Something Important

Frau Hunter Ash

Original fiction

10/2003

Disclaimers:

Ownership: This story is not meant as an infringement of any copyright. Any relation the characters within the following story have to other people living, dead or fictional is purely coincidental. All characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author. This story cannot be sold or used for profit in any way. Copies of this story may be made for private use only and must include all disclaimers and copyright notices. This is a story handed down along family lines. Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those families.

Feedback: Always welcome and I do respond!

Setting/Summary: This takes place in the hills of Tennessee in the 1950s. A hard life and hard times made for hard and strong people. Also makes for stubborn people.

Rating: PG (some language)

Dedication: This was a request for a Halloween story. I don’t often write this kind and the style is also a first for me. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think.

This is for Dev, hope you enjoy, my friend.

Something Important

Frau Hunter Ash

carrkjar@yahoo.com

www.hunterash.com

# # #

The campfire flames cast an eerie light on the faces of the small group of people in the Sierra Mountains. It was the annual Fall gathering of college friends, even though they had all been out of school for a number of years. They had found each other in their Freshmen and Sophomore years when they came together in a campus group formed around Student and Women’s issues.

Now the group, minus a few members lost through cross country moves and jobs, two deaths, and one marriage that wasn’t going well, met twice a year for camping. In the Spring and in the Fall the strange assortment gathered, laughed, caught up on lives and sometimes bickered.

Tonight, being the fall season, someone had suggested an evening of ghost stories around the campfire while two others made smores for everyone.

Three ghost stories had already passed some of the time and everyone was feeling laid back and content.

Sarah Weist blushed slightly as everyone turned their attention to the pretty Southern red-head. She shrugged and smiled slightly, an impish grin that made her very popular with both males and females throughout her life. Most of the people gathered there knew the smile was sometimes a shield to hide behind. They didn’t know a lot about Sarah’s background other than she had been born in Tennessee, raised in Texas and had ended up in California at age fourteen from a military family.

Sarah’s friends had commented among themselves occasionally that it felt strange that they had never met any of Sarah’s family; not father, mother or brothers and sisters. She had avoided all suggestions of inviting any of her family to gatherings or even pulling out family photos. Eventually the friends dropped it, leaving the secrets alone.

Sarah smiled and looked around the group. “I don’t know how scary this one is, I heard it once and it stuck in my mind. They swore it was true but you know about family legends.”

# # #

Harlan Junior looked up from his morning breakfast of eggs, potatoes and gravy. He wished they had some ham or bacon but that was usually a luxury they didn’t often see in the backwoods of Tennessee. The oldest of six kids, Junior was responsible for a lot of things, including feeding and milking the cow in the morning and getting the other kids up and to the breakfast table. His day usually started with a kick to his legs or a slap across the face. He passed that on down to his siblings to wake them up.

The rest of the light chores were divided among the kids, checking for eggs, weeding the garden, feeding the chickens and sweeping the house. Iris, wife to Senior and mother to Junior and siblings, cooked and did laundry, the two hardest jobs inside the household.

Outside the house Harlan Senior worked the farm. His two younger brothers, Beecher and Jacob, worked full time at the local rock quarry and helped around the farm before and after work. Jacob usually did the harvesting of what little grain they could coax out of the ground in the fall and tended the crops throughout the year. He helped tend the few cows and chickens while Beecher tended to the pigs. Neither brother had married and shared the responsibilities of the farm after it had passed down to Senior.

Harlan Senior was a small man who made up for it by having a quick temper and even quicker fists, especially to his younger brothers, wife and kids. A hard man with sharp, rat-like features that might have been once good looking until life’s bitterness made the sharpness hard and unapproachable. He was wiry, strong and quick and Junior frequently showed up in school with bruises and cuts from being on the receiving end of that quickness when Senior was in a foul mood.

Jacob was the middle brother and was a fairly nondescript man with brown hair, brown eyes and of average build and height. The only thing that caught anyone’s attention was the unfocused eyes. It looked like he was always somewhere else in his mind. Maybe he was, as it might have been a better place than the farm that produced more stones than vegetables. The only thing that seemed to catch and hold his attention was the wood surrounding their home. Jacob was talented with working that raw wood into beautiful, rustic furniture that filled the house and homes surrounding the area.

Once a year the family slaughtered some of the hogs, sold several others for money to last throughout the year, and carefully raised the resulting piglets from the two sows. Eggs sold to neighbors and what little money Jacob and Beecher brought in kept the family from starvation but just barely. Most of the clothes were handed down from one to another.

Junior was lucky in that he was the oldest at twelve; he got his father’s cast off clothes. By the time those clothes hit the youngest boy, they were more patched than the original cloth.

One thing that was surprising was that each child went to school with clean bodies and clothes. Iris was overworked, exhausted from endless child bearing, laundry, cooking and house cleaning but she was determined her kids would be clean and presentable when they went to school and church. Iris took pride in her children, especially Junior. The children ranged from age twelve down to almost a year old with four boys and two girls, the girls being last in line.

One other thing that the scant goods from the farm were traded for was a product of the mountains, commonly called Mountain Dew or moonshine. They exchanged their corn to be turned into illegal alcohol.

It was the one thing that Iris objected to in her life and actually fought with her husband occasionally about it when he and his brothers would get out of hand which was at least once a week. Iris didn’t protest too often, figuring it was the way men dealt with life; she had her Bible and church.

Iris had been pretty once until an early marriage and numerous kids had sapped her strength. It was mostly her sheer willpower that kept her going from dawn until well after dusk. Her comfort didn’t come from the bottle or abusing the kids, it came from her religion and her belief that she was fulfilling God’s purpose for women.

This morning was like so many others. Harlan had finished milking the cows and was now eating, rushing to get through so he and the others wouldn’t be late for school. Being twelve years old, he was in charge of walking the others to the school they all shared.

It was also normal in that the men had been up late the night before, playing their battered instruments and drinking. Senior played a decent guitar and Jacob was very talented with a harmonica. Beecher managed to keep up with both of them with a Mouth Harp.

There were several things that were constant in Harlan’s life. Sunday meant trying to stay awake in Church in the summertime and freezing in the winter all the while singing hymns. Another was his father’s quick fists and the daily struggle to avoid attracting attention and those fists.

Part of the daily routine was everyone getting ready for work and Beecher’s underlying resentment of it. The young man had tried to escape the Tennessee mountains two years before by joining the Navy. Iris and Senior had been confused as to his choice of military branch of service, none of them having even seen a large lake, let alone the ocean. Senior had also been angry that Beecher had left, feeling that the youngest brother should stay and help tend the farm. Iris was more understanding of Beecher’s feelings. As the youngest, his role was going to be that of something close to a sharecropper. He’d never inherit the farm, marriage wasn’t likely as he had no place of his own and nothing to offer a girl. Military service had made sense as a way to escape.

Beecher had written infrequently, his schooling having stopped at the 7^th grade and his writing skills were much beyond fifth grade level, but his letters had spoken of a joy in choosing the navy. He loved the schooling the Navy was putting him through, which happened to be cooking, and he loved the travel. Beecher said that the discipline wasn’t much different than growing up with old man Thomas, lots of yelling, threats and an occasional smack alongside the head. Beecher, having lived with his father and older brothers was sharp enough to recognize a growing temper and clever enough to usually avoid most anything worse than the yelling.

Beecher’s escape had ended one summer day on a small cargo ship he was assigned to. The young sailor was scrubbing the sides of the bridge, sitting on a board that was suspended over the side by a rope.

No one explained or even really investigated what happened that day but Beecher woke up in a military hospital with his leg in a cast in traction and his ribs taped. The doctors informed him that he had fallen to the deck, his leg landing under him in a wrong position. Beecher hadn’t really understood most of the technical terms but he did understand the result. He’d have a lame leg and was being discharged.

Some officer tried to explain to the backwoods young man that he’d get free medical care the rest of his life and a small pension since his disability happened while on duty. Beecher hadn’t gotten any real answers when he asked where he could go for medical care; his family hadn’t ever been in a large city or hospital.

What it eventually amounted to was a young man with a severe limp, constant pain, and a disillusionment that left him bitter and somewhat mean.

The one most grateful for his return had been Junior. Before going off to the Navy, he and Junior would sneak away on hot summer days to go fishing or swimming in the nearby river. It was Beecher that had shown the boy how to fish, how to hunt squirrels and play marbles. When Beecher had returned from the Navy Junior hadn’t understood the changes in his uncle. This meant learning to be wary of Beecher in addition to his own father.

The constant about his leaving for work in the morning was Beecher grabbing his white sailor hat. The young man never went anywhere without it, even stuffing it in his pocket when entering church on Sundays. It was as if it was his only reminder that he had experienced travel and schooling outside of the hills.

Harlan Jr. ducked away from a playful swat from Beecher, one that was more bitter than playful. His uncle leaned over and grabbed two biscuits and a cup of coffee, not bothering to sit down.

Harlan Jr. had awakened the night before to loud voices and sounds of pushing and shoving on the broken planks that counted as a porch of the small house. Beecher, Jacob and Senior were drunk and something had set Beecher and Senior off into a yelling match as to who counted more around the farm, the oldest or the youngest brother.

The argument had finally ended when Senior had decked Beecher and Jacob jumped between them, threatening to beat both of them senseless if they didn’t stop.

Now Beecher had a black-eye and a sour expression. One matched by Senior as the older brother wolfed his food down. Junior wondered if he ever actually tasted the food, his dad ate so fast.

“Tend to the hogs,” Senior grumbled towards Beecher.

“No, I’m late,” Beecher said, shaking his head, stuffing two more biscuits in his pants pockets. “I’m on early shift at the quarry.”

“That can wait, hogs can’t,” Senior complained.

“That job pays for your drinking liquor,” Beecher snapped. “Also puts clothes on your back. I ain’t gonna be late again because you can’t hold your liquor and let me oversleep.”

“My fault that you’re too goddamn lazy to get up?” Senior shouted, throwing a spoon at his brother.

After years of experience, Beecher easily ducked the eating implement and opened the door.

“I ain’t got time to feed your goddamn pigs,” Beecher shouted as he slammed the door.

“Hey, Da’ he forgot his hat,” Junior noticed. “Should I run after him?”

“No, you ain’t running after him!” Senior yelled, cuffing Junior across the ear. “Mind your breakfast and get the younglings ready!”

“Yes, sir,” Junior said softly, kicking his younger brother in the shin for smirking at him.

# # #

The output of the stone quarry was crushed stone for building projects, to mix in cement and a variety of other uses. Working three shifts, the quarry was in peak production on that fine Spring day.

Miners spent their time usually at one to two jobs in the quarry. The specialists were the blasters, those setting the charges to create channels, making cutting and further blasting easier. Rock was blasted out of the cliff, transported to the belts leading to two rock crushers.

Each job was hard work and most of the time crippling work.

Because of his leg, Beecher worked the belt-line leading to the largest crusher. It was his job to reach in and pull out the clay clods that could clog a machine. Also to watch for anything amiss, an occasional broken iron rod, old tires that had been tossed in the quarry, and sometimes glasses, hats, or gloves from the workmen fell off onto the conveyor.

As much as Senior complained about the quarry being work for those who couldn’t handle the honest work of a farm, he didn’t complain about the money Beecher and Jacob brought in. Besides, the two younger brothers mostly ignored Senior’s general foul mood.

Junior hurried to get the younger kids off to school and dashed out to do his chores. It was planting time and he was needed more on the farm than at school Senior decided so he and Junior spent the morning planting seed, each saying a prayer that the seed would take and they’d get food or grain. Neither would ever admit to praying though, that was a weakness or women’s duty.

Both father and son sat down to the table for a quick lunch of stew and cornbread as Iris started cooking supper and worked on ironing the laundry.

All three of them froze when they heard the siren at the rock quarry. Something told them that it wasn’t the lunch siren when it continued in three short bursts for over five minutes.

“Dear Lord, been a killing,” Iris muttered, clutching her chest.

“Ah, keep your talk to yourself,” Senior grumbled. “Hasn’t been an accident there in years.”

“Then what’s the siren sounding for, Daddy?” Junior asked softly.

Senior glared at his son for a moment and turned his attention back to his food. Harlan Senior hated the boy’s intelligence almost openly. Junior already knew more math and book reading than his father and it galled Senior when the boy asked questions about his schoolwork that he couldn’t answer any more.

Iris squeaked, startled, as the door slammed open and Beecher stood in the doorway. He leaned heavily on his cane and snarled at Senior as he grabbed his hat from the peg.

“I just want you to know, I fed your damn pigs,” Beecher said loudly and slammed the door shut, apparently heading back to the quarry.

“Dumb ass,” Senior muttered. “Hobble all that way for a damn hat.”

Iris and Junior kept whatever opinions they had about Beecher to themselves.

This time it was Senior that jumped when they all heard Jacob shouting from outside, almost screaming, five minutes later. Senior threw the door open as Iris went to the window. Junior managed to look around his daddy’s body and see his uncle running up the dirt road towards the farm.

“Harlan! Harlan! Come quick! Accident up at the quarry!” he kept repeating, louder as he got closer.

Harlan Senior grabbed his work hat and shoved Junior back inside the house. “Take care of your momma.”

It was three hours before Iris and son saw the wagon approaching the house. A flatbed wagon meant for hauling goods, it was being pulled by an old horse that had seen better days, probably when the wagon was young itself. It was surrounded by workers from the quarry, the driver was the foreman of the shift.

Following behind with their hands on the weathered boards were Harlan Senior and Jacob.

The men pulled their hats off as they approached the farmhouse and Iris whimpered in her throat. It was a sound that Harlan Junior had never heard before; it seemed to him to be a sound of terror and grief.

The wagon pulled up to the house, turning sideways, and boy and mother could see a dusty old tarp covering something. Junior’s mind couldn’t quite figure out what the cargo was or why it was dripping something dark between the boards onto the dust.

Iris closed her eyes for a moment as Harlan Senior and Jacob stood numbly behind the wagon.

The foreman jumped down from the driving seat and approached Iris and Junior slowly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Iris, there’s been a terrible accident.”

“Bring him into the living area,” Iris said after a moment. “Me and the kids will clean him up when they’re in from school. Anytime now, I’m thinking.”

Junior was still confused as the men moved slowly to gather whatever was under the tarp. The workemen struggling up the stairs with the planks from the wagon that were acting as a litter into the house.

The horrible realization finally sank into the boy’s mind when a dusty and bloody navy hat fell out from under the tarp to the floor as they carried Beecher’s body into the living room, setting the plank litter on saw horses usually reserved for Iris’ quilting frames.

Junior picked up the hat and looked at his father and uncle. Both were dusty and their overalls were stained with something dark. The boy felt his insides go cold as he watched his father. It was as if Harlan Senior had aged ten years and all the fight had been drained out of him.

Jacob helped Senior into the house as Iris thanked the men for bringing Beecher home and for their kindness. She spoke with the foreman about the wake and he explained about money for the burial since Beecher had died at work.

Junior felt caught between adulthood and childhood. His mind wanted to reject the fact that his favorite uncle was now dead and it had been a violent death. He also wanted to be an adult and not cry in front of all those men and his mamma.

He moved forward and took Iris’ hand when she turned to the house, gently leading her inside to the table. He dashed outside to get a cup of cold water from the well and brought it to her as she stared at her husband and brother-in-law. Both men were taking up positions on either side of the still-covered body, both still looking dazed.

“Mamma?” Junior asked softly.

“Yes, Junior?”

“Mamma, Beecher forgot his hat this morning,” Junior said slowly and softly.

“Yes he did,” Iris nodded.

“The siren sounded before he came back for his hat,” Junior continued.

“Yes, it did,” Iris nodded as if they were talking about the weather.

“He was dead by then,” Junior continued, insisting on taking the subject further.

“Yes, he was,” Iris said softly. “It was important to him, I reckon.”

Junior blinked, looking down at the hat in his hands. The child in him quickly formed the thought that they’d better bury Beecher with his hat, they didn’t want him coming back again. The adult in him tried to rationalize what logically couldn’t be. Beecher must have come back for his hat while they were out planting, he decided. Dead men didn’t come back for a stupid hat. They couldn’t have seen or heard Beecher come back for his hat after he was already dead, crushed in the rock crusher.

# # #

Sarah looked down at her cocoa as the group absorbed the story.

“Wow, hard to imagine that kind of hard life these days,” Jimmy commented softly.

“People still live like that in places,” Loretta shrugged.

“Cool story,” Brittany grinned and laughed softly as Sarah blushed from the praise.

“Hey, what was the family name?” Jimmy asked. “I mean, what family would pass stuff like this to their kids?”

“Weist, Junior was my father,” Sarah said softly. “They buried my Uncle with his hat.”

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