4rum
07-01-2008, 03:48 AM
The Squirrel John Place
Funny thing about Ghost stories. The closer to midnight it gets, the scarier they sound an’ it usually takes somthin’ awful to make ‘em good. Like the one Chub Amick just finished about a screamin’ meemie. Now it might have been passed down, or it might have come off of Granny Wren’s radio or it might have just been made up. Come to think of it… it did have some of the same aspects as that time Chub used one of the old lady’s bath towels to clean the cosmoline off the new rear end gear for his pickup. Seems the sawdust an’ nanner peelin’s just didn’t hold up.
Anyways, the beer had run out at about 11:30 an’ the campfire was dyin’ down (nobody wanted to venture into the bushes for more wood). It seemed best to head on home. Usually that wasn’t a problem, but the recent washout along Tumble Creek had took out Uncle Burley’s bridge as well as his Pinto. He’d be stuck walkin’… in the dark… up the Rueben hill… in the dark… past the Squirrel John place…
in the dark……..
Uncle Burley knowed the path well enough, he’d walked er fer seven years till he figured a third grade education was enough for anybody… shoot… he done already knowed all about huntin’ an fishin’.
The Squirrel John place laid ‘bout half way up th’ mountain on a little flat… well it wasn’t a actual flat, but it was level enough for a few trees to take root. The house, which was still standin’ was a Ginny Lin and would have made a good place to step in outta the rain… ‘cept nobody ever did… the Squirrel John place was hanted… now ya’ll can stick all th’ u’s in hant you waunt to… if you ain’t never been run home by a hant… you ain’t never had good reason to soil yerself…………………. (‘cept when you was a youngun’ an’ stole all them green apples offa Old Lady Grimmandower’s Early Transparent).
Story goes that Squirrel John Cales was a dandy fiddle player. He played fiddle ever since he was a boy. He’d learnt pert near ever song his mammy had sung him as a baby…Screech Owl Ramble… Ol’ Rufus et’ th’ Mashed P’Taters… (my favorite) … an’ Th’ Slabwood Reel (his mammy had learnt that’n when she worked down at th’ sawmill). Why if his arther’itus wasn’t too bad he’d even throw in a lively renderin’ of ‘Possum Up a Gum Bush.
Squirrel John played at ever pie supper an’ family reunion anyhwere near Posey. Only one thing kept him from th’ big time… John was bashful… reeeeeeal bashful…. Only way he’d play is if he could stand or set behind somethin’.
Even at home Squirrel John wouldn’t play in front of comp’ny ner nobody… well ‘cept Missus Squirrel an’ fer a little while Squirrel Junior.
Now folks joshin’ is a way of life fer some of us… but ya’ll gotta know they’s great sadness in th’ world too. I try not to dwell on th’ sadness too much, but things happen that tech us all deep. Bad things sometimes happen to good people… so it was with Squirrel John, his woman an’ Squirrel Junior.
John had took up playin’ his fiddle behind th’ kitchen door. Awww it was true you could see his strangin’ fingers but he was hid fer th’ most part and it just felt better back there. Now in light of th’ spring plantin’, milkin’, cookin’, cleanin’ an now a runnin’ after Squirrel Junior… Missus Squirrel was becomin’ a might frazzled. A onset of whoopin cough fer Junior wasn’t helpin’ at all.
"Now John… you come out from behind that door an’ fetch some stove wood. Land sakes, you’ve stood back there an’ played that thing till the shadder of your elbow done wore a hole in th’ wall"!
♪♪♪ Screeeeeeeedle eeedle eedle… an’ fiddle iddle iddle…. Screeedle eedle eedle de de … ♪♪♪
"John! Did you hear me"?
♪♪♪ Tweeeeeeeeeeeeel tweeeel tweeeel … ping ting, ping ting…. ♪♪♪ (Lordy can ya’ll feel th’ hairs raisin’ on the back o’ yer neck).
"JOHN CALES".
"Iffin you don’t lay down that fiddle and pick up this young’un, I’ll put a rifle ball through that door!"
An Missus Squirrel stepped to the bedroom to fetch it.
She never knowed that John did lay down th’ fiddle and did pick up th’ baby. All she knowed was that when she come back to th’ kitchen th’ first thing she heard was….
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…"
Well I reckon it did sound like the openin’ to Bile Them Cabbage Down an’ not so much like a youngun’ with whoopin’ cough… not when a body’s mad anyways…
She put a ball neat through th’ kitchen door. It took Squirrel John in his chordin' hand… th’ hand that was laid gentle on Junior’s chest to comfort the child. They wasn’t no use to run fer th’ doctor. Too many miles an’ not enough life left in the babe.
Effie Corrine Corliss-Cales fell down in a swoon an’ didn’t come to herself till days after th’ funeral. When she did, she run out of the house a lookin’ fer her baby. She never found him. She never come back in th’ house an’ she never found her baby. They found Effie drowned under th’ railroad bridge near a week later. They say her spirit still wanders Chestnut Mountain lookin’ fer that child.
John lived on in th’ shanty fer a year er two. His hand was shot too bad to play th’ fiddle. His heart wasn’t big enough to hold so much grief. He died settin’ on a straight back chair, behind the kitchen door, the old fiddle layin’ crost his knees.
Uncle Burley knowed th’ story well. Everbody ‘round here did. Nobody went by th’ Squirrel John place at night… in th’ dark…. You could still hear the wails of that baby, the screamin’ of Effie an’ th’ strains of ‘Lonesome Valley’ creepin’ up th’ hollers.
♪♪♪ "You got to walk… that lonesome valley"
"You got to walk… it by yourself"
"Ain’t nobody here, can walk it for you"
"You got to waaaaalk it by yourself"♪♪♪
Th’ Squirrel John place had become unnatural. Even Granny Wren would ‘shush’ you if you mentioned it at th’ table.
The sweat had begin on Burley’s upper lip. It was just in sight in th’ moonlight. He could make out th’ comb of the roof and one joint of stovepipe still stickin’ up at a angle.
The sweat turned cold and spread to his chest and under his arms. Should he back down the hill a piece an’ lay ‘er out till mornin’? No Effie might come that way tonight. He had go on. Had to git by somehow… had to git home.
Uncle Burley decided to make a run fer it. He took a minute to catch his breath, hitched up the gallises of his bibs an’ went fer it……….
Now folks… if you was a 40 pound sow ‘coon with a brood of young’uns out lookin’ fer a few acorns or Crows Foot roots… an’ a feller come at you out of th’ dark… sudden like… you might let out a screech ‘bout like a bereaved woman. You might even want to actually stress that the feller go some other way. An’ if that feller still was to run smack over you… in th’ dark… you might claw your way up his leg to better make your point…
BUT…
if you’re a half drunk an’ plumb scared Uncle Burley Gilli’n… your powers of reason would probably become a bit weak just now.
"oooooOOOOOoo, LORDY hep me!"
An th’ fracus commenced.
It wasn’t long, though, before the smell drove the ol’ sow ‘coon off an’ Burley pretty quickly figger’d which way was up… so he got up an’ run agin’… a LOT faster this time… even with only one shoe… hangin’ on to busted gallises… with bleedin’ fingers… bibs bunched around his ankles….
Uncle Burley made ‘er home though. He’d sobered a good bit, made a few promises to th’ Good Lord … cleaned hisself up a might an’ threw hisself under the covers on his welcome cot… didn’t turn off no lights though… not fer a while…. not fer a loooooooooooooooong time…………
WEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeedle eedle eedle tweeeeeeeeellllll…
♪♪♪"Ol’ Rufus et ‘th mashed p’taters"
"Strang beans, hog jowl an’ fried t’maters"
"Fed ‘em to his wife an’ baby"
"Cover’d up with redeye gravy"♪♪♪
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEE eeeeeeeeeeeeeee tweeeeeeeee ping, tweeeeeee ping, tweping tweeeeee…………………………..
Note: The tragedy that took place at the ‘Squirrel John Cales Place’ is real. I know because I lived in that house as a boy an my Mammy took an’ told me.
Funny thing about Ghost stories. The closer to midnight it gets, the scarier they sound an’ it usually takes somthin’ awful to make ‘em good. Like the one Chub Amick just finished about a screamin’ meemie. Now it might have been passed down, or it might have come off of Granny Wren’s radio or it might have just been made up. Come to think of it… it did have some of the same aspects as that time Chub used one of the old lady’s bath towels to clean the cosmoline off the new rear end gear for his pickup. Seems the sawdust an’ nanner peelin’s just didn’t hold up.
Anyways, the beer had run out at about 11:30 an’ the campfire was dyin’ down (nobody wanted to venture into the bushes for more wood). It seemed best to head on home. Usually that wasn’t a problem, but the recent washout along Tumble Creek had took out Uncle Burley’s bridge as well as his Pinto. He’d be stuck walkin’… in the dark… up the Rueben hill… in the dark… past the Squirrel John place…
in the dark……..
Uncle Burley knowed the path well enough, he’d walked er fer seven years till he figured a third grade education was enough for anybody… shoot… he done already knowed all about huntin’ an fishin’.
The Squirrel John place laid ‘bout half way up th’ mountain on a little flat… well it wasn’t a actual flat, but it was level enough for a few trees to take root. The house, which was still standin’ was a Ginny Lin and would have made a good place to step in outta the rain… ‘cept nobody ever did… the Squirrel John place was hanted… now ya’ll can stick all th’ u’s in hant you waunt to… if you ain’t never been run home by a hant… you ain’t never had good reason to soil yerself…………………. (‘cept when you was a youngun’ an’ stole all them green apples offa Old Lady Grimmandower’s Early Transparent).
Story goes that Squirrel John Cales was a dandy fiddle player. He played fiddle ever since he was a boy. He’d learnt pert near ever song his mammy had sung him as a baby…Screech Owl Ramble… Ol’ Rufus et’ th’ Mashed P’Taters… (my favorite) … an’ Th’ Slabwood Reel (his mammy had learnt that’n when she worked down at th’ sawmill). Why if his arther’itus wasn’t too bad he’d even throw in a lively renderin’ of ‘Possum Up a Gum Bush.
Squirrel John played at ever pie supper an’ family reunion anyhwere near Posey. Only one thing kept him from th’ big time… John was bashful… reeeeeeal bashful…. Only way he’d play is if he could stand or set behind somethin’.
Even at home Squirrel John wouldn’t play in front of comp’ny ner nobody… well ‘cept Missus Squirrel an’ fer a little while Squirrel Junior.
Now folks joshin’ is a way of life fer some of us… but ya’ll gotta know they’s great sadness in th’ world too. I try not to dwell on th’ sadness too much, but things happen that tech us all deep. Bad things sometimes happen to good people… so it was with Squirrel John, his woman an’ Squirrel Junior.
John had took up playin’ his fiddle behind th’ kitchen door. Awww it was true you could see his strangin’ fingers but he was hid fer th’ most part and it just felt better back there. Now in light of th’ spring plantin’, milkin’, cookin’, cleanin’ an now a runnin’ after Squirrel Junior… Missus Squirrel was becomin’ a might frazzled. A onset of whoopin cough fer Junior wasn’t helpin’ at all.
"Now John… you come out from behind that door an’ fetch some stove wood. Land sakes, you’ve stood back there an’ played that thing till the shadder of your elbow done wore a hole in th’ wall"!
♪♪♪ Screeeeeeeedle eeedle eedle… an’ fiddle iddle iddle…. Screeedle eedle eedle de de … ♪♪♪
"John! Did you hear me"?
♪♪♪ Tweeeeeeeeeeeeel tweeeel tweeeel … ping ting, ping ting…. ♪♪♪ (Lordy can ya’ll feel th’ hairs raisin’ on the back o’ yer neck).
"JOHN CALES".
"Iffin you don’t lay down that fiddle and pick up this young’un, I’ll put a rifle ball through that door!"
An Missus Squirrel stepped to the bedroom to fetch it.
She never knowed that John did lay down th’ fiddle and did pick up th’ baby. All she knowed was that when she come back to th’ kitchen th’ first thing she heard was….
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…"
Well I reckon it did sound like the openin’ to Bile Them Cabbage Down an’ not so much like a youngun’ with whoopin’ cough… not when a body’s mad anyways…
She put a ball neat through th’ kitchen door. It took Squirrel John in his chordin' hand… th’ hand that was laid gentle on Junior’s chest to comfort the child. They wasn’t no use to run fer th’ doctor. Too many miles an’ not enough life left in the babe.
Effie Corrine Corliss-Cales fell down in a swoon an’ didn’t come to herself till days after th’ funeral. When she did, she run out of the house a lookin’ fer her baby. She never found him. She never come back in th’ house an’ she never found her baby. They found Effie drowned under th’ railroad bridge near a week later. They say her spirit still wanders Chestnut Mountain lookin’ fer that child.
John lived on in th’ shanty fer a year er two. His hand was shot too bad to play th’ fiddle. His heart wasn’t big enough to hold so much grief. He died settin’ on a straight back chair, behind the kitchen door, the old fiddle layin’ crost his knees.
Uncle Burley knowed th’ story well. Everbody ‘round here did. Nobody went by th’ Squirrel John place at night… in th’ dark…. You could still hear the wails of that baby, the screamin’ of Effie an’ th’ strains of ‘Lonesome Valley’ creepin’ up th’ hollers.
♪♪♪ "You got to walk… that lonesome valley"
"You got to walk… it by yourself"
"Ain’t nobody here, can walk it for you"
"You got to waaaaalk it by yourself"♪♪♪
Th’ Squirrel John place had become unnatural. Even Granny Wren would ‘shush’ you if you mentioned it at th’ table.
The sweat had begin on Burley’s upper lip. It was just in sight in th’ moonlight. He could make out th’ comb of the roof and one joint of stovepipe still stickin’ up at a angle.
The sweat turned cold and spread to his chest and under his arms. Should he back down the hill a piece an’ lay ‘er out till mornin’? No Effie might come that way tonight. He had go on. Had to git by somehow… had to git home.
Uncle Burley decided to make a run fer it. He took a minute to catch his breath, hitched up the gallises of his bibs an’ went fer it……….
Now folks… if you was a 40 pound sow ‘coon with a brood of young’uns out lookin’ fer a few acorns or Crows Foot roots… an’ a feller come at you out of th’ dark… sudden like… you might let out a screech ‘bout like a bereaved woman. You might even want to actually stress that the feller go some other way. An’ if that feller still was to run smack over you… in th’ dark… you might claw your way up his leg to better make your point…
BUT…
if you’re a half drunk an’ plumb scared Uncle Burley Gilli’n… your powers of reason would probably become a bit weak just now.
"oooooOOOOOoo, LORDY hep me!"
An th’ fracus commenced.
It wasn’t long, though, before the smell drove the ol’ sow ‘coon off an’ Burley pretty quickly figger’d which way was up… so he got up an’ run agin’… a LOT faster this time… even with only one shoe… hangin’ on to busted gallises… with bleedin’ fingers… bibs bunched around his ankles….
Uncle Burley made ‘er home though. He’d sobered a good bit, made a few promises to th’ Good Lord … cleaned hisself up a might an’ threw hisself under the covers on his welcome cot… didn’t turn off no lights though… not fer a while…. not fer a loooooooooooooooong time…………
WEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeedle eedle eedle tweeeeeeeeellllll…
♪♪♪"Ol’ Rufus et ‘th mashed p’taters"
"Strang beans, hog jowl an’ fried t’maters"
"Fed ‘em to his wife an’ baby"
"Cover’d up with redeye gravy"♪♪♪
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEE eeeeeeeeeeeeeee tweeeeeeeee ping, tweeeeeee ping, tweping tweeeeee…………………………..
Note: The tragedy that took place at the ‘Squirrel John Cales Place’ is real. I know because I lived in that house as a boy an my Mammy took an’ told me.