Grandpa Prater's Banjo

This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.

It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade;  I just turned 12.  We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana.  Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.

Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II.  Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.

There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town.  We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.

Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina.  He doesn't do well.  "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." 

"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"

Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo.  

We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard.  There's still no car in the driveway.

We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor (country folk don't lock their doors).

I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted.  There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right.  

The kitchen is familiar, too.  I've been there many times.  But there's something sinister about the plate of half-eaten toast and jar of Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out.  Or was kidnapped.

I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom.  

First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor.  Then a big oak door.

More after the break

Hiram and Ethan Escape from the Fair Folk

Preston's Station, Kentucky,  July 1800

In 1800 Kentucky was still called the Dark and Bloody Land, wild and lawless.  The state was only 8 years old; Hiram's town of Preston's Station (now Prestonsburg), only 3.  You never went into the woods at night, not because of any ghosts or will-o-the-wisps, but because of the highwaymen and renegades and savage Shawnee who might be prowling about.

But here was 16-year old Hiram (model is over 18), trudging down a road that was little more than a deer path, in the moonlight of the witching hour, tired, hungry.  And lost.

With worse waiting when he got home.

His father, 60-year old Aulse Hicks, was the preacher and schoolmaster of Preston's Station.   Well respected, a scholar -- he spoke five languages, and he had published a book proving that the Indians were descended from the lost Ten Tribes of Israel.  But he was strict, demanding, and unforgiving. He expected the son of his old age to spend his time at Greek and Hebrew lessons, and reject worldly temptations like dancing,  ninepins, and games of cards, to prefer -- or pretend to prefer -- the company of God's word to the layabouts down at the tavern

Yesterday Aulse sent Hiram to pray with two brothers from Virginia who had a homestead about five miles from town. He expected to be back before dark, but company was a rare thing in the hills, so they asked Hiram to stay for dinner, and then they sat up, gossipping  and singing and playing games. Before he knew it, the sun was down, and it was dusky twilight.

Five miles in the dark, on a road that was little more than a deer trail?  But there was no help for it, so Hiram set out.

Somehow he got lost --he should have been home in an hour, but the moon was high, the jackdaws were crying, and there was still no sign of the Preston's Station.

He decided to turn back and spend the night with the two brothers after all.  But he couldn't find the homestead again, and now it was the wee hours of the morning, and he was so tired and hungry that he thought he might faint.

Suddenly he saw a light -- not on the main trail, off through the woods.   He approached cautiously, worried that it might be a robber camp.  But it was a house, much bigger and grander than any he had seen in Kentucky.  Could he have walked all the way to Lexington?   (not likely -- Lexington is over 100 miles from Prestonsburg).

Lights and music -- a party going on! Where there was a party, there was food, and a fire.  So Hiram approached the house, and for a reason he couldn't explain later, he slipped in without knocking and made his way to a huge parlor all done up in Christmas red and green.

He couned about thirty people, men and women, all ages. Most were normal sized, but a few were so tall that they had to bow to avoid the chandeliers, and a few were so short that they could bump their heads into other guests' stomachs , Some had pale skin, others the deep purple of night, and still others bright red, like embers.  Even more surprising, some were naked.

They have queer customs in Lexington! he thought.

An elegantly dressed woman  (normal sized, ember-red skin),   approached.  "Why, Hiram Hicks, as I live and breathe! Welcome,welcome!" Before he could be surprised that someone in  Lexington knew him, she grabbed his arm and led him to one of the very tall folk, a leering, bug-eyed man.  "This is old Aulse the Preacher's boy."

"A Preacher's boy!" he exclaimed.  "How delicious!"

Hiram managed a bow. "Do you know Father?"

"Oh, delicately!"

"But you must be famished after your long walk," the ember-red woman said. "Come this way."

She led him to another room: empty except for a table was heavy-laden with every delicacy Hiram could ever imagine:  corn fritters, onion pie, leek pie, broccoli, asparagus, apple ginger, blueberry pie,  lemon cake, alma pudding, even orange marmalade.  But no meat.

He wondered why no one else was eating.  Perhaps it was not yet the dinner hour?

"You sit down to dinner very late in Lexington," Hiram murmured.

"Oh, we'll be eating and drinking through tomorrow,and the day after that," the ember-red lady said."Well, I'll leave you to it."

She wandered off into the main parlor. Hiram found a plate and a wooden fork, and began dishing out...then someone grabbed his arm.

 He turned to see the most beautiful boy in the world: about his age, normal height, dark brown hair, pale hairless skin, hard like a picture of David in one of his father's books.  And naked! .

"Don't eat anything," he said.  "That's how they trap you. Once you eat their food, you will be   theirs forever, forced to obey their every command."

Hiram dropped his plate in shock. It shattered onto the floor. A naked woman quickly appeared with a broom and dustpan to clean the mess.

The most beautiful boy in the world still had his hand on Hiram's arm, as if he was afraid that he would flee.  "My name is Ethan," he said.  "Or it was, once. Now I am no one at all."

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't know -- I lost count of the days and nights long ago.  Maybe years." He leaned close as if to kiss Hiram, and whispered.  "In all those years I've felt neither hunger nor thirst, nor have I slept, nor have I known a moment's peace.   I live only for their pleasure.  Go now, before you are trapped, too."

"As a Christian, I cannot leave without you,"  Hiram said.  "There must be a way for both of us to escape  this foul place."

Ethan thought for a moment.   "They keep us naked. Perhaps it is not to degrade us, but needful for the glamour of the house.  If  I were dressed...but you cannot clothe me.  You have only what you are wearing."

"Perhaps my shirt will be enough."

Hiram tore off his shirt and gave it to Ethan, and they made their way through the parlor. The odd folk ignored Ethan, but they constantly grabbed at Hiram's bare arm and chest, murmuring "But the night is young!"; "You haven't yet eaten!"; "You're just in time for a game of quist!"; and  It's so late -- you must stay the night."

They crossed the threshhold and ran to the trail, afraid to look back. No one followed. And in a few moments, they saw the steeple of the Preston's Station church in the distance.

They agreed to tell no one about the mysterious house. Instead they made up a story:  Ethan was traveling from Virginia with his parents, when they were beset-upon by Indians, who killed his parents, stripped him naked, and held him captive for ten days, torturing him as they pleased.  Eventually he managed to escape.   He was wandering through the woods, delirious with pain and grief, when Hiram found him.

Ethan stayed with Preacher Aulse, and eventually became a preacher himself.  He and Hiram lived together happily for many years, and never told anyone about the mysterious house.

I heard this story from Uncle El during our visit to Kentucky, but added the nudity to make it more interesting.   He said he heard it from his grandfather, who heard it from his grandfather, Hiram Hicks.

There's a real  Hiram Hicks in my ancestry:  son of Aulse "Preacher" Hicks, born in Russell County,Virginia in 1783, moved to Prestonburg, Kentucky (then called Preston's Station) about 1797, died there in 1840.   There is no Ethan living with him in the 1830 census.

Grandpa Prater's Wrestling Moves

My Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, was a big man, towering over my father and uncles, and rugged even in his mid-60s, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands.  He wore overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He was a man's man, always doing something with his sons and sons-in law and various friends: hunting, fishing, playing horseshoes, working on cars.

He had a thick Kentucky accent that was virtually incomprehensible, but he didn't say much anyway.  When the family gathered in the living room to play cards and exchange gossip, he kept silent unless someone asked him a question.  The indoors was uncomfortably stuffy; he'd rather be out with his friends and some dogs on a midnight hunt.

The only time he perked up was when someone asked him to play his banjo.  Then he'd play "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" or "Cotton Eyed Joe," as good, and as fast, as the Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs at the Grand Ole Opry.

There was a sadness about him that I didn't pick up on when I was a kid.  Something deep and dark, that the little joys of everyday life couldn't penetrate.  It wasn't just that he had lost his wife, three older brothers, and four of his eleven children.  It was a dream deferred, a hope from his childhood that he abandoned.

More about that later.

I have two good stories with Grandpa Prater.  The first is about judo.

The summer after fifth grade.  We're all at the farmhouse, but my brother and Cousin Buster are off somewhere, so I'm the only kid.  Dad and my uncles are up by the Old House, playing horseshoes.  I'm not allowed because I'm too little.  I don't necessarily like horseshoes, but I like hanging out with the men, especially when my only other option is sitting in the farmhouse with my Mom and aunts, gossipping about who did what with whom thirty years ago.

I'm wandering aimlessly through the side yard and the rhubarb patch when Grandpa Prater appears, wraps his huge paw around my shoulder, and says "I hear you're taking wrestling."

(I'm not going to try to transliterate his incomprehensible Kentucky accent.  Use your imagination.)

"Wrestling?  No, I'm studying judo.  It's a Japanese sport.  We wear white robes and throw each other."

"Judo?"  He repeats the unfamiliar word.  "Did you know I was a wrestler in high school?"

He takes my hand and leads me up the hill toward the Old House.  It's difficult to understand him, but by interrupting with many questions, I get the gist of his story:

In the Kentucky hills in the 1920s, it was unusual to go past the eighth grade, but the adolescent Tony (who I assume looked like this) was smart as a whip, so his parents allowed him to go on through twelfth grade at Salyersville High School. His best subject was music -- he sang and played the banjo, like on the Grand Ole Opry. That got the bullies riled, so to prove that he was a he-man, he went out for wrestling and basketball, too.

I have that problem!  At Denkmann, raising your hand too often or getting high grades on too many tests draws the ire of Mean Boys.

By now we are on top of the hill, in the men-only zone behind the Old House.  Dad asks, "Wanna join us, Tony?"

He doesn't ask me.

"Well, sure, but right now Boomer's going to show you all his wrestling moves.  Judo, I mean."

I'm what?   Try to throw someone who is twice as tall as me, and a solid mass of muscle?  And my grandpa?  I don't think so!

But Dad and my uncles are gathered around to watch the show.

"C'mon, you can't hurt me.  I'm strong as an ox.  I was wrestling guys before your Daddy was born."

Sighing, I grab Grandpa by the shoulder and hip and try the easiest throw, basically tripping your opponent.  To my surprise, he goes down easily and pulls me on top of him.

"Dagnabit, you did it!" he exclaims.  "That there judo is powerful stuff.  Now pin me.  Come on, pin me to the ground!"

I scamper on top of him, feeling his hard firm chest, smelling his Aqua Velva cologne and hint of whiskey, and press his arms over his head.

He pushes his arms down and slides me down his trunk, as easily as one might push off a pair of pants.  I feel his hard belly and the mass of his crotch.

"Well, your pinning needs some work, but other than that, you're a natural.  Hear that, Frank?  You sign this boy up for wrestling!"

Dad grins at me as if I've achieved a major goal.  And maybe I have.  "C'mon, Boomer," he says, "Play horseshoes with us.  You're old enough now."

I did go out for wrestling a year later, when I started junior high.

The next story about my grandpa involves sneaking into his bedroom to "borrow" his banjo.

See also: Grandpa Prater and his Banjo

The Boyfriend of William the Conquerer

My ancestor was the boyfriend of William the Conqueror

Every schoolkid learns about the Battle of Hastings in 1066, when William, Duke of Normandy, defeated the English and became William I (Guillaume le Conquérant).  It was a pivotal moment in world history.

That's why over 30% of the words in the English language derive from French, often more elegant equivalents to Anglo-Saxon terms:

Ask/Demand
House/Mansion
Kitchen/Cuisine
Cook/Chef

William was born in 1028, the bastard son of Robert I, Duke of Normandy.  When he ascended to the throne in 1035, his youth and illegitimacy caused a great deal of dissent.  Various nobles sought to control the boy by becoming his guardian.  The first three were all murdered, one while in William's bedroom.

Other nobles tried to kill the young William and take over the throne.  On more than one occasion he had to flee the castle at Falaise and hide in the homes of his supporters.

I

In 1046, an army led by Guy of Burgundy stormed Falaise, and 18-year old William had to flee to England, where he stayed with Henry I.

He tried to return secretly in 1047, but shortly after he came ashore at Caen, he was accosted by an armed band, and almost killed.

He was rescued by Ralph (Ranulphus de Praers), the 18-year old son of Baron Hubert de Rie (1005-1086), who took him to his father's castle in Rie (or Rye).  Ralph and his two brothers, Hubert and Adam, then escorted William to Falaise, about 45 miles away.

Ralph remained William's constant companion for the next twenty years, as he consolidated his power and forced the dissenting dukes into exile.

In 1066, King Edward the Confessor of England died without an heir, leading to a power struggle between English, French, and Norwegian claimants.  King Harold defeated his brother Tostig Godwinson and the Norwegian King Harald Hadrada, but was weakened sufficiently to allow William and his allies to storm into England and take over.

Yeah, it wasn't really the "freedom from tyranny!" thing that we prefer in our heroes.

After the Battle of Hastings, Ralph and his brothers received lands in Nottingham, Derby, Norfolk, Suffolk, and Kent constituting about 5% of all Anglo-Saxon England.

Ralph was so loyal to William that he didn't marry until about 1080, when he was 58 years old, quite elderly for the Middle Ages.

His descendants were the De Praers.  About 1450, they started calling themselves Praters.  Thomas Prater moved to Virginia in 1622.  His descendants moved to Maryland, then Kentucky, then Indiana, where I was born in 1960.

My Grandpa Prater was descended from the boyfriend of William the Conqueror.

So, were they actually lovers?

It's impossible to say.  They were lifelong friends.  Harold gave him a ridiculously large share of the conquest.  He didn't marry until he was an old man.  But any more intimate relationship is lost to history.

The Castle Rie or Rye is lost, too, although the town of Ryes, population 500, is still there.  It's only a 15 minute drive from the Musée de la Tapisserie in Bayeux.

And a 30 minute drive from the Sauna Arc en Ciel in Caen.

A Sausage Sighting of the Mysterious Boy at the Old House

Garrett, July 1972

Just up the hill from my Grandpa Prater's farmhouse in northern Indiana was the Old House: over 100 years old, now fallen to ruin.  We could go up and play in the dusty yard, or hunt for frogs in the little pond, but we could not go inside.  Uncle Paul said that it was full of "witch's blood" that would turn us into "ghosts," but most likely it was just unstable.

We usually stayed away from the Old House, unless there were adults up there, playing horseshoes or skinning and cleaning the animals they hunted.  We didn't like the weird shadows in the upstairs windows, like dark figure moving about, or the porch swing that sometimes moved by itself.

But one day in the summer of 1972,  when I was eleven years old, the farmhouse was full of people: Mom and Dad, my aunts and uncles, and some people I didn't know, an old guy Grandpa Prater's age, some husbands and wives, and a couple of surly teenagers.  They were in the living room, the kitchen, in Grandma Prater's memorial room, even on the front porch.

They were all laughing loudly and talking about things that happened thirty years ago.  Boring!  And no kids to play with!  My brother and baby sister were out with Grandma Davis, and Cousin Buster was visiting his other grandparents.

It was noisy and oppressively hot; I had to get out of there!  I told Mom I was going to play outside.

But what to do?  Nothing is more boring than a farm with no animals on it.

I decided to go up to the Old House and throw rocks into the pond, to see if I could scare some fish.

Even though it was a bright, sunny day, the Old House seemed more sinister than usual.  I shivered with nervous excitement.

The porch swing was swinging by itself.  I heard the rusty scrape.

Trying to avoid looking in the windows at whatever might be inside, I rounded to the back yard, and and almost ran into a boy.

I yelled and jumped back.

He didn't approach.  He just stood there, staring.

He was a few years older than me, but not yet a teenager [models in the nude photos are over 18].   Tall and slim, with a round face, sharp features, and black curly hair.  Wearing a thin brown jacket, which seemed weird on a hot day.

Someone to play with!  And cute!  I thought, smiling at him.  "Do you live around here?"

"I think I used to live here," he said, still staring.

"Me, too.  We moved away when I was little."

"Do you want to go inside?  I can show you my old room. I carved my initials on the wall."

"No way...Grandpa told me to never go in there.  There's witch's blood."

He frowned.  "Ok, well -- let's swing."

We climbed on the porch swing and started swinging back and forth, until we were banging against the wall.  It felt like the whole house was about to fall down.  I jumped off.

"Let's throw some rocks in the pond," I said.

"No.  It's hot.  Let's go swimming!"

"In there?  It's all full of moss and gunk."

"No, it isn't.  When I was a kid, I swam in there all the time.  It's fun."

"Well...I don't have a swim suit."

"You weenie!  Come on, I'll race you." He started taking his clothes off.  I stopped instinctively to watch,   I saw a nice smooth hard chest.  He  turned his back to take off his shorts, but then turned back, giving me a nice view of his "shame."

A beautiful cut Bratwurst!  I hadn't seen very many at that time, but I could tell it was special, the stuff of dreams.

The boy ran and jumped into the pond with a big splash.

"Is it deep?" I said doubtfully.

But the boy wasn't paying attention.  He stood and started walking off, into the pond, like he belonged there...

At that moment, I heard my Mom yelling for me.  "I got to go," I said, and ran down the hill.

"Where have you been?" Mom asked.  "We've been ready to go for fifteen minutes while you traipsed around at the Old House."

I decided not to tell them about the boy, and get him in trouble, too.

For years I wondered about the mysterious boy.  Who was he?  Why was he at the Old House?  Was he a ghost?

I sort of wanted him to be a ghost, but I knew there was a realistic explanation.

Eventually I asked Mom, who told me that the people visiting that day were Grandpa's Cousin Crit and his family.  They moved to Indiana with Mom's family in 1942, and lived in the Old House until 1965.

"Was there a boy a little older than me?"  I asked.

"I think all his kids were my age, but let's check."  She went to get a family Bible to check.  "Cousin Crit, born in 1910.  Married Sarah, had six kids: Delmar, Ethel,  Wilkie, Alice, and Carl."

Carl, the youngest, was born in November 1943.  He would have been 28 years old.  Maybe a grandson, who lived with them?

 Mom didn't remember any, but she spent a couple of years in Long Beach, right after she got married, so she didn't know for sure.

North Manchester, Indiana, July 2006

Over 30 year later, when I was living in Dayton, Ohio, I thought about the boy at the Old House again, and tried to look up Cousin Crit's kin online.  There were dozens of people with his last name in North Manchester, including the mayor, but with a little digging I managed to find Carl.  A phone call got me an invitation to visit my third cousin.

Carl was 62 years old, a buffed muscle bear with a hefty gray beard, retired from the military and back in his home town to take care of his invalid sister (his other siblings had died).  He told me about his career: joining the army right after high school in 1961, being stationed in Korea, Vietnam, Germany, Afghanistan, always on the move, never able to find a home.    

"I remember that visit!" he said.  "It was first time I was back to the Old House since I moved away  But I don't know who the kid was."

"He said he used to live in the house."

"I don't know what he was telling you, but I was the last kid to live there.  Maybe one of my nephews stayed for a week or two.  But none of them were 12 or 13 in 1972."

I shruggd.  "I must be remembering it wrong."

"You know who it sounds like?"  Carl said.  "Me.  I was born in the Old House.  I carved my name on the wall of my room upstairs, and banged on the wall with the porch swing, and I used to go skinny-dipping in the pond all the time.  But I didn't do any of those things that day, and besides, I was 28 years old, not 13."

"Unless a younger version of you went skinny dipping with me while you was sitting in the farmhouse," I said with a laugh.  "A preteen doppelganger trying to recapture the lost freedom of his childhood."

"Huh?"

"It must have been a kid from down the road."

Carl didn't share my interest in the paranormal, and I didn't want to explain.  Or to ask him to drop his pants, so I could compare his penis to that of the mysterious boy I saw at the Old House 30 years ago.

See also: The Naked Man in the Peat Bog; Lane's Weirdest Paranormal Experience.; The Boy Hooks Up with a Fairy