The Red Flannel Rag

INTRODUCTION

“Let us be intimate with ancestral ghosts

And music of the undead.” Alice Walker (1)

* * * * *

I always thought of graveyards as silent, sad, and desolate places, and in fact they

are for those who are buried there. However, when I visit Mom and Dad’s grave in the

cemetery at Gospel Hill Mennonite Church, my memory comes alive. Memories of

growing up in my small Appalachian Mountain community, and my experiences with all

the people buried here, begin to flow into my mind.

In plain view of Mom and Dad’s headstone is the grave of Tom Crawford, shot in

the back and killed by revenue agents while he was making moonshine. Just up the hill

to the rig ht is Jesse Craig’s headstone. I remember him as a tall, skinny man filled with

stories of witches. Uncle Shirley bragged about the varieties of wine produced by Jesse

Craig. Tomato and potato wine, rhubarb and cucumber wine are a few that come to

mind as I look at his headstone. Every time I visit the cemetery, I cannot help but smile

as I remember my favorite Jesse Craig story. The revenue agents came to his house in

disguise to catch him selling his homemade wine. They asked him to buy some wine,

but he refused to sell to them. Instead, he offered them a glass or two. By the time they

left, they were so drunk he had to lead them to their car.

The cemetery lies across a low ridge on either side of the small white, clapboard

church. Thick, dark woods surround the cemetery on two sides. The boundary on one

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