Witchey Women At The Koa

I decide to head to the mountains to escape some of this fucking heat and break through a stubborn case of writer's block.

It's only a few hours to my destination; the camper is set up around five o'clock.

I have beer in the cooler but this is a trip to spark some creativity. I saw a small watering hole on my way in. I decide to go sample the local color.

The place is tiny. It sits right on the corner and it looks like it's been there forever.

A newer-than-forever wooden sign hangs over the sidewalk. It reads "Lily's Firefly Lounge."

Other elements are decidedly old-school. There's actually a bell over the front door that ding-a-lings every time the door swings open.

The bar smells like old cigarettes and stale beer.

My eyes struggle with the instant contrast between the late-afternoon light outside to the dimly-lit interior of the bar.

There's a grizzled old coot sitting on a stool at the corner of the bar. I take a seat a couple of stools away along the short end of the bar.

The old coot looks up and nods my direction. I return the nod.

"Hey, darlin'," a soft, amazingly rich and deep, woman's voice comes into my left ear.

"Welcome to Lily's Firefly.

"What can I getcha?"

I turn toward the voice and I'm greeted with a stunning sight.

She's a little thing, probably five foot three, with dark shoulder-length hair parted in the middle that frames a lovely pear-shaped face.

She's wearing a western-style denim shirt, sleeveless; the shirt's snaps are struggling to contain the boobs behind them. Her chest is appropriate for her body size. I'm guessing she's wearing a thirty-two or thirty-four "C' cup bra.

She has neat and colorful tattoos on the outside of her left bicep and on the inside of her left wrist.

Her lips are full and they glisten behind a light gloss.

"Local draft?" I answer. "An IPA??"

She winks as she spins away to the taps. "Got just the thing for 'ya."

Then, over her shoulder, "What brings you up heyah to these mountains?"

I make a mental note to the multi-syllabic pronunciation of "here."

I also get a chance to look at the tight, medium-sized ass that's squeezed into skin-tight khaki pants.

"I just needed to get away for a little bit," I answer. "I'm staying over at the KOA."

The old coot's head snaps up with my answer, and he turns to squint at me.

"You seen the witch yet?" he growls.

The bartender speaks -- somewhat loudly-- to the wall of taps in front of her.

"She's not a witch, Luther," she answers, pouring a beer into a glass. "Jesus... lighten up. This man just got here."

"He's at the KOA, idden he?" the old coot snaps in reply. "*She's* at the KOA, idden she?

"Just givin' him a right-fair warnin'."

He glares at me. Then the coot turns back to focus on whatever is in the glass in front of him.

The bartender returns to me and puts a paper coaster on the bar. She sets the pint glass on top of it.

"Don't mind him," she says softly with a tilt of her head toward the coot.

Then she nods at the beer.

"You said local. This comes from just up the road... from a friend of mine.

"What's your name, KOA man?"

"I'm Clay," I answer. "Clay Spencer."

"Nice to meet you, Clay Spencer," the bartender says.

She has to stretch to arch her arm over the bar to extend her hand. I can imagine she's standing on her tip-toes to do so.

And I can imagine her tight little ass is maybe just a little tighter.

Her hand is soft and warm. The grip is firm... and comfortable.

"And who might you be?" I ask, as she softly releases my hand.

"Oh," she replies. "I'm Lily. This is my place."

"Nice place you have here," I respond. "And Lily is short for...?"

"My birth certificate says 'Lilium,'" the bartender responds.

Apparently, I don't hide my surprise very well.

"It's the botanical name for the flower."

Something I didn't know. You learn something new every day.

"Momma chose interesting names for all of us," Lily explains. "My brother is Guernsey. My sister is Elita."

"I'm the oldest," she continues through a delightful laugh. "I think I got the best name of the three!"

Just then the door ding-a-lings and a flood of light fills the tiny bar. I turn to see two large men silhouetted in the doorway. I can tell immediately they're some sort of law enforcement.

Lily turns her attention from me to the old coot.

"Luther," she declares, "your ride's here."

Luther mumbles something I can't decipher -- except for the word "fucking," and maybe the word "witch" -- and drains whatever is in his glass. Then he turns and slides off the stool, shuffling somewhat unsteadily toward the officers.

"Thanks, fellas!" Lily chirps to the uniforms. "See you tomorrow."

"Rough line of weather coming over the mountain, Lily," one of the uniforms reports. "Give yourself a little extra time to get home, ya' hear?"

"Thanks, Pete," Lily replies. "Appreciate the heads-up."

And the door ding-a-lings closed.

Lily nods to the door.

"They take him to the nursing home every afternoon," she states, as she collects Luther's glass from the bar and runs it through the three-sink wash along one side of the bar.

"Keeps him from tryin' to steal a car and drivin' there his self."

The hell with Luther. I want to know more about something else.

"So," I begin, "there's a witch at my campground?!?"

"Luther... he's such a talker," Lily replies with a slight sigh.

Then, "Her name is Harriett. Everybody calls her Hattie. She's lived here as long as I can remember.

"She says she has..." and Lily pauses for just the right word. Finally, she finishes the sentence. "She says she has *powers*.

I don't reply because I've just taken a sip of the beer. It's delicious.

"Hattie used to run a spiritualist shop up on the highway... back when she could get around better," Lily continues. "She told fortunes for the tourists who were travelling through. They say she was really good at it. Fortune-telling was how she lived, back in the day.

"Some people say she's a psychic. Some people say she's a medium. Some people say she's just fucking crazy."

Lily smiles at the floor and shakes her head.

"Her house is at the top of the hill," she continues. "The KOA property runs right up again' it.

"Depending on where your campsite is, you might catch her looking down atcha.

"She does that, I hear.

"How's that beer?"

"It's really good," I reply. "Your friend does a good job with it."

This woman is easy to talk to. And she's fun to look at.

"So," I continue, "why name this place The Firefly?"

Lily answers quickly... and warmly. "I've just always loved them, you know?

"We have them quite a while through the summer up here. I love sitting in a meadow or along a stream in the dark, watching them twinkle silently all around me.

"It's just... magical."

Just then, two things happen in sequence. First, a long, deep, low rumble of thunder rattles the little bar. Second, an EMS alert goes off simultaneously on both Lily's cell phone and mine, warning of what's approaching.

"Storm's getting closer," Lily says as she sweeps my beer glass from the counter.

"Pete looks out for me all the time. He wouldn't warn me 'bout a storm unless it was a bitch of one.

"Best you be gettin on up to the KOA."

"What do I owe you for that?" I ask, reaching for my wallet.

"First one's free," Lily smiles in return. Then, with a wink: "Just promise you'll want more."

"I promise... thanks!" I answer as I turn to the door, which ding-a-lings to signal my departure.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I actually like thunderstorms. They were a regular occurrence as I was growing up.

This one still seems to be a ways off; I'll check the radar on my phone when I get settled.

The campground is literally four minutes away. As I drive in, I look around for a structure that matches the description that Lily gave me.

As it happens, there's a small house directly behind the campsite to which I've been assigned, at the top of about a twenty-foot wooded rise.

As it also happens, there's a figure of what appears to be an elderly woman standing on her porch, looking down at me as I back into the space.

With the hour and the approaching weather, things are quickly getting darker. The figure is silhouetted against the light coming from the open front door and the two front windows of the little house.

I get out of the truck and turn back to look at the figure looking at me. I offer a slight wave, which the figure returns.

At that moment a huge flash of lightning illuminates everything, with a simultaneous and stupendous crash of thunder. Like it was literally over my head.

I can't help but duck... and react.

"WHOA!!!... JESUS!!!... FUCK!!!" I shout.

As the thunder rolls along, one thing becomes apparent: The power has gone out at the campsite.

Then the raindrops begin. They're huge... like the size of a half-dollar.

I hear a voice call out from the house.

"Git on up here... hurry!" the voice says. "My power is on!"

I find a path through the trees and make a mad dash to the open front porch of the house. Still, I'm drenched when I get there.

The woman is chuckling slightly at my appearance. She hands me a dish towel she's holding.

"Thank you," I manage to gasp through my panting breath. "I'm Clay. Clay Spencer.

"Are you Hattie?"

The woman's face changes from a smile to something approaching a scowl.

"You must have talked to somebody in town," she grumbles.

I don't want this old woman to throw me back out into the rain.

"I was at Lily's Firefly just before," I offer, sheepishly.

The woman's countenance softens with that news.

"Lily is a good mountain girl," she says softly. "A really good one."

After a few beats she declares "Come on in, Clay. Let's wait out this rain."

Hattie leads the way into the tiny house. I follow and she closes the door behind me.

The sound of the pounding rain on the roof is surprisingly loud.

The cabin is similar to the rustic and primitive cabins that KOA rents out to people who don't have camping rigs of their own. If you've ever stayed in one you know they aren't incredibly comfortable.

Hattie's house is essentially two rooms. The front room is basically a kitchen, a tiny table with two chairs, and an ancient sofa that sits across from an equally-ancient portable television.

The back of the house is divided between a small bedroom and a small bath.

Hattie sits at one of the chairs at the table. She gestures at me to sit at the other.

She is a tiny woman. She must be in her eighties.

Her head is covered with snow-white hair cut very short. Her eyes bore out of her head with a curious intensity. A sharp, medium-length nose leads to thin, flat lips that go directly horizontal across her mouth, instead of dropping down at the corners.

There's a resemblance to Jamie Lee Curtis, and also to someone else I can't bring to mind at the moment. Her hands are clasped together, one over the other, and her fingers are bony and long.

She's wearing an ancient Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt and a pair of jean shorts.

"So... Clay Spencer," the old woman begins, "... what brings a city-boy like you up here to these mountains? Cain't be the weather...."

I can't help but notice a repeat of the "using the full name" thing I noticed first at the bar. Must be something they do in the mountains.

"I came up to get some writing done," I reply. "Sometimes it helps my creativity to break out of my normal patterns."

"You're a writer," Hattie declares. Then, "What do you write?"

"Fiction, mostly," I reply. "Right now I'm enjoying writing... uh... erotic stories."

"Erotic?!?" Hattie erupts. "Like people fuckin'?"

Her direct question -- and unabashed choice of words -- brings a chuckle out of me. I never heard *my* grandmother talk like that.

It deserves a direct answer.

"

Some characters in my stories... um... fuck," I reply. "Some characters in my stories... prefer to make love."

"Why do people want to read that shit?" Hattie asks through a sneer. "Why don't they watch a porno or somethin'?"

I respond with a question of my own.

"You've probably heard people say that a book is usually better than the movie made from the book?" I ask.

"Ay-yea-ah," Hattie replies. I make a mental note to remember that pronunciation.

"A lot of people find their imagination to be very powerful," I continue. "They read my words and they would rather create the visualization of what my words describe in their mind than see it depicted by actors."

That seems to be a satisfactory answer. Hattie seems to be processing a thought.

"You make any money at it?" Hattie asks suddenly.

"Not right now," I answer through another chuckle. "It's more of a hobby."

There's a bright flash outside and a few seconds later a bang and loud rumble of thunder. It seems the storm is moving through.

But Hattie has piqued my curiosity.

"So," I begin, attempting to change the subject, "tell me about Mountain Girls."

Hattie's right eyebrow arches as she squints at me across the table.

"You goin' to write about fucking a Mountain Girl?" she asks, almost through a sneer.

Apparently, Hattie wants to combine subjects rather than change one for another.

She also doesn't recall that the subject of Mountain Girls was something that *she* brought up.

I attempt to stay in my lane.

"I'm just curious," I reply. "I'm a writer, and writers usually like to ask a lot of questions.

It's how we learn things.

"Sometimes those things contribute to our stories, other times they don't.

"So...what makes a Mountain Girl *special*, in your view?"

Hattie adopts a pensive, almost dreamy look on her face.

"First off, they're real," she begins. "Through and through. They ain't no fakers.

"They don't go spend a thousand dollars at some sportin' goods store so they can come up here over the weekend and *look* like they belong.

"With their fancy fake hikin' boots and their flannel shirts they tie at their stomachs and their tight little too-short shorts with all them extra pockets."

I can't help but smile at Hattie's vivid impression, and description.

She goes on:

"

A real Mountain Girl has it in her soul.

"It's in her breath. It's in her heart. It's in her eyes. It's in her sweat."

I find Hattie's descriptive imagery to be fascinating.

Another flash... another rumble of thunder. The old woman goes on.

"And you know what else, Clay?" Hattie asks, almost rhetorically.

"You don't choose a Mountain Girl. A Mountain Girl chooses you."

"Sort of like Sadie Hawkins?" I ask.

"Essactly like Sadie Hawkins," Hattie replies, pointing a finger toward me and stabbing the air.

"That's one reason a lot of Mountain Girls don't have a man. They ain't found one they can put up with."

We both chuckle over that -- probably true -- piece of information.

Hattie continues, and begins to veer into familiar territory.

"Mountain Girls are tough, Clay," Hattie continues. "If she can wrassle a mountain lion or stare down a momma bear protectin' her younguns, shit... she can handle any man.

"They also have a particular way of keeping the man they choose," Hattie goes on.

"And if she chooses you, and then if she wraps her legs around you, and then she fucks you... yessiree, you gonna know it!

"That why the right man matters to her," Hattie goes on. "And if she chooses a man and then he goes and done her wrong? Whoooie... he better mind his backside!"

"Because??..." I lead Hattie for more.

She cocks her head over her right shoulder, as if to gesture toward something.

"That white church you passed comin' in up there at the corner of the road?" Hattie continues. "Word is it's filled up on Sundays with Mountain Girls who had men who wandered off on 'em.

"And that cemetery right there next to the church? Word is that's where a lot of them husbands ended up."

"Ay-yea-ah," Hattie says. She glares at me across the table, like she's daring me to believe her.

"So..." I interject, "a Mountain Girl feels that if her man cheats on her... she's earned the right to kill him?"

Hattie answers a bit cryptically: "I ain't saying' that's true.

"I ain't saying' it ain't."

A slight chill runs down my back.

"So..." I continue, trying to lighten the tone of conversation. "Tell me one more thing that special about Mountain Girls."

Hattie thinks for a minute, then looks directly at me across the little table.

"Mountain Girls live by a code. An unspoken code," she says declaratively.

"It goes like this: You give something *to* me, you deserve something *from* me."

"That sounds a little like the Golden Rule," I contribute. "Like just being a... good person... a good neighbor."

"Ay-yea-ah, but it's more than that," Hattie replies.

"The second thing has to meet up -- or even best -- the value of the first thing."

I want to know more.

"Can you give me an example?" I ask.

Hattie cocks her eyes to the ceiling, in thought. Finally she turns back to me.

"Let's go back to that little church up the road.

"Years and years ago there was a woman in that church... a single woman... who had a recipe for making the best biscuits you'd ever ett. That recipe was handed down from momma to momma for generations. Even though she was purty and all, not ever-body loved the woman. But ever-body *loved* her biscuits... that weren't no secret.

"Well... this woman had a crush on another woman's man... right there in that church.

That really weren't no secret, neither.

"And so the single woman went to the married woman and told her that she wanted to sleep with the husband. Said she'd rather be honest about it than sneak around behind ever-body's back.

"So the married woman thought it over. And she told the single woman she'd allow it, if'n the single woman would give her the biscuit recipe.

"Well... the single woman must've really wanted to fuck that man, because she give the recipe over.

"And the married woman's husband went to the single woman's house that very night and he fucked her. And he must have fucked her good because he ain't home the next mornin' before the rooster crows."

Hattie pauses, but I can't believe that's the end of the story.

"And then what happened?" I ask.

Hattie continued. "The next mornin' -- even before the husband come home -- the married woman hitched up her horse, threw a bunch of stuff in the buggy, and rode out of town... leaving the husband a-hind. Everybody thought she'd a-left him.

"About two weeks later she shows back up again, with a new horse and a new buggy. And a sack full of five-dollah bills. And this is back when five dollah was a LOT of money. And this woman had a whole sack of 'em.

"Ever-body... and I mean EVER-body... wants to know how the married woman came into such good fortune. So she tell 'em.

"The married woman says 'I spent two weeks going from house to house and town to town, all up and down these mountains. And ever-where I went, I made ever-body biscuits. And ever-body loved 'em.

'Ever-body wanted the recipe for them biscuits. They begged me for it. And so I said if they'd a-listen to my story, I'd sell it to 'em in exchange for a five-dollah bill.

'And so for two whole weeks I told EVER-body the story of THAT fucking woman and what she did for THEM fucking biscuits!'"

Hattie looks across the table at me with a glint in her eye.

I begin to think that I've been snookered into listening to an old woman's shaggy dog story. I'm waiting for the cackling laugh that I'm sure is coming.

Then Hattie says:

"Not long after, the single woman just up and disappears. One day she is there... the next day she weren't.

"And to this day... the biggest tombstone in that church's cemetery?