The Coonarac, an Old Ozarks Tale.

[DanL53]

Time going back to before artificial bass lakes and electric blue grass bands the Ozarks were a false shortcut between Iowa and Houston, Texas.  I know this from sitting in the backseat of a Buick on several occasions while Mom and Dad played pioneer and explored various trails to visit my much older sister in the Lone Star State.

Looks shorter than turning right at Memphis.  Looks a lot shorter than heading through Kansas and Oklahoma.  Oklahoma.  Sitting in the crowded restaurant and I'm maybe six and I say out loud, too loud, "Dad, I don't see any dumb Okies!"  But that was a different trip.

It was likely the next year Dad decided to avoid Oklahoma all together and drive straight through the Ozark Mountains of Southern Missouri and Northwestern Arkansas.  Only there is no such thing as straight through as you've gotta drive two, three times around each mountain before you can drive two, three more times down the other side!  So this is the one time I can tell anyone about the Ozarks in the 1960's.

I was too young to enjoy the beauty, and too young to understand the words coming out of my Dad's mouth but I sure knew the mood he was in.  It wasn't good.  Someone had ruined his Oklahoma route he was never going that way again.

I'm blathering on and this is an old story as opposed to the one that some fools complemented me on, causing me to jot down another.  That one was better as it just kind of flowed out of my head.  This one, I've told so many times I have to change it to keep myself entertained.  But otherwise it is as true as I can make it.

We were hungry for breakfast!  This was going to be a short cut that took an extra day and we had already spent the first night in a Motel in a Valley where you park your car right up to the Motel room door and it's a good thing so Dad can spy outside and guard it from who know's what.

So we're heading down a mountain, Dad says they aren't really mountains, and Dad turns the car left right down a steep dirt drive and here we are at MarAnn's Restaurant.  Marge and Ann, sisters, proprietors.  Their Pa had built an addition on the side of the farmhouse where his girls served food to the locals and on rare instances people just like us, taking the short long way to Houston.  Dad saw them and said it was a good thing they could cook.  I didn't understand.

Or maybe people were heading to other places, not Houston, but this story is getting longer than the trip was so let me skip ahead.

Being a farm implement salesman of some renown back home in Iowa, Dad had the gift of gab, the silver tongue, he was charismatic!  And it wasn't long before about three local men and he were turning their chairs around to visit while Mom and I ate and Dad fell behind.  So as I kind of grew board a bit later, I said, "Dad?"

He looked at me like he was glad he hadn't said anything about people in Arkansas.  "Dad, when are we going to leave?"

Two things happened.  He started to eat, and to my regret I caught the attention of those three men.

Man one about Dad's age he was in faded coverall's and had a very brown, hairy, leathery face.  "You ever hear of the coonarac, boy?"  Keeping this short, imagine me trying to answer with my throat all bunched up and my knees shaking from this unwanted interest.

"You keep close to your Pa in these mountains at night!  For the coonarac is in the corn and you can hear it munchin' on the ears.  It can see you.  You are just about small enough to get grabbed by it's hands!  And it'll grab you!  Best stay close to your Pa in the dark!"

Then the young man in the same kind of clothes and I would bet he was the son, spoke up.  "The coonarac will come right up your porch and look in your windows!  He pokes around and steals.  Steals eggs.  Steals anything!"

Now, Mom is just listening in her Betty Crocker housewife way and who knows what she is really thinking about.  And Dad has a smirk, and sausage gravy, on his face.  They are no help.

I'm scared as a house cat left off on a farm.  Mind you, that is a terrible thing to do and shame on anyone who does it.  But I am that scared.

When the third man, in his black coat and black hat says, "Now boys, you are scaring the lad."

Thank goodness, I'm saved by the preacher.  "Boy, I live up Church road behind the Church on Church Mountain in an old cabin as we have a poor Church, but with Church going people!"

He continues, "At night, by candlelight, I practice my sermons and if I look just right through the floorboards I can see the red shiny eyes of the coonarac staring up and listening!  They are God's creatures just like us and you do not need to fear them if you leave them be.  These men are having their fun with you!"

My Dad was done eating and he was up paying the bill and I was on his heals to escape when the old Preacher saw I was so very frightened.  He approached from behind and whispered, "If you are still scared, just keep saying coonarac to yourself.  And someday, you won't be a feared no more!

We got in the car and we'd go up a mountain and down a mountain and some of those hills are big enough to block out the sun and it seems just like nighttime!  And I was scared!

So I said, "Coonarac."

"Coonarac.  Coonarac."

"Coonarac, Coon arac , Coon a rac, Coon."

"Arac coon.  A raccoon.  A raccoon."

"A Raccoon!"

And I have never since been to the Ozarks but there are three cursed men there who had some explaining to do when they got to Heaven!

 

[Jessicat]

I enjoyed this story! 
Thanks for sharing it.