Moose County Legends

“What do you know about the famous wreck at Wildcat, Ozzie?”

“That were afore my time, but I heerd plenty o’ tales in the SC and L switchyard. In them days the yard had eighteen tracks and a roundhouse for twenty hogs.

“The town weren’t called Wildcat in them days. It were South Fork. Trains from up north slowed down to twenty at South Fork afore goin’ down a steep grade to a mighty bad curve and a wood trestle bridge. The rails, they be a hun’erd feet over the water. One day a train come roarin’ through South Fork, full steam, whistle screechin’.

It were a wildcat—a runaway train—headed for the gorge.

At the bottom—crash!—bang! Then hissin’ steam. Then dead quiet. Then the screamin’ started. Fergit how many killed, but it were the worst ever!”

“Did they ever find out what caused the wreck?”

“Musta been the brakes went blooey, but the railroad, they laid it on the engineer—said he were drinkin’.

Saved the comp’ny money, it did, to lay it on the engineer.

Poor feller! Steam boiler exploded, an’ he were scalded to death.”

“Horrible!”

“Yep. It were bad, ’cause he weren’t a drinkin’ man.”

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Short & Tall Tales

“So that’s why they changed the name of the town to Wildcat! You’re a very lucky man, Ozzie, to have survived so many dangers! If you had your life to live over again, would you be a hoghead?”

“Yep.”

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12.

The Scratching

Under the Door

As Recalled by Emma Huggins Wimsey, Age Eighty-nine

She was a frail little woman in a wheelchairwhen I interviewed her at a family reunion. Acaregiver had brought her from the Senior CareFacility in order to maintain her record: Shehad not missed a reunion since the age of two.

Emma’s eyes still sparkled with loving memories when she talked about her cat, Punkin.

—JMQ

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When I was a little girl I had a cat named Punkin because she was orange. Such a dear kitty! We had a game we played. After my mother put me to bed each night and closed the bedroom door, Punkin would come and scratch under the door as if she was trying to get in. I’d jump out of bed and grab her paw. She’d pull it away and stick another paw under the door. Oh, we had such fun!

And we never got caught. We played our secret game all the time I was growing up.

Punkin and I were secret conspirators for many years.

Then she passed away, and I went away to teacher’s college—or normal school, as it used to be called. School-teaching in those days was the only respectable work for a respectable young woman to do. Students lived in dormitories, and that’s where I first experienced a strange incident.

In the middle of the night I woke up and heard a fa-miliar scratching under the door. How could it be? Punkin 쑽쑽쑽

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Lilian Jackson Braun was dead—and buried under the old oak tree. And then I smelled smoke! I dragged my roommate out of the bed and screamed, “The building’s on fire!” We ran down the hall in our nightclothes, banging on doors and shouting

“Fire! Fire!”

The firewagon came and poured on buckets of water, and the dormitory was saved. And I was honored in assembly for detecting the danger and rousing my fellow students.

Imagine that! I didn’t tell them about Punkin. They would have laughed at me.

I never told anyone about Punkin—not even my husband. We lived in a comfortable farmhouse, where we were raising a family. Then one windy night I woke up again and heard scratching under the door. I woke up my husband, and he jumped out of bed and shouted, “Take the children down in the basement!” It was a tornado, and it took the roof off our house, but the family was safe. Of course, I never said a word about Punkin.

There was another time, too, when a burglar got in the house in the middle of the night . . . but I’m getting tired . . .

Postscript:

A short note came from a caregiver at the Senior Care Facility. “It is our sad duty to inform you that EmmaHuggins Wimsey passed away last night at 4:30 a.m. She had just turned ninety and was alert and cheerful all day. Shortly before the end dear Emma said, “I hear Punkin scratching under the door.”

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13.

The Dimsdale Jinx