Andrew Wharton was born to be a farm servant like his father and grandfather before him, the line extending back much further than anyone bothered to remember. His work was not a choice; he was born to work Hampton Grange and expected to die there. The only surprise was when pretty Molly Peace chose him. Ecstatic in his luck, he couldn’t believe the rollicking dairy maid favored him above all the hopeful lads pursuing her when he’d done no more than sneak shy peeks at her in Chapel. The confusion of love and glorious sensuality overwhelmed the young man who’d never contemplated the possibility that life could hold pleasure. Molly saw joy in everything, the sweet breath of the cows she milked, the warmth of the sun on her face, and the sweet sent of the hay she bundled, not seeming to notice the manure in the cow’s tail, the slogging rains, or the sneezing brought on by the hay.
Their life at Hampton Grange offered the couple little beyond a small hovel, milk and cheese from the dairy, a daily ration of bread and beer, the privilege of wood gathering, and scant wages. Once a year, they were due a measure of wool for their own use. Compared to the conditions many experienced, it was adequate under Old Squire John’s management. Left to his gambling heir, it was soon lost to bankruptcy, leaving them adrift.
Andrew and his new wife Molly found themselves standing in the freezing rain wearing all they owned before a pub in Liverpool. After three days’ starving, they were easily persuaded to join an agent for The Virginia Club for food and drink. With no prospects, they were Signed papers of indenture pledging the next four years of their lives in exchange for passage to the Jamestown colony in Virginia. For their volunteer bondage they would receive lodging, food, and clothing, the quality to be determined by their master. They were fortunate in being bound four years. Most were bound seven years. including involuntary prisoners or abductees. At the end of their service, they were entitled to tools, money, and land. Like so many other indentured servants, they could expect years of unrelenting labor and uncertain treatment. In truth, the next few years wouldn’t be greatly different to the life they were accustomed to if they were fortunate enough to be bound to a good master. At least they’d have a start at the end of their time.
This is a guest post by my friend Harvey Hughett. You can follow him on Facebook at Musing Appalachia
This story is about a man who lived in a holler close to Papaw’s place in the backwoods near Mohawk, East Tennessee. He was married to Miz Kitty. Everybody called him “Squint.” His real name was Commodore Ledbedder.
Squint was just a nickname, but he hated to be called Commodore because it was the same name as Commodore Hughett and he didn’t want to be confused with him. Commodore Hughett was known to git hog-nosed on Nathan Gulley’s moonshine ever so often and do things Squint didn’t approve of. Squint got his nickname from the funny way he held his eyes when he was about to get upset with somebody. He’d squint his eyes a certain way, and when he did that you knew you’d better get your butt out of his way. He got his left eye messed up when his first wife shot him in the face for messin’ around. She left him for another man, and Squint joined the army, went to World War II, and fought in France against the Krauts.
He was a big man, about six foot tall, and had big arms and a gruff voice from when he once drank some really bad hootch. There was a time when he served some time in prison for killing a man, but they let him loose because he got a mean lawyer, and they couldn’t make the charge stick.
However, all that was behind Squint. He quit drinkin’, quit carousing, and got religion. However, he didn’t attend my Papaw’s church very often except when there were homecomings and lots of food and activities with the boys in the parking lot. I write in detail about that in my book, Musing Appalachia (You can buy it on Amazon.com. Just search Musing Appalachia by Harvey Hughett).
For the most part, Squint was a loner and made spending money by trapping muskrats in Bent Creek, digging ginseng roots and selling ’em to the hardware store in Morristown. He wasn’t getting rich, but he and Miz Kitty made out good. And he treated her like a queen. Whatever she wanted, he tried to get it for her. Miz Kitty was French by birth. Squint brought two things back with him from the war: a 1901 Springfield rifle and a young French bride.
Squint was descended from strong Scotch and Irish people, and they say, along with his size, that made him a good soldier. His hero was another Tennessean, Sargent Alvin York. You can read about Alvin in Volume One of my book too.
Squint wasn’t without his strange habits. Other than being a loner, he didn’t like anybody coming around his place in the holler or, especially, gittin’ near his woman, Miz Kitty. She was easy on the eyes and had a quaint accent that everybody liked. Her language wasn’t like what the flatlanders talked.
Mamaw used to trade eggs to Miz Kitty and she’d send me over there to deliver them. As a young boy, I was a little afraid but I did what I was supposed to. Papaw always warned me, “Be careful and don’t you make him mad. He killed a man onest.” The first time I saw Squint was when I was fishing on Lick Creek and ran into him. He was busy tending his trapline and I slipped away before he could see me. I went on fishing downstream.
A few days later, I was at Miz Kitty’s house delivering eggs and Squint was there. He squinted his eyes at me and said, “Boy, don’t you dare tell nobody where my traps is, you unnerstand?” I quickly replied, “Yes Sir. You bet, Sir. I ain’t gonna tell nobody.”
He squinted at me a little harder and then said, “Do you know they say that I killed a man? I answered, “Yes Sir.”
He said, “Well, that’s not all true. I wiped out a bunch in the war, and they tried to blame a killin’ on me after I got home. But the fact is, that man needed killin’. He was beatin’ his woman and kids.” Squint never admitted to killin’ his neighbor but people figured that since he was used to doing that kind of thing in the war, and suffered from shell shock in battle, he most likely did.
The facts are that he was a neighbor to the dead man and, being a loner and of a mean disposition, everybody suspected him of the murder. What got him in trouble was when they took him in for questioning and he said, “That scoundrel deserved ever thang he got!”
To clinch a solid confession out of Squint, the mountain sheriff did something that almost always got a man to fess up: he took him to the funeral home in Bulls Gap and left him alone in a room with the body for an hour. That usually unnerved superstitious mountain folk and they soon talked.
After an hour, Squint just said, “That man there is way better off dead than he was alive.”
Pretty sure that was almost a confession; the sheriff then threatened to leave him in the small room with the body all night, with the casket open and with no lights on. Squint, in his matter-of-fact way, just said, “I warn’t never skeered o that sorry bastard when he wuz alive and you can bet yore best coon dog, I shore in Hell ain’t now!” That pretty well sealed it and he was locked up until a smart lawyer got him off the hook.
I wonder if he squinted at the jury?
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I would gladly help someone garden for free. I’d also teach cooking or canning for free. I would definitely not want to clean for free. That’s an onerous task. If anyone out there wants to clean for free, please let me know.
I think a man thought I was trying to pick him up in the garden center yesterday. Like me, he was perusing the bargain plants. When I noticed he’d snagged a magnificent hydrangea, my plant lust kicked in. I fear he thought I was after him, rather than his plants. I merely coveted his hydrangea,not his person. He fended me off by hastily telling me his wife had just loaded his buggy up. Scorned, I assured him I was only after his hydrangea, not him. Fortunately, I found one of my own, so his was safe. It was the fifth one , I’ve been lucky enough to get this spring, hydrangea, not man, I mean.
I have a voracious appetite for plants but must restrict my expenditures in the interest of staying married, I make frequent visits to the markdown area where my favorite garden center typically marks plants down fifty percent, an extreme temptation. This frequently includes overstocks., a true blessing. My landscape plans are directly influenced by these bonanzas. For example, I had envisioned a purple and fuchsia scenario for one front bed but realized I could be equally happy with the numerous showy pots of purple and gold Wave Petunias I greedily grabbed.
I must confess. Plants lead me into deception. I do my best to keep them out of Bud’s direct view till I get them in the ground. I unload them in the front yard so as not to assault his sensibilities as he pulls into the garage. I’m not always in the mood to discuss the landscaping imposes on our budget. I understand it’s perfectly obvious that I’ve bought plants once they’re in the ground but I still practice this pointless subterfuge.
Gardening also interferes with my writing. I can’t wait to get out and get my hands in the dirt in the morning. My mind totally clears as I dig, plant, and ponder where each plant will flourish. Should a plant look unhappy, I look till I find it a happier niche.
I live in a biome of extreme Northwest Louisiana. Ten months of the year, the weather is reasonably moderate. Winter assails us with a few frosty days, tantalizes the kiddies with an occasional impotent attempt at snow, and a rare, unwelcome ice event that deprives us of power, schools, and the robs the public of its ability to drive.
One memorable winter, we got six inches of ice. Bud drove the two of us to work in his Jeep, so we weren’t too much disfurnished. Mother is terrified of ice, so she moved in for the duration. The power and internet were off as expected. School was canceled so my kids were iced in with Mother. None of them were happy. Mother occupied herself by supervising them in the constant fetching of firewood and futilely trying to make the unmotivated kids do chores., reasoning it would be a nice surprise for us to come home to a spotless house. Indeed, it would have but not surprisingly, the lazy lumps didn’t share her vision. Her disappointment and their resistance grew each passing day.
Mother is cold-natured, so her firewood needs were extreme. She kept the temperature above eighty as much as possible. Frustrated at her demands, the unhappy, overheated kids escaped to their rooms where they threw the windows open. When not obsessing with keeping the home fires burning, Mother busied herself with cooking, though the kids were perfectly willing and capable of fending for themselves. Mother was confused by the variety and scope of my well-stocked pantry and gravitated toward combining multiple unrelated, easy choices. Her bizarre menu one lunch consisted of chili, fish sticks, and a tomato and okra combo she dubbed “gumbo,” despite the fact it contained no spices, chicken, sausage, or shrimp. The kids were repulsed and Mother judged them.
Time dragged for the prisoners. One the evening of day four, the street was slushy but well-trafficked. The kids suggested Mother could make it home. Irately, she refused. “I’d slide in the ditch. Besides, l’m out of firewood!” On day five, though the street was totally dry, Mother’s car tires were still encased in six inches of pristine ice. It wasn’t going anywhere.
Day six was balmy. As I pulled in the driveway, I was amused to see the kids industriously breaking up the ice behind Mother’s tires. I pitched in to help free it. I backed it out for her so she could head home. Coincidentally, Bud met her driving toward her house about twenty mph at the head of a long line of frustrated drivers.
How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?
I don’t think a lot about Covid anymore. I do notice that I still keep the six foot space between myself and others. I strictly avoid anyone I know who is sick and crowds.
Billy was a good eater. He was over six feet tall by the time he was twelve, worked hard every day and was always hungry. Since Daddy had known real hunger growing up during the depression, he encouraged him to “eat well.” Billy liked to drink his milk from a quart jar to cut down on troublesome refills, and he would hurt a kid over a piece of leftover fried Continue reading →
Andrew Wharton was born to be a farm servant like his father and grandfather before him, the line extending back much further than anyone bothered to remember. His work was not a choice; he was born to work Hampton Grange and expected to die there. The only surprise was when pretty Molly Peace chose him. Ecstatic in his luck, he couldn’t believe the rollicking dairy maid favored him above all the hopeful lads pursuing her when he’d done no more than sneak shy peeks at her in Chapel. The confusion of love and glorious sensuality overwhelmed the young man who’d never contemplated the possibility that life could hold pleasure. Molly saw joy in everything, the sweet breath of the cows she milked, the warmth of the sun on her face, and the sweet sent of the hay she bundled, not seeming to notice the manure in the cow’s tail, the slogging rains, or the sneezing brought on by the hay.
Nutsrok 