Do Angels Have Big Ears?: An Uplifting Tale for Anyone Who Ever Worndred If God Is Really Listening

By B. J. Jones

The Quabalaka Mountain Range is bounded on one side by the mighty Quabalaka River ( Cherokee for "big fish") and on the other by mountains so high that the early settlers, who looked up and saw them disappear into the clouds proclaimed the area to be the "very foot of heaven."
This are the funny, happy, tragic and sometimes poignant tales of those who lived and died in Sweetgum County.
A myriad of lovable characters who, whether they deserved it or not, were blessed by an angel--a four-legged one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781483511146

Book preview

forevermore.

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Chapter 1

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It might have been in keeping in the late 1700’s to name a British stronghold in the new world, Fort Beula after the promised land described in the scriptures but by the mid 1930’s, Fort Beula, a town in the Quabalaka Mountain Range, with sheer, straight up mountains that stick through the clouds on it’s high side… a vast, oozing, full-of-critters swamp on it’s low side…and non stop, UN-predictable weather and bad luck on both ends, was anything but promising. Much less, My heaven, my home forever more.

In fact, it became the most UN-inspired, un-talked about town that ever scarred the northern most edge of Beula County, the grunt side as most folks referred to it. It was a town where nobody came in and nobody went out and those who were there never did much of anything. Nothing ever happened in Fort Beula and when nothing ever happens, Fort Beula-ites have nothing to talk about and when Fort Beula-ites have nothing to talk about, they just don’t talk…they grunt.

The fact that there was only one two-lane blacktop and one railroad tunnel going in and out didn’t help much at all and Fort Beula’s tourist traffic was down to nothing. Time was about to race right on by and Sweet Beaula Land was well on it’s way to becoming a Quabalaka ghost Town.

Then something called WWII came along and two things happened that would not only pump new life into this tiny town, but give it but give it something to grunt about while it was at it. Fort Beula didn’t know it yet, but it was about to become the newest, old historic spot in the county .

First, the United States government took note of the unique topography of the area and decided that the foothills, the mountains above them and the swampland with it’s quagmire, muck and quicksand, would be the perfect place to train men to fight under extreme conditions and prepare them for war.

An advance party of high brass from the Department of Engineers and a token number of tanks, canons and heavy equipment came in by rail and determined that the area resembled the swampy quagmire in and around Burma an throughout the islands of the South Pacific and in 1941, a decision was made to restore the old fort and enlarge it to accommodate new officers quarters, drill fields, mess halls, barracks and the like. At the same time, they started work on another road in and another tunnel through Big Elk mountain for a second railroad track. They worked night and day and when they were near finished, the decision was made to relocate the Fourth Armored Division.

Overnight, this sleepy little do-nothing area transformed itself into a teeming, strategic training ground that would take the eager, indestructible young men of our country and turn them into fighting machines. By mid January, shipments of new recruits from all over the state started to arrive. The population of Fort Beula was about to grow by the thousands.

The second and simultaneous, most important thing that happened at that time may not seem as earth shaking as the first, but it will emerge as the first in a chain of events that will convert Fort Beula and The Qua-balaka mountain Range into household words.

All this began when a young, seventeen year old redheaded spitfire by the name of Mary Salt came in one night and announced to her daddy, Ely Salt, that she fell in love and was going to have a baby.

Now, Ely Salt was anything but a prude. As a matter of fact, Ely Salt is probably the best known and most beloved bootlegger in the entire state. He is the son and grandson of three generations of bootlegging pioneers and for over a hundred years, the premier white lightening coming out of the Quabalakas carried the name SALT. His liquor was famous and he was famous and ordinarily, Mary’s announcement would have been good news except for the fact that his daughter was under age, unmarried and was about to make him, Ely Salt, the grandpappy of a mountain flower. To his pious brethern and customers living throughout this particular part of the bible belt, this would be the disgrace of all disgraces and he knew right then and there that he needed to know who the daddy was so he could, one way or another, get them married before the news got out. Mary could see Ely’s face turning red and sat down on his lap, looked up with her big green eyes and ran her fingers through his hair. Six years ago, when she lost her mother to the pox, she had become her daddy’s little love bug. She was all he had and she was used to being pampered and coddled. He would forgive her for anything if she asked him just right. Tonight was one of those times and she knew he would give her his daddy-smile anytime now.

Tonight, however, was different. Tonight when Ely looked down at his baby, she looked tired and angry and insincere and she was arrogantly popping her chewing gum so loud he could hardly hear her speak and there was the smell of alcohol on her breath. His anger started rising and finally got the best of him.

Who’s the daddy? Demanded Ely.

You don’t know him, daddy. Said Mary, And even if you did, he won’t be around when the baby’s born. You would like him though. He’s…

Who’s the DADDY?? Demanded Ely, again. If it’s going to be my grand baby, I got a right to know! Who is he?

Mary was taken back. His eyes were scowling at her. Never, had he ever talked to her in that tone of voice. She didn’t understand and usually when Mary Salt didn’t understand something, she got angry. This time was no exception and she leaped up and stumbled toward her bedroom.

Good luck, daddy! If this is the way you are going to act, you don’t deserve to know and as far as I’m concerned, She screamed,,"you will never know his name! Not ever!" Her words went through Ely like a hot poker.

It was no time at all before the news was all over town. Who was the daddy? became the question that kept the whole town buzzing. There were lots of guesses. Some said they were sure it was that mason-jar salesman that came through town about four months ago. The timing was right and he sure left in a hurry when the news got out. Others were convinced that it was one of those gypsy drillers working on the railroad tunnel last year. The most guesses, however, had to do with all those soldier boys coming in and shipping out every week.

Another two months went by and the time was getting close. Ely and Mary were hardly speaking at all and Ely was as far away from getting an answer about daddy as he had ever been. Secretly, however, he was all atwitter and excited as any new grandpappy would be at a time like this but with the way things stood, he had nobody to be excited with.

Finally, the big day came. Without even asking Mary, Ely arranged for an old Cherokee Indian woman named Yellow Sky to come over and help with the birth. After about five hours of moaning, chanting and screaming, Miss Mary Salt, daughter of Ely Salt, delivered a nine pound, two ounce handsome baby boy to this far corner of the world.

When the time was right, Ely was invited in to see the baby. Mary didn’t notice and was dramatically holding the baby up like a trophy. "Welcome to the world, John Edgar Salt. We’ve been waiting for you." Then she noticed Ely peering around the door frame. She put the baby down and invited him to come in.

"Who’s John Edgar?" Asked Ely.

Overwhelmed as she was, Mary absentmindedly admitted that she sorta named him after his daddy.

Ely’s mind started racing. He had seen many a boy come and go since Mary turned sixteen. Without thinking, he jumped up quick-like and screamed in his loudest voice, "Which one of them boys was John Edgar? Did I ever meet him? Was he the one with red hair? I bet he was. He was the one that did this to you? He was getting out of control again. I’ll tell you this, young lady, if I ever get my hands on him, I will…."

Stop it, Poppa! Stop carrying on so. Your going to make this little baby think that his grandpa is an old grey-haired grump! Come on around here where he can get a look at you…and maybe smile a little? Who knows… She said, as she turned over on her side and propped up on her elbow and gave Ely another dose of her sultry green eyes. You’re gonna be the closest thing to a daddy he’s gonna have for…well… ‘till the war gets over anyway.

Oh! So he was one of those soldier boys!

Now, P0ppa, I didn’t say that….

You didn’t have to say it! I just hope he shows them Nazi sons of Satan more backbone than he showed you.

Poppa! Screamed Mary. He was shipped out the day after…. the day after we…

After you what? Ely said with vengeance in his voice.

After we… got married.

Married? Ely asked, lowering his voice.

"Yes, Poppa. Well…sorta anyway. She started to giggle. We did it out to Sailor Bob’s Tattoo Parlor," just before he shipped out. We were in love, poppa, and together we were like two blue birds of happiness and Sailor Bob is such a good artist and he’s sorta… holy too. So we asked him to marry us and he did. With that, she sat up in bed and pulled her long, red hair to one side. There, on the back of her neck was a small tattoo of two blue birds kissing with a big red heart rising up above them. Written below the heart were the words Mary and John, Married May 28,1942. Isn’t it pretty, Poppa? John has one just like it.

You said he was… holy?asked Ely.

"Yes, Poppa. After he finished his masterpiece, he looked at it and said real serious like, ‘When two birds are put together by Sailor Bob, ain’t no man can put ‘em asunder.’

Blasphemy! Ely yelled and the baby started crying.

Pick him up, Poppa. He’s more than likely done wet his pants and I’m plum tuckered out. Ely picked him up and when he did little John Edgar smiled and scrunched up his nose at the same time, just like Mary always did when she was little. It was like he was saying See, Grandpa… here’s me too!

That started a bond between grandfather and grandson that would shape both their lives for ever.

The folks in town eventually lost interest in the whole subject and wrote off little John Edgar Salt as just another mountain flower. It happens.

Unfortunately, Mary went the other way. Instead of settling down to be a good mother, she became wilder and wilder. Night after night, loud cars would drop her off drunk and roar out of the neighborhood honking their horns and waking up the whole street. It was like she was trying to drink and party herself out of the shame she had caused. She practically lived out at the Fort, kissing the boys shipping out, and flirting with the ones coming in. One night, when a bunch of them pulled up outside in an army jeep and started honking the horn, Ely had all he could take. He headed for the door with his shotgun. Mary grabbed his arm, spun him around and slapped him. Ely stopped in his tracks. He was stunned. They had never fought before. He looked into her angry eyes. You are not a woman and you, for sure, are not a mother and I am not going to let this little boy, my grandson, grow up and see whatever you turn out to be. I love him too much and he deserves better With that, he slammed his fist down on the old heart-pine table so hard it broke in two.

Mary looked surprised and confused. She stared at the table in two pieces. Then she looked deep into her father’s teary blue eyes. She had seen that look only once before, when she was just a litle girl. It was when her mother died. For just a split second, she flashed back, to that night, hugging his neck and telling him that she was there and that everything would be okay.

Then she came back to the present and screamed. No!, No more! and leaped to her feet, pushing Ely backwards and headed for the door. When she reached for the knob, however, she stopped and looked off in the distance, and then slowly back to Ely. It was like she had finally made a decision. In a low monotone voice, she said slowly and distinctively, "If you love that boy so much, poppa, you raise him and when he is old enough to possibly understand, tell him that his mother said she was sorry, but she had to go" Then, smiling at the curse words and cat-calls coming up from the street, she left. The old screen door thudded softly behind her putting a period on their life together. Ely knew that those were the last words he would ever hear from his beautiful, little girl.

Ely stopped by the county courthouse soon after and was surprised to discover that the old Indian woman Yellow Sky had filed a birth certificate in the name of John Edgar Salt. He ordered a duplicate and watched with pride as the clerk penned in his name as guardian and smiled. It had only been a few weeks but he and the baby had become inseparable. Ely loved being Grandpa more than life itself. When little John Edgar got big enough to hold on to the wagon seat and not fall off, Ely started taking him along on his moonshine delivery trips. By the time he was three, little John Edgar Salt and his Grampy were the two best known and best loved bootleggers in all the Quabalaka mountains.

The next four years passed and the war was over. The world and the little town of Fort Beula slowly got themselves back to normal. All were present and accounted for except Mary Salt. She was never spoken of.

* Later on in the war, the courthouse posted a new list of casualties. A sergeant John Edgar Muskheimer of the United States 3rd Armored Division was listed killed in action in Lucerne, Italy January 24, 1943. He was a native of the Quabalaka Mountain Range and the only son of J.L.Muskheimer who resides in the town of Sweetgum.

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Chapter 2

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John Edgar and Grampy’s home was a great, dirt-floored log cabin right down on the banks of the mighty Rock River. To look at it, it was a picture postcard image of a pioneer home that had been created out of the land. It sported a large, screened-in porch that wrapped around the entire front of the house and ran clear back to the kitchen. Large ferns and bird houses hung between every post and the music of nature was everywhere. It was a sturdily built home and on close inspection, you could see that every beam carried the hand hewn marks of at least three of the generations who had lived there. A rambling, shake shingle roof spread over it all and then like a soft water-color painting, seemed to blend in and became part of the mountain behind it.

The scene was partially blocked off from the main road by four big sycamores that framed it all and let any passer-by know that this was a home created out of love. What the passer-by could not see was a way of life that was carefully concealed behind a sandstone rock formation jutting up behind the main house and blocking the view of a well worn path leading into the hills and on up to Momma’s House. That’s where Ely’s daddy, Jessie Rockwell Salt, ( I know, he was known as Rock Salt ) hand made one of the most efficient and picturesque copper stills that ever graced the land of our fathers. It was there, throughout many years that Rock cooked his sour mash and distilled his own corn-liquor recipe into the smoothest white lightening a body ever hoo-rawed over. It was neatly tucked back up under a rock overhang about forty yards from the back of the house and hidden by a grove of mountain laurels that had gotten quite used to the smell of new-perkin’ dew. He piped all the water he needed up from the river powered by a small water wheel tucked under a waterfall. When Ely came along, it was only natural and the law of the land that he would carry on his father’s art…and he did.

Off to the left and painted bright red, with white trim and a shiny black tin roof ( mostly because he wanted people to look at it and not his still, ) was a barn most big as the house with a small corral around it. It was in this barn that Ely kept, not counting John Edgar of course, his greatest loves. Two ungainly critters that, in time, would play a part in the life of Ely Salt and the town of Fort Beula and change them forever.

First was a donkey named Whitey (because he was all white from head to hoof ) and second, a big brown mare named Maybelle with long eyelashes and two big mournful brown eyes that let you know that she was ever bit a lady. Ely and John Edgar would unwrap a Moonpie, pop the lid on an RC, sit on the split ratl fence and end their day just watching them.

Someday, Grandpa Ely bragged, we going to have us a pretty little ole mule baby to raise up as our own.

To John, that would be the most exciting thing that could ever happen in his life. Their own little mule baby. It was the first thing he thought of when he woke up in the morning, and the last vision he had before he went to sleep at night. Sometimes, he would spend hours out in the barn rubbing the two animals down with an old currycomb and talking to ‘em like people about what they thought about the whole idea.

Think about it Maybelle, he would say, you ‘n Whitey could have your own baby mule and we would raise him up to be the strongest mule ever born in this whole county. Then he would stop and think. "That is, if it’s a him mule. If it’s ain’t and it’s a her mule, he smiled his big smile, we’ll just have to raise her up to be the prettiest lady mule this county ever seen."

When he hit his teens, John was strikingly handsome. He had his mother’s bright red hair, a touch of her temper and the tall, muscular body of his daddy (whoever that was). There was an aura about him that drew folks like magnets. The ladies all said it was the twinkle in those big green eyes and the way he wrinkled up his nose every time he smiled. Ely would sometimes look at him, shake his head and say to himself, I reckon I will never lose your momma altogether as long as you sport that wrinkled-up nose of yours.

Men seemed to be drawn to him also. They liked the respect he showed to others along with the confidence he seemed to have in himself. All in all, he was a happy, contagious young man who was excited with life no matter what it handed him back. It would be an almighty challenge to meet Little John Salt for the first time and not be impressed.

The Salt home sat just up the Rock from Hebrides Landing, where old man Hebride ran a hand pulled ferry that takes folks, animals and anything else a body could think of across the mighty Rock River which separated Beula County from Sweetgum County. John loved to hang around and watch all the people and wagons and horses float across on the big raft. When he reached fourteen years tall, Mr. Hebride offered him a job to run it for him. He said he would pay eighty five cents a day. John was excited.

At first, Ely didn’t like the idea and said no. He said he needed him to help with the deliveries. But then, just like his momma did, John had a way with his Grandpa and it wasn’t long before he convinced him that it just might be real good for his liquor business.

You see, Grandpa, I’ll be meeting lots of people floatin’ cross that ole river out in the open sun and it just might be that some of ‘em gets a tad thirsty on the way over and… since we’re just a step or two down the road… he smiled, who knows? Ely spit, thought for a minute and said yes.

He started the next week and loved it from day one. Not only was he building big muscles from all the rope tugging all day but took real pleasure in talking to all the people going back and forth.

One morning in early spring, after the ice had broken upstream, a couple of young strangers in a buggy signaled John with the big bell that folks used when the ferry was on the other side. They met John as he was landing and asked for a ride back across. John Edgar was trying to get a knot out of a length of rope and gave them a nod without really looking up, lowered the gate on the Sweetgum end of the raft and welcomed them aboard. While the young man stranger was trying to convince his horse to go aboard such an unlikely craft, the girl stranger yelled to John.

Excuse me sir she inquired, Is this boat safe? I mean, with the water running so fast and those big chunks of ice ‘n everything, will it hold up when we all get on?

John looked up, then down and then up again. Two big brown eyes were squinting out from under a curl of hair and it felt to John like they were staring straight into the depth of his soul, and before he had time to recover, her mouth turned up playfully and formed two dimples and a smile so warm he had to look away. When he dared look up again, he saw the complete face of an angel dramatically framed in dark, raven-like hair that hung down to her waist like silk.

BAM! It felt like someone kicked him right in the chest and all the blood in his body rushed straight to his tongue and rendered him flat out speechless. She was the most beautiful thing John Salt had ever seen and he was, without a doubt, dog down and forever more, smitten.

No, sir…I mean, yes m’am…I mean there is no danger. he babbled. Then he caught hold of himself.

My name is John Edgar Salt, and I think you are…well, what I mean is… oh heck miss, I would…

Yes? She asked, starting to tease you would what?

What I’m trying to say is… I could never ever let anything happen to you, m’am Then he turned as red as his bandanna.

Laughter came from behind the nervous horse and the pleasant face of a brassy young man popped up over the saddle.

That’s good to know, sir. My name is Cecil and speaking for Josie, my sister, I’m sure she feels a lot better now…that is, after such a heroic proclamation.

"Your sister!" Said John Edgar. "I thought…

I think I know what you thought, sir the stranger said smiling.

Well, sir chuckled John Edgar, regaining his speech, your sister don’t know it yet, but I’ve done sworn a silent oath on my life, to get her across in one piece and I would reckon that if you and your horse stood real close, you’d more than likely make it too.

They all laughed and carried on all across the river. As they got off, Cecil wanted to know if John worked every day or could he join them for lunch over at the tavern sometime? John said he could meet them any time, and did.

From that day forward, the three of them became the best of friends. As the months went by, the three raft-ca-teers, as they called themselves were always together, laughing, talking and poking good fun at each other. Their friendship was a good one, especially for John.

Cecil and Josie were the children of Reverend William Bledsoe, better known as Big Reverend B, a horseback preacher who traveled throughout the mountains preaching the gospel to whomever would listen. Cecil admired what his daddy did, and hoped that as soon as he could get through primary school, he could go away to the seminary and follow in his fathers footsteps. This was his dream.

Josie loved animals. Any kind of animal. She hoped that someday, if her daddy would let her, she could go away and learn to be a veterinarian. Cecil said that animals were ‘bout all she ever talked about.

Sometimes, Cecil said to John Edgar, teasing, "I wonder if she might think of you as some sort of critter.

Me? A critter? Why would you say that?

Well, Said Cecil, "Its because your name, John Edgar Salt, keeps popping up in her conversation time and time again." Then he laughed as John’s face turned red.

Josie and Cecil were so full of life and big ideas, John’s world started to get bigger. He found himself thinking well beyond the end of his nose and more to the future. He had attended school and learned enough to read and write a little, but beyond that, hadn’t given it much thought one way or another. To Cecil and Josie, that was terrible.

John, Cecil would say, if you just get yourself a little educated, you could be most anything you want to be.

And if you don’t, Josie scolded, you’ll probably just float around on that old raft of yours for the rest of your life… Then her eyelashes would flutter and she would give John one of her naughty, naughty little smiles.

"That, John Edgar Salt, would not be a fittin’ life for the handsome likes of you."

Handsome!… Miss Josie just called me handsome! That was all John could take and after regaining his ability to speak again, agreed to attend school with them during the day and work the raft on the week-ends. He wasn’t just all that stuck on education like they were but if Josie was part of it, he would learn to cipher his naughts n’ write his readin’ right along with the best of ‘em. Early the next morning, he took some of his savings out of a cigar box under his bed and went into Hopper’s Trading Post where he bought a new pair of brogans, three books and a double-decker pencil box.

When school started the next week, John was there. His mind was working overtime. He was thinking thoughts and dreaming dreams he had never allowed himself to do before and every single one of ‘em included Josie. So far, however, John kept his dreams to himself. He and Josie had not so much as held hands. John wanted more than anything to talk to her and tell her how he was beginning to feel, but he didn’t know how. In his frustration he would go out to the barn and practice on Maybell.

Josie, we’ve been friends a long time, and… he babbled.

Josie, I like you more than…

Josie, since we both like each other, do you think we …

Maybelle was no help. She just turned her head curiously.

Then, one pleasant summer evening, fate lent a hand. John Ed and Josie were sitting out on the porch swing at her house because her father, Pastor B was using the front room to prepare a sermon and even though Josie had fixed him a big pitcher of lemonade and it was an unseasonably cool evening, John was sweating like a pig at a bar-B-Q. Of all the approaches he practiced on Maybelle the night before, he liked the third one best and memorized the words so he wouldn’t forget and practiced out loud on his way over. Josie, since we sorta like each… Josie, since we sorta like each other….

After about ten minutes of pure silence, John Ed was on his second glass of lemonade