Dad always told me to stay away from him, said he was a squatter, a thief, a poacher. Said he was no good and lived like white trash. He was a ne'er-do-well, his bread wasn't done, and he might even be dangerous. There was something about an unsolved decapitation in Coila, many years ago. Some people said he did it. There was something about some moon shining, something about some shots fired at a game warden, something about some burglaries, some arson, a bunch of runs ins with the law. I never heard a single good word about him, never, not one. But when I got a little older, I formed my own opinion on him and on a few other things as well.
It was 1971, and I had just acquired my driver's license. Not only that, but I had the green light to hunt all I wanted to, and I wanted to a lot. With the keys to Dad's yellow 1969 Chevy pick up truck and an unlimited supply of shotgun shells, I became an expert squirrel hunter that year. "Just stay away from Crazy Ray," Dad had warned me. Why worry? I had heard so much stuff about Ray that I was terrified at the idea of ever running into him anywhere anytime. I even had bad dreams where Ray would suddenly appear out of nowhere and give me a stare down, his eyes going all the way through me and reading my fear like an accountant reads numbers off his ledger books. In those dreams, I always knew Ray was about to murder me, and I awoke in the middle of the night with my heart racing away in terror.
He lived in a small, ancient, badly-leaning log cabin that looked like it was searching for an excuse to fall down. His habitation straddled Dad's property line on Steen Hill Road--more about the property line later-- a matter which caused my dad a huge amount of consternation. His presence caused me some concern for hunting out there, but in the daylight in the safety of my bedroom, I would imagine running into Ray in the woods or on the road, and in my mind I was tough enough to take care of myself. I could box; I could shoot; I even carried a knife. He better not mess with me. In the dark, however, in my dreams, he still haunted me like a terrifying monster in a scary movie.
I had been cautious that whole October afternoon as I stalked through the woods off Steen Hill Road and shot squirrels out of the tops of tall trees. I knew Ray could hear my gunfire, but I was armed, I was aware. My eyes were everywhere, and my ears picked up every sound. I heard squirrel toe nails gripping bark; I picked up the rhythm of acorn shells hitting the leaved-floor of the forest under feeding squirrels. I heard the jay birds yell, the wind rustle through branches. I heard the chipmunks stir softly in the deep leaves. I knew the sounds of the woods, and Ray was not moving out there. I would have known if he was.
As the sun crept down, I tipped towards the truck, slowly, looking and listening, saving myself enough daylight so I could clearly see if Ray was on the road when I got there. When I drew within sight of the truck, my eyes did their work looking back and forth, back and forth. My ears joined the search. The coast was clear. The only place I couldn't see was the other side of the truck where he could be crouching, waiting for me so he could cut off me head.
I eased out onto the dirt road and looked around one more time. Four squirrels filled my game bag, and I carried a medium sized raccoon in my left hand. My right hand toted my trusty twenty gauged shotgun. Then, just like magic, just like in my bad dreams, there he was. I was standing at the tailgate of the truck and suddenly Ray was a few feet away staring me down like he did in my nightmares. My heart rate skyrocketed. My legs wobbled. I was terrified and not only that but it showed as I shook and that added a layer of embarrassment on top of my terror.
"I ain't gunna hurt you, boy," he said in a voice that wasn't deep or threatening or spooky. In fact it sounded young and kinda high pitched. Gentle, disarming. I tossed the raccoon into the bed of the truck, trying to act nonchalant, like I wasn't afraid.
"I know that," I answered, my voice cracking in fear.
"You know how to skin that coon?" he asked.
"Of course," I boasted. Then, still trying to bluff some ease, I began to unload my shotgun, only I left one shell in.
He noticed.
"Better get um all out, boy. Folks shoot themselves with unloaded guns."
So I ejected the third shell, went to the driver's door, opened it, and placed the shotgun on the gun rack. That's how we carried our long arms back then, on a gun rack at the back window. After that, I leaned over the truck bed to steady myself, and I looked right at Ray. His eyes were not the piercing-brown Charlie Manson eyes of my dreams but were light blue, non-threatening. My fear was fading, but I was still nervous and trying to collect myself.
"You know how to skin that so you get the most money from the fur buyer?"
Before I could answer, he turned and began to walk away in the direction my tailgate was pointed, toward his cabin.
"If you wanna know, bring him down here." And just like that, he was gone.
I climbed into the truck and took a few deep breaths. That initial shock and fright had been so strong that it was taking a while to recover from it. I put the keys into the ignition and cranked the engine. Dad had taught me always to park with truck in reverse gear. With my foot on the clutch, my left leg still shook a little. I thought I could just snatch the gear shift straight down into first, spin out of here and be gone. But I didn't. Even now, I can't explain why I did what I did, but my hands stayed on the steering wheel as I let out the clutch sending the pickup backing up towards Ray's cabin.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Saturday, December 16, 2017
The Cave Again
Honest, I had determined not to go back without a well-armed party of people who were equipped and competent in the outdoors. But peer pressure is real, effective, and dangerous. It happened like this.
We, my wife, children, and grandchildren, go to Hillbilly Heaven, Ellis Roberts' 300 acres of Carroll County, for Thanksgiving lunch. We always have. Andrea, our daughter, had already texted me early Thursday morning and asked it I would take a walk with her. Of course I said yes since I had the same concern about eating too much and gaining weight.
So not long after our meal and a little lounging to let it settle, Andrea started in on me, not just to walk but to go to the cave (see "It Happened," 11/23/2017). I kept telling her we were not going to the cave, but she started saying I was a "fraidy cat" and teasing me and laughing out loud and all like that. At first I stood up to it pretty well, but then the grandchildren started in on me and after a few minutes some of the adults began to rib me as well. I told them I would draw them a map and they could knock themselves out, but the grand kids were staying with me. They were relentless and finally I said, "Show me some guns." Eventually, we had laid out on a table a twelve gauge shotgun, a .357 magnum revolver, an unscoped .30/.30 rifle, and a machete. Grudgingly, I relented. We would go, but we had to come up with some rules and everyone had to follow them.
Since everybody agreed and since Hodge Ski Lodge (where the cave is) is only a mere mile from Hillbilly Heaven, we set out on foot, all eight of us. When it was all said and done that day, the adults who carried the weapons absolutely forbade me to use their names in the account. Talk about fraidy cats. I guess they fear getting some ribbing of their own.
So we set out. If you remember, the day was grand with sunny skies and a bit chilly but not too cold. Everybody was happy, and a jovial jive followed us as we walked the road headed on a grand adventure. Zane, our grandson, skipped and sang and threw rocks. He was the one who I most distrusted to stay with the group. He has no fear. Seriously. This boy has been catching snakes and frogs since he could walk. By the grace of God he is still alive.
When we got to the entrance to the Hodge land, I was surprised to see that the gate was shut and locked. If you remember, it had only been two days when I left driving fast having forgotten to shut the gate and refusing to go back. Of course being on foot, we had no difficulty negotiating that. I just wondered who shut and locked the gate behind me.
A half mile more of walking brought us to the levee of the pond and now we were a mere 100 yards or so from the gully. This is where I had fired, in fear, two shots from my twenty gauge only two days before. Here is where I heard the yells, and the dogs had fought to sit on my shoes. Now the group with me was having a jolly good time, but inside my stomach churned, and I had some real misgivings.
I pointed ahead and slightly to our left. "The cave is over there," I said, "but the sides are too steep. We need to go up stream a bit, go to the bottom, and walk back." And that's what we did.
It was a slow process getting everyone into the gully. We headed downstream after we did. I knew the cave should not be far, but this is not how I had found it before, so I was worried about getting there, worried about the kids, and worried about what we might find. But like I thought, we only made a turn or three downstream before it was there. I stopped and pointed up.
"There it is, ladies and gentlemen."
I enjoyed the look on my daughter's face, on everybody's face. They were genuinely surprised. I felt like a winner, like I had delivered. Then I looked up and Zane was at the mouth of the cave!
"ZANE, GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN! ZANE, GET DOWN NOW! GET DOWN NOW! ZANE, GET DOWN! GET DOWN!!"
I yelled as loud as I could until it felt like my vocal chords were going to go sailing out of my throat.
He slowly slid down while I almost hyperventilated. When his feet hit the bottom of the gully, he was crying and Andrea was looking at me like I was the worst sort of trash that ever walked the face of the earth. Nobody took it seriously, and they all thought I was out of line.
"Zane," I said grabbing his shoulders. 'I'm sorry for yelling at you, but you broke the rules. You were not supposed to do that."
The tension and embarrassment we so thick it seemed like you could reach out and touch it. Then his mom, trying to lighten the mood, I suppose, asked him if he had seen anything.
"There's dead bones inside," he said still sobbing some.
Andrea giggle a little at that. "All bones are dead," she said.
"They have blood on them. And they stink," Zane added.
The grin on Andrea's face faded.
"And something's in there. I heard it."
We left. When we climbed out, I had one armed adult go up first and stand guard, and I had another armed adult to be the last one out. We walked back to Hillbilly Heaven mostly in silence. Back at the house, Andrea pulled up the picture she took of Zane at the mouth of the cave.
"Dad, come look at this. Do you see what I see?" she somberly asked.
She handed me her phone. At first it simply seemed to be a picture of Zane at the cave. Then I noticed something in the darkness behind him. I expanded the photo to get a better look.
"Good gosh almighty! It's him!"
"Who? Who is it?" she implored.
I was in such shock I had to sit down.
We, my wife, children, and grandchildren, go to Hillbilly Heaven, Ellis Roberts' 300 acres of Carroll County, for Thanksgiving lunch. We always have. Andrea, our daughter, had already texted me early Thursday morning and asked it I would take a walk with her. Of course I said yes since I had the same concern about eating too much and gaining weight.
So not long after our meal and a little lounging to let it settle, Andrea started in on me, not just to walk but to go to the cave (see "It Happened," 11/23/2017). I kept telling her we were not going to the cave, but she started saying I was a "fraidy cat" and teasing me and laughing out loud and all like that. At first I stood up to it pretty well, but then the grandchildren started in on me and after a few minutes some of the adults began to rib me as well. I told them I would draw them a map and they could knock themselves out, but the grand kids were staying with me. They were relentless and finally I said, "Show me some guns." Eventually, we had laid out on a table a twelve gauge shotgun, a .357 magnum revolver, an unscoped .30/.30 rifle, and a machete. Grudgingly, I relented. We would go, but we had to come up with some rules and everyone had to follow them.
Since everybody agreed and since Hodge Ski Lodge (where the cave is) is only a mere mile from Hillbilly Heaven, we set out on foot, all eight of us. When it was all said and done that day, the adults who carried the weapons absolutely forbade me to use their names in the account. Talk about fraidy cats. I guess they fear getting some ribbing of their own.
So we set out. If you remember, the day was grand with sunny skies and a bit chilly but not too cold. Everybody was happy, and a jovial jive followed us as we walked the road headed on a grand adventure. Zane, our grandson, skipped and sang and threw rocks. He was the one who I most distrusted to stay with the group. He has no fear. Seriously. This boy has been catching snakes and frogs since he could walk. By the grace of God he is still alive.
When we got to the entrance to the Hodge land, I was surprised to see that the gate was shut and locked. If you remember, it had only been two days when I left driving fast having forgotten to shut the gate and refusing to go back. Of course being on foot, we had no difficulty negotiating that. I just wondered who shut and locked the gate behind me.
A half mile more of walking brought us to the levee of the pond and now we were a mere 100 yards or so from the gully. This is where I had fired, in fear, two shots from my twenty gauge only two days before. Here is where I heard the yells, and the dogs had fought to sit on my shoes. Now the group with me was having a jolly good time, but inside my stomach churned, and I had some real misgivings.
I pointed ahead and slightly to our left. "The cave is over there," I said, "but the sides are too steep. We need to go up stream a bit, go to the bottom, and walk back." And that's what we did.
It was a slow process getting everyone into the gully. We headed downstream after we did. I knew the cave should not be far, but this is not how I had found it before, so I was worried about getting there, worried about the kids, and worried about what we might find. But like I thought, we only made a turn or three downstream before it was there. I stopped and pointed up.
"There it is, ladies and gentlemen."
I enjoyed the look on my daughter's face, on everybody's face. They were genuinely surprised. I felt like a winner, like I had delivered. Then I looked up and Zane was at the mouth of the cave!
"ZANE, GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN! ZANE, GET DOWN NOW! GET DOWN NOW! ZANE, GET DOWN! GET DOWN!!"
I yelled as loud as I could until it felt like my vocal chords were going to go sailing out of my throat.
He slowly slid down while I almost hyperventilated. When his feet hit the bottom of the gully, he was crying and Andrea was looking at me like I was the worst sort of trash that ever walked the face of the earth. Nobody took it seriously, and they all thought I was out of line.
"Zane," I said grabbing his shoulders. 'I'm sorry for yelling at you, but you broke the rules. You were not supposed to do that."
The tension and embarrassment we so thick it seemed like you could reach out and touch it. Then his mom, trying to lighten the mood, I suppose, asked him if he had seen anything.
"There's dead bones inside," he said still sobbing some.
Andrea giggle a little at that. "All bones are dead," she said.
"They have blood on them. And they stink," Zane added.
The grin on Andrea's face faded.
"And something's in there. I heard it."
We left. When we climbed out, I had one armed adult go up first and stand guard, and I had another armed adult to be the last one out. We walked back to Hillbilly Heaven mostly in silence. Back at the house, Andrea pulled up the picture she took of Zane at the mouth of the cave.
"Dad, come look at this. Do you see what I see?" she somberly asked.
She handed me her phone. At first it simply seemed to be a picture of Zane at the cave. Then I noticed something in the darkness behind him. I expanded the photo to get a better look.
"Good gosh almighty! It's him!"
"Who? Who is it?" she implored.
I was in such shock I had to sit down.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
It Happened
I had never seen it and there is no way it was there when I was a boy. I have rambled this land, these hills, this gully since I was eight years old, first with my dad hunting birds, later on my own stalking squirrels, hunting deer, chasing hounds and raccoons.
I was shocked at its size and naturally drew closer to take a look. Standing on the east edge of the gully, my gaze was transfixed on the largest Carroll County cave I had ever seen or heard of. "Wow!" I said out loud. Then my eyes began a furious search for a route down the forty foot gully and up the other side. I had to have a closer look.
Bear, my wife's full-sized, mixed-breed dog, followed as I eased over the edge, dug my heals into the side and went sideways until I found a clear path, then slid down a carpet of leave on my back for about thirty feet before dropping off a ledge to fall the final eight feet onto the soft sand below. Pee Wee, the little mixed rescue that I am attempting to make a squirrel dog of, was absent, out somewhere looking for a squirrel or something to trail to try to bite.
From the dry creek, I scanned the slope above and decided on a path I thought I could do. It started with me digging my knees into the soft soil of the steep side and knee walking up, slowly, while pulling myself from sapling to sapling. Finally, I made it to a spot at a log just below the cave. Bear was there and when I looked down, Pee Wee had shown up in the dry creek below and looked up at us with what seemed like an interest in what we were doing.
In nothing flat, Bear, Pee Wee, and me were peering over a log and into the side of the dark gash of a cave. Immediately the hackles on both hounds rose. I tried to look inside, but all I could see was darkness. I was able to make out what looked like a trail about two feet wide going into the cave. The soil was compacted there in contrast with the softer dirt on either side. I failed to find any tracks, however, and was interrupted by some sort of shuffling sound coming from the darkness before us. The dogs went crazy.
They both barked with a fervor and fear I had never witnessed. This made me nervous so I knee walked and pulled myself around the side of the cave and up over the ledge at the top.
The dogs followed and above they quieted some but continued to bark a bit. Then I, we, heard some sort of growl. I don't know what it was, but the image that popped up in my mind was a bear. The dogs went nuts again, and I began to run-- not too fast because of my aged knees-- away from the cave and towards the truck which was a little over a half mile away.
After about 150 yards, I stopped to catch my breath and look back to see if we were being followed. I didn't see anything coming after us, but while we were there, the loudest, most hideous yell rang out from the direction of the cave that I have ever heard. The dogs again went nuts and fought each other to sit on my shoes. Then another yell broke out, as if in answer to the first one, ahead and to the side of us. It sounded like it came from around Dad's shooting house.
I loaded my 20 gauge shotgun and fired back towards the cave and then towards the other yell. I wanted whatever that was to know I was armed. When I tried to walk, I kept tripping over the dogs who couldn't get close enough to me. I hate to admit it, but I kicked at them a few times trying to get room to move my legs. Finally, we got to the truck and Pee Wee, who never wants to load but rather keep hunting, couldn't wait for me to open the door. When I climbed in, I had to push and push the dogs away to get enough room to drive because both hounds wanted to be in my lap. We were a couple of miles down the road before I realized I had not shut the gate. I didn't go back.
I don't know what made those yells, but now three days later I am still pretty shaken up. I don't think I will ever feel safe out there again. I am also curious. I want to make another trip to the cave, but I will never do it alone. If you are interested in forming a team, message me on Facebook. I want two photographers (one with a video recorder), and at least two people with guns who know how to use them. We will need some strong flashlights and some rope and some walkie talkies.
Serious inquiries only, please.
I was shocked at its size and naturally drew closer to take a look. Standing on the east edge of the gully, my gaze was transfixed on the largest Carroll County cave I had ever seen or heard of. "Wow!" I said out loud. Then my eyes began a furious search for a route down the forty foot gully and up the other side. I had to have a closer look.
 |
| My view of the cave from the dry creek. Notice the leaf-covered trail below it. |
Bear, my wife's full-sized, mixed-breed dog, followed as I eased over the edge, dug my heals into the side and went sideways until I found a clear path, then slid down a carpet of leave on my back for about thirty feet before dropping off a ledge to fall the final eight feet onto the soft sand below. Pee Wee, the little mixed rescue that I am attempting to make a squirrel dog of, was absent, out somewhere looking for a squirrel or something to trail to try to bite.
 |
| Bear. He's not a hunter, but he's on the team. |
From the dry creek, I scanned the slope above and decided on a path I thought I could do. It started with me digging my knees into the soft soil of the steep side and knee walking up, slowly, while pulling myself from sapling to sapling. Finally, I made it to a spot at a log just below the cave. Bear was there and when I looked down, Pee Wee had shown up in the dry creek below and looked up at us with what seemed like an interest in what we were doing.
 |
| Pee Wee doing his thing. |
In nothing flat, Bear, Pee Wee, and me were peering over a log and into the side of the dark gash of a cave. Immediately the hackles on both hounds rose. I tried to look inside, but all I could see was darkness. I was able to make out what looked like a trail about two feet wide going into the cave. The soil was compacted there in contrast with the softer dirt on either side. I failed to find any tracks, however, and was interrupted by some sort of shuffling sound coming from the darkness before us. The dogs went crazy.
 |
| A closer look at the mouth of the cave and the log from where we tried to peer inside. |
They both barked with a fervor and fear I had never witnessed. This made me nervous so I knee walked and pulled myself around the side of the cave and up over the ledge at the top.
The dogs followed and above they quieted some but continued to bark a bit. Then I, we, heard some sort of growl. I don't know what it was, but the image that popped up in my mind was a bear. The dogs went nuts again, and I began to run-- not too fast because of my aged knees-- away from the cave and towards the truck which was a little over a half mile away.
After about 150 yards, I stopped to catch my breath and look back to see if we were being followed. I didn't see anything coming after us, but while we were there, the loudest, most hideous yell rang out from the direction of the cave that I have ever heard. The dogs again went nuts and fought each other to sit on my shoes. Then another yell broke out, as if in answer to the first one, ahead and to the side of us. It sounded like it came from around Dad's shooting house.
I loaded my 20 gauge shotgun and fired back towards the cave and then towards the other yell. I wanted whatever that was to know I was armed. When I tried to walk, I kept tripping over the dogs who couldn't get close enough to me. I hate to admit it, but I kicked at them a few times trying to get room to move my legs. Finally, we got to the truck and Pee Wee, who never wants to load but rather keep hunting, couldn't wait for me to open the door. When I climbed in, I had to push and push the dogs away to get enough room to drive because both hounds wanted to be in my lap. We were a couple of miles down the road before I realized I had not shut the gate. I didn't go back.
I don't know what made those yells, but now three days later I am still pretty shaken up. I don't think I will ever feel safe out there again. I am also curious. I want to make another trip to the cave, but I will never do it alone. If you are interested in forming a team, message me on Facebook. I want two photographers (one with a video recorder), and at least two people with guns who know how to use them. We will need some strong flashlights and some rope and some walkie talkies.
Serious inquiries only, please.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Cainbrake
The fierceness of Doll's barking was a sure sign something was wrong.
"Go see what's the matter out there," Stella quipped, staring out the kitchen window.
Dan exited the kitchen door, went through the screened-in patio, and into the back yard where Doll, the Cohens two year old miniature Schnauzer was in a corner barking with a ferocity and rage they had never seen or heard. Suddenly Dan turned and ran back into the house.
"What's wrong?" Stella quizzed as Dan trotted to the gun case and pulled out a scoped .22 rifle.
"Snake."
"Oh God!"
They both ran out the back.
"He's big. Try to get her so I can shoot him. Be careful and grab her from the back or you might get bit."
The huge rattlesnake was coiled and ready to strike in a corner of the chain link fence. Doll was hysterical, jumping in nipping at the reptile and in grave danger of being struck, envenomated.
Stella managed to nab Doll by the back legs and drag her away then hold her down. Dan raised the Remington, took careful aim through the scope, and fired a single bullet into the viper. The snake instantly went into a roll, tossing, coiling, but his death sure.
"Take her inside," Dan barked. "That snake can still kill her."
Dan went to the storage room and brought back a long-handled hoe which he used to drag the monster away from the fence. He then saw his bullet had hit just below the head, severing the spinal cord but not full separating the head from the rest of the beast.
Stella came back out while Dan went to the storage room again, this time to retrieve a kaiser blade to finish the job of removing the head.
"Is that a diamondback?" Stella asked.
"We don't have diamondbacks around here. That's a canebrake. But I swear, he's as big as a large diamondback. I'm gunna measure him."
Dan made his third trip to the storage room, this time to fetch a tape measure. He stretched the snake out on the lush green grass of their back yard and measured 6'1'' minus the head.
"Dang. That has to be a state record or something. Canebrakes usually top out at around four feet. I've heard of a five-footer but never seen one that big."
Dan took a few pictures with his camera then hoisted the huge creature with the hoe handle and carried him through the back gate and into the woods. He took him deep into the woods and tossed him into a gully. But he kept the head. He scooped the head into a galvanized bucket which he hung high on a nail in the storage room.
They had built their house ten years ago, their dream home located on three country acres of Carroll County Dan had inherited from his father. With his contractor business booming, they had paid for the house in five years and had purchased an adjoining 80 acres of woods and gullies behind them. When they enclosed the back yard with a chain link fence, Dan had the gate put in so he could walk right out of his back yard and into his little hunting paradise. There he shot squirrels, ambushed deer, and sometimes just sat under a large hickory tree and rested, listening to the sounds of the woods. When their daughter Delilah came along, the only thing that could make things better, in Dan's mind at least, was a son. They were working on that.
After their Saturday fright, Dan forgot about the snake head until Tuesday when he came home from work. He had locked the storage room door for safety's sake. A three year old can get into just about anything he had mused to himself. He unlocked the door and pulled down the bucket. It was empty!
What the heck? he thought. His brain whirled and his heart rate quickened while his eyes roamed the room. Then he jumped backwards striking a nail that he sometimes hung stuff on and cut his left arm. He had startled at the snake head on the floor not far from his foot. "How in God's name?" he querried out loud.
Regaining his composure, he scooped the head back into the bucked, still careful not to touch it. He used the blade of the same tool that had decapitated the creature three days earlier. This time he looked around and found a Styrofoam top from a minnow bucket to go over the galvanized bucket and pressed the styrofoam down tight into the bucket so there was no way the head could fall out.
Things got weird the next day. He and his foundation crew were busy trying to get a slab poured. It was fall, the rains would start soon, and he had to make money while the making was good. As usual, he received texts from Stella throughout the morning, but one stopped him in his tracks. Sweetie, their little house cat was swollen, sick."She needs to go to the vet!" Stella texted with an urgency Dan could feel through the phone. He decided he could be off site a while so he drove home just in time to hear Stella shriek when he stepped out of his truck. He rushed inside to find her and Delilah hysterically bawling. Sweetie was dead.
Snake bit most likely was Dan's estimation. He took her lifeless form and held her close, crying silently but forcefully. Unlike many men, he loved cats in general and this one in particular. Her death was devastating and he determined then and there to declare total war on all venomous reptiles.
He walked outside in a daze trying to think where he might bury her. Then he saw it! In the flower bed behind the storage room was the head!
"No way!" he yelled out loud.
Stella, having followed him out asked, "What?"
"That head."
"What head?"
"That one," he pointed to the rattlesnake head he had chopped off six days before. It still looked just like it looked then, like it had happened only minutes ago.
"Where did that come from?"
"I had it in a bucket in the storage room."
"You kept that thing?" she shouted. "How did it get out here?"
"I don't know."
"You're the reason Sweetie is dead," Stella yelled in a rage.
Those words cut deep into Dan's heart like a knife plunging into a deer carcass. "We don't know that," Dan snapped back.
"Get rid of that thing and get rid of it now. Now. Before it kills something else." Her eyes registered her disgust and Dan knew her words were more than an outburst of grief. She blamed him truly.
Dan scooped up the head with a shovel for the third time but this time carried it through the back gate. He walked deep into the woods and tossed it into the same gully he had tossed the body into. Then he went back and buried their little fur baby and placed some bricks over her grave so nothing would dig her up.
After Sweetie died, a chill fell over Dan and Stella's marriage. She spoke little and he retreated into his work. Being blamed for the death of a beloved pet had hit him hard. He was sure he didn't deserve the blame but what else was new? She always blamed him for everything, even for their lack of a son.
During the following week, word started getting around that two neighbors lost dogs to snakebites. The Jones lost a full grown German Shepherd and the Shacklebees lost a poodle. When Stella brought it up, she gave Dan that look that said it all.
"It's not my fault!" he yelled.
"Don't raise your voice to me," she yelled back and left the room in a huff.
Everybody in the area was on edge. Dan had taken to carrying a .410 shotgun with him when he let Doll out to use the bathroom. He did this for a week until one morning he heard her yelp. He was horrified to see a rattlesnake head stuck to her back leg.
It can't be, he thought. But it was. He pulled to head off with the muzzle of the shotgun then blasted the head with three shots at close range. Nothing was left but scattered blood and bits of snake skin.
When Stella came out at the shooting, Doll was already on the ground suffering, swelling, yelping. She died within minutes.
"That dang snake head!?" she screamed at him.
"It could not have been the same one. It could not have been."
She wailed with a gut wrenching scream that itself was frightening and dropped to her knees. When Dan tried to comfort her, she pushed his hand away.
"Don't touch me you killer!"
"I didn't do it! I am not the only one who cuts the head off a dead snake."
But she would hear none of it. He let the snake head kill their cat, their dog, and she knew what was coming next. He would kill one of them.
Two weeks went by with no more problems. Although he and Stella rarely spoke, he was beginning to believe that bad stretch of crazy snake stuff was over. Then he stepped out the back door one morning and felt a pain in his foot. Yeah, he looked down and saw the snake head with its fangs sunk into his flesh.
He pried the head off with a shovel, smashed it, then ran inside. "Take me to the hospital," he said in a panicked voice. Stella didn't even ask why, but followed him to the car and drove furiously to Greenwood Leflore Hospital.
There was confusion in the emergency room. The doctors wanted a body, the actual snake so they could give the right antivenom. Even though both Dan and Stella told them it was a canebrake rattler, they delayed until Dan became very ill. Then they placed in ICU and began administering antivenom. His foot and leg swelled to the point that they no longer looked human.
When Stella made the mistake of telling the doctors about the head that never died, the doctors and nurses all grew suspicious and stopped administering antivenom. Dan's condition, which was already critical, then began to deteriorate even further. His foot and leg swelled so large blood flow to his lower limb stopped. His kidneys failed even though the doctors tried valiantly to flush them with IVs. Despite pain medication, his suffering was immense, his nausea constant, and his complications multiplied. He fought, fought for his life, fought valiantly, but after three days he succumbed. At 6:36 am, Dr. Lazarus pronounced him dead.
Stella stood still and gazed at the wall. She had questions to answer. Where did she want the body taken? Did she have someone to see after her? Did she want a visit from a pastor?
She answered nothing but stumbled from the hospital and strolled into the parking lot. Finding her car, she drove home without tears. Once there, she took a gallon of gasoline, poured it around in the house, on the couch against a wall, on the floor. From the open back door, she tossed a lit match inside and then watched from the road as the house went up in flames. She was standing there with a blank expression on her face when the fire department arrived. Jay Maxie, the head of the Gravel Hill Volunteer Fire Department tried in vain to talk to her. She was still there staring at the smoldering ashes when the firemen drove away.
"Go see what's the matter out there," Stella quipped, staring out the kitchen window.
Dan exited the kitchen door, went through the screened-in patio, and into the back yard where Doll, the Cohens two year old miniature Schnauzer was in a corner barking with a ferocity and rage they had never seen or heard. Suddenly Dan turned and ran back into the house.
"What's wrong?" Stella quizzed as Dan trotted to the gun case and pulled out a scoped .22 rifle.
"Snake."
"Oh God!"
They both ran out the back.
"He's big. Try to get her so I can shoot him. Be careful and grab her from the back or you might get bit."
The huge rattlesnake was coiled and ready to strike in a corner of the chain link fence. Doll was hysterical, jumping in nipping at the reptile and in grave danger of being struck, envenomated.
Stella managed to nab Doll by the back legs and drag her away then hold her down. Dan raised the Remington, took careful aim through the scope, and fired a single bullet into the viper. The snake instantly went into a roll, tossing, coiling, but his death sure.
"Take her inside," Dan barked. "That snake can still kill her."
Dan went to the storage room and brought back a long-handled hoe which he used to drag the monster away from the fence. He then saw his bullet had hit just below the head, severing the spinal cord but not full separating the head from the rest of the beast.
Stella came back out while Dan went to the storage room again, this time to retrieve a kaiser blade to finish the job of removing the head.
"Is that a diamondback?" Stella asked.
"We don't have diamondbacks around here. That's a canebrake. But I swear, he's as big as a large diamondback. I'm gunna measure him."
Dan made his third trip to the storage room, this time to fetch a tape measure. He stretched the snake out on the lush green grass of their back yard and measured 6'1'' minus the head.
"Dang. That has to be a state record or something. Canebrakes usually top out at around four feet. I've heard of a five-footer but never seen one that big."
Dan took a few pictures with his camera then hoisted the huge creature with the hoe handle and carried him through the back gate and into the woods. He took him deep into the woods and tossed him into a gully. But he kept the head. He scooped the head into a galvanized bucket which he hung high on a nail in the storage room.
They had built their house ten years ago, their dream home located on three country acres of Carroll County Dan had inherited from his father. With his contractor business booming, they had paid for the house in five years and had purchased an adjoining 80 acres of woods and gullies behind them. When they enclosed the back yard with a chain link fence, Dan had the gate put in so he could walk right out of his back yard and into his little hunting paradise. There he shot squirrels, ambushed deer, and sometimes just sat under a large hickory tree and rested, listening to the sounds of the woods. When their daughter Delilah came along, the only thing that could make things better, in Dan's mind at least, was a son. They were working on that.
After their Saturday fright, Dan forgot about the snake head until Tuesday when he came home from work. He had locked the storage room door for safety's sake. A three year old can get into just about anything he had mused to himself. He unlocked the door and pulled down the bucket. It was empty!
What the heck? he thought. His brain whirled and his heart rate quickened while his eyes roamed the room. Then he jumped backwards striking a nail that he sometimes hung stuff on and cut his left arm. He had startled at the snake head on the floor not far from his foot. "How in God's name?" he querried out loud.
Regaining his composure, he scooped the head back into the bucked, still careful not to touch it. He used the blade of the same tool that had decapitated the creature three days earlier. This time he looked around and found a Styrofoam top from a minnow bucket to go over the galvanized bucket and pressed the styrofoam down tight into the bucket so there was no way the head could fall out.
Things got weird the next day. He and his foundation crew were busy trying to get a slab poured. It was fall, the rains would start soon, and he had to make money while the making was good. As usual, he received texts from Stella throughout the morning, but one stopped him in his tracks. Sweetie, their little house cat was swollen, sick."She needs to go to the vet!" Stella texted with an urgency Dan could feel through the phone. He decided he could be off site a while so he drove home just in time to hear Stella shriek when he stepped out of his truck. He rushed inside to find her and Delilah hysterically bawling. Sweetie was dead.
Snake bit most likely was Dan's estimation. He took her lifeless form and held her close, crying silently but forcefully. Unlike many men, he loved cats in general and this one in particular. Her death was devastating and he determined then and there to declare total war on all venomous reptiles.
He walked outside in a daze trying to think where he might bury her. Then he saw it! In the flower bed behind the storage room was the head!
"No way!" he yelled out loud.
Stella, having followed him out asked, "What?"
"That head."
"What head?"
"That one," he pointed to the rattlesnake head he had chopped off six days before. It still looked just like it looked then, like it had happened only minutes ago.
"Where did that come from?"
"I had it in a bucket in the storage room."
"You kept that thing?" she shouted. "How did it get out here?"
"I don't know."
"You're the reason Sweetie is dead," Stella yelled in a rage.
Those words cut deep into Dan's heart like a knife plunging into a deer carcass. "We don't know that," Dan snapped back.
"Get rid of that thing and get rid of it now. Now. Before it kills something else." Her eyes registered her disgust and Dan knew her words were more than an outburst of grief. She blamed him truly.
Dan scooped up the head with a shovel for the third time but this time carried it through the back gate. He walked deep into the woods and tossed it into the same gully he had tossed the body into. Then he went back and buried their little fur baby and placed some bricks over her grave so nothing would dig her up.
After Sweetie died, a chill fell over Dan and Stella's marriage. She spoke little and he retreated into his work. Being blamed for the death of a beloved pet had hit him hard. He was sure he didn't deserve the blame but what else was new? She always blamed him for everything, even for their lack of a son.
During the following week, word started getting around that two neighbors lost dogs to snakebites. The Jones lost a full grown German Shepherd and the Shacklebees lost a poodle. When Stella brought it up, she gave Dan that look that said it all.
"It's not my fault!" he yelled.
"Don't raise your voice to me," she yelled back and left the room in a huff.
Everybody in the area was on edge. Dan had taken to carrying a .410 shotgun with him when he let Doll out to use the bathroom. He did this for a week until one morning he heard her yelp. He was horrified to see a rattlesnake head stuck to her back leg.
It can't be, he thought. But it was. He pulled to head off with the muzzle of the shotgun then blasted the head with three shots at close range. Nothing was left but scattered blood and bits of snake skin.
When Stella came out at the shooting, Doll was already on the ground suffering, swelling, yelping. She died within minutes.
"That dang snake head!?" she screamed at him.
"It could not have been the same one. It could not have been."
She wailed with a gut wrenching scream that itself was frightening and dropped to her knees. When Dan tried to comfort her, she pushed his hand away.
"Don't touch me you killer!"
"I didn't do it! I am not the only one who cuts the head off a dead snake."
But she would hear none of it. He let the snake head kill their cat, their dog, and she knew what was coming next. He would kill one of them.
Two weeks went by with no more problems. Although he and Stella rarely spoke, he was beginning to believe that bad stretch of crazy snake stuff was over. Then he stepped out the back door one morning and felt a pain in his foot. Yeah, he looked down and saw the snake head with its fangs sunk into his flesh.
He pried the head off with a shovel, smashed it, then ran inside. "Take me to the hospital," he said in a panicked voice. Stella didn't even ask why, but followed him to the car and drove furiously to Greenwood Leflore Hospital.
There was confusion in the emergency room. The doctors wanted a body, the actual snake so they could give the right antivenom. Even though both Dan and Stella told them it was a canebrake rattler, they delayed until Dan became very ill. Then they placed in ICU and began administering antivenom. His foot and leg swelled to the point that they no longer looked human.
When Stella made the mistake of telling the doctors about the head that never died, the doctors and nurses all grew suspicious and stopped administering antivenom. Dan's condition, which was already critical, then began to deteriorate even further. His foot and leg swelled so large blood flow to his lower limb stopped. His kidneys failed even though the doctors tried valiantly to flush them with IVs. Despite pain medication, his suffering was immense, his nausea constant, and his complications multiplied. He fought, fought for his life, fought valiantly, but after three days he succumbed. At 6:36 am, Dr. Lazarus pronounced him dead.
Stella stood still and gazed at the wall. She had questions to answer. Where did she want the body taken? Did she have someone to see after her? Did she want a visit from a pastor?
She answered nothing but stumbled from the hospital and strolled into the parking lot. Finding her car, she drove home without tears. Once there, she took a gallon of gasoline, poured it around in the house, on the couch against a wall, on the floor. From the open back door, she tossed a lit match inside and then watched from the road as the house went up in flames. She was standing there with a blank expression on her face when the fire department arrived. Jay Maxie, the head of the Gravel Hill Volunteer Fire Department tried in vain to talk to her. She was still there staring at the smoldering ashes when the firemen drove away.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Seven Sentence Story
The teacher was running late after shooting posted signs on the back road while driving to school. He was short of breath as he piled out of his truck, the gun smoke clinging to his clothes. He shut the door at exactly 8:00 am and was nervous all day. During his planning period, he thought maybe he should shoot after work not before. Too many people drive the back roads that time of day. He was lost in thought when Principal Rake stormed into his classroom.
Monday, September 5, 2016
Claud, Alabama and Pashmahuna
I'm still in a daze, weeks later, after hearing the story, the history Weldon told me during my recent visit to Claud, Alabama. I did have a good time, but I can't get that story out of my mind. More about that later, however.
It's always nice to see old friends in part because it takes so long to make them. Weldon Greer, his wife, Lydia, kids, and I go back, back to the mid '90s when Weldon and I were classmates at Wesley Biblical Seminary. There we studied under Dr. Gary Cockerill, a brilliant man who had the unusual combination of intelligence coupled with the ability and willingness to make difficult concepts simple for his students. He taught us New Testament Greek as well as Biblical Theology and other classes that continue to inform my preaching a decade and a half later.
We also met and studied under Dr. Paul Tahsiro, who in his youth was a kamikaze trainee in Japan during World War II. His testimony is a fascinating one as is his knowledge of Hebrew, the Old Testament, and Semitic languages. I studied six languages under him and he too continues to cast a long shadow over my life. He always will.
In the fall of 2000, I followed Weldon to Mid-America Baptist Theological Seminary where we both did PhD studies, he in the New Testament and me in the Old Testament. Weldon and I commuted back and forth to Germantown, Tennessee together for a few years. At the time, he lived in Cruger and pastored the Independent Methodist church there. I resided in Greenwood, Mississippi and pastored the Moorhead Church of God in the small but ancient metropolis of Moorhead.
Since those days, Weldon has landed in several new places while I stayed planted in the Mississippi Delta. I preached for him at the Summershade United Methodist Church somewhere in Kentucky a few years back. That was a nice trip, and I was introduced to tobacco farming. I have lots of memories and numerous pictures from that journey that I treasure highly. Now as pastor of the Claud Independent Methodist Church, Weldon called me for a Friday night through Sunday night revival during their annual homecoming. Great. Since the little church we pastored for twenty-two years closed in May of 2014, I have not preached often. Recently, however, I preached three times at Centerville Baptist, the little church we now attend. Now with another four straight services, the trip to Weldon's made me feel almost like a preacher again.
I drove out of Greenwood about 10:00 am on the 12th day of August 2016 headed for Alabama. It took about five and a half hours to reach my destination and when I got there Weldon was sporting a .357 on his right hip. "Is the crime bad around here?" I asked.
Some of the members, the Tew family, fed us Friday night before church. I liked everyone I met that evening, and the food was more than good. They struck me as salt-of-the-earth kind of people, my kind of people. They even had a neat feline named Barn Cat that I got to make sweet with and take pictures of.
Church was nice that evening, and I slept well after sitting up the the Greers and talking about guns late into the night. Weldon and Lydia both like guns and Weldon carried his .357 on his hip to church. I suppose that's one way to say there is a new sheriff in town.
The next day, Weldon had planned to give me the tour of that part of Alabama. I found out that Claud is centrally isolated between Wetumpka, Eclectic, and Tallassee in a semi-rural area but one rich in history. We drove first to Eclectic which I learned is the only community in the country with that name. It is a real town, small but real, and a big sign of a giant star graces both the northern and southern entrances into the city limits on Highway 63. Weldon told me that there was a huge meteor shower there in the late 1800s during the town's infancy, and now Eclectic is known as "The Town the Stars Fell on." Despite the fact that my tour guide told me Eclectic has the best schools in the area, it lies in Elmore County, and everyone from Elmore County is called an Elmoron.
North past Eclectic on Highway 63 lies the community of Kawaliga where Hank Williams saw that Indian head and wrote that song. Kawaliga lies on the banks of Lake Martin, the largest lake in Alabama. It looks like a great place to hold an open water swim, and I offered my services if the church could ever use them. Swimming is now part of my ministry and if anyone reading this needs a swimmer, I will swim for food.
Next, we drove to Wetumpka which hosts a population of 7,391, a pretty town graced with stately old homes and sitting happily on the banks of the Coosa River. We stopped downtown and walked out over a neat-looking old bridge and gazed at the black water below. In the shallow areas, rocks lined the bottom instead of the ubiquitous mud we see back home.
After Wetumpka, we went to Fort Toulouse, established in 1714 to protect the early settlers from the Indians. There in those haunted fields where the wind blows gently through tons of hanging moss on trees ancient enough to have witnessed the truth, Weldon told me the history and tragedy of the Army of Elmore.
The Coosa Indians, from which the river is named, ruled that area and Chief Pashmahuna, a mighty warrior and wise leader, promised to drive the whites from the face of the earth. The Coosas worshiped the alligator and believed the hanging moss was the tails of ancient gators standing sentry over their land, watching them, protecting them. The chief was certain the moss-gators would not let them down.
When General Bienville moved the Army of Elmore into the area in the spring of 1714 and built the fort, Pashmahuna stood before the fort's wall, prophesied the destruction of the entire army, and vowed the whites could not withstand the allegiance of the Coosa tribe and their brothers the alligator. The white soldiers laughed at the ignorant savage and some felt guilty for accepting army pay in the face of such feeble foes. So calmly confident were the whites, from the general to the lowest private, that the side and rear walls of the fort were never finished. The men slept under the stars each night with walls on one side, the Coosa River on another side, and woods and open fields on the other two sides.
For a while, things seemed like a happy camping trip. The men ate well on food cooked in the open air. At night, they told stories of home while they sat around the camp fires, the tree frogs making their music in the background. They told about running coon hounds and the girl waiting at home. They told about Momma and brothers and sisters. They told about hunting in their own familiar haunts. By day, they drilled and sometimes were allowed to fish the beautiful Coosa River and listened to song birds that sang from the swaying limbs of huge trees that held the ever present hanging moss.
Then late one dark, stormy night, a massive alligator crawled out of the river and crept into the camp. He grabbed a hapless soldier by the left leg, and began to drag the terrified man towards the water. The poor soldier made such a racket that he waked the whole company many of whom rose up and began to fire shots in reckless fashion from their muskets towards the demonic reptile. In the chaos that ensued, the alligator was killed but so was the unfortunate soldier and seven others shot full of holes in the mad, chaotic crossfire in the dark night. That was when the term "friendly fire" first entered the English lexicon.
General Bienville, however, had the alligator hung from a large limb in an attempt to dissuade further attacks. What happened instead was after a few days in the hot Alabama sun, the gator began to rot, his neck broke, and his huge torso tumbled onto three soldiers standing below breaking their necks and killing them instantly. Thus one gator was responsible for ten deaths, a huge fright, and a massive loss of ammunition.
The day after the dead gator killed the additional three soldiers, Pashmahuna stood once more before the fort's wall and solemnly stated, "Coosa and alligator brothers. White man leave or white man die."
One insulted soldier yelled, "Kill that buzzard," while raising his musket to shoot. With the pull of the trigger, his gun exploded in his own face blowing off his ears, nose, and lips. The pool soul of Irish decent, died a slow, agonizing death, cursing Pashmahuna in his country men's fashion until he gave up the ghost.
After that the gators came every night. They grabbed soldiers and dragged them away. More and more faithful infantrymen were killed in close range cross fire attempting to save a comrade. The men became so jumpy that Bienville posted a picket line between the troops and the river. Not only that, but he ordered them to shoot into the river's water every fifteen minutes all night long every night, thus frightening away any would be night stalkers. When three weeks had passed, all the ammunition in the fort was spent leaving the army with nothing but bayonets with which to defend themselves.
Again Pashmahuna walked out of the woods and stood before the fort wall and spoke. "White man magic sticks no good. Coosa power strong. White man leave or alligator more fight for Coosa."
When Pashmahuna walked away, the men began to implore their leader for solace. "What do we do?" the beaten down, terrified men yelled towards their general.
Beinville, who had the power to inspire, stood on the back of a dead soldier and spoke with an eloquence that filled his men with courage and determination. "Up men and to your posts. And forget not today that you are all Elmorons."
The Coosas came in the night.
Each brave carried a three-foot long alligator and they began one by one to hurl these small but rabidly snapping reptiles over the fort's wall. An awful howl ensued within the compound. Fingers were snapped, toes bitten off, ears devoured, and one man at the latrine, well, that hurts too much to even write.
The Coosas listened to the racket behind the wall "as long as it takes a hunter to skin, cook, and eat a rabbit," so it was passed down in the Coosa's oral history. After that, the army of Pashmahuna calmly walked around the fort's wall to the unprotected side and began to shoot arrows into the yelling and screaming tangle of terrified soldiers. When the sun rose over Fort Toulouse the next day, the whole Army of Elmore was dead, a mass of hacked up, arrow filled gore, the men's faces frozen by rigor mortis in horrific expressions.
The Coosas left the bodies to rot in the now summer sun. These once brave soldiers became the feasts of raccoons, worms, and foxes. And the locals vow that today, three hundred years later, after a hard rain, one can still smell the awful stench of decaying flesh if one stands on that once blood-drenched soil. This created the saying still heard in that area of Alabama today. In the presence of a dangerous situation, locals are likely to say, "This smells like coosa to me." If someone ever tells you something smells like coosa, don't have anything to do with it, for you risk your life if you do.
A lot more happened while I was in Alabama. We went that afternoon to Tallassee. I preached three more times. We ate with more members and at the church. But the whole time and for the five and a half hour drive home my mind was consumed with the story of Fort Toulouse and the Army of Elmore. What if I had been there? Would my faith have been strong enough to overcome the demonic gator cult that killed over eight-hundred men? I can only wonder. I can only hope. I can only pray.
It's always nice to see old friends in part because it takes so long to make them. Weldon Greer, his wife, Lydia, kids, and I go back, back to the mid '90s when Weldon and I were classmates at Wesley Biblical Seminary. There we studied under Dr. Gary Cockerill, a brilliant man who had the unusual combination of intelligence coupled with the ability and willingness to make difficult concepts simple for his students. He taught us New Testament Greek as well as Biblical Theology and other classes that continue to inform my preaching a decade and a half later.
We also met and studied under Dr. Paul Tahsiro, who in his youth was a kamikaze trainee in Japan during World War II. His testimony is a fascinating one as is his knowledge of Hebrew, the Old Testament, and Semitic languages. I studied six languages under him and he too continues to cast a long shadow over my life. He always will.
In the fall of 2000, I followed Weldon to Mid-America Baptist Theological Seminary where we both did PhD studies, he in the New Testament and me in the Old Testament. Weldon and I commuted back and forth to Germantown, Tennessee together for a few years. At the time, he lived in Cruger and pastored the Independent Methodist church there. I resided in Greenwood, Mississippi and pastored the Moorhead Church of God in the small but ancient metropolis of Moorhead.
Since those days, Weldon has landed in several new places while I stayed planted in the Mississippi Delta. I preached for him at the Summershade United Methodist Church somewhere in Kentucky a few years back. That was a nice trip, and I was introduced to tobacco farming. I have lots of memories and numerous pictures from that journey that I treasure highly. Now as pastor of the Claud Independent Methodist Church, Weldon called me for a Friday night through Sunday night revival during their annual homecoming. Great. Since the little church we pastored for twenty-two years closed in May of 2014, I have not preached often. Recently, however, I preached three times at Centerville Baptist, the little church we now attend. Now with another four straight services, the trip to Weldon's made me feel almost like a preacher again.
 |
| Barn Cat is pretty and soft and friendly. |
I drove out of Greenwood about 10:00 am on the 12th day of August 2016 headed for Alabama. It took about five and a half hours to reach my destination and when I got there Weldon was sporting a .357 on his right hip. "Is the crime bad around here?" I asked.
Some of the members, the Tew family, fed us Friday night before church. I liked everyone I met that evening, and the food was more than good. They struck me as salt-of-the-earth kind of people, my kind of people. They even had a neat feline named Barn Cat that I got to make sweet with and take pictures of.
Church was nice that evening, and I slept well after sitting up the the Greers and talking about guns late into the night. Weldon and Lydia both like guns and Weldon carried his .357 on his hip to church. I suppose that's one way to say there is a new sheriff in town.
 |
| The lighthouse on Lake Martin. |
The next day, Weldon had planned to give me the tour of that part of Alabama. I found out that Claud is centrally isolated between Wetumpka, Eclectic, and Tallassee in a semi-rural area but one rich in history. We drove first to Eclectic which I learned is the only community in the country with that name. It is a real town, small but real, and a big sign of a giant star graces both the northern and southern entrances into the city limits on Highway 63. Weldon told me that there was a huge meteor shower there in the late 1800s during the town's infancy, and now Eclectic is known as "The Town the Stars Fell on." Despite the fact that my tour guide told me Eclectic has the best schools in the area, it lies in Elmore County, and everyone from Elmore County is called an Elmoron.
North past Eclectic on Highway 63 lies the community of Kawaliga where Hank Williams saw that Indian head and wrote that song. Kawaliga lies on the banks of Lake Martin, the largest lake in Alabama. It looks like a great place to hold an open water swim, and I offered my services if the church could ever use them. Swimming is now part of my ministry and if anyone reading this needs a swimmer, I will swim for food.
 |
| The dark gator infested waters of theCoosa River in downtown Wetumpka. |
After Wetumpka, we went to Fort Toulouse, established in 1714 to protect the early settlers from the Indians. There in those haunted fields where the wind blows gently through tons of hanging moss on trees ancient enough to have witnessed the truth, Weldon told me the history and tragedy of the Army of Elmore.
The Coosa Indians, from which the river is named, ruled that area and Chief Pashmahuna, a mighty warrior and wise leader, promised to drive the whites from the face of the earth. The Coosas worshiped the alligator and believed the hanging moss was the tails of ancient gators standing sentry over their land, watching them, protecting them. The chief was certain the moss-gators would not let them down.
When General Bienville moved the Army of Elmore into the area in the spring of 1714 and built the fort, Pashmahuna stood before the fort's wall, prophesied the destruction of the entire army, and vowed the whites could not withstand the allegiance of the Coosa tribe and their brothers the alligator. The white soldiers laughed at the ignorant savage and some felt guilty for accepting army pay in the face of such feeble foes. So calmly confident were the whites, from the general to the lowest private, that the side and rear walls of the fort were never finished. The men slept under the stars each night with walls on one side, the Coosa River on another side, and woods and open fields on the other two sides.For a while, things seemed like a happy camping trip. The men ate well on food cooked in the open air. At night, they told stories of home while they sat around the camp fires, the tree frogs making their music in the background. They told about running coon hounds and the girl waiting at home. They told about Momma and brothers and sisters. They told about hunting in their own familiar haunts. By day, they drilled and sometimes were allowed to fish the beautiful Coosa River and listened to song birds that sang from the swaying limbs of huge trees that held the ever present hanging moss.
Then late one dark, stormy night, a massive alligator crawled out of the river and crept into the camp. He grabbed a hapless soldier by the left leg, and began to drag the terrified man towards the water. The poor soldier made such a racket that he waked the whole company many of whom rose up and began to fire shots in reckless fashion from their muskets towards the demonic reptile. In the chaos that ensued, the alligator was killed but so was the unfortunate soldier and seven others shot full of holes in the mad, chaotic crossfire in the dark night. That was when the term "friendly fire" first entered the English lexicon.
General Bienville, however, had the alligator hung from a large limb in an attempt to dissuade further attacks. What happened instead was after a few days in the hot Alabama sun, the gator began to rot, his neck broke, and his huge torso tumbled onto three soldiers standing below breaking their necks and killing them instantly. Thus one gator was responsible for ten deaths, a huge fright, and a massive loss of ammunition.
The day after the dead gator killed the additional three soldiers, Pashmahuna stood once more before the fort's wall and solemnly stated, "Coosa and alligator brothers. White man leave or white man die."
One insulted soldier yelled, "Kill that buzzard," while raising his musket to shoot. With the pull of the trigger, his gun exploded in his own face blowing off his ears, nose, and lips. The pool soul of Irish decent, died a slow, agonizing death, cursing Pashmahuna in his country men's fashion until he gave up the ghost.
After that the gators came every night. They grabbed soldiers and dragged them away. More and more faithful infantrymen were killed in close range cross fire attempting to save a comrade. The men became so jumpy that Bienville posted a picket line between the troops and the river. Not only that, but he ordered them to shoot into the river's water every fifteen minutes all night long every night, thus frightening away any would be night stalkers. When three weeks had passed, all the ammunition in the fort was spent leaving the army with nothing but bayonets with which to defend themselves.
Again Pashmahuna walked out of the woods and stood before the fort wall and spoke. "White man magic sticks no good. Coosa power strong. White man leave or alligator more fight for Coosa."
When Pashmahuna walked away, the men began to implore their leader for solace. "What do we do?" the beaten down, terrified men yelled towards their general.
Beinville, who had the power to inspire, stood on the back of a dead soldier and spoke with an eloquence that filled his men with courage and determination. "Up men and to your posts. And forget not today that you are all Elmorons."
The Coosas came in the night.
Each brave carried a three-foot long alligator and they began one by one to hurl these small but rabidly snapping reptiles over the fort's wall. An awful howl ensued within the compound. Fingers were snapped, toes bitten off, ears devoured, and one man at the latrine, well, that hurts too much to even write.
The Coosas listened to the racket behind the wall "as long as it takes a hunter to skin, cook, and eat a rabbit," so it was passed down in the Coosa's oral history. After that, the army of Pashmahuna calmly walked around the fort's wall to the unprotected side and began to shoot arrows into the yelling and screaming tangle of terrified soldiers. When the sun rose over Fort Toulouse the next day, the whole Army of Elmore was dead, a mass of hacked up, arrow filled gore, the men's faces frozen by rigor mortis in horrific expressions.
The Coosas left the bodies to rot in the now summer sun. These once brave soldiers became the feasts of raccoons, worms, and foxes. And the locals vow that today, three hundred years later, after a hard rain, one can still smell the awful stench of decaying flesh if one stands on that once blood-drenched soil. This created the saying still heard in that area of Alabama today. In the presence of a dangerous situation, locals are likely to say, "This smells like coosa to me." If someone ever tells you something smells like coosa, don't have anything to do with it, for you risk your life if you do.
A lot more happened while I was in Alabama. We went that afternoon to Tallassee. I preached three more times. We ate with more members and at the church. But the whole time and for the five and a half hour drive home my mind was consumed with the story of Fort Toulouse and the Army of Elmore. What if I had been there? Would my faith have been strong enough to overcome the demonic gator cult that killed over eight-hundred men? I can only wonder. I can only hope. I can only pray.
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