The Gypsy's Blessing

The Gypsy's Blessing

Most of us have interesting, bizarre, or exciting stories in our family history.  One of the strangest in my family is the story of a Gypsy's blessing.

My grandparents, Dave Miller and Hazel Hughes, married in 1934.  They were both from the hills of Casey County, Kentucky.  He was twenty-three, a crack shot and an avid hunter; she was seventeen, a crack shot and third cousin to Davy Crockett.  They were both fiery, hot-tempered, and very much in love.  This was a time when people married young and had lots of kids.  As the years went by, they became disheartened, however, for they could not seem to have children.

My Great-grandma Hughes was of a mystical bent, and would meet with gypsies when they travelled through the country.  In 1940, an old, bent gypsy lady came to her door.  She asked my grandmother if she would be interested in any charms poultices or such.  My grandmother jokingly laughed and said only if she had something to help a barren woman become pregnant.

The old lady laughed and said as a matter of fact she did.  She sold g-grandma Hughes a poultice.  It was to be placed under the bed, every night for one month.  Not really believing, but ready  to try anything for a grandchild, she bought it and gave it to her daughter.

Neither my grandmother nor grandfather believed in gypsy curses, blessings, or cures; but to humor g-grandma Hughes they placed it under their bed.  At the end of the month Grandma Miller started having severe cramps.  After several hours she passed what she described as a huge nasty looking blood clot. 

Grandma was bed ridden for several days as the nausea and sickness passed.  As she got better, she and my grandfather went on about their normal lives.  Ten months later my mother was born.  Seven other children followed.  Strange, but true.

Scotty to the Rescue

Scotty to the Rescue

Earlier someone posted she would like some good news. I couldn't think of any new, good news, so I thought I would post a funny story, from boot camp, 31 years ago.

On the last weekend of boot camp recruits used to be able to go out for one night to do whatever they legally wanted, as long as they checked in at the quarter deck, before midnight. When they checked in, the recruit had to say "Permission to cross the quarter-deck, sir." If they, however, made a joke of it and were brave, or drunk, enough to say "Permission to cross the patio, Daddy-o" they would be sent back to the beginning of boot camp.

I was standing the podium watch, envious of the kids coming back town. This young recruit was half carried to the quarterdeck, where he stumbled away from them and said, "Permission to cross the pat- uh, uh, can I come in?" As I was trying not to laugh, I hear a voice from the shadows yell, "You! In my office NOW!!!"

As they entered the office the chief on duty, slammed to the door and began screaming at the kid, and telling him that he would repeat boot camp. After a while the kid, pulled his wallet out, flipped it open, and said into it, "Beep. Beep. Beam me aboard Scotty, I'm in trouble!"

The chief stopped in mid-tirade, and screamed "Get the hell out of here!" As the kid ran away, the chief dropped his head onto his arms and began to laugh uncontrollably.

About a month after boot camp, I ran into that chief and asked if the recruit had been sent back. He replied, "Hell, no. With b-s that big, he will make Admiral one day!"

Here Comes the Nino

Here Comes the Nino

Do you ever wonder about someone who briefly touched your life? About five years ago, I was driving to work on 70 East, in Indianapolis. A SUV came barreling from the Harding St on-ramp, straight across the three lanes of traffic, two cars in front of me. I hit the brakes, swerved onto the left hand pullover, and ran to help the people of the SUV and the car who hit it.

The passengers of the car, two teenage boys, were fine, so I hurried to the SUV. Inside were a Hispanic, pregnant lady and her three year old son. She spoke no English, and I speak limited Spanish, so conversation was not easy. She had gone into labor and tried to drive herself to the hospital. When coming onto 70 she had a contraction, jerked the wheel, and the accident ensued.

I called 911, while keeping the youngster entertained, and tried to keep everyone calm (I was scared to death). I got the 911 operator on the line, explained the circumstances, and explained that 70 East was completely blocked, and rush hour traffic had made it impossible to reach us from the West. The operator asked me if the baby’s head had crowned, to which I replied in a panic “I don’t know!” While trying not to laugh she told me to check. Now asking any strange woman to let you look at her hoo-ha, would be hard, but she spoke no English, and after 25 years my Spanish was not exactly fluent.

I looked at her, nervously, and said “Um, El nino, uh cabaza?” and pointed. She emphatically shook her head and said “No.” I picked the phone back up and said “No.” At this point I could hear the laughter in the background and the operator choked out “Did you personally check?” “She said NO!” I said, as I could hear them howling in the background. “Well the ambulance is on its way.”

I went back to trying to keep everyone else calm, when the lady screamed in pain from a contraction. “Where is that DAMN AMBULANCE?!!” I yelled. Still laughing the operator said “Its almost there.” About three minutes, or hours depending on your perspective, later, the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over. I went back to my car and left as soon as traffic cleared.

I have often wished I had gotten their number, just to check on them and see how everything turned out, but there is no way of knowing now.

The Psycho Billy Goat

The Psycho Billy Goat

The first home, I remember well, was a little three room house, on Bushhog Ridge, in Liberty, Ky. It had electricity, but little else. We had a well to draw our water, an outhouse, and the stove was used for heating as well as cooking. The house was constructed so poorly that in the winter I walked through snow, to go from my to my parent’s room, because the wind had blown it through the walls

It’s funny the things that stick with you. On Christmas I got a doctor’s kit, and I went around checking everyone’s heart. Looking back, I probably wanted one since I had been recently hospitalized with scarlet fever. I also remember my mother curled up, asleep, in a child’s bed, in the hospital room where I was kept, because she did not want to leave me.

I still smile at the memory of my mother making biscuits that no one could eat. I don’t mean they tasted bad, no one COULD eat them. She gave them to my dog, and he chewed on them for three days before giving up.

The most bizarre thing that happened, though, was the day the psycho billy goat attacked. My mother’s younger sister, Betty Lou, and two friends were walking down the road, when a farmer’s goat escaped and chased them down the road, to our house.

The girls were screaming as they ran, so my mother heard them, and met then as they got to the door. They were hysterical, so she brought them inside quickly, to find out what was wrong.

As the girls relayed the story, the goat started butting the door, trying to force its way inside. Mom grabbed a shotgun, opened the door, and shot the goat in the head. Its head a bloody mess, it again attacked. Mom slammed the door and took them to her room, at the back of the house, to get away from the goat. The girls continued to scream, so the goat came around back and tried to get in through the window.

While all this was happening my father and grandfather were hunting in the woods behind the house. Grandpa goes, “I wonder what those dogs are barking at?” Dad answered, “It sounds like someone screaming!” They ran back to the house, just as the goat was about to get in.

They shot the goat, and it turned and charged them. They both continued to fire until the goat fell over, dead. I don’t believe anyone ever knew what set the goat off. Mom and her sister still get kidded from time to time about being attacked by a goat, but at the time it wasn’t funny. It was frightening and bizarre.

Soon after this, we moved to Greenwood, Indiana. But strangely the happiest memories of my childhood, were of that house, and the following vacations, every summer, with my grandparents.

Grandma's Gun Control

I am originally from the mountains of central Kentucky. In this area, guns are not only traditionally kept, but most are used to put meat on the table. As a child, I remember Grandpa Miller, hunting year round to help support his large family. Grandpa was an excellent shot, and a decorated marksman of World War II. My grandmother was also a superior marksman, and hunted for meat, after Grandpa died.

I remember my uncles kidding her about shooting the chickens we had for dinner, one Sunday. She waited for two chickens to walk beside each other, then, shot the heads off of both of them, so she would only use one shell. In short, you didn’t mess around with Grandma Hazel Miller.

Early in 1969 Grandpa was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. After a few weeks in the VA hospital, he was sent home to die. He spent weeks in bed, with the family in agony, awaiting the inevitable.  To add to the worry, at this time my uncle David was in Viet Nam.  Between worrying about David and taking care of Grandpa and her four children still living at home, Grandma was a wreck.

Several boys, aged eighteen to early twenties, decided it would be fun to terrorize the old folks. Most of the young men from the area had moved north, to find work, so they assumed they could do whatever they wanted.

For more than a week these young men drove up and down McFarland Ridge, shooting porch lights, and the occasional window, or just in the air. They would always drive east, then come back, heading west, after about fifteen minutes. Grandma, burdened with the worries of her family, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and these boys were pushing her over the edge.

Finally, early one morning, the boys went driving past and shooting their guns as they went by. Grandma had had enough. She got out of bed, wearing only the floor length, flannel night gown, that she wore every night. She got the 12 gauge, and went into the orchard that bordered the road. There she awaited their return.

A little while later the boys came tearing down the road, shooting and yelling. As they passed the orchard, Grandma stepped from behind the tree and let them have it. She unloaded both barrels into the side of the pickup.

The driver jerked the wheel to the right, and they left the road. They hopped the ditch, plowed through a fence and almost turned over. After they got the truck under control, they plowed back through the fence, returned to the road, and left the area as quickly as possible. They never returned.

My father saw the truck later. He told me that behind the drivers seat, was a whole big enough to throw a dog through. My Grandmother thought gun control meant hitting what you aimed at.

No one was hurt, but that incident bothered my grandmother for the rest of her life. She was SURE one of those boys saw her in her nightgown.