Summary
In a new novel from award-winning author Walt Larimore, a loving rural family struggles to survive tragedy and cope with the invasion of modern ways in the 1920s.
In the Great Smoky Mountains wilderness in 1925, Nathan and Callie Randolph, with their five unique daughters, struggle to maintain their farm, forests, family, and faith against a menacing business and an evil company manager trying to pilfer their land and clear cut their forest.
As loggers invade the mountains, death touches the family, and hardship and loss confront them again and again; fifteen-year-old Abbie Randolph becomes mother to her sisters and leans on her faith to guide her through the emotional wilderness of changing times. With the march of the industrial age, the roaring twenties, Prohibition, the increasing momentum for national parks, and the onslaught of a modern world, the traditional life and ways of the mountaineers were about to change forever.
Featuring a cast of colorful characters, including independent and earnest mountain families, a murderous lumber company manager, Cherokee Indians, a band of gypsies, desperados, lumbermen, moonshiners, a world-famous writer, and Civil War heroes, Hazel Creek reveals a gripping struggle of good and evil during an eruption of violence.
A beloved family physician, Walt Larimore is the perfect author for this novel of love, loss, and injury that illuminates the enduring power of faith.
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
May 24, 2009
A Century
She didnâÈçt look one hundred years old.
âÈêThis must be the best view from any nursing home in the country,âÈë I said, sitting in a rocking chair next to her wheelchair. I placed a brown bag at my feet and gazed at the lush, rounded mountains, which undulated in wave after wave, stretching to the horizon over twenty miles awayâÈ'where the highest mountains separated North Carolina and Tennessee.
A wry smile slightly lifted the corners of her wrinkled lips. âÈêTo gaze across the great ridges, which like giant billows blend their sapphire outlines with the sky.âÈë
âÈêNice,âÈë I said. âÈêPoetic.âÈë
âÈêNot mine. TheyâÈçre from a writer named Christian Reid.âÈë
âÈêHavenâÈçt heard of him.âÈë
âÈêHer,âÈë she said. âÈêFrances Christine Fisher Tiernan. But she wrote under a pen name. It allowed her to compete with her male counterpartsâÈ'kinda like one of my sisters before . . .âÈë
âÈêBefore what?âÈë
âÈêThatâÈçs all IâÈçm gonna say âÈçbout that.âÈë She turned back toward the ancient mountains, clothed in their spring coat of fresh leaves.
I chuckled. âÈêI guess I need to add Reid to my reading list.âÈë
âÈêIf youâÈçd been taught fine readinâÈç, like my sisters and I were, by the likes of Horace Kephart, youâÈçd have read much more just like it.âÈë
âÈêDonâÈçt know that name, either.âÈë
âÈêSad,âÈë she said. âÈêOne of the best-known authors at the start of the last century. He wrote famous books like Our Southern Highlanders and Camping and Woodcraft, and scads of articles for Field and Stream magazine.âÈë
âÈêYou read him a lot?âÈë
âÈêRead him? I knew himâÈ'loved him like a second pa. He lived near where I was raised. And thatâÈçs all I want to say about that.âÈë
She turned back to face the peaks and valleys from which, I would soon learn, she had comeâÈ'a wilderness that had shaped her past and personality as much as its view inspired us.
âÈêI brought you something,âÈë I said. âÈêItâÈçs not wrapped very pretty, but . . .âÈë
âÈêMagnolia blossoms,âÈë she said, smiling and reaching for the bag. âÈêSmelled âÈçem cominâÈç down the hall.âÈë She opened the bag and placed her nose in it, taking a slow, deep breath. âÈêAh, just like the ones on my familyâÈçs homestead. That old tree could perfume acres at a time.âÈë She took another sniff. âÈêJust like I rememberâÈ'a bit like heaven and summer all rolled into one.âÈë
She removed one and held it at armâÈçs length, slowly twirling it and admiring it as if it were the Hope diamond. âÈêJust look at that, Doc. Must be nineâÈ'no, ten inches across. Looks like freshly starched linen and smells even better!âÈë
âÈêThey say the magnolia tree is rare in the Smokies. But your family had one?âÈë
âÈêSure did. Magnolia grandiflora, the queen of the South. Gives new meaninâÈç to the term white-on-white. Just look at all the shades of pure, silky white against the deep green leaves. ItâÈçs an astonishinâÈç and marvelous flower.âÈë Her smile went from ear to ear as she gazed at the bloom. âÈêWhat a wonderful birthday gift.âÈë
âÈêDid you have a good party today? Heard people came from all over to celebrate you making it to the century mark.âÈë
âÈêSaid who?âÈë
âÈêOne of the ER nurses who had come up here.âÈë
âÈêYou must be talkinâÈç about old Louise ThomasâÈ'who claims I look as old as Seth himself.âÈë
âÈêSeth?âÈë
âÈêYou know, AdamâÈçs son.âÈë
âÈêAdam?âÈë
âÈêAdam and Eve, sonny.âÈë She shook her head. âÈêLouise was tryinâÈç to get my goat, saying I looked as old as Seth when he died.âÈë
She was quiet for a momentâÈ'waiting for me to ask. Finally, I took the bait. âÈêWhich was how old?âÈë
âÈêThe Good Book says he lived nine hundred and twelve years. Course, any fool knows Jared and Methuselah lived longer; Jared, nine hundred and sixty-two years, and old Methuselah, nine hundred and sixty-nine years. But I donâÈçt want to live that long. GettinâÈç to one hundred is hard enough. ItâÈçs âÈçbout wore me out!âÈë
âÈêSorry I couldnâÈçt make it up for the party. IâÈçve been running since sunup.âÈë
She turned to look at me and patted my arm. âÈêYou doctors are always as busy as one-armed paper hangers.âÈë
âÈêWell, Miss Abbie,âÈë I said, âÈêIâÈçm here for a bit.âÈë
âÈêYou know much about me?âÈë she asked, still gazing over the mountains as the lights of the small hamlet of Bryson City began to illuminate the valley below us.
âÈêJust what IâÈçve read on the chart. Other than all the medical stuff, I know youâÈçre a widow. Active over at First Baptist Church. Have kids that have moved elsewhereâÈ'âÈë
âÈêMore important, I donâÈçt smoke, or dip, or chew,âÈë she interrupted, smiling, âÈêor dance with boys who do.âÈë
âÈêWell, thatâÈçs a good thing,âÈë I said with a chuckle. âÈêMight shorten your life.
âÈêWhereâÈçd you grow up?âÈë
âÈêOut on Hazel Creek. Not twenty miles from here as the crow flies. But it used to take all day to drive out there.âÈë
âÈêWhat road is it on?âÈë
She looked at me like I had two heads. With a laugh, she explained, âÈêThe town of Proctor was out on Hazel CreekâÈ'itâÈçs now part of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But we was all forced to move out when they built Fontana Dam and the government stole our land for the park.âÈë
âÈêWhen was that?âÈë
âÈêNineteen hundred and forty-four. I was thirty-five years old when we left our old home place. My grandpappy had homesteaded the land.âÈë
âÈêProctor musta been a hole in the wall.âÈë
She shook her head and looked at me once again as if I was dimwitted. âÈêHeckfire, son, because of Calhoun Lumber Company, Proctor had well over a thousand citizens in the 1920s. It was bigger then than Bryson City is now. But our farm was a long way from townâÈ'about six miles up valley. And walkinâÈç those miles seemed to take an eternity back then.âÈë
âÈêWell, Miss AbbieâÈ'âÈë
âÈêYouâÈçve made that mistake twice now.âÈë
âÈêWhat?âÈë
âÈêCallinâÈç me Miss Abbie. ItâÈçs Mrs. Abbie,âÈë she corrected. âÈêWas married nearly seventy years to a wonderful man.âÈë She showed me her wedding band. âÈêOne of my most prized possessions. Was my mamaâÈçs . . . once upon a time.âÈë
âÈêWell, Mrs. Abbie, I bet it was a unique time to live back in the Roaring Twenties.âÈë
She laughed. âÈêNo one accused Proctor of beinâÈç a roarinâÈç anythinâÈç. But Hazel Creek was unique. Some called it the âÈæWild East.âÈç Others, like Reid, called it the âÈæLand of the Sky.âÈç Hazel Creek had wild animals like panthers and bears, Cherokee Indians, desperados, lumbermen, moonshiners, revenuers, visitors from all over, mysterious wanderers, more than one world-famous writer, Civil War heroes, murderers, rustlers . . . even a flesh-and-blood Haint. Tarnation, without himâÈ'and the Good LordâÈ'we would have for sure lost our farm.âÈë
âÈêA Haint? WhatâÈçs a Haint?
Abbie laughed again. âÈêItâÈçs a term we used on Hazel Creek to describe a ghostâÈ'or a person whose soul was haunted. You know, haintedâÈ'a Haint.âÈë
âÈêSounds like an interesting personâÈ'and a mysterious place.âÈë
She nodded, looking back over the mountains. âÈêIt wasâÈ'and so is he.âÈë
âÈêThe Haint?âÈë I inquired.
âÈêNo, the Lord. HeâÈçs mysterious and works in wonderful ways. And Hazel Creek certainly had more than her share of massacres, secrets, adventures, and whodunits.âÈë She turned to look at me. âÈêGot time to hear about a few?âÈë
âÈêSure!âÈë
She turned back toward the mountains and, with a faraway look, began . . .
