Marilyn McMinn McCredie comes to the Liars Bench.

Kind Hearts, this jolly lady is Marilyn McMinn McCredie and she is the guest storyteller at the next Liars Bench on May 15th at the Mountain Heritage Center at Western Carolina University.  The fun will begin at 7:00 in the MHC auditorium.  Space is limited, so come early.  In addition to Marilyn, who has agreed to tell "Hunter's Horn," we will have Lloyd Arneach, the Cherokee Storytelller, Paul Arussi, the claw hammer guitar specialist and ....well, me, who intends to discuss some strange creatures, including milk snakes, hoop snakes and whip snakes.  Finally, I am going to tell some Melungeon stories, including "Shep Goins, the Fool Killer" and a yarn about Mahala Mullins, the 560 lb. moonshine queen. Like I said, Come Early.

The Burn Palace

Reviewed by Gary Carden

The Burn Palace by Stephen Dobyns

                                                    New York:  Blue Rider Press
                                                    $27.95 - 464 pages

  Stephen Dobyns has written twenty novels and over ten volumes of poetry; however, he is difficult to “classify.”  His writing is praised by big league names as varied as Francine Prose and Stephen King, but he is most famous for a “sexual harassment” charge brought against him while he was teaching at Syracuse University. (Allegedly, he was overheard making “salty and crude” comments at a party.)  After reading a complete account of his “crime” that was recently published by Francine Prose, I decided I liked him even more than before.

   Dobyns often writes about small towns - especially those that have fallen on hard times.  In this instance, the town is Brewster, New Jersey.  Once a community with a thriving economy, the town has gradually lost its industry as well as its farming/fishing resources.  Unemployment is high and the local citizens seem resigned to the fact that “the good life,” like Interstate 95, has passed them by. For Dobyns, towns like Brewster are  crucibles in which a few random ingredients when mixed together could easily ignite a chain reaction which could produce disaster.  Are you ready?  Here we go!

   When a nurse at the local hospital returns from a sexual encounter with a doctor, (they meet each night in an empty room in the cardiology ward) she discovers that a new baby has vanished.  It its place, she finds a six-foot, red and yellow snake. The nurse goes into hysterics. Peggy Summers,the mother of the missing child seems relieved that the baby is missing.  When questioned, she admits that she has no idea who the father is since he wore a mask. “He could be the Devil,” she says. An insurance adjuster named Hartmann shows up at the local coffee shop, the Brewster Brew, asking questions about Native American artifacts and witches.  Shortly after, the adjuster turns up dead near the local swamp. He has been stabbed and scalped.  The local police chief (acting) Baldy Banaldo is bewildered and clueless.

   Suddenly, the town is invaded by coyotes.  No, seriously, the coyote population has been growing  in New England and local vets have noted that they are becoming “more aggressive” and seem to be larger than the average coyote. There has been an alarming increase in the reports about missing cats and dogs. A local eccentric, Ronnie MacBride vanishes. MacBride has a penchant for sleeping in doorways in his sleeping bag. As word spreads about the missing baby, local speculation becomes increasingly irrational. There is talk about Satanists, Wiccan covens, Native American ghosts and  human sacrifice. Carl Krause, an unstable psychopath has quit taking his medication and is wandering the street growling and giving his neighbors hostile stares.  Could all of these events be related? Local ministers wonder if it is “the Latter Days.”

   At the heart of this surreal novel, Dobyns has placed  a collection of delightful characters who provide ballast for the action. The two young boys, Hercel McGarty and Baldo Banaldo (notorious for their shenanigans and pranks) serve as a kind of counter balance to the darkness and brutality in Burn Palace. Baldo, the son of the acting police chief, has been banned from the library and suspended from school because of his prize possession, a “fart box” which he occasionally activates just to “liven things up.” Hercel owns the colorful snake that ends up in the maternity ward (he didn’t put it there).  In addition, Hercel has recently discovered that he has the ability to make small objects move by staring at them. Carl Krause is his new step-father, and Carl hates Hersel. The tension builds and everyone spends a lot of time listening to the yipping of coyotes at night.

   Out of the excessive number of characters in this novel, I will mention two more.  Woody Potter and Bobbie Anderson.  Both are state troopers.  As they attempt to deal with the bizarre details surrounding the theft of a baby, their lives are changed. Woody, divorced, lonely, depressed and shy begins a torrid love affair with Jill Franklin, a reporter from the local paper. Bobbie, who is black, handsome, cool and drives a sexy 370Z Nissan with leather seats. The two troopers are compatible and become best friends.

   Ah, but wait!  I haven’t explained the significance of the title, The Burn Palace.  Just outside Brewster is a crematorium that the local wits call “the burn palace.”  Eventually, Woody and Bobbie learn that it is doing an impressive business. Corpses flow at a steady rate from the local hospital and Brewster’s retirement community, Ocean Breeze.  People couldn’t be dying at such an alarming rate unless ...they had help!  Now, Dobyns adds a new ingredient to bizarre mix. Body brokers - people who sell body parts to medical schools. There are even a few spin-offs, like people who “harvest” items like pacemakers, gold teeth and jewelry.  When the two troopers get permission to exhume some recent interments, they find coffins containing a mix of mannequins and left-over body parts.  Before we reach the final chapters, the action has become outrageous and over-the-top.  As Samhain (Halloween) approaches, the town of Brewster resembles a convention center as Wiccan, Satanists, CNN, baby-brokers, pimps and drug-pushers  come to town.  Dobyns manages to add an amazing number of dogs, both genial and dangerous, and including golden retrievers, German Shepherds and Bouviers. What else? Carl Krause finally begins to kill. He starts with a cat, then kills his wife and goes looking for more victims. Then, it begins to snow...one of those heavy one that closes Brewster down. Oh, my, the coyotes are getting louder.

   If you are a devotee of a type of fiction that blends the supernatural and the murder mystery, you will enjoy Burn Palace, which pays tribute to such classics as Stephen King’s Carrie (telekinesis) and Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes.  At times, Baldo and Hercel resemble some latter day version of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.  This novel is heavily seasoned with black humor and has a generous supply of colorful characters, including an opera-singing trooper named Bingo, an exceptionally foul-mouthed policewoman with a penchant for emerald-green pants suits and Vultura, the Satanist, who threatened to turn Baldy Banaldo into a toad.  Occasionally, the reader may wonder what became of the kidnapped baby and the snake.  Never mind.

   Discard your disbelief, strive to accept the bizarre and unexpected.... and enjoy.

The Dark Corner by Mark Powell
Knoxville:  The University of Tennessee Press
$24.95 - 305 pages

“The best Appalachian novelist of his generation.”
                                                                     - Ron Rash

   Mark Powell’s The Dark Corner  is probably the best Appalachian novel that I have read in the last decade.  It is also the most disturbing. In this, his third novel, Powell captures both the natural beauty of northwestern South Carolina and the seething violence and paranoia that lurks beneath the surface.  This is a region where the interests of environmental groups, real estate developers, the Federal government and right-wing extremists collide. The result is  volatile and unstable, as homemade nitroglycerine.

   At the heart of this novel is the  Walker family: a collection of haunted and guilt-ridden souls who resemble terminal invalids, each trapped in a personal purgatory. Elijah Walker, the patriarch has retreated to a little shack where he spends the day watching a flickering black and whiteTV, feeding his beagles and peering at the ridge tops which are occasionally filled with invading Vietcong. The real world and the surreal past have merged and Elijah is haunted by Vietnam and his wife’s death in an automobile accident.  Alienated from his sons and the modern world, he appears to have his back to the wall, watching his approaching death with resignation.

   Malcomb, Elijah’s younger son is an ex-Episcopal priest and a failed suicide (he drank a gallon of antifreeze). He is also haunted by specters from Iraq, including a mutilated child that accompanies him as he travels aimlessly through his old haunts in Seneca, Walhalla and his brother’s resort property on Lake Keowee. A reformed alcoholic, he is poor company for his hard-drinking brother; however, he finds a kind of temporary peace with Jordan, a drug addict who is as psychically damaged as he is. Like many of the characters in this novel, Malcomb and Jordan are constantly searching for God through drugs, meditation, ... a peace that eludes them.

   Dallas Walker, Elijah’s older son, is Powell’s most fully realized creation. “Too young for Vietnam and too old for Iraq,” Dallas broods over his “missed opportunities.” A one-time college football star and a highly successful real estate developer with a trophy wife who shares her husband’s obsession with physical fitness (she does twelve miles on the treadmill each morning), Randi has undertaken the daunting job of keeping Dallas up and running. Over-medicated and existing on a steady diet of Ripped Fuel, percocet, OxyContin and Johnnie Walker, Dallas seems to be preparing for some portentous event which is now at hand.  Using his wealth and contacts, Dallas has become involved with extremist militia groups (THE TREE OF LIBERTY) and right-wing politicians; he waits for his “opportunity.”  Like his father and younger brother, he is determined to experience his own war.

   Then, there is Elijah’s brother, Uncle Tillman.  Over-weight and simple, Tillman is the family outcast.  No longer capable of dressing himself and bathing, Tillman sits in his own excrement, texting religious messages to his relatives. While his internet-acquired wife fornicates with Mexican workers in the next room, Tillman holds forth like Jeremiah and Job. (YE HAVE MADE OF MY HERITAGE, AN ABOMINATION.) Tillman is a source of shame to the Walker family, especially Dallas.

   The supporting cast in this dark and tension-soaked tale includes Dr. Leighton Clatter, who may be the nearest thing to an earth-bound demon in The Dark Corner.  Corrupt and wealthy, Clatter controls everything from illegal firearms and Atlanta-based drug traffic to prostitution and all of it is
flowing into northwestern South Carolina like a polluted river.  Clatter’s eager minions include corrupt government officials, right-wing activists,  AMERICA FIRST advocates, turncoat FBI agents and a smathering of organized crime. ( Powell includes a marvelous old southern politician and
ex-presidental candidate named Chellis who still dreams of resurrecting “old South values.”)  Clatter manipulates everything as though he is playing chess....but his motives are uncertain since he seems to have moved beyond mere greed and a lust for power.  Clatter seems to be “unmotivated evil,” perverse and whimsical.

   Literature has come a long way since James Dickey’s Deliverance, yet here we are, once more probing the darkness beneath the natural world, like the “sea change” in Rash’s short story, “Something Rich and Strange.” Like Dickey and  Rash, Mark Powell knows that more is at stake than a culture clash between traditional values and “Nu South” progress.  From the “adventure-turned-nightmare” trip down the Chattooga in Deliverance, we have progressed to the beach front cathederal-like summer homes and luxury pontoons that now troll those same waters. Those four adventurers who rafted down a doomed river are now among the privileged and over-medicated residents of Lake Keowee. They are dozing on the decks of their trophy homes.  The dark waters of these “tamed” rivers appear serene, but Mark Powell suggests that this  becalmed state is deceptive. It has something to do with the “protean nature” of water....the ability to change into something radically different.

   

MADISON

"MADISON," A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE.  Kind hearts, about two years ago, I wrote a dramatic monologue about the founder of Western Carolina University.  Since I grew up in Sylva, just below Western Carolina, I actually remember this fellow.  I especially remember a day when I was about eight when he came to the Sylva Elementary School on "Sidney Lanier Day." The brought him from the nursing home and I have never forgotten him .... a frail little man who spoke in a whisper and we had to strain to hear him.  He told us about sitting in the lap of Robert E. Lee and listening to General Lee's watch tick.  He also told us about Traveler, General Lee's horse and I have made that story a part of my dramatic monologue.  Come if you can.  it is at the Universal Unitarian Church in Franklin, N. Cl which has an ideal stage for this monologue.  The date is April 26th and the time is 7:00 pm.  The church is located of Emory Road at 89 Sierra Drive.  Call 828-369-8658 if you need more information.  Click on the image above to enlarge it.

Carolina Dusk

Folks, this is the Liars Bench for Thursday, April 18th.  There is some fantastic programming here!
Lloyd Arneach will be on hand to tell Cherokee myths, Paul Arussi will play claw-hammer guitar and our special guest, Dusk Weaver will prove to be a real crowd pleaser.  This guy is becoming quite popular in this region.  I will provide a few selections from my "Appalachian Bestiary" which is a collection of strange and whimsical critters that may, or may not exist.  I also intend to tell the "Robert Hall Suit" which is a traditional folktale that has modified and updated.  Please come.  It is a free show, of course.  Check the phone number in the upper right hand corner of this promo.

THE BELLED BUZZARD

THE BELLED BUZZARD

KIND HEARTS, FOR QUITE SOME TIME NOW, I HAVE BEEN COLLECTING STRANGE CREATURES.  SOME OF THEM ARE QUIRKY OR WHIMSICAL WHILE OTHERS ARE SPOOKY OR MAYBE EVEN TERRIFYING.  I HAVE OVER FORTY NOW AND ALL ARE EITHER APPALACHIAN "ORIGINALS," OR THEY ARE "VISITORS" WHO CAME WITH THE LUMBER CAMPS AND EITHER "ADAPTED" OR DIED OUT.  I THOUGHT I WOULD BEGIN WITH THE BELLED BUZZARD.  IN ADDITION, I RECENTLY MET A MARVELOUS ILLUSTRATOR NAMED MANDY NEWHAM WHO HAS AGREED TO ILLUSTRATE EACH "CRITTER," AND THE RED-EYED FELLOW ABOVE IS AN EXAMPLE OF HER WORK.

   THERE ARE HUNDREDS OF BELLED BUZZARD STORIES.  IN THE YEARS FOLLOWING THE CIVIL WAR, THIS "WINGED MESSENGER OF DEATH" RECEIVED NEWSPAPER COVERAGE WHEN HE ALLEGEDLY CAME TO SUMMONS A LOCAL JUDGE, A CIVIL WAR GENERAL OR A MINISTER.  GRIEVING FAMILIES REPORTED HEARING THE DOLEFUL BELL AS THE BUZZARD CAME TO REST ON THE ROOF ABOVE THEM.  SOME SCHOLARS OF APPALACHIAN FOLKLORE CLAIM THAT THE OMINOUS BIRD HAD A PERMANENT ROOST SOMEWHERE IN THE GREAT SMOKIES AND HIS GOINGS AND COMINGS WERE OCCASIONALLY REPORTED. HOWEVER, SOME TIME IN THE 1920'S, THE BELLED BUZZARD MIGRATED ... ABANDONED THE APPALACHIANS FOR THE OZARKS AND LATER, HE SHOWED UP IN GEORGIA.  IN LATER YEARS, HE BECAME EVEN MORE OMINOUS AND WAS THOUGHT TO BE AN INSTRUMENT OF JUSTICE FOR HE FOLLOWED UNPUNISHED MURDERERS UNTIL THEY CONFESSED THEIR CRIMES.

Anachronisms

                                                                     


 On a typical Sunday morning, if I’m not going to church, I usually go to my modest little chicken house (one rooster and four hens) and get my breakfast (three eggs) which I augment with a banana and a bowl of oatmeal) and settle before the TV for “CBS Sunday Morning.” Over the years, I have become addicted to this show.  It is upbeat, entertaining and manages to give me a handle on what is going on “out there.” It used to always leave me with a sense of well-being and security ...but that is beginning to change.

   On a recent program, I learned that a new clothing store, soon to be in all major American cities,  trains  employees to smile (the results are kind of frightening) and sells expensive clothing that you instantly see in a variety of colors when you try them on. Then, there was a 78 year-old-grandmother who writes porn (she read some torrid passages  for CBS while she rocked on her granddaughter’s front porch). Then they did a “special report” on people who have learned to cope with the failing economy by “sharing” their homes.  They rent their couches ($74 a night, including a pancake breakfast), their cars ($24 per hour), their upscale “tree houses” ($300 per night).  In other words, only the wealthy could take advantage of the money-saving opportunities. Then, there was a visit with a successful artist who is the “wave of the future.”  He paints nothing but shelves of produce in Walmart. His best selling works are huge and depict vistas of breakfast cereals. There was an interview with 50 cents, a former drug dealer who has become a celebrity (music, film, modeling); he was recently shot 14 times ...an attack that left him with bullet fragments in his tongue...an impairment that left him with a “new way of talking.” There was also something about the latest craze, whiskey-soaked pickles. Finally, there was a financial pundit who explained how to plan for your retirement: Save 15% of your annual earnings for twelve years.

   Kind Hearts, this is not my world. I don’t have to abandon it; it has abandoned me.  Like A. E. Houseman, I feel:

A stranger and afraid,
In a world I never made.

  I dreamed last night of a river barge floating down the Tuckaseigee.  It was strung  with blinking lights, the sky above it winked and boomed with sky rockets and exploding fireworks. Several bands and orchestras played incoherent music  blending Souza, Brahms and Wayland Jennings. Colorfully dressed passengers clung together like party drunks and shout into the darkness but it was a language that I don’t recognize.  I noticed that this barge doesn’t have a rudder or a paddle wheel and it  tended to drift aimlessly onward, colliding with rocks and trees. The name emblazoned on prow this barge in drunken letters is LIFE!  It didn’t stop for me and I don’t think I wanted to go anyway.

   Now, don’t get me wrong.  I am not especially unhappy about all of this. The only desire I have from here on out is that “life” remain interesting, and it certainly is!  My first exposure with the bizarre and the whimsical was probably the Farmer’s Federation Picnic.  There were greased pigs, shape-note “sings,” and a guy who billed himself as “A One-Man Band,” and he was.  He had tambourines on his knees, a pedal under his foot that beat a drum, a “French Harp” wired around his head so he could blow it, and a banjo.  He could play “Dixie.” Neither the Farmer’s Federation or the movies at the Ritz made me feel like an anachronism ....a lonesome feeling like a guy with a Ticonderoga #2 pencil in a computer 101 class. I get that feeling often now.

   When that happens, I wander down to Marion Jones’ store, across the street from where the Ritz Theater used to be. This place is filled with anachronisms, and some of them walk and talk.  In addition to the clientele, there are Swinn bikes, Blue Horse notebooks, saddles, turkey calls, and a picture of Governor Dan K. Moore. There are banjos and fiddles and Roy Rogers comic books. A Red Ryder air rifle!  I believe I saw a wind-up phonograph, a stack of 78‘s and some Grand Ole Opry memorabilia.  Records by Jimmy Rogers, Uncle Dave Macon and Ernest Tubb....even a Theresa Brewer.  There are rocking chairs and a bowl of vintage candy: mini-Baby Ruths, Milky Ways and Mars Bars (Marion needs some Moon Pies).  If I sit real still, nestled among all of the other anachronisms. I start feeling like I came home. The stiffness eases up in my hip. We rock and creak, maybe try to remember the name of the teacher who threw books at the students when she lost her temper.  It was Cunningham.

   Sometimes, Marion has customers. We usually get quiet then, unless they ask us questions.  I guess we are a curious-looking bunch.  “You live here?” We all nod like a row of daffodils in a gentle wind. “Have you ever left?” We nod again and mutter the names of far-off places.  Italy, Wake Island, Asheville.  My contribution is “Georgia.” Sometimes, they smile and stand quietly like folks in a museum, looking at the exhibits.  Anachronisms.
That’s not a bad thing to be.