Death on an Appalachian Hilltop
1920s, Clear Creek, Pennsylvania
By Ronnie Ray Jenkins
They once were a family of three, but death became the heartless mathematician performing its cold calculations, with subtraction leaving the final sum of two.
A father and his young daughter of barely 6 years old remained, and it was the father ushering the young girl from the room so he could pull the shades, signaling to the few townsfolk who waited outside that she now lay dead. The few caring folk whispered things in the drizzling rain like, “What will they do now? How will he raise her? He’s a man. A young girl needs a mother.” There were words of blame cast at him like stones for not taking her down from the hill to the doctor when she got the fever.
Their concern dwindled as they headed down the path from the four-room shack setting high on the hill away from the town. The small group of people walked away in a short weaving line of sad shaking heads, and their sympathy, like the rain, soon ended. There was talk of cooking some things and bringing them back up to the log cutter and the girl, but it went no further than talk. So it was the log cutter left with the task of burying his wife.
It was in the morning when she asked for her mother, and he tried his best to explain heaven, and when she stood above the ever-deepening hole growing in the dark damp soil, she expressed to him her confusion. If heaven is above, why, then, was her mother going down there? The log cutter hid his tears from her, and prayed that he’d hit rock with the shovel’s pointed tip so that his sobs might be covered by metallic grating on stone, and he made a great effort to gain composure.
She stood in the tattered dress, her blond locks damp against her forehead. Her downcast blue eyes looked on him and saw a hero. They had to survive together now.
They were outcasts long before the death of his young wife. They didn’t fit into the society of town. Long before his wife’s death, he heard the whispers when they went down to pay the bill at the general store. The words “hillbilly” and “hill folks” cut the air like a leather whip on his soul. He felt their eyes upon him. Yet those who laughed or looked or spoke in whispered gossip were the very same whose credit at the small store was late, while not once did he ever miss his payment.
Later that night, as the log cutter tucked his daughter in, she again talked of her mother. He ran his fingers through his thick black hair and tried once more to explain. He dried her wet tears with a worn cloth laundered by her mother on the washboard just last week, and when he finished, he couldn’t help but hold it to his face and breathe in the deep fragrance of the lye soap that she somehow knew how to perfume.
It was his wish that he might sing her a lullaby, but he knew only pieces of what his wife used to sing to her. He tried, but his daughter’s eyes, in the light of the coal oil lamp, reflected the truth. His gravelly voice was not that of her mother.
Sometime during the night, while his daughter slept, he removed his wife’s body from their room. In the small shed out back, he worked through the night to build her coffin. As the orange sun rose, painting the gray bark of the aspens and the beech with marmalade light, he dressed her in her best dress. The very same one she wore when they were married fewer than 11 years ago. He carried her to the shed in back of the small house.
As he fitted the lid, he wondered if he should let his daughter see her one last time. Agony, despair, and a mixture of emotions coursed through him much like a raging river after the winter thaw. He wished to have his daughter remember her alive, and he picked up the hammer. The tool’s smooth handle fit the calloused palm of his right hand as his left picked up thick nails.
The hammer served him well in happier times. It pounded the nails that built the shack called home. It pulled out stubborn spikes deep in trees that he removed to save the teeth on his crosscut saw. He loved the hammer then, but with the first hollow strike on the head of the nail locking her in forever, the log cutter hated the hammer. Each angry swing grew louder, and with the last nail, he fell to his knees and sobbed.
The log cutter never heard the door of the shed open. He only felt her small hand on his shoulder and her soft voice telling him she understood now. He was ashamed. He didn’t want her to see him like this. He squeezed his eyes hard, pushing out the last tear, and before he turned to face her, he wiped his strong forearm across his face. But she knew anyway. His pounding had woken her.
As he pivoted, his knee ground deep into the dirt floor of the shed. She reached with small arms half covered by the sleeping gown her mother made her last fall. She hugged him tight around his neck and smiled at him. How could he not be strong? Her blue eyes darted from the coffin and then back to his. Yet she never said a word. She told him that she would be back, and he watched her leave out the door.
Thinking that she had returned to the house, he struggled with the coffin and loaded it on the homemade cart he built for hauling firewood. If he were quick about it, maybe he would have her in the grave before his young daughter returned from the house. He didn’t want her to witness such a thing.
The mule came with one whistle, and he hitched it quickly to the wagon-size cart. He rushed into the shed, returning with a coil of rope, and led the solemn and lone procession toward the freshly dug grave all the while scanning the front door of the house for any sign of her coming. He worked feverishly at the grave, and with the mule and two trees close by was able to lower the coffin into the hole. His shovel cut the mound of dirt beside it when he heard her yell from the tree line just beyond the cleared land. She dodged old tree stumps as she ran toward him.
“Papa, wait. Please wait.”
The log cutter stopped. What else could he do? It was her mother. As she grew closer, he saw the bouquet of wild flowers held tight in her hands. There were tiger lilies and thin vines of honeysuckle and trailing arbutus, all roped together with strands of ground pine. There was a look of peace and acceptance on her young face. He wondered if she understood the finality.
“It’s OK, Papa, you can finish now.”
The tendons in his wrists ached with the squeezing of his hands wrapped around the rough handle of the shovel as he paused. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead, casting a shadow on the shafts of light that reached the top of the coffin. It was she, tossing the bouquet on the top of it, who signaled the beginning of permanence.
The anger lifted from his shoulders with each shovel full of dirt. Each thump of heavy soil brought him closer to realizing just how strong he’d have to be now and in the future. He would carry on with strength for her, for a better life.
With life comes death. They would make the headstone together sometime soon. The walk back to the shack was one of silence broken by the cooing call of a mourning dove. And by the happy voices of the townsfolk far below whose visit yesterday no longer existed in heart or mind.
For the log cutter and his daughter, the pain of loss would not be shared. It would remain their very own.
Ronnie Ray Jenkins spent his youth in Appalachia and lives to tell about it. Learn more at www.ronnierayjenkins.com.
Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, May 24th, 2007 | Email This PostThis entry was posted on Thursday, May 24th, 2007 at 12:01 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
27 Responses to “Death on an Appalachian Hilltop”
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May 24th, 2007 at 9:45 am
It is nice to see you again Ron…..and to hear your voice in your sad but excellent story.
May 24th, 2007 at 9:59 am
Beautifully written Ron. Made me teary eyed.
May 24th, 2007 at 10:16 am
Ron,
This is the second best story you have ever written about Clear Creek, the first being
your return home when your mother passed. It is a simple but beautiful and stunning
story. I was deeply moved by your words.
May 24th, 2007 at 10:31 am
Ron,
I have enjoyed your writing from the beginning.
You have a touch that gets right down into the emotions. Your vivid and descriptive writing puts the reader right in the midst of the events, and sends an uplifting message of the power of human nature, and of hope. Keep writing.
May 24th, 2007 at 10:45 am
Ron, the images were visual, the emotions ‘feel-able’. Well written. Glad to see you on this forum. Keep the stories coming and I’ll keep coming back.
Mary Mc
May 24th, 2007 at 11:13 am
Far past moving. The imagery of a writer like Ron Jenkins, slowly reaches the minds and sinks into the hearts of the people. We cannot help developing a personal relationship with the author through his apparently simple stories, where gentle beginnings are often linked to a long-lasting union, even after a character is gone.
This is the story about the human affair of life and death, and the confrontation with the responsibility to be a parent of a disrupted family. It reaches our emotion in a subtle way from different angles, where the drama is drawn in between descriptions of places and objects, and the life that keeps on as a faraway musical curtain. I love the way Ron does this with his potential of expressing whatever human situation, keeping our attention until the last word.
May 24th, 2007 at 1:13 pm
Once again Ron, I enjoyed reading your story. It is so well written and such a sad tale told so reverently. You are worty of every success you have and I wish you much. Congratulations on being published.
May 24th, 2007 at 1:41 pm
Ron, You know how I feel about your writing. You are truly one of a kind when it comes to this type of fiction. All of your stories leave you wanting for more, more, more. This is one of my all time favorite stories. I simply love it. It certainly tugs at the heartstrings.
Keep us posted on new writings or your book, which I’m sure isn’t too far off in the future. Good luck to you and your future deals. We’re all missing you but excited for you at the same time.
Lynn
May 24th, 2007 at 1:55 pm
Just to be clear, Lynn, this is a work of non-fiction. Common Ties only publishes true personal stories, and our writers all sign contracts confirming this. Thanks for the comments!
May 24th, 2007 at 6:01 pm
The hammer served him well in happier times. It pounded the nails that built the shack called home. It pulled out stubborn spikes deep in trees that he removed to save the teeth on his crosscut saw. He loved the hammer then, but with the first hollow strike on the head of the nail locking her in forever, the log cutter hated the hammer. Each angry swing grew louder, and with the last nail, he fell to his knees and sobbed.
amazing . . . please publish this Ron
May 25th, 2007 at 3:39 am
Once again Ron, you captured my full attention and offered a story I could not stop reading! How wonderful you write. I am so impressed by this story, it felt like I was right there with them watching and feeling every emotion. Congratulations, another winner! Please keep me posted, especially if this one develops into a longer version.
May 25th, 2007 at 10:23 am
Hey Ron,
I read this story already and I loved it. Congrats on your publishing this!!!
Charles D
May 25th, 2007 at 12:02 pm
Ron,
This is yet another story that goes right to the heart. Short and intense. I’ll carry this family with me for a long time. I hope to see more of your work soon.
Kirstie
May 26th, 2007 at 10:12 am
Ron,
This was so sad… It sure tugged at the heart strings. I’ve always loved your writing… You have such talent and I’m glad things are looking up for you!
May 26th, 2007 at 12:26 pm
Ron, I love this story, so vivid and clear. The description takes me back to my younger days here in Central Pennsylvania. I certainly hope you keep the words flowing and wish you success. Eric
May 26th, 2007 at 2:34 pm
Superb story, Ron. Thank you for turning me on to this site!
Spartan
May 27th, 2007 at 8:05 pm
Dear Ron
Loved your story, you are so talented. I am looking forward to read your first book.
You just have to do it Ron!
You simply can’t deprive us of you talent!
You own it to the people to share your talent!
Love
Ildy
May 28th, 2007 at 11:16 am
That was great.
You got MY eyes wet.
Oran
May 29th, 2007 at 11:56 am
Ron, this is one of your best.
May 29th, 2007 at 1:11 pm
Thank you Ron for sharing this with the Gather post.
May 29th, 2007 at 4:16 pm
So well done Ron. This was the first of your articles I read, and have been hooked ever since.
You have a real talent for detailing a time and place. Keep it going.
May 30th, 2007 at 6:48 am
ron - oh, such powerful writing. wow!
May 31st, 2007 at 10:19 am
Ron,
What an amazing and moving story!
May 31st, 2007 at 10:52 am
Being an avid reader, I can say with all honesty that your descriptive and heartfelt words rival that of any great author. You have a bright future ahead of you.
May 31st, 2007 at 5:25 pm
Whew I found you, and added you to my favorites..
You know what, Gather went haywire, I am on it tonight, but you noticed I never really published anything serious, a few pictures, a few jokes, tonight, I put a short excerpt from my book,, on there, but I knew right from the get go it was going to be like that because of the cliques on there and when I first got there, it felt like gossiping cat fight, but there are few good folks on there and now some professionals on there, it is ok,, just relax, I entered the Starbucks competition and I just heard that other people who entered like sent their Gather information to their email lists,, like hotmail, and other accounts and swamped the voting. I could do that do, but what would that serve, you now have my private email address and I can help you and you can help me, finding good places to publish, have you ever looked at Narrative Magazine? or Glimmertrain Press or Verbsap, I submit to REAL publications, you should too,, and just realize that Gather is sort of a writers chat site
and I still love Kurt Vonnegut, did you get his new book?
ok, keep in touch.
June 3rd, 2007 at 5:39 pm
I enjoy reading what you write, but I can\’t find other things you have written. Well maybe We will all see you soon on our trip to alaska. Congrats on your success.
June 8th, 2007 at 8:40 am
ron, that was a great story. as soon as i read the first line, my heart was like boom, boom, boom WOW. ITS EXCELLENT