Gold in Them Hills

What’s something you used to believe as a kid that seems ridiculous now?

I sat in the back seat of our blue VW, trying to read my MAD magazine, but it was hard with the raised voices up front. Hearing Glenn Miller and “Pennsylvania 6-5000” for the 15th time didn’t help. I looked out the window and sighed.

It was the start of summer vacation and Pop had a business trip to Atlanta. He and Mom decided to make it into a family vacation. They revealed their plans at dinner, with a decidedly tepid reaction from my older brother Doug and me.

“I can’t go,” Doug said. He helped himself to some mashed potatoes and poured gravy on them. “Me, Kirk and Jerry are going camping in the Keys,” he said. “We’ve already paid.”

My mind raced; alone for two weeks with Mom and Pop? I spoke up. “If he’s not going, I’d rather stay home.”

Mom looked at me and frowned. Then she looked at Pop and Doug. “I don’t like the idea of leaving him home here alone.”

That stung. The incident with the popcorn and the rifle…when I had almost burned the house down…was in the distant past, two or three years ago. I was now 14 and Doug was 18; I bristled at the notion that I needed a babysitter. I started to talk but Doug looked at me and quietly shook his head.

“He’s old enough to watch himself,” he said. “He’ll be in high school this fall. Besides, Jerry is going into the Navy and this is the last time we’re gonna be together.” 

The next five minutes were touch and go, a conversation between the three of them with me only referred to in the third person. I ate my meat loaf silently as the fate of my summer was volleyed back and forth like a tennis ball. Doug did his best, but in the end it was decided I’d go with them. 

Dang.

Sue looked at the Waze screen and turned around. “We’ll be at the hotel in 20 minutes,” she said. Our two youngest looked up from their movie, then outside. In the rear view mirror, I could see them looking at each other in excitement.

Sue and I had decided a little trip to the NC mountains to see the fall colors would be a nice getaway. Our oldest was starting at NC State and couldn’t make it.

We spent the next few days driving around with classic ‘70s and ‘80s tunes, checking out Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Biltmore estate. Waterfalls cascaded down moss-covered rocks, and on switchbacks we could see Charlotte 100 miles away in the haze.

We came to a touristy place with flags and a giant fiberglass miner where you could pan for gems and gold. The kids whooped and as we got out, I had a curious sense of Déjà vu.

The trip with Mom and Pop started badly. They got into an argument about something, voices were raised, the music was turned louder. Eventually, Mom sat with her elbow on the door handle, chin on fist, staring out the window. I could see her breath turning the window foggy as she silently fumed. Pop’s temples moved as he ground his teeth. Glenn Miller sang “Pennsylvania six five uh uh oh!” and Pop savagely snapped it off.

Things went further downhill when we stopped at our hotel. Pop went inside to register and Mom decided to stretch her legs. She stood in the shade of a nearby tree and it was unfortunate that she didn’t look down, because she was on a red ant hill. Two minutes later, just as Pop emerged from the office holding some papers and a key, the ants attacked.

“What the…?” she exclaimed. “Ow! Damn! These shittin’ things!” she exclaimed. She frantically stood on one foot, then the other, trying to brush them off, using words I didn’t think she knew. “Damn it!”

She looked at Pop angrily…do something, for heaven’s sake…as she swatted and hopped. Pop made the fatal mistake of allowing one corner of his mouth to turn up as he ran to assist. It was fleeting, subtle, and entirely spontaneous, but Mom seized on it.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” she yelled. “You jackass! Get away!” She slapped at him and he retreated to my side of the car. “Why did you have to park here?!” Pop and I looked at each other glumly as we considered all night in a hotel with furious Mom. 

Sue and the kids stared. The proprietor of the gem mining place looked like a character out of Deliverance; late 40s, a Peterbilt cap, tufts of greasy hair sticking out. He was very large and wore a stained flannel shirt under a down vest. After I paid, he disappeared into a room behind the cash register.

He reemerged with a long 2×4 over his shoulders, with two five-gallon buckets of dirt on each side. We followed him over to the sorting area and after he got us settled, he didn’t leave. He seemed to like us, and as we shook our screened boxes and looked for gems, he maintained a monologue that grew more fanciful with each passing moment.

“Yeah, I reckon many’s the folk who come here and retired rich,” he said. He pronounced it ree-TAHR-erd. “Like jes last month. A man come in here and you know what he found? A nugget big as my thumb. He called me an tole me how much it was worth…fifty-five thousand dollars.” He leaned forward. “And that man,” he said sotto voce, “…was Mr. Alan Jackson’s cousin.” He leaned back, folded his arms, and nodded.

Kelsey started to dump her pebbles out to get more dirt, and the guy leaned over.

“Whoa, whoa, not so fast,” he said. “Lookie here.” He reached in and picked up a dark purple pebble. “That’s a ruby,” he said. “Now, you polish and cut thet, it’ll be right purty on a ring.” He held it up to the sun and looked at it closely. “Oh yeah, $1000, easy.” The girls looked at it in awe.

The next ten days with Mom and Pop became a blur of names and places, getting in and out of the car, listening to 8-track big band music.

Stone Mountain. A restored plantation. Some dumb restaurant where everybody was dressed up like pioneers. I tried not to think of my friends back home, tearing through the beanfields on their dirt bikes with a sound like angry wasps.

One afternoon, I looked up from my MAD in time to see us passing a gem mining place.

“Hey!” I said. “That looks like fun. Could we do that?” I must have hit them at the right moment, because Pop turned around and the tires crunched on the gravel in the parking lot as we pulled in. The signs showed smiling customers holding dazzling gems with dollar signs.

Not much else was said that afternoon as we picked out an impressive assortment of emeralds, rubies, and gold flakes. I noticed my pile was bigger than Mom and Pop’s put together. My mind raced.

Wait till I show the other kids. Forget cutting grass and washing cars for money, I had more than enough for the Elsinore CR-125 dirt bike I’d been drooling over at Boca Honda. Maybe even my first car! During the 600-mile trip home, my mental shopping list burgeoned. 

But a strange thing happened. Once we got home, all my efforts to get Mom and Pop…or even Doug…to take me to a jewelry store to cash in my loot were met with stifled yawns. Everybody was always too busy. The summer days drifted by as I idly stirred my gems, wondering if it was soon to start looking at cars.

Eventually, I gave up and they went into a cigar box that sat in my closet. Four years flew by as I went through high school and got busy with other things.

When I went off to UF, they were summarily dumped…along with my MAD magazines…into the trash as my bedroom was turned into Pop’s man cave.

Goodbye, fabulous riches.

Back home again with Sue and the kids, I considered our pile of gems and kicked myself for not following through years before. I should have found a way—some way, any way—to get to a jewelers. What a waste, all those beautiful gems, just thrown away.

It was near Christmas, and I decided I would not make the same mistake again. 

I found a place in a strip mall near work and on my lunch hour, took my gems to Tar Heel Jewelers with a sense of elation. Wait till they see what’s under the tree this year.

It wasn’t the best part of town and there were steel bars over the windows and the door. I tried the door and it was locked. I cupped my hand and looked inside; I could see a guy looking at a screen. A loudspeaker over the door came to life. “Come in,” I heard, and the door buzzed.

The guy approached with steepled fingers and a pleased expression. I could see now that I had been on camera and apparently…dressed in my IBM white shirt, tie, and black wing tips…had passed the smell test.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly. “May I be of assistance?” I detected an English accent. The kid next door to me in the UF dorms was from Brighton, and this guy sounded just like him.

“Hi,” I said. I looked down the glass display cases; rows and rows of glittering rings, necklaces, watches. “Brighton?” I asked. 

He looked startled. “Oh, I say. Well done.” 

We chewed the fat about England a little bit, then got down to business. He looked at me expectantly with a smile.

I reached into my pocked, pulled out my glad sandwich bag filled with gems, and gently shook them onto the glass counter. The smile became fixed as he looked at my dusty pile.

“Don’t tell me,” he said dryly. He pulled a loupe out of his pocket and picked up one of my bigger rubies. “You’ve been to one of those gem mining places.” He squinted at the ruby, placed it down with distaste, and picked up an emerald. I felt my face growing warm.

“Well…yeah,” I said. “I was thinking they don’t look like much now…but maybe we could cut them? Set them in something pretty, maybe with a few tiny diamond accents.” 

He looked at several others, then finished his inspection and put away the loupe. He looked at me blankly.

“Right,” he said. “This lot’s absolute rubbish. I couldn’t give you ten bucks for it all.” My stomach sank.

“Yeah, but—“

“You do know the game there,” he said. “They dump a bunch of industrial-grade pieces of shyte into the mud, stir it all up, and people like you…no offense…think they’ve hit the jackpot.” 

My mind reeled. “So you mean…”

“Sorry, mate,” he said sadly. “No early retirement.”

But Chris turned out to be a good guy and when I told him the backstory and my idea, he finally warmed to me. My hour lunch became two as we pored over a catalog of jewelry and discussed our options.

We finally settled on simply polishing a few of the better pieces, putting them in some gold and sterling settings, and adding some accents. I had different pieces made for everybody in the family.

When I picked them up the week before Christmas, they looked stunning in their black velvet boxes. Chris smiled as he handed me my Visa and the bag. “Now, then,” he said. “We both know the deal. How you choose to tell your story is up to you.” He touched the side of his nose and winked.

To say that Christmas that year was memorable would be an understatement. 

The gems may have been worthless, but the expressions were priceless. Oohing and Ahhing and running to the nearest mirror and hugs. My stock rode high indeed that day as selfies were taken and posted.

I never saw the need to shatter the spell.

I just hope they don’t plan to cash them in to buy their first house.

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