Continued from Part 1
As I mentioned earlier, folks around Snagbottom were fearful anyway – and superstitious. I had long heard the tale of my Pa’s uncle that was riding in a wagon with some other men. They were going out to walk some land on which they hoped to sow a crop. As they traveled on the narrow “S” shaped road, a black cat darted across the path.
Instantly all the men on the wagon – except Pa’s uncle – twisted their hats around faster than you could say “spindle-top”. Pa’s uncle just laughed at them for being so superstitious. The story goes though that Pa’s uncle got separated from the group and he fell in an unmarked well. He called and called but no one could hear him.
He’d be there today - Pa said - if he hadn’t had the good sense to take out his Barlow pocket-knife and dig some hand-holds in the slick sides of the well. With that he inched his way out.
Well, at Christmas time in Snagbottom there always floated a tale about the Christmas Ghost that haunted those hills and a man named Ben Rooge. I didn’t like those stories because the days were very short around Christmas and I was always having to go out to the woodshed at night … in the dark … to bring in more stove wood.
My best friend, “Patch” Evans sat right in front of me at school. “Patch” was a good friend but he was awful skiddish. We called him “Patch” because he had been kicked in the head by a mule when he was a little boy and every time he got excited or nervous he would start seeing double. That’s right – two of everything! To remedy the situation, he would cover one eye or sometimes he might tie a handkerchief around his head and drape one corner over his eye like a patch.
Dillweed announced that he would set the record straight about Ben Rooge and the Christmas Ghost. The room fell silent – I think I heard “Patch” gasp.
Dillweed told the story in a dialect we hill-folks would understand and when he described Ben Rooge, he would over-emphasize every adjective. He also portrayed a sort of disgust for the poor man by holding his mouth open when he talked – as if he had just bitten into a rotten egg and was afraid that if his mouth closed even slightly he would taste that awful bitterness.
This is Dillweed’s tale:
Not too many years ago, Ben Rooge lived right up here in Snagbottom and he was as tight as Dick’s-hatband with his money and as mean-as-a- striped-snake!
With that, he paused for affect and glared at us. I saw “Patch” reach up and cover one of his eyes.
Ben wasn’t his whole name, it was short for EBONY! EBONY means black and that just what his heart looked like . . . black as soot! His middle name was something like one o’them evil kings in scripture.
Everybody was skeered of Ben Rooge – everybody ‘cept his partner who folks said was just as stingy and cold hearted as Ben. Ever day they would figure on ways to get hold o’ more money and every night theyed count it out and bag it up and drag it up Snagbottom Pass.
They say his old partner died one Christmas Eve and Ben Rooge just got meaner and meaner – specially round Christmas… he’d go around growling “Bedbugs!” all the time and being cruel to the folks he bossed.
Then finally Ben Rooge got HIS!
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