Stories from Potomac County

By Chuck Smith

Potomac County may not be on the way to anywhere, but the residents have stories to share. There’s three and a half lawmen, a very large hog, at least one slightly crazed preacher, a precocious six-year-old and his brother the heretic, an overzealous ex-air raid warden, a visiting Florida debutante with a fake accent, and an old man and his terrier. Finally, you’re at Someplace Else, a beachside bar unlike any other. Kick back and stay awhile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365446429

Chuck Smith

Chuck Smith enjoys reading books from a wide range of authors. Inspired by their work Chuck decided to write a book of his own. This book is designed to be easy to read, packed with excitement scene by scene, and no fluff.

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Stories from Potomac County

Stories from Potomac County

Truths, Half-Truths, and Lies from Rural Virginia

and Someplace Else

Chuck Smith

Edited by Claire Gould

Illustrated by April Sage

Stories from Potomac County

Copyright © 2016 by Chuck Smith.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016.

ISBN #: 978-1-365-44642-9

Published by Claire Gould through Lulu.

Dedication

To the residents of Rappahannock County, Virginia, my friends, neighbors, and muses. You will recognize the people of Potomac County.

No offense is intended though some may be implied.

Foreword

My stories could never have become this book without the help and encouragement of a great number of people. Thanks to all who read, encouraged, financed, and contributed to this effort. Writing can at times be lonely, great fun, unsatisfactory, difficult, and very gratifying. In the midst of getting the words onto the page it is often hard to see the story with readers’ eyes, to hear the dialogue, to be in the locale. When Claire Gould agreed to edit my stories, I soon realized that we could create a book, a collection that has the potential to be read and enjoyed. Thank you for reading my stories. If you enjoyed any of them, it’s Claire’s fault.

Claire Gould: Editor, reader, publisher, and BS detector

Sharon Smith: Wife, reader, supporter, photographer

Jean and Bill Schwartz: In my opinion, the best in-laws-in-the world and largely responsible for the financial wherewithal of printing this book    

Thanks also to family, friends, and writers who inspired me, including but not limited to Abigail Schumann, Bill Wagner, Carolyn Wall, Emily Smith, Galley Smith, Jeremiah Smith, Larry Brown, Marie Rosso, Paul Aaron, and Sally Haynes.

You should be rightfully offended by some of the language used by characters in these stories; I agree with you and apologize for them. Given the time period, locale, and the characters, the dialogue seems accurate.

The High Sheriff of Potomac County

For as long as he could remember, Joe Ray Walker wanted to be High Sheriff.

He’d been the chief deputy under the previous county sheriff, Wilson Wallace. He had also been the appointed interim county sheriff when Sheriff Wallace retired for health reasons. And now, thanks to the voters, Joe Ray was the High Sheriff of Potomac County.

Sheriff Joe Ray Walker won his first election in 1969 with the support of a majority of white voters and the all-black congregation of New Zion Church. He was elected County Sheriff, but after the election both the sign on his office door and his business cards proclaimed High Sheriff Joe Ray Walker. He had always wanted to be High Sheriff.

In the years between Sheriff Wallace’s resignation and the 1969 election, while serving as interim county sheriff, Joe Ray had gone to the Commonwealth’s Attorney Davis H. Norman II Esq., an amiable old drunk, to ask about changing the office from County Sheriff to High Sheriff. Some small amount of legal research had turned up enough ambiguity in the Code of the Commonwealth that Mr. Norman declared that Joe Ray could be High Sheriff if it so suited him and was approved by the board of supervisors. The board, with just a few jokes and snickers, approved the change in their last session before the election, unfortunately after the ballots were printed.

High Sheriff Walker appeared to be just a big fat white man, but this was deceiving. Joe Ray was very fit, over six feet tall but with a round body that gave the impression of excess weight and sloth. He had attained both his shape and size while playing football in high school and despite his age (not yet 40) and appetite (prodigious) he kept himself physically fit. A good part of his law enforcement skill was his unexpected speed and strength. Joe Ray was neither lazy nor fat.

Joe Ray had what seemed an almost casual approach to law enforcement. The sheriff’s department kept Potomac County safe from the truly bad guys and miscreants; however, with lesser law breakers Joe Ray didn’t always feel heavy-handedness was necessary.

If a young fellow and a pretty woman with a little property were willing to be reasonable and generous with sharing the fruits of their labor, they might be okay growing a small amount of low-grade smoking dope. After all, Joe Ray reasoned, it is their property, their crop, and the county shouldn’t be too quick to discourage people from worthwhile pursuits.

Joe Ray’s approach was pretty much the same if a man ran a small, slightly illegal distillery. Joe Ray felt he could leave this local entrepreneur alone so long as he wasn’t producing hooch on a large scale or selling it to any hot-headed colored boys.

— The Call of Duty —

This day a mid-morning phone call caught High Sheriff Walker at his desk.

Alone in the office, Joe Ray picked up the ringing phone. Sheriff’s Office.

Joe Ray! Is that you? demanded a very irate man’s voice.

Neither recognizing the voice nor having been alerted by Phyllis, the county switchboard operator, Joe Ray replied, This is High Sheriff Walker.

Joe Ray, you fat egotistical son-of-a-bitch. This is Jim Willie Thornton and those goddamn Jemisons have stolen my hog, General Jackson.

Mr. Thornton, Jim Willie to nearly every white citizen of Potomac County, was a lawyer, a large land-owner, and rich and well-connected. He was a fixer. Jim Willie Thornton was both hated and respected in equal measure. He kept thoroughbred hunting horses, foxhounds, and prize breeding hogs. Nobody stole from Thornhill, the Thornton’s historic family property. Thornhill was more estate than farm, located near the F T Highway at the southern end of Potomac County. The theft of a prize boar hog was a personal affront to the Thorntons. Jim Willie demanded action.

Had those expletives come from any lesser person, Joe Ray may have taken umbrage at being called what he’d just been called. However, since it was Mr. Thornton and he was obviously in a high state of excitement, Joe Ray let the less-than-flattering remarks go unchallenged. When did your property go missing? Did someone see the Jemisons take the missing property? Where did…

Jim Willie interrupted him, Not property, you idiot! My hog General Jackson, goddamn it. Any fool would know it had to be some of those Jemisons. Nobody would be stupid enough to steal anything from Thornhill except those in-bred hillbillies.

Down in the southern end of Potomac County there was a clan of Jemisons: multiple generations comprising more of a tribe than a family. The Jemisons occupied a hollow within a valley formed by three small mountains. This hollow had only one way in or out and was more like a citadel than a traditional valley. It was known as Jemison’s Hollow, or Holler in the local vernacular. The Jemisons were, if not the nearest neighbor to Thornhill, the most notorious.

The Jemisons were, without known exception, mean, wild, hell-raising people. Poker Jemison, the patriarch of the family, had done a little stretch in the state penitentiary back in the 1940s for killing a fellow, but mostly the Jemisons confined their fighting, cutting, and kicking to one another. Neither Joe Ray nor his predecessor felt a need to intervene so long as they kept the violence in the family. Now, perhaps they had crossed the line from their intramural violence into criminal activity against good honest upright voters. Stealing from James William Thornton could not go unanswered.

In an attempt to be the epitome of law enforcement efficiency, Joe Ray replied, Well, Jim Willie, my colored deputy Dennis Roy comes on at four this afternoon. I’ll send him right down to look around and take a report…

Four? Four o’clock this afternoon? Joe Ray, you are a lunatic in addition to being a fat, self-important S.O.B. This is a prize boar hog. Three-hundred-fifty pounds of him and he’s not done growing. By four this afternoon those fucking Jemisons will have made sausage of him!

Mr. Thornton, Joe Ray began, only to be cut off by the lawyer screaming at him through the phone line.

Joe Ray, you lazy, fat, worthless, ignorant bastard, you will never hold this office again if those Jemisons butcher my hog. Get your goddamn posse out and goddamn well do something.  With those insults, threat, and final instructions burning through the phone line, Mr. Jim Willie Thornton slammed his receiver down, ending the conversation.

Hanging up the phone, Joe Ray put out the Potomac County version of Calling All Cars. He had the county phone operator locate all three of his deputies. Phyllis, ask ‘em if they’re drunk. There’s no point in calling in a drunk deputy. If they’re not drunk... well not too drunk, have them put on their uniforms and come to work.

High Sheriff Joe Ray Walker’s department had two-and-a-half deputies. There was the veteran deputy Earnie Glisson, Dennis Oglethorpe Roy (the only Negro law officer in a five county area), and the half-time deputy, Purvis Leray Gordon.

All three deputies showed up within the hour. Except for Earnie Glisson, they were sober. Glisson wasn’t too drunk to drive and no more inebriated than expected, as it was not really his scheduled workday.

— Lawmen, All —

Joe Ray inherited Earnie Glisson with the job. He and Glisson had served as deputies together under the previous Sheriff Wilson Wallace.

At 41, Glisson was built like an ape, six feet tall with short bandy legs and long muscular arms. All his height was above his beltline, which he wore below his belly; no real waistline was part of the equation. His shoulders were so wide he had to turn sideways for narrow doorways. 

Married for twenty-two years to his high school sweetheart, Glisson was the father of two boys and was a borderline but functional alcoholic. Earnie and his boys had, at best, a cordial relationship. His younger son was dealing drugs in Richmond and his older boy was in the 101st Airborne in Vietnam. Earnie’s wife Cheral had several fellows she was seeing on the side.

Dennis O. Roy, 24, was only five-six but weighed nearly 200 pounds. He was stocky, blocky, smart, and extremely strong. Dennis was dark-skinned, black-haired, brown-eyed, and very good-looking. His voice was a rumbling bass, which was heard regularly in the Sunday choir at New Zion church. Still single, he lived alone less than a mile from the sheriff’s office in a rented converted garage in Jefferson, the county seat.

Deputy Roy was fulfillment of a promise that Joe Ray made to the black congregation of the Jefferson African-Episcopal-New Zion church. All the adults at New Zion had registered to vote as soon as Virginia dropped both the Literacy Law and the Poll Tax, effectively opening voter registration to everyone over 21. Joe Ray promised the congregation of New Zion that he was progressive enough to be worthy of their votes. New Zion came through at the polls for Joe Ray and he kept his promise by hiring Dennis Oglethorpe Roy during the first week after the election.

Purvis Gordon was Mrs. Joe Ray Walker’s youngest brother and this alone accounted for his being a member of the sheriff’s department. At 27, Purvis Leray Gordon was pale and skinny with narrow shoulders and long neck in which his Adam’s Apple was prominent. He resembled a flamingo; however, he was strong with stringy arms and legs. Being so skinny, Purvis seemed taller than his five foot, eight inches. Purvis lived at home with his parents.

Purvis managed to finish high school then tried his hand at just about every local job going. In his first job he’d ground corn and wheat at the Southern States mill. Unfortunately, during his first and only week he’d ground corn, then wheat, then corn all without cleaning the mill. The first batch of cornmeal was merely dusty, the next run was wheat with bright orange specks of cornmeal, and the final batch of cornmeal contained so much wheat that it was good for nothing except possibly animal feed.

Next he’d stocked shelves for Grey-Eyes Akin. Grey-Eyes had been legally blind for more than forty years but had known the layout of his goods and shelves well enough that he’d needed no help running his little store until Purvis’s daddy had talked him into giving Purvis a job. Purvis, with no empathy for nor understanding of blindness, proceeded to rearrange the goods on the shelves in alphabetical order. Grey-Eyes realized what was going on before the task was completed, fired Purvis, and got his neighbor’s girl in to put things back right.

Purvis then pumped gas, drove a heating-oil delivery truck, changed tires, worked in a riding stable, and ran an apple stand. All his attempts at gainful employment ended in some disaster and his being fired within days of having been hired.

Under pressure from his in-laws Joe Ray hired Purvis for twenty hours per week and for special events like firemen’s parades and summer carnivals. Purvis’ regular work hours were overnight, riding from village to village, calling collect to Culpeper County dispatch every hour, and being available should a situation arise. This reported theft from Jim Willie Thornton was the first time a situation had reared up.

— Assemble the Troops, Plan the Attack —

The call from Jim Willie had come in at just past ten and by eleven-fifteen Joe Ray had all his deputies assembled. Earnie, you and me, we’ll go to Jemison’s Holler. Put both sawed-offs in your car, in the front floor board. Bring plenty of ammo. I don’t think we’ll need any of this but let’s have it just in case. Earnie unlocked the arms case and began assembling his arsenal.

Dennis, you’re a nigra. (Dennis Roy did not need to be told this, his having been a Negro his entire twenty-four years.) I can’t send you into Jemison’s Holler and there might be trouble if you was on a roadblock, so you go to Mr. Jim Willie Thornton’s and take down his report. Write down as much as he’ll tell you… get anything you can including a description of the hog. You OK with going to Mr. Jim Willie’s? Don’t mind talking to a rich white man?

Sheriff, he’s just another white man, rich or not. I’m a law-officer. He’s a lawyer. I reckon he won’t intimidate me any more than he would any of y’all. Naw, I’m fine with going to Jim Willie’s.

With a heavy heart at what he was about to do, Joe Ray turned to Purvis. He had no choice but to allow his nearly-worthless brother-in-law to deal with the actual voting public. Purvis, you’ll need to set up a roadblock.

Which road? Where? How long? What am I looking for? Do I get a shotgun?

Joe Ray Walker sighed out loud. No shotgun. S’matter of fact Purvis, I am warning you not to even unholster that pistol of yours. Don’t you be waving that thing around and scaring good honest law-abiding citizens. You hear me?

Purvis nodded so Joe Ray continued, Set up your roadblock down on the F T road between the Madison county line and the turn-off for Jemison’s Holler. No matter where they going or where they coming from, any gallivanting Jemisons gotta use the F T Highway to get to the road going into their holler. That one paved road is the only way in or out.

Potomac County was seldom on-the-way-to-anyplace and even less frequently anyone’s destination. The county had only three highways that went anywhere.  The only direction that made sense for any hog-stealing, fleeing-back-to-the-holler Jemisons was the highway south toward Madison County. The single paved road into Jemison’s Holler turned off just about a mile north of the county line.

This road south was officially the Francis Thornton Highway, named for the original land-holder to come into what was now Potomac County. By roadblocking and searching cars along the F T Highway, the sheriff’s department effectively closed one-third of the ways in or out of the county and the most likely route for any miscreant Jemison either returning to or leaving from Jemison’s Holler.

"What you’ll be looking for is some of them Jemisons with a hell of big hog. Live or dead we want to find that hog and Jim Willie is convinced them Jemisons stole it. So check truck beds, car trunks, even station-wagon back-ends. It’s hard to hide three-hundred-fifty pounds of pork whether it’s walking around or butchered.

Now Deputy Gordon, you ain’t the man for this job being too excitable and all but you’re what I’ve got. Don’t shoot anybody, don’t threaten no one, be polite as you can be, and act professional. Can you do that?

Again Purvis nodded then said, I should have me a shotgun in case there’s serious gun-play. What about back-up? Will I get any back-up?

High Sheriff Walker turned to Deputy Dennis Roy. When you finish over at Thornhill go on over and be Purvis’s back-up. Let him do the searching and stuff unless there’s a carload of coloreds... you could search them if you want to.

Purvis asked, Do I search coloreds until Roy gets there? Or can I make them wait until a colored deputy gets there?

Dammit Purvis. Search anyone and everything. I just meant Dennis here wouldn’t get a complaint if he did search a colored car. Search everyone and act professional. Y’all both get going now. Me and Earnie have to get into and out of Jemison’s Holler before late afternoon. We don’t want to be driving around in that deep-assed holler in the dark. Let’s meet back here at six. OK?

All the deputies mumbled something like OK except Purvis who asked, Do we synchronize watches?

What does your watch say?

Squinting at the dial of his wrist-watch Purvis answered, Eleven-thirty... thirty-one.

Close enough. See you at six. Here. Sober.

Within minutes all three sheriff’s department cars had headed off to different destinations. Except for the night back in 1964 when that Wilson boy from over at Stone’s Tavern tried to shoot his brother-in-law and got himself sliced open with a straight razor, this was the most activity that the Potomac County Sheriff’s Department had ever seen.

Earnie drove and Joe Ray rode shotgun. Today the term shotgun actually meant something, with the two sawed-off twelve-gauge automatic shotguns in the right hand floorboard beside Joe Ray’s feet.

High Sheriff Walker fretted aloud, Dammit Earnie, I hope that silly-assed Purvis don’t hurt anyone.

— The Theft and the Thieves —

With no real information, Jim Willie had been correct in his suspicion of the Jemisons. Lukis and Carrion Jemison had indeed stolen General Jackson, Thornhill’s prize young boar. The thieves had driven into the farm just after four in the morning, tied a string through General Jackson’s nose-ring, and led him up a two-by-twelve plank into the back of their pickup truck. The two-by-twelve was brought specifically for the purpose of hog stealing. Lukis and Carrion were both so drunk it was a feat that they had remembered why they had come and even more of a feat that they had done the deed.

With the hog in the bed of the truck, the thieves tied his legs, trussed him up and as carefully as possible for two drunks and a large hog, laid him on his side and covered the bed with a tarp. They abandoned the plank, leaving it on the ground outside General Jackson’s pen.

They left Thornhill with as much stealth as they had apparently managed when arriving and drove directly to the nearest bootlegger for a fifth of cheap liquor. With the celebratory hooch and the purloined porker, they found a seemingly deserted spot on a dirt track near the F T Highway to drink their whiskey, celebrate the robbery, and plan their next move. Both promptly fell asleep. When Lukis awoke, a few minutes past noon, the hog was snorting and rolling and attempting to stand. He was making too much noise and was about to become a serious liability.

Lukis stepped about ten feet away from the front of the truck to take a leak and get his bearings. He was peeing in a large arc, looking out at traffic on the highway, when he realized that what he was seeing was a sheriff’s department car, several white sawhorse barriers, and a deputy sheriff conducting a roadblock. He ran back to wake Carrion and try to quiet the now thrashing, squealing hog.

What had caught Lukis’s eye at the roadblock manned by a Deputy Sheriff was the backlog of vehicles on the F T Highway, which was never a busy road. There were seven vehicles stopped and waiting on the deputy’s permission to continue, three coming into the county