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    Stories from a Kentucky Boy
    Stories from a Kentucky Boy
    Stories from a Kentucky Boy
    Ebook91 pages1 hour

    Stories from a Kentucky Boy

    By R. Kenley Elliott

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    About this ebook

    Laugh along with the author as he relates humorous anecdotes about growing up in the Eastern Kentucky town of Lynch which is located in Harlan County. Everyone should find something that relates to humorous incidents that occurred during his or her childhood. Learn the art of rat fishing, how to be a barber and make wine. Also reflect for a few moments as the author pays tribute to the brave young Marines he fought with in Vietnam and now see their names reside on a black granite wall in Washington, DC for eternity.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateAug 3, 2012
    ISBN9781477254301
    Stories from a Kentucky Boy
    Author

    R. Kenley Elliott

    R. Kenley Elliott grew up in the small coal mining community of Lynch, Kentucky during the 1950's. Like most people living in the Appalachians during those times, financial resources were meager. Without television and other entertainment outlets, reading, practical jokes and pranks provided escape from everyday life. After graduating from high school, Kenley entered the Marine Corps in 1963 and served as an infantry machine gunner in Vietnam for thirteen months. Following his military service, Kenley attained a bachelors degree in business and completed a 40 year career in information systems. Throughout life, Kenley had enjoyed relating humorous tales about family and friends and that led to the encouragement to put the stories in writing.

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      Book preview

      Stories from a Kentucky Boy - R. Kenley Elliott

      STORIES from a

      Kentucky Boy

      R. Kenley Elliott

      ah1.jpg

      AuthorHouse™

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

      www.authorhouse.com

      Phone: 1-800-839-8640

      © 2012 R. Kenley Elliott. All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

      Published by AuthorHouse 7/31/2012

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-5429-5 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-5430-1 (e)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913727

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

      and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      This book is dedicated to those who have enjoyed my oral recitations of these stories and encouraged me to put them in written form for my grandchildren and others.

      Contents

      Introduction

      Sometimes You Need Your Space

      Pickin’ Blackberries

      A Damned Good Marine

      Teacher’s Pet

      The Barbers

      My Short Vintner Career

      The Exterminators

      The Green Jeans

      The Best Bait

      Louie’s Boat

      My Best Christmas

      Friends to Be Remembered

      About the Author

      Introduction

      This book is a collection of short stories relating some of the antics and experiences of my life. The stories are all true-life events, although some of them may have been augmented slightly for humorous effect.

      missing image file

      Sometimes You Need Your Space

      I suppose my friends and I were like most preteen boys growing up in a small southern town in the fifties. We all wanted to be cowboys. All it took was a mop handle or carefully chosen branch off a tree, and you had a good horse. Add a ten-gallon hat, a cap pistol or two, and a good piece of rope, and you were all set. Of course, I always had to be a little different from the other guys.

      They all wanted to be some white-hat hero with a palomino horse. Everybody wanted to be Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Tom Mix, or the Lone Ranger. Well, that run-of-the-mill stuff wasn’t for me. No, sir! I wanted to be Lash LaRue, the good guy who never used his gun. Nope, old Lash didn’t need a gun. He’d just flick out his thirty-foot-long bullwhip and disarm any bad guy within two counties. If he happened to miss one, his partner Gabby Hayes would ride the desperadoes back until Lash came to help. Lash was also a man of fashion after my heart. He wore only black clothes with, of course, a lot of silver tacking attached around. His hat, shirt, pants, and boots—even his horse—were as black as coal. When Lash walked in the sun, he was a coal mine pit with diamonds flashing in it.

      Well, I digressed a bit there. All that stuff about my hero Lash and other cowboys doesn’t have a damned thing to do with this story. Oh yeah, I guess it does just a little. Being a good cowboy, you didn’t go anywhere without your lasso. A boy can find a lot of uses for a lasso. You never knew when you might need to rope a raging bull, pull a drowning damsel from a swollen river, or leash a stray dog to take home with you.

      Anyhow, here I was on an early Friday morning with little to do when my best friend Jim showed up.

      Hey, Ken, he said.

      Let’s go to the fillin’ station and get some cigarettes then go up to the cabin and smoke.

      Good idea, I said. Mama hasn’t turned her back all morning, so I couldn’t sneak one of hers out. Which way we goin’?

      Which way we were going was an important question. Walking to the filling station was not a saunter down to the end of the block (as if we had blocks in Lynch, Kentucky). We could take the long way. It was an easy four-mile walk. You went down the holler (hollow for those of you who may not be familiar with mountain vernacular) to the main valley for a mile and then hung a left. It was an easy three miles the rest of the way. The short way was a harder walk but only two miles long. You just cut up over the mountain and down the other side—almost a straight shot. Of course, there were a couple of creeks to navigate, and you might have to do in a timber rattler or two on the way. I didn’t mind the rattlers so much. They made a noise, and they were slow. It was them sneaky ass, fast-as-lightening copperheads that I hated. Anyhow, snakes are another story or two. I better not stray from this one.

      So, Jim and I, being full of youthful energy, decided the short route was right at that time. I made sure my lasso was properly looped on my gun belt, and the whip I’d made out of a kindling stick and piece of rawhide was on my other side. We started up the mountain trail, and I heard the last thing I wanted to hear.

      My little brother Don was yelling: Hey, Ken, I wanna go with you.

      Damn, I did not want that little pipsqueak tagging along. He’d tell Mama I was smoking.

      No, I said. Me and Jim are going alone this time.

      I can go too. Mama told you to watch me, Don retorted with stubbornness.

      Not a chance, I said. You stay here this time.

      I started on up the trail and saw the little shit run into the house. Of course, you know what was next. Mama was on the steps yelling at

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