After I found my spot in the perfect campground at the top of the mountain, the couple who run the place came to greet me.
“Want to let you know about the rattlers and the barrr.”
“I saw a rattle snake hanging on a sign down the road,” I answered.
“I put her there,” he said with a grin. “I just don’t want you steppin' on one.”
“And the bear?”
“They’re all around these parts. Don’t leave your food out. Cept for the food they don’t want anything to do with you. To them, you stink.” The couple giggled about that, and I decided to change the subject.
My campsite
“Sure is a nice place. What’s it called?”
“Why this here’s Chilhowee Campground.” He fumbled through his loose dungarees and finally found his wallet, and handed me a business card.
“You’re Clinton,” I read, shaking his hand. “And you’re Glenda. Cricket must be your dog.”
“That’s right. That’s my dog,” Clinton said proudly.
“She must be some special dog to get her name on your business card.”
“Yes sir. She’s a part of us. When they put Cricket down they’re gonna have to put us down too.”
“You really do love your dog.”
“She’s a real care-aka-tour.”
“What kind of dog is she?” It was fun talking to a genuine hillbilly.
“She’s a Jack Russel terrerie.”
“No kidding. My dog’s a Jack Russel. They’re great hunters.”
“Yes, sir. Once she’s done with the squirrels she goes after the cockroaches.”
I decided to change the subject again, so they wouldn’t leave to continue their rounds. “What a wonderful place to work. Way up here in these mountains. They probably pay you too.”
“Well, a little bit. We got our trailer over yonder and they give us enough to buy some grits.”
“That’s good. You’re retired?”
“Yes, sir. I was forty and a half year with the lectric company.”
“Forty five years?”
“No, forty and one half a year. My boss negotiated with me. Wanted me to work a full year. Said he’d give me every other Friday off.”
Then the wife broke in. “I said, the hell - if you just stay home I’ll give you every Friday off.”
They laughed and he concluded, “And here I am. Retie-ard.”
Glenda, Cricket and Clinton
In the past it was always so easy for me to stand in judgment of those I labeled as slow. Now I look at the same people as innocents, as childlike, as uncomplicated, yes blessed, and usually very friendly. For example, It was a wonderful sharing of time and space with the old hillbilly and his wife. We talked some more about the bear and rattlesnakes - and we agreed how precious the wildlife is and how blessed we are that they are still here. We got to telling stories - and they both joined in a story about a local boy who froze to death up in these hills one winter and nobody knew who he was for many years. There was no point or moral to the story, and I don’t know why they had to tell it to me, but I loved the cadence of their speech - the way they said barrr for bear and Vrizon - you know - the tower on the other ridge for my whyrrrless. I appreciated all the time they took hanging out with me, and that we could share stories while the sun went down . . . up in the mountains of Tennessee.
This morning, after a wonderful nights sleep, I decided to stop in and meet Cricket and say goodbye to Clinton and Glenda. They invited me for a cup of coffee and asked if I had breakfast, and when I said ‘no’ they offered me a day-glow pink Hostess Snow Cone, which I declined. We talked story a bit, but mostly I came to get their picture.
Clinton and Glenda were all friendly when I left. “You remember where we are and come on back, ye hear?”
Innocence, humanitarianism vs. the hillbilly culture
About a quarter mile outside of the camp I came upon a car in the middle of the road. A woman waved me down to stop. This couple were real hillbillies. If hillbillies had a caste system I believe they would be the untouchables. The woman was just plain ugly. She had a crooked face and about two teeth left in her mouth, and both of them appeared to be about an inch long. “We’re broke down,” she said with a slow drawling backwoods accent. “Can you give us a tow?”
“No,” I answered. “I can’t do that.”
“Well, we’s broke down. We need a tow,” she pleaded.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, not really wanting to be bothered, but realizing that these were people in need. I felt I had to do something. “I’ll go back to the campground and see if I can get you some help.”
I drove back up to Clinton and Glenda’s trailer, which I had left less than five minutes before. They were surprised to see me back.
“There’s some local folk down the road who need a tow,” I reported.
“Do they have a small blue car?” Glenda asked.
“That’s them.”
And that was it. I was interfering with the hillbilly culture. Clinton and Glenda looked around like I wasn’t even there. They didn’t say another word. It was like they were indeed in a caste above these “untouchables” and wouldn’t have anything to do with them - and now by default - me. I waited another uncomfortable minute - I wanted to know what just happened - what they were thinking - why they were ignoring me, but I got the message loud and clear. They didn’t want to talk to me anymore. They wanted me to go away.
Back on the road I stopped and rolled down my window. “I told the people up at the campground that you needed a tow.”
“That you, sir. Appreciate it.”
I did the best I could do. But driving away I wondered if it’s better for me to just witness, and not get involved. One of my teachers would have told me to leave them alone, even if they were bleeding. We argued a lot on that subject, me always taking the humanitarian side - “We have to help our brothers and sisters in need,” I'd say. To which she’d answer, “Some things are just not your business. They belong to someone else’s world, and it’s best that you just leave it alone.” She was probably right in this case.
With Blessings, Dakan
No comments:
Post a Comment