Lacy and Oliver

By Ron Kennedy

In addition to select experiences from the author's life, Lacy and Oliver cites events in the lives of maternal grandparents and great-grandparents. Spiritual strength, resiliency, and unconditional love allowed them to effectively negotiate a wide range of difficult and tragic family events. A glimpse of pioneer life is presented, as is a limited account of life in an early coal camp. Central to the writing is the life of the author's grandmother who lives to the age of 101 years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643002408

Book preview

9781643002408_cover.jpg

Ron Kennedy

Lacy and

Oliver

ISBN 978-1-64300-239-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64300-240-8 (Digital)

Copyright © 2018 Ron Kennedy

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Preface

This writing is intended for family and those who knew Utah and Bessie Kiser. Although based on facts, failure to document stories at the time of conveyance necessitates retrieval of embedded memories which offers potential for inadvertent inconsistencies. Conspicuously, introductory pages are embellished with contrived fill-in material. For those most familiar with oral transmission, however, such actions and conversations plausibly approximate what actually took place. Of note is that cited locations vary with respect to county as Dickenson was carved out of parts of Wise, Russell, and Buchanan in 1880.

Burb is a descendant of Harden Owens and Rebecca Ramey. He was the son of James and Sylvia Sutherland Owens. Silvia (SIB) is a descendant of James (Jamie, the Scotchman) Sutherland and Sarah Buchanan Sutherland. Lize is a descendant of Peter Bowman and Jeremiah Compton. She was the daughter of William Jackson Bowman and Elizabeth Caroline Compton Bowman. Grandpaw and Granny first lived in a hollow above Duty View Church and near the Henry Sutherland cemetery. Their Bee residence was a part of her father’s original 1,300-acre tract.

Utah descends from Charles and Elizabeth Grossgloss Keyser. Charles (or Karl) emigrated from Baden-Wurttemberg, Germany in 1749. Utah was the son of Elihue Caperton Kiser and Missouri Powers Kiser (daughter of James Harvey Powers).

Other surnames within our line include Anderson, Cuntze/Kuntze or Counts, Stacey, Fuller, Powers, and Bolling. Known countries of origin include England (Wales), Ireland, Scotland, and Germany.

Relatives reading this are encouraged, if so inclined, to forward stories and/or information not addressed here for a more in-depth and more comprehensive writing at some point in the future. Most important to me is documentation of proud, self-sufficient, and intelligent individuals who, though of limited education, conveyed those principles which underpin our own successes and which merit passing on to our own descendants.

Although this narrative encompasses Bessie’s life of 101 years and that of her offspring, it emanates from fondness for her family and lifelong fascination with her childhood which includes a traumatic event centering on brothers Lacy and Oliver.

Front: Jim and Sib; L-R: Donie, Mag, Eura, Mindy, Elizabeth, Violet; Back: John, Bone, Rufus, Reen, Burb, Albert

Front: Spurge, Burb, Lize, Lell; Back: Oliver, Winnie, Vernie, Ross, Gaye, Bessie

Chapter 1

Burb’s Apparition and Family Tragedy

Nearing the ridge’s crest, Burb ingested deep breaths of fog-laden morning mist. Virgin poplars and hemlocks which canopied the steep, winding path shimmered with night’s heavy dew. It was yet an hour’s walk to his work site where pick, shovel, sledgehammer, and crowbar awaited his crew for widening an existing sled road from Birchleaf to the Buchanan County line. Distant mountains were rimmed with a hint of emerging sun. A bit further, an oblique view of a magnificent white stallion evoked, Well! What a horse! What’s he doing way up here in the graveyard this time of day? Cautiously approaching the animal, Burb slid a calloused but gentle hand along its strong back. Its neck was lowered as if grazing. Upon reaching the front quarter, knees buckled and heart sank. Before him, blood oozed from a decapitated head into one of two newly dug graves. Cumulative effects of exhaustion from his job, unrelenting demand of farm chores, and responsibilities to family, almost certainly, rendered the creature an apparition. Although previously spared the experience, Burb’s maternal lineage had long experienced premonitions and paranormal events.

Work that day was slowed by jutting outcrops of stubborn rock, which in the absence of available explosives, dictated systematic churn drilling, wedging, and prizing (prying). Crackling, snapping, and thunderous echoes accompanied descending trunk-sized remnants to an awaiting creek bed far below. By midmorning, clothing’s dampness from early dew was displaced by that from steady steams of sweat. Burb, who by nature was soft-spoken and more of a listener than conversationalist, was more reticent than usual throughout the day. Oblivious to incessant chatter and frivolous work crew kidding, his thoughts were consumed by potential implications of his early morning sighting. Scrutiny of the site during his evening return revealed no graves, no horse, nor an indication that one had recently been present. The old saints, unperturbed, continued in their peaceful slumber amid rugged vistas and Burb’s haunting memory. By gum, it shore looked real, he reflected. It felt warm and smelled just like any other horse I ever smelled. Steam risin’ from its back.

Next day, well before daybreak, he ate his breakfast while Lize placed some biscuits and fried pork into a small lard bucket for his lunch. Animals had already been fed. While slipping into work clothes, Burb uneasily shared his disturbing experience with Lize. He was more sluggish than usual. Sleep had been intermittent and agitated by recurrent visions of the gruesome image.

Reckon, it could be a sign? Maybe you’d better not work today. Although apprehensive, he continued to ready himself for another laborious day. Burb, I’m awful uneasy. Snakes, dead limbs … anything could happen … be careful. In this rugged terrain, there was no shortage of rattlesnake or copperhead dens.

Following a bait of gravy, biscuits, mush (sweetened grits), sausage, and eggs, the children engaged routine morning chores, during which they were unusually playful—pulling pranks and exchanging feisty remarks. Unexpected and premature departure of their teacher left a void which they had no problem filling with an endless array of imaginative pursuits. Lize had just pulled up her milking stool, cleaned Ol’ Jerse’s utter with a damp cloth and extracted a few good streams when a gun shot from the direction of the house was followed by a series of hysterical shrieks. Milk and water buckets clanged against the stall as she bolted from her perch. Heart pounding violently, an ankle-length dress did little to slow her frantic dash along the winding cow path. As Lize burst through the door, sights of pooling blood and sanguine wall drippings evoked a litany of frantic prayers. Burb had just passed the old cemetery when echoes of the event pounded his ear. Without regard for the existing path, he tore violently through underbrush, briers, mountain laurel, and groves of thick rhododendron with little cognizance of scratches, face-slapping branches, or intermittent tumbles. Breathless entry into the hewn log dwelling, found Lize fervently pleading for divine intervention as she held the limp body of Little Lacy.

No Lord! No! The first-time sight of their father’s tears added yet another element of distress for the children. What happened? Where’s Oliver? Four-year-old Bessie, with dazed eyes and blood-splattered dress, recounted the event. Little Vernie, who was barefoot and had only recently started walking, left an ominous blood trail to the fireplace where she sat with a tightly embraced corn-shuck doll. Second and third in birth order, Winnie and Ross had fled to the porch concerned, not only for little Lacy but also for their big brother who was last seen thrashing through thickets above the spring house. Repeated calls for him were unheeded. Clutched securely in her father’s arms as she was scrutinized for possible injury, little Bessie, in the words and manner of a traumatized four-year-old, noted that Lacy, still a toddler, had playfully grabbed Oliver’s hat. Running from room to room, he hid whenever his oldest brother inquired about it. Readying himself for a squirrel hunt, the thirteen-year-old stood atop the sewing machine for retrieval of his dad’s 12-gauge which, for safety purposes, rested near ceiling level. He opened the breach, perceived a glistening reflection as light from an open barrel, and closed it. Lacy reappeared with a mischievous smile and, clasping Bessie’s hand, continued to hold the cap behind his back.

Cooperating in the play, Oliver said, Give me my cap, or I’ll shoot you. Lacy continued laughing and taunting. Dramatic cocking and pointing of the gun accompanied a final plea. Following a