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Chapter 9

Susan

Willson’s Cove, North Carolina, August 2009

The old family home in Willson’s Cove was still standing and owned by Susan’s cousin Mike. Mike lived there alone in the huge house. Mike did a good job of doing upkeep, repainting, repairing, tending to the grounds, and updating outdated things, like corroded water pipes. Every five years, Mike would host a family reunion at the old place. Next year, 2010, would be the next one. Grandpa Luther and his two oldest sons, Luther and Roby, had built the house in 1912, when the boys were hardly big enough to wield a crosscut saw together. It made tough men out of them before they were barely in long pants.

After her trip to Tampa, Susan had returned home to Mac in Blowing Rock, where they had their summer home, and the next day, she drove over the mountain to Willson’s Cove. She so loved her mountains, but Mac was more a city boy. He conceded to living the warmer months in Blowing Rock, but he had told her it would be back to Georgia as soon as the leaves started to fall. She had put her house in Willson’s Cove on the market and sold it within a week, to a second cousin, Jeff Willson, who wanted to return to his roots. It was with mixed feelings that she sold the house. It was the only home she had ever known, but at least kinfolk would be living there.

Susan had called her cousin Mike, the evening she got home, to see if she could go into the old house. She knew the attic was filled with boxes, crates, and trunks. What might she find to help her solve this mystery of Luther Willson? She declined telling Mike about her purpose. “I just want to get in touch with our ancestors a bit and think looking through the attic would be helpful.”

“Y’ain’t into see-ancies and ghosts, air ye?” Mike was the proverbial hick, a typical hillbilly.

Susan laughed, giving back to him in the same countrified lingo. “Y’ain’t skeered of ghosts, air ye? If’n I find one, I’ll send him yander t’ you.” Then she addressed him more seriously. “No, Mike, no séances or conjurers of the dead.”

Dook announced Susan and Mac’s arrival before they got to the house, knowing it was Susan. Mike, hearing Dook’s announcement, was there in front of the house when she and Mac arrived. Some of the family had not yet met Mac, but Mike had been to the wedding. Even at that, he didn’t know Mac well, so he looked his new cousin-in-law over closely. Evidently, Mac met his approval because he offered him a “Co-Cola” right off the bat.

Mac graciously accepted, although he wasn’t much for soft drinks. He figured that was the price of acceptance in this family. As she left the two men exchanging bits of idle chatter, Susan headed for the attic, flashlight in hand, in case there was no electricity.

She was met with a preponderance of boxes, old furniture, trunks, barrels, and even some pieces of farm equipment. Good grief! Where do I begin? At the back, most likely, since the oldest things would have been stored there first. She snaked her way through the stacks of boxes, trying to ignore the combined smell of must, mice, and mothballs. There was enough light from a dim bulb in the ceiling to see where she was going and then some from a dirty window at the front of the cavernous room. She attempted to open the window, but it was stuck.

She spied an old trunk, circa 1890s, beside the window. She would begin there. Opening it, she smelled camphor. No, moths. Old clothes, baby clothes, maybe Grandma’s wedding dress, and a few letters from names that meant nothing to her. Digging down to the bottom, there was nothing that suggested anything more than an old family with their normal history. She piled it all back in neatly and closed the trunk.

Her eye caught another trunk almost hidden back in the corner, peeping out from a pile of blankets. It looked more modern and much smaller. She retrieved it from the corner, scooted it over to the window, and tried to open it. The hasp was stuck but not from a lock. She was about to go see if Mike had some kind of tool to help her open it, when it suddenly popped open as she hit the top of the lid with her hand. Then she saw what it was: a small button that served as a release. Ingenious!

This one was filled with letters. Bingo! They were all addressed to Mrs. Susanna Willson. The first postmark was January 1911, St. Petersburg, Florida. The letters continued each year through 1915; and then from 1916, there were monthly letters for the six winter months up until 1922. Finally, at the bottom of the pile, letters were again yearly to 1929. She picked them up gently, like eggs she didn’t want to drop and break. This was exactly the kind of thing she wanted to find. Letters. She looked for a place to sit and read them, but she didn’t want to remove items that were stacked on the couple of chairs. She was just about to go ask Mike for a box or something to put them in to take them home when she heard Mac on the stairway. And Mike.

“Hey, up there. The spooks get you yet?” That was Mac.

“Yeah. Turned me into a zombie. Come on up but watch your head. Not built for you tall boys, just shrimps like me.”

Mac stood in the middle of the floor, about the only place he could stand without hitting his head. He looked all around at the many decades spread before him. Mike, even taller than Mac, walked stooped over to the window where Susan held the packet of letters.

“What ya got, coz? I never paid no mind to this junk. I figured one day I’d cart most of it off to the dump or the Rag Shakin’ over in Crossnore.”

“These letters are a great discovery, Mike. They are old, going back as far as 1911.” She decided not to tell him what they were. “I want to read them. And! Don’t you dare cart any of this stuff to the dump or the Rag Shakin’! If you don’t want it, at least let family come and see what they want. In fact, next family reunion, we could do an attic cleanup.”

“Yessum, that might be a way to get some folks who tend to mooch on the rest of us to stay away, if they think they hafta work, yeah, I got a poke sack in the kitchen you can carry them letters in,” he said this all in one breath, turned about, and left Mac standing in the middle of the floor and Susan sitting on the floor, giggling at her colorful cousin.

“Mac, we have a gold mine here. These are written from Grandpa to Grandma, 1911 through 1929, from St. Petersburg. I will take them home to read them.”

“Why don’t you take the time to go to the room where she used to sleep here in this house. Mike won’t mind. You could read them while Mike shows me your grandfather’s workshop. That’s what we came up here to tell you. I’m interested in looking at some of his tools.”

“You? Tools? I didn’t know you were interested in tools.”

“Yeah, I might embark on a second career: building banjos!” He raised an eyebrow and gave her a half smile. “After all, my hands have crafted more delicate things than banjos, with my surgeries. Why not?”

“I’m impressed, Mac! Go for it.”

They heard Mike on the stairwell. “Here ye are. This oughta serve to cart them away. Keep ’em as long as ye want.”

“Mike, how would it be for me to go down to Grandma’s bedroom and read them while you men do your thing in the workshop? Would you mind?”

“Why not? The house is yours whenever yer here. You know that. I’m only the clan caretaker.”

“Have you ever encountered any of these ghosts, Mike?” Mac asked, tongue in cheek. He gave Susan a wink as he asked the question.

“Well, I don’t know. Sometimes there are mighty strange sounds around here. Both Grandma and Grandpa died in this house.”

Susan tried not to laugh as she made her way to Grandma’s room. She knew Grandma’s room well. She would come and sit with her for hours when she was living. As she walked down the attic stairs, she thought of Grandma. Grandma had the best stories ever. Not silly fairy tales, but mountain tales about hants and the Brown Mountain Lights.5 Then she would tell about back when she was a girl and how they lived by the land. She’d talk about the hard winters when all they had was dried beans to eat. She was a wonderful storyteller. I think I learned storytelling from her and used it a lot when I taught school.

Grandma’s room was right beneath where the window was in the attic. Unlike the dingy attic, the room was filled with light, filtered by the lace curtains. A lingering essence of her grandmother remained in the room, possibly from the old perfume bottle on her chifforobe. Susan stopped by the old piece of furniture, picked up the bottle, and sniffed it. It was like Grandma was there. Maybe Mike is right. Grandma’s ghost. She went to the window where Grandma’s rocker still sat, where it always did, and sat in it to read the letters.

The first letter from January 1911 was rather what she expected. Grandpa wrote to Zanny and the children about how much he missed her and the children, his surprisingly good sales, his enjoyment of the weather, and that he hoped they would not have too much harsh weather. He admonished his sons to make certain plenty of firewood was brought in each night and his daughters to help Mama with doing housework, cooking, taking care of the little ones, keeping Dook the dog from running off, and being good children. Then at the end of each letter was a bit of flowery romantic language thrown in to Zanny, words that she would not have read to the children.

Zanny, Zanny. How I miss ye so. I can barely wait till I get these banjers and fiddles sold and hop on the northbound train. I long to taste your kisses, feel your skin, feel your heartbeat against mine when I hold you in my arms.

Susan wondered if her grandmother felt the same way. He was most likely home by the time the letters would have even arrived, given the slowness of the postal system in the remote areas of the mountains.

The subsequent letters were pretty much the same until January 1916. That letter was abrupt.

Dear Zanny and young’un,

Good sales this year. Sold all eight banjers and a fiddle. Have a man lookin’ at the other fiddle, and he is interested in the delcimore, too. Should be home by the time you get this letter. Love you all, Papa.

The special note to Zanny was abbreviated to “Sweet Zanny, I miss you, and soon we will be in each other’s arms.

Love,

Luther

When she got to the fall of 1916, there were several letters; monthly letters from November through March of 1917. These letters, although they were the same speech patterns as the previous letters, had a different tone. Although there still were personal notes to Zanny, Susan thought they were contrived.