On Hogback Mountain

On Hogback Mountain
by
Ken Anderson

Unfinished story which is based on a real-life event
This is a continuation of my story Billy Learns To Fly

Because of an unfortunate incident with stolen dynamite, some of the local farm kids were not allowed to go near Watauga river in the summer of ’57, so swimming was out of the question. Wallowing like a pig in one of the farm ponds was an option, but it takes three baths with lye soap to get rid of the muddy smell, and they didn’t relish taking baths.

Since the Dog Days were typically sultry, they reasoned a trip to the mountains would be the best bet to stay cool for several days. Loafing on the shaded hillsides and splashing in cold mountain streams would ease some of the torture from the extreme heat, humidity, and biting bugs that infested the Watauga river valley of eastern Tennessee where they lived.

Gathering time for summer crops was nearing, so after a number of days pleading, and just a few weeks before the start of school, they persuaded their parents to let them take a weekend hiking and exploring the ridges on Hogback Mountain, but there were two major stipulations; they had to be home by Saturday evening to take baths, and they had to go to church on Sunday. Except for Luke Oliver, there was no way they would be allowed to skip church. Luke’s parents weren’t very religious, but he attended church at times so he could sit with the various young ladies.

Jack, Luke’s uncle who lived at the foot of the mountain, had to agree to go along to guide them. They convinced him to tell their folks that he would go, and then talked him out of going so they could be on their own; any adult was bound to be a drag.

They asked Granny Oliver, who knew everything about anything, what the weather was going to do for a few days.

“My bunion ain’t aching, so I reckon we’ll have some fine weather for a awhile.” Her words made them feel sure that this would be a memorable trip.

On Thursday morning, after hitching a ride on the back of a mail truck, they made it to the foothills of the Unaka mountains that lay on the eastern side of the Nolichucky river. Their folks had sent enough food to last a month, so they ate what they could on the twenty-mile trip, and gave most of the rest to the truck driver, determined to make-do on their own.

When they checked in with Uncle Jack, he warned them about the Appalachian Trail.

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The story continues on my writing blog.

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©1998 by Ken Anderson. All rights reserved.

The First Bank Affair

The First Bank Affair
by
Ken Anderson
Based on actual events

Hiding in the bushes like a coward; shot in the butt like an idiot. How can a man tell his future grandchildren that his greatest chance at fame came to an untimely end when he was shot in the butt? He probably should keep his mouth shut. It began like a lot of innocent adventures—an average day in an average life…

I walk across the asphalt that fronts the little shopping strip where my hardware store is located, heading to the First Bank branch to deposit my weekly receipts and to size up the new girl who is working as a teller. Some of the boys say that she is a real looker, and I’ve been feeling a little lonely the past few years.

Her back is to me as I enter the lobby—a back covered to near the middle with magnificent raven hair.

Wow. If the front is anything like the back . . .

As she steps from behind her station, the crimson mini-dress that ends just below her tush shows off the nicest legs ever beheld by a man’s lusting eyes. Red heels add to their unabashed sexiness. I am becoming extremely interested but my gaze quickly returns to that bushy crown of hair and the mysteries that it hides.

As she turns to face my direction, the breath leaves my body. Love has drop-kicked me in the gut.

This isn’t a girl; this is all woman . . .

After I wipe the slobbers from my chin, I remove my baseball cap and shove it into the back pocket of my jeans. No need looking like a redneck, even if I am one.

Nearing her desk, I notice that a gold pin over her left breast says “Mindy”.
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Copyright© 2002 by Ken Anderson. All rights reserved.

The remainder of this story can be found on my private writing blog.