A table of contents of stories from Hogback Ridge, featuring Parson Smedley
An Introduction to Hogback Ridge and Parson Smedley
The Christmas Program from . . .
When Smedley went out to saddle-up Sairee, the sky had an
angry look about it. Smedley’s dark mood kept him from paying much attention to
the weather and prevented Flora Jean from pressing her objection. “He’s been
out in worse,” she thought. “I reckon that mule’s got sense enough to get both
of ‘em home, even if he doesn’t.” As Smedley rode up the lane, Flora Jean said
a prayer for the man she loved. “The fact is,” she thought, “I can use some
time without a man underfoot. I’ve got bakin’ to do.”
The top of Peter’s Knob, was the best place for a man to
clear his head and Smedley’s head sure needed clearing. Taking the bridle off
his mule—he figured this head-clearing would take a while--he gave her a clear
warning, “Don’t you go wanderin’ off, Sairee. I done had enough messed up
business to last me well into the New Year.” Sairee twitched her ears like she
always did when the Parson talked to her. She spoke mule fluently and she had
learned enough human to get along. Her vocabulary was limited but she
understood tone quite well, and the Parson’s tone was clear. Besides, there was
late-season grass on the knob and a hollow in the rock held some water from
yesterday’s rain. Smedley was glad she stayed put. He only wished he could talk
his thoughts into doing the same.
“Lord, that was the absolute worstest program I ever saw,
heard of, or ‘magined.” Smedley took turns praying, pacing, staring at the
darkening sky, and having conversations with upwards of half a dozen people,
none of whom were present. One of them was Rev. Loggins, the Pastor who had taught
Smedley so much about preaching, leading a flock, and loving on folks. Rev.
Loggins surprised Smedley when he said, “Sounds like it was the Christmas
program from the place of Divine eternal retribution.”
“Exactly,” Smedley replied, “I couldn’t have said it better
myself.” Chuckling for a moment at the thought that he had, in fact, said it
himself.
Smedley had felt ill at ease about the program for the last
week or so. Flora Jean had tried to reassure him about it. She was almost
always right, and she never lied to her husband, but she sure missed this one!
Smedley still couldn’t lay a finger on what had troubled him. It was, “just
something in my gizzard,” he said. His concern had led to him checking on
everything. “Ever-thing looks good,” he had mused, but still . . .”
Missy Bedletter and Kora Jo Danning had done a bang-up job. They
wrote up the play themselves and had Opal mimeograph copies down at the school.
They’d brow-beaten their husbands into gathering up the children and bringing
them to the practices in their buggy and wagon. They found out Horace Smithers
was home from Erkin College and corralled him into playing the music. He made
that old wheezy pump organ sound like one of those five-acre pipe organs at one
of the rich folk’s churches down in Charlotte. They even got the Hogback Ridge
Quilting Society to make the costumes. One of the robes was more patches than
what was patched, but Missy just named that character “Joseph” and wrote in a
line about his robe being just like his name-sake.
In short, in spite of the Parson’s doubts it looked like
Flora Jean was right, “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, and then
added with a tone like she’d just held the Rook to be sure she won the last
trick, “there’s nothin’ you can do about it anyhow.”
The debacle—Smedley had just read that word in a book and
thought it fit well—started right at the beginning. Edna McClosky had insisted
at the last minute that her grandson, L. Buxton McClosky, who had just arrived
from Chicago for a Christmas visit, have a part in the play. Missy and Kora Jo
had tried to put her off, and truth be told, it didn’t look like young McClosky
was all that interested anyhow, but Edna insisted, and she was the best insister
anywhere in these parts. They gave Buxton two lines. He was to welcome the
crowd at the beginning and tell them cookies were waiting at the end of the
program. Altogether, all he had was about fifteen words to remember, but he
didn’t remember.
Dressed in the Windy City’s finest L. Buxton made his way to
center stage, and just stood and grinned. After a time, Edna began to mouth his
lines for him, but to no avail. “Never has so little, been forgotten so
thoroughly, by one so well-encouraged,” Smedley said to his invisible guests. Finally,
Smedley had stood up and welcomed the folk, to which L. Buxton replied, for all
to hear, “Yeah, what he said.”
It was downhill from there.
A. J. Smith’s lamb that was as “gentle as a kitten,”
suddenly became as wild as a bobcat. It took ten minutes to catch it. Instead
of the shepherds abiding in the field, they laughed on the stage.
Rodney Pickens had that look in his eye—you know the look
that says, “I’m up to something.” When the wisemen showed up, much to Missy and
Kora Jo’s horror, the look had spread to his whole face. They knew they’d better
do something, but before they could, he and his two companions broke into song,
“We three kings of orient are, trying to smoke a loaded seegar.” All three
wisemen, suddenly turned into wise guys, whipped out what looked like real stogies
and yelled, “Boom.”
Three mothers mortified and angry, hauled the three not so
wise boys outside for a serious conversation, which everyone in the
congregation heard clearly. The summary is, “Whack, whack, whack, to which the
suddenly contrite boys, replied, “Ow, OW, wail!” Herod winced at every “Whack,”
causing his crown to come loose and fall to the floor. It fell in something the
errant lamb had left behind.
That was when Smedley got up and did some serious ad-libbing.
He was pretty sure nobody heard a word he said. He was even more confident that
that was just as well. Smedley was actually glad that L. Buxton not only forgot
his closing line as thoroughly as he had his first but also forgot to even to
step out of the shadow where he’d been instructed to wait. Finally, Kora Jo,
much flustered, stood up and ended the program as well as she could. “Thank you
and good night.” The two program directors and Smedley weren’t in any mood for
Cookies, even though some of them were Smedley’s favorite, peanut butter. So,
the crowd just left, boys trying to stifle chuckles, mother giving the look
that said, “Don’t even think of it,” many heads wagging, and one forlorn parson
looking for a place to hide.
The sky had gotten darker and the air colder, as Smedley
thought, prayed and carried both ends of the multiple conversations. He was so
involved with all that was in his head that he didn’t hear the automobile
crunching up the gravel road. At first, he thought the voice behind him was one
of the characters who had shared the saddle with Smedley on the trip up the crooked
road. But none of the people in Smedley’s head called him Reverend. “Reverend
Smedley,” the voice said, and then Smedley heard the unmistakable sound of
teeth chattering.
All, at once Smedley realized that it was really getting
cold. Snow was almost certain to fall. As he turned to see where the very real
voice and chattering were coming from, he saw a man, maybe in his thirties,
dressed in the garb of a banker or some such, no top coat, no hat or gloves,
and shoes that clearly weren’t up to keeping ones feet warm on this blustery
December Day.
“Brother, what are you doing out on a day like this, dressed
as you are?” As Smedley spoke he grabbed an old blanket he kept rolled up and
tied to Sairee’s saddle, “for emergencies.” The man wrapped himself in the
blanket and recovered a bit before he answered.
“I just drove up from the Mile Long Bridge.”
Smedley eyed the car and noticed it was a touring car. “That’s,
what, five miles from here? No wonder you’re cold. Why would you go to Mile Long
Bridge on a day like this, and why would go dressed like you are? Didn’t you
know you’d be froze afore you got back home?”
Smedley wondered because the Mile Long Bridge wasn’t a
bridge you could drive on. It was a swinging bridge. It was nowhere near a mile
long, but when the wind was whistling up Wildcat Gap, like it would today, it
seemed at least that long. There were a couple of hard-scrabble farm families
who lived on Freeman’s Ridge who used the bridge to get back and forth. Other
than some hunters, nobody else ever crossed it. Clearly, the cold stranger who had
suddenly appeared was neither farmer nor hunter. What could have compelled him
to go to such a place on such a day?
“I wasn’t planning to go back home. I went there to jump
off.” The stranger said, flatly.
The very thought sent shivers up Smedley’s spine. “What in
the world for?” Smedley asked the stranger.
“This morning I showed up at the insurance office, where I
work, like I always do. The boss met me at my desk. I knew what he had to say,
before he said it. “This just isn’t working out,” he said. “I need you to pack
up your belongings. See Molly,” she’s the accountant, “before you go, she’ll
settle up with you.” My wife’s pregnant. I’m behind on my mortgage. I just didn’t
know what else to do.”
“Well, I’m sure glad you changed your mind. That jump would
have made you a goner for sure and that wouldn’t a helped yer wife a bit, but
if you don’t mind me asking, what caused you to change your mind?”
“It was something you said last night.”
“Something I said,” Smedley said, amazed and wondering out loud.
“What’d I say?”
“You said something about how last night didn’t work out the
way you planned. You said, “Life’s like that, ain’t it? But here’s what’s fer
sure. Make sure you hold onto this.” Then you read some Bible verse, something
sixteen.”
“John 3:16,” Smedley said, not because he remembered, but
because he knew that’s what he hoped he had said.
“Yeah, that’s it. God so loved, that He gave His Son. I was
try’n to figure out which side of the bridge to jump off of. Ain’t that crazy? ‘N
I thought a that. Kinda seemed like the wind was a talkin’ to me, howlin’ at me
really, “Siiiixxxteeeen.” Anyhow, I figured if you could say something about
love after that mess, maybe I oughta give things another try. I saw yer mule as
I was drivin’ by I hoped it was you, so I pulled . . .”
“I don’t think I saw you, last night.” Smedley interrupted.
“Nah, I came in late ‘n sat in the back. My nephew was one
of the shepherds. I got there on my way home from work.”
The icy blast that sent a shiver down Smedley’s spine
brought him out of his head-shaking wonderment. “Well, say, what is your name?”
“Pete, Pete Dumford.”
“Well, Pete, if we don’t get you off’n this knob, soon, it’ll
be April afore we get this car down & we’ll both be plum froze. We need ta
talk some more, but not here. Tell ya what. You keep that blanket wrapped
around ya ‘n head on down this road the way you was goin. Go right at the fork.
My house is the first place on the right.” As he spoke Smedley wrote something
on a scrap of paper he’d fished out of his pocket, with the stub of a pencil he
always carried. “Give this to my wife, Flora Jean, tell her I’ll be down
directly.”
It was way past bedtime, but Smedley just sat rocking,
enjoying the warm fire and the satisfaction that came from the half-dozen
peanut butter cookies, he’d eaten while he talked with Pete. “Lord, who-da
thunk. . .” Smedley’s thoughts were interrupted by the hand on his shoulder.
Flora Jean enjoyed the warmth of the fire and greater warmth in her heart for a moment. Smedley felt the warmth from the fire soak into his bones, and the
reflection of the flames in Flora Jean's eyes warmed Smedley’s soul.
After a time she smiled and said, “I told you it would be all right.”
And it was.
