Edited - Little Greenbrier Spelling Bee

             The Little Greenbrier School sits in a tiny cove on the north side of the park. It is reachable from the Metcalf Bottoms picnic area. One of the first things noticed is a graveyard surrounded by a weathered picket fence. Many children are buried within, struck down in their early years by different types of ailments. As with most cemeteries in the Smokies and elsewhere, it is obvious when a sickness ran through the community by the dates on the tombstones. Many of the old and young would have died in the same time frame.

            The school itself is a simple one-room structure representative of many that once stood in this area. Unlike today, there were no set dates for the start or end of the school year. The teachers were usually not from the immediate area. The community would pool their resources and pay them to teach lessons to the children for as long as their payment provided. In many cases, there were weeks in between school sessions. In larger communities, such as Cades Cove or Cataloochee, a teacher could be hired from the community to make school more routine.

            We attended a ranger led program at the school that took a turn we did not expect. A retired school teacher named Miss Elsie Burrell was there to give a very informative talk on the school and what some kids went through just to get to school. Many walked for miles on trails over the nearby ridges to get a chance at education. A small piece of this education was learning how to spell and she was about to show us how spelling bees were conducted in the late 19^th to early 20^th centuries.

            We have all participated in spelling bees at different times throughout our years in school. They announced a word and either you rattled off the correct spelling or you did not. That was all there was to it. Well, I assure you prior experience was no preparation for what was about to be learned in this schoolhouse.

            The confident air of a schoolteacher was apparent in this woman’s actions and tone of voice. Dressed in period attire, it was not difficult to picture her as an instructor within these walls. Her mere presence demanded attention as she detailed what was to be done. The assumption this would be easy was soon shattered, for there was more to this than how a word was spelled. After the explanation, volunteers were requested from the assembled group. I am sure the number of people curious to do this dwindled as her talk progressed. The handful of brave souls now gathered at the front of the schoolroom and the contest began.

            For every word given, a person had to do these steps.

1)                  Say the complete word

2)                  Say the first syllable

3)                  Spell the first syllable

4)                  Say the first syllable again

5)                  Say the first and second syllable

6)                  Say the second syllable

7)                  Spell the second syllable

8)                  Say the second syllable again

9)                  Say the first and second syllable again

As you can see this gets progressively harder.

10)              Say the first, second, and third syllable

11)              Say the third syllable

12)              Spell the third syllable

13)              Say the third syllable again

14)              Say the first, second, and third syllable again

When you have spelled the last syllable, say the complete word again to finish. As you can imagine, this was over in record time without a winner. I have always considered myself a pretty good speller, but as a bystander, I was confused with them get tongue-tied.

Consider what the kids learned in this manner in the 1800s and early 1900s. It makes you wonder. Has progress given or taken away ? Is what we have gained worth what we have lost ?

Miss Elsie provided this wonderful program for the public until she was 95 years old. Sadly, she has passed on but her memory remains for those whose lives she touched as a schoolteacher and in her daily life.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke

Edited - Get Out of the Car !

            Upon arrival at the campground, my mom would always get out of the car and help direct my dad as he backed the pop-up camper into the campsite. In route, I would attempt to stay awake as much as possible. However, mom usually slept the whole way there and was half asleep each time this occurred. Things did not go as planned one particular early morning.

            I had lost the fight with sleep and dozed off. The car door woke me when my dad stopped at the ranger station. Excitedly, I looked around in the realization we were there. My dad filled out the form and dropped it in the night box. I am not sure what time it was, but the sky gave no hints of dawn.

            He drove slowly through the campground and I helped look for the number post we would call home for the next week. After just a few minutes, we found it and he pulled up beyond the paved spot to allow room to back the camper in. He shook mom gently to tell her we were there and he needed help to back up. So far so good, but this is about where the normal routine ended.

            She nodded sleepily, opened the door, and started to step out. Partially leaned out into the darkness, she froze, slowly pulled her leg back in and muttered “no” very quietly. Dad just looked at her and insisted he needed her to get out and help him back up. Her eyes slowly looked out the door and she again quietly declined.

            My dad was a little tired and as this charade continued, he started to get irritated. My mom, however, continued to decline. I can only attribute her silence to the fact she did not know what to do and had been abruptly awakened. Even I was got in on the act an prodded her to just get out of the car. I was just as much confused as my dad. What could be the problem ?

            Finally, my dad all but shoved her toward the door. At this point, she looked at him and her eyes flashed. She told him if he wanted someone to get out, he would have to do it. Incredulous, he looked at her and asked why. With an icy glare in return, she quietly said, “there is a skunk right outside my door.” Silence momentarily echoed throughout the car before laughter soon replaced it.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke

A Constant Learning Experience

Writing is a constant learning experience, as is life. I have worked on and off over the last decade in the compilation of my manuscript Under the Smoke, submissions to publishers, edits, submissions to agents, and more edits. I bought a book which contained very helpful information in regards to assistance and knowledge in the publishing industry. This resulted in my webpage and this blog to increase exposure and create a fan base.

Thanks to my mother, I now have several more books on Hemingway and tools to help the writer improve his/her work. Yes, that means more learning and more edits. In on of the books, it lists things to do or not to do with word or sentence structure. It was disturbing and slightly humorous to discover I had been guilty of many of the "not to do" items. Should I take this writer at his word just because he said so ? Well, considering he is with the Poynter Institute, I probably should !


When I started on Under the Smoke, my interest was only to write factual, historical, and outdoor text with the outcome to share and educate others. Combined with a look back at the work of two of my favorite authors, Hemingway and Steinbeck, and my World Literature class I am currently taking, I have begun to toy with the idea of fiction and historical fiction.


One of the books I just finished reiterates how those around you can be sources of characters and conversations. This ties in well with sociological observations covered in another college class. It really should not be too difficult to observe and use what I absorb to construct believable people and actions. A thought and action process not to be rushed. Some edit while they write and others give their fingers free reign before they start the edit process. I tend to do both.


I will not abandon Under the Smoke. Since it is filled with my own personal experiences within the Smoky Mountains, it has a special place in my heart and mind. As years progress and more memories are created, I will probably write more like it whether about the Smokies or Yellowstone or a myriad of other places. For now, edits are in high priority to improve its quality and flow.


Simultaneously, ideas, plots, characters and locations seep from the recesses of my jumbled mind in brief mental stills or quick action shots. Notes taken down to keep these from being forgotten will hopefully form into viable fiction.


What does my future hold ? What will I continue to write ? History is a passion and the degree being pursued. I doubt I will ever break away from it as a basis for the majority of what I write. There are so many eras and subjects within them to pick from. However, that is not say I will not deviate and try other subjects out.


Stay tuned !

Chimney Tops Boulder Jumping

             About halfway between Gatlinburg and Newfound Gap is a large picnic area named after a popular trail not too far away. The Chimney Tops picnic area used to be one of the developed campgrounds within the park. Now dotted only with tables and a few bathrooms, it is still a very nice place to come and relax for a few minutes or half the day. A wide creek runs right through the area tumbling over and around large boulders. Some of them are so big it is easy to imagine they were piled there by giants.

            We decided to stop for lunch one day when the kids were still little. While eating, it seems the large rocks kept beckoning to them for it was not long before they asked to go climbing on them. Since the water was low and remained only a trickle in many places, we made their day by saying yes. Of course, the child in me also wanted to join them.

            They were amazed at some of the rocks whose true size probably could not be seen when the water was at normal level. Up, over, and on to the next one they scrambled jumping across when the distance allowed. Slowly, we worked our way downstream. Occasionally they would find one big enough to explore further and find it warranted being climbed again.

            Before long, we had traveled a couple hundred yards down the creek and found ourselves out in the middle of the shallow water. We had to retrace our path upstream to find a place where the rocks once again neared the bank. The kids had no qualm with that if you can imagine. Even then, they did not want to make their way off the rocks.

            Before we left, a picture was taken of them sitting on one of the largest boulders. Through the years, we have intended to make it back here for another lunch and “boulder jumping” excursion. The plan was to get more pictures of them on the same rock to show how much they had grown from prior visits. Unfortunately, time and other things have kept us from doing that. Maybe it will be possible to get them all together again in the future and add the grandkids as well.

Excerpt from Under The Smoke

 

Condemned

            The tent used when the kids were little was a two-room monstrosity. Zipping together a partition could separate the two sides of the tent. This served our purpose for a number of years, but I guess even camping gear has a life expectancy which seems to run out at the most inopportune moments.

            The kids would sleep toward the back of the tent while we would sleep near the front. Over time, a small hole started at the seam near the ground in one of the back corners. Of course, the kids could not leave it alone. One of them would always pick at it a little more as they fought sleep gradually making it bigger.

            Late one night as we slept, the weather made a turn for the worst. Clouds rolled in accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder and lightning flashed on the horizon. The wind rustled leaves as it brushed the treetops. The sounds of the approaching storm stirred us somewhat but did not really concern us. This was not to be the first rain weathered in a tent nor the last, but it would become one of the most memorable.                                      

            The breeze stiffened to gusts of wind. Trees swayed and our tarps snapped sharply above the tent. Drizzle at first, the rain soon poured from the sky in blowing sheets through the campground. Bright flashes danced across the sky illuminating the forest for moments at a time. Thunder echoed endlessly off the mountains.

            During this deluge, it happened. A strong gust grabbed the hole just right and ripped it all the way across the back of the tent. Rain poured in and the wind caused the tent to come alive. The sides and top would blow outwards and then back in. When I awoke, the tent appeared to be coming down on me. A startled cry escaped my lips as I jerked to a sitting position and looked around. It was a terrible way to wake up.

            Hurriedly, I threw shoes on and ventured outside into the lashing storm to see if anything could be done about the tent. In no time, I was drenched and it was not looking good for the tent either. There was no way to fasten any stakes or line to the ripped canvas. My only option was to move the tarp over the tent down to cover more of the exposed rear. To do this, I had to untie the ropes holding it. The wind thoroughly enjoyed itself at this point making it no easy task getting the tarp situated again. The tarp was whipping around like a canvas sail torn from its mast.

            Finally accomplishing what had temporarily seemed impossible, I sloshed back inside. My ex-wife had faired little better than I. The rain had created puddles that joined together to form a small lake within the tent. She now had all the driest blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows piled in the center of the tent. On this pile, we all huddled for the remainder of the mostly sleepless night.

            The next morning dawned with clear skies. Besides the tent, the only evidence of Mother Nature’s fury the night before was small tree limbs littering the campsite and a few things blown off the picnic tables. After a close inspection of the damage, it was decided this tent had made its last trip. We could stand at the front and look straight through out the back. I think it took most of the day for the sun to dry our soaked gear. Fortunately, the rest of the trip was free from rain.

Attempting to find humor in the whole situation, I tore a piece of cardboard from a box for a sign to hang over the front entrance.

It said just one word, “Condemned”.

Nocturnal Aviators

           The campfire had been burning for some time evident by the large mound of glowing embers under the flaming logs. Dinner long over and smores demolished, we sat in chairs around the fire talking and laughing. I do not remember the exact topic of conversation, but with kids it usually jumped around quite often. One of their favorites was trying to come up with scary stories or retell ones they could remember.

            The difference this night would be something seen vaguely in my peripheral vision. It was a sudden and momentary movement just beyond the light cast by the fire. For just a second, something was there and gone. A few minutes later, I saw it again appearing to move in a different direction. I soon began to suspect it was not my imagination. Something alive and elusive was toying with me knowingly or not. Through the laughter and boisterous talk of the kids I picked up another sound seeming to occur immediately after each appearance. It was similar to the noise created by lightly slapping an open hand on a picnic table.

            Interrupting the conversation circling the fire, I asked if anyone else had seen or heard anything. When prompted, I described it in more detail resulting in a reaction not altogether unexpected. Convinced I was making it up in an attempt to get them spooked, the kids did not believe me and returned to their youthful laughter. For the next hour or so, I kept seeing it – almost – and hearing that faint slapping noise. With my flashlight, I looked and looked, straining the beam into the nearby trees where I could have sworn I just saw it.

Remaining elusive, I was about to wonder if indeed I was losing my mind when the faint sound broke through during a momentary break in everyone’s voices. All eyes looked at me and then peered into the darkness. Almost in unison, there was a mad scramble as flashlights were scooped up and beams of light resembling searchlights quickly illuminated the woods around us.

            After much searching of branches and dark recesses of possible thick–leaved havens, lights slowly went off as things returned to normal. Nothing else odd was seen or heard that evening. I believe whatever it had been was scared off by the “Fourth of July” illumination of its dark world. Its night vision was probably screaming in agony.   

            Cup of coffee in hand in the early morning light, I looked through a couple of my field guides in order to explain the previous evening’s visitor. I knew what I had seen was not my imagination running rampant and wanted to prove it as best I could.

The answer discovered was a little known or thought of creature. It did not come to mind because I had never seen one before. In fact, guess I never really saw this one either, just a glimpse of it’s flight.

            I came to the conclusion it was a Southern or Northern flying squirrel. Though both are less than fifteen inches long, the latter is the largest of the two. They do not really fly but can glide nearly 80 feet by using the flap of skin between the fore and hind legs. Alighting lightly, they immediately dart around to the opposite side of the tree in case their landing was followed by a predator. This would explain why we saw nothing, no matter how many times I thought we were shining the light on the correct tree.

The former is more common in the lower 48 states with its range extending from Oklahoma and Texas up to Minnesota and east across the country from Florida to New England. The Northern species is found mostly in Canada but also in the extreme northwestern states, Great Lakes area, New England, and a long finger extending down into the Smokies along the Appalachian Mountains. Both species eat mostly nuts, acorns, seeds, berries, and some insects though they have also been known to eat smaller animals. Their call is faint and quite often mistaken for birds.

Next time darkness creeps upon you and sounds of something lightly slapping trees is heard, do not let fear get the best of you. Remember it is more than likely one of the nocturnal aviators of the wild.

Skunk Hill

             After crossing Abrams Creek near the western end of the Cove, there is a gravel turnoff to the right leading to the parking area for the Abrams Falls trailhead. The slope to the right of the parking area has for several years been referred to affectionately as Skunk Hill. Quite often near dusk, skunks had been seen waddling around on this hill as we drove through the Cove looking for wildlife.

We decided to stop and walk around on the hill looking for possible holes they would use as burrows. Before thinking we were crazy to be looking for the homes of skunks, keep in mind it was mid-afternoon. From everything we had read and heard, skunks were nocturnal. They would definitely not be out with the sun blazing overhead.

            My memory fails me as to why, but my mom elected to stay by the car. So, my dad, sister, and I set off into the calf-high grass armed with cameras and binoculars. It seems we never went anywhere in the mountains without them.

            Near the top of the small hill, we found a hole about a foot in diameter. There could have been more, but this was the first one we came across. At close inspection, this could indeed be the entrance to a burrow. The grass around the hole showed signs of being worn recently and claw marks could be seen around the edges. The difficult part was knowing whether or not the resident was a skunk. We could not be exactly sure.

            Being a young boy, I poked at the opening and threw things in it. My sister was saying I was going to get us all “skunked”. While chastising me for my actions and telling me to “cease and desist”, my dad kept reminding us that skunks did not come out during the day. We had nothing to worry about. Or did we ?

            As we stood there looking around at the scenery, sudden movement in our peripheral vision jerked our attention back to the ground near our feet. We were startled to see a dark nose sniffing around just at the edge of sight in the hole. Moments later, a dark head appeared with eyes black as coal. Temporarily frozen in place, we realized the head was not just dark. It was black and we could see the start of a white stripe behind the ears.

            “SKUNK !!!!!!”

            I am not sure if any of us actually screamed this word, but it was reverberating in my own mind. A brief pause of shock was followed by simultaneous action as we ran and stumbled back down the slope. I remember looking back once and seeing the skunk bounding along behind us. My imagination gave the little mammal the speed of a cheetah just knowing he would be upon us at any moment permeating the air with an awful smell. 

            To my mom standing by the car, it was quite comical. The three of us were running like a mountain lion was after us, but the only thing she saw was a little black mass in the grass. If it was chasing us, it definitely was not gaining ground. It dawned on her what it was and the humor of the situation sank in. We were being run off the hill by a skunk. Bursting into the parking area, she insisted we stop right where we were. She feared we had already been sprayed, but we assured her that was not the case.

            Breathless with hearts racing, we looked back up the hill. The skunk was now wandering aimlessly around. Other things had attracted his attention and we were completely forgotten. From that point on, we never took anything for granted in the wild. Even in the wilderness, there are exceptions to the rule.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke