©Kudzu | Folklore | The Trail of Tears | Southern Stories
Continued from Part 1
The creek presented itself as most peculiar at
first sight. From its starting point water springs up from the fist size hole
in the ground, then begins cascading in the direction it flows while growing
wider along the way. Such an unusual sight made the story even more believable
to the children after observing Sliding Rock for the first time.
When little ones of Appalachia set out on
their first journey alone they proudly announced to the grown up folks that
they were going to play in the puddle of tears.
#
The delicate scent of the honeysuckle’s
tender yellow blooms saturated the morning air as an attention-grabbing symphony
of grasshoppers and cicadas rumbled which summoned fond memories of seasons
past. One bloodthirsty mosquito pierce affirmed the arrival of steamy summers
of Blue Ridge, Georgia.
As for nine-year-old Ray, he squirmed when
hearing stories of a mysterious clearing in the woods, his suspicions clear. Because
of his disbelief and inquisitive nature it wasn’t odd when the young fellow
engaged conversations on the topic attempting to resolve many years of
questions left unanswered.
Those brown almond shaped eyes darted from
left to right then back when Ray pondered a more in depth inquisition. Without
doubt, he believed segments of the far-fetched tale were mildly exaggerated and
someone out there must possess more accurate facts. His knowing of the many
differing versions of the tale, Ray remained assured each story contained
partials of what might be the truth. This quick-witted nine year old found
himself unconvinced a congregation of mourners had cried so much no matter what
dire circumstances were afoot. Ray sought those tiny original details lost from
one generation to the next; the essential ingredients making the tale worthy of
sharing and passing down in the first place.
Claudette shuffled closer stove, “I’ll tell
you as sure as I stand here on this kitchen floor it’s true.”
“Granny that is the silliest darn thing I
ever heard.” Ray’s eyes continued darting.
“It ain’t done it. What’s silly is that new
haircut of yours,” Claudette stretched out four fingers over her head, “like a
peacock.”
“It doesn’t seem to be hurting Elvis none.”
Mimicking Claudette’s finger motion, Ray’s eyes widened as he nudged his head
forward like a chicken. “That cockeyed story doesn’t make any sense. I believe
I’ve heard about twenty versions and they’re all just a little bit different.
Who knows what really happened, if it happened at all.”
“Well, you just go on down there when the
moon is full and stick your dirty little feet in it. You might find out. Just
one boney hand straight up and out of the muddy water! That should be enough to
convince you. Then you won’t have to hear another word of it cross my wrinkled
lips. You can then make up stories of your own to tell mister.”
“You ain’t going catch me down there in the
dark. I might be brave, but I ain’t crazy.” Ray’s eyes widened, his eyebrows
rising upward.
“You go on now since you’re so wise and tell
me where do you think that water comes from? It’s a coming right straight up
from a hole in the ground I tell you. I saw it with my own eyes back when I
could see right.”
“Granny, you gotta use more than the eyes.
Everybody with a brain the size of a pecan knows there is water stored in the
ground.”
“If that’s what you think, but I tell you,
there is something mighty strange about that water. You explain to me why there
are no more spots where water just pops up from the ground then?” Claudette’s
hands rested on her hips, her face marked with a questioning expression.
“How would we know anyway? It’s not like we
get out of Blue Ridge much. Besides, I’m sure
there are others. What do you think Preacher Will might think about your
cockamamie story telling?”
Since the day newborn Ray appeared in this
world, the two had become inseparable. It didn’t take much to attach, the bond
was instant when her first grandson wrapped his tiny hand around her index finger
for the first time. Claudette knew she was hooked for the time remaining of her
life. She had a way of knowing.
In earlier days while pressed down by the
blazing heat of the summer, Claudette took no issue lugging Ray around on her
backside in a makeshift carrier. No matter how much her back pained by the end
of the day, Claudette never complained, continuing her pace through each garden
row picking away. Her comfort came from knowing he was close by. Ray tugged on
her ear, pulled her hair, and drooled down her muumuu, but still she gathered
food happily content.
Shortly after Ray rose to his feet, moving at
a higher elevation, Claudette in her way, gazed directly into those alluring
chocolate tinted eyes expressing to Ray he possessed an ancient soul. A spirit
as old as the whispers that rustle through the mountain pines, she said. She
would go further when concluding her grandson was an old man being held hostage
in a little boy’s body. Evidence clearly indicated that Ray was far more gifted
than anyone in his range of age. He seemed knowledgeable as the older are and
held an awareness of life’s goings on that only someone with experience should.
Nowadays,
Ray promptly assures Claudette he is only nine-years-old and his soul is just
getting started.
It was no bombshell when Ray questioned the
vague story as he promptly reminded his grandmother about the strict teachings
of the church in regards to things that were not directly linked to the good
word.
A battle of ideals with a prisoner in a young
body was one war Claudette preferred not to participate in so early this summer
day. The first meal dishes needed washing, dirty laundry piles demanded
attention and the wording of a song coming through the radio presented a clear
reminder of vast chores stretched out for the day at hand. Lyrics written by a
woman who obviously had a few years experience running a busy household and
raising a family.
“Ray, I think now is a good time for you to
go outside, go down to the barn and ask your Granddaddy about it.”
“About what Granny? The scary water or ask if
the good Lord in Heaven frowns on little white lies?”
“Go on now before I get my fly swatter. I
don’t have the time to talk about church this morning. You hear that gal on the
radio. She and I have the same amount of work to do. The only difference is
well, she gets to sing about it and I actually have to do it. On top of that I
don’t get royalty checks included with the other waste in the mailbox.”
#
Ray waltzed his way down to the barn like any
nine-year-old with an uncontrollable urge to touch, feel and observe everything
within arm’s reach. Despite being barefoot, Ray eased across the naturally
littered ground. Those feet were conditioned to weigh down on chunky red clay,
jagged rocks and the occasional pointy pinecone. Callused hands reached for overhead
tree limbs, ripping off handfuls of green leaves only to loosen his grip
allowing the dance of the foliage to the ground below. Finding a multi-legged caterpillars
or beetles, Ray tenderly picked those up for further examination. Once the
curiosity was satisfied, he then politely placed the creature back in the
position where he made the discovery.
Skipping as he continued his trek, the
inspector hummed an old gospel tune I’ll
Fly Away, which was one of his all time favorite songs to sing both at
church and in his spare time.
Arriving at the old tattered barn and without
hesitation, Ray promptly announced his presence as to not startle his
grandfather, who’d be consumed with his projects.
“I’m here to get in your hair Papa!”
“Well, I afraid I don’t have anymore for you
to get into mister. Might find one or two I suppose. Granny must have run you
out of the house again. I learned long ago to come down to the barn before she
had the chance to run me out.”
“I reckon, scared her talking about the
church and telling little white lies. Raised the tiny hairs on her neck I
suppose. As if I haven’t heard enough tales from folks, she said I should come
down here and ask you about the silly story of that there creek.”
“Why that old women is touched in the head I
tell you. Claudette has been telling that story since we got our first milk
cow. That was long before her hair had gone and turned the color of a snow
cloud. I suppose she will be telling it till the last breath moves past her
lips.”
“I reckon. I suppose it would do me just fine
if I knew the real story. Something other than bubbling water, howling wind and
mama Indian grabbing people’s legs.”
“I remember when she told your mama that
story. Being grown, I figured she wouldn’t believe such nonsense. Still, your mama
wouldn’t step a foot down there to see it for herself. Right silly if you ask
my thoughts on the matter. Brave enough to walk around with bright red lips
that can be seen ten miles away, but afraid of little ole stream.”
“Mama was scared of a lot of things. Scared
of the dark until the day she died. She was always hollering out the door for
me to get in the house because the sun was sinking into the ground. I guess
somebody forgot to tell her that the earth is round or something. Maybe that’s
why she liked the city so much. It never gets dark.”
To be continued...
