I’ve heard there is nothing like strong hoot-owl coffee.”
“It wasn’t a hoot owl, Grandpa,” I said. “It was a screech owl. I don’t know for sure if I heard one or two.
It could have been just one.” Pointing to a small red oak, I said, “I think the first time I heard him, he was over there.
The next time, it was over in that direction. Maybe he changed trees. I sure hope so.”
Grandpa saw I was bothered. “You don’t believe that hogwash superstition, do you? Bad luck! Baw, there’s nothing to it.”
Papa laughed, and said, “These mountains are full of that jinx stuff. If a man believed it all, he’d go crazy.”
The encouraging words from Papa and Grandpa helped some, but there was still some doubt.
It’s hard for a young boy to completely forget things like that.
Breakfast over, and our gear stowed back in the buggy, we left Bluebird Creek.
On that day Grandpa drove a little faster than he had on the previous one.
I was glad of this, for I was anxious to reach the campground.
About noon he stopped the team. I heard him ask Papa, “Is this Black Fox Hollow?”
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