An Iggernant Hillbilly

Uncle Art's Air Conditioner

by Robert Edward Lee Dalton

My uncle Art was a mechanical genius. He was also a very creative inventor, a habitual tinkerer, an accomplished wood carver, a top-notch coal miner and an expert at a lot of things I can’t even think of. In addition to all this mechanical expertise, he had one other gift. My uncle Art was the greatest spinner of tall tales since Mark Twain had nightmares. So I’m going to tell you about his air-conditioner exactly the way my Pappy said Art told it to him.

Like ninety-five percent of th’ people in southern Wes’, (by cracky) Virginny, my Uncle Art was a coal miner. At th’ time this event took place, he’n his family resided up near th’ head of Kopperston Holler in what was traditionally called a “coal-camp”.
Th’ shanty that Art lived in was situated in a wide holler b’tween two mountains, an’ had a dirt road runnin’ in front of it with a crawdad-infested creek a little further on. He said they had three rooms with walls that was about as thick as’ th’ slab wood they was made from, an’ in th’ summertime it was hot as blue-blazes in ever’ one of ‘em. Sometimes th’ kids’d set’n swing all th’ doors back’n forth t’ try an’ get the air movin’ around inside.
One day in July, Uncle Art decided he’d had enough. Little wheels started clankin’ in that inventive hillbilly brainbox, an’ it warn’t long ‘fore he figgered he had the answer t’ th’ heat problem. As it happened, in them wonderful ol’ days warshin’ machines all had little gasoline engines on ‘em. Now Uncle Art figgered they needed some relief from th’ heat more’n they needed that warshin’ machine, so he went right in t’ inventin’. He stripped that little engine all th’ way down to th’ crankshaft, did some hillbilly soupin’ up, an’ screwed th’ whole thing to th’ kitchen window sill--facin’ inside. Then he found hisself a three-foot two-by-four an’ c’mmenced t’ whittlin’ on it with ‘is pocket knife.

He set in back of th’ house carvin’ on that thing fer th’ nex’ day er two, an’ nobody could figger out eggzac’ly what he was doin’ so they just left ‘im t’ his whittlin’. However, it warn’t long ‘fore things began t’ shape up, an’ it dawned on ‘em what was goin’ on. Uncle Art had taken that three-foot two-by-four an’ carved an’ whittled till he now had what resembled a small airplane propeller. Once he got it shaped, he spent a couple more hours makin’ sure it was balanced real good, then he bolted it on t’ that warshin’ machine engine. Not havin’ any gasoline at th’ time, he filled th’ tank with white lightnin’. Hindsight tells me that might’ve been his biggest mistake. But he went on into th’ house, put a large block of ice on th’ kitchen table, an’ drug it over in front of his air-conditionin’ creation.
Now in his fervent drive t’ get th’ house cooled off, he had forgotten one small detail: That little souped-up engine didn’t have no speed control on it. I think he realized this soon as he yanked on th’ startin’ rope, 'cause when ‘at thing cranked, them slab-walls began t’ vibrate like they was a fast freight goin’ by, an’ that homemade propeller whipped up a horizontal tornado.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash in th’ kitchen when a cab’net fulla dishes got blown over. Aunt Surry came stampedin’ out th’ door with her apron over her head screamin’, “Turn it off Art! Turn it off!”
But it was too late. Th’ block of ice on th’ kitchen table c’mmenced t’ wigglin’ ‘round an’ slidin’ an’ when that white lightnin’ hit th’ spark plug, the ice became airborne. It flew off th’ table an’ through the other wall like uh grease-covered cannonball, went in th’ neighbor’s window, through his livin’room wall, an’ landed on ‘is couch. He jumped up like a scalded skunk an’ started yellin’, “Get under th’ house, Gracie!, It’s th’ biggest hailstorm I done ever seen!’

That was only th’ beginnin’ of a compounded disaster. Uncle Art had th’ parrot’s cage hangin’ on the inside wall of th’ kitchen. When th’ wind hit hurrycane force that pore bird’s wings was pinned against th’ back of th’ cage, and he was squawkin’, “Batten down th’ hatches boys, it’s uh category twelve!”
Th’ pet gray-squirrel was hangin’ onto the on edge of th’ bedroom door with his fur coat flappin’ like a bandana in a wind tunnel. When he let go, he left claw marks plum’ across th’ bedroom wall, an’ turned into a fuzzy blur as he went sailin’ through th’ window. Th’ neighbor’s greyhound was chasin’ a rabbit when that’ squirrel flew past ‘im, an’ after that, th’ pore dawg d’veloped such a complex they had t’ put ‘im in a wheelchair just t’ git ‘im t’ move.
When them RPM’s topped out, Uncle Art’s fav’rite huntin’ dawg was layin’ b’hind th’ kitchen stove havin’ a litter of pups. Her tail dang near beat ‘er to death, an’ she had t’ have three o’ them pups two more times ‘fore Art yanked th’ plug-wire. Funny thing, ever’ pup she had that day turned out t’ be an Airdale. Ever’time Art’d come near her fer th’ next month she’d bare her teeth an’ snarl like she was gonna kill ‘im, so he had t’ wear knee-pads an’ leather leggin’s fer thirty-five days.
Dishes was crashin’ into th’ walls an’ flyin’ out ever’ openin’ in th’ house, an’ some places where there warn’t no openin’s. Somebody said they was reports of flyin’ saucers in Wyomin’ County fer th’ next couple of days, an some of ‘em had teacups on ‘em!
Th’ neighbor swore that Uncle Art’s roof raised ten inches off’n th’ top of th’ walls when ‘at thing hit full speed, but you know how some people are prone to exaggerate. I don’t think hit’uz more’n six er eight inches at th’ most.

After that, whenever th’ fam’ly wanted t’ cool off, they’d all run across th’ road an’ swim with th’ crawdads fer a spell. Seems like they figgered air-conditionin’ was a lot more dangerous than crawdad pinchers.
It warn’t all a total loss, though. Uncle Art sold th’ warshin’ machine engine an’ two gallons of white lightnin’ to a feller that built drag-racers over in Oceana. He won four trophies with it ‘fore it blowed up an’ put a spark plug through fourteen tombstones in th’ town cemetery.
Some feller put that hand-carved propeller on ‘is airboat. When he cranked up ‘is engine he skipped over th’ water, through a barn, ’cross a cornfield an’onta th’ highway half a mile away. On th’ way through th’ barn, th’ poor feller run over two goats. When th’ law fin’lly caught up to ‘im, they charged ‘im with speedin’, reckless drivin’, runnin’ three red lights, drivin’ with no wheels, an’ two counts of vehicular goaticide.
Like I told ya – Uncle Art wuz good!

... Cool!

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