Viney, Matriarch of the Clan

FICTION Viney, Matriarch of the Clan___________ Mary Lou Brown Byrd Down the road at the old graveyard where the Virginia creeper and honeysuckle vines covered the last resting place of some of Notown's long forgotten pioneers, a footpath led through the weedy barnyard to a rambling weathered frame where lived Viney, matriarch of a large clan of loutish half-grown and full-grown sons. Viney's stepson lived on the other side of us, a man who harbored a great bitterness toward his stepmother. His father had married Viney shortly after his wife died, which inevitably gave rise to rumors and speculation among the townspeople who fought over tidbits of gossip like hogs at a trough. The couple had several sons before a rat bit old Mr. Chapman on the toe one night while he slept. All of Viney's famed potions and incantations failed to save him; he died of infection from the rat bite. But the stepson blamed Viney for his death, telling everyone it was rat poison, not a rat, that caused the old man's death. It was a hateful tale that had no basis in fact. Winston, Viney's oldest son, rode a black horse that was "winded," a condition causing a horse to "break wind" when ridden, giving small boys a chance for mischievous and suggestive tittering when horse and rider approached. Winston frequently visited the "bad women" living in the old Henderson place. On my way home from school one afternoon I was shocked to see Winston (a married man) and the madam of the house out in the woodlot in idyllic repose-she sitting on a stump, fanning her face with a fan from Frakes' funeral home, and Winston, corpulently at ease, lolling on the grass beside her with his head resting on her lap. A peaceful scene with the black horse cropping grass nearby, to the accompaniment of his usual gaseous noises. Viney was an untidy little woman in kerchief and gingham apron who was afraid of the dark. When nightfall found her alone in the big house, she sent for me to spend the night with her. After we'd done the milking, and Viney had strained the milk through a cheesecloth Mary Lou Brown Byrd has writtenfrequently on mountain life as she knew it growing up. She has been published in the Courier-Journal Magazine and has writtenfor the Salyersville Independent and the Jessamine Journal. 43 and hung it in the well to cool, she baked us a hoecake on the open fire. As she tended the fire, adroitly flipping the cornbread to brown the other side, she told me eerie, spooky stories of headless horsemen and dead people that either arose restless from the grave or floated across roadways calling people's names. She told me of great eagles that flew down to snatch up unattended children, and of snakes that "charmed" children when they went to the spring house to fetch the milk. It was enough to keep me glancing over my shoulder into the corners of the big, high-ceilinged room, where shadows flitted and danced in the firelight. By the time Viney had shoveled ashes and banked the fire, put on her long, outing flannel gown, braided her hair, and tinkle-tinkled into the chamberpot kept under the bed, I was terrified. As I lay on the four-poster with Viney, sharing the bolster, listening to her heavy breathing and the grandfather clock striking each quarter hour, I wished heartily that I was back at home in bed with my sisters. I hated the long nights in that musty, cold room with ghosts peering from behind the wallpaper roses on the wall, and beckoning mockingly from the four dark corners. I didn't mind staying with Viney when the weather warmed up. On spring mornings when the dew was so heavy it wet you to your knees, we went to the orchard to pick up windfalls. Viney's Juneapples , fried and served up with a gob of yellow butter and hot biscuits, was as close to paradise as I ever expect to be. Viney lived many years, but before she died, she sent word...