The Winds of Destiny

We were country folk, and stories or tales of the supernatural seemed to go hand in hand with our isolation from nearby cities and the dark and forbidding woods that surrounded our houses and farm. At night the wind would howl and whisper as it blew blasts of air through the woods near our house. The trees would creak and sway and cast eerie shadows on the walls of our shanty. I would huddle and shiver beneath the quilts with them pulled over my head to ward off the goblin-like shadows that danced on the walls of the shanty.

As a toddler, I had rather large ears for hushed conversations. On occasions I crept too close to the older women, who would playfully scowl at me and say, "Boy, you get away from here." "It ain’t polite to listen to older folk’s conversations." I would leave the presence of the older women and strain my ears to soak up their conversations. I learned that "roots" could be sulfur powder, blood and perhaps chicken feathers or other talisman strewn across a path that a person would take to reach their home. According to the older women, the presence of such items would cause people much concern, and then they would gather up a few hundred dollars and travel to South Carolina. I learned that these trips to South Carolina were for the purpose of consulting with "Root Doctors" and it was rumored that the best practitioners of the art resided at South Carolina. According to some stories I heard, a person who had roots or a wicked spell placed on them could have it reversed at a price. It seemed that there were some powerful Root Doctors that could determine who placed evil spells on an undeserving person and sell talismans or roots to the victims to cast wicked counter spells on their tormenters. My eyes would widen, the hairs on my neck would rise, and I would shiver as they recounted their spine-tingling stories.

Aunt Virginia told me later during my adult life, after I confessed to her about my eavesdropping, that I was fortunate. She explained that during her early childhood in the early nineteen fifties, the punishment for eavesdropping was a spray of tobacco spit in the face from an adult. I had seen some of my relatives spit out snuff and tobacco juice before, and they were very accurate at hitting spittoons and other targets at substantial distances.

Suspicions about roots or other supernatural events were sometimes blamed for people’s untimely deaths, thus the web of suspicion became even more intricate. The web of suspicion limited social contacts with people who were not direct family members and in some families it restricted certain family secrets to the older family members. Over the years, keeping family secrets became a structured way of life for most family members. They would not discuss certain family issues with outsiders. They would even deny the existence of past family problems.

I did not know during my early childhood of the secret that haunted our family farm. The secret had brought sorrow to the lives of my relatives who lived at the farm. It would also place a burden on me during my later childhood and adult life. Years later, as a teenager, I would learn of the awful secret. I would later question the wisdom of keeping such a secret, after its magnitude had sent shock waves of repercussions throughout the family. It was unimaginable that such a thing had happened on this picturesque farm, which was always filled with laughter and cheer during my childhood.

My thoughts were suddenly refocused on the situation at hand when Aunt Linda nudged me with her elbow and made some comments about Uncle Leon’s obituary that we were crafting. Aunt Linda and I completed the draft of the obituary, and I told Aunt Shirley that I would be back the next day to assist her with some other matters. I then departed for my drive home.

I did not pay much attention to the fourteen-mile drive because I was still stunned from having received word of Uncle Leon’s death. I was driving my black Chevrolet Silverado Pickup Truck, but had neglected to turn on the radio. Many thoughts swirled through my mind about things that needed to be done for Uncle Leon’s funeral.

According to Aunt Shirley, Uncle Leon’s remains were still at Pulaski, Tennessee, and a funeral home several miles from Aunt Shirley’s residence had been selected to perform funeral services. Since Uncle Leon had died today, on a Friday, little could be done over the weekend to transport his remains back to his city of residence. Aunt Shirley told me that she and her daughters had selected Wednesday as the day of the funeral.