Grandpa Wouldn’T Lie: A Boyhood Memoir

© 2013 by Samuel D. Perry. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1198-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1199-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901665

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Foreword

Chapter 1 How Moses Martin Beat The Drum For General Christy

Chapter 2 How Grandpa Saw A Dead Man Sit Up

Chapter 3 When Hogs Ate The Dead

Chapter 4 How Grandpa Went To The School Of Hard Knocks

Chapter 5 How Aunt Em Came To Kentucky

Chapter 6 When Grandpa First Rode In A Car

Chapter 7 When Blood Ran Down Eagle Hill

Chapter 8 How A Witch Put A Spell On Grandpa’s Shotgun

Chapter 9 When The War Came To Indian Creek

Chapter 10 How People Hated To See The Dog Days Come

Chapter 11 How Uncle George Got His Revenge

Chapter 12 How Grandpa Lost His Best Friend

Chapter 13 Grandpa And The Chestnut Trees

Chapter 14 When Panthers Ruled The Night

Chapter 15 A Father’s Love

Afterword

Chapter Notes

About the Author

Acknowledgments

N OTHING THAT I HAVE ACCOMPLISHED during my tenure on earth could have been done without the generous, and undeserved, blessing bestowed upon me by a merciful Creator, and it is to Him that I express my primary gratitude. I was many years in coming to understand St. Augustine’s memorable discovery that, You have created us for yourself, O God, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you. Eventually, however, I did come to understand, and am a better man for having, finally, figured it all out. Having said that, there are others to whom I am deeply indebted for their contributions to this book.

Knowing that being married to a writer can be challenging, I cannot fail to acknowledge the sacrifices made by my long-suffering wife. Thank you, Rita, for letting me do what I like to do, and for trying to understand why I do it. Your common sense, and practical approach to life, has kept me on the right track for more than four decades, to your great glory, and my benefit.

For Lynda and Angela, who carved out professional lives for themselves, but, who gave up prosperous careers to become stay-at-home mothers. Thank you for being daughters of which any father could be proud, and thank you for giving me nine wonderful grandchildren. It is for them, by and large, that this book has been written.

For my parents, Ledford and Dora Perry, who insisted that I do my homework and get a college education, I express my sincere appreciation and gratitude. I trust that I have lived up to your expectations.

For Betty Hatfield. Thank you for teaching me how to string words together and turn them into paragraphs that would not give an English teacher a headache.

For Wanda Worley-Smith. Thank you for your help when I needed it, and for the wonderful story about your grandmother, Amanda.

For the many editors I have worked with over the years. Thank you for your constructive criticism. The checks were not bad, either.

Lastly, for my grandparents, John T. and Catherine Haynes Perry. Thank you for the love you gave me throughout the time I was a part of your lives, and for the precious legacy you bequeathed to me. Seldom does the day go by that I do not think of you. The mornings I spent with you at the breakfast table, and the evenings in front of the fireplace, and stove, have become cherished memories. I have forgotten much of what you shared with me, but not all. What I do remember, I have tried to pass on to my own children, and, through this book, to my grandchildren, and grandchildren yet to be born. Through them, may the two of you continue to walk, spiritually, through the tall pines at the head of Mulberry Creek, listen to the call of the whippoorwill on summer nights, and watch, quietly, as the misty fog over the Cumberland River burns away in the morning sun.

Preface

F AMILY LORE THAT HAS BEEN passed from one generation to the next seldom remains unaltered by time. The frailties of the human mind, disinterest of family members, and difficulty in accessing information, all contribute to an end result that, frequently, bears little resemblance to its original appearance. Yet, in spite of the alterations that, naturally, occur, most family heritage that is transmitted through word of mouth remains, remarkably, intact. At least, it tends to be so within sub-cultures, such as the one found in the southern Appalachians.

When I came back home, after a long absence, to the hills and hollows that had nurtured me in my youth, I set about preserving as much of the rich heritage of the Big South Fork River region as I could. Doing so led me down many varied avenues, but, always, in the back of my mind, lingered the stories I had heard from my grandfather in my childhood. Some of the stories I heard from him were tinged with a deep melancholy, some were hilarious, and some were so fanciful as to defy reality, but they all shared two things in common. They were a delight to hear, and they came from the lips of a master storyteller. But, more than anything else, they were a part of my family’s heritage. Eventually, I knew that I had to keep them alive for my own grandchildren, and for the grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, that have sprung up, over the course of more than a century, from the union of a single set of ancestors.

In retelling my grandfather’s stories, I have had to make my own changes to them. The passing of time has dulled my sense of memory. I have, simply, forgotten many of the names of the characters in his stories. Where that has happened, I have, simply, invented new names. Sometimes, important historical facts, that would have been present in the original story, have been lost. Where possible, I have tried to reverse this omission, bringing them up to date for future generations. As this memoir is not a work of history, none of my changes will have any bearing upon what I am trying to achieve.

My grandfather told me many stories, but he did not tell me all of the stories he had archived in his mental library. Some of them were told to other grandchildren, so this listing is, by no means, complete. Some stories by-passed my grandfather and were told to members of other lines in the family tree. I have included one of those.

All of the stories are rooted in actual occurrences. The settings that lead up to the stories are true, and based upon real experiences I shared with my grandfather when I was a boy. They are experiences that I treasure today and that, hopefully, will shed some light upon how life was lived in the backwoods of Kentucky in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s.

In passing on my grandfather’s stories, I have done so in the first person, seeking to evoke images of a grandfather talking to a grandchild. If I have failed in that effort, I apologize. If, on the other hand, I have been successful, I will be gratified in knowing that, perhaps, I inherited a bit of my grandfather’s penchant for storytelling. That would be a compliment of the highest order, and would make my efforts worthwhile.

Foreword

T HE 1955 CADILLAC WAS A reflection of the American work ethic, and one of the best automobiles to ever come off the Detroit assembly lines. It was pearl-gray, and its taillights stood up over the trunk like blood-shot alligator eyes. Sparkling chrome bumpers in front and back heralded its approach, and signaled its departure. A massive bank of eight cylinders filled the engine compartment, and swallowed a gallon of gasoline every fifteen miles, but the engine was so quiet one hardly knew if it was running at all. The Caddy was a big, heavy, driving machine that turned potholes and rough spots in the road into insignificant distractions. I enjoyed driving it immensely, but, on this day, the defroster did not appear to be working properly. The windshield was covered with a film of mist that made it hard for me to see the road.

I held my hand over the vent above the dashboard and felt warm air. There appeared to be no problem there. The windshield wipers slid across the outside of the glass in the smooth, effortless manner that was a hallmark of quality vehicle construction. No flip-flopping, back and forth, and no squeaking, there. Those were Cadillac wipers, for sure, and they were doing their job. Still, the mist persisted and, when I rubbed across the windshield with my handkerchief, it did not go away.

Then, it hit me. There was nothing wrong with the car’s defroster. My eyes were the problem. They were fogged with mist, not the windshield. I was weeping.

It was late March and sarvis winter had fallen, like a dirty blanket, over eastern Kentucky. Everywhere I looked, the countryside appeared to have been smoked by a thousand piles of burning coal. The world was of one hue, the hue of miners when they step out of the man-car after a long shift deep in the bowels of the earth. It was hard to tell where the tops of the mountains ended and the sky began. Only scattered splashes of white, where serviceberry trees were in bloom, disrupted the, otherwise, colorless world of the Appalachian foothills. The dark skies, the darker mountains, the incessant drizzle, and the melancholy I felt within my heart were getting to me, and I knew that I had to snap out of it before I had an accident.

I hated sarvis winter. It came, always, after a few pleasant days of bright, sunny weather that led the unknowing into believing that a long winter was over, and spring had arrived, at last. But, it was a trick, played upon a gullible humanity by a mischievous Creator, to show just who was in charge of the natural order. I understood that, but, still, I did not like it.

I was on my way home to be present at the funeral of my grandfather. I had gotten word that he had died a couple of days earlier, but circumstances had prevented my coming home sooner. Now, I was on my way to the old Indian Creek United Baptist Church where his funeral would be held, followed by interment in the church cemetery, just a few feet away.

My grandfather had not been a member of that church and had little use for it. In fact, a debate had ensued, following his death, regarding whether or not to permit him to be buried in the church cemetery. But, diplomacy had prevailed over hostile attitudes and the church elders had agreed to allot him a space close by where his own parents lay at rest.

Knowing my grandfather as well as I did, I was sure that he would have been just as happy in having his body buried high up on Mid Knob Mountain, where gnarled pitch pines, and blueberries, clung to clifflines of weathered sandstone, or down at the mouth of Mulberry Creek, where he communed, at every opportunity, with a god that dwelt in the river eddies, and rode the stiff breezes that followed the meanders of the Cumberland River. My grandfather was not a man of stained glass windows and altar calls. He was a man of the forest. The hemlocks that soared above his head, like masts on a clipper ship, served as the flying buttresses of his place of worship.

Death had not come easily to my grandfather. Several months earlier, with the help of his two sons, he had butchered a hog. Afterward, he sat down to enjoy a plate of pork roast, baked sweet potatoes, and cornbread, his favorite foods. Hours later, he had suffered a stroke that put him in the Jellico hospital for a few days and, then, in his bed back home. Too weak to move, he had lain there, helpless, as his family did its best to make him comfortable. But, there was little that could be done. Finally on March 25, 1965, he had succumbed to the hog and hominy diet that had taken so many of his contemporaries. At his next birthday, he would have been 82 years old.

As I drove down U.S. Highway 27, the undulating countryside of Kentucky’s Bluegrass region gave way to the Pennyroyal and I felt the Caddy shift into a lower gear as it climbed up onto the Mississippian Plateau. I knew this stretch of road well, having traveled it numerous times while a student at Eastern Kentucky State College. Once past Hall’s Gap, only sheer willpower could keep a driver from falling asleep at the wheel, as the highway stretched, in a mesmerizing straight line, from the Gap to Somerset, with only minimal scenic value to break the monotony. However, I would not have to fight off sleep this day. I had too much on my mind. I was thinking about my grandfather.

My grandfather was a relic from an earlier time in American history. He was, essentially, a nineteenth century man. He was not well traveled, having spent most of his long life close by the place of his nativity. In fact, with the exception of a trip to Harlan County to visit his brothers, who were working in the mines there, he had never ventured more than fifty miles, if that, from where he had been born. He was not well-versed in politics, but was an admirer of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was the only good politician he had ever heard of, simply because Roosevelt had given him an old-age pension, and put people back to work during the Great Depression. He was not well-read, although visitors to his home had given him lots of books. Some of them he put to good use, propping up the windows in his house on hot, summer days. Others added a measure of color to a shelf in the living room of his home. He could not discuss history, or global affairs, as he had not been to school much. When he talked about the war, it took a while to determine if he was referring to the War Between the States, the Great War, or the recently-concluded Second World War. He could not talk about geography, as he hadn’t been anywhere. He could not drive a car, or operate a chain saw, and had never talked on a telephone. He didn’t know how to flush a toilet as he had, always, used an outhouse, or the woods. He had never eaten an ice cream cone, or a slice of pizza, and tropical fruits like avocados, papayas, and mangos were unknown to him. He could not prepare his own meals, and refused to wash dishes, as both jobs were considered women’s work. Although he was happy to receive Roosevelt’s old-age pension, he would have starved to death before becoming a welfare recipient. He had little use for organized religion, but believed in a Supreme Being, and a hereafter that included plenty of opportunities for squirrel hunting, running trot lines, and sitting on the front porch, watching the sun go down.

Most of the meals my grandfather had consumed during his eight decades of life had been prepared on a wood-burning stove. Some had been cooked in an open fireplace in cast iron Dutch ovens and blackened skillets. Most of the work done by him after the sun went down was done by kerosene lamp. Not until my father persuaded the local electric cooperative to extend its lines to his house did my grandfather have a refrigerator and a radio and illumination that did not require striking a match. He enjoyed those amenities for only a few months before he suffered his stroke.

My grandfather never owned many clothes, and favored bibbed overalls. He didn’t need more, he claimed, since Grandma did the laundry frequently, at least every month. His wardrobe consisted of a row of nails driven into the wall of his bedroom. Most of the time, he had nails to spare, even after he had hung his black felt hat upon one of them.

He was easy to get along with and always ready to lend a helping hand to a neighbor. He loved hot coffee, cold buttermilk, and lemon pie. Getting the coffee was no problem, but, as he had no refrigerator, a glass of buttermilk required a visit to his daughter-in-law’s kitchen, half a mile away. The lemon pie came only on special occasions, such as his birthday, and at Christmas time, compliments, again, of his daughters-in-law. He could locate a bee tree simply by following a flying honey bee through the woods, and no bloodhound ever bred could equal his tracking skills. He would drink well water, if he had to, but preferred water from an open spring. His dark hair and black eyes betrayed a racial heritage that included, at least, one non-European ancestor, but he didn’t have much to say about that.

My grandfather was the proverbial jack-of-all-trades and master-of-none. He was a fair carpenter, but not an exceptional one. He was skilled in the use of a broad axe, but had trouble sawing a straight line. He had no plumb bob, or carpenter’s level, or framing square in his tool chest. Consequently, anything he constructed could, readily, be recognized as having been built by him.

At Somerset, I stopped for gas. The Cadillac was a great automobile, but it would run smoothly only on high-octane fuel. Back behind the wheel, I steered the car southward and crossed the Cumberland on the high bridge at Burnside. My grandfather and I had spent many hours on the banks of that river, and the memories came rushing at me like the snow squalls that sweep through the mountains in late winter.

South of Burnside, I began the long climb up the steep escarpment that separates the Cumberland Plateau from the rest of Kentucky and, in many respects, from the rest of the world. Again, the Caddy shifted into low gear and growled its way up to the pine-shrouded tableland that was home to me and my kin. Here, the limestone that underlay most of the state gave way to sandstone strata that was sandwiched between layers of coal, the precious mineral that had so altered the lives of the people living on top of it. Here, the soil was thin, so thin, in fact, it was hard to dig a decent grave. It was also acidic, great for growing hemlocks and rhododendrons, but terrible for corn and beans. But, it was like no other place on earth, and I always seemed to relax when I got back to it, as if my soul and spirit knew that it was where I belonged.

I thought about the last time I had talked to my grandfather. It had been little more than a year. I was home, on furlough from the Army, after having spent a thirteen month tour of duty in Korea. Suffering from a serious case of culture shock and showing early symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I had borrowed my father’s car, the same one I was now driving, and gone down to see him and Grandma. I had needed to get out of the house for a few hours, and away from my mother’s pampering.

I had driven as far as I dared, not wanting to scrape off a muffler on one of the rocks that made the road to my grandparents’ house suitable only for log trucks and four-wheel drive vehicles. I pulled the car off the road, got out, and walked the rest of the way.

At the gate in the fence in front of their house, I stopped and looked around. Daffodils on either side of the path leading to the front porch had burst open in parallel rows of yellow. My grandparents called them Easter flowers. They did not know what a daffodil was. Of course, neither did I, until I went off to study botany with other ignorant mountain boys and girls at Cumberland College. A wisp of white smoke rose from the black stovepipe that stuck up through the roof of their red-brick siding home, so I knew they were home. I laughed to myself when that thought crossed my mind. Where else would they be? They never went anywhere.

I heard the squeak of a door being opened, and an old man and woman appeared on the porch. My grandmother came running down the path. Grandfather followed, walking with a cane, his gait unfamiliar and unsteady. I swung back the gate, and rushed to meet them on the path.

My grandparents seemed much smaller than I remembered. and the tops of their heads reached only to my breast. We wrapped our arms around each other, sharing the warmth of our bodies against the chill of the morning, a tall soldier in a green uniform embraced by two short people who loved him, unconditionally, and did their best to let him know it. The tears I shed that day were worth more than a thousand hours of counseling. My grandparents helped me to know that I was back home and that nothing that I had done, while I was away, mattered anymore.

John T. and Catherine Perry lived the simple life in their little mountain home.

At Wiborg, I turned off the paved road and headed out Bullet Mold Ridge, following the ancient buffalo trail that had seen a succession of travelers ever since Virginia longhunters had ridden over it in 1769. Indian Creek United Baptist Church lay just a few miles ahead, on the right. It had been built upon land settled by my grandfather’s great-grandfather, and the cemetery that would be my grandfather’s final resting place had been established at one end of his great-grandfather’s farm, after two small children had died of the bloody flux.