Four Short Sketches

Never Say Die

You know the old saying "Never say die." Well, I learned that lesson from a cat! When I was a young boy I was over at my Grandfather McShan's house one day, out in the back yard, and just happened to see two big hound dogs attack a small cat.

There were lots of cats at my Grandfather's house. They actually lived under the house and were fed by my Grandfather's cook and maid, but they were too wild to catch or play with. This was one of those cats. If I recall correctly, the two hound dogs, big ones, belonged to my Grandfather's maid's husband, Joe Guyton.They lived just a stone's throw behind his house and the dogs would wander up into his yard on a pretty regular basis.

I guess the barking of the dogs caught my attention, and when I saw what was transpiring, I just knew I was about to see a cat ripped to pieces by those big ol' dogs. They were closing fast, and the cat, knowing it had no chance to run, turned and faced the dogs with its back arched high and with a loud and long spitting hiss. I didn't want to see the carnage, but I couldn't turn my eyes away. It all happened so fast!

The dogs attacked in unison, and then all I could see was whirling fur (the cat) and two big dogs trying desperately to back out of there as fast as they could - but not being able to do so fast enough. They were hollering and yelping in pain and fright, and when they were able to get clear of the razor blade claws of that cat, they high-tailed it out of there on the double-quick! It was all over in a matter of perhaps two or three seconds at most. As a consequence of their supposed grand adventure of killing a cat, one of those dogs was permanently blinded in both eyes. The other was much luckier, receiving only bloody cuts on nose and muzzle, head and ears. The cat didn't suffer a scratch.

That cat, I believe, was certain he was about to be killed, but he had a "never say die" attitude. He might be about to die, but he wasn't going down without a fight. As a consequence he not only lived but was totally victorious in the fray. That lesson has never left me. It is one thing to hear a saying such as "Never say die." It is quite another to see it so clearly demonstrated - and by a cat at that!

Pet Rooster

My Grandmother McShan suffered from mental illness back in the days when there was no treatment for it. They didn't even know the proper diagnosis like we do now. She was probably bi-polar which, although a serious mental illness, is now very treatable and controllable. Back then, sadly, it was not. As a consequence she had a hard life and so did the whole family, my Mother included. When she was "at herself" she was a generous-hearted and good person. [She was a Manning. The Mannings are "salt of the earth" folks, and I'm very proud to claim the Mannings as a part of my ancestry.]

Anyway, on with my story: When I was very small, perhaps about three years old, my Grandmother had a pet rooster. It was huge (at least in the eyes of a three year old) and very beautiful, with gold, bronze and black feathers. My Grandmother loved that rooster!

Well, one day I was looking at the rooster and ventured a little too close. Now roosters are not known for their social graces or even-tempered dispositions, and this one proceeded to attack me with beak and claws, and with wings flapping furiously. I'm sure I was "injured" slightly, but for the most part I was scared half to death by the furious feathers and, being so young, began to cry and carry on as little children will do when such things happen to them. My Grandmother went into an uncontrollable rage. She grabbed her beloved rooster by the neck and began to swing him around over her head, like a lasso, until that bird's head came off and the body went flying!

For a long time after that fearful event - years in fact - I would have nightmares about that incident. But it wasn't the attack of the rooster I remembered with so much fear. I quickly got over that. No! It was the fearful rage of my poor Grandmother and the violent end of the rooster which frightened me and traumatized me for several years to come in my early childhood days. It was absolutely terrifying to me! And I actually felt sorry for that rooster and, strangely, mourned and regretted his dying in such a violent way.

And as I think back on it now it occurs to me that, after all, he was just being a rooster, which is the only thing that he knew how to be! And I suppose you could say he died a "natural death" for a chicken, getting his neck wrung like that.

The Descending Casket

My Grandfather's house, Melrose, Circa 1850's, is a Greek Revival house with not only the traditional front center hall but also a side hall. The staircase, however, is in the front hall or "center hall", as they are generally called. The stairs go up to a landing, turn to the right, go to a second landing, and turn right again, then reaching the second floor. Overlooking the staircase is a balcony running the width of the hall. Well, it seems that back when the Beards, being the family which built the mansion and owned Melrose Plantation, still lived there, one of the Beard ladies died in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It is said that she was so overweight (back then they referred to it as "large") that they couldn't carry her body down the stairs, it being possible to have only one man at each end when descending.

After having tried several times and failed, it was decided that the lady's corpulent earthly remains would be placed in her coffin and lowered by ropes over the balcony railing down to the floor of the first floor hallway. This was apparently accomplished without incident. However, from then on it was said that if you were walking through the hall and looked up you might be confronted with the ghostly apparition of an old-fashioned wooden coffin being lowered down upon you! Or at least hear the creaking of the ropes as they slid slowly over the wooden railing.

Well my Mom grew up at Melrose and was very familiar with the legend of the "ghostly casket", as were my Aunt and Uncle. Then, when we grandchildren were visiting in the old house - both my siblings and my cousins - we were also told the story. I'm sure the ritual we followed thereafter was the same as that practiced by my Mom and Aunt and Uncle when they were growing up in the house. We would venture into the rear of the hall, with great trepidation, look up to make sure the coffin wasn't descending, gather our courage, and then run as fast as we could under that overhanging balcony, so that the ghost in the coffin wouldn't "get" us!

Now to my knowledge my Mom never saw that coffin descending, nor heard the creaking of ropes, and neither did we. Was it just a story, or had the ghost arrived at a state of peace and desisted in haunting the old mansion? Too much time has passed to ever know now, as it has been well over a hundred years since the Beards occupied Melrose.

Water Moccasin

When my Mom and Dad built their "dream home" on the western shore of McShan Lake, in 1963, they situated it upon over seven acres of beautifully, naturally wooded sloping hillsides, leading down to the waters of the lake. We spent countless hours of toil clearing undergrowth, saplings and briers from the land, turning it into a park-like setting. Much of this brush was piled out in the water, just off shore, in huge piles, the purpose being to make breeding areas for the bream and shellcrackers.

After all the work was done my Dad, a great fly-fisherman, would sometimes climb out onto one of those piles in the afternoon, after work, and try to catch a "mess" of fish for supper. And he was usually successful! He'd carry his flyrod, flies and a fish stringer and "go to work". Well, one day Dad climbed out on one of the piles and commenced fishing. They were biting and he was stringing one nice bluegill after another on that stringer, then letting it down in the water to keep them alive and fresh.

Having the stringer about half full and having just caught another one, he turned to put it on the stringer when to his shock he discovered that all the stringer held was fish heads! A huge water moccasin had eaten all his fish right off the stringer! And he got an even bigger surprise when he looked up and found that the big ol' snake had made itself comfortable, after that bounteous meal, right on that brush pile and right between Dad and the shore. Dad was trapped, and that ol' snake clearly had the upper "hand"!

Other than Dad, I was the only one at home at the time, so he began to holler loudly for me to come down there with a shotgun, but, being inside the house, I couldn't hear him. Fortunately for Dad, Mrs. Maude Lyles, who ran the lake for public fishing, heard him yelling all the way from the old boathouse and called me on the phone. "Yore Daddy's callin' fer you to bring a shotgun an' come down there." So I grabbed my double-barreled sixteen guage Fox and headed on down the hill and along the shore to where Dad had been fishing.

When I got down there, Dad was excitedly telling me to shoot, even before I knew what to shoot at, or why, or where the target was. Once I understood what was going on, I began to look and, sure enough, there was a granddaddy water moccasin, just lying there on a big limb of that brush pile like the king of the world! And he may as well have been 'til that shotgun arrived. Without hesitation I leveled it at his head and fired twice, hitting him both times at close range and quickly killing him.

With the king dethroned, Dad was at last free to return to solid ground, which he promptly did. After that, he wasn't too quick to climb out on one of those brush piles to fish, preferring to just stand on the bank, or get out in a boat. My Dad was an in-charge, take-charge person, but that day he almost got whipped by a snake! And needless to say, we didn't have fish for supper that evening either. I guess in all the excitement, he must have let that last one go. Wish I could ask him!

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