My dad told this story to me and my brothers many times when we were little. He'd heard the story from his own father, a small-town preacher from rural North Carolina. And now I pass "Moonshine Holler" along to you.
There are several versions of this story out there on the internet, but this is, as best as I can reconstruct it, the version my dad told us. No one knows who wrote it originally, but it's attested from the 1950's at the very least, and likely it's quite a bit older than that. My dad's version was not written down-- he had it memorized, and always told it exactly the same way, word-for-word. A true folk tradition, passed down orally. What I have here probably isn't exactly the way my dad told it, since I never cared to memorize this weird, mildly amusing story as a kid, and it's too late to ask my dad (or granddad) about it now, but it's pretty close.
For full effect, you have to tell the story aloud with an exaggerated hillbilly drawl, but I haven't written out the hillbilly vernacular, for the most part. Y'all'll just have to add that part in y'allselves. Enjoy!
***
Me and my Pa lived outside of Moonshine Holler, 'bout a mile, mile and a half, or two miles.
One day I told Pa let's go larpin', tarpin', coon-skin huntin', if he cared. He asked me he didn't care. So I called up all the dogs but Ol' Shorty and I called him up too.
So we went down the hill, 'til we got on top of the mountain. And then all the dogs treed, all but Ol' Shorty, and he treed too, up a long, slim, sycamore sapling... about ten feet above the top.
So, I told Pa, I'd better shake him out, if he cared. He asked me he didn't care. So, I shimmied up that long, slim sycamore sapling, ten feet above the top, and I shook and I shook that sycamore sapling until I heard something hit the ground, and I looked around, and it was me.
And what's more, every one of them dogs fell on top of me, all but Ol' Shorty, and he was on top of me too. I told Pa, better knock 'em off me, if he cared. And he asked me he didn't care. So he picked up an axe and cut off Ol' Shorty's long, slick tail, right behind the ears.
Like to ruint my dog!
So, I told Pa that's enough hunting for one day; I decided to go down to see my gal Sal. Now, Sal lived on the worst street in Moonshine Holler-- the further you go, the worse it got-- and she lived in the last house, a big white house painted green, with two front doors in the back, and running water in every room when it rained.
I told Pa I would ride, if he cared. And he asked me he didn't care. So, I went to the barn, and put the barn on the bridle, and the horse on the saddle, and led the fence up by side of the horse, and the horse got on.
And so, me and the horse went down the road towards Sal's house. And all at once the fence over in the corner of the stump got scared of the horse, and the horse reared up and throwed me face-first, flat on my back, in the middle of the road, slap-dab in a ditch about ten feet deep, right in the briar patch.
I got up and acted like I wasn't hurt, brushed the horse off the dirt, and he got back on. I led him down the road. When I got to Sal's house I knowed she was happy to see me, 'cause she had both front doors shut wide open and the windows nailed down.
I rode up, hitched the fence to the horse, and went in. I throwed my hat in the fireplace, spit on the bed, and set myself down on a stool, in a big arm chair. And me and Sal, we talked about politics, and bed ticks, and all other kind of ticks, 'til finally Sal says, let's go down to the strawberry patch, and get us some apples to make a huckleberry pie for dinner if you care. And I asked her I didn't care.
So, we went down the road towards the strawberry patch, walking just as close together as we could, her on one side of the road and me on t'other. We got down to the strawberry patch, and I told Sal I would climb up that pear tree over yonder, and shake off some apples to make a huckleberry pie for dinner if she cared. She asked me she didn't care.
So I shimmied up that pear tree over yonder, and I shook and I shook that pear tree until I heard something hit the ground, and I looked around and it was me.
The tree had throwed me slap astride a barb-wire fence, with both feet on the same side. I had skinned my right leg, plum up to my left elbow.
And I told Sal right then and there, that I would never come back to Moonshine Holler. And I ain't been back since, b'gosh.
There are several versions of this story out there on the internet, but this is, as best as I can reconstruct it, the version my dad told us. No one knows who wrote it originally, but it's attested from the 1950's at the very least, and likely it's quite a bit older than that. My dad's version was not written down-- he had it memorized, and always told it exactly the same way, word-for-word. A true folk tradition, passed down orally. What I have here probably isn't exactly the way my dad told it, since I never cared to memorize this weird, mildly amusing story as a kid, and it's too late to ask my dad (or granddad) about it now, but it's pretty close.
For full effect, you have to tell the story aloud with an exaggerated hillbilly drawl, but I haven't written out the hillbilly vernacular, for the most part. Y'all'll just have to add that part in y'allselves. Enjoy!
***
Me and my Pa lived outside of Moonshine Holler, 'bout a mile, mile and a half, or two miles.
One day I told Pa let's go larpin', tarpin', coon-skin huntin', if he cared. He asked me he didn't care. So I called up all the dogs but Ol' Shorty and I called him up too.
So we went down the hill, 'til we got on top of the mountain. And then all the dogs treed, all but Ol' Shorty, and he treed too, up a long, slim, sycamore sapling... about ten feet above the top.
So, I told Pa, I'd better shake him out, if he cared. He asked me he didn't care. So, I shimmied up that long, slim sycamore sapling, ten feet above the top, and I shook and I shook that sycamore sapling until I heard something hit the ground, and I looked around, and it was me.
And what's more, every one of them dogs fell on top of me, all but Ol' Shorty, and he was on top of me too. I told Pa, better knock 'em off me, if he cared. And he asked me he didn't care. So he picked up an axe and cut off Ol' Shorty's long, slick tail, right behind the ears.
Like to ruint my dog!
So, I told Pa that's enough hunting for one day; I decided to go down to see my gal Sal. Now, Sal lived on the worst street in Moonshine Holler-- the further you go, the worse it got-- and she lived in the last house, a big white house painted green, with two front doors in the back, and running water in every room when it rained.
I told Pa I would ride, if he cared. And he asked me he didn't care. So, I went to the barn, and put the barn on the bridle, and the horse on the saddle, and led the fence up by side of the horse, and the horse got on.
And so, me and the horse went down the road towards Sal's house. And all at once the fence over in the corner of the stump got scared of the horse, and the horse reared up and throwed me face-first, flat on my back, in the middle of the road, slap-dab in a ditch about ten feet deep, right in the briar patch.
I got up and acted like I wasn't hurt, brushed the horse off the dirt, and he got back on. I led him down the road. When I got to Sal's house I knowed she was happy to see me, 'cause she had both front doors shut wide open and the windows nailed down.
I rode up, hitched the fence to the horse, and went in. I throwed my hat in the fireplace, spit on the bed, and set myself down on a stool, in a big arm chair. And me and Sal, we talked about politics, and bed ticks, and all other kind of ticks, 'til finally Sal says, let's go down to the strawberry patch, and get us some apples to make a huckleberry pie for dinner if you care. And I asked her I didn't care.
So, we went down the road towards the strawberry patch, walking just as close together as we could, her on one side of the road and me on t'other. We got down to the strawberry patch, and I told Sal I would climb up that pear tree over yonder, and shake off some apples to make a huckleberry pie for dinner if she cared. She asked me she didn't care.
So I shimmied up that pear tree over yonder, and I shook and I shook that pear tree until I heard something hit the ground, and I looked around and it was me.
The tree had throwed me slap astride a barb-wire fence, with both feet on the same side. I had skinned my right leg, plum up to my left elbow.
And I told Sal right then and there, that I would never come back to Moonshine Holler. And I ain't been back since, b'gosh.
