HOOHAWWW - True Story by Bob Gurkin

Many years ago, the Dismal Swamps covered most of eastern North Carolina. With the digging of huge drainage canals, and eventually roads and farms, the Dismal's were broken up and reduced to pockets of swamps here and there. In many areas the swamps disappeared altogether. Huge plantations were built on these dried up areas and even today very large farms occupy the same place. To give you an idea of how large some of these farms get, I hunted on the Bell Brothers Farms for many years. ON THE SMALLEST FARM AREA THEY HAD, the main road stretched about 8 or 9 miles back through what was cleared up to that time. The rows of soybeans, corn, or whatever was planted would be at a 90 degree angle to the road and would be about 2 to 3 miles long on either side of the main road.

There was one particular farm that was about 48,000 acres at that time and is even larger now. During the day, you can see herds of deer, and the occasional bear, browsing through the crops. I have a buddy that I hunted with over the years, who at that time was a police officer with the Raleigh PD and one afternoon, about 2 PM, we sat on the main road and counted over 140 deer in one herd in broad daylight. Deer are in such numbers that the Gun Club that now has hunting rights on that land, are required by the farmers to kill a minimum of 300 deer per year, and the salted hides have to be produced to prove it. But that is today. This story is about many years ago; long before bull dozers and drag lines and loggers cut and slashed the trees, and plowed up the earth to make roads and fields. Deer were not as plentiful, because the huge feed crops were not there to support them. At that time, you had better know how to hunt, if you planned to put meat on the table.

I loved to get back into the swamps. It wasn't all water. There would be places where you could go for miles and the ground would be mostly dry, and of course there were places where you placed  your life on the line to try to go through. Thick does not begin to describe how dense those woods could get. In many places you could actually hear a deer breathe and never see it. Also, deer have an odor. Many times, I would be laid up in a stand under a sweet gum tree and could smell the deer as they were feeding in the area. Of course, they can smell you even better, so your stand had better be downwind of them.

One October day I had been hunting in what at that time was called Jackson's Swamp and later became Bell Farms. I was about 2 or 3 miles back in the swamps and it had been an unsuccessful hunt for me, and I was working my way back out to the county road. We had this one particularly large black bear in Jackson's Swamp, and I had seen him twice this day and heard him grunting and cracking brush on a couple of occasions as I was working my way out of the swamps. There was a big ole full October moon hanging in the sky and it was almost light enough to read a newspaper by. Down here in the swamps we have another creature that will get your attention every once in a while. It's called a Screech Owl. I cannot begin to describe on paper the loud, deep volume of noise that is produced by a screech owl. The closest I can get to it is HOOOOOHAAAWWWW. Amplify that with a loud speaker and you will be kinda getting close.

Now I was already a little nervous and concerned about that big ole Black Bear and was some kind of glad to see the woods lightening up. At this point I knew I was about 150 yards from the county road and was walking through a grove of Live Oaks and Spanish Moss was hanging low enough to where I had to push it aside as I made my way through ( like walking through a bunch of grey, gauzy curtains). This is a spooky area, even during the daytime. About the time I got under this one particularly gnarly Live Oak, a screech owl went HOOOOOOOHAAAWWWWW about 4 feet above my head. Well son, I too made a sound something like HOOHA, and to this day I don't remember making it out to the road, but I expect my heartbeat to get back to normal any day now.

Unclaimed Civil War Money

You are going to find this hard to believe, but .. I was intrigued by a post regarding unclaimed money found in a bank in Canada. I ran my own search of The Dismal Swamp Data Bank, and came across some interesting information. When we finally let the Yankees come into this area during the War of Northern Aggression, they had a habit of riding through the countryside taking pretty much what they wanted after they got done burning the houses down.

Well, it seems that there this one Yankee Lieutenant who didn't know any better and he signed IOU's on behalf of the federal government. Billy Bob McCloud's great (whatever) Grand Daddy received one of those IOU's in the amount of $2.67 for, and I quote, 20 cows, 4 mules, 18 hogs, 2 wagons, 3 slaves, 22 chickens, contents of 1 smokehouse and unspecified duties performed by his 6 daughters. This money was to be paid upon the ending of the war along with compounded monthly interest. It would seem that the federal government never did honor that pledge (as usual) and the interest has been growing and growing and growing.

None of us can figure too well, so we had Mr. Abdollar over to the General Store cipher it out for us. As best he can tell, Billy Bob is now due one hundred and ninety eight million, four hundred and sixty six thousand, two hundred and thirty three dollars and twenty six cents. Billy Bob got one of those city slicker lawyers and has put a lien on the White House. We are getting ready to move up there right now. I will write and let you all know how we made out.

- Bob Gurkin

Pearl Futch

Boys, we had some big doings here in the Dismal Swamps this week. Pearl Futch finally went and did it. She had been a-swearing that she was going to outshine every other gal in Beaufort County and, by cracky, she done did it. Pearl has been saving her egg money for the last 3 years. It won't nuthin to see her traipsing up and down the roads picking up bottles for the deposits. She has been canning plums, n-strawberries, n-peaches and I don't know what all to sell over to the main road in this little lean-to shanty she put up. If you wanted your garden hoed or barn cleaned out, by jimminy, you could just call on Pearl and she would have it done up right spiffy. Pearl has always been a hard worker and her no-account kin about sucked all they could out of her. I know her shiftless brother Kilgore Futch stole her money just over 3 years ago and bout himself a Simplex Motorcycle with it. I reckon Pearl's been a-saving ever since.

Well anyway, last Saturday, Pearl came into the Selma General Mercantile and Savings store (we all just call it the general store). This was about 12 noon, when most of people in the area would be getting their fixins for the following week. So here comes Pearl, sashaying along, just a pert as could be. When she got up to the group a-standing on the front porch she flashed this big old smile, and when I say flashed, I mean flashed. Pearl had done gone over to Chincapin and got herself a shiny GOLD tooth. And not just any gold tooth. This-un had a big old DIAMOND flashing and sparkling in the sunlight. It's about the most amazing tooth I have ever seen in any mouth I have ever looked at. Man, that thang shore is purdy.

We all just stood there and admired that tooth. What made it stand out more than anything else is the fact that it is the only tooth she has in her mouth. I was gonna ask her if she wanted to get married, but 4 fellers at the store done asked her. Dern it! I think she's already married 3 of them.

- Bob Gurkin

Swamp Creature

Over the years I have seen and heard some awfully strange things in the Dismal Swamps. Old timers down here talk about seeing 'Swamp Creatures'. The creatures are also called 'Skunk Men', because they smell so bad. You may be walking through the swamps about dusk and catch a movement out of the corner of your eye. Or you may be in an especially thick area and hear heavy movement nearby, or if the wind is just right catch a whiff of a musky rotten odor. Sometimes when deer hunting, you will see the underbrush sway from the movement of a large body passing through. The 'Swamp Creatures' blend into the underbrush so well, that if they ain't moving, it is impossible to see them. 

Nowadays, most of the people who see them, catch them in their headlights on lonely roads late at night. More often, you will just see huge footprints, from their passing. It is especially disturbing to see several different size footprints in your garden and half your cabbage and turnips missing. We have pretty much gotten used to them and don't go out of our way to bother them. They are usually pretty shy and will avoid mankind. However, one night a couple of weeks ago, Mr. Eli Whaley and his wife, Edna, were greatly disturbed while resting in their cabin. This is the story they related.

"We had been hearing screeching and moaning coming out of the woods near the swamps for the last several nights. One of the voices was especially deep and moans mournful enough to raise the hair on the back of your head and would go on for up to an hour. Our garden had been raided to the point that it looked like someone had been plowing it up. Not much at all left there. Then, last night, we could hear footsteps out by the barn and heavy breathing. Pa grabbed his shotgun, but before he could get out the door, someone or something was beating on the side of our cabin. The walls were shaking on 3 sides and pots and pans were clattering on the floor. My best picture of Ma was knocked down and shattered. The stench coming from outside was enough to make you sick. Pa was trying to look 3 ways at once, but he didn't try to go outside anymore. Through the window, I could see this huge manlike thing in the moonlight. It had its arms upraised, as it beat upon the walls. It looked like it was 8 feet tall. Suddenly, the door crashed in and one of the Swamp Creatures was standing there. It was smaller than the one by the window and Pa fired his 12 gauge. It ran off towards the woods and we could see 2 others loping away also. They moaned and cried all night long, but got quiet at daybreak. When we went outside, things were kind of torn up, but no serious damage. Pa walked off in the direction they had gone and suddenly started yelling. I thought he was a goner, but then saw him waving for me to come a-running.. I did, and there, just at the woods, lay one of them. It was the smaller one Pa had shot and it was dead as a door nail."

That is the story as relayed to myself and others. I was disbelieving until I saw the creature. After some negotiation I managed to secure the creature's head, but Mr. Whaley skinned the rest of him out, to nail on his barn. If you doubt this story, I have the head sitting on my mantle and if you email me at the above address, I will send you a picture of the head. I promise that it is an actual, unretouched photo of an animal (put SWAMP CREATURE in the subject line). Don't ask me what animal it is. I'm waiting for someone to tell me what it is. 

The skin was torn off Mr. Whaley's barn wall the next night after the creature was killed. None of the other creatures have been seen since, but the Whaley's have been hearing some heavy noises out by the barn the last three nights.

- Bob Gurkin

The Caballero

Federico Montoya Hernando y Pedro Gonzales was a strange feller to us Swamp Rats. He came up from Mexico with family when they were working in the cucumber fields with the other migrants. They would be out in the fields from "can see" to "can't see" everyday, 'cept Sunday, picking 'cukes from rows that would be up to 2 miles long. These people just looked tired all the time. Bent over in those rows in the heat of the summer sun, with only straw hats to protect their heads, they all looked dusty and kinda used up. All, that is, 'cept Federico Montoya Hernando y Pedro Gonzales. Nobody in our neck of the swamps could say his full name, so 'es we jest called him Fred.

Now Fred didn't look like the other migrant workers. For one thing he stood about a foot taller than the rest of them and had long shiny black hair and brown eyes with flecks of gold dancing in them. He was always wearing a merry look on his face and at the slightest excuse would break into an infectious smile that flashed perfectly straight gleaming teeth. But boys, that hoss was a worker. He could pick  up and carry loads that it would take the rest of us two men to just pick up. All day long, with never a complaint, you could see his happy, smiling face as he did the work of any two other men. The one thing he had a passion about was riding Mr. Abdollar's horses. Mr. Abdollar said they needed to have the mean ridden off of them and didn't mind Fred's riding, as long as he didn't hurt the horses.

Every Sunday afternoon, we would see Fred flashing over fences and logs on those horses. He sure looked dashing. That was the problem. Fred was so good looking that most of the gals in the county were half in love with him. No matter where he was, he would soon have half a dozen gals hanging on every word he said. Jest a-batting their eyes at him and giggling and bringing him sweetmeats and sech. It was pure dern sickening, and us guys jest weren't a 'gonna put up with it anymore!

The next Saturday night at the barn dance, the two Futch brothers, Kilgore and Boo came over to the Sweetgum tree where we was all tugging on a jug of shine and jest flat out told Fred that they was a-gonna whup him for sparking their gals. The brothers sailed in and commenced to flinging feet and fists and gruntin' and cussin' to beat the band. Fred danced around them and he made the fight look like some kind of ballet or somethin'.

When they was all finished we finally got Kilgore and Boo off the ground They was holding their heads and looking kinda peaked. Fred jest looked at them and finally said, "You see me riding the horses? Well, where I come from people who ride horses are called Caballeros. I am a GAY Caballero." Kilgore looked at him and then us, then he spit out a tooth and said, "Heck, we all know you are a happy fellow. We jest didn't know you could fight!".

-Bob Gurkin

Carolina Love Story

Lance had stopped by the Kit Kat Klub about 10 on a freezing Saturday night in January. A slight drifting of snow was silently coasting the sidewalks, and the neon glow of the Club's sign gave the snow flakes a hodgepodge of crazy quilt colors. The street was quiet but once he stepped through the doors the rhythmic beat of the music and the gyrating bodies told him that the evening's party was in full swing.

Lance walked into the room and scanned the bar area. Nothing much happening there. He quickly went to the men's room and took care of business. When he stepped back into the bar area, the band had taken a 15 minute break. Standing at the bar was the most breathtakingly beautiful, 36-24-36, platinum haired beauty he had ever seen. His eyes were only on her as he wound his way through the chairs and tables toward smoldering blue eyes and Marilyn Monroe mouth. As he made his way along, roars of laughter made him aware that the crowd was in a great mood and looking for a fun night.

The mahogany bar gleamed in the smoky light as Lance propped his left elbow on it. Facing the gorgeous gal he spoke to the bartender and said "Give the lady a drink, Joe". Slowly she turned to face him and gave him a slow look, up and down. With a smile, she said "Make it a double, Joe". Their eyes could see only each other. "Hi handsome, my name is Ginger" she said. Over the next 15 minutes they communed as only two people meant to be soulmates can. Lance felt as though he had known Ginger all of his life. 

When the band started moving toward the stage Lance said "I have my Mercedes at the curb, let's go over to my place and put on a few records and watch the logs in the fireplace." Ginger hesitated for a moment and looked deeply into his eyes. Then she replied "Lead the way Lance". Lance turned away from Ginger and started for the door. Ginger stood startled for a moment and then looked closer at the back of his trousers. She burst into a roar of laughter. Hanging over his belt and fluttering in the breeze of Lance's walking was a stream of toilet paper. No wonder the crowd was roaring with laughter!

Reginald Cavenaugh - Plantation Owner - Bath, North Carolina

Reginald Cavenaugh was one of the privileged few in Bath, North Carolina. His daddy owned the largest plantation and the most slaves in Beaufort County in the year of 1830.

Religion has always played an important part of social life in the south. Church going wasn't restricted to just Sunday. There were the regular Wednesday night meetings and usually the ladies would get together at least once a week for a quilting bee or maybe a canning day, where they all canned vegetables and sweets for the coming winter. The men had occasions to get together also. Barn raising, water well digging and the like. There were many times when all would get together. Occasions like corn husking, picking cotton, bringing in the tobacco, or just having a good ole 'hoe down'. BUT everything revolved around the church. Reginald's group was a part of the 'new fast crowd'. They didn't go to church at all and would say new modern words like 'zounds', and 'corn licker' was a major part of all their get togethers.

One Sunday morning, as you would hear the hymns drifting over the swamps, Reginald Cavenaugh and his group of rowdies had decided to have a horse race. They lined up at the front of the church and were to race from that point, out past the cemetery and back to the church. A quick count and the roar of a pistol shot signaled the beginning of the race. Reginald yelled, loud enough to be heard over the preacher, Titus Creek "TAKE ME A WINNER OR TAKE ME TO HELL!". And spurred the big black stallion he was riding, until flicks of blood and foam were spraying from the stallion. With eyes walled an nostrils flared, the big black made the turn by the cemetery, well ahead of the other horse - thundering towards the home stretch as the final horse in the pack was just making the turn.

No one knows exactly what happened on that final stretch for the finish line. Maybe it was the vicious spurring and beating with Reginald's crop that threw his steed off his stride. Or it could have been his drunken sawing of the reins. In any case the big black hit a patch of sand and fell forward. Reginald Cavenaugh flew over the horse and hit a huge oak tree head first. He is presently buried in the same cemetery he had raced around. 

Today that patch of sand where Reginald Cavenaugh met his death still has horse hoof tracks in it. No matter how you try to rake the tracks out, or how you cover them with more sand, or leaves or trash, the next morning they are clean again and as stark as the day they were made.

This is the original story as told for over a hundred and fifty years. You can go to eastern North Carolina today and see those marks in the sand.

- Bob Gurkin

Wabana Iron Ore Mine #2 - Newfoundland Story by Bob Gurkin

This is one of my brother, Bob Gurkin's stories that he wrote about Newfoundland. Specifically Bell Island - just off the coast of St. John's, Newfoundland. The way it is written is reminiscent of the sound of the Irish-influenced accent that you will hear when you visit that beautiful and rugged part of Canada. Enjoy! RG

"Me Da was Patrick O'Shea and I'm his son Shawn. Me Da werked in the No. 2 Bell Island iron ore mine. It were a hard life bye's. He and me Ma would get up about four terdy in the marning and Da had to be at the mine by six. He would put in a 10-hour day, six days a week, fer the princely sum of terteen cents an hour. Me Da had to wear a small brass tag, and I can remember that tag to this day. Around the edge of the tag was stamped 'Dom. Wabana Ore Limited'. In the middle of the tag was stamped his company number 349 and under that was 'Wabana NFLD'. The owners of the mine didn't know nor care about his name. To them he was just number 349. Whether he was checking a lamp out o' stores or picking up his $7.80 weekly pay, he was just number 349.

Fer dis money, he had to load terdy six tons o' iron ore a day. If he wer too sick ter werk or got hurt in the mines, no matter, just lay 'em off and put on another out o' werk fisherman. Dese mines on Bell Island went down and out under Conception Bay fer up to tree miles. Dey wer a damp, dark place lit only by der light of candles or seal oil lamps in little nooks cut into the sides of the mines, ever 12 meters, er so.

Dey had horses in the mines, that would haul the iron ore cars, and dese horses worked der whole life in dat darkness. Never seeing the light o'day, nor a romp in a meadow. Me Da wouldn't see the light o' day from fall to spring, either. He arose in the dark and came home in the dark. Me brudders and sisters all went to the Catholic School and I did too, til I was 10 and could get a job swamping in the mines. Me Ma gave me 5 coppers, out o' me pay, to spend on meself, ever week and it seemed ter be all the money in the world, to me, byes.

My best recollection o' Bell Island is red iron ore dust. Not a piece of pavement on the entire island. Just crushed iron ore, fer the road beds and every ting on the island was covered in red iron ore dust. Sheets and clothes, hung to dry, were soon covered in the rest dust. I can't remember white show. Even the snow and ice were red. Today byes, people on der island talk abouts tha 'good ole days'. Twern't no such ting."

- Bob Gurkin

Grandpa Kader and the Chickens

One hot summer night we were all laying up in the house 'long about 11 o'clock, when we heard a ruckus out by the hen house. Old blue, Grandpa Kader's best hound, was baying to the world, that something was wrong, and Buster and Pepper were helping him right along. Rightly figuring that something was going on at the hen house, Grandpa grabbed his double-barreled 12-gauge loaded with double-ought buck shot and headed on the run. Me and Bo Beasley were right behind him. I had the kerosene lantern and just followed Grandpa. His nightshirt was flapping around his knees and his heels were flashing in the lantern light. Buster was loping along with us and his big ole ears were flapping with each stride he made.

When we got to the hen house, they were all screeching and squawking. Grandpa shushed us to be quiet, like whatever was in the hen house didn't know we were there. Grandpa eased into the chicken yard with Buster right along. I was holding the lantern high so'es Grandpa could see and I was just behind Buster. Grandpa eased the double barrels of the shotgun through the door of the chicken house and was trying to look into see what was fussing all the chickens.

I don't know if you have had any dealings with a hound dog, but they have got about the best nose ever put on any animal for tracking man or beast. But that nose is about as cold as an ice cube. As Grandpa bent over to look in the chicken house, Buster stuck that cold nose under his nightshirt and kid of nuzzled him a little bit higher up. Grandpa screeched about as loud as the chickens and let loose with both barrels of that 12 gauge.

When the white chicken feathers started to settle, it looked like we were standing in a snow storm. We plucked and larded chickens for the next 2 days. And Grandma Estelle finally got that down mattress she had been pining for.

- Bob Gurkin

Billy Joe McCloud

Billy Joe McCloud

Billy Joe McCloud had about the fastest '36 Chevy Coup in Beaufort County. He wore his hair in a 'ducktail' and would have a pack of Marlboro's rolled up in the sleeve of his t-shirt. He had managed to shoehorn a 350, 4 bolt main under the hood and when he popped the clutch on his 4 in the floor, the rear end would just bounce up and down until he eased up a bit and would let it 'dig' in. Thirteen coats of hand rubbed blue lacquer made the paint job look like it was about 6 inches thick. Him and Bessie Hutch could usually be seen huddled together on the front seat of that coupe, as they would drive by. Best look quick though, Billy Joe liked to get where he was going in a hurry. High Sheriff Jasper had made it his personal ambition in life to catch Billy Joe and on several occasions we would be out fishing in Squaw creek and here would come Billy Joe roaring by on the bridge over head and in just a little bit here would come Sheriff Beasley with his red light flashing and siren screaming. Up to now, he had never managed to catch Billy Joe, no matter how he tried. 

One November Billy Joe and Bessie disappeared. We all figured they had run off to South Carolina to get married and expected them back sometime later. Soon enough here that Midnight Blue Coup came roaring through town and Sheriff Beasley was coming right after him. About 30 minutes later here come the sheriff, back into town. He got out of his car shaking his head and said. "Dogged if I can understand it. I thought I had him for sure but lost him at the county line." The same time the next Saturday night, here that Coup came again. Same thing happened. "Lost ‘em at the county line again" This went on all through the winter. Finally Sheriff Beasley had his great idea. The next Sat night he had his deputies block the road on the bridge at Squaw Creek and they swore that they never left that spot and they won't no turn offs and the Sheriff was right behind Billy Joe, but he lost him again. By this time spring was coming in and a bunch of us boys went to Squaw Creek to do a little swimming. We were all splashing and swimming around, and then one of the boys yelled "Hey! Look at this"! He was standing out of the water up to his waist in the middle of the creek. When we went down to see what was there, he was standing on the roof of a Midnight Blue Coup. After the car was drug out and the coroner examined Billy Joe and Bessie, he said they had been there since last fall. 

Every now and then you can see an Electric Blue '36 Chevy Coup come flying down the road, or you may just see some lights. The scientists say it's just swamp gas, but we know better. By the way, that stretch of road out of Pinetown is now called ‘The Devil’s Race Track’.

- Bob Gurkin

Bo and the Bad Wreck

Bo and the Bad Wreck

Bo Beasley and Uncle Jessie applied for a truck-driving job over to the Dismal Swamp Moving and Storage Co. Since both of them had been driving mules, tractors and Model T's since before they could see over a steering wheel, they figured they would be a shoo in for that job. The Moving Co sat over on highway 301, just south of Micro and usually had 4 or 5 of them big ole International Furniture Trucks they had back in '48, a settin on the side. In the summer they would have a big block of ice setting just inside the open door and a fan would drag a little cool air over the ice to help the girls in the office. It didn't really help a lot. In the summers we could usually fry an egg on the sidewalks or on the hood of a car. I've done it several times. Strips of flypaper would be hanging from the ceiling and coated with hundreds of flys. About the only thing you would see moving outside the building, would be this old hound dog that would get up and move over to the shade every time the sun would catch up with him. Other than that, you would probably see a stump move before anything else did.

When the owner and president of the Dismal Swamp Moving and Storage Company called Bo into his office for the interview, Bo kinda straightened up his bib overalls and sashayed into the office and plunked down in a cane seat ladder backed chair and tried to look right pert. Mr. Abdollar looked him over and then started questioning Bo about his driving skills. Bo was doing purty good and finally Mr. Abdollar says to him. "Bo, lets say you are driving one of my trucks. Jessie is sitting on the seat beside you sound asleep and you crest a hill. When you get over the top and are coming down at full speed you see a school bus stopped in the middle of the road. You don't have time to stop. You either hit the school bus or you drive into the trees on the side of the road. What would you do"?

Bo thought for a minute or so and then replied. "Why I would reach over and wake Jessie up". "Well, asks Mr. Abdollar. What in the world would you wake Jessie up for? He can't do nothing to help you”.  “I know” answered Bo.  “But you see, Jessie ain't never seen no bad truck wreck before”.

- Bob Gurkin

The Bear

Hunting was, pretty much, a way of life for me. I started out settin snares for birds and rabbits and used slingshots for squirrels and finally traded a mess of skins for a 30-30 Winchester and used that rifle for many years. I know a lot of guys opt for the high-powered rifles nowadays, like the semi-automatic 30-06 and the 7mm's. Those are well and good, but with a good 30-30 (we pronounce that thuty-thuty), you can put the balls in a 1-inch circle at 150 yards all day long. In the swamps, if you get a shot much over 20 or 30 yards, it will be because a tree has fallen down. It is some kind of thick in there. After several years of hunting with the thuty-thuty, I finally gave it up for a black powder rifle I made and finally gave up guns all together and hunted only with a bow and arrow.

My favorite hunting area was just in the edge of the Dismal Swamps. This is in Beaufort County, North Carolina and is home to deer, bear, alligators and every kind of poisonous snake on the North American Continent. Including water moccasins, cottonmouths, coral snakes, and diamond back rattlers. I don't kill the snakes. I figure God put them here to do a job and their business ain't none of mine. I didn't worry about the gators, cause unless you got real dumb, they were no problem.

Over the years I had been seeing and hunting for this one particular black bear, but rarely, if ever saw him during hunting season. This bear had a track about 6-1/2 inches across and claws about 4 inches long and I followed that track enough miles to recognize it anyplace in the swamps. Bear season is about a month after deer season starts and is only 1 week long. When I would go deer/bear hunting, I would generally stay out in the swamps until dark and then come on back to the cabin. The part of the Dismal Swamps I hunted in was about 15 miles across and a little over 30 miles long. So it would be pitch dark by the time I would walk the 2 or 3 miles out of the swamps. When I was too far out and there was much quicksand in the area I would climb up a Live Oak and spend the night in the fork of a limb. No need to bother with a light, cause you would just get confused and lost if you tried to actually see your way. I never did get lost in the swamps, but once I was mighty confused for a day. It took me most of the next day to walk back from where I finally came out.

Once, I was in the swamps and a hurricane blew through. When I had walked in I was on dry land. When I came out I was wading in water up to my waist and from the edge of the swamps out to the first land that was not under water was over a mile away. My pocket watch in my bib overalls was a quarter of the way filled with water. That was a lot of rain. Just to give you an idea of how much rain can fall in a hurricane, we had a big one about 3 years ago and it flooded a lot of eastern North Carolina up to a depth of 8 feet. Over 38,000 homes were destroyed.

Anyway, back to the bear. One night I had finally worked my way out of the Dismals to where the trail forked off to the left to my cabin. It was a moonlight night and I could see this big ole hound dog walking down the trail towards me. We keep getting closer and closer to each other, until he was about 10 feet from me and then he turned off the trail going up into the trees alongside the trail going to my cabin. When he made the turn I could see that it wasn't a hound at all, but it was that big ole black bear. That was a lonesome walk up that half-mile long trail. Another time I was up in a homemade tree stand out in back of the cornfield and about a mile back in the woods. Dusk is about the best time for deer hunting and it was just starting to get kinda dark when I heard a low grunt. Sometimes a deer will grunt and I got my bow and arrow ready and was peering out into the trees and brush looking as hard as I could. Couldn't see a dang thing. Kept hearing that low grunt though.

About that time my tree stand kinda jumped and I looked down. There was that dang ole black bear with his paws on my tree stand looking up at me. It was not bear season and I could not legally shoot; I'm not saying that I ran out of the woods, but if that bear had managed to claw me, he would have done serious damage to my butt. Just to let me know that he was boss of the woods, the bear got to where he would either claw up the trees I had stands in or he would claw and chew up my tree stands. On two separate occasions, he drug up deer he had gotten from someplace and ate them within sight of my tree stand. That bear and I had many run ins over the years and I kinda got to where I halfway expected him to be someplace close by. I'm not going to tell about killing him. I can't think of any humorous way to tell it and to be quite truthful, I miss that bear something bad. I don’t hunt anymore.

- Bob Gurkin

Kilgore Futch and the Motorcycle

Kilgore Futch and the Motorcycle

Kilgore and his brother Boo Hutch were two of the roughest customers in the Dismal Swamps. Both wore their hair long and combed back into a 'Ducktail'. They always had a pack of Bull Durham tobacco in their shirt pockets and the string with the round paper tab was always hanging on the outside of that pocket. They wore heavy engineers boots that were shod with steel toe and heel taps and the boys called them 'stompin' boots'. Their shirtsleeves would be rolled up two laps and you would never find them without a toothpick stuck in the comer of their mouths. If a moonshine still got robbed or a hog stolen or the general store broken into, the High Sheriff always paid them a visit first, but he always had 2 or 3 deputies with him when he went.

One hot summer day, Kilgore came riding up Main Street in Selma, NC on one of the prettiest motorcycles I have ever seen and was it throwing up a nice plume of dust behind him. He revved the motor and kicked it into a slide and skidded right up to the boardwalk in front of the General Store. What part of the motorcycle that wasn't chromed was pure, snow white. It had a 2 cycle, upright motor on it and had 2 spark plugs even though both of them were on top of the only cylinder on the motor. It was some kinda pretty and would do a top speed of 45 mph. This was in the days when the national speed limit was only 35. On the side of the gas tank was emblazoned "Simplex Service Cycle" with the wings of eagles sprouting behind those words. A belt ran from the motor up to a clutch assembly and then a bigger belt went from that clutch to a big pulley that went around the rim of the rear wheel. I wanted that motorcycle some kinda bad.

About 3 months later I was over to the roadhouse and a few of us boys were in the back room, tugging on a little shine and playing poker. About 10 that night here come Kilgore. He joined in the game and it won't very long till it was just him and me playing stud poker, no limit (which won't very much for us). We had a couple of good hands between us and finally up came one hand in which Kilgore was showing 3 of a kind and I was showing an Ace high spade flush. Kilgore bet a couple of times and on the last card I hit it with everything I had. Kilgore studied long and hard and finally in the face of that flush he folded. As I was raking in the pot I let my hold card "accidentally" turn over and it showed the 3 of hearts. I had won that pot on a busted flush. Kilgore got really quiet and I could see that he was about as mad as I have ever seen him get without someone getting hurt. He didn't say a word and we kept playing. About 7:00 am I was starting to get a little tuckered but Kilgore would not stop. Then on the next hand he was showing 4 cards to a straight and was betting pretty heavy. I was showing 4 cards to a diamond flush and didn't raise any, but wouldn't fold. On the last card I placed a modest bet and Kilgore called and raised by sliding all of his money into the middle of the table. I called, then I raised by putting my Winchester 30-30 on top of the pile. Kilgore had to call or fold. He got a thoughtful look on his face and slowly slid his wallet out and took out the registration paper to the Simplex motorcycle. I nodded my acceptance and with a chortle he turned over an Ace to give him a high straight. The boys standing around all sighed and it looked like my Winchester was going home with Kilgore this day. With fingers that trembled ever so slightly, I turned over the Ace of Diamonds for a straight flush. If you would ever like to see that Simplex Motorcycle, jest stop on by.  It’s as pretty as the day I got it.

Bob Gurkin

Grandma Estelle's Chickens

Grandma Estelle's Chickens

Uncle Bud and Uncle Jessie were two of the best moonshiners in Johnston County. Unfortunately, they did their own 'taste testing' and most of the time the revenuers were a tad smarter than they were. So we only saw them occasionally. They drove the same old rusty Studebaker truck all the time and most of the fenders were just a memory. Each wheel wanted to go in a different direction and I believe they were the inventors of 'straight pipes'. You could hear them coming from away off And they thought that if they put a layer of straw over the 'shine' in the back of that truck it would be pretty well hidden.

One afternoon in August they were out to the house paying their respects to Grandma Estelle, and Bo Beasley came running into the house yelling that the revenuers were sneaking up through the cornfield. Course it won't true. (That boy always did have a mean streak). Anyway, Uncles Bud and Jessie took off through the cotton patch and dumped the corn likker into the spring on the way. In just a few seconds they were bouncing down the Old Stage road heading for Beaufort County.

The livestock would drink out of that spring and in just a short while every chicken on the place was laying as stiff as a poker and dead to the world. Grandma Estelle cried awhile and then put us to work plucking chickens. We plucked chickens up till time to go to the 'camp meeting' and gospel sing at the Shilo Hard Rock Baptist Church. We left the chickens laying in a pile and figured to finish them up by lantern light later that night. We all had a rousing time and sometime later I will tell you a little about some of the religions we have down here.

When we got back to the house later that evening all of the chickens were gone. We figured that the 'no account' Hutch family who lived just up the holler had taken them. Kilgore Hutch was about the worst of the lot. The next morning, at sunrise, we were awakened by a rooster crowing. They jest won't no way. That rooster had been laying dead with the other chickens last night. When we got to the back porch and looked, the back yard was full of bald chickens that we had plucked. Grandma finally figured out what Uncles Bud and Jessie had done and that the chickens hadn’t been dead at all, but just passed out drunk.

Bob Gurkin (posted by Brother Rick)

Asking Mama Cora for a Rich Potion

Asking Mama Cora for a Rich Potion

Great Aunt Coralee Lewis was well known in the Dismal Swamps of North Carolina. The swampers all jest called her Mama Cora. She was a JuJu Woman and could make up potions to cure most ails. She could talk the warts off anyone and she could make you a mojo that would protect you from another JuJu Woman. Love potions and casting spells kept her right busy.

She lived in a cypress clapboard cabin that had turned grayish silver from age. It sat on pilings at the edge of the swamps and was a little rickety with age, but suited her jest fine. You hardly ever caught her without her corncob pipe or a 'dip' of snuff She was tanned to about the color of old leather and for as long as I can remember, she would have some young feller staying in the cabin with her. They would jest show up and stay for 6 months or so and then disappear. I don't remember ever seeing one of them again after they left, but directly here would come another one for a while. Her back porch hung over the edge of the swamps and the gators that hung out there were unusually fat from all the garbage she would feed them. She sure loved those gators and even had pet names for some of them.

When I was about 20 years old, I stopped by Aunt Coralees to visit for a spell and asked her to give me a potion that would make me rich. She kinda chuckled and told me to wait there. I could hear her rummaging around in her cabin and shortly she pushed open the screen door and said "Here, Boy. You drink this" She handed me a dipper that was filled with a bilious green liquid that kinda glowed in the twilight. I steeled myself and drank it right down. It tasted pretty good. I kinda got just a little floaty; something like after a couple of good shots of moonshine, but it didn't last very long.

Soon after I left the Dismals and started working for a living. During the years I have made a decent living, married a really fine lady and we had a passel of children. The children all grew up in fine health and married well themselves. The wife and I do love to have our children and grandchildren come visit, but I never did get rich.

My Cousin Marion

My Cousin Marion

My Great Uncle Beauregard served in the Army during the Spanish/American War and came out a Major so when he got back home he was, naturally, addressed as Colonel Beauregard Lewis. Uncle Beauregard Lewis was an imposing man with wavy black hair that had turned a silvery grey over the years and with his Vandyke beard you could not imagine a more handsome, manly visage. Uncle Lewis married very well and after he and Aunt Moselle moved into the stately Golden Gables estate they presided over 640 acres of some of the best cotton and tobacco land in Eastern North Carolina. Our family was once prosperous but had gone into decline after the Civil War and all of the family’s hope and pride was transferred to Uncle Beauregard. During most conversations with people outside the family you would eventually hear something like "as my uncle Colonel Beauregard Lewis said or did." We were some proud of Uncle Beauregard Lewis.

Uncle Beauregard and Aunt Mozelle had three daughters and the oldest was my age at the time. Five years old. Cousins Annabelle, Rochelle and Dixiebelle were pampered girls and always dressed in the finest fashions. Here in the south, children born to another woman are not, necessarily, disavowed. Cousin Marion was the only son of Uncle Beauregard and a woman by the name of Lucille Waters who lived some miles away at the edge of the Dismal Swamps. When I was five, cousin Marion was about nineteen. Families get complicated, but it’s easy to tell who belongs to who. Uncle Beauregard’s three daughters were always referred to as his daughters, but his son, Marion, was always his outside son, to let others know that he was not considered part of the first family. When cousin Marion was five years old, Uncle Beauregard "rescued" him from Lucille’s shack at the edge of the Dismals and sent him off to school. On holidays he was allowed to come into the big house and I remember him as a withdrawn, skinny young man. He did not have the manly countenance of Uncle Beauregard and always appeared to be half of Uncle Beauregard. He had his eyes and brow, but his chin was receding and weak. When Uncle Beauregards daughters were asked if Cousin Marion was manly or handsome they would always laugh and say " Laws no. He isn’t anything like The Colonel or any of the other men in our family." We all had the latest framed pictures of Uncle Beauregard Lewis and the last picture of him shows a distinguished gentleman with silver hair and noble brow and an impressive Vandyke beard.

The last time I saw cousin Marion was at Uncle Beauregards funeral. Uncle Beauregard had been elected Senator from North Carolina and had served in Washington for nearly 20 years. When he was 62 he dropped dead from a massive heart attack. All of the family was at Golden Gables and I remember cousin Marion standing by the casket with tears running down his face. Aunt Mozelle shooed him away, but cousin Marion spent as much time as he could with his father. After the funeral, I never saw cousin Marion again. I later heard that cousin Marion had finished his schooling and moved to Europe and after meeting and marrying a lady from New York had moved there.

Quite by accident I found that cousin Marion had hyphenated his last name and had become Marion Waters-Lewis. At that time, I was working as a copy editor for the Dismal Swamps Picayune and a visitor from New York City remarked that I vaguely resembled a rising senator from there. He went on to tell what a gregarious, friendly man he is who married into one of the oldest, wealthiest families in New York. When the visitor gave this senators name as Marion Waters-Lewis I thought that it was simply coincidence, because I knew that my weak chinned cousin could never fit that description.

Some years later, when I was about 40 I was sitting at my desk looking over some correspondence coming over the wire from New York and there was a large story about a famous senator from New York who was making a run for the Presidency. The story went on to tell about his heroic service in Vietnam and named him as Senator Marion Waters-Lewis. At the bottom of the story was a photograph of Senator Waters-Lewis and his wife, both of them about 60 years old. I looked at the photograph and looking back at me was a handsome, manly gentleman wearing a Vandyke beard. I held the picture up beside my Uncle Beauregards photo and they were identical.

- Bob Gurkin

And Finally - Bob Gurkin's Old Tales Editorial - Dismal Swamp Politics!

Kader Lewis was running for Mayor of Selma, Dismal Swamp County and had several requests by various news organizations for information regarding his family tree. Well, heck, everyone knows we all came from a long line of moonshiners and hoss thieves and general neer-do-wells. Our uncles Bud and Jessie were long time moonshiners and worked on the chain gang and their great Grand Daddy stole horses for years and went to prison for quite some time and when he got out robbed several trains and was eventually caught by the Pinkertons and hung. Here is how Kader wrote up his family tree.

"Rufus Lewis was a famous Swamper in Dismal County . His business empire grew to include acquisition of valuable equestrian assets and intimate dealings with the Southern railroad. Beginning in 1883, he devoted several years of his life to government service, finally taking leave to resume his dealings with the railroad. In 1887, he was a key player in a vital investigation run by the renowned Pinkerton Detective Agency. In 1889, Rufus passed away during an important civic function held in his honor when the platform upon which he was standing collapsed."

Bud and Jessie Lewis were well known businessmen in Dismal County who tended their vineyards on the outskirts of Selma. They developed their own special blends and were sought out by local gourmands as well as members of local and national organizations to help with various road projects in and around Dismal County. Both civic minded men left their lucrative business dealings and served with no pay to help bring streets and roads to outlying areas of the Dismal Swamps. These fine men served their county well and after a long and well known stint with the government went back to their humble beginnings and spent their final years in the backwoods of Dismal County where they were sought out by both the common man and various other government officials.

Carolina Christmas

Christmas in Eastern North Carolina

In 1965 my family was living on a farm in the southern part of Chowan County, North Carolina. My father had always been a farmer and us kids grew up working in the fields on our farm. Mom worked the hardest of all and her day began long before daylight. She would be in the kitchen preparing breakfast for our brood of 11 kids. Sally Ann was the oldest at 17 and Chub the youngest at 4 years old. Billy Bob, Jimbo, Snowdean, Woodrow, Lynda, Nora, and the twins Mozelle and Raynell. And of course me, Jethro.

We never had a whole lot but Mom and Dad made sure we were clean, fed and went to church every Sunday. I don’t know that I ever saw Dad at rest until this last year. He was always busy in the fields tending the corn or cotton or tobacco. When he wasn’t in the fields he would be working on his tractor or old 54 Chevy truck. This last year, we were looking at a bumper crop and the tobacco was going to see us through and probably pay off the mortgage.

Summer and Fall in North Carolina was a magical time for us kids. Sure we had to work, but there was still time to wander the dusty roads or go fishing. It was as though we had our own telepathy and it would take no time to get up a couple of teams to play baseball or football. When it was too hot to play ball we would head for the closest creek and soon be splashing and swimming. It was a grand time for us kids. I can remember standing by the edge of the barn with Dad looking out over the fields of tobacco and he was proud enough to bust. The stalks were so loaded with leaves it seemed they must topple over. Dad placed his big hand on my shoulder and said “Jed. It’s been a sight of years, but this year the farm will be ours, free and clear. You and your brothers and sisters have been a world of help to your Mom and I. I know it’s been hard on you, but after this year we can all relax a bit and just enjoy life.” Standing there, looking over those fields of tobacco, I felt a glimmer of what my Dad was feeling and I was happy for him and us as a family.

Late summer and our tobacco crop was ready for harvest. The leaves were just starting to turn golden yellow and Dad had already traded labor with four of our neighbors and next week would be our time to crop and barn tobacco. That Wednesday we were listening to the radio and over the nightly news came word that Wilmington was being pounded with heavy rains and winds. Dad allowed as how Wilmington was far enough from us that the rain shouldn’t bother our tobacco harvest and we all went to bed in preparation for the mornings labors to ready us for our own tobacco harvest.

Near midnight we awoke to a crescendo of noise. Rain pounded against the windows and the wind was screaming through the pecan trees and bits of limbs were smashing against the side of the house. We quickly closed all of the outside shutters, but not before most of the windows on the east side of the house were broken. The wind screamed around our home and over all of this noise came a roaring as if a train were going at full speed just outside. In a very short time our entire home was vibrating and moaning and with a rending roar part of the roof blew away and we had to scramble to the center hallway in case the outer walls collapsed. The disappearance of part of the roof seemed to equalize pressure to the outside and even though our home was buffeted and holes knocked in the siding it did not collapse or blow away. After 3 hours of this huge storm the noise abated and most of us kids managed to sleep through the rest of the storm.

We awoke to a changed world. Dad later said that we had some small tornadoes mixed with the hurricane, but no matter what, it was a disaster for us. Our home had holes knocked into it and the roof portion over the kitchen was mostly gone and water damaged much of the inside. Outside, our barn was simply gone. Most of it was torn to kindling and it was destroyed. Our John Deere tractor had been caught up with the barn and smashed into the pickup. Both were damaged beyond any repair. As bad as all this was, the damage to our tobacco crop was total devastation. The barn siding and other debris had ripped through the ripened stalks of tobacco and only an occasional bare stalk stood here and there where yesterday were acres of ripening tobacco. We were all stunned and all of us, with the possible exception of Chub, knew the magnitude of the disaster that had befallen us. A whole years work gone. We knew that this year there would be no extras in our home. That day we spent the entire day salvaging what we could. A pitchfork here, a grubbing hoe there. The pecan trees were all blown down and Dad cut the limbs poking into the house.

Unfortunately, Silas Wilcox, president of Chowan Savings and Loan, held the note on our farm. It was just after 1:30 that he came driving up our lane. He parked his new Chrysler at the corner of the house and slowly walked around looking at the damage. I was young, but I knew what a miserable skinflint he was and knew of at least 3 other farms he had foreclosed on. He stood looking at Dad and Mom and rocking back on his heels with his gut hanging out asked what they intended to do about making their payment good without a cash crop. Dad looked him in the eye and said we would do whatever it took to make the payment. Mr. Wilcox sucked in his cheek and replied “I will advance you enough money to put the roof back over this end of the house, but there won’t be any more. I wouldn’t do that, but I don’t want to see the house totally ruined when I have to take it in.” I thought Dad was going to hit him and I believe Mr. Wilcox thought so too. He nearly tripped over his own feet getting turned around and back into his car. When he gained the safety of his automobile he rolled down the window and yelled “That note is due and payable on Dec. 26th. If it isn’t in the bank by 12:00 noon I will have the Sheriff out here by 12:30.” With that he roared on back into town. We were an awful somber family over the next few days. Dad, didn’t want to take that advance, but it was that or we would have no roof. Two days later the damaged portion of the roof was replaced and only the different colored tin showed where the repair had been made.

The following weeks Dad went all over our area, but there was no work to be found. An occasional day of work here and there, but nothing that would hardly put food on the table. We knew that at this rate we would not have enough to live on, much less pay the mortgage. Our next door neighbors were the Beasleys and their son, Bo, was working for a logging company down in the Dismal Swamps just outside of Pinetown. Two weeks after the storm Bo was waiting for us when we came out of church and pulled Dad to one side and they stood talking for some time. Dad was awfully solemn while we were walking home and when we got to the house he told us kids to wait outside while him and Mom talked. That evening, after supper, Pa told us he had an announcement to make. He slowly looked around the table and said. “You all know what we are up against right now and your Mom and I have decided that I am going to have to leave this area to earn enough money for us to live on.” Mom was sitting there with a tear running down her face and Dad wouldn’t look at her. He went on. “Bo told me about a job with the Dismal Swamps logging company and I am going down there with him tonight. I want you all to take care of your mother and I will be back by Christmas.” With that he went into their bedroom and returned with a duffle bag they had packed and hugged us all and kissed Mom goodbye. I sat and watched him walking up the lane until he finally faded into the dusk of evening.

It was a strange summer for us. All of us who could get work did so. I never received any money for the work I did, but did get food for our table. I built a hog pen for one neighbor and he gave me two shoats. The job wasn’t worth the shoats and I expect there was a bit of neighborly love involved there. On another job I picked up a settin hen and 8 eggs that eventually hatched. We all worked and with the little bit of money Dad was able to send we got by. That Fall only the older kids got new shoes and clothes. The rest of us wore what the bigger kids passed down. If we couldn’t make it or earn it we did without. Dad sent letters every week. At the time I didn’t know how hard he had to work, but later I heard about him and the other men having to saw and chop trees down in The Dismals. A railroad spur had been run into the swamps and the loggers had to chop the trees and get them to the line so the switch engine could run them out to the main line. It was back breaking, dangerous labor and not everyone made it out alive or whole. Bo Beasley was killed by a tree that smashed into the swamp and then kicked back to kill him and another man. Others got maimed. The logging company just said it was dangerous work and everyone knew what they were getting into. Besides, they could just hire more men. That fall and early winter we worked at chopping up the pecan trees and at least we got heat and cooking kindling out of them.

Mr. Wilcox came by now and then and he would try to time it so he got there before us kids got home from school. On a couple of occasions we came home to find Mom crying but we thought it was from missing Dad. I don’t think we would have known what was going on if I hadn’t been home sick one day. Mr. Wilcox came driving up in his big fine car and Mom met him at the front steps. In the meantime I had walked up inside and was standing just inside the door. I could hear Mom murmuring and then Mr. Wilcox spoke right up. “Look” He said. “If you would just be a bit nicer to me I could make this a lot easier for you. I’ve seen your kids in their ragged clothes and I bet they could stand a good meal or two. No one need know I’ve even been here.” I realized exactly what was going on and stepped through the door. Mr. Wilcox didn’t even know I was there and continued talking in that honey dripping voice. I didn’t yell but I spoke in a firm voice. “Get out of here you old son of a bitch.” He looked startled to see me standing there and turned and practically ran back to his car. He never even looked at us as he pulled away. I thought Mom would wallop me for cussing, but she just hugged me and told me to get back into bed. We never spoke about what I heard Mr. Wilcox say.

December finally came around and Dad sent a letter saying he would have the money to save the farm one week before Christmas. All that month we were excited and even though our Christmas tree was decorated with paper stars and strung popcorn it was the best looking tree we had ever had. Christmas Eve fell on Wednesday that year and Dad said he would be home on Tuesday. Monday we had the biggest snowfall we have had in 40 years. In places it was nearly 2 feet deep and no automobiles could move at all. Tuesday Dad didn’t come and the day was cold and crystal clear. We didn’t know it, but Dad was on a train that was unable to move in places unless the passengers shoveled enough snow for it to move a few more miles. The entire eastern coast of North Carolina was socked in. All day Wednesday we were looking for Dad, but the only thing we saw was a snowplow clearing a single lane on the road past our farm. That afternoon a car finally came our way and pulled over by our lane. By this time we all recognized Mr. Wilcox’s auto and we watched him trudge through the snow to our front door. Mom had the door open before he could knock and Mr. Wilcox said. “Your husband is not going to be able to get home in time to pay this mortgage and I expect you to be out of this house Friday at 12:00. Mom slammed the door in his face and he stood there working his fingers for a moment and then turned and trudged his way back to his car. That Christmas Evening we put our final decorations on the tree and a candle at the very top. Mom and the girls made some candy and we all had an apple and some popcorn. Mom had managed to put by enough apples for fritters and we sat and sang Christmas Carols until nearly midnight. Chub and a couple of the other young kids had already drifted off to sleep. To be honest with you I was feeling kinda sleepy myself when I heard someone stomping snow off their feet on the porch. I flew up like a shot. If it was that damned Mr. Wilcox again I would light into him this time. Before I could get there the front door flew open and there was Dad going Ho Ho Ho with his arms full of packages. Mom started squalling and so were half of us kids. His arms weren’t big enough to go around all of us, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. We all got our hugs and kisses in and ours had to of been the happiest house in all of North Carolina that Christmas Eve.

There wasn’t much sleep in our house that Christmas Eve and morning saw us still gabbling away. The following morning it was gently snowing again and all you could see was white to the horizon. We spent Christmas Day just enjoying each others company and Dad told us that he was not going to go back into the Dismal Swamps as a logger. He had been training to operate the switch engine for the railroad and he was the new engineer for the Southern Railroad switch engine. I wish I could say Dad got the farm back up and running, but it never happened. Farming had gotten so expensive that he was never able to get enough money to make it work again and he eventually retired as District Manager for the Southern Railroad.

Oh he didn’t lose the farm. On Friday morning he went to the bank and in front of witnesses he produced the cash money and paid off the mortgage. Mr. Wilcox looked like he had a bitter taste in his mouth the entire time he was signing off on the mortgage. When he handed Dad the mortgage papers he stood up and offered his hand for a shake. Dad just looked at it and then looked him dead in the eye. He said. “I know what you tried while I was gone and my boy Jed pegged you right. Except he only got it half right. You are a miserable son of a bitch.” With that Dad smashed his huge right hand into the middle of Wilcox’s face. Blood flew from his splattered nose and it never did grow back straight. We had many more Christmas' at the old farm stead and Chub is still living there, but no other Christmas was more joyful.

Merry Christmas!
- Bob Gurkin

December 2010

It's hard to believe that another year has already gone by - man, oh man - going way too fast!

This December, we are going to post recipes and old tales that are obviously related to Christmas and Winter. Heck, North Carolina has already gotten snow this month - which doesn't happen but once in a while. As for recipes - I'm craving lots and lots of sweets this month - so that is what we're going to post. We hope y'all enjoy them as much as we do!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

From all the Gurkin Brothers - Chuck, Rick and Bob - and please say a prayer for Skip - hope he is having a good ole time up there in Heaven!

The Great Dismal Swamps Church Social

The Great Dismal Swamps Church Social

When I was just a young fellow, going to church was about the only form of entertainment in our neck of the Dismal Swamps. Dismal County was too far to the east to attract traveling shows and the week of the State Fair, in Wake County, took forever to get here and went by in a flash. No moving picture shows and other than the occasional snake oil medicine show there wasn’t much doings going on. At this time there were no paved roads in all of North Carolina except the cobblestoned streets in some towns and Selma wasn’t one of them. When traveling from my town, Selma, down to Pinetown to visit kin we would drive our mule and wagon along miles of roads that would be totally covered over with Live Oaks and Elms. Spanish Moss would be hanging from the trees and it was like driving down a long green tunnel. In the 1950s the very last stretch of this road was widened and all of the trees on both sides were cut down for miles and miles. There is still one stretch where they straightened the road for the new highway and if you look about a hundred yards off the highway you will still see a part of the old abandoned road covered over with trees and moss. Occasionally I like to drive over to the old road and just look down that long green tunnel.

In the summer of 1914 I was 13 years old and my best pals were Bo Beasley, Hobo Parrish and Kilgore Futch. We all went to school at Selma School, which was a one room school house and the teacher was Miss Lucille Goodall from down Calabash way. We all thought she was the prettiest thing in four counties. Which brings me to what I am really talking about....

A 1914 Stutz Bearcat. That horseless carriage was even prettier than Miss Lucille.

Mr. Ellwood Creech was the town druggist and his store was at the corner of Main and 1st St. (Wern’t no 2nd or 3rd) At that time it was the only brick building in town and was the largest building. Mr. Creech rented rooms on the 2nd floor to various lawyers and the towns only Dentist. His name was Dr. L.D. Small, but us kids called him Dr. Yanksemall. It was August 12, 1914 when Mr. Creech came driving up Main St. in his brand spanking new Stutz Bearcat. He had to go clean to Raleigh in Wake County to get that car. It was special ordered and painted to his requests. It was painted sun yellow and there were thin green lines painted to outline the fenders and hood and at the ends of the lines were some of the prettiest curlicues and swoops I have ever seen. By the time Mr. Creech drove that car to the Drugstore most of the boys in town were racing as hard as they could run just to look at it and we just stood in a circle staring when it was finally parked. Mr. Creech looked us over and said. "I don’t want to hear of even one of you kids putting your grubby hands on this automobile." Then he marched on into the Drugstore. During the day, most of the adults found time to stop by the Drugstore for one reason or the other and generally found time to admire that beautiful auto. As I said, it was bright yellow and had brown, real leather, tufted seats. The hood was long and had sharp turns to come straight down to the fenders and running boards. The rim around the radiator was solid brass and shined like gold, as were both headlamps. The wheel spokes were oak and gleamed inside the yellow steel rims. The hub caps were brass and had the Stutz emblem embossed on them. The trunk was shaped just like a trunk you would travel with and was held in place by two leather straps. The spare tire was mounted just behind the trunk. A running board ran from front to back and helped you step up into this fine automobile. This auto had a small round windshield that was enough to keep bugs from hitting the driver but didn’t help the passenger much, unless they scrooched up to the driver. It was probably the most elegant car I have ever seen.

Mr. Creech was a fine man, but he was a bit prissey and he was known to be a sharp businessman who had built a nice building with his inheritance and he got a nice rent from those who used his top floor. He had a huge Victorian home surrounded by oaks and shrubs and bordered with an iron fence that he had inherited from his grandfather and he lived alone, with the exception of his cook and he had a woman come by twice a week to clean up and do laundry. All in all, Mr. Creech was about the best catch for any woman in three counties. He was a kind of skinny man without much chin to speak of, but the women were always cutting their eyes at him and developed all kinds of maladies to visit his drugstore. Even if they didn’t have a malady they could sit at his long marble counter and sip a cold fountain drink while chatting with each other. Mr. Creech did not pay much attention to the women out to become Mrs. Creech but he did have a liking for Miss Lucille Goodall. Miss Lucille had long golden hair and the greenest eyes I have ever seen. When she looked at you with those eyes they seemed to be glowing. Along with a creamy complexion and rosy cheeks she looked like a million dollars riding alongside Mr. Creech in that auto. That was about the only thing about that horseless carriage us boys didn’t like.

Mr. Creech had that yellow Stutz Bearcat on the roads of Dismal County nearly every day. On the days when Miss Lucille was with him he drove like he had some sense, but when she wasn’t sitting beside him he had that thing roaring. It didn’t matter if it was man, woman or child on foot or in a wagon he never slowed down. He would go bellering by with his horn blaring and would leave kicking mules, horses and people choking on his dust. The new was fast wearing off that Stutz.

Twice a year the ladies of the Dismal Swamps Baptist Church built on Solid Rock (Our church names tend to be kinda descriptive.) would have a Church social. In those days a church social was an excuse for all the families to meet and show off their best cooking, clothes and manners. People who were not regular church goers would not dream of missing a social so these would be crowded events. Our old Preacher, Mr. Kelson, had retired after 30 years and 6 weeks ago we had gotten a brand new Preacher. The right Reverend Philo T. Farnsworth seemed awfully old to us kids, but probably wasn’t much over 27 or 28 at the time. He was an average sized man and had a voice like the thunder of heaven when he was in the middle of his sermon. He pitched at one of our ball games and he had a pitch that sizzled more than his sermons and when Percy Kettle’s wheel came off his wagon Reverend Farnsworth squatted down under the edge of the wagon and when he straightened up that heavy old wagon came right up with him. I don’t care if that man was a preacher or not...he was strong.

On the Sunday of the church social half of Dismal County was at the Church and there were two rows of groaning tables laden with just about every kind of food ever cooked in the Swamps. Each family brought what they could afford. Fried chicken by the washtub full. Bar-B-Que, baby back ribs, roast beef, frog legs, squirrels, rabbits, venison and fried gator. Butterbeans, Dixie Lee Crowders, Field peas, snaps, tomatoes, potatoes, yam casserole, pickles, banana pudding, pineapple cake, chocolate cake, apple pie, pecan pie. Keep in mind now that this is only a partial list and doesn’t include many dishes that were partial to that particular time and place.

The main attraction was that beautiful yellow Stutz Bearcat and it had a crowd of us boys looking it over from end to end. At first we were mindful of what we had been told and didn’t lay a hand on it, but as time went on we got braver and what with one dare and another we were soon crawling all over that beautiful car. Kilgore Futch was behind the steering wheel flipping and turning different switches and playing Udddnnn Udddnnn. Myself, Bo Beasley, Hobo Parrish and several other boys got behind the Stutz and were showing off as to how strong we were and wouldn’t you know it. That darn auto rolled a couple of feet and the motor turned over. That was all she took and the next thing you knew that thing was flying around the church in a huge circle. Horses were screaming and bolting off in every direction and once that auto cleared the corner of the church and started back all of the ladies around the tables started screaming too. Kilgore was hanging on to the steering wheel with all his might and since it was a throttle drive auto he had no control over the speed other than to push the lever the wrong way and it was going full speed. I declare I ain’t never seen anything that fast in my life. It must have gotten up to pretty near 20 miles an hour. Horses, dogs and kids were flying in every which direction. Kilgore kept yelling... Heellpp...Stop this thang. Mr. Creech ran bellering out of the church and started chasing his Stutz Bearcat around the church, but he won’t no ways fast enough. In fact, about the 2nd or 3rd go round Kilgore caught up with him and then ran him over. Fortunately the wheels went on either side and he wasn’t hurt. Just a couple of scratches and some grass stains. Miss Lucille stood on the church steps and screamed once and fainted. It was a good thing Reverend Farnsworth was there to catch her.

You know, as bad as this story is...it gets worse. I reckon it was the 4th or 5th turn around the church that Kilgore finally figured out how to straighten out the automobile. Unfortunately, when he did he was pointed straight at the rows of food laid out by the ladies. Straight down the middle of both tables flew that Stutz Bearcat. Bar-B-Que, ribs, cakes and pies went flying in all directions. Some straight up and some being catapulted over the congregation. By the time everything landed it looked like one of those food fights they show in the movies. Not many were untouched. The sheets used to cover the tables were draped over the Stutz and with them flapping in the wind the Stutz flew down the dock heading out into the Dismal Swamps. When the Stutz cleared the end of the dock it looked like it was going to hang in the air forever. It flew and flew and finally seemed to kinda skid across the water and slowly settled down. You could hear that fine motor cracking and popping from where the hot metal hit that cool water. Bubbles and gas belched from the auto and it slowly sank into the Dismals. At first we didn’t know if Kilgore was going to come back up or not, but finally here he popped up. He still had a sheet draped over his shoulder and swamp grass was hanging from his head as he dog paddled to the end of the dock.

Well sir. When Kilgore finally made it to the top of the dock and we helped him up we turned around and there was every man, woman and child looking at us 4 boys. Not one was smiling. Mr. Creech staggered out of the crowd and started screaming gibberish. I never did hear of anyone who claimed to understand a word he said. When he got done he turned around and stomped off toward town still screaming. Our Pa’s stepped out of the crowd and mine just said. "Lets go home boy." When we got to the house he sent me to the woodshed and here he came with his belt. Oh, I don’t think I got as many licks as I deserved. I noticed that while he was swinging that belt he was shaking and shuddering and I though it was because he was so mad, but then he was laughing so hard that he couldn’t swing the belt anymore and finally just fell over laughing. I joined right in and we just laid there laughing as hard as we could. That auto was never mentioned in our house again.

The rest of the summer all of us boys would see who could swim down to the Stutz Bearcat and sit behind the steering wheel the longest. Kilgore won, but it was only because his foot got caught in the steering wheel and he nearly drowned. Towards fall a couple of us took a rope down to the back bumper and a farmer by the name of Silas Turner hooked his mules to it and hauled it out. She was looking pretty bad by that time. The windshield had gotten broken and the fenders were starting to rust. Those fine oak wheels were starting to get skewed and the stuffing was coming out of the leather seats. It was a poor looking sight sitting on the edge of the swamp. Mr. Turner drug it up behind Mr. Creech’s house and there it sat until it mostly rotted into the ground. I think the next auto in town was in 1927 or 28.

Mr. Creech never forgave any of us boys and long after he was in his old age and his son was minding the counter at the drug store he would always have a glare for us. I guess us boys finally outlived the shame of that day and generally we would get a slap on the back or a nod from most of the other swampers and Bo Beasley eventually became mayor and is running for congress next election.

Now to get back to what all of this story was really, really about :)

As bad as all this was there was some good that came out of it. When Miss Lucille fainted and Reverend Farnsworth was comforting her, she came to and they were looking straight into each others eyes. The Reverend leaned over and kissed her right smack on the lips. They were married three weeks later and that was the start of the Farnsworth crowd in the Dismals. Buck and Phil are probably two of the best moonshiners in the swamps and strong as a brace of oxen. Just a fine fine family. If you get a chance, ya’ll come on down to one of our Church Socials. They ain’t as much fun now, but the folks are all friendly.


-Bob Gurkin