Spinning Season 4/25/2021

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

It is getting to be that time of year.  Now, I know you’re thinking that you probably know of which time of year I speak. You are probably thinking about any number of warmer weather outdoor activities, or maybe graduations, or maybe children getting out of school for the summer or something of the like.  And while yes I am talking about warmer weather goings on it isn’t any of those more predictable aspects.  The time that is now arriving as we watch spring flying along racing its way to summer is the time for the spinning of yarns.  And as you probably gathered, I do not mean yarn in the literal sense of the cotton or wool braided into strands but of characters and scenes being woven into a tale as bright and colorful as the season at hand.

Now, perhaps you read that last sentence and gave something of a scoff.  I know what you’re thinking.  It is ridiculous to think that warmer weather is the only time of year for tale telling. And if those are your thoughts you would be very correct. However, the stories told during warm weather are very different, for the most part, since I do understand that there are exceptions to every rule, than those told during the autumn and winter. Those cooler days bring us anecdotes that are darker such as legends of hauntings and eerie events or maybe just tales of mystery to keep us warm on a long night.  Spring and summer though, the longer days bring us adventures that are more animated and lighthearted.  It is in this vein of lore that is bright and exuberant that I want to come to you today with a few such tales.  I feel these stories fit into the category that would allow them to be appropriately related on a warm porch with a light breeze scented with privet hedge and whimsy.

This first brief account was presented to me as fact by my father. However, my mother and I, and I daresay anyone else I have ever related this account to raises one eyebrow in a very staunch and I would say appropriate case of skepticism.  I will leave it up to you the reader to decide how many grains of salt it is necessary to take with the interesting tidbit that I am about to share with you or if you feel a full box or possibly a mine of sodium might be more appropriate.  My father insists, and he is not prone to falsehood, that when he was young, he clearly remembers climbing cotton stalks.  Now, I am not sure how much you may know about cotton, but it doesn’t normally grow particularly tall and even if one did come across an exceptionally lofty specimen, it is not a particularly sturdy structure.  With the minimal experience that I have being around the plant I find his claim highly suspect and my mom who has plenty of experience with the crop feels it is downright ridiculous.  The strange part is my dad is just as knowledgeable in such matters yet still is adamant that this magical fete occurred.  Is his memory playing tricks on him?  Did he stumble upon some unknown species of cotton that perhaps has gone the way of the Dodo since his childhood days?  None of us are certain of anything other than he swears it’s true and we nod and smile when he shares this, probably more sarcastically than we should.

Now, the next tale is, for lack of a better term, a doozy.  This one hails from my mother’s side of the family in the foothills of the Appalachians.  I mentioned in a past blog that my mother’s father was a moonshiner.  His brothers were as well, and they apparently had quite the booming business in their rural neck of the woods. I like to assume their product was of an exceptionally high quality hence they had customers of all kinds from all areas come to do business with them.  Well as you know, an enterprise such as this runs the risk of certain government officials attempting to end production as well as imposing stiff penalties on those who were doing the producing. Well apparently, the sheriff in this area, (and by the way you have to say sheriff as if you were saying the word sure but add an f to the end of it then you will give the story its appropriate ambience), was himself a friend and more interestingly, an occasional customer. Perhaps you, like myself when I heard it, find this ironic.  Well, it moves from ironic to hypocritical when you learn that this turn of events occurred during a raid by said sheriff.  Apparently, he was expected, at least on occasion, to do his job.  But I digress. At this moment, the law decided to actually be the law and my great uncle found it pertinent that he should hide himself.  Here he made a decision that I cannot decide whether to call ingenious or idiotic.  It was most definitely bold and disconcerting that much I can say. He hid.  He hid beneath the seat of the outhouse. I will pause here to let you grasp the gravity of this choice. I know. I know.

It did prove true that no one would look in such a location. No one did.  My uncle seemed to have outsmarted his friend and customer that had come to haul him off to the old stony lonesome. But this story, interestingly enough, does not end here.  Apparently, this raid took enough time that while the officers were there a most unfortunate thing occurred. For the sheriff, nature, she came to call.  The sheriff chose to answer said call. My great uncle was still hiding. So no, he was not found that day but when he saw what horror was about to be inflicted upon him, he did decide some fates might be worse than jail. I can only imagine how startled the sheriff must have been at his unexpected surrender in the most private of settings!

There you have it. Two tales perfect for telling in sunshine with a backdrop of rustling green leaves.  Maybe sitting in a rocking chair and eating freshly picked strawberries might add to the scene of spinning yarns.  If at all possible, have a faithful hound of some sort sprawled at your feet that snores gently whilst someone narrates.  Also, to add a cat on the porch railing who sits in a perfect furry loaf would be ideal.  So welcome to the season of colorful and extravagant tales.  Pull up a rocker and sit a spell.