The Mountain

From W. Scott Bowlin

 

Our water came from a small creek that ran down the mountain from Papa's pond, although it originated higher up in the top of the mountain where it was actually a spring that bubbled out of a large crack in the rocky face of the mountain. We had hiked to that spring on numerous occasions, and as best I can remember it was between one and two miles up into the mountains, as we had to first walk down the holler and then head up by Walter's cemetery, following some old coal mining roads until they became nothing more than what was probably a mule path.

The water capturing process was simple. My father would lead us all down to the creek carrying one gallon syrup jugs our mother had gotten from Howard Johnson's where she worked. He would then begin filling the jugs with a metal dipper from the creek. My sister and I were charged with carrying the filled jugs back to the house, one in each hand, and returning with two empty jugs apiece. My mother would assist in the filling until there were only eight jugs left and then we would all return to the house carrying two gallons of water each. There were about twenty-five jugs in all, and the distance from the creek to the house was approximately 150 yards. We did this once a week from the time I was three until we left Kentucky in 1977.

On the occasions that it rained, a whole new system went into action. A large twenty-five gallon trashcan was placed under the eaves of the house and allowed to fill up with water. We then drug it into the house where my Father would pour it through a sheet into another trashcan, filtering out all the sediment from the roof. After a couple of strainings, my sister and I were then trusted with the dipper to fill whatever empty jugs had accumulated throughout the week. Of course, the two trashcans were set aside for the next rain, as this was their only function.

I was always excited about the rain, because after the water was complete my sister and I could run out and play in that cool mountain rain, which to people who had never seen a shower, or running water for that matter, it must have really been a novel indeed. Perhaps in our childhood minds we pretended to be splashing about under the Cumberland Falls, or maybe it was just a joy to be in the cleansing rain. Whatever it was, it was about the best fun we ever had. And of course after the rain we could splash about in the mud puddles, which somehow always seemed to be chock full of crawdads. Later in life I would associate mud puddles with little puppies, but for different reasons. At that time period it was just good to be alive. The rain was cool and cleansing, the strawberries were wild and ripe, and there were blackberries and apples for the picking.

Nothing can compare to a fresh picked apple eaten in that cool Kentucky rain. Right after it quit raining, the whole world would cautiously sniff about to see if it was safe to come back out. The rain frogs would slowly start their melody, the katydids would begin their whirring, and a bobwhite would call off in the distance. The raindrops would drip from every leaf and the corners of the house, splashing in the puddles and on the rocks to give the whole ensemble the accompanying rhythm that every good orchestra needs.
And the fresh smell! Nothing could possibly smell as good as the cool, damp air of a mountain that has just been watered from Heaven. The air was pure and clean, with maybe a hint of sassafras, or perhaps a tinge of the wild onion that my sister's feet had just run across. And then, out come the mocking birds to welcome the sun as he pokes his head back over the mountain and smiles satisfactorily on the whole thing.

We spent many of our days down at that creek, my sister, my Uncle John, and myself. We would splash in it, go exploring, or build a dam out of the river rocks to form a pool deep enough to swim in. That crystal clear water harbored minnows, crawdads, and other sorts of life. We would sit on the bank and catch whatever we could, or make shapes out of the clay we dug. Perhaps we would make a grapevine swing to cross the creek with.

 

Often we would just sit there and talk about nothing. Uncle John was a self-proclaimed expert on everything. He would smoke one of the Camels he had pinched from my father and enlighten Tammy and myself with things we never dreamed. It was from John that I learned a real camel could go years without drinking, and then when he finally did drink he could swallow up a whole pond of water and store it in his hump.

One night we were at my Papa's house, upstairs in John's room. He had a back door that exited out at ground level, as the house was carved into a mountain. John confessed to sneak out that door every night and meet with a friend of his who lived over on the next mountain, and they would go prowling around. I honestly could not figure what they would find to do; there were no other houses within a mile or so.

Anyway, on this particular night, all the adults were down stairs smoking corncob pipes (including my mom and Velma), and we were upstairs watching John. He was attempting to summon the spirit of Hank Williams, who was greatly revered in that area. We were sitting on the bed, and the kerosene lantern was throwing shadows about the room in an uneasy pattern. That back door was open, and the whippoorwills and screech owls were trying desperately to outdo each other. There was a steady wind wailing across the mountain, and right when you thought things couldn't get any worse, the light almost completely died.

I mean it leaned right over and winked dark, before it slowly raised its head and lit the room back up. Of course, John knew right away what happened. Obviously, Hank Williams was in the room!

Things can get pretty creepy in the mountains. At night it gets so dark that you can feel the blackness pushing down on you. All kinds of nighttime creatures make a ruckus. Perhaps the absolute scariest would have to be the screech owl. On the walk up to Papa's house, we had a large garden spot plowed up. In the middle we had your customary scarecrow. A screech owl had decided he wasn't scared of it, and set up his nightly vigil on the shoulders of this lonesome fellow.

 

Now that scarecrow tirelessly watched over our garden, so that no less than nine or ten Bowlins would have plenty of fresh vegetables for cooking and canning. It seems a shame that that screech owl would sit on his shoulder and deliver such a blow to our scarecrow's self esteem. Nonetheless, he continued to guard our crops faithfully through all kind of weather.

The worst part was, every night after dinner we would walk around to Papa's house. Every night, in that pitch-black night, that screech owl would be waiting. Tammy and I would walk slower and slower, bug eyed and hugging tightly. Without fail, we would get halfway past that scarecrow, and Old Mr. Owl would let loose. That sound would burn the hair right off your feet. We would scream and run the rest of the way, the gravel digging in our bare feet the whole time.

 

Published U.S. Legacies Jan 2003