament so that he could read the Christmas story to the dear lady he thought he could see the very star of Bethlehem shine in her eyes.

The warmth of the fire and the glow in his soul warmed the parson as he stepped back out into the cold, but soon the cold had so penetrated that it was no longer something around him it was with him.  It couldn't be ignored.

In fact, his face was so cold that at first he didn't notice the sleet.  Now it was steady and the wind was up, and the moon that the Parson had counted on to light his way to the little White Meeting House was nowhere to be seen.  It was getting harder & harder to follow the trail.  If it hadn't been that the trail followed the bank of the creek with its quiet murmuring, the Parson would have been lost for sure. 

"To get to the meetin' house I got to turn up the hill from the creek after I pass the Machachen's pasture."  Smedley thought he could probably hear the sounds of the cattle and know when he was there.  "But whut am I gonna follow after that?  I might as well be in a sack for all I kin see."  And then there was that ache.  It told Smedley that he was cold--colder than he had been "since I kin remember."

Lonzo Cambell's house was just up a spring branch from the creek.  "I'll probly step in it, afore I know where it is." he thought, but when I get to it, I'll go up there 'n wait this thing out with Lonzo 'n his family. 

"Lord, help Flora Jean to not be worried."  The Parson prayed out loud.   "Remind her that I been out in worse'n 'is--not much worse though, Lord.  Lord help that boy-a mine to be OK.  He's a good'n, Lord, 'n I thank Thee fer 'im."

Sure enough the first notice Smedley had that he had reached the little stream was the sound of his feet splashing water.  It alarmed him that he didn't feel the water that he knew had come in through his old boots.  He realized that meant his feet were very cold.  A worry as persistent as the ache in his neck began to creep into his soul.  This was no longer just a matter of comfort.  Smedley had lived in these rugged mountains long enough to know that he was in real danger.

"Lord, I'm ready to go, but I cain't say that I'm really interested in goin' out in a chunka ice.  It's up to thee, Lord, but I jest want Ya to know that if I have my druthers, I'd like to spend Christmas day with my family.  Lord, you know I meant well, but I should a listened to Flora Jean.  Lord how many times have I had to pray that?"  Thank you, Lord for that woman.  And, Lord, if it please Thee, help me to get out-a this, so I kin see her again.  I reckon she's worried sick right now, Lord.  Help her know your blessed presence.  Amen."

By this time Smedley knew, or thought he knew that he should have seen some light from the Campbell house.  "Surely it cain't be snowin' sa hard that I cain't see the light in their winder."  Smedley reached down to gauge the depth of the snow with his hand.  Not only did his hand come up full of icy, wet snow, but his mind began to fill up with an apprehension that he couldn't talk himself out of.

"All right now," Smedley said aloud, "its dark.  I'm gittin' really cold, and I need to git in somewhere right quick.  If'n I'm gonna freeze I ain't gonna do it standin' here, I'm gonna try to git somewheres.  I reckon it must be snowin' hard enough that I cain't see the light in Lonzo's house, but I know it's just up the branch from the creek, so I'm a gonna keep on goin' thata way."

"Winds dyin' down?"  Smedley thought.  But when he stopped to listen he could still hear the wind moaning in the trees, but it sounded far away.

"Lonzo's house is in a cove where two ridges meet.  It could be that I'm right at it 'n' that's why the wind ain't blowin'.  The rise is blockin' it from where I'm at."

Smedley slowly turned all the way around to see if he could see anything.  Anything that would help him find the shelter he so desperately needed.  He looked hard as if by effort he could cast a light.  Everywhere he looked was blackness, blackness and silence.

"What was that?"  The parson moved in the direction from which he thought he heard the sound.  A few steps, stop and listen, a few more.  His actions reminded him of Jim Bob.  "I wonder if he got that ol' buck?" 

There it was again.  Smedley stood until he imagined the snow would pile around his feet preventing him from ever moving again.  His ear searched the night for the sound.  Yes, without a doubt.  It was the snort of an animal, the kind one makes to blow the dust out of its fodder.  Could it be?  Smedley moved now with purpose and speed.  In fact, his speed was such that he ran smack into the fence around Lonzo's stock lot. 

"Best bruised shin I ever got!"  thought Smedley as he followed the fence to the barn.  When the rail met the building Smedley climbed over and felt along the wall until he came to the door. 

It was even darker inside, or it seemed so.  Maybe it was just because Smedley knew that the shelter would block whatever light there was outside, so he imagined it was darker.  Most important it was warmer, or maybe less cold would be a better description.  Smedley stopped again and listened. 

"Must be several head a cattle in here.  I wonder if ole Babe is here?"  Babe was an enormous and equally ancient Ox.  Lonzo should have killed him for the stew pot years ago.  Now he was so old and tough he wouldn't even do for that, but still, Lonzo let him take up space in the barn and eat corn and hay that could have gone to productive beasts.  Babe and Thunder had pulled the logs that became the Cambell house.  They had pulled the first plow that broke this ground.  They had hauled the corn to the crib after the first harvest.  Lonzo said, "I figger I owe my life to those beasts many times over.  It jest wouldn't do to eat one of 'em."  So he cared for them like old family members.  Thunder was buried out behind the barn where Babe would soon join him.

Smedley was vaguely aware of all that, but right now Babe represented something far more important.  The old Ox represented heat, heat in a body so old and slow that Smedley wouldn't have to worry about getting gored or kicked in the dark. 

"That sounds like 'im."  Smedley thought.  He reached between the rails into the stall and sure enough his hand landed on the huge head.  "Steady ol' boy.  I ain't gonna make you do anythin'.  I jest wanna sit with ya fer a spell."  Babe snorted as if in reply. 

With the old horse blanket and tow sack that he'd found as he felt his way around Smedley entered the stall.  Wrapping himself as best he could he got as close to the ancient beast as he could.

"I reckon I'll jest hav'ta wait this out." 

"Meow." 

Feeling a cat rub against his leg would normally have caused Smedley to shoo it away, but tonight with a heart full of gratitude Smedley reached and picked up the bundle of warm fur. 

"Well Mrs. Cat, if you knew what I normally think of your kind, you'd have nothing to do with me, but I must confess I sure am glad to see ya tonight."

Maybe the cat was cold, too, but for whatever reason she offered no resistance when Smedley lowered her down into his coat.

"Lord, I believe I'm gonna make it now.  Thank you fer' lettin' me find this barn, 'n' thank ya fer keepin ole Babe alive long enough to provide me with some heat, 'n', Lord, I didn't think I'd ever say it, but I thank thee fer this cat."  Lord, don't let my loved ones be too worried.  Warm their hearts jest like your warmin' me. . .  "

He didn't finish.  Soon, the preacher’s snores were mingled with the cat's purr and the ox's wheezing old breath.  While outside the storm blew out its fury, in a pocket of pungent warmth the Parson slept.

He had no way of knowing how long he had slept.  He awoke, stiff from the awkward position, with the knowledge that something was different.  The wind--it had died to perfect peace.  And through a crack in the wall he could see a star--brilliant, piercing, wonderful.  Life is never so precious as when we come near to losing it.  Smedley was still a little cold.  What warmth he had came from himself and an ox and a cat.  He smelled of manure and horse and ox, and "Only the good Lord knows what." but he was glad--very glad--to be alive.

Then it dawned on him:  It was Christmas Eve.

"Away in a manger no crib for a bed.

The little Lord Jesus lay down His sweet head.

The stars in the sky looked down where he lay.

The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay."

All at once all the cracks on that side of the barn were filled with light. 

"Cain't be angels?  Can it?"  thought the parson, as he threw off his wrap and scurried out between the rails.  He threw open the door to be greeted by the chorus,

"Merry Christmas, preacher."

The yard was full of horses and dogs and men--angels all.  Before he knew it they had him on the back of a horse.  They made the short ride over a rise to the Cambell house.  Warm fire, hot soup, dry clothes, what luxury the preacher thought.

"Yer, welcome to stay preacher, but I reckon you'll be wantin' to git home to yourn afore Christmas mornin’."  Lonzo said, and nothing would do him but to hook up the team and take the preacher home.

_____

Smedley and Flora Jean just sat by the fire the rest of the night.  Smedley told about his adventure.  Flora Jean just listened, her eyes reflecting the gratitude to God that her husband had been spared.

It was a joyful Christmas morning at the Smedley household--a hearty breakfast, simple gifts given out of love shared with one another, the story of Christmas read from the Bible.  The morning became a wonderful day.  Neighbors and church members stopped by to share their greeting.  All were amazed at the parson's tale and grateful for his deliverance.

All day long Smedley had gladly kept the fire going.  Now in the evening, he sat and watched the flames dance, and thought.  "Flora Jean wus right.  It was foolish to go all the way out to the Widder Douglas' house when the weather was threatenin' the way it wus.  A feller's got to use some sense." 

Smedley heard the knock on the door, but let one of the others get it.  In a moment, though, by the way Flora Jean placed her hand on his shoulder Smedley knew he better come.  It was Rachel, the woman who looked after Mrs. Douglas. 

Smedley knew before she spoke.  When Rachel came this morning to fix Mrs. Douglas breakfast she found her in her bed, still wearing the special gown, cold and still.

"I saw her last night, parson.  After that storm kicked up I went over to check on her.  She was fine.  I put some wood on the fire.  She told me she was glad you had come."

------

"Why don't you come on to bed?"  Flora Jean coaxed.

"I will just as soon as I put some more wood on this fire." 

As Smedley starred into the flames, he knew that he couldn't answer the question that had hung around him all day.  Should he have left home and gone out last night?  He didn't know.  The thought of the pain that he had almost cost his family pierced his heart like the ache last night had penetrated his back, yet to be the bringer of joy to a dear saint on Christmas Eve, her last night on earth, the thought of that warmed Smedley's heart as the fire warmed his skin.

"Lord, I reckon I ain't smart enough to figure this one out, but I know that you left all for me.  Help me Lord to realize that there ain't no way to serve you without me leavin' somethin', too. 

Amen 'n' good night.

Previous Tale  --  Next Tale

Tales From the Hogback #9, A Strange Perfume

A STRANGE PERFUME

It permeated their hearts as surely as it had permeated that little room--For her, the ever-present assurance of a love few will ever know; for him, the indescribable definition of what it means to be a man.

"Lord, it ain't right en' you know it!"

No sooner had the words rolled off Smedley's tongue than he began feverishly looking around from his perch on Sairee's back to see if anyone--that is any one other than the Lord--had heard. 

"Now Lord, You know I'm a contented man, a thankful man, a man that ain't et up with worldly ambitions.  I figured out long ago that I ain't 'bout to get rich preachin' up here on the Hog Back.  I'm content though; I'd jest as soon be buried out behind the little white meetin' house as in the fanciest churchyard in the country, but this is jest more'n I can bear!"

Sairee had a peculiar way of knowing when the preacher's mind was occupied with thoughts other than forward progress.  At those times, like right now, her gait would become a slow, smooth, leisurely walk.  It was as if the mule realized that if she didn't jostle the parson out of his reverie then she could go on at a comfortable pace all the while enjoying a mouthful or two of the delicacies that the roadside offered, but which normally she and Smedley rushed by in sanctified haste.

Smedley's dark meditation was soon ended, not by any lack of caution on Sairee's part, but by the sound of an approaching buggy.  It had been Smedley's notice of this buggy, when it was just a dust-plumed speck on the next ridge, that had cast him into the doldrums.

"Howdy Parson."

"Why, hello, Doc. Lazwell," Smedley intoned, with what he hoped was a sufficiently cheerful voice and smile.  "I hope it ain't bad news that brings you up to the Hog Back."

"Well, no Parson, as a matter of fact, it's just the opposite.  Young Missy Bedletter just gave birth to twin boys.  Missy and Clyde, not to mention the grandparents, are as proud as a mule that won the Kentucky Derby.  'Course you understand, now, Parson, that's just a way of speaking.  Personally, I don't go in for that horse racing."

Normally the mere mention of gambling of any kind would have caused a sermon to begin to rise up in Smedley.  Not infrequently it would spew forth.  Today, however, Smedley wondered if his agitation had shown on his face and been confused by Doc. Lazwell as confirmation that the Parson believed the stories about the Doctor's flatland excursions to play the ponies. 

Mustering what he hoped was a pleasant face, Smedley responded, "No offense taken Doc.  I reckon Missy 'n the two young fellars are all right then?"

"Just fine, why I wasn't any more needed than an alarm clock in a chicken house.  Clyde and Claude will be up to Sunday School before you know it.

"By the way, how's that boy o' yours doing with that broken leg?"

"Fine, Doc.  He's been usin' a walkin' stick jest like you said.  We'll bring 'im down ta see ya in a week."

"Give my best to the Mrs, and tell that boy to take care of that leg."  The doctor said as he clicked to the flawless chestnut mare who with eager, fluid strides soon caused the black and brass buggy to disappear in a cloud of dust.  When the rig next appeared it was part of a postcard scene--the dark buggy moving smartly through rolling green along the blue and white ribbon of river in the valley below.  By the time Smedley lifted his gaze from the Doctor's vanishing rig Sairee had eaten all the available tid-bits.  In fact it was her stretching for a particularly tempting shoot that finally brought Smedley around.  Sairee was glad for that last mouthful, for there was no leisure the rest of the way home.

___________

"I just can't get it to work out right."  said Smedley as he reached for another biscuit.  "Either I have just a little gravy left and I need another biscuit or I have just a bite or two of biscuit and I need some more gravy.  I'm gonna try one more time 'n then quit." 

Having finally achieved equilibrium, Smedley announced, "I saw Doc. Lazwell today."  Flora Jean's inquisitive blue eyes encouraged him to go on. 

"Missy Bedletter had twin boys today."

"My, she must have been surprised.  Of course those Bedletters always were quick multipliers." 

A half audible, "Uh huh," was Smedley's only reply. 

Flora Jean waited for more; in fact, she waited so long that the dish water, in which she washed and rewashed the last bowl, got cold.  "Did the doctor say anything else?"  She finally coaxed.

"Oh, just this 'n that--he did say to tell ya'll howdy." 

Flora Jean listened to her husband's voice trail off to a preoccupied murmur, then she watched him.  She watched him a long time.  The parson, locked in some struggle behind a blank out-of-focus stare, didn't notice. 

Flora Jean could enumerate many reasons that she loved this simple country preacher.  She loved him.  There was no doubt about that.  Tonight she loved him for that tenderness that was so rare in a man in that rugged country.  Boys in the hills were taught not to cry.  Like the blind fish that live in caves lose their sight, most men lost the unused ability to cry before they were fully grown.  Flora Jean, with mixed emotion, had watched her own sons stoically face pain of body and heart.  "It was a hard life.  One had to be strong, yet..."  She could only hope that the tenderness that she so loved in her husband would live on in her sons.  Most mountain men quit crying all together about the time they got their first shotgun.  A few, like Smedley, still cried, but only on the inside.  "How terrible," thought Flora Jean, her own eyes moistening, "to not stop feeling the pain and yet not have the soothing relief that tears bring."

No one else in the world would have known.  Flora Jean had no idea why, but she was sure.  Behind the blank stare her husband was crying.

"I'm goin' out to shut up the hen house.  That ole fox has been prowlin' lately 'n I don't want to loose one of my pullets to that rascal."  Smedley's nod was all the response she received.

Jim Bob's bad leg wouldn't let him get out of the way of his mother soon enough.  Jim Bob had been avoiding her every chance he could lately, and when he too had noticed his father's melancholy he made up his mind to stay out of her way tonight, but the game leg, and the fact that his crutch was not at hand, kept him from dodging soon enough.

"Jim Bob, do you know what's wrong with your Pa?"

Jim Bob used his broken leg as an excuse to stall.  The time between the question and his settling his six-foot frame onto a milk can left by the shed couldn't have been very long.  Yet in that moment Jim Bob saw his mother in a way he'd never quite seen her before.  For the first time he saw her not just as his mother, but as a woman.  "A right pretty woman too," he observed as he saw her face softly lit by the last says of the sun.  He knew why his father loved this woman.  He knew why it had been so important that their secret remain hidden from her. 

"Now don't lie," Smedley had said, "but try not to tell your ma about this."  Right now this boy-man felt the same drive to protect this beautiful, kind woman that he loved, but he knew he couldn't.

"Ma, sit down a minute."  Jim Bob said, sounding so adult-like that he surprised himself.  "Pa's been savin' money fer somethin' special fer three years now.  He wadn't sure what.  He jes kep sayin' you deserved somethin' 'real special,' 'n he was gonna get it fer ya.  Jesta couple months ago he made up his mind whut he was gonna gitcha.  The old man down to the general store has an old buggy that Pa figgered he'd buy 'n fix up.  He'd promised Pa he'd hold it fer'm.  Zeke Hawkins has about the prettiest filly you ever laid eyes on.  Well, Zeke told Pa that if'n he 'n I'd help 'm break them other two colts a his that he'd sell Pa that filly fer $25.  Ma you ain't never seen a horse look so sweet."

Flora Jean hadn't quite made the last turn in her son's report.  She didn't want to appear impatient, but she feared Smedley would show up at any time, so she gently chided, "Go on."

"Well, anyhow, like I say, Pa's been savin' money 'n now he knew whut fer.  With what he had plus what he could add to it fer helpin' Lonzo Cambell put a new roof on his barn he figgered he'd have jest enough to by that filly 'n the old buggy.  I told Pa I thought it was a capital plan."

"Pa was heartbroke , Ma.  I know he cared that my leg got busted, but when Zeke got scared, 'cuz I fell offa that colt 'n broke my leg, 'n said maybe we'd better not help him after all, 'n when Pa had to give $25 to Doc. Lazwell, to fix m' leg up, it was like somebody'd done knocked all the air outa the man."

"So that's what he meant when he said, 'The Lord had already provided.'"  Flora Jean mumbled, as Jim Bob nodded.

All that's left o' Pa's capital plan is this here barrel 'a harness.  Pa's been gatherin' up bits 'n pieces 'n patchin' it together late at night."

The smell of old leather and neatsfoot and mule filled the shed as Flora Jean lifted the lid on the barrel.  It was the smell that had lingered on her husband when he had come to bed after, "Doin' somethin' out at the barn."

She reached down and touched the well-oiled leather.  She savored the smell that now engulfed her and ever after lingered in her heart--a strange perfume.  Little comments made in passing now made perfect sense. 

Her tears flowed, darkening that old harness where they fell. 

Harness that didn't match, harness that had pulled wagons and plows and logs and other's dreams, harness once broken, lovingly repaired, and, now, all that was left of one man's broken dream.  Old leather long ago discarded by those who were blessed with wealth, but which had now become a greater treasure than they could ever know.  Harness patched and oiled late at night by the man she loved and who loved her.  Harness that she now realized was to allow that beautiful filly to pull the merchant's old buggy with them in it to Mt. Elmo on their anniversary, two months away.

When Flora Jean finally dried her tears on her apron both she and Jim Bob knew that the contents of the old keg were not all that was left of the parson's aborted plan.  That strange perfume filled their lives.  A poor preacher's wife had received a gift that Solomon could not have afforded, and a boy standing on the threshold of manhood had seen across more clearly than he ever had before.  Without a word Flora Jean stepped back and, Jim Bob put the lid back on that humble container, hiding from unappreciative eyes a priceless offering. 

They never saw that harness again, but to say they never forgot that strange perfume would be to say far too little.  It permeated their hearts as surely as it had permeated that little room--For her, the ever-present assurance of a love few will ever know; for him, the indescribable definition of what it means to be a man.

______________________

It was a rare occasion to see Dr. and Mrs. Lazwell at the services at the little meeting house up on Hogback Ridge.  The greetings, though, were warm and genuine.  The good doctor was just helping Mrs. Lazwell from the buggy when Flora Jean and the Smedley children came walking into the churchyard.

"How's that leg?"  The doctor inquired.

"Fine, Dr. Lazwell.  Say, idn't that a new buggy?  And that's sure not ole Hypocrites."

"No Hypocrites had made two or three house calls too many.  He'll live out his days in tall clover.  Bought this mare and new rig a couple of weeks ago...Why I believe it was the day after your untimely mishap.  I met your pa the other day I'm surprised he didn't tell you about it. 

You'd better get a move on.  It wouldn't do for the preacher's boy to be late."

That morning Smedley held forth about the thrice repeated question of our Lord to Peter:  "Do you love me more than these?"  The little congregation was gripped with the parson's fervor as he declared his love for the Lord and challenged all to follow.  No one was more impressed than the lady with the white starched bonnet and the youth with the too-small jacket in the second row.  They alone knew the fire and hammer blows that had shaped those words.

A couple of months later when Smedley boosted Flora Jean up onto Sairee's back and led her to the meadow by the creek for an anniversary picnic, she wouldn't have traded her seat for a place in a king's coach.

"Isn't that a lovely smell."  Flora Jean said dreamily, but then was immediately brought up short for fear that her secret might be revealed.

Smedley sniffed the air, but could smell nothing but Sairee's freshly oiled saddle and bridle mingled with odor of mule.  He looked quizzically at his wife, but she just smiled, and she looked so lovely to Smedley that soon the riddle didn't matter.

Previous Tale  --  Next Tale

Tales from the Hogback #8, FAITHFUL

FAITHFUL

The speed, the sounds, the smells, the exhilaration of constant activity, the sheer volume of humanity fascinated Smedley.  There was so much to see and do, things that the parson and his flock only read about or heard about up on the Hog Back.  Smedley figured he'd see more people in a day here in the city than he'd see back home in a year--even if you counted seeing the same folk more than once, which happened a lot up on the Hog Back. 

The closing hymn of the last meeting of the Faithful Brothers Preaching Convention still rang in Smedley's mind.  "What I wouldn't give for Flora Jean to have heard that, thought Smedley. "Maybe when I tell her about it she'll see in my eyes how it sounded."  "It's so long since I've seen her.  It's so far back Home."

Perhaps the lights of the traffic in the twilight had lulled Smedley to sleep--late night "bull sessions" had left him drained--or maybe he was so deep in thought he didn't notice when a stranger sat on the bench beside him.  "Not all that far either."  Smedley heard himself say the words at the very same instant that he saw the man beside him.  The parson lamely tipped his hat and smiled at the bemused stranger who got up to look for a bench not inhabited by a man who spoke to the night.

This was Smedley's first opportunity to attend the preaching convention.  He'd known about it for a long time; he and the Mrs. had been saving butter and egg and funeral money and such in an old mason jar to pay the parson's way.  But the Morris family's cow died and with three little ones the Smedleys both knew they needed that $17.32 more than Smedley needed the convention.  That was as close as Parson Smedley from the little white meetin' house up on Hog Back Ridge ever got to the Faithful Brothers Preaching Convention.  That was until. . .

Just a couple of weeks before Smedley had just pronounced the benediction on a blessed Lord's Day's service when Hezekiah Radford stood and loudly, and lispily, announced, "I wont to athst you folk te thstay a few minith longer."

"I wonder what this is about," thought Smedley.  "I cain't think of anything I've done to cause the people to want to run me off.  I haven't even preached about tithing in six. . ."

The preacher's thoughts were interrupted as the church clerk continued to speak to a group of people who had the look of folk who know exactly what's going to be said and like what they know.  "Ath you know, Preacher Smedley, (the effort to form the "s" showed on Hezekiah's face has faithfully preached God'th word to uth fer twelve yearth now."  With this Hezekiah brought forth a piece of paper and squinted through his reading glasses.  "In gratitude for faithful preaching of the Word of God, we, the congregation, give to our faithful preacher a trip to the Preaching Convention of the Faithful Brethren.  Brother Preacher,"  Hezekiah now looked right at Smedley.  "We love you and thank God for you.  We have collected the money for your trip above and beyond our regular tithe.  We want you to go with our good will."

A chorus of, "Amen." rang through the meeting house.  Smedley was overjoyed, for once, quite literally speechless.  Hugs, handshakes and mock warnings about "Not thinkin' a stayin in the big city,"  were heaped on the preacher.  Smedley could have just about recited every "s"less word of Hezekiah's speech.  He was so amazed, pleased, and grateful.

Smedley's Euphoria was soon replaced by a storm of activity that enveloped the parsonage.  There was packing to do, and making sure that things would be covered for the services Sunday and Wednesday up at the Meeting House, and now here he was in the city, for one more night, as his badge proclaimed, "Official Delegate, Convention of the Faithful Brethren."

Flora Jean had washed and ironed and darned and given the preacher specific instructions about what to wear and not wear.  "You may be from Hog Back  Ridge,"  she had said, "but there's no need for you to look like it!"

Indeed, earlier that afternoon as Smedley sat in his blue suit waiting for the beginning of the discussion on "Contemporary Issues Facing Christianity" none of the other pastors would have guessed that he rode a mule rather than drove a car, or that he studied by light of kerosene lamp.  "There's not much that's contemporary up on Hog Back ," Smedley commented to a new-found friend as they waited for the session to start.  "I just don't want to miss the opportunity to find out what's going on in the rest of the world."  Smedley didn't say any more.  It was a lot easier to look like he wasn't from Hog Back than to sound that way. 

By the end of the session Smedley's notes looked almost like a dictionary.  Some of the Parson's entries included:

Alcoholism        New name for drunkenness.

Spouse Abuse      Back on Hog Back we call it “beating up on.”

Child Neglect     What Grandma used to call “letting them grow up like weeds.”

Chronic

Unemployment      No account.
     

Substance Abuse   Seems to me like it's the substance that abuses them.  Whether you smoke it, shoot it with

                              needle, or take it like medicine it's the same sorry business as drinking moonshine.

Integrity  

Crisis,           A whole pack of liars seems to be in charge.

From his bench as Smedley watched the world go by--a world that the folk on Hog Back didn't even know existed--a contentment settled over his heart.  Earlier in the week he had found himself envying "these fella's who preach in these high class churches,"  but now the parson was actually eager to return to his little flock a couple of hundred miles and half a century away.

"Lord," Smedley said as he got up from his park bench, "seems to me that most folk are pretty much the same.  Oh, some drives cars and some rides mules but that doesn't really matter.  It's where they're goin' 'n' what they're doin' when they git there that really matters.  Lord, it seems to me that most folk are goin' where they don't need to go and doin' what they don't need to do.  Lord, whether it's up on Hog Back or down here in the city folk just need You.  Lord, help me to tell that to the mule ridin' sinners, and help the brothers down here to tell it to the car drivin' ones.  Amen."

Amen.

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Tales From The Hogback #7, The Big Meetin'

THE BIG MEETIN'

Not a few of the worshippers at the little white meeting house up on Hog Back Ridge cast a concerned glance at the rafters and joists overhead.  They were solid.  The oak boards from Caleb's daddy's sawmill were so solid that the men had had to drill pilot holes just to drive the nails.  Still if there was a man whose presence could cause the church roof to collapse it was Lightnin' Jones.  Lightnin' was there sure enough, right down front, taking up nearly half the first pew.

Lightnin's name had nothing to do with his speed.  He was so huge that folk said, "It takes two men and a boy jest to look at'm!"  His typical gate was so slow that more than one of the Hog Back's residents claimed that you "had ta sight 'm by a fence post to be sure if he was movin'."  His mother named him Elijah.  Folk called him Lightnin’ because of the jolt in his whiskey.  Elijah Jones supported his family--as much as he supported them anyway--and his own hulk, which he supported quite well, by running a still.

Most of the men up on Hog Back rode mules when they were out by themselves, but there wasn't a mule in the county--or probably the world for that matter-- that could support Lightnin'.  Whenever Lightnin' traveled more than a few yards he rode his wagon.  Everybody knew the Jones wagon.  Some had learned to spot it because it brought the whiskey they craved, others because Lightnin' was such a notorious reprobate.  It wasn't uncommon for women to shoo their children inside when the wagon groaned by.  Lightnin' always seemed to take pleasure in tipping his shapeless hat to the ladies on such occasions.

When that wagon, loaded with freshly scrubbed Joneses instead of the usual cargo, pulled up in front of the meeting house all conversation stopped.  A near pass of Haley's Comet would have attracted less attention.  When Lightnin', accompanied by much huffing and puffing, lowered himself from the wagon, and, to the further surprise of all, helped the Mrs. down, the spell broke.

"Can you imagine!" exclaimed the Widow Douglas, from the edge of the crowd, "The audacity of that common criminal polluting this pure assembly of God's people."

"I'll betch'a he's bigger'n Zeke Hawkin's cow."  Young Elmo McCatchen said.  "My uncle down at the feed store said they done weighed 'em both an' . . ."

Little children peered from between their parents legs.  Matrons craned their necks.  A buzz usually reserved for the Fourth of July rose up from the folk assembled in and around the little church.

"Welcome to our services Elijah, Mrs. Jones.”  Parson Smedley was glad that he knew Lightnin's real name; somehow his moonshining name didn't seem appropriate today, and though he could get by with "Mrs. Jones," "Mr. Jones" was out of the question on Hog's Back.  Smedley's greeting was clearly intended not only to welcome the Jones, but to quiet the crowd.  After a few elbows were applied to ribs and a couple shins bruised it had its desired result. 

"We're 'bout to get started, why don't ya come on in."  Lightnin' ambled in followed by a remarkably small woman who kept making threatening gestures to the boys & the little girl, who looked ill at ease about the whole operation--scrubbing and all.

The sermon that Sunday was about Zaccheus & how all of us need to come down out of our tree and meet with the Lord.  The commotion caused by Lightnin's presence had died down after the first song or two, and the service had gone on about as usual.

"Jesus is tenderly calling you home."  Smedley could hear Billy Joe Hardright's rich baritone leading the people in the closing song, but Smedley wasn't singing. 

"Calling today, calling today. . . .” The congregation continued the invitation song.  Smedley was praying; praying like he seldom prayed--with the inner assurance that something, something big, was going to happen. 

"Lord I cain't hardly 'magine nobody that's more different from somebody than Zaccheus from ole Lightnin', I mean Elijah, here.  But, Lord you knowed I was gonna preach 'bout ole Zacch and you knowed Elijah was a comin' today.  So, Lord, I reckon if you could git a short man out of a tree then you kin get a fat man out of a pew."

Smedley was so intent on his praying that it took him a minute to notice that the singing had about died down to nothing.  It was Brother Freemont's voice that caused Smedley to look up.  Freemont was hard of hearing and always sang off key.  He was a slow stopper too, often continuing for several words after others had quit.  As the parson looked up, though, he couldn't see Brother Freemont.  In fact about all he could see was the faded blue of Elijah's well-worn overalls.  Right next to him stood Hezekiah Radford, the bookkeeper down at the feed store, looking like a well-dressed stick next to the huge moonshiner.

"That was quite a meetin'," the parson observed after having placed one more hen's son into the ministry.  "I was surprised twicet.  First, who’d a thought Lightnin' Jones would a gotten saved today?  Then, who'd a guessed that Hezekiah Radford had been goin' up the holler to speak to Lightnin' fer three months runnin'?"

Smedley figured his strange dream that night was "on account a that last piece a apple pie not sittin' too well."  "I was all mixed up with Balaam."  Smedley told Flora Jean the next morning.  "I was jest a ridin' Sairee to the general store to git a bottle of liniment when she stopped, turned her head around and said as plain as I'm talkin' now, "See there, somebody did listen."  And that ain't all.  When she said "somebody" her ole ears twitched like a bee had got in 'em."

Maybe it was the pie.  But, folk that stopped by the Smedley house later that day swore that mule was smiling.  They said she looked like "she knew somethin' they didn't.

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Other Stuff #2, FRIENDS

I have a friend who is so nice that probably he will die with apologies, knowing that his funeral will inconvenience someone.  We have a common friend who can't stand it when friend #1 holds open a restaurant door for someone who isn't quite to the entrance yet.  Friend #2 can see the wasted time slipping away and figures that if someone is able to go out to eat then he is able to open the door for him/herself. 

Friend #2 orders his life by his pocket calendar while friend #1 is like a radio receiver tuned to the "needs" messages others broadcast.  If one friend is late he is concerned about his schedule.  When the other is late he is concerned that he is inconveniencing others.  Me? I may not even be aware that I am late.

Both my friends sometimes wonder about me.  One feels that my laid-back approach to life is inefficient--not the way to get the job done, while the other, I suspect (He is much too nice to say so.), thinks that I take the needs of others too lightly.  The fact is they are both right.  After years of work one friend has influenced me to the point that now I can at least find my pocket calendar, and the other has helped me to see that just caring is not enough; I must demonstrate that I care in a way that is meaningful to the person concerned. 

As I observe my friends I see that they have had a good effect on one another and I can even detect how I have influenced them.  They have changed me, however, more profoundly than they could possibly know.  I guess you could call us the odd trio, though I would rather refer to our relationship as a Proverbs 27:17 friendship.  We have been rubbing the rough edges off one another for years.  I believe that all three of us are better for the experience.  I know I am.

I suspect that deep in his heart my "by the numbers" friend wonders why people put up with our "terminally kind" friend's ways.  I mean, if you hang out with the guy you are constantly being delayed so that he can help some little old lady across the street or get a cat out of a tree.  I wouldn't be surprised if my "hold the door friend" asks himself why do others put up with our "dot the "I" and cross the "T" friend.  I mean he may splash water on the little old lady, as he rushes by, and he probably figures that one cat up a tree is just one cat up a tree.  I know that both of them wonder why anyone puts up with my "don't worry; be happy" ways.

The answer is no further than our own hearts.  I love both my friends because they are incredible people.  I have found that in addition to his "bottom line" ways my calendarized friend cares deeply for the needs of others.  In fact the purpose of all that goaling and planning and strategizing is so he can help meet those needs.  I have seen in my "may I help you?" friend a deep commitment to goals and concerns that go far beyond the demand of the moment.  In fact one reason he keeps his receiver tuned in is because meeting the needs of others is one of the chief goals of his life. 

Still I sometimes find that my friends bug me; from time to time I have to cut them some slack.  They love one another and me and I love them, but it is not because we see one another in a rose-colored hue.  We see in each other not only good qualities, but irritating idiosyncrasies--characteristics that if found in another would drive us to keep our distance. Each of us realizes that the blessing to be gained by the maintenance of the relationship is well worth the price that must be paid to maintain it.

If I had followed the pattern that I observe in most people's relationships I would have ditched my friends long ago.  I would have gone to watch the sunset while one was holding the elevator for an elderly gentleman and the other was rushing to his next appointment, and we would never have enjoyed the marvelous relationship that we have.  Instead I grabbed one friend's calendar--he never leaves home without it--and I smiled and he tapped his foot with impatience while the old gent got to the elevator.  Then I said, "Let's go watch the sunset."  One friend went because he wanted to get his calendar back and the other went because he is too nice to say, "No." 

In the warm glow of the shared experience I was so glad that I had put up with them, and they with me, and each of them with the other, and I think they were as well.

Tales From The Hogback #6, NOBODY

NOBODY

Even Sairee could tell that Preacher Smedley was worried as he rode up the spine of the Hog Back to the meeting house that Sunday morning.  Some folk might not think that mules are that smart, but you could tell by the particular twitch in Sairee's ear that something was bothering her.  Smedley was mumbling and shifting around in the saddle, but that wasn't strange at all.  The Parson often sang, preached--complete with gestures--prayed, and argued with hardened sinners and stubborn deacons from his perch on the placid animal's back. 

Normally Sairee became more relaxed as the parson became more agitated.  It would seem that she knew that the more the preacher's mind was occupied with other matters the more liesurely could be her gait.  Smedley had, on more than one occasion come to the end of a particularly moving point only to realize that he wasn't moving at all. 

On this day though there was a peculiarity about Smedley's homiletical mumblings.  "I been a tellin' 'em fer years that SOMEBODY ought to be a sharin' the gospel with all these Hell bound sinners, but NOBODY ever does."  Smedley clenched his teeth and fairly snarled the words "somebody" and "nobody."  It was then that Sairee's ears had that peculiar twitch, kind of like a fly had landed on one, but there wasn't a fly.

"Even when I told 'em that somebody oughta fix the door on the outhouse--seems like they'd a known that fer sher after that rooster walked in on Anna Belle Haskins--NOBODY never did nothin'."  At this point the mules ears looked like those of a rabbit with a bad case of nerves.

"Anyhow," Smedley mumbled on, since NOBODY ever does what somebody ought to do, I'm just gonna preach to 'em like what they are--a bunch a NOBODIES.  Maybe then SOMBODY'll do what NOBODY'LL even lift a finger for now."  By now the agitation had animated not only Sairee's ears but even her tail, and Smedley's mumble had grown to a growling, clearly audible, voice.

"But when a man calls folks a bunch a NOBODIES, even if that is what they act like, they might just get mad 'nuff to do somethin' mean." 

Sairee's ears--and tail--got to rest for the remainder of the Journey.  Preacher Smedley, kind-hearted to a fault, was grieved that he might hurt someone, yet he was convinced that the rebuke was in order.  Silently, for he was nearing the meeting house, and with a lump in his throat, he reviewed the message, God's Word to Nobody."

On the trail home from the meeting house Sairee showed none of her earlier twitches and jerks.  The man on her back didn't even notice when she slowed and twisted off a mouthful of a particularly delicious-looking shrub.  Smedley's mood was about as black as the old black parson's coat he wore over his starched over-alls.  At last the placid animal's ears twitched once as if a gentle breeze had aroused them.

"I can't believe it!"  Smedley confided to a big grey boulder.  "Not one nobody even listened."

(To be continued)

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Tales From The Hogback #5, Politically Speaking

Politically Speaking

"Now you be careful!" Flora Jean yelled as Smedley walked out the door.  "You know how you get carried away sometimes."

"Well, there's times when a feller ought'a get carried away."  Smedley thought.  He wanted to tell her in his most sincere tone, "There are times when it just won't do for a body--particularly a man in my position--to not get stirred up."  If Smedley had learned anything in his years of marriage to Flora Jean, it was that she was most often right when she told him to be careful.  It was a lesson for which he had paid dearly and wasn't about to forget, so he simply responded, "Don't worry."

But she did. 

Hog Back Ridge was a place that politics pretty well left alone.  Some of the old timers still swore that the survey that was finished fifty years ago was off by half a mile and so there wasn't even agreement among the locals as to which county they were really in.  There were a few old codgers who said they "wadn' 'bout to pay no tax to no county they wadn' a part of, an' if'n the county they was a part of did'n think ‘nuff of 'em ta come over 'n claim 'em then, they did'n deserve no tax neither."  So, they just didn't pay any.  Apparently the revenue to be gained didn't justify the trouble it would take to collect it, and so except for sending some threatening letters, that the old timers couldn't read anyhow, nothing was ever done.  To say that the people of Hog Back Ridge were not much into politics, was like saying that a skunk is not much into smelling good.  Nobody could remember when the last time was that a candidate for anything--from either county, or anywhere else--had ever come up the winding road to the little settlement.

That is until just a few weeks ago. 

Smedley had been reading up on the candidates for county commissioner--the county in which the survey said the Hog Back lie--when he saw a statement that caused him to jump out of his seat and holler, "Amen!  Listen to this, Flora Jean," the parson had called.  "Reuben C. Galepoke, candidate for Commissioner of Jefferson County, in response to questions, declared himself to be "unalterably opposed to the illegal manufacture of alcohol.  The continuance of this unregistered, untaxed bootlegging is a blight on our fair valley."  Smedley read from the Mt. Elmo Star.  Now there's a feller I kin get behind." 

"Don't you think you need to know a little more about this--Wha'd you say his name was?--before you can say that?" asked Flora Jean.  "So many of these politicians are just full of wind."  But in a county where the essentials for moonshining consisted of a still, a supply of corn and sugar, the whiskey making knowledge passed from father to son, and a politician on the payroll to keep the revenuers away, this was all Smedley needed to hear.  "Galepoke, Reuben C. replied Smedley.  "Any enemy of the moonshine trade is a friend of mine," thought Smedley, as he sat down at the kitchen table to compose a letter to the "Honorable Reuben C. Galepoke." 

". . . and so I would be honored if you would come to our fair community to address our citizens.  As pastor of our local assembly, I offer you the use our meeting house to address the people.  As a citizen who shares your concern about the evils of moonshine, I promise my assistance in gathering a crowd to hear your views on the subject."

Smedley had tried out several salutations with which to close his letter.  "Sincerely" was too common.  "Righteously indignant" was a bit strong.  Smedley thought "Yours for a better valley," said it well.  He felt quite good about signing his name.  He even used his official "Rev." something he almost never did.  He hoped it would add a little clout.

A week later when Smedley arrived at the general store to pick up his mail the crowd of chewers, talkers and hangers-on seemed larger than normal.  "Mighty IMMportant lookin' piece a mail here," said Clyde.  "Envelope's got the man's name printed right on it, "n looky here the Reverend Smedley, Hog Back Ridge is type-writed no less."  "There ain't a thing hand 'rit on the whole letter I'll bet," Hezekiah Jones said in genuine awe as Smedley, trying to conceal his own excitement, tore open the impressive envelope.  After what all the on-lookers regarded as far too long a time, the parson announced, "Friday afternoon, 3:00 O'clock, Candidate for County Commissioner, Reuben C. Galepoke will be at the Meeting House on Hog Back Ridge to address the area citizens on matters of concern to us all."

As Smedley rode to the little white meeting house his wife's warning was soon crowded out of his mind by a whirlwind of thoughts.  He wondered if anybody would be there from the papers.  "They offen cover important events like this."  Maybe the Star over in Mt. Elmo would send a reporter to cover this historic event.  The thought reminded Smedley that he ought to do his very best to look dignified.  So he adjusted his hat, smoothed his trousers, straightened his back, adopted his best parson's countenance and just for good measure started whistling "Amazing Grace."  In short, he thought he looked about as dignified and proper as a man could.

As soon as Smedley rounded the curve and the road opened into the lovely clearing where the little white meeting house stood, he saw him.  Reuben C. needed no introduction.  He was standing next to his gleaming black buggy greeting the early arrivals with a bearing that befitted a man about to take hold of the reins of power.  "You must be Reverend Smedley," he said as he approached with hand outstretched.  "Come, come.  My man here will care for your mule.  I want you to meet someone."  Stepping around the buggy, Smedley met a small stoop-shouldered man with a pencil behind his ear.  "You'll want a picture for the Star to commemorate this occasion," said Reuben C. in a way that made Smedley feel quite important.

With an, "Of course, Mr. Galepoke."  the fellow produced a camera from a satchel.  Smedley was adjusting his tie when a disturbance at the edge of the gathering distracted him.

"Excuse me, Sir,"  Smedley said.  I need to attend to something.  I'll only be a minute."

"What is it, Hezekiah?"  Smedley asked the usually quiet little man.  "You been flappin' that piece a paper at me like a bed sheet in a wind storm."  It took Hezekiah a while to say things.  He lisped, and so he always tried to figure a way to eliminate as many s's from his speech as possible.  While he was mentally composing an answer, Reuben C. strode over watch in hand. 

"Times' a wastin', man," he bellowed.  Stepping in front of the obviously distraught Hezekiah and throwing an arm around Smedley's shoulder, he looked the camera in the eye, the reporter called to Smedley, clicked the picture, and before the parson could collect his thoughts or Hezekiah could de-“S” his, Reuben C. Galepoke was saying something from his buggy seat about how he was behind schedule, "but sure did appreciate this show of support."

The buggy was rounding the curve and Reuben C. giving a last wave to the crowd, when Hezekiah once again got the parson's attention.  "How much do you know about Reuben Galepoke?" he asked. 

"I know he is opposed to the moonshine business and that's enough for me," Smedley said, concentrating his mounting irritation at his friend. 

"Do you know why?" Hezekiah asked as he shoved the paper at Smedley.

It was a good thing that Sairee knew the way home, since Smedley was oblivious to the direction of the mule's movement.  "Should I resign?  I wonder if anyone'll ever listen to me again?  How could I be so stupid?  Why did'n' I listen to my wife?  She could smell somthin' fishy?  If I'd a only listened to my friend Hezekiah--should'a taken the time."

Smedley was aroused from his miserable musings by a suddenly rising wind.  "Looks like its gonna blow up a gale, Sairee," he said to the beast who twitched her ears at the sound of her name.  As he reached up to pull his hat on a little tighter, he remembered the handbill that he had disgustedly stuffed into the drawstring bag right after Hezekiah had given it to him.  "Better check my poke."  But it was too late.  The breeze had already snatched it.  "Soon everybody'll know anyhow."

Long after the rain and sun had bleached the print from that tattered page the words remained in bold print posted in the parson's mind.

REUBEN C. GALEPOKE

Wines, Beers, Cordials

Liquors--domestic and imported

Jefferson County's only legal

Distributor of alcoholic beverages

443 Main St.

(Author’s note:  This piece was written back in an era in which it was common for leading clerics to take prominent positions on political candidates and issues.  Like Smedley, some of them were badly burned, losing credibility in the process.  Let the church be the church.)

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