Blue Ridges Silver Streets

By Steve Melton

Frankie Nelson thought he could go back to that magical place in the Blue Ridge Mountains where for years his family had enjoyed summer vacations at the big white house. That was thirty years ago. Things change. The once white, shining homestead was now nothing more that a rotting shell. A painful reminder of the glory years when Elk Park was the yearly destination for the Nelson family and all the aunts, uncles and cousins. To the adults it was a time of blessed relaxation. To Frankie and the cousins it was a time for the sights, sounds and adventures that could never be experienced in the flatlands at home.
Tying the past and present together was Garvin Kripple, the onetime most feared bully in Avery County. As a young boy, Frankie had been a victim of Garvin’s wrath. The memory of that incident was still vivid and painful when Frankie met up with him at the local convenience store thirty years later. Only now the physical advantage was no longer Garvin’s. It might have taken thirty years, but the payback was just, and more than satisfying. It was the last story that needed telling before the last page of Elk Park memories was closed.
In between are all the adventures, lies, legends, folklore, characters, landmarks, and locations that made this place a treasured and unique experience. Grandfather Mountain, Mile High Bridge, Tweetsie Railroad, Blowing Rock, Brown Mountain lights, Roan Mountain, Woolly Worm Festival, local stores and businesses, monster mules, famous cars. And last but not least, bears, bulls, snakes, bobcats, mountain lions, fighting roosters and trout fishermen. Everything is told through the eyes of a young boy with an unbreakable bond with the “big white house” and his Mi Ma and Granddaddy.
Frankie and his wife left Elk Park to return to St. Louis after stopping one last time at the big white house for a final look and farewell to Elk Park. With aching hearts they departed, taking with them a piece of the old house. Frankie wanted to walk down to the house for a last visit. The back door was open. He was about to walk in for a last, painful look in the big kitchen, when the cut glass doorknob came off in his hand. It was then that he finally realized that this would never again be the family homestead. After such a long time, one can never go home.
While the Blue Ridge Mountains faded in the rear view mirror, the memories never would. He decided that perhaps he should write a book about all of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Melton
• Release date: Jan 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311577375

Steve Melton

Steve Melton has authored an eclectic assortment of works. “Presidents and Kings” is his first published novel. "Searching for Aunt Bea" is his latest offering. Soon to follow will be "Pasadena Thunder," a fictional work about a little old lady who races a Dodge Muscle car on the streets of Pasadena. Other works waiting in the wings are a collection of novelettes. Several volumes of children’s poetry. And a volume of stories from his childhood growing up in the fifties and sixties in the middle class suburbs of St. Louis. Steve is a graduate of the University of Missouri where he studied journalism, art and photography. He served four years in the United States Air Force as an overseas communications specialist. He earned his teaching credentials form Lees McRae College in North Carolina. He retired after twenty years of teaching Junior High and High School Social Studies. He does volunteer work at the Missouri Home for Veterans in St. Louis. Inspiration for his characters comes from his father and other military warriors he has had the honor to know and associate with during his life. Steve's knowledge of Blue Ridge Mountain life and culture was the inspiration for another soon to be published novel, "Blue Ridges - Silver Streets." He laughingly refers to himself as a “real renaissance guy” with interests in writing, music, cooking, photography, comedy, physical fitness, Biblical teachings and a growing relationship with Jesus Christ

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Introduction

It was the summer of 1992. Frankie Nelson stood in line at the little, rundown grocery and video rental store in beautiful downtown Elk Park, North Carolina. Casual observers would find the area little more than a rather forgettable collection of small, modest homes, bungalows and old fashioned two story farmhouses. Many were in need of a good bit of TLC. Tucked back in the hills off the main roads, one might even run across an inhabited Civil War era cabin still lacking the modern conveniences of electricity and running water. Elk Park was also home to numerous, stereotypical, run down dwellings that were on the verge of being described as shacks. Many of the porous structures sported front porches on the verge of collapse from the accumulated weight of worn out sofas and at least one requisite big, rusty, worn out appliance. In many front yards rested the rusting hulks of once fine automobiles camouflaged by oceans of tall weeds. No longer transportation. Rather, residence and shelter to any number of yard dogs, cats or any other stray critter needing a place to hole up for a night.

The only evidence of a once beautifully maintained, upper class mountain community were the remnants of several large mansion-like farm houses giving up their rotting souls behind jungles of unkempt weeds and trash. This strange mix of dwellings and real estate only served to make travelers and vacationers appreciate even more the communities they were coming from and the destinations they were headed to. Destinations which always seem to lie, coming or going, on the other side of this little time warp on the highway.

Highway was a description that only a few old mountain people used to describe this two-lane blacktop passing through town. Sometime in the early sixties, the little winding road was straightened and widened. It was a bit of progress that further necessitated the laying down of vivid yellow lines, along with broadened gravel shoulders designed to allow room for the occasional mule drawn wagons hauling produce to and from Haynes Grocery. The outside world was slowly encroaching on the small Appalachian community. It was a community that had neither crystal ball, nor any other means of discerning other conformities and changes that would all too soon arrive.

Frankie was one of a small group of folks in this state that still thought of Elk Park as beautiful. A childhood of wonderful two-week first impression vacations always had a way of putting a fairy tale haze over his memories of this little community. Frankie realized that the town had been a community in transition for these past many years. He had no way of knowing that future improvements would be slow in coming. But the old Haynes Grocery was still hanging on, and still being run by old Uncle Jack. However, the old store had long since stopped being a profitable venture for Uncle Jack. In recent years it had turned into little more that a morning gathering place for a handful of old timers, liars, cigar smokers, ex-moon shiners and a few gray bearded hillbillies. Many of them relied on frequent, overly generous lines of unpaid credit to keep their families from starving to death during the cold, harsh mountain winters. There was also no denying that nearly all of them were blood relatives to the Nelson family.

The old store became a regular stop for Frankie on his morning jogging runs through town. He seemed a comfortable fit with this odd collection of old timers. His ability to relate decades of stories and tales of his own about the glory days of Elk Park helped remove any suspicions about this forty two year old, educated city boy wearing them fancy runnin shoes. Frankie had just relocated to the area in order to finish earning his teaching credentials at the local college in Banner Elk. Wonderful, beautiful Banner Elk, a wealthy community of rich, summer tourists and retirees that migrated from New England and Florida. The vast majority of these flatlanders were wonderful folks who truly appreciated the beautiful geography and wonderful traditions of the area. Unfortunately, there were always a handful of overly wealthy, condescending, rude types that had the effect of casting a cloud of dislike, distrust and suspicion over all outsiders. Locals referred to them as Floridiots or Florons. It might have been rather amusing had they known. But these small cadres were oblivious to the wonderful traditions and lifestyles that made this place a Garden of Eden escape from the hot summer tensions and miseries of the cities and flatlands. In spite of these negatives, Banner Elk was still another one of those more desirable destinations that necessitated a trip through Elk Park.

The one saving grace of the entire county had always been the sheer beauty and majesty of the Blue Ridge Mountains. But even the timeless, ethereal, blue mist that settled over the mountains every evening couldn’t cover up the fact that the beauty of the area had been eroding over the years. Due in large part to rich real estate investors and developers who didn’t give a single passing thought as to how many acres of pristine mountain forests they would have to destroy. Or how many miles of God’s natural trout streams had to be posted with NO FISHING signs. It was all being sacrificed in order to sell million dollar homes to heartless outsiders who were moving up there by the scores every year. Never gining any thought to the fact that they were turning this peaceful mountain refuge into the very thing they were trying to escape.

Thoughts of the past four decades replayed like black and white out-takes from an old movie through Frankie’s mind as he stood in line at the little grocery/video rental store. Unfortunately, the store was located just across the road from the Haynes Grocery. Frankie always felt a twinge of guilt over not doing his trading (as the mountain folks referred to it) with Uncle Jack. But it was the weekend. Frankie and his new wife Linda were looking forward to settling down in their little cottage to enjoy a good movie or two. Frankie was aware that Jack and his crew were probably sitting around in their usual chairs in front of the store window. Fortunately they were unable to see Frankie enter the competing store, which was located across the road and down a slight hill, which put it out of sight of Uncle Jacks’ store.

Frankie stood observing the short line of customers in front of him. Two, thirty year old good ole boys with mullet haircuts. They were sporting dirty overalls and backward ball caps. Just behind them, a teenage mother with a drooling toddler on her hip was scanning the store for a little boy who was out of sight behind a an oaken barrel of brooms. The young lad was busy pulling out the broom straws and impaling them in a stale moon pie that had been sitting on the shelf for one too many lifetimes.

An older man at the front of the line attracted Frankie’s attention. Frankie figured it must be someone he remembered from decades past. He couldn’t quite bring up a name to match the now withered face. The old guy was having a young girl slice some bologna from a deli meat case sitting behind an old dust covered, tarnished, push lever cash register. The old register rang up the purchase with a wonderful cacophony of clangs, bell ringing and drawer crashing. It was a sound that wasn’t heard in stores anymore, unless one visited the old Haynes Grocery across the road.

Frankie stood there rocking back and forth on his Nike clad feet, feeling the wooden floor boards creak and give under his six foot three, hundred and ninety pound frame.

The old guy paid for his meat, then turned to leave. Frankie couldn’t help but notice how wobbly and bow legged the old guy looked as he ambled through the squeaky screen door. As if he had suffered some broken bones in the past that had somehow failed to properly heal.

Frankie showed his movies to the girl behind the register. He asked about the rental fee and return time. She answered in a cute mountain drawl that Frankie found irresistible. He couldn’t stop grinning as she spoke.

Hon, they’s only fiyifty ceyents a die. An you kin jes brang em bayak after a die er two. Jes write yer nime down in this here notebook and whut movies yer a wontin.

Frankie could tell he wasn’t in Missouri anymore. Movie rentals back home involved a driver’s license. Movie club card. Signed rental agreements. Rentals were to be back the next day, at a cost of three dollars or more. He was smiling. Praying to God to please not let this place change anymore.

Oh, by the way. Who was that fella that just bought the bologna? Frankie asked.

Oh him. That’s jest old Garvin Krippel.

You gotta be kidding me! Frankie said.

Nope. That’s him. But yew ain’t got to worry about him none, cuz he don’t never hurt nobody.

Frankie’s mind raced back to a summer thirty-five years ago. He could vividly recall a number of encounters with Garvin Krippel. One of which was very terrifying and painful.

///

It was the summer of 1957 and the greatly anticipated, annual, two-week vacation at the big white house, located just around the corner from Haynes Grocery. It was owned by grandparents Mi Ma and Granddaddy. In Frankie’s eyes it was the white, shining family homestead where all of the relatives gathered each summer for the most exciting fun filled time a young city boy could ever experience. Mom, dad, Frankie, his younger brother Jimmy and his little sister Carrie, all the aunts, uncles and cousins would be there. All of them arrived every summer at this one very special place tucked way back in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.

All the kids were hanging around the front of Jack’s store enjoying each other’s company and acting like a bunch of energetic, silly kids. Jimmy was perched on a pile of watermelons that had just been dropped off by a Tennessee man in an old pickup truck. Jimmy was deep into an argument with Max Crutcher. Max was one of the neighborhood’s little, sawed off bullies. Max was a tough, little, hillbilly kid who was always barefoot. And was never without an unfiltered Camel cigarette hanging from his lower lip. It was as if the little guy had glued it there in an effort to make him look meaner and tougher. Max was a year older than Frankie, quite a bit smaller, short tempered and mean as a snake. It was said that those were his better qualities. He loved to argue in hopes that it would lead to a fistfight, an acquired skill at which he excelled. Not only was little Max a hard puncher, he was also quite skilled at biting, kicking and rock throwing. The latter skill born out by the fact that a good percentage of the trailers and shacks within close proximity of the Crutcher place had taken on the look of a wild west shanty town bearing the scars of broken or missing panes of glass.

Local legend had it that little Max had never lost a fight to anyone within thirty pounds of his weight, which couldn’t have been much more than fifty-five pounds. That morning, Jimmy had the bad judgment to start a heated exchange with little Max concerning the alcoholic content of Hawaiian Punch. Max wanted to bet Jimmy a dollar that if a person drank an entire bottle of the tasty, red drink, he would get drunk.

Frankie was wise enough to realize that little Max was not interested in winning a dollar. Max only wanted to whup the tar out of another stupid city slicker. Max also had a reputation for drinking the moonshine that his family cooked up. It was an enterprise used to supplement a main income from? Nobody really seemed to know. Frankie was quite certain that Max had first hand knowledge of what it took to get a person drunk. Frankie was uneasy, sitting on the rough-hewn wooden bench that ran the length of store window. He was not looking forward to breaking up a fight between his little brother and Max. He wasn’t certain if both of them could handle little Max.

The argument went on for quite some time. It looked as if everything would blow over without any bloodshed. Heaving a sigh of relief, Frankie started to release some of the tension that had been building from his rear end, up through his shoulders and neck. This might just turn out to be a good afternoon. He did a slow panoramic scan of the area. Clear blue sky. Cool soft breeze. Vivid colors of black and white cattle against a backdrop of dark green, mountain pastures. There was the musical sound of a clear shallow trout stream running along the hilly drop-off by the road. Cousins Jesse and Lucy would sometimes sneak out free treats from the old glass candy case in their dad’s store. That is, if Uncle Jack wasn’t watching too closely. Which he frequently didn’t.

It was perfect. All the elements for a great mountain day were in place. Then into this idyllic setting marched Garvin Krippel. The only way to describe this dangerous yokel was to take little Max Crutcher, clone him, make him three times larger and ten times meaner. Then give him a foul mouth full of black, rotting teeth, and breath that could cause cardiac arrest if a person’s nose was not held in his presence. Nobody noticed Garvin lurking around the corner of the store, just out of sight behind an old rusty septic tank propped up against the wall.

Oh God, pleeezeee don’t let Garvin Krippel notice me . . . . . pleeeze God . . . . . pleeeze.

God must have been on a coffee break because Garvin Krippel zeroed right in on Frankie. Frankie had not even glanced in his direction, much less uttered so much as a single syllable that could have caused the slightest offense. Garvin didn’t even know Frankie’s name. But that didn’t matter. Krippel singled him out because Frankie was the only stranger hanging out in front of the store. Frankie was only seven years old. He was about to stare certain death in the face in the form of Garvin Krippel. An almost full-grown teenager.

Common belief holds that in times of eminent danger, time slows down to half speed. Frankie was starting to experience this phenomenon first hand as Krippel began savagely pushing smaller kids out of his way, as he lumbered on a direct path to the seated boy. Krippel reached out and put a vice like grip around the boy’s upper arm. Frankie looked up at him. Terrified as he sat staring into a face covered with acne and the beginnings of a man’s stubble. A mouth full of rotten teeth were so close to Frankie’s face that the boy could easily have counted the gaps and black cavities in the older boy’s mouth. It was also a face contorted with bad intentions.

With no warning, Krippel balled up his huge fist and slammed it down on Frankie’s thigh. Krippel hauled the young boy to his feet, drawing Frankie’s face even closer to his own. Then with a foul smelling, guttural hiss, he warned the boy.

Iffn yew ever run home to yer maw and paw and tell them that I dun this to ye, yer gonna meet yer Waterloo way up in that tree over yonder.

Krippel, satisfied that that he had inflicted the requisite amount of terror and pain, let the boy go. Frankie turned and tried to run back to the safety of the big white house. He had to settle for a moderate, quick limp. His leg felt paralyzed. He glanced down past the hem of his summer shorts. An ugly black, green and blue bruise was starting to discolor his thigh. Everything was spinning in instant replay through Frankie’s mind. He wasn’t sure exactly what had just had happened. He was uncertain what meeting yer waterloo meant. What he was certain about was that his leg felt like it was broken. And Krippel had just threatened to kill him if he told his mom or dad what Garvin had done to him.

Frankie rounded the corner, heading back to the big white house. He paused just long enough to take a quick, nervous look back over his shoulder. What Frankie observed stopped him in his tracks. All the other kids had wisely headed for the hills when Garvin appeared. Including Jimmy. Yet, there they were . . . . . together. Garvin and little Max. Sitting together on the bench outside the grocery. Garvin had his big sinewy arm draped around little Max’s shoulders. They were sharing an orange Nehi (likely paid for with extorted change). It was a bizarre sight. Suddenly, Frankie was no longer looking at the present and future terror of Elk Park. The ever-present persona of total malevolence had disappeared from both boys. They were talking. Joking. Passing the Nehi back and forth. Smiling.

Had Frankie been a little older and wiser, he would have realized they were the only two souls in Elk Park that could relate to each other. It was this need for kinship that had forged a bond between the two boys. Almost as if a benevolent older brother was watching after the younger brother. It was a very curious situation. It was understandable why little Max would look up to the older Garvin. But why would Garvin not inflict the same abuse on Max that he regularly inflicted on the other neighborhood kids? The pain in his leg jerked Frankie back to reality. The hurt, fear, and anger were returning as the boy fervently wished that some day he would be old enough and big enough, to get even with Garvin Krippel.

///

What goes around comes around is a popular, rather contemporary adage. It took thirty years. Now, Garvin Krippel was about so experience some come around. Frankie followed him out the door. He doubled his step, catching up with Krippel just a few yards down the sidewalk. Frankie scanned the scene around him. Same clear blue sky. Same cool breeze. Same green mountains with grazing cattle. Same murmuring trout stream. Everything was perfect. As it should have been. Only this time it was Frankie’s turn to zero in on Garvin Krippel.

Frankie came up behind Krippel. Reached out. Gripped the man’s shoulder. Spinning him around for a little face to face chat. Krippel found himself staring up at the tall stranger. Frankie’s first thought was not violent revenge. Rather, he was struck by how old, small, gray and frail Krippel had become over the past decades. Frankie noticed that his teeth had all been fixed and he was nicely dressed. He was wearing nice pants. New shirt. Shined shoes. And a fashionable windbreaker. He was clean and neat. There was little resemblance to the dangerous, alpha male hillbilly from decades earlier. Krippel was quite startled as he stared up at the large stranger. He was scared. He didn’t know what to expect.

Hey, you’re Garvin Krippel aren’t you?

Uh . . . . . yeah. Frankie gripped Krippel’s hand with as hard a handshake as he could squeeze out.

Hey Garvin, It’s great to see you again after all these years. My name is Frankie Nelson.

Krippel tried to pull free. Frankie had too strong a grip on his hand. Frankie pulled him up to within inches of his own face.

You probably don’t remember this. But about thirty years ago when I was a little kid. You grabbed me around my arm and smashed me in the leg with your big ole fist. Then you told me that if I ever told my folks, that I would meet my waterloo in that big tree over yonder by Haynes Grocery. You know what Garvin. I never did tell them what you did to me. Do you remember that Garvin?

Garvin Krippel was about to wet his nice pants. Or soil his briefs. Maybe both. He started to stammer and stutter. Panic in his eyes. Certain that he was about to be injured by this stranger who had an iron grip on his now aching right hand.

Gee mister. No sir. Er. Ah. Uhm. I shore don’t ever remember nuthin like that ever happnin. But iffn I ever done somethin like that to yew, I jest want yew to know how sorry I am bout it.

Well Garvin, it sure is good seeing you again after all this time.

Frankie gave Krippel’s hand one last knuckle popping squeeze and smiled real big and friendly like. Then he let him go.

Frankie watched Krippel making his escape down the sidewalk. He found himself feeling a little guilty about what he had just done to this helpless little old man. Sure it was mean spirited. But it was oh so just in the natural order of things. Nothing wrong with a little bit of harmless justice. After all, what was he supposed to do? Slap the taste out of one of Elk Park’s more famous elderly citizens? He was thinking what fun it would be to tell people another Elk Park tale about how something that went around, finally came back around . . . . . three decades later.

Driving his old Jeep Cherokee back to the cottage, Frankie started thinking about all the events, characters, and stories that were part of his family’s history up here in this small mountain community. He drove down the winding mountain road, lost in deep thought. Wondering why some areas of the county had become overly developed and prosperous. While other areas (like his beloved Elk Park) were withering on the vine. Maybe someday he should write a book about all of it.

Chapter I: Great Day in the Mornin’

It was always a great day in the morning when that long, hot, cramped, fifteen hour trip finally ended in the wee hours of the morning. The old Ford coupe made the final right hand turn into the gravel driveway of the big white house. Darkness and cold, accompanied by the crunching of gravel under the car tires, was at the end of every yearly journey to see Mi Ma and Granddaddy. The family had departed the steaming St. Louis weather in the morning, and arrived in the chilled darkness early the next morning.

The family never had time to knock on the door before the porch light came on. The antique cut glass doorknob turned. The big door swung open. There they were. Both of them were pretending they had no idea the family coming. Mi Ma in her nightcap. Granddaddy in his old bathrobe. He would be wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and an ear-to-ear, gold toothed smile. In spite of the fact that the gravel crunching in the driveway had awakened them from a sound, warm sleep in the huge feather bed, they always appeared wide awake and eager to gather everyone in. Granddaddy was always the first to speak.

Great day in the morning.’

For the next few moments all attention was focused on Frankie, Jimmy and little Carrie. There was always astonishment at how they had grown since the last summer. Being youngsters, the three siblings always looked forward to having increases in height and weight duly noted with such awe struck enthusiasm by Mi Ma and Granddaddy. Their progress was always compared to growing weeds, knees on grasshoppers, and all the other southern euphemisms regarding growing grandchildren. Even if slightly exaggerated, it was proof enough to the kids that they had grown bigger since last year.

How was the trip Norma Lee? Mi Ma was always the first to ask, and the answer was always the same.

Oh just fine, just fine mother.

Then Granddaddy would pipe up with a big gruff grandfather voice.

And how did my two boys and my little girl do in the car on that long drive?

It was a question that always turned the always honest Norma Lee into an instant liar.

They were GOOD AS GOLD. So much for the stern biblical warning, Thou shalt not lie.

It doesn’t take much effort to form a vivid image of what can occur during a long, hot, summer vacation drive. Poor old Dad, affectionately referred to with the nickname Rosie, was a trail blazer suffering from bleary eyed fatigue. He might have fallen asleep at the wheel but for a life saving, bleeding ulcer that kept him awake. He consumed prodigious quantities of Half and Half in a futile attempt to keep his stomach settled. Two parents. Three kids. An ill tempered, gassy Chihuahua, that made the trip a living hell. It was a never ending cycle.

Rosie chugged Half and Half.

Pedro snapped, and created clouds of odifirous emanations.

Rosie chugged Half and Half.

The brothers fought over constant violations of seating space.

Rosie chugged Half and Half.

All three kids drove Rosie and Roma insane by yelling FIREBALL every time a car passed in the oncoming lane.

Rosie chugged Half and Half

Carrie barfed into empty Half and Half cartons.

Rosie chugged more Half and Half

It was hours and hours on the road. White knuckles on the steering wheel. Never a rest stop except to fill er’ up. Ten, eleven hours crawling by with ice-age slowness. Sooner or later somebody would just have to pee. At such times, Rosie took on the Old Testament persona of Moses fleeing from the Israelites through the wilderness. Only without the white hair, the white beard, the staff, and the long robe and sandals.

"We ain’t stoppin’ fer nuthin.’ Just hold it till we get there.

On occasion, his mainspring snapped. It was almost audible. Fortunately, few kids will ever have to experience the horror of seeing their father turn from Moses into a red eyed demon, glaring at them in the rear view mirror, as he comes to the realization that all offspring under the age of forty need to be eliminated. By the way, let it be stated that blocking and dodging a big, long, hairy arm that is violently swinging around the back seat (trying to knock heads clean off) will definitely improve a kid’s hand-eye coordination.

Once again they had made it to the big white house, with Mi Ma and Granddaddy satisfied that their daughter, son in law, and family had thoroughly enjoyed the wonderful experience of a harmonious, strife free, joyously anticipated trip to the mountains. After all, Norma would never be less than truthful with her own parents. And thus the usual remark, Good as Gold was offered as the only acceptable description of the grand children’s behavior during that summer’s trip to Elk Park.

Feuding children, ill-tempered dog, games of full contact, nerve- wracking fireball, throwing up all over the car, arguments, back seat scuffles, attempted homicide. What the heck. It was all behind them now. Two weeks of good times were ahead of them. Good as Gold. Hey. Why not!

Chapter 2: Talk of the Town

Even in July, daybreak in the mountains was an eye opening experience that took some getting used to. A chill set in as soon as the sun went down. The blue mist rolled in. The temperature continued dropping until dawn. The big white house boasted seven bedrooms. Each with its own fireplace. And best of all, a huge feather bed in each bedroom. There was nothing better than sleeping in a feather bed. That is, once a person got used to the slight annoyance of occasionally being stuck by the quill of a stray goose feather poking through the mattress cover.

While the fireplaces and feather beds were a welcome source of warmth, the linoleum floors in all the rooms were a different story. The first time a person hopped out of bed and put their feet on the ice cold floor, a couple of things always occurred. The brain went into sudden sensory overload trying to assimilate the synaptic messages being sent up through the feet. Had the feet just landed atop a red-hot bed of coals, or a block of dry ice? The realization suddenly hit that the linoleum floors were a half-degree from freezing over. The eyes flew open. The mouth flew open. There was a great sucking of cold oxygen into the lungs that could actually move the curtains a fraction of an inch away from the windows.

Aaaaahhhhhhgggggg, the @$^&%# floor is cold as @! #%.

Even well behaved children who believed they would go straight to hell if they ever uttered a single curse word might be heard using words that, under normal circumstances, would necessitate a good cleansing of the palate with a large bar of Ivory soap.

But it was vacation. This was the first morning. Thick socks were kept under the blankets from now on. It was always quite amusing for those who were already up and drinking morning coffee around the big oak table in that huge country kitchen to hear the shocked responses coming from the far reaches of the big white house. Someone always hollered out out from the warm kitchen,

What’s the problem boys? Floor’s not too cold in that room is it?

Eventually, all the houseguests and relatives made their way into the kitchen for a morning meal that seemed to last forever. All morning there was a constant flow of conversation covering the latest gossip and news, along with plans for the day’s activities, as well as anything else that might be of interest. On this particular morning the conversation centered on a local, teenage young lady. Charlene Johnson. Norma’s older sister Libby was leading the discussion. She was also having a rather difficult time couching the conversation in language designed to make it difficult for young ones to decipher exactly what she was talking about.

I don’t know about that little Jones girl hangin’ around all the cousins this summer, Libby started in, immediately peaking the curiosity of Frankie’s older cousin Gordon.

What are you talking about Lib? I’ve been around her before and she seems like a nice enough girl to me, Gordon said.

You’re too young to understand all this stuff, but somebody caught her up under the house with Donny Mitchell, Libby replied.

So what. What were they doing Lib? Gordon asked.

I thought I just told you to hush up. You’re too young to understand all this. But I did hear that were uh, ah, er, . . . . . I heard they were doin’ things that nice girls don’t do around here.

Unknown to the others in the kitchen, cousin Gordon was already quite of aware of Charlene Johnson’s reputation for having fun with many of the local teen boys. Of course he feigned wide-eyed, innocent ignorance of what was being discussed. However, the conversation just confirmed his suspicions that there was something quite interesting about the Johnson girl. Maybe an interest that should be pursued? Uncle Hobie entered into the conversation.

Hey Lib. Where did you hear all this anyway?

Oh you know me Hobe, I jest hear things around town.

Mi Ma joined in. Lordy me. Everybody in the county knows that Lib cain’t quit eavesdroppin’ on the county party lines. Go on Lib, tell everyone about listenin’ in and hearin’ Charlene talkin’ with Donny Mitchell. And she was mad as fire that he told all the boys in town about her a goin’ up under the house with him.

The conversation was becoming more and more mysterious and interesting to young Frankie. His interest was interrupted by the sound of the squeaking spring hinge on the front door announcing the arrival of another visitor in off the street. The visitor turned out to be Uncle Tommy. Tommy lived directly across the street with his young wife and four year old son

Chapter 3: Cars, Stars, Junkyards

Good old Uncle Tommy. He wasn’t really old. But to young nephews and cousins all adult relatives were considered old, and usually had an affectionate old in front of their first names. Uncle Tommy was the owner and proprietor of the only filling station in town, located just down the street from the big white house at the corner of the intersection with the main road running through Elk Park. The filling station was another local gathering place, along with Uncle Jack’s store, and the big white house.

Frankie loved hanging around the filling station. It was worlds removed form gas stations back home, where services were delivered by young men with artificial smiles who were less interested in their customers than in putting in their time before moving on to other more profitable ventures. The filling station was Tommy’s life. He was the affable king of that little corner of Elk Park.

To say that the clientele of this diminutive distributor of petroleum products was a notch or two above that of Uncle Jack’s store was due to the fact that Tommy’s customers had managed to attain a certain level of material affluence that allowed most of them to own and operate at least a fairly reliable, used vehicle. A good portion of these vehicles appeared to be out of the same mold. They were five to ten year old, two door, black sedans that were rolling on at least three good tires. There were also a good number of old beat up pickups.

Every soul in Avery County was keenly aware of what good ole boy (or girl) was driving what good ole car. It was an association that was hard to break. The mayor of Banner Elk drove a red Volkswagen Carman Ghia. That is when he wasn’t cruising the roads in a big Lincoln Continental. Harley, the barbershop owner, drove a twenty year old Cadillac. Cecil McClane drove a welded together monstrosity made from an old Ford, an old Buick and a few plates of metal from one of his many retired moonshine stills.

The most famous vehicle in the county was driven by the mayor’s son Wilt. The car had always been a prominent fixture in every county parade for the past thirty years. It was an old Model A Ford. Occasionally Wilt would stop by the white house to give the boys a ride in the rumble seat. Wilt might not have ordinarily gone out of his way to entertain two distant cousins. But he was a close friend of the boy’s cousin Skylar. Skylar was the only son of the boy’s Aunt Libby. Skylar and one of the lucky boys would get to ride in the rumble seat, while the other brother rode up in the front with Wilt. Even riding in the front seat was a thrill. Wilt let the young passenger press a brown, plastic button on the dashboard that would activate an ear splitting wolf whistle. When Wilt and Skylar were cruising about town, they delighted in wearing out the device in an attempt to shock (or impress) the young girls around town. Aunt Libby was heard on one occasion admonishing cousin Skylar for using this particular automotive accessory.

"I heard about you boys a blowin that thing at Charlene Johnson. And I

don’t give a hoot how much she liked it. She seems to like a bunch of things we don’t approve of around here. All it’s going to take is for her step mom to complain to Sheriff Cale. Then he’s gonna pay you boys a personal visit. And He’s jest liable to remove more than that stupid wolf whistle. If you know what I mean."

This association between owners and automobiles had more than a small influence over maintaining certain righteous, monogamous relationships among the folks of Avery County. It was always dangerous for a person or vehicle to been seen at a time or place that was deemed inappropriate. If a person was supposed to be working some overtime at the grist mill, they best not be spotted by nosey observers parked in front of the Times Square Motel. Or the liquor store just across the state line. Or up on top of Beech Mountain enjoying the scenic view. Or in front of Charlene Johnson’s house while her mom was out for the afternoon. Sooner or later the grapevine got the juicy gossip back to the offended partner. Appropriate action usually followed. Which may or may not involve old Sheriff Cale.

Over the years, more than one early morning trout fisherman had experienced the thrill of seeing a lifeless human form come plunging over Elk River Falls into the huge deep pool that was a favorite location for stalking the big one. It was always a point of contention whether the anglers were more upset over the possibility of having to be involved with a homicide investigation, or having the fishing disturbed. Both situations were considered distasteful at best. In any event, it always seemed to be that an errantly parked vehicle was the first falling domino in a series of events leading to reconciliation. Or, in the case of more grievous situations. Retribution.

Elk Park seemed to be the last stop for many old decrepit pieces of automotive history before they finally gave up the ghost. Avery County was home to the most scenic junkyard in the entire state. It was a half mile long graveyard of every possible bit of human discard. Everything from an ancient, narrow gauge, burned up railroad car. To Cletus Spivey’s 1949 rum running Plymouth that was still bearing a curious design of bullet holes in the passenger door. Delivered courtesy of Sheriff Cale, before the sheriff finally got too old drive a pursuit car, or shoot straight.

This was not the only vehicle in the junkyard that bore the scars of a gun

battle. However, the pattern formed by the bullet holes in the door made this bit of carnage quite unique. The forty-two holes in the door (delivered by a Thompson machine gun) somehow managed to form an all too apparent outline of the face of