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The Unbelievable Case of the Haunted Dog
I am not one to normally buy into the whole ghostly thing and used to think that people who believed in them were just a bit touched in the head. After all, I have never seen a ghost or even heard their ghostly wails.
But that all changed last Friday!
I had just made a quick stop at a local hardware store to pick up some wire screen to replace the one my dog (his nickname is Butt Head) had torn up on my screened porch for the sixth time. I was determined that this was the last time I was going to repair something that dog had destroyed. It was down to HIM or Me. I would not lose this battle. It would be mano e dogo!
Butt Head (Jackson is his real name) had come to live with us about a year ago and at first he was a cute little Jack Russell Terrier who loved to jump in my lap, chase his tail and do all the cute things puppies do. But at some point……not sure exactly when…..that all changed. The first clue that some evil spirit had taken over my cute little puppy was when he decided that he was no longer going to be put in his cage at night or whenever we left the house for a while.
At first I could just pick him up and put him in his cage….no problem. But now it was a battle of endurance to see if he could evade me and the broom (the broom is my enforcer) long enough for me to just give up. He would run in circles in the kitchen or living room or backyard or wherever I tried to catch him. And just at the moment (...)
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Chapter 1
A Brief History of Tuckertown
Jubal Tucker was not exactly your typical pioneer type. He owned a tavern outside of Boston in the late 1700’s and married Susannah McClesky, the daughter of a well-to-do landowner named Tobias McClesky. In addition to being basically a lazy, shiftless sort of character, Jubal had an eye for the ladies. He was tall angular man with an imposing shock of black hair, a hawk-billed nose and droopy eyes. He also shuffled his feet when he walked, swaying back and forth in a sort of undulating fashion that reminded one of a camel. When he and Susannah had only been married about 6 months she caught him in a compromising situation with another lady. All Jubal could say was, “I didn’t mean to.”
Tobias had him tarred and feathered and run out of town and he was never seen in the Boston area again. The story has it that he wandered southward for the rest of that year and finally set up camp on Little Beaver Creek near what is now Tuckertown. It was a trading route used by the early settlers who were trading with the Cherokee and Catawba Indians. He built a small cabin that was later expanded into a tavern. Most of the early “hooch” that was sold to the settlers and Indians was “brewed” out behind Tuckers’ Tavern. It was horrible tasting stuff but it obviously packed quite a punch because it was an instant hit with the locals.
Gradually the settlement grew as (...)
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The Hanging Bridge
A crowd had gathered at the entrance to Macon Bridge to watch the hanging. As long as anyone could remember, executions decreed by Judge Clemmons had been carried out on the old bridge. At some point a stout beam had been attached that extended about three feet out from the side of the bridge over the roaring water of the Reedy River. Beneath it, a platform had been built with a trap door that was controlled by a lever on the bridge. More times than people cared to remember the trap door and the beam had functioned flawlessly and justice had been dealt out quickly and mercilessly.
Boone McCracken stood at the side of the bridge, hands bound tightly behind his back by a strong rope, surrounded by seven men; the posse that captured him. He knew that resistance was futile and he offered none. The judge had ordered his hanging to take place at exactly 12:00 noon. He glanced at the sun in the sky and reckoned it to be close to noon now. Sheriff Bailey placed the noose over Boone’s head and tightened it around his neck just enough so that he was not choking. Then the sheriff read from a piece of paper he pulled from his weathered leather vest.
“Boone McCracken, you have been found guilty of the murder of Alice Monroe and according to the laws of this territory you shall be hanged by the neck until dead. Do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?
“I ain’t kilt nobody. I done told (...)
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He wore it faithfully for over sixty years,
A gift from his first small flock…tick tock,
To show their love for this man of God
Who had shared the Good News, tick tock.
But he shared more than just Good News.
He shared their joys and grief…tick tock
When words failed but love and friendship didn’t
The times when just being there was enough…..tick tock
From flock to flock, place to place he went where called
And always on his wrist, the watch kept him on time….tick tock
For weddings, funerals, joys and sorrows,just different faces
of the greater flock needing a gentle shepherd…tick tock
Oh what a price to be paid being a simple shepherd
.Each flock left its’ scars from bearing so many burdens….tick tock
But through it all a sense of calling kept him moving forward
While the watch ticked off, seconds, minutes, hours… tick tock
Without conscious thought he would wind the stem,
Note the time and go on serving, uninterrupted…. tick tock
Closer day by day to his promised reward for faithfulness
(...)
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Life was interrupted in March by a call that no one ever wants.
Despite countless brushes with eternity, we couldn't believe he was gone,
or perhaps it was just that you can never prepare for that kind of loss.
So now we count days since he left us and shred the occasional tear,
reminded daily by memories stirred by familiar faces or songs penned by
his God-given gift of music he lovingly shared with all.
But life goes on and we accept the loss and let time soothe our hearts.
The pain never leaves completely but becomes like an old friend,
silent, always in the background, looking for ways to remind us.
But just as surely as evening follows day, life follows death
and the circle, never ending, completes another rotation.
New life is breathed into existence, filling our hearts again with joy.
So it goes, on and on, life and death, God's plan being fulfilled.
Souls passing in the coming and going accompanied both ways
by Angelic presence watching and sharing in the grief and joy.
So we wait in anticipation of new life, foretold by a soothsayer to
a fostering family who waited with open arms the little angel
who had innocently joined this circle of life.
So without understanding but leaning solely on faith
we welcome every new day filled with grief, pain, joy
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In a little while
Today will be tonight
There will be darkness
Where before there was light.
In a little while
It will be tomorrow
Bringing us unexpected things
Perhaps of joy, maybe sorrow.
In a little while
This year will be last
As weeks becomes months
years become centuries so fast
In a little while
The weather will turn hot
Global warming they tell us
that’s the weather we’ve got.
In a little while
a job became a career
Not what I had planned
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I met Eddie on a cold, wet December morning in 2005.
He was sitting on a bench in a public park quietly humming
Lying beside him was an old beat up Martin guitar
that he slowly picked up, smiled and started strumming.
He was tall and lanky and wore dirty, shabby clothes
that looked a size too big for his bent slender frame.
His face was leathered and told a story of a hard life.
His boots were well beyond keeping out cold or rain.
When he saw me sitting nearby he held up his guitar
and asked me if I had a request or favorite song
That’s when I noticed the guitar only had five strings
He was missing the little E string…it was completely gone
I asked him how he could play with only five strings.
He said he had gotten use to just five and asked if I was ready
“don’t know what I’d do with that sixth string….he laughed.
Besides he said, I’m partial to my nickname….”Five String Eddie”.
I told him I had no particular request and told him to pick
so he began to play the hymn “ Amazing Grace”.
Five String Eddie would never win on “America’s Got Talent”
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The Stranger With The Devil's Eyes
Late upon one stormy night when no heavenly stars could be seen,
A lonely rider on a broken mare crossed over a border stream.
His back was bowed, and fatigue it showed, on every part of his frame.
But he struggled fast, through a howling blast, not even God could tame.
For he meant to make the town of Keepsake, despite the warring skies.
He was hunting the men, who murdered his kin, this stranger with the devil’s eyes.
For two long years he bit bitter tears, but he was always a step too slow
That hound from hell, that no lawman could fell, the outlaw named Cactus Joe.
The town folks tell how many men fell, when they faced his lightning draw.
His guns would blaze and then out of the haze, a look of shock and awe.
But there was one man, with a leathery tan, from years under cloudless skies
Who was hunting for Joe and ready for show, the stranger with the devil’s eyes.
On his hip he wore a Colt Forty-Four with ten notches carved in its’ grip.
Each one for a man from Cactus Joe’s band, though Joe always gave him the slip.
Now everyone knows how the face of death shows on those who pay its’ dues.
With a worn-thin look, from ten lives he took, there was one thing left he must do.
Word came down that Joe was in town and he promised that someone would die.
So to Keepsake he came, the man with no name, the stranger with the devil’s eyes
Word spread through the town, where Joe was found, with two aces and a pair of fours.
He played his hand and began to stand, saying “Boys, I got to settle this score.”
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