Ralph vs The Open Road, Part 1

 

        One day that fall, Ralph got to thinking about all the roads that he and Millicent Price had traveled during all of their moving interviews. It wasn’t that he was discontented at home in the Great Forest among his loved ones. He was just very curious about everything out there.
            He was sitting with Ramoma the next morning as the sun came up by the fire circle. Such a beautiful morning that it made the heart ache for the sheer misty loveliness of it. Mist was drifting through the Home Clearing, and a diffident breeze was speaking to him.
            “The wind goes wherever it likes, and no one knows where that is,” he thought to himself.
            Then, “Mona, I’ve lived here in the Great Forest all of my life. It’s been perfect, and I know that. But the world is so big, and I have seen so little of it. I want to see more,” he said.
            “Well, I’m the same. I’ve never gone outside. I don’t really want to,” she said, taking a seat beside him where she could feel his solid warm substance. “Is there a way you could do that?”
            “I think there is. I’ve never done this before, because I had no need to,” said Ralph.
            “You would do that?” wondered Ramona.
“If I’m to go outside for a look around on street level without Milly, I will have to shift,” said Ralph.
            “Why don’t you try it now, when no one can see,” suggested Ramona. “I don’t think you can appear as a random Hairless person, you need a model. Who would be a good model?”
            “How about Ranger Rick, my most human friend?” mused Ralph.
            “Yes. That sounds good because you know him well,” said Ramona. “He’d be a good model for you.”
            So, Ralph smiled at Ramona and as he did, he took on the appearance of his friend Rick, whom he knew well.
            Ramona couldn’t help laughing, though it was a little scary to see Ralph looking like Rick.
            “You’re going to need to borrow some clothing from Rick, or Thaga or somebody, Ralph!” she giggled. “You can’t go exploring the world outside in your pink hairless skin like that!”
            “Oh! That’s right,” he said, shifting back to his native form. “Being Hairless must be a lot of fuss and bother! Imagine having to get dressed and put on shoes every morning. You’d be tired before you did anything else!”
            “I think they’re used to it pretty much. Ooog and Thaga and even Rick seem to get plenty done even with all that getting ready,” said Ramona.
            “It’s funny that the biggest problem I have going outside turns out to be clothing. I’m not sure how to get any. I might have to just show Rick and then borrow an outfit. I think he could handle it. Maybe. I hope so.”
            That decided, after breakfast, and playing with Cherry and Blue for a little bit, Ralph strolled on over to the Ranger Station. He found Rick indoors, fiddling around writing a report or something on his Lenovo.
            Ralph let himself in and took a seat facing Rick. Rick kept an oversized oak fat boy chair in front of his desk for Ralph or anyone else who appeared before him.
            “What’cha got, Ralph?” said Rick, still tapping away.
            “I got a wild and crazy idea, Rick. I’m not sure you can handle it, but you’re a pretty centered guy, so maybe?” said Ralph.
            Rick stopped typing and just looked at Ralph, waiting.
            “OK. It’s like this. I want to go take a look outside my domain here. Right? But I can’t do it looking normal. I have to look like one of you guys. I tried it with Mona this morning and it worked, but as I found out, I can’t just look like one of you guys with no clothes and go out to look around like that. So, I was wondering if I could borrow an outfit to wear, Rick,” said Ralph.
            “Ralph, old buddy, that’s the weirdest thing you ever said to me,” said Rick, with a wry nod.
            So, Ralph just smiled real big and did his thing. In a few seconds it was like Rick was looking at his identical twin, but a naked twin. His mouth dropped open, and he was rendered speechless.
            “See how it is, Rick?” said Ralph.
            “I guess I don’t need to really believe this, just kind of go with it, huh,” muttered Rick. “Yeah, sure, I have some stuff in the back. Come on, uh, Ralph,” he said.
            In Rick’s back room, hanging on some hooks were a pair of Levis, a  red and black checked flannel shirt and a worn denim jacket. Rick instructed Ralph about how to put this stuff on. He also had a pretty shot pair of high top Converse sneakers. Rick had to explain about those too. He didn’t have any spare socks handy, so Ralph had to go without those or underwear.
            “I dunno, Ralph. I just hope this doesn’t backfire somehow,” said Rick.
            “Thanks, Rick. I’ll bring them back when I’m done with them,” Ralph assured Rick.
            “Nah. Never mind. Keep them, burn them, put them on a bear, I don’t care. Just don’t get into trouble out there. I hope you don’t run into Sheila!” said Rick. That last idea kind of struck him as Ralph was going out of the office door and heading for the Home Clearing.
            What Ralph actually did was to vanish in amongst the trees and take off the borrowed outfit, resume his normal shape, bundle it all up and then stroll back home with the bundle under his arm. As he strolled along, Maeve caught up with him.
            “Boss, that was freaky. I don’t know what to say,” she said, talking anyhow.
            “Pretty neat trick, huh? I bet you thought I was Rick!” chortled Ralph.
            “Does Ramona know about this,” said Maeve, like the old bossy tail she was.
            “Yup, Birdy! Mona knows all!” said Ralph.
            “Evermore,” Maeve muttered underneath her breath.

🍀

How Does That Work, Anyhow, Ralph?

 

A view of the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, from the top.

 

            The question Milly was working on was for herself mostly. No reader had asked her this one. It seemed like an extremely pertinent matter to her.
            So, she made the usual arrangements with Maeve and found herself driving out the old familiar highway 20 route heading for Ralph’s domain. It was an early Saturday morning. Milly relished these drives out into the forest lands. It was a whole different scene from life in and around Milltown. Quiet. It seemed so quiet, even from the inside of the big green Escalade. There was just the strip of pavement, in two lanes, and the endless evergreen trees. Overhead was a misty blue strip of morning sky. Once in a while a crow would watch her from the verge. They reminded her of Maeve, of course.
            Colin was still drinking coffee at home in his jammies, enjoying the Saturday. He liked to veg. a day once in a while.
            Milly pulled up to the usual wide spot on the verge of the highway and gave a small polite honk. Maeve appeared, flying low and banked right by Milly’s side window. She said something, and took off into the forest.
            Maybe five minutes later, Ralph appeared. They often did these interviews in the Escalade because Ralph really like to go for a ride.
            “Hey, Ralph. Where would you like to go today? Any ideas?” said Milly.
                “Just drive, Milly. It’s all good to me,” he said agreeably, settling into the passenger seat, doing that squinching in thing he does.
            “Let’s just follow 20 out to Anacortes. It’s an interesting drive and doesn’t take all day,” said Milly.
            “Sure. I’ve never been there. What’s the scene?” he asked.
            “Oh, it’s kind of Indian country, rural, surrounded by salt water,” said Milly. “There’s a little place outside of town that sells smoked fish out of a little concrete block building. Might make a nice lunch.”
            Ralph kind of made himself a little hard to see clearly, for Milly’s sake. He didn’t want to cause any kind of notice or excitement. They drove on in cheerful silence for a while just watching the world go by outside of the windows.
            Finally, Ralph said, “What’s on your mind, Milly?”
“I thought you might be able to help me with something that bothers me. It seems strange. I can’t make sense of it. It’s just me, nobody has written asking me about this.”
            “OK. I’ll do what I can,” said Ralph.
            “I’m confused, Ralph. Every person who meets one of you people in the woods, or wherever, tells a different story. Sometimes the Hairy Man is terrifying, even if he doesn’t do anything hostile. Sometimes he just acts curious. Then there is the matter of appearance. That’s part of it. Some people report something ugly, or scary looking. There are different eye colors. Head shapes. Some people see an animal. Some see a man, or woman, or child.
            “Are the differences actual physical differences, or are they inherent, something in the observer’s makeup that causes them to see what they do? The differences don’t seem reasonable,” she said.
            “Oh. Hm. Well, some of that must be just natural variation. Human people are that way too,” said Ralph.
            “Right,” said Millie.
            “But, like, using myself as an example. You see me as you see me because of who you are. You are open, and wise and kind. Your first impulse so long ago on Camano Island was not fear, but curiosity.
            “But, usually when I meet people snooping in the woods, researchers, their preconceived judgment causes them to see a fearful creature capable of tearing them apart. Now, of course, I could, but you and I know that I wouldn’t!” said Ralph. “Their trouble, which they wear like a coat, is that they “know” that they are in danger if they meet me.
            “My question is, why do they do it then? Why come searching for what you fear from the bottom of your soul. I don’t get that. Wouldn’t it be better if they stayed home, and maybe watched videos?” he laughed.
            “Ah, Ralph. Human beings are conflicted creatures. They truly do not know their own minds, at least most of them don’t.
            “I also think there is an element of bravado. But, from the beginning, the best monster to beat is an imaginary monster. It’s safer but still exciting. It blows their cool when they see you!” Then Milly laughed.
            “I wonder if it goes the other way too, Ralph! Do you people have conflicting expectations when suddenly meeting a human person?” said Millie, suddenly, as if it was a new thought just then.
            “It might depend on who told who what, and who had what experience with a human person, you know? It’s all so subjective! How do you like that? I learned what that meant from Thaga. It’s a good one.
            “But we do have a slight advantage. We can tell when you first decide to come out into the forest seeking a meeting, what your unconscious true motives are. It helps us stay out of the way, if we need to,” said Ralph
            “Oh, maybe we’ll never figure it out,” said Milly, “and maybe it doesn’t matter that much.”
            “Someday, Milly, all questions will be answered. Just not today,” agreed Ralph.
            By the time they got to the outskirts of Anacortes it was definitely lunch time. So Ralph waited in the car while Milly went into the smoked fish shop and got a few pounds of the sweet kind of smoked salmon.
            She drove on into town, giving Ralph the tour of the waterfront, and the long main street. She showed him the old parts of town, leftover from earlier days.
            She bought some bottled teas at the AMPM place.
            Milly wanted to get home before late, so they turned around and retraced their miles going east on 20 until they reached the parking spot where she always picked him up and let him off.
            “Ralph, give my love to Ramona and thank her for me, will you? Oh, yes, nearly forgot. Chocolate for the ones who stayed home!” said Milly. She was happy that she had remembered the treat for Twigg and Cherry, and Ramona.
            “I’ll do that, Milly. Say hi to Colin. Tell him I wouldn’t mind seeing him one of these days,” said Ralph.
            Milly winked and took off as Ralph faded into the forest, as he always did.

🍁

A Bit Of The Rest Of The Story

 

Ground Zero

            Apparently Robert, the blond kid who took off up the river when he beheld Ralph eventually ran out of steam. At some point he was more tired than terrified. And since, the car he and Matt had parked by the Ranger Station was back the way he had fled from, he stopped, rested for five minutes, and decided that he better go on back.
            Robert and Matt encountered each other about a mile from the scene of the recent action. Neither one of them had anything to say. They just kept trudging down the riverbank, arriving at last to their camp area as was. It was a dismal sight. 6 Heineken cans lying around randomly, the butt of one expensive cigar lying where Matt had been sitting, the sodden coals of their camp fire, and their dampened packs and lightweight tents.
            Matt stuck the beer cans and the cigar butt in his pack. They took down the tents and walked as directly as possible to the old Civic parked outside Rick’s office door. They stuffed their stuff in the back of the car and Matt drove back out to the highway.
            “Matt?” said Robert from the passenger seat. He was kind of hunched over in the seat.
            “Yeah, what?” said Matt.
            “I don’t feel like that was real. You know? What really happened out there?” said Robert, hopefully.
            “Oh, well! Yes. That was real. You don’t get to decide if you like or don’t like real. Real just is. You met a mythic guy, who turned out to be a real guy, and we stole his stuff, etc.,” said Matt.
            That was the extent of the discussion. It didn’t take long to get back to town.

24 hours later….

 
            During the night, there had been a vigorous rainstorm. In the morning sunshine, everything was bright and fresh and still dripping rainwater off of every branch and twig and leaf. Birds were doing that thing like in the old Disney movies. These days, birds only behave like that in Ralph’s Great Forest.
            Ralph cracked his knuckles with delight. All the clouds from the previous day's events had left his mind. This drippy sunshiny day looked OK to him.
            It was time to gather firewood, so he and Twigg went off to gather deadfall. This gathering going on all of the time is part of the reason the Great Forest is so tidy and pleasant.
            Ramona made fish soup for the morning meal. Easy and quick. Ralph had gone out at first light and sweet talked a few of those gullible trout.
            Midday, there wasn’t much on the agenda, so he decided to go contemplate things for a while on the big cedar log. The thought of his purloined beer and cigars made him a little blue for a moment. But he trudge on up the path anyhow.
            Maeve was waiting for him there.
            “Somebody has been here during the night, Boss,” she remarked.
            “How do you know?” said he, looking all around.
            Of course, during the dark hours, Matt and Robert had sneaked back into the Great Forest and left two new six packs of Heineken and a box of much cheaper cigars tucked down into the hidey hole under the big log.
            There is a bit of a mystery here. Perhaps they blundered upon the log the first time. Was it allowed somehow? But, a person could say that it was just a random accident.
            But then to find the spot again? Maybe making restitution gave them a sort of pass. However, I'll bet they couldn’t find it again, just for no reason. In fact, they would probably find themselves all turned around and back at the parking lot. It  has happened before to other adventurers.
            “Well, Birdy,” said Ralph, “Not bad. Not bad at all!”

💚

Some Days Are Like That, Even For Ralph

 

            “Mona. Ramona. Firekeeper of excellence. I have supported you in all things. I went along with that big apron. I was alright with cooking experiments. But I gotta ask you, mysterious one, what is this?” said Ralph, rather wistfully.
            He was looking down into one of those wide shallow wooden bowls. In it lay many slices of roasted, garlicked up wild pig. Nestled around said pig was a lot of sinister looking limp shreds of some vegetal matter, full of mysterious bits of this and that.
            He poked at it, experimentally, with one long forefinger.
            “Thaga and I made that a while back, Ralph. It’s sauerkraut,” said Ramona.
            “It’s that old? Is it safe?” said Ralph, delaying actually tasting it. “That word scares me, Mona.”
            “It’s fermented, Baby. Of course it’s safe or I wouldn’t be feeding it to you! It’s a way of preserving cabbage, plus it’s like a pickle,” she said, calmly.
            “What’s fermenting?” said Ralph.
            “Um, Thaga said it’s like controlled rotting,” admitted Ramona.
            “Oh, goody,” said Ralph.
            “Come on, Baby! You’re the Amiable Monarch of Everything Around Here, and the bravest Hairy Man in the Great Forest! And your children, a wolf, and two big cats are watching you,” added Ramona.
            “Oh, fine. I wonder what Maeve would think of it?” muttered Ralph, taking a large tidy pinch of the stuff up in three fingers of his right hand and popping in his big reluctant mouth.
            The woods went silent. Ramona waited. Everyone wanted to see what Ralph thought of it.
            “Hey, hey, Mona! It doesn’t look very good, but it’s tasty! Sharp, hot, and spicy! Good stuff! Whose idea was this fermenting thing anyhow,” said Ralph, starting in on the sliced pork.
            “Well. What I heard, from both Thaga and Ooog is that fermenting is part of the history of human people forever. Some people even ferment fish. Um, that’s how you get beer and wine, some cheeses, even some sausages are a little fermented. You can see that those are all human things. I don’t plan on starting it here. It is just one old method of preserving food,” said Ramona.
            “Well, it’s good. I don’t know why I ever doubted you! Everything you do is great, Mona,” said Ralph.            
            Seeing that Ralph said it was OK, the kids and the animals all ate with their usual enthusiasm.
            Everything was going lovely. The fire was warm. The food was good. The company was excellent.
            Just as Ramona was gathering up the bowls, and everyone was full of dinner, Maeve came blasting down out of the tree tops.
            “Are you hungry, Maeve,” asked Ramona, hand on hip, eyebrows up, because she knew a bird with a message when she saw one.
            “I’m not  here for food, Ramona,” said the big black Raven. “I got some news for the Boss! He ain’t gonna like it either!” she said importantly.
            “He’s heading out to his log, Maeve. Right up the path,” said Ramona. “Easy to catch!”
            Maeve headed up the path, finding Ralph halfway there.
            “Boss! I was flying over a couple of minutes ago and I saw a pair of Hairless of the young male variety raiding your beer and cigar supply!”
            You remember that Ralph has a sheltered area under his famous cedar log for the beer that student brings him as payment for interviews, and his cigar stash, of course.
            Ralph found that this was true. His stash was gone. All of it. Two six packs of Heineken, which he had been saving, and a cigar box with a couple of Cubans left in it.
            Not only that, but the log area was wet, and had a suspiciously familiar smelling aroma.
            “Do you know where they went, Birdy?” said Ralph.
            “I do. They have a nice camp and a nice fire down by the river, on the bank there,” croaked Maeve, rather direly.
            Maeve assumed her usual perch on Ralph’s left shoulder, and they started out for the riverbank.
            And, just as she had said, there were two young fellows of the Hairless variety tending a nice little camp fire and drinking Heinekens and each smoking a cigar.
            Ralph walked slowly up on them, creating quite a bit of noise on the river pebbles. The guys looked up.
            One, a blond, about 17 years old, Robert, took off running upstream screaming something or other. Nobody could have understood the garbled shouting. He lost the cigar in the river.
            The other one, dark and thin, Matt, sat frozen with his mouth hanging open and the half cigar fallen to the pebbles he sat on.
            Ralph put out their campfire in the only way he could without a garden hose, and not resorting to river water. He gave their camping gear and backpacks a good sprinkling too. By then Maeve was giggling, though Matt later swore she was making a hideous gargling noise.
            While the fire spot hissed and steamed malodorously, Ralph located the one untouched six pack and retrieved it.
            Before he and Maeve started out for home, he looked at Matt still frozen there.
            “That was my stuff you two stole,” said Ralph in his deepest rumble.
            Matt’s eyes rolled back in his head. He wavered for a moment, then snapped out of his faint. Without moving a muscle he said, softly, “Sorry. Man, we didn’t know.”
            “You knew it wasn’t yours….”said Ralph, mellowing somewhat.
            “You’ll never see me again, but I have to go find that idiot Robert,” said Matt, climbing to his feet. “We’ll be out of here as quick as I can manage it.”
            Ralph thought it had gone rather well, so he turned, hiding a grin, and carried his big black Raven back to the Home Clearing to explain what all the excitement had been about.

🍂🌲🍁

Bubble Woman and I Wish You A Happy Friday

 It was a very cabbage-y day on Thursday.

But both of the tremendous vegetables have been dealt with.

Righteously.

I hope to get back on track on Saturday.

Please accept our most sincere well wishes.

Have a glorious Friday!

🤍

Walking With Ralph

 

It sounds like walking to me.

 

            The thing about Walkers is that they walk. Why are they called Walkers, by me anyhow? Well, most of the time when one of we observant normies sees one, he or she or they are walking.

            I don’t believe they call themselves Walkers.

            It’s their thing. They do what they wanna do.

            So then, Ralph Himself, though he spends a good deal of time sitting in rapt contemplation of the goodness and essential appropriateness of creation, does also walk. He does a great deal of walking.

            The peculiar smooth gait of the Walkers has been noted frequently. None of us can figure out how they do that. It doesn’t even look like walking. Maybe they have extra joints that we just don’t know about. Would that smooth the ride? This writer is at a loss. But it seems possible.

            Maybe all of that walking is meant for a message to humanity. Keep moving! Or you’ll calcify and get crunchy. But equally, it may have nothing to do with humanity.

            But back to Ralph.

Sometimes when he goes walking he can barely keep his feet on the ground. Ralph doesn’t do disappointment, or bitterness. He does rapture. At its root rapture means to be carried away, or transported, or to be taken in a state of spiritual ecstasy. That sounds like Ralph. He’s a pretty happy guy most of the time.

With Ralph the distance between belief and fruition is short. You could almost say that he’s like a mirror. What he gets is what he sees, to turn that thing on its head.

Well, bless his heart. I’d love to see him Walking and maybe if we walked together I could get some luft in my step too!

Anything is possible!

💚

Thaga's Hot and Spicy Pickled Cabbage Recipe

 

For display purposes only!

            At the close of summer, in moist, damp climates one of the things remaining to be dealt with in the garden are the cabbages. In Ooog’s garden there was a row of them. Massive thumpers of cabbages, like gargantuan green roses. Almost everything else had been harvested. Two big bags of spuds, still in their native dirt, to keep better, lay in the old stone and log cottage’s basement. There was a box of carrots and turnips, and a mesh bag of boiling onions hung from a hook on the basement wall.

            Now, cabbages keep pretty well. But they will eventually go rotten. And, besides, Thaga and Ooog love sauerkraut.
            Thaga made rather special kraut. Like any Neanderthal chick, she loved it hot and garlicky. (There were also several braided ropes of garlic in the basement. Also dried peppers on strings.)
            One day while Ramona and Cherry were visiting Thaga and Ooog, drinking herbal tea and eating cinnamon rolls, Thaga gave Ramona a taste of some kraut she had made with spring cabbages earlier in the summer.
            “Thaga, how do you make this? It seems like it would be good with deer or turkey, or wild pig!” said Ramona, full of admiration. And Thaga was tickled with the compliment.
            “I could show you! I have everything we need here. But, you know, it takes time, like weeks, to get really good like that,” said Thaga. “Shall we make some right now?”
            “Yes, it sounds like fun,” said Ramona.
            “I have an empty three gallon crock. Why don’t we set that much up?” said Thaga. She was already putting the crock on the slate floor handy to the big wooden table.
            Next, Thaga took her big, almost a pinafore, apron off of its hook in the back of the kitchen, which she always wore in the garden, looped it over her head, and tied the strings in back. It was made of blue and white striped heavy cotton. It had big pockets sewn into it. One must always have big pockets, or what’s the use of it all?
            Cherry watched it all, delighted.
            “I think we need two of those big cabbages. Let’s go,” said Thaga, and they all trooped out to the garden. Ooog was out there doing some tidying up for the end of the year.
            “Which two are the biggest, dear love,” said Thaga to Ooog, and he came over and pointed out a couple to her. He cut them loose from the soil with his folding knife and stripped off the big outside leaves. He threw those into the chicken yard. The chickens were happy to see them and all ten ran right over to deal with them. Cherry enjoyed watching the speckled hens for a few minutes.
            “I’ll carry them. What’s next?” said Ramona.
            “I’ll show you in the kitchen,” said Thaga.
            Back in the kitchen, Thaga got out her big cleaver and a large cutting board. She made sure that Cherry knew to stand clear and she whacked those big pale green orbs into quarters. Soon she had eight nice clean cabbage wedges shining on the cutting board.
            Then she got her cutter which was standing in the back of the kitchen. What it looked like was a long, narrow, two sided wooden box, with a blade just peeping out of a slot halfway down its surface. Ooog had made this himself out of some repurposed oak lumber and a large blade that he had salvaged somewhere. It was a beauty! Much fancier than most kraut cutters because he had carved some little floral doohickies along the sides. Ooog always made things for Thaga as nicely as he could.
            Cherry got sleepy and was put down to nap in the front room on the sofa and covered with a little crocheted blanket.
            Then Thaga demonstrated the best way to hold the wedges of cabbage, and she sliced one. She let Ramona do a few. It was very easy for Ramona because she is quite strong, much stronger than Thaga herself.
            Soon there was a great pile of finely shredded cabbage on the big table waiting for the next step.
            Ooog came in from the garden, went into the bathroom and washed up, and then he went down into the basement and got a rope of garlic and some dried red peppers, little thin hot ones.
            “The next part is fun, if you don’t mind getting a little messy,” said Thaga. That next part was salting and massaging the shred until they got a little juicy.
            Thaga isn’t a measurer. She does things by eye. So, she got her tin of sea salt and put just the right amount of salt on the shreds. Then she and Ramona worked them in their hands until the shreds were limp and getting a little juicy.
            Meanwhile, Ooog had peeled four heads of garlic for them.
            Thaga chopped the garlic on the cutting board into fine pieces. She did the same with about a dozen of those dried peppers.
            Then they packed layers into the crock, which had been moved to the table top, scattering garlic and pepper pieces on the layers and kind of mixing it all together. They mixed in a good handful of caraway seed too.
            Cherry woke up and came out to see what was happening.
            “It smells good in here,” she said. It must have been all the chopped garlic she was smelling.
            The final thing to do was to weight it down in the crock so it didn’t float up and rot or get moldy. Thaga had a nice white China plate that just fit inside the crock. She used that and then weighted it down with a nice clean river rock about the size of a small bunny.
            Then they washed everything up, the cutting board and the cleaver in the big sink in the kitchen. Ooog took the kraut cutter outside and hosed it off. Then he brought it back in to dry in its place at the back of the room. They wiped the table well, and the job was done except for the waiting.
            “When you come back in a couple of weeks, it should be done,” said Thaga. “I will send some home with you, and you can see how Ralph and Twigg like it with something you’re cooking.
            “So, what do you think?” said Thaga.
            “It was fun. One of those things that human people do I can see. It just wouldn’t happen at the Fire Circle,” said Ramona.
            “No, we’re the ones with the cabbages and all that,” agreed Thaga. “It all starts with seeds and a garden.”
            “Mhm,” agreed Ramona.
            “I think we should have you all over for sausages and kraut when it’s ready,” said Ooog, who was sitting on one of the wooden chairs near the table, resting from digging around in the garden.
            Both ladies agreed that it was a very good plan.
            So Ramona and Cherry walked on home as evening was just beginning, to make something for dinner for Ralph and Twigg and themselves too.
            “Human people work so hard,” Ramona marveled to herself and smiled a little, but kindly.

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Ralph Considers Who Goes There

 

A true view of the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest.

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            Sometimes Ralph just walks around thinking. Many times, these excursions include Maeve, his philosophical confidant. It’s helpful to have a philosophical confidant, when pondering the world and all the infinite possibilities therein.
            It was the end of summer and the whole forest was feeling a bit worn. Maybe everyone had had enough sunshine. It never gets really hot in the Great Forest, but it gets warm, persistently warm. There is almost a sound to it. Insects, yeah, but maybe another sort of hum.
            There is a resinous scent to the heated air. The forest duff when tossed by a listless toe smells faintly of another season, the season of mist, moss, and that ineffable slightly moldy smell of the PNW old growth forest.
            As Ralph paced the familiar forest trails, his toe did rumple the forest floor, as if ascertaining its identity. Ralph had a touch of the blues.
            “What’s up, Boss?” said Maeve, from his shoulder. She was feeling her age and the turn of the year some herself. Daytime fliers notice the shortening of the light.
            “What? My mind was somewhere else, Maevie,” said Ralph.
            “You’re being very quiet, Boss. It’s not like you,” said the big black bird.
            “You know I can kind of hear what the people say, if I pay attention. It’s like a sea of thought lapping at my mind. Most of the time I ignore it. But I keep hearing a thing. It sounds silly, but I hear it a lot,” said he.
            “That’s terrible,” said Maeve.
            “Oh most of the time it’s like hearing those bugs out there buzzing away. It’s just a buzz. But, coming clearly out of the buzz, I hear ‘who goes there?’ I think they’re talking about me, or someone like me. Their ideas are such a hodgepodge of fears and desires! What to do?” cried Ralph.
            “Do you have to do anything about it?” said Maeve.
            “I’d like to get above it for a while. I’m sure something would come to me,” he said.
            “What I do is go up over the tops of the trees, way way up, where I can see everything,” said Maeve. “It’s all quite small from up there.”
            “Can you see everything below the tree tops too, Maeve?” asked Ralph, with a glimmer of hope being born in his mind.
            “Yes, Ralph, I can. Would you like to come with me,” said Maeve.

             “Can I?” he said.
            “Of course you can. I will give you one of my pinions to hold!” she said.
            With that, Maeve chose one of her strongest flight feathers and she plucked it out, handing it to the King of the Great Forest. It was a good nine inches long, strong, shiny and deepest black, the very soul of flight!
            Maeve lifted up off of Ralph’s shoulder and took a couple of loops around in the sleepy warm air.
            “Come on, Ralph. Come up!” she shouted.
            So, holding the big black feather Ralph became aloft. He followed Maeve up a bit, grinning like a kid having the best adventure he could imagine, and in real time.
            Maeve flew as slowly as she could, just barely staying airborne. Ralph just followed along.
            Up and up they went. They flew among the mighty trunks, and then burst through the canopy of fir branches, out into the massive blue of the late summer sky.
            At first when Ralph looked down all he could see were the tops of the multitudes of trees.
            “How do you bear it, Maeve? It’s overwhelming. It’s beautiful. It’s the land rolling on and on forever!” he sang out.
            “I’m a creature of this world, is how I bear it. But it is beautiful,” said Maeve. “Look down now!”
            Holding his feather, Ralph looked down. Through a break in the masses of trees he could see the Home Clearing as he had never seen it before. So small. So beloved. So perfectly just what it was.
            He saw the stone cliff wall with the green door built into it, and beside it  he saw the stone circle where Ramona kept the fire burning.
            He saw Ramona herself, grace in flesh, holding Cherry, and Blue crouched at their feet. He saw two great tawny cats lolling about the clearing like cats anywhere, indolent and sleepy! He saw his son, Twigg bringing in a pair of turkeys for his mother, and her happily receiving them.
            He saw the meadow, and Uncle Bob’s Stump House, and indeed, Uncle Bob and Aunt Suzy relaxing by their fire.

            A little further on, looking over toward the road, he saw Thaga and Ooog's tiny plantation, the rough slate roof of their stone house, the late summer garden, and even Ooog out there digging potatoes.
            He saw the river flowing westward to the bay in the distance. There was just a bit of Milltown over that way too.

            He saw the whole Cascade Mountain range.
            He saw the curve of the earth, the vault of the sky, and the nearest star over it all.
            “You see this every day, Maeve!” shouted Ralph, enraptured.
            “I do!” she called out.
            “Now, tell me, Ralph. Who goes there?” said Maeve. “Surely you know!”
            “I do! I do! I go there!,” said Ralph.
            “Yes, you do! Now we better get back down before Cherry sees us, and tries to join us!” said Maeve.
            So, as gently as they had gone up, they went down, drifting softly down through the forest canopy, down among the trunks, and landing in the general area of the big cedar log.
            After Ralph sat there breathing for a few minutes, to settle down, he said, “May I keep the feather, Maeve?”
            “Of course, Boss. It’s your feather, to remind you,” said Maeve.
            “I will never forget,” said Ralph.
            “Evermore,” said Maeve, because she couldn’t help herself!

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Memories Of The Country Music Highway Part 3

 

Rural Gate City, VA

Guest post by Priscilla King

Crystal Gayle

"The one with the hair"...that proved a family connection with our Ramey relatives, a few of whom also had that incredible "Cherokee hair." It's unusual even for Cherokees. Most people can let their hair grow for years, but it won't grow that long. Her music was pure Nashville, no local influence, but it was certainly popular in the 1970s.

(Jean Ritchie was another Kentucky singer whom some wanted to claim as local and some may have wished had stayed in England, once she went there. I liked her last few books and records and wished I'd had a chance to get the older ones. She never seemed local to me...though some of her songs were in fact of local origin. Maybe that's because her family had brought some of their songs, certainly that atonal and arrhythmic style in which Ritchie sang some of them, straight from England and most local families' ancestors came from Ireland.)

Mac Wiseman

Dad listened to this fellow Virginian from a different town, as a teenager. So did I. So did my natural sister, who belongs to a different demographic generation. His work was a staple of the Old Ridgerunner Show. Malcolm "Mac" Wiseman never was a superstar but kept performing and recording for seventy years, up into his nineties. Our musical tradition never really acknowledged the idea of "retirement age." As a popular singer from Texas observed, "It was good enough then, so it's good enough now, 'cos a good wine gets better with age." If you're a hundred years old and are still singing songs you learned in school, all to the good...Mac Wiseman did, however, write and learn new songs over the years. 

So...YouTube has one of his classic albums. I heard these songs, growing up. But I wanted to share with you the one of his songs that I learned and sang, a newer song released in the 1980s, and YouTube doesn't have that one. Typical. This video will play the whole LP if you don't stop it. Very commercial. 

Jim & Jesse McReynolds

They were from a settlement outside the town of Coeburn, about fifty miles away, but were often featured on the Old Ridgerunner radio show. As a family band, originally with their father and other relatives and later as two brothers singing harmony, they stuck to a "bluegrass" musical style (that showed some influence from commercial broadcasting). After Jim died, however, Jesse was free to cross over into rock style. Apparently he'd always been a great fan of Jerry Garcia. Who knew? But then, why not? Jim & Jesse had always been willing to do protest songs that some other "bluegrass" singers wouldn't do...I liked their "Cotton Mill Man" song but, when observing the actual lives of factory laborers in Kingsport, I didn't find its allegations to be reality-based. At least, not any more; the song came from 1976 and I was observing in the early 1990s. 

Doc Watson

He was blind, which might have been exploited for "inspirational" value, but I don't remember its ever being so exploited. He performed with lots of other people but had his own style, a wide voice range from "high lonesome" tenor to booming bass. 

Ralph & Carter Stanley

Older people remembered them as a brother act when I was growing up. Ralph outlived Carter by about half his lifetime and, of course, was heard on "O Brother Where Art Thou." His band were the Clinch Mountain Boys, though McClure is a longish drive from Gate City. They are represented here by a digitized version of an early gospel album, though they did a mix of religious and secular songs. Their manically fast versions of Southern Gospel songs, highlighting Stanley's speeded-up style of banjo picking, influenced the way many religious songs are traditionally sung even today. The second song on the album, "Beautiful Star of Bethlehem," was one of two Christmas songs that were featured on the Old Ridgerunner Show every year. It's what comes to mind when I think of a hometown Christmas.

The Carter Fold--Janette & Joe

Sara and A.P. Carter had two children, Janette and Joe, who grew up in Maces Springs. They performed with their parents in the 1940s and later expanded A.P. Carter's Store into the Carter Fold, a theatre that has attracted over 50,000 visitors in a year. There aren't a lot of places for those visitors to stay, eat, or occupy themselves during the daytime in Hiltons, so they boost the economy of Gate City, Clinchport, Duffield, Kingsport, and even Bristol and Big Stone Gap, too. 

Did local fans get to preserve the old songs with Janette and Joe Carter every week? Hah. During Janette's lifetime tickets were not easy to get. I was able to get in once, and my "Aunt Dotty" was able to get in once. Janette performed, herself, as well as bringing in her family's superstar friends in a nice balance with new talent and even novelty acts like a bluegrass band from Iceland.

They wrote some new songs of their own, and learned others, but fans always liked for them to do their parents' greatest hits.

The Lee Smith Quartet

Another staple of local radio. WGAT AM used to have a separate "Morning Hymn Time" before and after the daily reading of local obituaries, not hosted by Jimmy Smith. Lee Smith, not connected with the writer known as Lee Smith, nor yet the Northern jazz band also known as the Lee Smith Quartet, was still alive, during the week a partner in the local store that sponsored this program, and naturally featured on the program almost daily. The store is still in business on Route 23, though Mr. Smith is gone. Their sound was distinctive, technically dominated by a tenor leading the melody, but with show-stealing bass lines written in. I find nothing about this group online.

The Bentons

I've found nothing online about this band. They were active from the 1970s to the 2010s but have disbanded. Their records were played on WGAT AM. Their sound differed from the Lee Smith Quartet's and Clinch Mountain Boys' sound primarily in having a strong soprano lead. They wrote some of their own songs, like "The Master of Galilee." The house where their bus was usually parked was about a quarter-mile from ours; some of them rode the bus to school with my brother and me.

In the 1970s and 1980s, all the cool kids wanted to be involved with music in some way. Adults didn't just say "Oh, little kids can't sing on key." They patiently coached even tiny tots to sing a few songs on key. I think my experience was typical: I remember becoming able to hear what was on key for myself around age nine, but having been coached to sing recognizable versions of "Rocky Top" and "She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain" and "Silent Night" starting at age three. I'd made a recording at age three. I'd been in a radio broadcast at seven. I heard different pitches and could be trained to sing on key better than most tiny tots do, but not in the way adults do. The difference between "higher" and "louder" sounded clear to me only at nine or ten. Anyway everyone wanted to be taking piano or some kind of lessons, be in a band even if we had to play some unpopular brass instrument the school loaned out, and ideally get paid for doing something musical by the time we were teenagers. Some people did have to accept that they had no talent; it didn't do them any more harm than not being on a sports team did. Most of us were going to use all our musical education to sing along with a hymn in church or, at most, sit around with friends and family singing old songs after dinner. That didn't matter. We took music as seriously as the young seem to take the games they play, now. For a few of us it really paid.

The Kendricks

They have no online presence, either, but they did have albums displayed in stores for a few years. An ancestor of mine was one of a two-man team that did the land survey for the town of "Winfield," which was actually called Estilville when built and then renamed Gate City in the 1890s. An ancestor of The Kendricks was the other. His choice of a home place was a few miles away from ours; the noisier two-thirds of The Kendricks went to a different elementary school, but were in some of my classes in high school. They had a somewhat smoother sound--I wouldn't say High Church, but less aggressively Low Church--than other gospel groups here represented.

John McCutcheon

At PriscillaKing.blogspot.com I recently responded to the prompt "Write a Sapphic Ode" with an "Ode to John McCutcheon on the Occasion of his 45th Album." 

In the 1980s, asked why he still did free concerts for children's groups in libraries and primary schools, John McCutcheon wisecracked, "One day all those little kids are going to grow up, and I'm going to be a Star." This did not happen but McCutcheon has enjoyed slow steady success as a musician, anyway. He had to wait a long time to own the domain FolkMusic.com, which he now does.

He was a Northerner, originally. June Appal hired him to record the last few performances of several old traditional musicians, including Beachard Smith. McCutcheon bought a house outside Gate City, a mile or two from the Cat Sanctuary. He sang with a few people he met at the Carter Fold, recording albums under short-lived band names like "Wry Straw" and "The Morbid Pumpernickel Choir," but attracted serious attention when Malcolm Dalglish showed him how to build and play the dulcimer. 

This rather awkward instrument has existed for a long time and may well have been in King Nebuchadnezzar's band ("the harp, the dulcimer/psaltery...and all kinds of music"), but it's too hard to build and play to have become enshrined in any musical tradition the way things like flutes and guitars do. Like what we have in the way of Bigfoot lore, our local tradition of dulcimer music is not as old as I am. No older person recognized the instrument producing Dalglish's "pretty, funny music" when Jimmy Smith gave one of Dalglish's records a spin. A year or two later, when Smith broadcast the first cut on McCutcheon's historic "Wind That Shakes the Barley" album, I didn't know what kind of instrument was being featured, either, but I became a fan. The whole family did; I just happened to be thinking more seriously about music as a way to earn money than my parents and siblings were. 

Overnight the dulcimer became "one of our traditional instruments" like the autoharp, which the Carters made traditional, rather than a bit of exotica like the zither, one of which has actually been discovered in a local attic, probably not played since 1902. It has its own peculiar logic. I've played dulcimer, though never so ambitiously as to own one. It was a novelty in the 1970s but it's traditional by now.

I bought all of McCutcheon's records, every year as they came out, for several years. The family always wanted to listen to them too. When McCutcheon left Gate City Dad thought it might be because he'd been snubbed, because Jimmy Smith hadn't played all of his songs on the radio. There was that, but also references on his record covers to "his wife Jean" had switched to "his wife Parthy," and then there was another move and another wife. There were moves among labels, too, from June Appal to Rounder and so on.

1978 to 2025. Almost an album every year.

This song appeared on an album from the 1980s, when I was in Washington and my natural sister was one of the children in the audience for which McCutcheon was practicing these songs. 

Anthony Johnson

Went to Gate City High School. When his younger brother and I were there, he was trying to organize a Christian rock band at a time when the words were considered oxymoronic. Later he played piano and keyboards for better known Nashville musicians. Google shows several musicians called Anthony Johnson, none of whom appears to be our homeboy. He was on at least one video album with Alan Jackson.

Menagerie

Google lists a lot of shows and bands called Menagerie, all more recently active than this local group, which flourished around 1980. They were local enough and Christian enough to be the first rock band I was allowed to listen to. 

Dirk Johnson

It is hard to think of a given name that will identify an individual with a name like Johnson. The parents of Anthony and Dirk Johnson tried. They failed. "Dirk Johnson" is also the name of a retired New York Times writer and the name of an athlete, and so on and so forth. It was also the name of my official school enemy in grade nine. He seemed, at the time, like a pretty good illustration of Undeserved Privilege. the spoilt brat who could come into school, obviously ill, and breathe germs on everybody for fifteen minutes in home room, and call home and have someone sent to bring him home; the rich kid who was given a white Corvette in grade ten and didn't even wash it. I worked and studied and learned a lot and had a good time trying to outdo his achievements. 

Such a good time that people even wondered where this was one of those cases where kids' chosen enemies are actually the people they find attractive and want to have for friends. Not exactly. I hadn't started liking boys yet and, when I did, although this was high school and the idea of being attracted to anyone there seemed like a valid reason to die of embarrassment, several of the other adolescent trogs were closer to being attractive men than Johnson. (Most of the other troggettes were closer to being attractive women than I was, too; that was not the question.) 

Apart from the pleasure of righteous indignation about my official enemy's unearned privileges in life and the sheer joy of occasionally beating or tying his scores, however, he wasn't a bad kid. Just another undeserving child of privilege, like me and like most of the kids in our mutual classes, only more so.  

So...life went on. Johnson took a couple of summer courses and finished high school in three years. I went to Florida for winter break, took the GED test, was accepted as a college freshman before going back to finish grade eleven, and was chuffed about finishing high school in two and a half years. I've regretted it ever since. I had a reasonable amount of success in life, anyway. I heard that Johnson had gone to Nashville and become one of those union men who play as a backup band for lots of different people, that he was considered good at that job, that someone had rated him the best piano player in Nashville...I think he may literally have been one of those "Nashville Cats [who've] been playing since they were two." I'd been typing since I was eight and for quite a long time I made a living at that.

So, had Nashville's best backup pianist ever recorded anything on his own? I thought I'd look that up, while I was here. 

No commercial records, but he's had a business...and then apparently he's been very ill, and according to big brother Anthony he's needed a lot of expensive medical help. Maybe somebody Out There is feeling munificent. 

Yes, of course I'd send him money if I were rich. How not? It'd be the ultimate score off the rich kid who always seemed born to be scored off. 

Papa Joe Smiddy

His job was teaching not performing, but he organized music festivals at which he usually sang a  few songs, some original, like this one.

The Holston River Boys

A band by this name has been performing and recording since the 1990s, if not the 1980s. As seen on the video, they are grandfathers; when one has retired or died, the group have recruited another man with a similar vocal range. Apparently enough people want to sing with the group that membership is competitive, and anyone who drops out due to illness or bereavement has been quickly replaced. The late lamented relative I've called Oogesti sang treble with this group in the 1990s. Their albums were sold in stores as long as cassette tapes were considered viable. My guess would be that they don't have more digital music available because none of them knows enough about computers to record it.

I don't know whether non-local people hear it, but they sing in a more "modern," smoother, closer-to-the-book style than some older groups like the Lee Smith Quartet. (Yes, these songs are printed in books.) The image they bring to my mind is still of a little country church, but one to which parishioners drive in nice new cars.

The Scott Three

All three were related to me; one more closely than the others. They had a real talent and seemed to be starting a successful career in the early 1970s. Then their van with all their gear in it was stolen. Then while they were working to replace the van, Morgan Gibson was killed and Harold Tipton was disabled in an accident. They had, however, been regular features on Lester Flatt's section of the Grand Ole Opry for a season or two, and sold an album, in their day. Occasionally their songs were replayed on the Old Ridgerunner Show, but I think Tipton and his parents preferred to put the boys' musical phase behind them.

The Scott Three did not have a rigid hierarchy as some bands have. Dwain Reed sang the leading part in several of their songs--in all of the ones that had leading parts, in the selection his and my mother re-recorded on the cassette tape from which I learned the songs. Harold Tipton and Morgan Gibson led in other songs, and even sang solos or duets without Reed. They covered a few pop hits but most of their songs were their own original compositions. 

Two linguistic details from "the tape" come to mind: in one song Dwain Reed recorded the way older people pronounced the word "zebra" with two long vowels, "ze-bray," and also included what may be the first documented use of "I said to myself, 'Self...'"

Nothing about this group has been preserved online.

Dwain Reed, Afterward

After the Scott Three broke up he really did go home and sell insurance, as disappointed musicians stereotypically threaten to do. But he still liked music and organized a garage band called the Monotones in the 1980s. Then in the 1990s he bought a row of three old "factory shacks," knocked them down, and built what he intended to be a wholesome nightclub like the Carter Fold on the site. It was called the Silver Spur. Local folk remember it as a place that demonstrated the truth that, even if you officially ban alcoholic drinks from a nightclub, some people of Irish and Cherokee descent will bring them in and carry on like the sort of "drunken Indians" nobody loves. "It's not the den of iniquity people make it sound like," relatives would say defensively. Inside, the place was wholesome, with at least one gospel song closing every evening's performance. Out in the parking lot the police were called to break up drunken brawls every few months.

People with similar names can be found on Google. Gate City's Dwain Reed can't.

 Lazy Time Pickin' Parlor

This is still an active store, tourist attraction, and venue for amateur musicians to test their songs on the nursing home, hospital, community group circuit. It's off Route 23 just above the state line, so technically it's in Weber City, not Gate City. The informant I've called "The Grouch" on my blog is one of the seventy-somethings who still do free concerts with groups of people who hang out at the Pickin' Parlor. They play a mix of Nashville "country," "bluegrass," Southern Gospel, and classic rock. None of these groups has yet released a record, but the Pickin' Parlor has been featured in books about our local history and attractions. 

The Pickin' Parlor does not have its own web site. It's on the official county tourism web site:

https://www.explorescottcountyva.org/music/lazy-time-pickin-parlor/

The Carter Fold--Dale Jett

Janette Carter's husband's and children's name was Jett but her son Dale has, like June Carter's and Carl Smith's daughter Carlene, been known to use their mothers' family name onstage. He inherited the Fold and has struggled heroically to keep it open through the COVID panic. Tickets are much easier to get than they were in Janette Carter's lifetime, and the Carters' connections still visit and put on good shows.

https://carterfamilyfold.org/

Dale Jett (Carter), Carlene Smith (Carter), Rosanne Cash, and some other third and fourth generation descendants of the Original Carter Family have performed as "the third generation." As in all families, by the fourth generation the connections stretch far and wide. Rosanne Cash didn't grow up or live in any part of the Appalachian Mountains and doesn't try to sound as if she did. Why should she? That she and the other cousins, step-cousins, honorary cousins, etc., can jam and have fun and produce something worth listening to is laudable. It's not a family band any more, but it's nice that they still make the effort to connect now and then.

Appalachian Dream Spinners 

At least one of them was a relative. The group was active about the turn of the century and released three albums, but their online presence now consists of a concert stored at concertarchives.org. They sang a lot of Original Carter Family songs, in new arrangements to suit their own voices but with a similar sound. 

Too derivative? Does "country" music need to be "reinvented," to "evolve in a new direction"? I don't think so. Real "country" music, from whatever rural folk tradition it came, was not a commercial product, disposable, meant to be disposed of in a few months, used mainly to get people to hear commercial advertisements and secondarily to push "social change." It was a tradition that connected generations, that conserved more than it innovated--even though all good traditional musicians always have contributed their own new songs to their traditions. There are those, in the music industry, who don't like authentic traditional music for that reason. Those who prefer that everyone consume the "music" of ghetto types who yell about taking as many drugs, sexually exploiting as many other people, and stealing as much money as possible, rather than learning and singing the songs of our own ancestors who made very different lifestyle choices even when their incomes were as low as the ghetto types'. 

I'd like to see more people, more young people, doing something truly subversive and rebellious--re-connecting with our own musical tradition, rather than becoming passive consumers of what may be an entertaining novelty but is not our music, as marketed to us by rich exploiters from far away. 

I think more of us should learn from John McCutcheon's example. He's a maverick. Too much a Northerner to seem like a native in any of the places where he's lived, too much influenced by Southern musical traditions to go back and be marketed as some sort of Wisconsin tradition. Too independent a musician to fit into any of the big brands and marketing schemes. He's seemed like a garage band type who just happened to have recorded an album, for fifty years and forty-five albums. But those albums have been slow steady sellers and McCutcheon has made a decent amount of money for a man whose son once described him with "He doesn't go to work. He just sings."

Concluding section. 

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Photo from Gate City, VA.