The Red Flannel Rag

I was thinking about fried squirrel, gravy and warm bread, as I sneaked up on

squirrel number seven who was noisily tree chewing on a tender hickory nut. I was

waiting for him to finish and jump out on a limb for another nut so I could determine

his location.

Suddenly the breeze picked up slightly and carried the sound of men’s voices to

me. I dashed under the boughs of a large white pine and snuggled up as close as I could

get to the trunk. In just a few minutes, two game wardens walked so close to the tree

that I could read their badge numbers. They were saying, “The shots sounded like there

were coming from around here, but there’s no sign of anybody.” I could barely hear

them over my heartbeat. They stood by my hiding place for what seemed like a week,

and then they moved on. I dashed into Lloyd Myers’ cornfield and made my way to his

barn. I borrowed a sack and put my squirrels in it. I nonchalantly walked on home with

the sack across my shoulder. The squirrel bodies looked like vegetables in the sack.

Each hollow in Hopkins Gap has a name. There is Shaving Bridge Hollow,

Ground Squirrel Bridge Hollow, Cry Baby Lane, Cold Spring Hollow, Mine Hollow,

Mash Run, Hog Pen Run, Little Hog Pens, Big Hog Pens, Slate Lick Run, and many

others. Hearing the names of all these places always reminds me of different events in

local history. The stories behind the names were told to me so often and with such

detail that the pictures I developed in my mind have remained consistent and

permanently imprinted in my memory.

Shaving Bridge Hollow is where Joe Crawford made his living. He peeled bark,

split shingles from the red oak trees, made white oak splits for split-bottom chairs, and

built furniture from the variety of oak trees that were abundant in that one hollow.

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