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LOG CABIN KING

  A Story of Faith in the Appalachian Mountains

  By Mary Rice Somerville

  Originally published by Penny Pincher Press (1986)

  Copyright Mary Rice Somerville 1986, 2011

  ISBN 978-1-61061-478-8

  Chapter 1

  I was out behind the house, trying to tack feed sacks up around my rabbit cages. That’s how my Tim had always done when the November winds began to get serious. The buck’s wild-brown coat was thick, but he had no nesting box and his cage was on the open side. I would give my three does their windbreaks just for good measure.

  I was hunting around for the spilled tacks when I first saw the boy. Or maybe he was a man. Seeing someone up past my house was as rare as seeing a fur-lined frog. I’m at the head of the hollow, and no one comes by my place unless he is lost or hunting deer.

  This fellow didn’t look lost. He seemed to be inspecting. He was up in the property next to mine. He’d stand by the creek and look up the hillside; then he would sort of pace off a few yards, step back, size up the trees, pace to this side and that side and then back to the creek.

  He was blonde and pink-cheeked and would make a big man when he filled out. He had on an army jacket of some sort. He would reach in his pocket and take out something once in a while—looked like a notebook.

  I hope you won’t think I was rude to stand there staring at him. Since Tim’s been gone, I get so lonely up here that I stand and stare at anything moving-chipmunks, field mice, hawks, fishing worms and all.

  I slipped in the back door and checked around the kitchen for bait. Yep, there were a few chocolate cookies left since shopping day and still a little breakfast coffee in the pot. "Better just warm it up a bit, in case," I said to myself as I shoved the old pot up close to the grate.

  I went back to my rabbits and made as much noise as I could, finishing up Flopsey and starting in on Mopsey. Sure enough, he looked my way, then ducked his head and dove for that notebook again. "A shy one, huh? Good thing I don’t have a shy bone in me." I put my tacks in my apron pocket, laid the hammer on the old peach tree stump, and wandered out that way.

  "Good morning to you, young man," I blustered. "It’s a real treat to have another person way up here. I’m warming my breakfast coffee. Maybe you’d be kind enough to visit me a few minutes when you’ve finished your business. I’d be happy to hear you talk."

  He looked down at his shoes and shuffled his feet, but that old lady was still standing there, smiling, when he looked up. If he hadn’t been so tongue-tied, I’m sure he would have thought up some excuse, but all he could say was "Yes, ma’am."

  I turned toward the house to leave him to his business, but he followed me like a pup. "What a good catch...and this early in the day." I joked to myself. "Well, what is this boy doing up here, anyway? It really is my business to find out." I lied to myself.

  He looked too well-mannered or too suspicious to want to come in, but I coaxed him along.

  "I have some good hot coals in the grate and you can warm your hands while I get the cups." I talked about the dry spell and the forest fires while I got him a chair up close to the hearth. "Do you take cream?" Yes, he wanted some canned milk in his coffee. I brought the cookies and hoped they weren’t too stale.

  "You fixing to move in?" I laughed, praying for information.

  "Yes’m."

  "You are?"

  "Hope so."

  "Where?"

  "Up there."

  I might be old and slow, or else he was teasing me, or else...."You’ve got me buffaloed, boy. What do you aim to do?" (I noticed that he always used as few words as possible. I admired that.)

  "My Dad owns that piece of property up there. He told me I could build on it."

  "Is your Dad Old Man Harless from over in town?"

  "Yes ma’am."

  "It’s been years since he’s been over in these parts. How’s he feeling?"

  "He’s fine."

  "See that mine hole over yonder across the creek? Last time I saw him; he drove up here in a big truck and told the men he wouldn’t need them anymore. That was the year Tim started in on rabbits. I’m still raising a few. They taste good if you never look them in the eyes while you’re raising them."

  "ls that all you had, ma’am?"

  "Well, we got along better after he got his Social Security," I said. "We’ve got two acres here. You’ll see how my Tim made every inch count. He was the first to try to raise grapes on the side of the hill around here. Well, goodness, you don’t want to hear me rattle on. What’s on your mind?"

  "Did your husband build this house?"

  "Yes. You might not like a log house, but every piece of it is dear to me."

  "I want to build a log house."

  "You do? Up there?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, son, you’ve picked the right time of year to begin."

  "I have?"

  "Sure. Get the logs down and curing while the weather is cold. But, I’ll hush. No man wants to get house-building advice from a woman. But, well, if you’ll pardon me for being so nosy, who is going to do the work for you?"

  "I am."

  "Alone?"

  "As far as I know."

  "Well, son...can’t your Dad have it built for you?"

  "I don’t want his help. We don’t get along very well since I got back from service. I’m needing something to do while I get my head straight."

  "Oh...well...a log house will give you plenty to do, that’s for sure." I peered at him over my glasses. His head didn’t look crooked to me. ‘

  "Do you know someone or some book that could tell me how to go at it? My Dad has had lots of logs cut, but he’s never built with them."

  "Son, you can get enough advice in one day to sink a battleship, and all of it will disagree. You can get books, and no two will say the same. Now, old Harley Edwards down the road here is retired and full of advice, but he’s living in the log house he built forty years ago. If you like the house and want yours to turn out that way, he can sure tell you how to do it."

  "That makes sense. Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "Why, no. I’ll hunt for an ashtray."

  As he lit his cigarette, he seemed to forget that I was a stranger. He shook his head and frowned. "I sure do hate these things. I can’t quit them and I can’t stand to ask my Dad to buy them."

  I leaned back and laughed. "Bet you don’t smoke as bad as I used to. Look at those two dents in my fingers still."

  "I know I could stop if I used my willpower, but I’m still pretty nervous from being overseas."

  "Well, when it comes to willpower, I’m always fresh out!"

  "But you don’t smoke?"

  "Wasn’t willpower, you can bet your booties. I had to find something with more spunk to it than that."

  "Well, how did you quit?"

  "It’s a good story. If you ever ask me again, I’ll know you are serious. Lots of people don’t really want to know."

  "Do you still crave them?"

  "Can’t stand them. They make me sick as a dog. Besides, I’ve got a lot of other things on my mind now."

  He looked at me in wonder and then searched around in his pocket for his notebook and pencil. "What did you say that man’s name is again?"

  "Oh, old Harley? His last name is Edwards. He’s the kind who knows everything. He’d love to visit with you."

  "Next time," he figured, and with that my new young friend made for the door, muttered a thank-you for the coffee and took off.

  Chapter 2

  I’m so used to the quiet up here that I nearly fell apart when I heard the knock on my door. My heart was pounding wh
en I stuck my head out to see who could be coming to see me. My boy was standing there, embarrassed, tongue-tied, and scrubbing his feet on my old throw rug.

  "Why, good morning, son. How’s everything with you? How did you get here? I didn’t see a car come up. Come on in and tell me what you are planning to do today. You can leave your stuff on the porch. No harm will come to it. Come on out in the kitchen and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee. It’s warm in there."

  He obeyed without saying a word.

  "You’re mighty quiet for a young’un, but then, how can you talk when an old lady is running her mouth all the time?"

  I fixed two cups and sat down to concentrate on listening.

  "Well, I, uh, want to ask you to show me where Mr. Edwards lives. I’ve brought my axe—my Dad’s axe, that is—and some lunch. Well, uh, Mrs...."

  "You can just call me Sister Dicey. Everybody else does. Say, son, what is your name?"

  "Ira." He was wrestling with a filmy cigarette paper, trying to roll up a wad of Prince Albert in it. His hands were big—not only heavy and squared like Tim’s, but long-fingered, too.

  "Well, Ira, finish your coffee and I’ll go over there with you. Yes, sir, Harley will be glad to help you, but of course, you’ll have to pay."

  He looked up, startled. "Oh, will I? I don’t have any money."

  "Oh, I don’t mean in money. But you will pay dearly for having to listen to him talk about mules and moonshine and horse-trading and all his hobo tales. It will be worth it. He’ll really enjoy helping you."

  Ira gulped down the last of his coffee, muttered thanks, and headed for the door. I put on the wool shirt Tim always wore in the woods and I drew a long happy sigh. How long had it been since I’d had someone around the house to do for! I loved this boy. He probably didn’t know which end of an axe to hold, but I wished him a fine log house and a long and happy life.

  It was a beautiful, crisp day. The groundhogs were making coffee all over the hills. That’s what we always say when we see the mist rising in little patches. Since Ira was so quiet, I chatted along: "You’ll like Harley. His mother is a full-blooded Cherokee. Lives down in North Carolina. She’s 91 years old. Harley had to work in the cotton mill when he was a boy. He’s a real union man now. When he first came up this way he worked in the mines, played baseball, doctored ponies, farmed. He’s got a soft heart and a hard mouth. He can swear at a baby, grinning at it the whole time! He gets a big kick out of being around young people."

  Ira listened politely, but I saw that he was studying the different kinds of trees, all bare now, and noticing how my neighbors had fenced in their places with poles out of the woods. One has a pigpen made of old bed springs. It works mighty well, too.

  Harley lives just a few houses down. As we got near, we could see his old grizzled mule sticking his head out of the tiny barn. I have seen the mule pull a plow a few times, but I always think of him as Harley’s big old dog—just a pet.

  Harley’s sweet wife, Marie, answered the door, smiling and welcoming us to the cozy kitchen. He was sitting at the kitchen table, grinning, telling jokes, making us feel at ease.

  "Who’ve you got with you, Dicey?" he asked.

  "Why this is the Boss’s boy, Harley."

  "What boss?"

  "Old Man Harless."

  "You’re kidding me! Well, have a seat, son."

  "He wants to build a log house, Harley, and needs some good advice."

  "You’re wanting to build a log house! Now, why in the world would you want to do that?"

  Ira looked at him a minute, then at me a minute, then he said candidly, "I want to get married and have a place of my own."

  Old Harley slapped his knee and rocked back in his chair, laughing. "Well, buddy, you’re a plain one, aren’t you? But what do you mean, build a log house of your own? Don’t you know that this day and time you’re supposed to live off your old man or go on welfare? It’s out of style for anyone to sweat on building them a house! Why don’t you get someone else to do everything for you?" He laughed some more and pulled out a cigarette.

  Ira grinned a little as he caught on to the joking and was mighty grateful when Harley offered him one of the cigarettes.

  "Why, I used to work for your Dad. Boy, he was a good boss, too. He’d let us smoke right in the mines. I nearly blew up all my friends one day. Thought I’d never get over that scare. You say you like a log house. Do you like this log house? I’ll just give it to you. I’ll get me a tent and move up on your property. This place is getting too crowded for me here. I have to wake up every morning to those old dumb roosters next door."

  While Harley was talking he began hunting around for his old jacket, and was showing us out the door. He showed us around the outside of his house, pointing out the type of notches he had used for his logs and how he had built his cellar first. Then we went back up the road to Ira’s site.

  There was already a clearing where the house was to stand. The men had parked there at the end of the road in the days when the mine was running. We put our cow up there to graze after the shutdown. The spot would be handy—near the creek, but always above flood danger; near the road, but no traffic passing. It was almost level and had plenty of sunlight. There could be a cellar up on the bank of the hill, someday, if he didn’t want to make one now. Up in the holler, by the creek, the air is always damp and cool, but we mountain folk are tough and we like to hole up in our hollows. We feel safe up in there.

  I was trying hard to keep quiet while Harley went into the instructions. (Just between you and me, I could have told that boy everything he needed to know, but these men, like all men, want no advice from a female!)

  "Now, son, since you don’t have any help, you should go right up the hill there behind your house site. Look up there. See those poplars? Oh...well, see those smooth straight trees, the ones that don’t have any limbs ‘til way up? See, like power poles? Well, those are your poplars. Chop a notch out on the lower side, then finish chopping on the upper side and it will fall downhill. I’ll hunt up a cant hook so you can get them turned and moving. Aim the fall a little to one side so you can skid the log past the brush out of the top of the tree."

  I could tell that Ira hardly knew what Harley was talking about, but he was trying to take it all in.

  Harley took the axe and climbed up the hill to a nice tall tree and tried to demonstrate his point. That was the dullest axe in this country! Looked like someone had been digging potatoes with it.

  "Son, you got a file?" asked Harley.

  "No, sir."

  "Have you got one, Dicey?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, I guess the first and best advice to give you son, is how to sharpen your tools. Can’t go far without that."

  We came on to the house and while I was getting the file, I heard Harley laughing at the way Ira was trying to roll a cigarette. He was into one of his stories in a minute.

  He said, "Charlie would come to my house while he was drinking. He was so drunk that he couldn’t roll his smokes. He would beg me to roll him one, but I would tease him and act like I didn’t know how. Then he would take the paper and the Prince Albert and roll one up as pretty as ever and try to show me how. Haw! Hawl"

  When Harley saw that my file had some life in it, he settled down to teach Ira how to hold the axe and remove the old rust and nicks in the edge. His way was to scrape the metal away from the sharp edge, but my Tim had always drawn the file toward the sharp edge. (Both ways seemed to get the job done.)

  He talked all the time, telling about different sorts of notches, various house designs, timbers used in other parts of the country, and about the way his old Cherokee mother could burn them down! "Why she would throw her bedding and kettles on the sled and take off, while that old roach-ridden cabin burned down behind her."

  By the time he finished telling Ira about the ghost lady that used to bang their doors every night and finally left her
old black shawl and gold-rimmed glasses in the flour box up in the attic, the axe was as sharp as it ever would be.

  "Listen boy, while you’re getting your poplars, you should get out a load of walnut timber for some cash. You are going to need some money for nails and stuff."

  "Thank you, Harley. I hadn’t thought of any way to earn anything."

  "How old are you now, son?" asked Harley.

  "I’ll be twenty-one next month."

  "Why don’t you work for your Dad?"

  "Well, I hate strip-mining and I’m ashamed of him being in that kind of work: and then, truth is, I’m scared to death of underground work. I think I began to be scared over in Afghanistan."

  "Do your folks talk with you much?" Harley asked.

  "My little sister was really glad to have me home, but Mom acts like I’m in the way, which I am, and Dad is ashamed of me because I don’t want to work in the mines. He hardly talks to me."

  "All men like for their sons to join them in their work," Harley commented.

  "I would really like to be close to him," said Ira. "It’s a big mess."

  Harley gave him another cigarette and clapped him on the shoulder. As they went out the back way, I could hear Harley teasing him, "...and don’t forget, a boy as big and strong as you are is supposed to be on welfare anyway!"

  I looked out of the window later, just in time to see a poplar fall...not downhill, the way it should have, but sideways. Oh well....

  Chapter 3

  He had fourteen logs down at the clearing with their narrow strips of bark pulled on both sides. That is the way my Tim did it. The logs would firm up and the bark could shrink during the cold months. I was so proud of him.

  It was hard to imagine the tension in the modern brick home across the mountain where he lived. There must be a lot of those beautiful homes that hide a lot of hell going on inside. I’m glad I never had to look in on it, and it’s good that Ira says as little as possible about it. I must love his parents because I am commanded to, but I do wonder why they can’t appreciate Ira. He’s a good boy—just scared.

  But, my, what a nervous wreck he was when he came down the steep path that day! He had several bundles which he dropped in the clearing, and then he came right over to my house.

  I knew not to expect a visit from him unless he actually needed something. He was manly and tended to his own things as much as he could.

  When he knocked, I tried to guess what the trouble was. His face looked like Bad News. I tried to be cheerful.