Appalachian Heritage

I’d always heard about Old Man Bigwitch and all his ways.

Tales—tall and short —of him rolling his beads and doctorin’ mesmerized my eleven-year-old self.

He’s the reason our star running back was injury-free back in ’73. He caused Aunt Sadie’s nightmares to vanish. And he cured my best friend Angel’s ear infections with a fired rhododendron bulb.

But nothing prepared me for his settin’ up.

It was late July, and the woodstove in the corner of the Sequoyah Pentecostal Chapel radiated heat—even though there hadn’t been a fire in it since May.

The aroma of fried bologna—wafting in from the Fellowship Hall—filled that small sanctuary and made my stomach ache ’cause I’d had no supper. I knew we’d eat at the settin’ up.

Daddy’s quartet was up singing, “Rockin’ on the ocean waves,” and “Moses led God’s children,” and “Oh, come angel band.” [End Page 100] It was during, “u wa du hvdi gwe nv sa

  a gi li yv   nu we ha nv,” when the mournful sobs immediately transformed into frightful shrieks, abandoned pews, and clunky, church shoe heels on creaky, oaken floors.

I gathered myself enough to look up toward the pulpit to find Daddy. Instead, I found Old Man Bigwitch sittin’ straight up in his pine box.

Not a soul breathed a mouthful of air within a five mile radius until long after the men in suits from the funeral home came in to lay him back down.

Daddy and I didn’t say too much to mama when we got home. As I snuggled into my pine bed late that night, I whispered to my sister, “That sure was one settin’ up.” [End Page 101]