Love of Ordinary Old Houses

When one thinks of reuse and not refuse seldom does one think of old houses, but my husband, Ed, and I do.  We never intended to remodel more than one old house, but life happens, so it has been more than one.   

When remodeling old houses, ours is one hundred and six years old, people usually think of mansions, but let me recommend redoing a small home.  Ours is nine hundred and sixty seven square feet; although, we are planning to add a room and a half bath making it about twelve hundred square feet.   

People only seem to think of the historical significance of large homes where famous people either owned or slept, but think of the value of restoring an old gem where ordinary people lived their lives.  We like that idea.   

We do not know who built our home but they had good taste, because she has a beautiful bone structure.  We are trying to keep nearly all of her old lines and moldings and interior doors, but yet she must become a place where our lives can be comfortably lived.   

We always start with redoing all of the wiring, then comes the roof, plumbing, heating system, insulation and windows.  We focus on the kitchen and bathroom.  All the beautification comes last.  Paint becomes one of your best friends.  We used to do much of the remodeling ourselves, but now we have most of it done.   

It costs a lot of money to remodel, but the combination of buying and remodeling usually costs less than purchasing a lot, septic tank, mobile home, etc. or all new construction for the same amount of space.   

There are many lower cost good craftsmen and vendors in our two state area which makes things more affordable.  The biggest problem is having the fortitude to see the project through.  The rewards are great, because you will end up with a nice place to live and you will have preserved an historical property for yourself, your community and for future generations to enjoy.   

 ©Patty F. Cooper December 9^th, 2014 Elizabethton, TN

All Rights Reserved

The Wind Has a Mind of Its Own

The wind comes on unseen rails.   

Going where it wants.   

Not paying no never mind   

To anything anyone wants or owns.   

    

How does the wind get so powerful?   

When sometimes it is not shown.   

Where does it go?   

How does it get here?   

    

Sometimes it plays gently.   

Softly moving the grasses and leaves.   

Sometimes it is so strong   

Nothing can make it in its path.   

    

Pray for soft winds.   

Enough to move the sails along.   

Without sinking the ships   

Or marking the crying of the throngs.   

©Patty F. Cooper Elizabethton, Tennessee, October 14^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

Plants in the Garden Fighting It Out

Much care given to choosing just the right heirloom tomato plant.   

Thoughts of late summer delight picking the red bulb.   

As precious as a ruby.   

Savoring its acidic flavor.   

Warm juices running down my hot arm.   

Delicious.   

But wait!   

Looking out the backdoor at the precious plant.   

It has been invaded by I do not know what.   

Climbing its trellis.   

Its tendrils clinging.   

Large green leaves smothering.   

I must pull it out.   

Delayed.   

Next morning looking out seeing the glorious purple flowers.   

Morning Glory.   

Aptly named.   

Glorious.   

Its beauty catches my breath.   

What to do?   

Solomon’s choice comes to mind.   

Not to equate plants lives against the life of a child.   

But a hard choice nonetheless.   

The delicious versus the glorious.   

Let the plants fight it out.   

Picking tomatoes under Morning Glory leaves.   

Careful not to disturb either.   

The coming freeze will do what neither Solomon nor I could do.   

Choose both to die.   

For now.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee September 29^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

Anguished Faces Etched in My Mind

Anguished faces appear on the news at night.  They are the faces of persons whose lives have been disrupted by death, natural disasters or war.  People who have suffered terrible losses that they will never get over.  Those are the faces etched in my mind.   

I feel helpless in their wake.  I pray for them and I want our government to help them, because as an individual I feel unable to do so.  What can I do other than pray?  I can see them, I can listen to them and I can remember their stories.  I can love them even if from afar.   

Perhaps, my prayers do help and my love and my sorrow.  I will never know, because those things are like words flung as seeds out to places the sayer of those words sow some to grow and some to lie fallow.   

Nearly always when they show the drawn faces of the adults if there is a little child near the person who is sometimes patting them or soothing them even with just looks the child is squatting and playing if only with a stick or a stone.  The child is smiling.  The hungry thirsty child is still smiling providing a glimpse of humanity for all of us to see.   

 

Maybe it is the sight of those children playing in the dirt amongst the rubble that causes us to hope that someday there will be a better place and life for those folks etched in my, and hopefully our, brains and our minds.  How can we not want to help those sisters and brothers shown to us not just for the children, but for all of them as individuals and as a collective?   

If it were not for brave individuals who go to those places to bring us those images then my mind would rove to more pleasant things, because that is how I am.  But they go and show what is out there shaking us from our comfortable places and replacing trivia with harsh reality of natural destruction or horrors caused by man-made evil.  Sometimes they die, because they were there to show all of us those horrors.   

We really can do little if anything about natural disasters, but those folks doing evil could just stop.  Even if they are doing what they think their god wants them to do—if they stop for a moment to think then they can hear the wee small voice in their mind and in their hearts.  They know that what they are doing is wrong.   

We know this, because many people who have been a part of committing atrocities have later admitted that they were not fully on-board with what they were doing. They were just following orders afraid of being killed themselves if they did not comply with the evils they were being told to commit.  Not all felt this way, but some.   

Maybe all war falls into this category even for those who fought on the winning side.  I know that the faces that tormented my father as he tried to sleep were with him until the day he died.  I can only hope that after he, and others, die the individuals have a chance to meet to look at each other seeing the others sad faces and hearts.  I hope that they get to hug, talk and mend their hearts and souls.   

I can dream.  I just wish that it was in life rather than after death--if even then--that we could see each other, care about each other, and want to bring smiles and joy rather than death, destruction and despair to our neighbors twirling with us on this small planet.  I wish that we could look, love, listen, feel and do; instead of the way we actually do.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee September 19^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved  

   

Mystery of the Deep Wood

I love to stand at the back door and look down toward the creek.  Cleaned out now of poison ivy, hopefully, gone forever.  I love to look into the dark wood toward the cliff where trees are always falling always changing the nature of the water flow.   

I hear sounds from the dark wood straining to see yet not seeing the creatures making the sounds previously unknown and unheard by me.  Still unknown.  Who or what is there?  It is easy to determine birds, but what of the other creatures?  Usually early when the day is still deep grey.   

What of those sounds and the mystery from the deep wood even as the water sounds come to my ears?  I love the dark wood and the secrets it holds.  The thoughts of maybe never knowing what lurks there even though I long to know.   

It makes me feel small and uneducated of sounds and things hidden from sight.  I am glad, however, to know that there are still so many things that I do not know, because that makes me want to continue to live to perhaps unwrap just some of the awaiting gifts.   

© Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee September 12, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

The Good Worker

Fiction   

Axel knew the man they were talking about.  She had wondered why he worked at the local fast food restaurant.  He seemed so talented.  She was from an adjacent Appalachian town, so she only knew him from some work he had done for her neighbor and seeing him at the restaurant usually outside cleaning the place up.  He was real friendly and he had done a great job putting up a fence for her neighbor.  She was out to lunch with her new friends who were commenting about fast food workers who were trying to get a wage increase to fifteen dollars an hour.   

“How disgraceful is that?” asked Marie.  “Why would anyone without an education feel as if they were worth fifteen dollars an hour working in a burger joint?  I am dismayed.  Did you see the sign that said ‘No frizs,’ bet that Humbolt put up that sign.  He can’t read, you know.  Hum’s always been dumb.  He quit school in the sixth grade and he never did learn to read or write.”   

Amy shook her head in agreement as she put a sweet potato fry into her mouth.  Naturally, they weren’t eating at the fast food restaurant.  They were eating at a sit down restaurant where one ordered from a menu and a waitress brought their meals.   

“He seems like a smart man to me and I think they are paying him for his back rather than his ability to spell.  He did a great job on Josie’s fence and it was not an easy job.  So,” Axel asked, “how much do you think this waitress earns?  She introduced herself as Candy and said that she would be taking care of us today.  How much?  Do you think she is worth fifteen dollars an hour?”   

“Axel, are you saying that you think Hum or Candy is worth that much?” Amy, who was usually so quiet, inquired.   

“Yes,” Axel answered with one word.   

“Why, Honey,” Marie was attempting to explain. “Why, Honey,” she repeated, “you know no restaurant owner can afford to pay these people that much.  Why, the food would just be out of sight.  Nobody could afford to eat out.”   

Amy broke in, “And, they just aren’t worth that much.”   

“How much are they worth?” Axel asked.   

Amy continued, “Well, the owner pays them some in restaurants like this and then depending on their service they get tips.  I know they earn good, and in fast food restaurants I hear that some of them already are getting nine dollars an hour.  That is more than minimum wage.  That seems like enough to me.”   

“How much do you earn Amy working for Private Medical Insurance?  Aren’t you a billing clerk?”   

“Not that it is any of your business, but I graduated from Tech and I earn twelve dollars an hour.”   

Axle probed, “You think that is enough?”   

“No,” Amy admitted as she hung her head.   

“What about you Marie, what do you earn being the receptionist for that bunch of lawyers?”   

“I earn fourteen dollars and fifty cents an hour, but I’ve been there six years.  I started out at eight dollars an hour.”   

Axle just bluntly stated, “I do not think that either of you are earning enough and I do not think that fast food workers, or other restaurant workers or, in fact, workers in general are earning enough.”   

“Sh, Axel, you can’t say that.  Someone,” Amy said looking around the restaurant hurriedly to see who was there, “might hear you.  We could lose our jobs.”   

“Just saying,” Axel continued quietly, “I think that people who go out and give a solid days work should get a fair days pay that is enough so that they can keep a roof over their heads, their utilities paid, food in their houses, clothes on themselves and their kids and keep some kind of a car running.  You know, at least the basics.”   

“You forgot about car insurance, medical insurance and taxes.  It sure would be nice to go out to eat more than once a month—if that, and to order what you wanted off the menu rather than the cheapest thing on it,” Marie added.   

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Amy agreed.   

Candy came back to the table once again to see if they wanted refills on their sweet tea.  Axel had counted and she had come to the table seven times.  She came back an eighth time to bring their separate checks.  Then a ninth time to bring their change.  She had been serving them for an hour and a half.   

When they got up to leave Axel noticed that both Amy and Marie each left their server one dollar and some change which was about a seven percent tip.  Axel left ten dollars which was more than the base price of her lunch special.  Unbeknownst to her companions she had been a waitress many times through high school and later as a second or third job to make ends meet and to feed her kids before she got her college degree and her good job.  So, as a small mission she always tried to help her sisters-of-serve get just a little more than they were expecting.  She had been lucky so she could do at least that much. She was, however, unsure if their combined tips and what the woman earned at the restaurant added up to fifteen dollars an hour.  She hoped that it did.   

As she was driving home she passed the sign once again.  Someone had changed it and it read, “Sorry, no fries.”  She remembered the days of getting up to be at work by four-thirty A.M. to cook four-hundred and fifty biscuits at a fast food restaurant.  She still felt like Hum and all the other low wage workers should be paid a fair price for their labor, but she felt sad because she knew that she was in the minority.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, TN, September 8^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved         

I Bought a Horse

Today, became one of the most empowering days of my life.  I bought a horse.  Now, I am no spring chicken, but buying a horse wasn’t really a check off my bucket list; although, some might think so.   

Earlier this summer I looked at this same horse, rode him and then said no to buying him, because of all sorts of sensible reasons, but I couldn’t get him out of my mind.  I wanted this horse.  I really wanted him practicality aside.  Way aside.  I just wanted him.  Selfishly so.   

That is the main reason that buying him was so empowering.  I did it just for me.  Several years ago, my husband, Ed, and I moved from south Florida to a large farm in Kentucky.  It had a big barn and an amazingly large field.  I wanted a horse so much, but I wouldn’t let myself get one, because it was dangerous and what if I fell and hurt myself and couldn’t handle my responsibilities.  So, no horse for me.   

A few years later we moved to North Carolina at the request of a family member.  A couple of months later Ed and I were in a devastating car accident.  An eighteen wheeler lost control coming down a mountain and its trailer, contents and the concrete barrier plummeted us.  We were both badly hurt.   

The recovery process from the accident was long, painful and hard.  We will never be the same as we were just one second before the accident.  I had played it safe, not got my horse then was injured by someone else.  Such is life.  Many times since then I have said to myself: I could have had my horse.   

 

I figured that if I had gotten hurt on my horse then at least it would have been doing something I really wanted to do.  I have few regrets, but I regretted not having had a horse when I could have had one.   

Fast forward to now … earlier this summer a neighbor from down the road who has horses said that he would sell me this amazing Tennessee Walking Horse, keep him on his farm and teach me to ride and to take care of him.  As I said, I decided to not take the horse.  Dumb.  Real dumb.   

Today, I found out he still had this horse and was willing to go with the same deal.  My amazing husband was still willing to put up with my wishy-washy ways.  He just smiled and said, “Buy the damn horse.”  I did.   

Wish me luck.  I have a lot to learn.  So much.  But, I feel like a million bucks.  I threw caution to the wind.  I will, however, still be very careful while riding Silver Dollar.  He does have one additional name though, and that is Dream.  Yes, he is my Silver Dollar Dream.  He is a dream come true for me, and may I wish that your dreams will come true for you.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee, August 29^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

     

What the Dead Said

I had a terrible week last week, so I was going to write a piece about pet peeves.  Then things went from bad to worse and I decided that I would vent about something even bigger than a pet peeve.   

I am at the age now where many people I loved, and who loved me, are gone.  By gone I mean dead.  For some strange reason I have the capability to sit with folks who are dying.  I can sit for long periods and listen to them as they talk saying what is on their minds.   

 

They may decide to tell stories about their lives or talk about things that they liked or didn’t.  The filters are removed.  Deep secrets are revealed, because what do they have to lose by speaking the truth as to what their feelings or thoughts are?   

Not many of my family or friends are able sit those hours.  They ask me how I can do it and I reply that I am glad to do it.  What they don’t know, although I have tried explaining this to them, is that I have learned so much about many aspects of life and the interior thinking processes of people on their way out.  It has provided a selfish motive for me as well as an altruistic one.   

After the person dies things change so much.  People who had their turns “sitting” with the dying person found every excuse, while they were in that setting, to go anywhere except sitting in the chair next to the person with whom they were supposed to be sitting beside.  They may spend the hours at the place, but not with the person.  They, therefore, do not get to hear the stories.   

Then, as time passes, they tell what the dead said.  Now, naturally, as you can imagine since they did not hear what the dead said they make it up to suit whatever they are wanting to do telling all those around them that this was what so-and-so said or wanted.  For most listeners this is not a problem, because they were not there and so they do not know that the person who was supposed to be there wasn’t—in reality either.   

When they say to me, however, what the dead said and I actually heard from the persons own lips, usually at least several times, what they actually said I really get angry.  It also hurts me that they would attribute to the person who no longer has a voice what they want not what I know the person wanted.   

Maybe they believe that they are telling the truth or maybe they know that they are lying.  I don’t know, but I wish that whenever someone says what the dead said and it is wrong that the dead person could just pop right up beside them and say, “No, I did not say that.  I said this ____.”  Wouldn’t that be the coolest thing?   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 25^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved

The Conclusion: Part 6

From the short mystery series Body in Cold Rock Creek   

Ephram Clout, Junior insisted that he continue telling his story only to the Sheriff and Naomi once he was in the interrogation room at the Sheriff’s office.  Sheriff Matt Stephens read him his rights again this time recording everything.   

Mr. Clout still refused an attorney.  He wrote out his confession stopping occasionally to take a few minutes break to drink a soda that the sheriff brought him.  He told the Sheriff and Naomi that he was a third year student at the University majoring in Sociology.  He said that he had the best grades in his class.   

When he handed them his written confession both were speechless when they saw it was written in perfect English and that his penmanship was easy to read.  Naomi couldn’t help but say, “Junior, you don’t write at all like you talk.  Why’s that?”   

He answered, “Why Ma’am, I can talk like everybody else.  I just choose to talk like my people.  I am proud of my heritage.”   

He continued talking becoming much more sober.  He looked around seeming to be fully aware of where he was and his circumstances.  “You know, I was even one of the people they interviewed.”   

Both Matt and Naomi knew that he was.  Just as he was being interviewed for TTN early during the media frenzy a photographer had snapped a picture as a single tear rolled down Ephram Clout, Junior’s cheek.  The picture was picked up by nearly every paper in the world and it went viral.  It was dubbed “The Single Tear.”  The photograph and photographer was up for a Pulitizer Prize.  The Sheriff could only imagine that now this young man would be dubbed the “Single Tear Killer,” and he was.   

Many of the media folk came back once they found out the killer had been caught, but they were furious, because Junior Clout refused to go to trial.  They wanted the matter to go on and on.   

The Judge required Junior to stand up in the packed Cold Lake County Courthouse and read his entire confession.  He had agreed to serve fifteen years as part of a plea bargained agreement.   

The crowd booed when they heard that.  The Judge slammed his gavel down demanding order in the court.   

The Prosecutor stood up, bucking to the crowd, and despite his earlier agreement with Mr. Clout he asked for a twenty year sentence.  The crowd cheered.  Naomi looked around the courtroom during both of the outbursts and it seemed that the locals were satisfied with Junior’s plea, but the outsiders wanted more.  The media had even suggested the death penalty.   

The Judge said that he was ready to rule and the crowd cheered.  He did a preliminary statement about how sad the entire course of events were.  Then, he said, “The court is satisfied that Mr. Waycastle agreed to play the game.  It was appropriately named ‘The Dumb Ass Rock Throwing Duel.’  Therefore, the court finds that Gilbert Mac Waycastle was partly to blame for his own death.”  Many in the crowd jeered.   

The Judge continued, seeming to pay no attention to the audience.  He motioned for the Defendant to rise.  Junior rose tears streaming down his face.  He wiped his nose and looked like a little boy in his new suit.  He glanced once back towards the audience.   

The Judge said, “This court finds Ephram Clout, Junior guilty of the unintentional murder of Gilbert Mac Waycastle.  He is to serve a period of not more than four and one half years in a facility the State of Tennessee chooses.  The crowd erupted.  It took all of the law enforcement officers in the courtroom to prevent total chaos, but they finally managed to clear the room.   

The young man went off to serve his time.  The talk shows had fodder that lasted for days.  The Judge received both death threats and letters congratulating him on his courage.   

Matt Stephens decided that despite all the job offers that he’d stay in Cold Lake County.  He, Naomi and Edgar decided to keep Ephram Clout, Junior’s place up and to pay the taxes on his farm.  “I just want the young man to have a place to come back to after all this is over.  With good behavior and shortened sentences he could be out in a couple of years maybe sooner.  He didn’t mean to do it.  He isn’t a bad kid.”   

Both Naomi and Edgar nodded in agreement while sipping coffee and rocking on their porch.  “That’s so,” Edgar said snuffing out his cigarette.   

“What are you going to do now, Naomi?” Matt Stephens asked.  “You know we wouldn’t have solved this case without you.”   

“Thank you, Matt.  I must say.  I’ve been thinking about some of those deaths I investigated in Florida and I am just not satisfied that we got to the bottom of them.  I may do some asking around.  May I call on you for advice?  I know that I will get stumped.”   

The Sheriff answered, “You know you can.  Maybe you will even let me be your co-nvestigator.  If you aren’t satisfied then there probably was more to those stories.  Just give me a call and we’ll get started.”   

The End   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 23, 2014

All Rights Reserved

        

       

  

  

Did You Ever Remodel a House? A Poem

Did you ever remodel a house?   

If you haven’t, don’t.   

It’ll drive you nuts.   

And, cost you big bucks.   

Did you ever remodel a house?   

I’ve done six or seven.   

Too many.   

One is too many.   

Always say I will NEVER do it again.   

Yet, I do.   

What is wrong with me?   

Doing it over and over again.   

Now, this one really is the last one.   

One hundred six years old.   

Need I say more?   

No wonder I’m poor.   

Just look at those old …   

doors and   

floors.   

Her beautiful lines.   

This one really is the last one.   

I’ve helped to save heirloom sites.   

Not all big.   

Some very small.   

Homes for common people.   

Places where families were raised.   

Places where lives were lived.   

Then, later they moved or died.   

Who am I kidding?   

I wouldn’t want to do it again.   

But, I would.   

Because, it was worth it.   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 20^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved    

Homeless Elevator Couple Not Forgotten

For the longest time we have heard and read about homeless persons.  Homelessness was big news.   When my husband and I lived in south Florida the plight of homeless persons was always in the news and they could be found everywhere. Many people were trying to help them and many just wanted them gone or at least out of sight.   

Have you noticed that there isn’t that much said about homeless people anymore?  We have them though, and we have many thousands who are on the verge of homelessness.   

 

Last winter a young friend and her family became homeless.  Neither of her parents could find a job nor manage to keep one if they got one.  Consistently, that is.  They ended up losing their trailer when they couldn’t pay the rent and the water and power got cut off.  She said they were going to move in with family.  They still haven’t found a stable home. She changed schools three times last year and is unsure where she will be going this year.  How is she supposed to be okay?   

When my husband and I were on our recent anniversary trip we stayed at a beautiful hotel connected to a river walk by a walkover.  The first morning we went toward the river walk there were two people sleeping in a covered area near the steps.   

 

The next morning there was one person sleeping there.  We pushed the elevator button to go down to walk along the river.  It took the elevator a long time to reach us and when it did there was a young couple in it.   

It was obvious that they had spent the night sleeping in it and I am afraid we woke them up.  We spoke.  It was a small elevator and I had to stand close to the young woman who was pregnant.  I hoped that she didn’t feel like I was invading her personal space.  I already felt like we had walked into their bedroom.   

She looked at me smiled and said, “You smell like baby powder.”   

I looked at her, smiled and answered, “I don’t have on baby powder.  Maybe you smell my soap.”  She smiled again.  She was so beautiful and friendly.  We went on our walk.  As we were returning we passed them again and we all spoke.   

 

I felt so helpless.  I hate a world where people do not have homes or a safe refuge.  I look at the news and see all the refugees from all the wars.  People who can’t go home or if they can there is no home or job to go back to.  Probably, they have lost loved ones.  I want to see them sheltered and safe.   

There are people in every community, town and country who fall into these circumstances.  Many times through no fault of their own.  People who survive natural disasters frequently have not recovered years after them, and what about people in the U.S. who lost their homes during the great foreclosure crisis?   

Recently, on the news they were telling about all these big beautiful hotels that are closed or closing down in Atlantic City, New Jersey.  They are so close to where people lost homes and businesses due to hurricane Sandy--many of whom are still trying to rebuild.   

 

I would like to see all the hotel rooms and all the foreclosed houses filled up with people who do not have a place to call home.  Think how good those beds, bathrooms and mini-fridges in those big hotels would make people feel. They could lock their own doors and hopefully have a greater sense of security.  Can you imagine seeing their children frolicking in the pools?  I know that you could count their smiles!   

I would love to see the businesses around the hotels and homes reopened providing people with year round jobs so that they could pay a reasonable rent.  I would want to see disabled veterans and disabled persons get their benefits if they do not already have them.  These enclaves could become refuges where people could live, work and build communities.   

We are supposed to be a compassionate nation.  A nation that helps people who have had setbacks in their lives, or perhaps never had a chance, become more self-reliant given a hand up.  I do not see that as a description of our nation at the present time, but we could be.  I want us to be.  Do you share my dream?   

    

I cannot get the picture of the young couple we met in the elevator out of my mind.  How does it make you feel?  What can we do about homelessness when there are so many politicians who cut funding to every kind of helping program and by their actions seem to want some of our fellow human-beings to just drop off the face of the earth?   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August 18^th, 2014   

All Rights Reserved   

The Confession: Part 5

From the short mystery series Body in Cold Rock Creek   

Ephram Clout, Junior led Sheriff Stephens and Naomi Childers through a field and up a long hill behind his house.  Naomi couldn’t get over how polite he was.  He apologized to her because she had to walk so far and once when they came to a steep rocky place he stopped and offered his hand to help her over the obstacle.   

He said little going up the steep hill.  Naomi knew that Matt must be thinking what she was thinking: This young man a cold-blooded killer?   

They got to the campsite and it was as if it had been preserved in a museum.  “I ain’t been back,” Junior told them.  “I mean, I ain’t been back up here since the night it happened,” he elaborated.  “And, nobody else ever comes up here.  You live down there Ma’am?”  He was pointing in the direction of Naomi and Edgar’s farm.   

“Yes,” Naomi said in a voice that was barely audible.  She looked up at him and he smiled.  He looked as if he could be one of her grandsons.  She had to fight back tears.   

“I thought I recognized you,” the young man said as he smiled again.  “They told me at the store that some real nice people bought the old McToole farm.  You fixed it up real nice.  I pass it sometimes when I go that way and I seen you a workin’ in the yard.”   

It was almost as if this young man was just chatting with her the way folks did when she stopped at Markers to pick up ice cream sundaes.  It was excruciatingly painful to think that this young man was a murderer.   

“Well, Mr. Clout why don’t you tell us what happened up here,” the Sheriff said jarring both Junior Clout and Naomi back into reality.  “Why don’t you just start at the beginning.”   

The young man began.  “I have that path over younder,” he said pointing to the woods behind the sheriff.   It meanders down the mountain to the creek after the cliff part.  Sometimes, when I don’t have gas money or just when I want to kill a lot of time I go that way to Martin’s Store.  I took it that afternoon.”   

He continued, “When I got to the store I bought me a candy bar and just sat down on the jawing bench next to this feller and we struck up talkin’.  He said that he’d been hiking the trail and had come off for supplies.  It was getting kind da late and he asked me if I knew where he could camp for the night ‘cause he wasn’t goin’ na make it back to a good campsite on the trail.”   

Junior Clout took in a deep breath and went on, “I told him that he could camp out at my place and he thanked me.  We went hoofing and got to the creek and waded in, ‘cause you have to walk part way in the creek to get back to the path.  He liked the camp site and he asked me to supper."   

   

"He pulled out two big steaks that he got at the meat market at the store.  He was a mighty good cook.  It was dark by the time we finished so we just set in to talkin’ and he pulled out this big bottle and asked me if I wanted a swig.  Well, a course I did, so we set in to drinkin’.”   

“Some right smart of time passed and we was both gettin’ pretty wasted.  It was the best tax-paid stuff I ever drunk and he said it come from somewheres afar off.  It was powerful, too.  Anyways, he commenced to telling me about a travelin’ all over the world and things he had done.  It was real interestin’.  Then he started telling me about all kinds of games people played in those far off places and asked me what our unusual games were.  I couldn’t think of nuttin’ right off so I just says horse shoes.”   

He laughed and said “No, something more ‘exotic’ than that.”   

“I was stumped for a minute and I was trying to think of somethin’ when I put my hand down in my pocket and felt the two rocks I had picked up when we crossed the creek.  I like rocks and I found these two laying side by side in the creek.  They were shaped just like chicken eggs.  One was brown and one was black.  I said, well there is one game, but we’d be fools to try it.”   

“What’s that?” he asked.   

“He told me to call him Gil.  So I said, well Gil, it’s called the Dumb as a Rock Duel.  I commenced to explain how you play it makin’ it up as I went.  He asked why it was called that and I told him that rocks were the weapons and that anybody had to be as dumb as a rock to play it.”   

He just horse laughed and said, “Well, I’m game.”   

“We built up the fire real big to give us some light and walked over a ways from it.  I handed him the pretty black rock and we both stood up with our backs to each other and stepped off twenty-five paces.  We was both real stumble-like and laughin’.  Then we turned to face each other.  I let him go first and he flung the rock towards my head.  He missed by a mile.  Just like we was supposed to do.”   

“Then it was my turn, and I let go and being drunk and all I forgot to think about missin’ him.  I am a powerful good shot, and I throw knives and always win.  Well, I didn’t mean to aim I guess it was just instinctive.”  Junior Clout paused and sucked in a great gulp of air.  Matt Stephens and Naomi Childers did not interrupt the young man.   

He continued, “I sure didn’t mean to hit him.  If I had been thinking about my aim it was off by a full inch maybe two.  I didn’t hit him square between the eyes like David did Goliath, but he went straight down and he was dead as four o’clock afore I got to him.  I just screamed as I held him.  Then I had to figure out what to do and before I really thought I had dragged him by his heels over to the side of the cliff and pushed.  He went over, but got caught a few feet down and I had to take a stick to dislodge him before he went tumbling on down.  It was pitch black, but I heard him hit the water.  I put the fire out and went home.”   

“I was going to call you Sheriff honest I was,” he said as he looked over at the sheriff.  “I didn’t mean to do it.”  They were all standing on the side of the cliff looking down.  The sheriff bent over and picked up Gilbert Waycaster’s lost boot.   

“I thought,” Junior said, “I’ll call him tomorrow.  Every day I kept trying to pick up the phone, but just as I got my nerve up to call you all hell broke loose.”   

To be continued ….   

©Patty F. Cooper, Elizabethton, Tennessee August, 16^th, 2014   

All Rights reserved