More Tellable Cracker Tales

by Annette J. Bruce

  If told with zest, “Jumbo Jim,” “Mastodon Hunt,” “Marooning on the Matanzas,” and “Whirlwind” can hold older children and adults spellbound.

  Do Tell!

  A Vanishing Breed

  AFlorida backcountry woman was hoeing out beside her weather-beaten house. A neighbor stopped and leaned on the fence. “Effie Mae,” she said, “it ain’t fittin’ for you to be hoein’ out here today when the whole town knows that you jest had a letter from the government sayin’ that yore Jim is layin’ out in one of them furrin heathen lands, dead! It just ain’t fittin’.”

  Effie Mae rested her hoe and looked at her neighbor with level eyes. “Friend,” she said, “I know you mean well, but you just don’t understand. This is Jim’s land, and it rejoiced his heart to see green things growin’ because it meant that the young’uns and me would be eatin’. This is his hoe, and when I’m hoein’, I can feel his strong arms around me and his big hands on mine, and hear his voice sayin’, ‘That’s good, Maw. That’s good!’ I can’t afford a stone monument for Jim—wished I could—but workin’, not weepin’, is the only headstone I can give him. So if you don’t mind, neighbor, I’ll do my grievin’ in my own way.”

  When I read this little gem in the newspaper, I folded the paper and dropped it into my lap. I sat there thinking about how the dirt farmers of yesteryear were often called hayseeds, clodhoppers, and country bumpkins, but they always held a real fascination for me. These rugged individuals had a certain earthiness about their thinking and a way of expressing it that, to me, were both amusing and refreshing.

  My friend’s father, Roy, was no exception. He lived on the old family farm close to Bunnell. Kate, his wife of forty years, died the week following the attack on Pearl Harbor. My friend wanted her father to sell the farm and move to Jacksonville, where his life could be a little easier, but Roy didn’t “cotton to that notion atall.” A weekend in the city was as much as he could “stomach.” Besides, his country was at war. He couldn’t do any of the actual fighting, but he could still grow food for those who did.

  The last time I saw Roy, the thought occurred to me that it might be our last visit. Wishing I could have the story of his life, I asked him to tell me about some of the folks he had known. He looked at me for a few moments. His tired, old eyes gradually brightened. He got rid of his “cud” and said, “Well, durin’ the Depression our place got tagged by professional hobos and tramps, and, of course, some just down-and-outers stopped by too. Never a week went by that we didn’t have a dozen or more wanting handouts. Kate—bless her heart—was always too kind for her own good. On the farms we had food enough to spare, but one evenin’ when Kate was fixin’ food for the fourth one that day, I got to thinkin’, Why should my wife work, and then cook and clean up after them who didn’t? There was always something needin’ to be done ’round the farm, and if they wanted to eat, they could work for it. So I told Kate, ‘Enough is enough. From now on, no one eats unless he works.’ It wasn’t long before this decision thinned out the number lookin’ for handouts at our place.

  “One evenin’, about sundown, a cold northwester started blowin’ in. After Kate finished in the kitchen, I put another log on the fire, and we pulled our chairs up a little closer to the fireplace. We was listenin’ to the radio and shellin’ pecans when the dogs started barkin’ and someone outside started squawkin’. I went to the door and there was a stranger askin’ for a meal. He was better dressed and cleaner than most, and so I was plumb confounded when he grabbed up that ax and started splittin’ that wood like lightning, and he didn’t let up till he had laid in more wood than the box would hold. Kate and me noticed that he washed his hands and bowed his head to give thanks before he ate.

  “‘Stranger,’ I said, ‘if you need a place to stay tonight, there’s a feather bed in that room across the hall and plenty of quilts to keep you warm. You can sleep there.’ He thanked me and went to the room. The next morning he was up early, rearin’ to help. We fed up, and later, while we was enjoyin’ Kate’s good breakfast, I told the stranger that I had no money to hire him but if he was down on his luck and wanted to stay with us until he could do better, he was welcome. He was just finishin’ off another one of Kate’s biscuits, this one drippin’ with orange-blossom honey. He wasted no time takin’ me up on my offer.

  “Ya know, that man didn’t have enough fat on his bones to grease a one-egg skillet, but he could put away food like you wouldn’t believe. Kate used to smile and say, ‘I b’lieve he could eat a horse and chase the rider.’ Sometimes, I had to wonder if both of his legs were holler. He shore had a closet somewhere in his skeleton. But, of course, I was gettin’ the best end of the bargain, ’cause I wasn’t sparin’ him from any of the hard jobs. He never balked, and he did the work in a way you couldn’t fault him. After some weeks, I began to feel a little shame for workin’ this stranger so hard for just his room and board. So one hot day I took him up to the shed, where there was a nice breeze a-blowin’ through, and told him I wanted him to sort the potaters. I showed him how he needed to put all the large, perfect potaters in the number one bin; the small, perfect potaters in the number two bin; and all the cut and misshaped potaters in the third bin. Then I left to take care of some other things. On my way home for dinner, I stopped by the shed to see how he was gettin’ along. Well, I almost dropped my eye-teeth. I found that rascal stretched out on the floor without a dent made in his work.

  “‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, figurin’ he must be sick.

  “‘Just plum give out,’ he said.

  “‘What do ya mean, give out? You’ve spent days out in the sun, splittin’ rails, stringin’ fence, and diggin’ out palmettos, and I give you an easy job in the shade—and in no time you’re plum give out? That don’t make no sense atall. Somethin’ else gotta be wrong.

  “‘No, no. You don’t understand,’ he said, suddenly sittin’ up with a potater in each hand. ‘It’s not the work, mister, but all these decisions. All these decisions, man, done done me under.’

  “The next mornin’ his room was empty, and I never saw the man again.”

  I enjoyed Roy’s story and, without any prompting on my part, he started another one.

  “After Kate was gone,” he said, “instead of having more people than I needed out at the farm, I had a hard time gettin’ help. One day when I was workin’ on my old tractor, a man walked up lookin’ for work. I really needed help in the worst way, but when I asked this bozo what he could do, he said, ‘I can sleep through a storm.’ I crawled out from under my tractor, and asked him again, thinkin’ to be sure he ain’t heard me right, but again he said, ‘I can sleep through a storm.’Well, as bad as I needed help, I weren’t in no hurry to get a man who talked like he’d been kicked in the head by a mule. So I told him, ‘I don’t know, but I may have someone for the job, but if you don’t find work, come back Monday.’

  “That weekend I tried hard to find some help—even came up here to Jacksonville—but everyone was either workin’ for or fightin’ in the war. On my way back home, I realized what a mistake I’d made by not rememberin’ one of Kate’s sayin’s, that a bird in hand is worth two in the bush, even if the one in hand is a kook. Sunday night I went to bed prayin’ that the man with the weird answer would come back Monday and—you know? —he did! I still felt a little skittish about hirin’ him, though. But I soon found out that this feller was all right. He was young and as slow as molasses in January, but I could find no fault with his work. In spite of his pokiness, in three weeks we got the cabbage and potaters gathered.

  “That evenin’ as I was sittin’ on the porch, I saw lightnin’ playin’ on the horizon. We was havin’ a hot, dry spell so I reasoned it was just heat lightnin’. I was tired and I went on to bed. About midnight, thunder woke me up. I got up, pulled on my rubber boots, grabbed my slicker, and rushed to the room across the hall.

  “The door was closed. I knocked but got no answer. I knocked again and hollered and tried the door, but it was
locked. The storm was bearin’ down on us so I rushed out, figurin’ I’d at least get the old tractor under kiver and pen up what stock I could.

  “I was so agrafretted with a hired man who wouldn’t get up when you needed him that I took no notice of the wind and rain, but the lightnin’ and thunder was nerve-shatterin’. With every flash of lightnin’ and crack of thunder, I swore I’d fire that man before breakfast the next mornin’.

  “When I got to the barn, I found that the tractor was already in the shed and had a tarp tied securely over it. The stock was all bedded down, and all the doors and gates was chained. Everything was buckled down. It was rainin’ bullfrogs and pitchforks to stack ’em by the time I got back to the house. As I walked down the hall and heard the deep breathin’ of the hired man as he slept through the storm, I started re-thinkin’ my thinkin’. The man’s weird answer started makin’ sense. I crawled back in bed and relaxed. As long as I had that man around, I could sleep through a storm too.”

  A look of peace came over Roy’s face. He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. I tiptoed out of the room. I told my friend about her father’s stories. She nodded knowingly. “That last story was about Bill,” she said. “We’ve turned the farm over to him.”

  Telling time: 12–15 minutes

  Audience: middle school–adult

  Copy the first two paragraphs of this story and paste them onto a sheet of newsprint. After reading that part, fold the paper, put it down, and finish telling the story. This story can be made into different stories with very little effort. The newspaper article can be told as a one-minute story or combined with either or both of Roy’s stories, which can also be told separately.

  JumboJim

  Jim was a big, BIG man, and the scuttlebutt is that after he took his niece to the circus, she started calling him JumboJim instead of Uncle Jim and the name stuck. Of course, there were many who thought it not fitting for a man of his calling. After all, he was, as they say, “a man of the cloth.” He had lank, black hair, bronze skin, and chiseled features. Reportedly, his grandmother was a native American, but no one knows from what tribe she came. In fact, it seems no one knows now where JumboJim came from.

  One October evening, just as the Florida sun was silhouetting the tall pine and cypress trees against a blaze of color in the western sky, JumboJim rode his gray mare up to Tom’s Tavern on the southeast shore of Lake Dorr. He dismounted at the hitching post, brushed the dust from his blue serge suit, smoothed the wrinkles from his coattails, and tucked his Bible under his arm. Standing tall, he walked through the swinging doors.

  As one on a mission, he paraded to the bar, put down his Bible, and ordered a cup of sassafras tea. When he turned around, he didn’t need to ask for silence for it had followed him through that room like a bloodhound.

  A big infectious smile covered his face as he said, “Evenin’, folks. My name is Jim Jowers, and I’m your new preacher. I plan to preach my first sermon right here, tonight.”

  Sitting at one of the tables, two men wearing army uniforms (minus the insignias) started laughing. JumboJim ignored them and continued, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll rinse the dust off my vocal cords and then get down to the business of preachin’ God’s Word.”

  He then turned, saucered and blew his tea, and started to take a sip when he realized there was something uncanny about the silence. One glance at the reflection in the bar mirror explained the reason: one of the hecklers had a gun pointed in his direction. Keeping a sharp eye on the would-be gunman, he drank his tea, picked up his open Bible with both hands, and slowly turned to face him.

  In a calm, confident manner, JumboJim said, “Mister, I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t cotton to guns pointed in my direction, so why don’t you put yours away?”

  “Preacher, don’t trouble yoreself ’bout my problems. Looks ter me lak you’ve got plenty of yore own.” A few of the patrons snickered a nervous laugh, and the heckler gained courage. “Now, you jest put that book on the table rat there and step over thar by that pianer. You’ve showed us that yore head is loose. Let’s see iffen yore feet can move as fast as yore tongue. Show us how good you can dance. And, preacher, you’d better do some fast steppin’ ’cause good dancers are welcomed here, but preachers need to take their business elsewhere.” The raucous crowd laughed and applauded the spokesman.

  JumboJim put his open Bible on the table, straightened up to his full height and said, “That was not a part of the program I planned for tonight, but if that is the order of the day, I’ll do my best to fit in.”

  He paused, quickly sized up the situation, and then said, “I always perform best when I ask my Lord for His blessing before I begin. I do want to do my best, so let’s all reverently bow our heads, and I’ll word my prayer and then get on with the business at hand.”

  The hellion was a little unnerved by the cool action of this big stranger, but he was really distracted when, one after another, the patrons bowed their heads as JumboJim got to his knees and started praying.

  “My Dear Lord, God and ruler over all things, how great Thou art! Yet You commissioned me, a mere speck in Your Universe, to preach Your word. Lord, in humble obedience, I am here to do that. I do not ask that You remove the thorns, pitfalls, or even the boulders in my path. I only ask that You, Lord, will see fit to give me the wisdom, strength, and tools so that I, with Your blessing, can take care of the problems myself. Amen.”

  JumboJim was back on his feet in a blink of an eye, and when the patrons looked up, they were shocked to see the tall man holding not one but two six-shooters with the dexterity of a professional gunman. His draw from under his coat was so fast and smooth that many were convinced that God had miraculously placed those guns in his hands.

  His commanding voice filled the room as he said, “Mister, I don’t like gun play and only use it when I’m forced to, but don’t expect me to tell you the second time so listen carefully. Turn your gun around and lay it right there beside my Bible and do it now.”

  Without any hesitation, the troublemaker did as he was told.

  Still holding his guns, JumboJim said, “Now, either I speak or these do!” His message was loud and clear. The patrons were filled with awe. Quickly, a reverent atmosphere prevailed, and the folks were in a receptive mood for his sermon. JumboJim put his guns down, picked up his Bible, read Dr. Luke’s account of Jesus teaching His followers to love their enemies, and then JumboJim preached a powerful sermon on the golden rule. He finished his sermon and stood there letting his closing words sink in. Then he smiled and said, “Now, if there is anyone here who can play that piano, I know the words to ‘Amazing Grace’.”

  Sometime during the singing, the heckler and his buddy slipped out. When JumboJim pronounced the benediction, a sharp dresser approached him, gave his name, extended his hand, and said, “I am with the Kismet Land and Improvement Company. As you may or may not know, we have just opened a fifty-room luxury hotel on the square in Kismet. I came to Florida planning to spend the winter, but an emergency has necessitated my going back home. I liked the way you handled the precarious situation tonight and am willing to offer you the use of my suite, your meals at the hotel dining room, and a small stipend in exchange for your service as general manager until I can return. You will be in a position to meet people, and you will have plenty of time to preach as I have good dependable help.”

  JumboJim smiled and said, “The Lord does work in wondrous ways. If you have a vacancy tonight and a stable for my horse, I’ll walk over with you and talk about it.”

  Thus, JumboJim became the general manager of Kismet’s crown jewel, the minister of the gospel, a goodwill ambassador, keeper of the peace, and the construction overseer of a church building. His integrity, enthusiasm, and sense of humor made him a popular legend while he was still residing in the growing community. Folks liked to tease and talk about him. They especially liked to tell about his first sermon in Tom’s Tavern and his first baptisms in Lake
Dorr. He had just finished administering the rite to the last candidate when a large alligator chased the big man out of the lake.

  Like fish tales, gator tales get better with the telling. One day when Hiram, the acknowledged ace of store-porch storytellers, was demonstrating his mastery of the art to a larger-than-usual audience, a newcomer challenged Hiram’s description of how fast JumboJim got out of the lake.

  “You don’t really expect me to believe that this man walked on water?” asked the doubting tourist.

  The old codger removed his hat and scratched his head. After thinking about it for a minute, Hiram said, “Wall, I wouldn’t want you or anyone ter go away sayin’ that I said that JumboJim walked on water. ’Cause when he came outten of that lake, he was movin’ so fast that even the big man couldn’t a been walkin’—he’d had ta been runnin’ on water.”

  Many Florida Crackers will tell you that the Big Freeze of 1889 killed every citrus fruit tree in the two-year-old county of Lake and that people by the score packed up and left, looking for greener pastures. Whether or not you believe that to be the gospel truth, history will bear out that, soon after the big freeze, Kismet rolled up its sidewalks, took in the doorsteps, and took its place on the list of Florida’s ghost towns. The fifty-room hotel was dismantled and reassembled on the southeast corner of the intersection of Magnolia Avenue and Grove Street in downtown Eustis. It served Eustis residents and visitors as the Grand View Hotel for many years. Around 1955, it was torn down and a bank building built on the site.