I grew up listening to Jerry Clower. My dad had several 8 track tapes that he would play in his truck when we were going down the road. Clower is a great story teller who can make you laugh without ever being vulgar.
I once worked with a woman who was hard core anti-hunting. Anytime the subject of hunting came up she got very passionate and upset. There was a hunter who worked with us. Sometimes he would talk about hunting trips and what he had killed and so on. This woman would get angry and yell at the guy about how horrible he was to kill an animal. Those of us who commented anything were likely to get yelled at as well. It got to the point that we were all about to get into trouble with the boss if we didn’t avoid the subject.
This same woman was a frequent visitor to the McDonald’s drive-thru and talked of big dinners at Applebee’s and various steak houses. She was happy and willing to go out on a date and eat a steak and tater. She wore leather shoes and carried a leather purse because those were the best and she liked quality.
The important thing in her world was that her date (and her friends, coworkers, etc) did not engage in killing animals. She could never abide anyone who “mistreats an animal” in that way. “Hunters are cruel and mean.” In fact, if it were up to her they would all be imprisoned or banished from the country. I tried to show her the hypocrisy she was swimming in. She would not listen.
She was a proud person who knew she was right. She would never in her life condone an animal being harmed… unless she did not see it happening and the carcass magically appeared at the grocery store or it was served to her ready to eat. Perhaps she would be happy if the prisons were turned into meat packing plants so that she would never have to see an animal suffer and all those who do would be in jail.
How can an adult human being eat – hamburgers, steaks, fried chicken, and bacon – but be so hostile toward killing an animal?
Now, right there is one of those things that literally makes me wonder what in tarnation is going on in some of these folks heads!
I have been a hunter since I was a youngin. Men hunted where I “came from.” We also shot guns for fun.
I remember being about 8 when me and dad were up in a “holler” with some other people shooting. They were some of my dads friends and my papaw with some of his friends.
Sometimes the old men would trade guns. Often we were trying out different ones. They let me shoot a lot of different types of guns. We shot targets that we set up for the purpose. A bunch of shooters would meet at that some place often. There were other places too, where shooting ranges were set up. More often than not, when you saw a pickup truck, there would be a rifle or two in a rack over the window. I suspect that when you didn’t see one it was likely to be in the “glove box” or underneath the seat.
My dad told me something like this, “When you need food you have to kill an animal. You don’t need to hurt the animal or make it suffer. Kill it as quickly and cleanly as you can. Kill an animal because it needs to be done not because you get pleasure in the death. When you just want to have fun kill targets, not living things.” I would never have been allowed to shoot songbirds, groundhogs, etc just for the fun of it.
I cannot imagine harming another creature for the sheer pleasure and fun. I would be hesitant to kill animal that I was going to eat or feed to my family, but I would do it in as humane a way as I can. My own feelings on the issue are like those of my father and of the “Indians” I read about as a kid.
Yes – we need to kill animals for food.
No – hunting should not be a sport, ie done only for pleasure.
If you tell me that you are a Vegan, or a Vegetarian, please don’t let me see you wearing leather, fur etc. If it is wrong to kill for food how can you rationalize wearing leather shoes and crap like that?
Clem Bob Barely
If I win that danged old power ball I would be more surprised than anyone. I don’t have a snowballs chance to win any of that money. I would like to tell you all that I have never wasted a dime on the lottery. Instead I must admit that I have squandered ten times that amount.
On the first day lottery tickets were sold in Kentucky I bought a $1 ticket. It was a $1 winner! I had won back my dollar bill.
I was excited by all that money and feeling very wealthy with my greenback dollar.
Greed overtook me and I bought another ticket. That last ticket was a loser and so was I.
That losing ticket traumatized me to the point that I have never bought another since. There I was, an innocent young girl, with dreams and plans on what I was going to do with all my winnings. From the second I saw that my ticket was a winner right up to the point I realized the second was a loser I had spent that money in mind. My heart swelled and the world was so bright and happy as I was trying to get myself use to living the rich life.
They had these big old signs what had lots of dollar signs on them and said folks were gonna be winning a lot of money. I think that lottery ticket salesman must a dealt me a ticket from the bottom of the deck to trick me. There I was thinking about all the things I was gonna buy for my mammy and pappy and how I was gonna get some food for the kids. Then my dreams and visions were shattered.
On my way in to the store I was offered a hand full of magic beans for a buck. I told the gentleman I was much too smart a lady for that. When I left the man approached me again with the magic beans. I remember crying and thinking to myself that if I had my greenback dollar my children and my mammy and pappy could have something for supper. Oh well, magic beans causes my pappy to get stinky real fast.
The only thing that gave me the strength to go on and try to live out the reminder of my life was the fact that my Federal Reserve bank note went toward helping youngins to get educated in Kentucky. It was too late for me then. I was broke and without hope. That dollar bill I once had was gone.
I walked on back up the holler and shot a couple possums. When I got home mammy and pappy and the kids were so happy to see the possums they forgot all about the dollar bill.
This story has weighed on my heart and soul all these years and now I can finally come forward and share my heart wrenching story.
Sally Lou Siney
This morning I was out for my 20 mile run through the hills. As I was crossing one particular ridge I saw that Old Talking Tree Leaner propped up against a big Beech tree. I don’t know if he noticed me or not but I wasn’t slowing down to take the chance.
Not too long ago I was telling you about that old man who was camping in an old van down by the river ( In A Van Down By The River ). Well I had the good fortune of running into the old guy again this morning so I have some news from the hill.
So anyway, I was running along through the trees, rocks and badgers and right there in the middle of the trail was the old guy from the van. He had himself a fire built and was cooking up some coffee. He saw me coming and by the time I got to where he was he had already found a coffee cup and was reaching it to me. “Coffee?”
I looked at the cup and was completely amazed that it appeared to be clean. “Sure!” I took the coffee cup and he poured me a steamy black drink. The coffee sort of put me off guard and I ventured to ask the old guy how things were going.
Back in the good ole days when I was a kid things sure were rough. What with only 4 channels on the TV, one phone in the house, and having to do actual chores it is a wonder that we even made it through alive. Yet here I am and there were a few other survivors too.
He paused and looked at me, “How old are you boy?” I lied and told him that I was 62 (I am 33), he didn’t seem to notice or be concerned. He started giggling and then chuckling then soon he was just all out laughing hysterically. “Have you ever went to sleep in the Johnny house?”
“You know man, the john, the outhouse, the toilet…”
I told him that no, I had never slept in the bathroom. He laughed at me and explained that a Johnny House was an outdoor toilet. A small wooden shack built over top a huge hole. Basically a long board with a seat cut out is laid over the hole and that’s where you go. If the toilet seat broke and you fell in… well no one ever wanted that to happen.
Suddenly he quit laughing and got really serious. “I think all youngins should have to grow up using an outhouse. Let them use indoor toilets when they grow up but growing up with a Johnny House is good for you! Look at how I turned out!”
He was talking now. I flipped on my mental recorder and sat back (not leaned) against a tree and listened with a hot cup of coffee.
That Johnny House Was Half A Mile Away!
It could be a major traumatic event just to get out to the bathroom and back. It was a dreaded trip when the rain was pouring down or a snow storm was on. It was especially bothersome if “mother nature” came upon you in the middle of the night when all sorts of scary boogers were out and about.
At night we would hold “it” as long as we could and pray for the daylight to come. But there were times when it just wouldn’t wait and we had to trek it out to the Johnny house in the middle of the dark night.
Every crackle in the woods, every unexplainable squeak and groan becomes louder and scarier when you are alone. This is especially true if you are 10 years old and you’re headed for the Johnny house at 3:00 in the morning.
On one such night I had been feeling really sick and had the… well, you know… I had the runs and so I had to run out to the old Johnny house. I sat out there so long I fell asleep on the seat. Sometime later that night my oldest sister woke up and had to slip out to relieve herself. She walked up to the door and she grabbed the handle, opened the door and jumped in with almost one motion (I didn’t see this but she told me later).
About that time a sleeping young boy woke up scared to death and screaming his head off with his britches down. This scared the girl really badly so she took to screaming too. There we were trying to out scream the other.
Uh Oh! Here Comes Daddy!
Suddenly we heard the front porch screen door slam. Now there’s a sound that is etched into my memory. How many times I heard that screen door slam shut. Daddy yelled out, “What in tarnation is goin’ on up there?”
That moment, when we both heard that familiar slamming of the screen door and daddy’s voice, we were brought to our senses enough to realize what was going on. “You scared me! You did it on purpose!” my sister said. I tried to explain but she would not believe that I had simply fallen asleep in the Johnny house. I am always pulling pranks and and tricks she said.
Now we could hear daddy walking through the yard, “I said what’s goin’ on up here?”
My sister turned around and told dad that the “little booger” had hid in the toilet and ambushed her in the middle of the night. “He scared me so bad that I wet myself!” I had to fight the urge to laugh when she said that, but I knew better. She told him how she was tired of my tricks and that I should be sent after a switch for what I had done. If I was her boy, she explained, “he would be getting a good switchin’ right now!”
Daddy calmed her down and when I told him what had happened, about me having the runs and me falling asleep in the Johnny house, he believed me. He told me that it was still my fault because I was always running around looking for ways to prank folks and that now they just expect it. “You best straighten up and get serious!” He said, “stop all this foolishness.” He ruffled the hair on my head and then told the both of us to get to bed.
Well maybe I will tell you more about what happened to my sister some time and perhaps even explain why she seemed to dislike me so much. Yep, she sure enough wanted me to get a good whoopin’ and she was always trying to arrange it too.
He chuckled and went to working with his fire, stirring the coals and re-positioning the wood. I knew it would be risky but I was curious so before I left him there in the woods I asked him one final question, “Have you ever met up with the ole Talking Tree Leaner?”
Oh No! Not The Old Talking Tree Leaner!
“Oh yeah! The Old Talking Tree Leaner! I have run into the old rascal a few times over the years. Fact is I saw him this morning.
“What did he say?” I felt like giggling because of the thought of those two going at it.
“What didn’t he say would be more like it! They say that if you talk to him long enough you go out of your mind and you run through the winds until finally you are so tired that you lean up against a tree for some rest… well that’s where you wind up staying aint it?”
We both had a laugh and he explained that he had only talked to the old Tree Leaner once about 30 years earlier. He said he still has bad dreams about it but with the help of his mail order study at home schooling in psychiatry he is able to function normally.
It Was Time To Run
Since I had stopped in the middle of my 20 mile run for a coffee break I felt that I should start over. So after another 20 miles of running through the forested hills like a bipedal gazelle I finally made it back to my own back yard and am even now relaxing on the back deck with my tea and crumpets.
Wait! I just saw bigfoot in the neighbors yard! Dang it was big and blurry so I know it had to be a Bigfoot! Time to call the Game Warden or Animal Control. I am tired of those coyotes, badgers and Bigfoots getting into everything! It’s time to alert the authorities.
Some of us have to go out into the world (or was that twisted imagination?) and find or just happen upon crazy folks and weirdness just so we can bring you these Too True Tales. And What a Long Strange Trip It Still Is…
Doh! I forgot to ask the old dude his name again!
What My Heart Wants To Tell
“God knew that it would take brave and sturdy people to survive in these beautiful but rugged hills. So He sent us His very strongest men and women.”
So begins the heartwarming story of Verna Mae and her father, Isom B. “Kitteneye” Slone, an extradordinay personal family history set in the hills around Caney Creek in Knott County, Kentucky.
HEY Y’ALL !
This story was taken from bits and pieces of many different peoples lives both real and imagined.
Any resemblance to any one real person would be a miracle and a complete coincidence. This is fiction people ;0)
Written by D Slone, Copyright 2011
Outhouse Diving For Drunk Hillbilly Girl
“…there was a 12 year old girl who went out around midnight to go to the outhouse. A long time passed but she didn’t come back into the house.
Her parents became very worried and went out to check on her.
The outhouse door was shut so they knocked on the door, “Are ya in thar?” (Spoken as one word ‘ar-yin-thar’) There was no reply..”
Making Money As A Kid Way Back When I Was One Of Them
When I was a kid we were able to earn money in many different ways. We lived out in the “boonies” and couldn’t get a “real” job but we did find ways to get cash if we weren’t too lazy.
Here is what some of my friends and I did to get our spending money.
We all saved pop bottles and copper. Boys would strip copper wires out of any old appliance that was thrown out. There were places and ways to get copper from time to time and we hoarded it like it was gold. A guy’s copper collection could even be used to “trade on”.
The deposit on a 16 ounce returnable glass bottle was ten cents. Folks still tossed them out of car windows and left them laying around. When folks went fishing or camping or something like that they never seemed to want to carry their trash back out with them. That included their returnable pop bottles, just left behind. It didn’t take long to collect up a few dollars worth of pop bottles. There were times when you carried a pop bottle you had found for hours before you finally got home with it. You wouldn’t consider throwing it back down though. In fact you would be glad to feel its weight and think about that big dime added to your pile.
The first I can remember about copper was when it was around 30 cents per pound. It took quite a pile of copper wiring to add up to very much in the way of cash. But it was generally free other than the time we spent working at it. I remember walking alongside the road and finding a heavy gauge copper battery terminal someone had just tossed or lost. To a ten year old boy it was like a piece of treasure. I added it to my pile and spent the money in my imagination over and over.
How long could you save? How long could you wait? That was the game. The longer you waited to cash in your bottles or sell your copper the more money you would get. But the longer you waited the less you could stand the waiting. Somewhere along the line you would always cash in your treasure.
Most of us would need to find someone who would give a kid a ride into town. Several cartons of returnable glass bottles was heavy and difficult to carry on foot. A bucket full of old copper wire was impossible to carry!
The first thing to do now was to get a banana flip and a carton of chocolate milk. Next you would sit down and count the money you have left and start making your plans. So much to buy, but you don’t want to spend it because you don’t want to be broke again. These days it seems that when a kid has money it “burns a hole in their pocket” and they have to spend it as soon as they can. I don’t recall it being that way for us. We were hesitant to spend our money and if we came back from the store and still had money left it was a good thing.
We had peacocks for a few years. I would gather up peacock feathers and take them to school and sell them for 25 cents each. This was in the early 1970s. I also ordered coins and stamps from comic book ads and sold and traded on them at school.
There were others ways that we made money too. When I was 10 years old I was going door to door and asking people if they needed any odd jobs done. I mowed a lot of grass, changed light bulbs, crawled up under houses and a lot more. Most summers I would have a few certain yards promised to me to cut for the season. Every week I would mow the same lawns. So often I would be paid not only with a few dollars but I would also be brought out sandwiches, candy bars and even an ice cold pop!
I once found some Playboy magazines and I pulled out the centerfolds and, you may have guessed it, took them to school and sold them! Yep.
I even had a small stint selling Grit! Yep, rode around on a bicycle tossing papers and knocking on doors trying to get folks to pay up. Grit was just a little newspaper thing back then. It’s a big glossy magazine nowadays.
Mowing lawns and doing odd jobs along with collecting pop bottles and copper and maybe selling a few things here and there kept me up in money to buy BBs, shotgun shells, comic books, and even a 5 cent cigar from time to time.
A fella’ might even be tempted to order from them comic book ads. There were all sorts of amazing and interesting gizmos you could buy right there from the pages of your very own comic book!
I had my eye on those x-ray glasses and that 6 foot submarine for so long, but I just couldn’t part with the money to order them.
Who remembers the Sea Monkeys? Well, when I saw them I just couldn’t live without them! I had to send in my hard earned money for those amazing creatures with ribbons in their hair and smiles on their faces. Why, there was even a promise of potential nudity!
Well, if those X ray specs were anything like those sea monkeys then more likely than not I just never would be able to see through that ladies skirt anyway. Might be better that I saved my money and bought instead things like 5 cent cigars, BBs and shotgun shells. I imagine I would have just gotten into too much trouble if the X ray Specs did work so it was probably just a no win deal. I tell ya what though.
Lately I have been thinking about going down and getting one of those new comic books and checking to see what amazing devices can be ordered now. Perhaps I can read her mind while I am looking through her skirt?!
There’s gotta be a song in there somewhere and if you can find you can have it for a dollar.
Written by a dern fooll
At our place we had animals, and having animals meant work. Seems to me that animals were always needing something. My dad would send me to feed and water. There was always a fence that needed repairing or some thing or other.
I had to go to the barn and climb up into the loft and wrestle down a bit of the hay separating the bats and tossing them down so that the horses and cows could get to it. When I did this I just naturally tended to be very careful because of a bad experience I had already had not too long before. You see just below where I had to cross some beams without flooring, in order to drop the hay down in the right spot, there was the big brown mushy swamp of cow pies. I slipped out of the loft while trying to tote too much hay one time. I reckon a person falls faster than hay because I wound up buried up in wet cow patties and sprinkled with hay. I’m sure that dad wasn’t happy about all that hay getting muddy. Luckily he was too busy laughing at the kid covered in cow pies to get mad about the hay.
After the hay was put down it was off to the well to draw up water. The well was just up the path a ways and still in the pasture. There was a long narrow cylindrical bucket on a chain and a simple, uncovered well about 8 inches or so in diameter. Man, that chain got cold in the winter! Next to the well there was an old claw foot bathtub. I dumped bucket after bucket of water in that tub for the horses, ponies and cows – as well as raccoons, opossums and others I am sure.
There was a few times when I had to go do the hay and water before going to school. I would be way up there on the hillside pasture drawing that water bucket and it would still be dark out! It was a really spooky place to be at that time of the morning and I often saw, or at least heard, terrible creatures hanging out just inside the tree line.
When I was done with the water and was walking back toward the house I could sometimes feel those creatures breathing on my neck. I picked up the pace as I went along, knowing that I would be lucky if I barely made it back down to where the lights and people were. Many was the time that I would arrive out of breath and feeling like my hair was standing on end. I had heard the stories. There were strange things in those hills. I was sure of it.
We had chickens, geese, ducks, guineas, pigeons and even a pair of peacocks. You are talking about a lot of feed there! We had a few pigs too. I would scoop out four big scoops of the pig feed, which looked like pellets, into a 5 gallon bucket. Then I would fill the measuring jug up twice with water and pour that onto the feed. You stir that up real good and by the time you carry it up the hill to the pig lot your arm is about to fall off and the slop is nice and mushy. Those pigs also loved corn and I toted many a bucket filled with corn up that hill too. I once saw a hog eating on a chunk of coal. The thing acted like it was good!
Speakin’ of hogs, I remember when I killed my first one. I was about 12 I reckon. My dad handed me the .22 rifle and told me it was my turn. At the time I felt so proud and like one of the men. I shot the hog between the eyes from about 6 inches away. I was looking right at his eyes when I done it and after the bang it was looking right into mine. It was dead. Its head smashed in the slop bucket and its eyes were open and looking right at me. I felt so sorry for that pig. When mom brought up the fried cracklin’s I was thankful for that hog. Not much better than fresh fried pork skins… and fried in lard to boot!
After all of that was done it was time to head out to meet the school bus. It was a bit of a walk down to the wooden bridge at the mouth of the hollow (“holler”) but at least it was mostly down hill.
Guest writer Lloyd B.
This piece could have been titled Interview With A Hillbilly
I was led back down a long hall way that separated the storage side of the barns from the rest. The last doorway on the left. A shadow in the shape of a man. The room is dark. He begins to speak, his voice garbled and disguised electronically.
My guide is explaining about the interview process but the mysterious figure is already talking. “Shh! Listen!”
The guide says, “Ha ha he talks funny,” and then continues to ramble about the coffee down at the cafe.
I heard the mysterious figure expounding upon the deepest secrets and mysteries of the universe but I forgot to write any of it down because my guide was talking too much. “Shut up and Listen! I want to write down what he says!”
And here, friends and neighbors, is what that crazy hillbilly said:
When I was just a baby I used to cry every day because I wasn’t a hillbilly. Why did mom and dad have to go to the wrong side of the river just before I was born? How could I ever go through life as a buckeye? I felt hopeless and doomed from the start. (As you can very well imagine, I’m sure!)
One day my mother told me the truth. She said that after they had closed the doors at that hospital she was beaned back to Kentucky with special secret alien technology. I was born right there in the state of Kentucky and then instantaneously transported back to the Ohio hospital delivery room.
Naturally, I didn’t believe a word of that crap so I asked where her and dad were 9 months before I was born when the ‘thing’ happened. “Kentucky.” Yee ha! I’m a hillbilly!
It’s the old story. A bunch of hillbillies head north looking for factory jobs…
You first heard about it in Clarence Kelley’s song, South of Cincinnati. Just like the guy in that song nearly everyone in my entire family moved up north back in the 1960s. My little part of the family moved back and forth and so I would be in the city for awhile and then in the country.
Whenever I was down in Kentucky they would say “you talk like a fancy northerner!” or “Ya gyall durned buckeye!” but when I was up north I was called a hillbilly or a hick.
I never once felt sorry or embarrassed about it either. Of course just the natural fact that I was always traveling back and forth led to me developing my own hybrid crazy accent.
When someone would call me hillbilly or make fun of how I pronounced a word I didn’t get embarrassed; If anything I might get mad. I didn’t try to change the way I spoke to suit them.
I was taking a music course and at the first session the instructor tried to correct my pronunciation. I said, “Buddy I am here to learn more about the guitar. It’s not your job to teach me how to talk.” I wasn’t rude or upset at all, just blunt. From then on he never mentioned a word about the way I pronounced my words.
I Reckon People Talk Funny All Over The Place
Lets face it though, people who talk with a significantly different “accent” are hilarious. That’s true for pretty much anyone. Don’t you want to laugh when you hear a strong British accent or perhaps someone from Alabama or Kentucky? Personally when I hear one of those guys out on Staten Island goin’ at it it cracks me up.
I know someone who lives in Ohio who is convinced that she and her ‘neighbors’ speak exact and proper English and everyone else is wrong. She seems to have no idea how she would be viewed if she were up in Brooklyn talking to some folks in a street side cafe. Or even in Portland; nearly everywhere but her Ohio she would be seen as having an accent or “talkin’ funny”.
That is exactly why all of this is so funny! There is no such thing as the so-called proper pronunciation! It’s a myth!
The worlds highest educated and traveled scholars will not all have the same accent or pronunciation.
So what makes you think you are better than anyone else just because of the way you pronounce your verbiage?
The truth is folks that we all “tawk funny” every last one of us.
If you don’t believe that you talk funny go out and jump in a car, a bus, a jet or a train and go 500 miles in any direction.
Find the nearest tavern or “spot” and go in there and start talking to people.
You tawk funny!
There you have it folks.
The Buckabilly who thinks he’s a Hillbilly says y’all talk funny!
Aint you good and mad?
I am a moderator on an active website and I see comments similar to “I don’t believe you because you didn’t use correct grammar…” or “Your statement is a lie because you can’t spell…” Comments like that tend to be deleted and so do not see the ‘light of day’ but many folks comment that way nonetheless. I suppose if a writer used perfect grammar these people would believe them regardless of the truth? The inability to write perfectly is equal to the inability to tell the truth? Why man! There silly crap to laugh at every which way you turn!
Copyright 2011 HillBillyCrackpot.com
One night, a mother told her own daughter to go buy some milk and she also told her to watch out for the railroad tracks. While the girl was crossing the railroad tracks, one of shoes got stuck and suddenly, she saw a train coming in the distance, she was still struggling to get her foot off the tracks, and the train was coming closer… and closer. Until, the train hit her, she lost both her legs but no one ever saw the poor little girl ever again.
Many years after that, there was another mother and told her own daughter to go and buy 3 bottles of milk. After that, when the girl came back, the mother was angry and said ‘You only bought 2 bottles of milk!’ And the mother decided that the little girl should be punished, and said that the girl should sleep outside for the night in the tent and said ‘and watch out for the click clack slide…’
So that night, while the girl was sleeping, something woke her up. She heard a noise from outside…click clack slide… click clack slide… click clack slide…. click clack slide. The young girl thought it was her mother and ignored it and decided to go back to sleep, but the noise kept goin on and on… click clack slide …click clack slide… click clack slide… and it made the girl really frightened. So the girl went out the tent and saw nothing, she decided to go in the house, and went to the kitchen and there she saw her mother lying on the floor…dead and there was blood everywhere.
The girl was very scared and could not believe what she was seeing, she turned around and she saw a girl on the floor with blood all over her body… and she didn’t have any legs, it was like they were cut off and the girl looked up and shouted… “BOOOOOO!”
This story was called the click clack slide because of the girl. And cause the girl didn’t have any legs, she had to use her arms to move, and then she slides forward, like I said, watch out for the click clack slide…
Sent in by Nicole, Copyright 2010 HillbillyCrackpot.com
Hillbilly recipe for biscuits and gravy from Mamaw Gerty!
Here is an authentic country recipe for biscuits and gravy. A friend of ours by the name of Merly Jean is going to sit back and write the rest of this out for you all. She is going to describe to you exactly how her grandmother makes her home made biscuits and gravy.
Howdy to the folks on the innernet. My name is Merly Jean and I am gonna write some thangs that my Mamaw Gerty is a gettin reddy ta tell me.
Why thank ya Merly Jean, no dont write that. Well Ok leave it in then. Lawd that child! Now that I am a famous person on the innernet I figgered I wud tell yall bout a special recipe we got fer making the best delishusest biscits and gravy you ever seed. If n you like to eat atall yore gonna love my recipe. Now mind ya it haint nuthin faincy, just old fashuned good home cookin.
Most a yall probly gots one a them new fangled ovens whuts got that radio dial lookin thang that tells ya how hot it is in thar. My Henry took an bawt me one back in 19 and 78 and it was the ornriest thang ta get use to. But I like it jess fine now. When I start gittin reddy ta make my biscits and gravy I reach over thar and turn that nob up to 450 so that oven can get all warmed up good while I’m a making the doe.
It all started when I was about three years old. My family and I moved into a big green house in Portsmouth Virginia. Once we moved in and got settled we started to hear footsteps coming from the front door going upstairs, and you could hear it walking around in the bedrooms.
The house was over ninety years old back in 1986 and we lived there for eleven years. My father said that the noises we were hearing was the house settling but in ninety years it should have settled a long time ago. The house was by a church that was haunted.
When I got older my mother told me the story about the church. The ghost in the church was that of a man who was murdered in there. He was the piano player and he was staying late to practice and somebody came in and chopped him up.
My friend and I were cleaning the church one night when we heard a noise coming from up stairs where they found him so we went to investigate. When we got to the top of the stairs there he stood. My friend and I looked at each other and ran.
The next day we told the pastor about it and he didn’t believe us. He said it was the night guard. Like I said we lived there 11 years and we had never seen a night guard. After living there for 11 years we moved to Kentucky.
We moved in with my aunt and stayed there for 6 months then we moved to a very little city called Hellier. It was a small two bedroom house. It was creepy at night but nothing happened there.
We moved again to an even smaller town called Rockhouse. Up a holler called Badfork and it fits. The roads are narrow and its pitch dark even when there’s a full moon. There’s only about 10 to 12 houses up here and this place is spooky at night. I witnessed a lot of stuff up here.
I was walking down the road at night to go to my friends house when I seen something at the creek. It was black and it was drinking the water. When it heard me coming it turned its head all the way around and it looked at me with big red eyes.
On another night I was walking home from my friends house when I seen something coming out of the creek. It was a big glowing ball of light and it was right in front of me so I ran. Everybody around here knows about this holler and the don’t come up here at night unless they have to.
By Thomasia, Copyright 2009 HillbillyCrackpot.com
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