The Old Cabin's Mysteries...


jan1208 009


Random Blogger wrote in to say:

"The old cabin has to be a wealth of material for anyone with a vivid imagination. Have you gone in? Is there anything left? You mentioned a cave once, right? Perfect place to keep all the things you don't want the law to find, or perhaps a place to shelter while the troops pass through. And I will never forget the iron. This would be the perfect place to give it a wild and rational use."

I have to tell you, it got me thinking.  This is a dangerous- to get me thinking while I'm drinking my morning coffee.  My fertile imagination's liable to go anywhere.  So, Random, thanks! I'm putting your spark to good use and maybe I'll have something to show for it.

In the meantime, to answer your questions-

Yes, I've been inside- most recently with the Unnamed Ones over Easter weekend.  That was when The Eldest and Lovey, his girlfriend, went on Intruder Alert after Mertis swore she saw someone watching her from the upstairs window of the old cabin.


I've been inside the cabin quite a few times, so much so that I've spent hours down at the courthouse, researching the cabin's previous owners. I've found bits and pieces of the cabin's past but I don't know enough...(like I ever could!)

I know there are true-to-life stories in this holler and I'm dying to learn them...but I also need to remember where I am.  Franklin County is the self-proclaimed "Moonshine Capital of the World," and the locals have been quick to point out "We don't like people who ask too many questions!"

Tell me about it. 


I grew up in a minister's household.  People came and went, secrets were told, catastrophes handled- all without us kids ever saying a word.  As Dad's children, we were duty-bound by the same laws of confidentiality he was held to.  It just came with the territory.

Maybe that's why I became a therapist.  We can't talk either.

So, the local moonshiners are safe with me- As if they'd  ever trust me...I'm an outsider.  I could live in this holler for a thousand years and it would still be the same.  Hell, the barber wouldn't even ride horses with me for the longest time because he thought I'd ask him a question. You'd better believe, when I finally met him, I kept my nosy mouth shut!

I wouldn't dime out a moonshiner- I'm a child of the '60s...okay, 70s...


And I've done my homework.  I know moonshining was/is the only way some people were able to keep their families alive.  It has always been considered, around these parts, to be an honorable profession.
So, I don't tell half of what I see or most of what I know...But still, I just have to know...


Why does Mertis feel a cold chill every time she goes by the cabin? What happened there? When did the third cabin burn? Who's missing? Why does one part of my cabin hum with an unexplained noise that never quite goes away, even when the power's off?

And, dadgum it, who snuck up and left a 10 gallon can of paint inside the old cabin?  It's full.  So, why hasn't it occured to us to take the lid off and see if there really is paint inside?

This weekend Mert grabbed me and told me she'd found some flat, gray rocks lying between two trees.  "They'd be great for your garden border," she said. "But I can't lift them by myself and I'm afraid there could be snakes in the weeds.  If you come with me, I'd feel better about trying to get them."

So we walked across the field and sure enough, the rocks were beauties.  They lay right around and beside a dogwood tree.  Once I'd brushed away a rotten tree stump, we pulled up the stones and carted them back across the lane to the garden.

Last night I was perusing some local blogs and found that dogwoods have a very slow growth habit.  I remember thinking as I pulled up the rocks, that the dogwood was one of the biggest I'd seen on the property.

Then I remembered a local historian telling me I'd find the Confederate soldier's grave by locating some "flat, gray stones."  The man who took down the walnut, and was also a Civil War buff told me, "Sometimes they'd plant a dogwood sapling to mark the grave if they didn't have no headstone."

When we were pulling up the stones, I told Mertis this, because I know how fond she is of ghosts.

"You don't think this is a grave, do you?" she'd asked in alarm.
"Nah," I said, dismissing the idea. "That dogwood's too skinny to be that old."

But now I wonder...

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