I miss the sultry summer weekends when the Pitts clan would load the car with peanut butter and wind an hour through the hills to Gunners Pool or Blanchard springs. It was so nice to cool our heals for a few days along the creek.. The long weekends were full of memorable events that would be lovingly retold at campfires in the years to come and bring good, warm laughter after the chill of more ghostly tales.
One such story occurred when my sister Anna’s pigtails were only tiny solitary curls that threatened to wisp away from their bands. With a certified national park junior ranger badge pinned on her fanny pack, she was eager to discover the woods around her, especially the critters. Overhearing a conversation between my Aunt and Uncle Ricky, she attempted to add a new natural curiosity, asking, “What is a hillbilly?” Ricky, twisted his beard between his freckled fingers, plopped forward on his coveralls, and said, “Well, Hillbillies…they have lawng, shaggy hair and are reeeeal dirty. Make their home deep in the woods, holed up away from people. They don’t wear shoes; sometimes they spit. Yes, hillbillies, they are loud, and boy, can they whoop and holler! “Anna’s eyes mooned inwardly for a moment, then she replied, “Do they live in a hole or a cave? Do they hibernate?”
Often during these weekend nights, the call of my uncle’s lured other camper’s from the safety of their own hearth to join the community of our fire. They would tap their feet and talk about days how these days spent sure are fine. On this particular occasion, a rowdy gaggle of college students had escaped into the woods for a taste of wildness in the moon light. The fiddles had just had just twiddled the last strains the last notes of “Buffalo Waltz” and had leapt into a livelier tune when the visitors came. A red-eyed girl and her boyfriend stumbled to the fire, the red plastic cup in the girl’s hand sloshing as she conducted the air with the grand purpose of her arm. She smiled, and said, “You won’t mind if we listen to the music for a bit?” Not waiting for a reply, she tried to jam her cup into her boyfriend’s hand, which jostled the bottle already palmed. To our surprise she began a jig. She kicked her legs and brandished her arms in wild and stormy waves, blowing out an occasional, “whoopee!!!” At one point she chortled and made to leap over the fire, but was saved from her ritualized when the boy snagged her shirt with the finger tips that could be spared from their holds on the bears. My uncle ended the song quicker than usual, and after it was completed my Dad, thanked the pair for the pleasure of their company and politely hinted that it was time for the children to be put to bed. The girl babbled loudly as they stumbled into darkness, and my family discussed how family campgrounds were inappropriate places for these wild revels. My step mom, hugged the kids close, her tight lips suppressing the chagrin that her babies had witnessed these worldly and reckless ways. Anna, quiet until now, tugged on Dad’s sleeve. “Were those….. hillbillies?”
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