Whooping Hollow Haint

My Frien’s, it’s hot and muggy here in the Ozarks. Summertime has come “unto these hills” and it’s a green world. The sun finally retreats over the western mountain in late afternoon. Indicating that the time has arrived to venture outside and experience the natural world…… hummingbirds and whip-poor-wills, lightnin bugs and locusts, peaches and tomatoes. That does not necessarily mean that we do not have our little trials and tribulations. Along with all of the wonder comes poison ivy and beggar lice, copperheads and rattlesnakes, ticks and chiggers.

Hot weather has turned my contemplations to the impacts of air-conditioning. When you drive down the road, how many people do you see outside? Even most of my encounters with neighbors are when we meet one another on the way in or out on what passes for a road …..if it hasn’t rained recently. Since there are only 7 families on the road, we are able to make the obligatory stop ...if there is room at this point for two cars ...otherwise we just wave at one another. But, if we can we roll down the windows and greet one another in air-conditioned comfort. Kinda resemble a couple of old mules standing head to tail, switching flies. We also do not have much more in the way of communicationt than our equine brethren. “Hot ain’t it? No rain during the dog days. Gas is goin’ up agin’ (carefully ignoring the fact that we are sitting there with motors running and with zero mpg)! Damn politicians! See ya, got to git to town.” ....and the visit is over.

Americans are becoming a society of hermits. Most folks don’t even have to brave the cold world of winter to get more wood for the stove. Certainly we follow Kipling’s advice (of course we aren’t mad dogs or Englishmen) but we sure don’t sally forth from our cool bunkers into the heat of the noonday sun. Conditioned air has combined with television and the computer to prevent our gathering with neighbors each evening out on the cool lawns. No more truly getting to know folks by hearing of their daily activities. No more cementing of friendships through the mortar of familiarity. No more ghost stories while dark shadows conceal who knows what. No more entertaining the adults by scaring hell out of the kids.

My choice of careers certainly developed, solidified, and, yes, even compelled my interest in all things natural. Late one evening, I was returning to the house from the upper reaches of Whooping Hollow. In the deep bottom of the ravine, I reined the growling monster I was riding (4 wheeler) to a halt. I wanted to see if the owl was in the hollow tree. I have found him there in the past and knew I had to wait a while for things to settle down; for the snarls of the four wheeler to dissipate. For the peaceful, sensuous sounds, sights and smells of Mother Nature to return. I squirmed a little to take the numbness from my butt, eased my legs out to alleviate knee pain and exercised my hand to take away cramping from the thumb that had been controlling the throttle. Returning feeling went from tingling to discomfort and an increasingly common thought these days came forward…….”damn getting old is a pain”. This thought was quickly replaced with “but, very few folks get to experience the sensation of being immersed in the natural world”.

This started me thinking of changes…..physical and societal. There used to be a sign (ever noticed that the greater the sensitivity; the broader its base in reality?) at one of the border crossings into the “Natural State’ (Whatever the hell that is) “You are now entering the State of Arkansas, set your watch back 100 years”. In many ways this statement is well-anchored in truth. Here in the “hills and hollers’ folks cling to the old ways and, to a great extent, to the old beliefs.

In the noonday; “these hills” are flattened and smoothed by the harsh, brilliant light of the sun. Even in the deep woods nothing can hide. It is easy to scoff at the idea of supernatural threats. Then comes the evening with its deep, long, dark shadows. Light comes angling through the trees onto overgrown trails that form green tunnels. Even the most pragmatic resident casts a cautious eye around when required to descend the steep bank and traverse a stream bed. In these quiet places the abundant vegetation closes in, it is un-naturally cool and the light seems to actually retreat. But, it is tempting to stop and enjoy the relief from the "Dog Days".

When you are sitting there looking for the owl, trying to get comfortable, doing nothing, just waiting, not even really thinking….things are quite enjoyable. Slowly, the senses are bombarded. That sweet smell is locust bloom; but, what is that pungent odor? Nice and cool down here but, damn, that feels almost cold on the back of my neck. I hear the familiar “Who cooks for you, hoooo?” call of the barred owl up at the end of the hollow. Was that the screech owl that answered…...? It was close. Didn’t sound like it was coming from that hollow tree. Kinda high pitched even for a Screech Owl. Was that the grunt of a Whitetail? Sounded more like “HA!”. I peer through the peculiar flattened twigs of the winged elm at the jumbled rocks of the last runoff. Was there movement in that dark overhang? Must have been the wind…..but, how in the hell did a breeze get in there?

In the comfort of Sunday morning it is easy to rationalize the physical differences as cause for these areas being designated haunted. But, in the dark of Saturday evening, “hill wisdom” takes on new form and meaning. Isolated nooks and crannies do seem logical as home places for hauntings.

Now, this may take a little bit of explanation for those of you who “aint from around here”. Ireland has their “little people”, Scandinavia has “trolls” and the hills have “haints”. But wait (bet that sounds familiar)! Here in the hills we find it valuable to categorize threats. Establish a degree of concern. In the non-temporal realm the lowest level is reserved for non-threatening things such as guardian spirits. They are comforting; but, don’t seem to have a lot of capability. A guardian spirit may be able to keep you from stubbing your toe; but, are rather helpless in other forms of protection such as warding off boogers. No! Not the kind you find when you pick your nose.

Boogers are the mid-level threats and seem to prey mainly on the young. This is illustrated by the "old as the hills" expression, “if you don’t quit that - the boogerman is gonna get you”. I don’t know what they do with the ones that they “get”. No one seems to disappear. But Diana and I had to go to Walmart one morning about 2am. We saw some of the folks in there…….both shoppers and workers. Maybe those are the ones that got “got”?

Finally, we come to the highest, and fortunately the least populous group…..haints. The one blessing, is that they seem to be fairly confined geographically. Or maybe they just prefer not to wander too far from home. Anyway, the main offense for which they extract a penalty seems to be invasion of their territory. Especially at time periods when they are out and about. Mainly late evenings and nights; don’t seem to hang around much in the early mornings as light invades the hills and deer hunters venture forth. However, there is one charm that does seem to keep them at bay. Never encountered a haint while out coon hunting of a night. Never talked to anyone that did. Must have been the coon dogs. That baying which warms the heart of a coon hunter must be chilling to the heart…..uuuhhhh whatever provides energy to a Haint.

So, on to the Hoopin Holler Haint that resides up near the head of the cove. Some folks say that those rocks turned over up there are by the resident black bear looking for grubs. But, some of those boulders are kinda big. Haints have a habit of kicking things when they get upset (must have their own version of guardian spirits to prevent stubbed toes). I don’t know what size Haints come in but they are certainly powerful enough to kick over big rocks. This area of the ranch is rarely visited during the usual threat periods. Ol’ Hoopin Holler Haint, however, seems to have developed a taste for corn or at least for “squeezins”. Since the repeal of prohibition stills have disappeared from the hidden hollows and he has to travel a might.

Fortunately, this spirit is fairly easily appeased. Now, I don’t remember the exact transgression. It must have been something fairly bad. But, a Frien’ (of the damn good variety) found himself on the receiving end of the Wraith’s wrath. I think he relied on the Haint staying home and him not living close around here. Anyway no appeasement.

It looked like Bruce got away, literally. He took off on a trip out west. Things went great until the Hoopin Holler Haint got in touch with his cousin in New Mexico, Espiritu Diablo. Haints (Spanish or hillbilly variety) instinctively know that a little action can result in big problems (they hold no truck with the law of action and equal and opposite reaction). Bruce was traveling El Real del Muerto as it used to be called. A little hole in the cooling system of a big old motorhome on the road of death is a real pain in the…..well it sure did slow down the western journey as the Spanish Haint did his work.

Like me, Bruce falls into the category of “Off”. It was a relief for us to learn that this refers to a physical attribute rather than a mental condition. “Off” means being from off somewhere else. So Bruce ain’t real familiar with Haints and their operations. I tried to tell him what I had learned. How he should leave an offering in the hollow at the base of an old oak tree just out from the entrance to the place. The best offering is a bottle(1.75 liter works best) of soothing quality (at least 80 proof) such as Wild Turkey (Jack Daniels may substitute), delivered on a timely basis (monthly, quarterly might work). I been doing this for a while now, so, Bruce if you don’t find my bottle there when you leave yours, you will know for sure that this works and my liquid offering is being enjoyed.

Back to my recent sojourn into the valley of the Haint. That old owl didn’t show. My Frien’s having been both recipient and perpetrator of “scare the hell out of the kids” evenings; and, coming from the land of voodoo…….well, let’s just say that there are times when it seems safer to not question the possibility of things better left unexamined. Time to use the snarl of my steed as a talisman of protection. Time to allow its speed to bear me safely home. Time to sit on the porch and offer a libation to the Whooping Hollow Haint. Time to end this epistle from Paul.