Tales From The Hogback #3, "A Slow Ride"

Usually Smedley enjoyed the view of the Hog Back, and the occasional glimpses of the valley below, that his perch on Sairee's back afforded him.  The simple pleasure of feeling the sun's rays warm his black coat on a brisk spring day almost never failed to generate thanks in the preacher's heart, and not infrequently from his lips.  Usually, he rather enjoyed the time that the mule's plodding gait afforded him to think.  "A man can do a lot a thinkin' on the back of a mule."  He would often say.  Usually, Smedley was calmed by the faint "crunch" and "thud" of Sairee's feet striking the path, mingled with the million sounds around him.  Usually, but not today.

If will of rider could have been translated into speed of beast, Sairee would have been a serious contender for the Kentucky Derby, but she was just an old mule ridden by a very agitated man.

The really strange thing was Smedley wasn't really in a hurry.  That is, he wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere.  Like Jonah he sought to escape his duty, but mules are no better able to accomplish that than ships bound for Tarshish. 

The "Amen" that dismissed the folk from the little white meeting house had concluded "a right good mornin' in the house of the Lord."  as Deacon Jones commented while pumping the parson's hand.  When Sister Juney May Lewis finally got to the end of her apology--" . . . my cousin from the flat lands was comin' this evening and the house was a mess 'n I don't have a thing fit to eat fer supper 'n I’ve just got to finish that feather tick so they'll have a place to sleep . . ."--and asked Smedley if he could please deliver the gift from the church's benevolent fund to the Widow Douglas, he gladly said, "Yes."  The Parson always enjoyed visiting with Widow Douglas.  He was always refreshed by the glorious spirit that peeked out through those sparkling eyes from its arthritic prison.  Heaven always seemed so real when you bent over that frail form and listened to words about, "My Jesus." 

Besides that, Flora Jean had fixed a mess of calf liver that Junior Withrow had given to them last week.  She said, "It wouldn't do to let it spoil."  Smedley wasn't sure that a little putrefaction wouldn't help the stuff out.  He was sure there would be no liver in Heaven, and he refused to say grace over the stuff down here.  "The Lord knows m' heart and there ain't no need tryin to convince Him that I'm thankful."  He would say as he asked Flora Jean to do the honors.  Always the optimist the thought occurred to Smedley, "It might all be gone."

No matter how much the parson tried to focus on all of this blessing and possible deliverance, he just couldn't escape this morning's message.  Like a fly on a summers day it kept lighting and try as he would he could neither kill it nor keep it away.  

"If God loved this sorry, sin-sick world," His message echoed." Then surely we kin love our neighbor.  If God kin put up with the likes a'us then we kin surely go outa' our way to reach out in love to them that God brings our way.  If God so loved the world that He gave His own precious Son, then how kin we say that anything is too hard, when it comes to reachin' out to some needy soul with love and kindness and the gospel."  Smedley had meant those words all right.  The quiet attention on the faces of the little congregation showed that they all knew that.  Even now as the words plagued the preacher's conscience he, "wouldn't change a one."

The Jones house lay right between the Douglas' place and the parsonage.  The Jones house was the biggest, finest and newest house on the Hog Back.  All the neighbor's called the Joneses "flatlanders."  They didn't fit in any better than their massive--by Hog Back standards--house fit in with the simple mountaineer's cabins that dotted the landscape.  Their progress at making friends with the mountain folk was about as slow and inconsistent as that of their car--the first on the mountain--along the rugged mountain roads.  Some of the folks had tried.  Oliver O'Connor had tried to show Sam Jones the right way to build a fence.  Old Mrs. Smith had tried to show Mrs. Jones how to make a proper pan of corn bread.  Elijah Carter had tried to be neighborly by telling them that those "flatland garden seeds weren’t no count up here on the Hog Back," but it seemed like every time somebody tried to reach out to the Joneses they just moved further away.

"Hello, Reverend."  Sam Jones rang out.  He was the only man on the mountain that used that "high falutin'" title in referring to Smedley.  "We've been looking for you.  Hezekiah told us that you would probably be coming by this way.  Come in a minute, won't you?"

It's absolutely amazing just how much can go through a man's mind between a mules back and the ground:  The Joneses total lack of interest in the things of the Lord, in fact their downright belligerence and ridicule at Smedley's efforts to reach out with God's word, Smedley's struggles along the way,  "How can I ask others to love, when I am unwilling to love this strange family?"  now the unexpected invitation to the house, a house that Smedley had hoped to pass by unnoticed.

"Young Sam will care for Sairee.  Come on in.  Me and the missus have been wanting to talk to you.  Be sure to give her some water Sam."  He said, giving the mule an affectionate pat. 

"Sorry I don't have any oats or anything for a mule to eat." 

Smedley hardly had time to get over his shock at Sam's new-found kindness for animals, when he was ushered into the house, amid offers of iced tea, and "Glad to see you."s. 

When the preacher remounted his mule after an hour or so with the Jones family she received no kick in the flanks or urgings to hurry.  Deep in thought and prayer, the parson was so indifferent to the mule’s progress that she was able to take advantage of the lush spring growth that hung on the roadside.  Unfortunately the meal that awaited Smedley was not so appetizing.

"You want me to heat that up for you, honey?" 

"No, it won't help it none.  Sorry I'm so late.  I got invited in by the Joneses.  They just wanted to thank me for helpin' 'em get their car outa that mud hole last week.  I told 'em it wadn't nothin'.  Sairee done all the work.  They wanted me to stay fer dinner, but I told 'em you was expectin' me."  Smedley said as he looked forlornly at his plate of calf liver. 

"You know I'm beginnin’ to think that I was wrong about those folk.  It ain't so much that they're against the gospel as that they been hurt, and ain't figgered things out yet.  Did you know that they had a little girl that died of some strange blood disease 'bout a year ago?  That's why they didn't stop to thank me the other day when Sairee and me got 'em outa that mud hole." 

The puzzled look Flora Jean gave Smedley let him know that he had jumped a fence and left her on the other side.  "You know their littlest one, Timmy?  Well seems he all of a sudden took a fever and turned awful bad just like the little girl that died.  Betty, that's Mrs Jones’ name, was just beside herself."  Flora Jean's mother's heart showed on her face as her eyes beckoned her husband to go on.  "They grabbed the child up and headed straight for Doc Lazwell's.  That's when they got caught in that mud hole.  Said they were so beside themselves that they never even thought to say thanks 'til they was long gone.  Yeah Mrs. Jones might near lost it when that little girl died.  That's why they come up to the Hog Back, to get away from all the mem'ries and fast livin' down in Jefferson City.  Don't reckon we been much help to 'em though."

"Well, what about Timmy, is he all right?"  Flora Jean demanded.

"Oh, didn't I tell ya?  He's fine.  Just a round of the spring flu.  Kept 'em busy though, lookin' after him and keepin' up with everything else.  'Poligized to no end 'bout not thankin' me, an' they might near ruined my mule with attention.  I was afraid her head'd get so big it would just burst her old bridle."

Smedley's monologue ended at about the same time as the liver.  He was so preoccupied that he hardly grimaced as he chewed the final forkful of the foul tasting meat. 

"Do you think Betty might be interested in learning to quilt?"  Flora Jean asked.

"She just might," said Smedley, "but, before you ask her 'bout that, ask her to show you how to make some of that Chess Pie that I had today.  Well, I didn't want to be unsociable."  He responded to his wife's mock-stern look.  I figure everybody’s been so busy tellin' them how to do this 'n that, that nobody even took time to find out anything about them.

Flora Jean was busy with the after dinner chores, so as Smedley erased the liver taste with biscuit and jam he had a talk with the Lord about the Jones family and about his own heart.

As Flora Jean hung up her flour sack apron Smedley was savoring the last bit of blackberry jam on the last bite of biscuit. 

"Sure is good when things work out right."


Previous Tale  --  Next Tale

Tales from the Hogback #2, DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH

As usual Parson Smedley was early at the little white meeting house up on Hog Back Ridge.  "Hymn books in place, pulpit looks shinier'n a silver dollar on a twelve year old's birthday.  Sister Jones must'a polished it.  Now let me make sure I don't lose my notes--put 'em on the pulpit to make sure."  Smedley ceased his Sunday morning checklist as he looked over the neat little room from his familiar vantage point behind the pulpit.  As he surveyed the pews that would soon hold the little flock, he directed some words heavenward. 

"Lord, you know right many ah your people been here and there lately.  Sometimes I feel like a man a tryin' to herd minners in a pond.  They go so many ways I don't know where to head.  Lord, I cain't ketch 'em but you kin.  You caught Balaam 'n' you caught Jonah 'n'you caught Saul a Tarsus.  Lord, please gather up this bunch 'n' git 'em to your house today."

Smedley finished praying; to be ready for Sunday School he got out the new chalk board (after a year and a half he had finally persuaded the deacons to buy one.) It was just then that Zeke Hawkins arrived.

"Guess your right surprized to see me ain'cha preacher?"  Indeed Smedley had been doing his best to hide the double shock at seeing Zeke in church at all, let alone early.  The parson was pleased that Zeke hurried on without waiting for an answer.  "You 'member my ole cow, Bessy?  Well, I ain't been able to be in church cuzzin by the time I milk her and feed her and strain the milk and put it in the spring house, well, I jest don't have time ta get ta church."

This story oft' told, always caused the parson's collar to feel a bit tight and hot.  He was about to comment that he had a cow to milk and chickens to feed and still he made it, but fortunately Zeke blurted on.

"Well, I went out to the barn this mornin' 'n' she was deader'n a revenuer on Hound Tooth Ridge."

Smedley had hardly had time to feel guilty for not having a greater burden of grief for the late Bessy, when in rushed Lulu O'Toole.  Lulu had wondered for years why no one had come to the realization that she would make a good wife.  Lulu had advanced beyond desperation years ago.  Her search for a man had reached an intensity that matched her ample proportions.  Smedley knew from long experience that Lulu's conversation was like a passing freight train.  Wisdom demanded that one stand back and let it pass.  To interrupt was to be run over.

"I nevuh!" she said with such force that Smedley already pitied whoever the unfortunate soul was who had the misfortune of crossing Lulu.  "And to think of all the chess pies and strawberry preserves and fried chicken I fed that man."

"She must be talking about that flatland insurance salesman," thought Smedley.  Neighbors had seen his buggy parked in front of Lulu's every Sunday morning and several evenings a week.  "I suppose a man could learn to put up with Lulu for her cookin'.  She kin sure cook--maybe if a fella' was blind 'n' deaf . . ." Smedley's unpreacherly thoughts were interrupted by a sudden rise in Lulu's volume and pitch.

"He took it!  He took it all!"  Between dabs and sniffles into the preacher's gallantly offered handkerchief, Lulu's tale unfolded.  It turned out that Lulu's suitor was interested in more than her biscuits and jam.  Seems he had taken Lulu's jewelry to have it appraised so it could be "properly insured."  Her grandma's basin and pitcher were gone to.  The insurance peddler hadn't been seen for three weeks, and rumor was he had been transferred out west.

Zeke was settling in, or trying to, while Lulu continued her tirade against "men!" to whomever would listen, when such a crowd began to fill the back of the meeting house that Parson Smedley was about ready to go outside and read the sign and make sure that this was indeed the "Hog Back Ridge Meeting House."

There were squirrel guns that wouldn't shoot, horses that pulled up lame right before a big trip to the city, a flat-bottom boat that got loose and went down the river, a still busted by revenuers, a coon hunt put off because of sick dogs, not to mention relatives that sent word on Saturday that they couldn't make it for Sunday after all.

Nobody could remember when the little church had been so full. 

When old Abraham showed up, late as usual, Deacon McSpraggins had to seat him on the front row, "Right in Spittin' range."  It so upset the old gentleman's system that Parson Smedley was a good five minutes into his message before the old-timer could get to sleep.

Folk left the church talking about "the fine message," and "wadn't little Samantha's song an inspiration?"  Not a few were obviously moved by the impact of the too long neglected Word of God.  Sooner or later just about everyone who had worshiped at the Hog Back Ridge Meeting House that Sunday got around to asking, "I wonder what the Parson meant when he prayed, "Lord, I thank you for takin' the gravel out of our pockets so we would have room for some diamonds.""

Prologue  --  Next Tale

Tales From The Hogback #1, Prologue:

Prologue:

Before you get started on these little tales I suppose that I ought to tell you how I came to know about a place that no one else has heard of--well almost no one else.
On a couple of trips to the local fast food joint I had noticed an old gent nursing a cup of coffee and watching the world go by. I can't really say that he looked lonely; it was more like, wise and contented. One day when I saw him I had a few minutes to spare and decided to sit down with him. I didn't ask his name. I figured if he wanted me to know he would tell me. I told him mine and he didn't offer his, so I just left it there. We made small talk. I was about to leave when he asked me what I did. When I told him that I was a preacher it was like I had turned a key in a old lock.
I can't really say that the old man told me the following stories. He just told me about them. He didn't always finish one before he'd tell part of another. In fact he never really told one from beginning to end. We'd just be talking and then all at once we were up on Hog Back Ridge. I've tried to relate them in a manner that is true to what the old gentleman shared with me.
You'll probably enjoy them best if you get yourself a cup of coffee first. My old friend always takes his with lot's of sugar.

The First Tale: