Move that danged coal bucket!

Smith's General Store was open from 7:00 am to 10:00 pm, Monday through Saturday, and by request on Sundays after church services if someone needed a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread for Sunday dinner.

Panther Fork, Slab Camp and Bush Run roads all converged in the center of town and intersected with US Route 20. The store provided the staple foods and necessary supplies to sustain life, from milk to kerosene, horseshoes to five buckle artics, salt fish to rolls of bologna, bananas to plug tobacco, as well as bread and canned goods.

Located in the center and towards the back of the store was the pot belly stove, which became a favorite place for folks to gather and loaf, play checkers or catch up on the community social events and even gossip. It was a silent friend in the warmer months, willing to take the chill out of the air on cool summer mornings and would warm the body and soul from the biting winter air.

While providing heat and comfort to the patrons, that ole' stove was a witness to many a tale from the local codgers. These tales were a form of community entertainment as well as a challenge for the participants who engaged in a competition to tell the best tale.

My childhood exposure to the humor and somewhat exaggerated details relayed in these stories has been a contributing factor in my desire to try my hand at re-telling these yarns. Although these narratives offered up by those present were not intended to be entirely accurate, their presentation and purpose was to trigger a reaction that would warrant the honor of being the best tale of the day. I have written them as best I can recall, dealing with the years that strain my memory, and I hope that while you are reading them you can visualize the anticipation, excitement, humor and warmth that was present around that ole' pot belly stove.

Smith's General Store was a gathering place for the local codgers to come by and loaf, chewing tobacco, rubbing their snuff, smoking cigars or pipes and gossiping or spinning their tales. Back in those days, smoking was acceptable. There was always a checker board resting on an empty nail keg, awaiting the next challengers to the two wooden benches and rocking chair next to the pot belly stove.

As the tales would start flowing, the tobacco juice would too. The pot belly stove was fueled with coal and we had a coal shed just off the side of our store, which was accessible from the inside. It was the responsibility of my brother and me, to keep the galvanized bucket full of coal and have it sitting in front of the stove.
The coal bucket also served as a spittoon. One wintery Saturday morning, the crowd was gathering and I had just placed a freshly filled coal bucket in front of the stove. A couple of men were playing checkers and two or three were sitting on the benches telling their stories.
Clem, who had just put in a fresh chew of mail pouch, spit his first load of juice, missing the bucket and hitting the floor. Dad scooted the coal bucket a little closer to Clem with his foot. In a few minutes, Clem let loose with another load of spit, again missing the bucket and hitting the floor with a splat! Again, Dad moved the bucket closer, in hopes that Clem would get the message.

Then a third time, Clem missed the bucket and hit the floor. By this time, Dad was getting a little hot under the collar and with a little more determination, he scooted the bucket close enough to almost touch Clem's feet. Clem let another load fly right over top of the bucket, landing with a splash on the floor. Wiping the dribble from his chin he said, "Bob, if you don't move that danged bucket, I'm goin' a hav'ta spit in it!"