Raccoon Hill

By Kay Roberts Stephens

Eighty-nine-year-old Grace is gravely ill. As she lies in bed, she agonizes over whether she should tell her daughters that she killed their father.

The setting for Graces story is in the farming community of Coon Hill. In 1917, she falls in love with George Sanford. They plan to get married, but in July of 1918, the flu pandemic reaches the community, And George is among the fatal victims. Four years later, Paul Roberts starts visiting Grace. Her mother objects to the relationship because his father is an abusive alcoholic. Grace defends him, and when she tells her mother of her marriage plans a year later, Abbie reluctantly gives her blessings. A few months into the marriage, Paul begins to physically abuse her. Everything is revealed when her brother is walking in a field near her home and hears her scream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458201645

Kay Roberts Stephens

Kay Roberts Stephens, a North Carolina native, graduated from East Carolina University with a major in history and a minor in sociology. She worked a number of years as a social worker—child protective, and later, adult services.  She is the author of Judgment Land: The Story of Salter Path volumes one and two.  The story of the fishing village has been purchased by university and county libraries throughout North Carolina and is on sale at local bookstores, gift shops, and museums.  In the winter of 2009, she entered the epilogue of Raccoon Hill in the Carteret Writer’s Contest and won first place in the fiction category. She is a past president, treasurer, and secretary of Carteret Writer’s, Inc. Her research for the background of this novel began years ago when she listened to the stories her grandmother told her. The author, married for forty-three years, is the mother of two children and two grandchildren  

Book preview

1 Prologue 2

July 1991

Grace awoke when a ray of sun moved across her face. Where am I? she thought. Looking at sheer white curtains over the windows and at her cluttered dresser, she realized she was in her own sturdy double bed. Hearing footsteps, she looked up and saw her daughter, Rose.

Mama, it looks like you slept well. I sat with you all night and you didn’t holler out in your sleep like you’ve been doing. Maybe the medication old Doctor Ross gave you is helping.

Grace turned away. She didn’t feel like talking.

Ignoring her mother’s silence, Rose continued: Lucy has cooked a good breakfast. Your favorite, country ham, fried eggs, grits, biscuits, and fresh home grown tomatoes. Let me sit you up and put some pillows behind your back and I’ll bring you some.

Eighty-nine-year old Grace had become thin, shrunken and frail. Until just this year, she’d been able to do her housework, cook, and tend her garden. Now she was worn out and too sick to look after herself. Doctor Ross told her daughters that she was suffering from a weak heart and probably wouldn’t live another month. With this warning, they began their vigil with each of her daughters taking turns.

Grace didn’t feel like eating but to satisfy Rose, she ate a piece of a biscuit and a couple of bites of the soft scrambled eggs. When she could eat no more, Rose rearranged her pillows so her mother could lie down. Grace lay with her eyes closed, hoping to be left alone. She had a lot to think about. Should she tell her daughters her secret or take it with her to her grave?

1 Chapter 1 2

June 1914

Coon Hill, located in a heavily forested area in the northern piedmont region of North Carolina, sat on a winding dirt road in the southwestern portion of Granville County, about five miles from the small village of Stem. A few manmade clearings were planted in tobacco, corn, wheat, cotton, and other money-producing crops.

Coon Hill got its name because it was overrun with raccoons. The numbers of these masked bandits occasionally decreased when the men went hunting, accompanied by their dogs and in fall and winter you could hear the hounds howling when they treed one. A large male coon could put up an awful fight and beat the dogs, or at least stay treed out of reach. But a treed coon is no match for a farmer and his gun.

Most of the farms in and around Coon Hill were owned by the Roberts, Veasey, Sanford, and Jones families. Homes were modest wood-frames with huge shade trees to help block the hot summer sun and act as windbreaks against the howling winds of winter. Each house had a number of out buildings; a chicken house; a barn for storing corn, wheat, and farm implements with a portion set aside for cattle, horses or mules; a smokehouse where meat was cured and stored; and a wash house where clothes were scrubbed on a washboard or boiled in a big, black, iron pot. At the edge of the fields stood one or two tobacco barns, built of logs. A separate fenced-in area held hogs for fattening.

Usually, close to the house were two garden plots, one planted in mid-spring and the other in late spring or early summer. Not much money was needed in those days. Fresh vegetables were plentiful in summer and the excess, canned in glass jars, carried folks through the winter. Hogs were slaughtered during the first cold spell of fall, and large portions were salted down, smoked or put up in heat-sealed glass jars for the coming cold months. Chickens gave eggs and when they grew too old to lay, were killed and made into a stew. Occasionally, a young chicken, called a pullet, had its neck wrung or head chopped off with an ax, and the body scalded to remove the feathers. After the entrails were removed, it was cut into pieces, rolled in flour and fried. This dish wasn’t limited to the midday or evening meal. Often it showed up on the breakfast menu, especially on Sunday.

In spring, dew berries grew along the edge of the fields, and July was blackberry-picking time. Thorny black berries grow in dense, tangled underbrush, and picking required long sleeves and pants, not only because of the thorns but because of chiggers and snakes. The women made the berries into pies or cobblers and preserved some for winter. Most farms also had apple, peach, and plum trees.

Part of the corn crop was taken to the mill and ground into cornmeal, and a portion of the wheat was ground into flour. Irish and sweet potatoes were stored in a cool, dry cellar, leaving only coffee, sugar, baking soda, and salt to be bought or bartered.

Grace, the oldest child of John and Abbie Veasey, lived with her family on a farm in the community of Coon Hill.

Twelve-year-old Grace sat on the side of the bed, stretched, yawned and then ran her fingers through her long, dark brown hair. Just as she stood up, her mother appeared at the door.

It’s about time you got up, Abbie said. We got lots to do. I need you to help fix dinner while I’m cooking breakfast.

I know, I know. Seems all I do is work, work, work, Grace replied in a whiny voice.

You don’t do anymore than the rest of us. Now go on and get yourself dressed.

When Grace got to the kitchen, her mother, a tall big-boned woman with thick dark hair, already had the fire going in the cook stove. The sun was rising over the tree tops, casting its light through the open door into the kitchen.

Peel the potatoes there on the table, Abbie instructed. When you get through with that, rinse the string beans.

Can’t you give me a minute to wake up and get myself together? begged Grace.

You know you don’t have time for that. We’re running late already. You should be doing things without my having to tell you. When I was your age, I cooked and waited on my grandpa, made biscuits and everything without any help.

Abbie was frying the fatback in a black iron skillet, and the grease crackled and popped as it rendered from the meat.

Grace’s three sisters came into the kitchen, each competing for attention. Grace, go get the baby. I hear him crying, Abbie said. Change his diaper while I finish cooking breakfast.

How can I peel the potatoes, wash the string beans and change Buddy?

Don’t get smart with me. Just do as I say. Leanna, you start peeling the potatoes.

But I don’t know how, complained Leanna, who was eight-years-old.

It’s time you learned.

Soon Grace returned to the kitchen with the baby on her hip. Once breakfast was on the table and her father and ten-year-old brother Floyd came in from feeding the livestock, the family was ready to eat. The children sat on long wooden benches on each side of the table. Abbie took her place at one end and John, a tall thin man with dark hair, brown eyes, and a sharp nose, sat at the other. The family bowed their heads as John said the blessing. Lord make us thankful for these and all our blessings. Amen.

There was the sound of a spoon occasionally hitting the side of the serving bowls as Abbie portioned out scrambled eggs, fatback and grits to her youngest children. Y’all better eat all your breakfast, or I’ll save it and you’ll have to eat it for dinner.

She opened the oven door, took out a pan of golden brown biscuits, and passed them out. What was left, she covered with a kitchen towel.

Bill and his boy, George, are coming over to help me and Floyd top tobacco, John said. Speck we’ll be pulling off some big fat tobacco worms. Me and Floyd’ll go over to their place in a couple a days and help ‘em with their crop.

I’m gonna put Grace to work in the garden, Abbie said. The weeds look like they’re about to take over.

Once dinner was cooked, Abbie moved the pots of food to the back of the stove and let the fire burn to embers. Grace dipped hot water from the stove’s well and made dishwater with a piece of lye soap. She was tired of all the endless work and her frustration resounded in the banging and clanging of the dirty pots and pans. She stomped across the weathered wooden back porch and threw leftovers out into the yard for the cats, dogs, and chickens.

After Abbie sent her outside, Grace spent the morning chopping weeds in the garden. Her sisters followed her and frolicked up and down the rows, of butter beans, corn, tomatoes and squash. Several times Grace hollered, Quit trampling on the rows or I’m going to beat your butts. Occasionally, one of the girls would try to help Grace with the weeding, but she had to stop her three-year-old sister because she pulled up the vines along with the weeds.

At noon, Abbie rang the bell hanging on the far corner of the front porch signaling all to come in for dinner. Since the garden was near the house, Grace and her younger sisters were the first to walk onto the front porch.

Now y’all wash up before sitting at the table, Abbie said.

Grace didn’t like her mother always telling her what to do. I know to wash up before eating, she thought.

Why didn’t you make Leanna help me weed the garden? asked Grace.

Because I needed her to help me clean the house.

Now Mama, you know I hate weeding the garden. Why didn’t you let me help with the cleaning and let Leanna do the weeding?

Hush your arguing. The men are in from the field.

The men and boys washed up outside. When they entered the kitchen Bill Sanford, a tall muscular man with light brown hair and blue eyes, said, Whatever you’ve cooked sure smells good, Miss Abbie.

Why, thank you Bill. I just hope it tastes as good as it smells.

The odor of string beans seasoned with country ham scraps and fresh fried chicken filled the room. Mashed potatoes, gravy, big fluffy biscuits and an eight layer chocolate cake were also part of the meal.

We got right much work done this morning, John said as he passed the platter of fried chicken. Bill, you and George really worked hard and I appreciate it.

Bill took a piece of chicken off the platter and passed it on down the table. There was right many worms on the plants, but I think we pulled ‘em off in time. There weren’t many holes in the tobacco leaves.

George, who was several years older than Grace, didn’t join in the conversation. He was shy, and besides he was too busy eating.

Bill wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. This is good eating. Don’t tell my wife I said so, but you’re just about the best cook in these parts.

Why, thank you, but I know Mabel is a good cook. She cooks the best blackberry cobbler I’ve put in my mouth.

After the big dinner, Bill, John, Floyd and George stretched out on the end of the wide, pine-planked, weathered front porch.

Abbie turned to her youngest daughters.Katie and Susie, go back to your beds and take a nap. Y’all can’t be running and playing while the men are resting.

Why can’t we lie down and rest? Grace asked.

Cause a woman’s work is never done.

That’s not fair, griped Grace.

Go and put Buddy to bed. Then come back and help me and Leanna clean up the kitchen.

Abbie did take time to reach in her apron pocket for her snuff tin. Sticking the wet chewed-end of a black gum twig into the tin, she gently stirred it around and put the snuff that clung to the twig between her bottom lip and gum. Grace envied the satisfaction her mother got from dipping snuff. When I’m a little older, I’m going to dip snuff, she thought.

1 Chapter 2 2

November 1914

Grace walked to the edge of the back porch and scraped breakfast leftovers from a plate into the yard. The chickens, the dogs and the cats all ran toward the food, each trying to get their share. It was cool and cloudy so Grace turned and headed back toward the warmth of the kitchen. Suddenly she was stopped in her tracks by a yelping sound coming from across the field near the pig pen. The wind blew her long dark brown hair across her face obstructing her view until she managed to brush it back. Oh Lord, she thought. There was a large gray dog running in circles acting like a mad dog.

Her father and brother were at the woodpile splitting wood for the cook stove. Daddy, Floyd, come here, Grace shouted. Hurry, hurry!

John and Floyd threw down their axes and came running towards the house. What’s the matter? John asked as he jumped up onto the back porch.

Grace pointed a finger towards the pig pen. See that big, old dog. It’s running in circles.

John turned and looked at Floyd. You stay right here. I’ll go get the guns.

John raced into the house with Grace close behind. He ran into the back bedroom and grabbed two rifles from the gun rack high up on the wall. Abbie, don’t you and the children leave the house, John said as he headed for the back door. There’s a strange dog running in circles near the pig pen.

Oh my gracious, Abbie said in a raised voice. Is it mad?

Me and Floyd’s going to find out.

John ran outside and gave Floyd a rifle. Now, don’t run toward the dog. Just walk at a steady pace. When we get closer, I’ll decide what to do.

Abbie and Grace huddled on the back porch, their arms sheltering the younger children.

When father and son got sixty feet from the dog, John said, He’s foaming at the mouth. Aim for his head.

They raised the guns and fired and the big gray dog fell in its tracks.

A few minutes later, Bill Sanford rode up on horseback, a rifle lying across the saddle. I see you killed the dog I been tracking, he said.

He was running in circles and foaming at the mouth.

He must have been the one that jumped into my hog pen and bit one of my sows. Now that y’all have killed it, I’m going on home and shoot the old sow . It’s a pity. I was depending on that hog for a good part of my winter meat.

I’m sorry you’ve lost the hog. But don’t worry; we’ll share some meat with you. I raised a couple of extra hogs this year.

That’s mighty nice of you, Bill replied. Me and George will come over and help you with the hog killing. I’m sure Mabel and the girls will come along with us.

Spread the word about the dog, John said. I’m gonna tell everybody I see cause it might’ve bit somebody else’s livestock.

I will, John, I sure will, Bill said as he turned his horse toward home.

John and Floyd got two shovels from the barn and went back to the dog. John looked at his son. Better not touch it or we might get rabies. Put your shovel under its hind parts and I’ll put mine under his shoulders. We’ll move him over to the edge of the woods and bury him.

The next day, a Sunday, the Veasey family rode to church in their best wagon hitched to their horse, Zeb. A cool breeze blew as the sun crept in and out from behind the clouds. Abbie reached up and grabbed her hat.

John guided the horse with a gentle tug on the reins. A couple of times Zeb expelled gas. Finally, he raised his tail and plop, plop, out came two big globs of manure. The younger children laughed.

Zeb pooted, Katie said.

Zeb pooted, Zeb pooted, Susie repeated.

Now children, hush, Abbie said in a firm voice. We’re almost at the church. You don’t want the folks to hear ugly words.

What’s an ugly word? asked Susie.

Never mind. We’ll talk about that when we get home.

The Roberts Chapel United Methodist Church, a square white-frame building with a steeple built over the front vestibule, stood among a grove of oak trees. When John got to the west side of the church he reined in the horse and stepped out of the wagon.

Floyd, tie him up to that tree there while I help the others out of the wagon, John said. And when you’ve done that, take this here bucket and draw up some water. He’s probably thirsty.

Outside the church, the men gathered in one group and the women in another. The children, full of energy, ran here and there chasing each other. Soon Reverend Epps arrived and stood with the men.

I hope your families are doing well, the preacher remarked.

Most of us are, said John. My mama is feeling poorly. Her old cat got between her feet and she fell. She didn’t break any bones, but she’s mighty bruised up.

I’ll visit Miss Lula today.

She’d be proud to see you.

The preacher, who had three other churches in his circuit, delivered one sermon a month at Roberts Chapel. On the other Sundays, the members still met for Sunday School.

I guess some of you heard about the mad dog John and Floyd killed yesterday, Bill said. It bit one of my sows and I had to kill her.

That’s too bad, the preacher said. That’s cost your family some winter meat.

It sure has, Bill replied. We’d all better be on the lookout for other mad dogs. It’d be terrible if one of our children got bit.

Yes, it would, yes, it would, the men replied in unison.

After Sunday school and before church services began, Grace and her good friend Mary gathered with other girls their age. A group of young boys stood nearby. For a moment, the girls moved closer to the boys when they overheard the topic of conversation.

Me and my daddy killed a mad dog yesterday, Floyd bragged.

You did? asked Silas.

Where was he when you killed him?

Over near the hog pen running in circles.

I was the one that spotted him, Grace said.

Before they could continue with the conversation, Abbie said, Come on children. It’s time for church. You can talk about the mad dog later.

Grace liked Sunday school, and she enjoyed the first part of the church service when the congregation sang hymns and the choir presented its program, but she often got bored with the sermon. It seemed the preaching was the same thing over and over. So she stared at the pot-bellied stove and its pipe, which circled over the pulpit and into the ceiling, and daydreamed. Occasionally she was distracted by the restlessness of one of her little sisters sitting beside her on the dark-stained wooden pew.

After church, one of the members always invited the preacher to dinner. This Sunday it was the Veaseys’ turn. The children were always on their best behavior when the preacher joined them at the table. Early that morning Abbie had fried chicken, cooked butter beans, boiled potatoes and made biscuits. For dessert, she’d made a blackberry cobbler.

When they were seated at the table, Abbie said, Reverend Epps, would you say the blessing?

"Why sure, Miss Abbie, and for John, I’ll keep it short. As Epps began his prayer, they all bowed their heads.

Lord, thank you for the good food we’re about to eat and for the fine Christian family gathered here. May their days be long in the service of the Lord. Amen.

Amen, said John and Abbie in unison.

John passed the platter of fried chicken to Reverend Epps. I believe I’d better hitch up the wagon and take the children to school tomorrow, John said.

I sure would feel better about them if you do, Abbie replied.

They’ve had problems with mad dogs over at Tally Hoe, said Reverend Epps. It’s got so people won’t let their children go beyond the front yard to play.

My children love it when I tell them mad dog tales, John said. The tales are true, like the one about my Grandma Harward. It happened when she was around ten years old. She was walking to school one morning when up ahead she saw a dog whining and running in circles. She had sense enough to know it was a mad dog and she better get out of its way. Grandma ran into the woods, threw her sack lunch down, and climbed a tree. She sat in the fork of that tree all day watching in terror as the dog ran round and round the tree.

What a scary thing to happen, Reverend Epps remarked.

Yeah. She was scared to death and she didn’t have no food or water nor any way to get to an outhouse. When it got late in the afternoon and Grandma hadn’t come home, her daddy hitched up his wagon and went looking for her. By that time, the dog had wandered off and she got the nerve to come down out of the tree. Just as she reached the ground, she saw her daddy coming down the rutted dirt road. He lifted her into the wagon and asked her where she’d been. Grandma was so upset she cried and trembled all the way home. It was the next morning before her family got the full story.

She refused to go back to school after that, added Grace.

Grandma sure did. Her pa even said he would take her to school in the wagon, but she refused. That mad dog scared her so bad she never got over it.

On Monday morning, Grace, Floyd, and their younger sister, Leanna, dressed for school. John hitched old Zeb to a wagon