Smoky Mountain Michael was a different child, growing up in the remoteness of the Tennessee hollows and coves, his only friend was Little Blackie. Michael didn’t have any family, neighbors his own age or really anyone to run the hills with, his parents knew that their only child saw the Smoky Mountain homestead differently than others. One could almost look into Michael’s eyes, when he would look back, knowing that the young boy had many questions, but definitely no answers. The young boy had never spoken and probably had a hard time hearing it thunder. Smoky Mountain Michael was God’s gift to his mother, who did her best to care, protect and share special moments with him. Times were tough on the home place, just surviving could be a trial and with the outbreak of the Rebellion, the husband and father had fled to Kentucky to enlist in the Union Army.
Michael’s mom toiled from sunup to sundown on the small plot of row crops that fed her and the special son. He would walk beside his mother in silence, not knowing what really was happening, but knowing deep inside that as long as he stayed next to his mother, all was well. Every evening, just before dark, Smoky Mountain Michael and his mother would walk down to the creek, sit on the flat rocks, watching the critters that explored the watery run, at this time of the day. Michael would stare off into, who knows where, seeing who knows what, his mother speaking softly, trying to explain her loneliness and despair, while attempting to snuggle up to her unique little boy. Michael really didn’t like to be touched and sometimes would just grunt and pull away. It didn’t matter to his mom, she was just thankful for the company and plaintively would explain, that as long as they had each other, God would protect and comfort them.
There was a new and terrifying danger in the Smoky Mountains, wild and wooly riders would course the wagon trace in front of the remote cabin and occasionally stop and demand food and drink. These unruly raiders would often harass Michael’s mother and taunt the quiet boy, teasing both and suddenly galloping off as quickly as they had come. These men had once been neighbors and friends, but now they had other interests and mostly were up to no good. Smoky Mountain Michael and his mother kept to their daily routine, working their plot and spending quiet evenings on the flat rocks down at the creek.
One warm Spring day, as the mother and her God’s gift, were plodding out to the corn, Michael, who rarely noticed anything, eyes lit up and spied a black ball of fur bouncing towards them. He ran from his mother’s skirt, knelt down in the dirt and weeds, greeting the furry black bundle, letting it jump and lick him all over. Smoky Mountain Michael was smiling and grunting, tumbling and rolling, Michael’s mother just stood over the two young creatures and through her tears, all she could stammer was, I guess we’ll call him Little Blackie.
The small black bundle, of unlimited energy, was another gift from God. A furry miracle that appeared to need Smoky Mountain Michael and his mother, as much as they needed him. Little Blackie would bounce along in the field, as they worked, ate what Michael wolfed down, slept on the same pallet as the mother and son, loped down to the creek before dark and enjoyed the quiet times, on the flat rocks. The small pup would explore and examine every critter that came out to visit in the evenings and snuggle up to Michael, staring at the quiet boy and seemingly understanding the loneliness of the mother and son.
Michael seemed different in the company of Little Blackie. The two would romp and run in the fields by themselves. They reveled and thoroughly enjoyed each others companionship and Smoky Mountain Michael’s mother recognized a profound change in her normally passive son, that gave her a warm and inner glow, she had never experienced before. Little Blackie had an inner sense, that protected Michael and kept him safe when he was not at his mother’s side. The pup, who was getting bigger and stronger every week, had grown into a menacing bark, that might match his bite. Little Blackie, who was not so little any more, would warn the mother and special son of impending danger or as the case might be, unwelcome visitors.
The wild and wooly riders who would occasionally travel the trace and stop for water and vittles, were now greeted by a large black furry beast, that would announce their presence early and wouldn’t neglect to let everyone of them know that they were unwelcome. The former friends and neighbors mainly ignored the noisy, black terror, who would sit as close to Michael as he could, leaning heavily against the quiet boy’s leg. Smoky Mountain Michael would try and calm his only friend, stroking his head and pulling gently on his ears, soothing the pup, reassuring Blackie that he and his mother were safe.
One dark and drizzeling Fall day, as Smoky Mountain Michael, his mother and Blackie were toiling in the ripening corn, the black furry beast’s ears perked up and all the hair stood stiff on his back. Michael’s mother heard the riders pounding up the trace and Blackie sped like lightening out of the corn, making a beeline for the sound of the hoofbeats. Michael was right behind him and his mother was following closely. She heard the shot and feared the worse, reaching the trace, she saw Michael kneeling over the motionless black beast, her son was wailing and weaping and as she approached, Smoky Mountain Michael screamed, for the first time, as plain as day, they had killed His Only Friend Little Blackie.
Bummer
