Out of the Frying Pan

What a High Old Time

Every year, the hillfolk would get together and have a hoedown. On a Friday, the men would start building a platform and drag out hay bales, chairs, whatever they could find. A lot of folks brought blankets, women would even bring their quilting stuff. There were all kinds of games and contests, from hatchet-throwing to long-rifle shoots (Kentucky Black Powder Long Rifle or sometimes called a “punkin-ball” rifle after the lead ball it shot).

The best part of it was, for me anyhow, the bluegrass music. My grandfather was known as “Fiddlin’ Uncle John Douglas.” My Uncle Hayes (aka CatHorse) flat-picked the gitfiddle (guitar), and Uncle Harold (aka RainCrow) played the 5-string banjo.

Other local musicians included Bigfoot Keton (never knew his real first name) on the fiddle and Peggy Callihan on the slap bass. Mr. Callihan’s nickname was Peggy because he worked in the railyard and had gotten his feet caught between the tracks then whey were switching them, and a train took off his legs. He had two peg legs, so that’s why they called him Peggy. Never knew his first name either.

My Uncle Clayt (short for Clayton) with this three boys, Skeeter (or Skeet), Les (I guess short for Lester), and Cotton would all come for the hoedown. I don’t know any of their real names still to this day.

Most years Bill Monroe and (some of) his Bluegrass Boys would come. (Bill Monroe, known as “The Father of Bluegrass,” was a regular at the Grand Ole Opry for years.) Sometimes Tom T. Hall would stop by for a spell, he lived over on Olive Hill. (Tom T. Hall is known as “Nashville’s Storyteller.”)

Anybody could join in whether they played an instrument or blew on a jug or strum thimbles on a washboard. No electric instruments were allowed, wouldn’t have helped if anyone did bring it, there wasn’t any electricity anyway. After dark there’d be a cookfire and they’d hang lanterns for light.

I can still hear my Grandpa singing “Blue Moon of Kentucky” (one of Bill Monroe’s most famous hits), slow and easy at first and then he’d holler “Let ‘er go, boys!” and they would play so fast and sing with the tune, you thought their instruments would catch fire. It still brings a chill when I think of this and I still bring out my bluegrass music and listen to it from time to time.

For sure, Cec was there. The jugs would start passing, no charge (they’d pay for it the next day if they had too much, only in a different way). Of course the womenfolk would be there to remind the men what fools they had been and to provide plenty of homecooking. This would all start at daybreak Saturday morning and wouldn’t stop until the wee hours of Sunday morning. Mostly just the women would make it to church that day and say an extra prayer or two for their husbands who couldn’t be roused.

Some of the survivors would come back and help put stuff away and clean up from the night before. We would save all the jugs and jars and give them back to Cec (kinda like returnable bottles).

It sure was a high old time we had. Things are not like that these days, and it’s a shame we have lost it. The people who live behind me have lived there for years, raised up their children and all, and I don’t even know their names. They put up a big wooden fence, to keep it that way I guess. Before they did, I tried to speak to them and they would just turn and go back into their house.

That’s not the way I was raised, all somebody had to do was ask and neighbors would help or when people saw each other, they’d stop and talk. That’s just the way it was in the hills, if you needed help fixing your barn or even if you needed a whole barn built, the neighbors would hold a barnraising and would chip in the best they could.

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This is my Grandpa, "Fiddlin' Uncle John Douglas."