Tony and I were fortunate. We grew up in the coal fields of southwestern Virginia in the 1940’s and early 50’s before television penetrated the Appalachian Mountains. Had the medium been available, my brother and I likely would have been home watching TV rather than witnessing the shocking trial of Louis Abdington. That controversial case in our small town determined our futures.

     My emotional involvement in the Louis Abdington incident began Thanksgiving day when I was five years old. While having breakfast with my eleven and twelve year old brothers, I overheard Tony say to Jack, “Hog killin’ time.” 

     Jack looked skeptical. “Too warm.” 

     “Talmadge Minor told me yesterday,” insisted Tony. 

     “Well, why didn’ you say so!” Jack said, jumping from his seat. “Le’s go. Louis Abdington’ll be there.” 
As the two bolted for the door, I had no idea what they were talking about. Nonetheless, I took off after them.
Running up the dirt road in a desperate attempt to catch up, I soon spotted the Minor’s white clapboard house in the distance. It sat near the foot of Dorchester Hill where the road made a hard right turn and continued along the base of the hill. To the right, two similar houses sat in line with the Minor’s. To the left, an embankment of black slate from a worked-out coal mine trailed down the hill to the edge of the road. In the Minor’s side yard next to the slate dump, an open fire was burning with a large copper pot hanging over it. 
Following my brothers up the steep hill of slate and into the Minor’s yard, I was startled to see that two large hogs had been shot in the head and bled, and that Mrs. Minor and her daughter, Patsy, had just scalded and scraped one.

     “Git the hair off ‘im, Patsy?” asked Palmer.

     “He’s clean as a whistle, daddy,” the cute teenage girl answered.

     Palmer turned to his youngest son who was also a teenager. The boy resembled neither his blonde, green-eyed sister nor his attractive mother. He had brown hair, dark eyes, and crooked teeth like his dad and older brother. Also, like his father and brother, Talmadge wore high-back bib overalls and a faded flannel shirt. 

     “Tie his hind quarters, Talmadge,” said Palmer.
 
     After Talmadge bound the hog’s legs, he and his father dragged the carcass to a nearby hickory tree. There Palmer threw the loose end of the rope over a limb whereupon he and his oldest son, Paul, positioned themselves to hoist the hog in the air. As the two grabbed the hanging rope, a tall man in blue jeans and a white T-shirt walked out of the house next door.

     “Don’t touch that rope,” ordered the man. “You boys’ll hurt them fragile backs.”

     Although I had heard my older brothers talk about him, it was the first time I had ever seen Louis Abdington. Louis was in his early twenties. He lived outside Norton at a coal camp called Dixana where he worked. His widowed mother lived in the house beside the Minors. Louis was not just tall and broad shouldered, he had a remarkable physique. While he had a reputation of being tough in a fist fight, he had a friendly disposition. He was single and a ladies’ man too. As the handsome, sandy-hair fellow walked up, everyone paused.
“Bout time you got here,” chided Palmer. “Been waitin’ for that strong back and weak mind.”

     Louis smiled. “Late night, Palmer. Met a lady at the Smoke House Cafe. She near drunk me under the table.” 

     Unexpectedly, Louis turned to me. “Who’s this young man?”

     Speechless, I looked up with my mouth wide open. 

     “That’s our brother,” answered Jack. 

     “No kiddin’, ” said Louis as if that were something special. “You Bill Johnson’s boy?” he added, patting me gently on the back.

     I nodded my head.

     “Okay, let’s git that hog in the air,” said Louis.

     With everyone watching, Louis walked over to the rope and hoisted the carcass effortlessly until its head was just off the ground. 

     “Look at them arms,” Jack whispered to Tony.

     “Twenty inches,” Tony whispered back.

     After Louis secured the loose end of the rope to the tree trunk, Paul removed the hog’s intestines. Palmer then untied the rope and lowered the carcass to the ground whereupon Louis lifted it onto a cutting board which was supported by three saw horses. As the three Minor males butchered the first hog, Mrs. Minor and Patsy scalded and scrapped the other.

     By noon, the Minors had completed their work, and my brothers and I started home. As the three of us walked down the dirt road, my head was spinning. I was convinced I had just seen the strongest man in the world. That day, Louis Abdington became my childhood idol.

     The Minor family kept hogs for two more seasons. During that period, Jack, Tony, and I walked up the road each Thanksgiving and watched Louis Abdington perform. 

     The day the Minors got rid of their livestock, my brothers and I felt a loss . We knew we would never again see Palmer throw one end of a rope over a hickory limb nor watch Louis Abdington hoist a large carcass effortlessly into the air. While we never saw our idol physically perform again, Tony and I saw him in action in a different venue. I was nine years old; my brother was fifteen. 

     For diversion Tony had begun attending Judge Bandy’s town court proceedings every Wednesday evening. The cases involved drunk driving, public drunkenness, bootlegging, fighting, gambling - things like that. One evening, I talked my brother into letting me tag along with him. 

     At Norton’s Town Hall, Tony and I walked inside and proceeded down a dusky corridor to the small courtroom. The place was packed and noisy. Following my brother to the front of the room, I noticed the dusty oak floor sag under my feet. As we sat down in two brown folding chairs, the metal surface felt cold on my rear end. Shortly, Judge Bandy appeared. 

     The sixty year old justice wore a Harris tweed blazer, coffee stained white shirt, burgundy tie, gray pleated paints, and scuffed brown shoes. His bald head and clean shaven face were rosy red. Below his sad brown eyes, deflated bags hung burdensomely. A band of gray hair ran around the back of his head from ear to ear. 
In front of us, Judge Bandy stepped onto a raised platform and sat down behind a scratched-up desk. From this elevated position, His Honor glanced to his right and nodded to three policeman who sat in chairs lined up against the wall. The officers appeared to be in their forties. Clean-shaven and with short haircuts, they wore gray uniforms, pressed to marine corps standards. Shinny name plates and medals adorned their shirts. 

     Where their shirts met their pants, large bellies cascaded over wide black belts to which holstered firearms and cartridges were attached. Their 38 caliber revolvers were nickel plated; their black shoes were spit-shinned. 

     As Judge Bandy turned his attention to some papers on his desk, deep lines formed horizontally across his red forehead. With each breath, he labored, sucking air through his open mouth. Shortly, His Honor looked up and hammered a gavel, which caused a light spray of dust to rise from the desk. 

     “Court’s in session,” announced the judge.

     As the proceedings began, several uncontested public drunkenness cases came before the bar. For these, Judge Bandy simply read out loud each charge, and a policeman stated that the defendant was guilty. The officer responding that evening was Johnny Carr.

     “He drunk. He drunk. He drunk. He drunk, Jedge,” the policeman said as the justice read one charge after another.

     At the end, the judge also questioned Officer Carr about a case involving a fight. The cop explained he had taken one of the drunks to the “horse-pistol.” 

     I had never heard of such a place. “What’s that,” I whispered to Tony.

     “Hospital,” he whispered back.

     Confused and without thinking, I said out loud, “Why doesn’t he jus’ say hospital?”

     A few in the courtroom heard my comment and began chuckling. Judge Bandy heard too but was not amused. Looking down at my older brother, he said, “Tony, you’re going to have to keep him quiet.”

     “Yes, sir,” my brother replied.

     The court then began hearing contested cases. The first three involved public drunkenness and included testimony from both defendants and arresting officers. At the end of every policeman’s statement, the cop always summed up the drunk’s behavior by declaring: “Hit wuz a shame, Jedge Bandy, hit wuz a shame.” 

     I was taken aback listening to these uniformed pillars of society mispronounce so many words. However, my bewilderment was due to my own ignorance. Compared to coal miners, our policemen made little in their profession. Most did not have a high school education. More importantly, outside influences, such as movies and radio, were rapidly changing the Appalachians. Not realizing I was part of that process, I could not understand why these holdovers from the past were still saying “jedge” for “judge” and “horse-pistol” for hospital. Although I wanted to ask my older brother about the odd pronunciations, I remained silent until the next contested case.

     To Tony’s and my surprise, none other than Louis Abdington came before the bar. Neither of us were even aware that our childhood idol had slipped into the back of the courtroom during the last case. 

     As Louis strode to the front of the room, he looked magnificent. He had come straight from the Dixana mine. Having had time to only wash the coal dust from his face and arms, he wore matching tan work shirt and pants. His tight fitting shirt accentuated broad shoulders, a large chest, muscular arms, and a slender waist. His pant legs were bloused over Wolverine mining boots. The outer layer of leather on each boot toe had been worn away from crawling on a mine floor, exposing both steel toes. 

     “Goddamn, Jeannie, he’s got handsome cheekbones!” a lady sitting to my right whispered to her girlfriend.
“You can say that ag’in, sweetheart,” the friend whispered back.

     The trial began with testimony from Officer Jimmy Fisher. I was shocked to learn that Louis was in court for allegedly insulting a waitress. To make things more scandalous, the controversy involved a Coin Pack condom. This brand packs individual contraceptives in a gold foil packet. A Coin Pack condom in its container resembles a gold coin. 

     “The defendant wuz drinkin’ beer down at the Norton Restaurant, Jedge,” Officer Fisher explained to the court. “When he got ready to leave, he pulled out one of them gold condoms and asked Miss Harman here fer change. By the time we got there, he wuz claimin’ he reached in his pocket fer a half dollar and pulled that thang out by mistake. Hit wuz a shame, Jedge Bandy, hit wuz a shame.”

     Although I was only nine years old, I knew what rubbers were, for I heard my older brothers talk about them. However, I had never heard the term condom.

     “What’s a condom?” I whispered to Tony.

     “A rubber,” he whispered back.

     My mouth flew wide open. Without thinking, I said out loud, “A rubber!”

     Everyone heard me. As Tony cringed, the courtroom exploded in laughter, and Judge Bandy began hammering his gavel. When things settled down, the Judge looked down angrily at my older brother. 

     “Tony, I told you to keep your brother quiet,” said Judge Bandy. “Any more and I’m going to ask both of you to leave. You understand?”

     “Yes, sir,” answered my brother. 
 
     After that, the defendant took the stand. Acting as his own attorney, Louis presented a brilliant defense. 
     
     During testimony, he sounded so convincing the waitress got frustrated and interrupted the proceedings. 

     “How would you like it if someone pulled out a rubber in front of your sister and asked her for change?” Ms. Harman blurted out.

     Louis calmly replied, “My sister wouldn’t know what it was.” 

     The courtroom once again exploded in laughter, and Judge Bandy began hammering his gavel. When he restored order, the Judge sighed, “I don’t know about this case.” Pausing, His Honor remained silent for several moments as he rubbed his forehead. Finally, with the courtroom silent, Judge Bandy looked down at Louis and said, “I’m going to acquit you.” 

     Suddenly, the color rushed from Louis face as he jumped from his seat and began shaking his finger dramatically in the air. ”No you ant, Judge Bandy! I object! I’m innocent! I’m a gentleman! I would never insult a lady like this! I want to appeal this case!”

     A collective gasp filled the courtroom. As I looked around, the audience appeared shocked, the policemen seemed confused. Only Judge Bandy remained composed. 

     After rolling his sad brown eyes toward the ceiling, the judge looked down at Louis. “Son, you can appeal until the cows come home, but I just acquitted you. Next case!” 

     Louis finally realized he had won. Several of his friends, including the two ladies sitting to my right, rushed forward to congratulate and escort the living legend from the courtroom. As I watched Louis and his entourage leave triumphantly, I knew my childhood idol was incapable of such an unsavory act. 

     Tony and I stayed for the rest of the cases. Also, my brother continued attending Judge Bandy’s town court proceedings every Wednesday evening. From watching Louis’ trial, Tony had decided that when he grew up he would become a attorney. I never went back. That one evening convinced me that I wanted no part of the legal profession. 

     My brother achieved his goal and had a lengthy career as a high profile criminal attorney. I retired as a senior executive with the U.S. Treasury Department. 

     Fifty years after Tony and I witnessed the shocking trial of Louis Abdington, we returned to Norton for a reunion. At the gathering someone told us that Louis had died years before in a mine explosion. After the reunion, my brother and I decided to drive by the Minor’s old house where we used to watch our childhood idol hoist hogs effortlessly into the air. 

     As we passed through town, Tony glanced out at Norton’s Main Street where all the mom and pop stores used to be. “I tried a case here a few years back,” he mused. 

     “Yeah?” I replied. Then recalling Judge Bandy’s town court proceedings and the shocking trial of Louis Abdington, I added, “Do the police still say ‘horse-pistol’ and ‘jedge’?” 

     My brother smiled. “Not any more. They got television, the Internet, and shopping centers now. They’ve all been homogenized and sanitized.”

     I thought about that for a moment and became sad, really sad.

© 2003 Bobby Jenkins All Rights Reserved.