MR. SIZEMORE’S TOMBSTONE PART 2
Ann S. Brown © 2025
This is what happened on that beautiful fall night in 1950. A big full moon was rising. It was the perfect night for a fox hunt. Five young hunters with their hound dogs in tow met on top of the ridge above the old cemetery. They set on some logs and talked for hours while listening to their dogs barking in the distance, hot on the trail of a fox. Foxes are smart and they can lead a pack of hounds on a merry chase. These young men were best friends. They grew up together and had never been known to drink alcohol. But on that night one of them had a half gallon jar of moonshine. He said a man gave it to him and told him to share it with his friends. Out of curiosity they passed the jar around. Four of them took a sip. The fifth one took a big swallow and then another swallow and then a few more. The moon was high in the sky and it was well after midnight when a damp fog settled on the ridge. The hunters headed for home. Their dogs would come in later. The hunter who drank the most shine could not walk without help from his friends. When they came to the old cemetery they opened the gate and went inside to let their buddy sleep it off. The graveyard was old. Most of the graves were marked with field stones, except for one in the middle that had a marker made of chestnut wood. “Mr. Ezekiel Sizemore Born 1835 Died 1920. REST IN PEACE” was carved into the wood.
The hunters settled down by that grave and built a small fire against the night chill. They began playing cards to pass the time. At first they didn’t notice the fire spreading in the dry
grass and leaves toward Mr. Sizemore’s tombstone. Instinctively, one of them jumped up, grabbed the jar with the remaining white lightning in it and threw it on the grave and marker. For a few minutes the fire burned hot and the black smoke rolled. The smell of smoke woke the drunk man and fear brought him to his feet. All he could see was tombstones, fire and smoke. Some people he did not know were yelling and beating at the flames with their coats. “Oh, Lord help me!” he hollered. “I’m dead and in hell.” Then he took off running out the gate and down the hill where he ran right into some loose strands of a barbed wire fence. He thought the devil had him and was screaming, “The devil’s got me! The devil’s got me.” Well, he fought that barbed wire something awful and when his friends caught up with him he seemed to be in shock. He was cut up pretty bad. One of his buddies took him to his house where he stayed until he recovered. As soon as the young man was able he took himself to church and gave his life to Jesus. He was a faithful Christian as long as he lived.
Ever since that fall night in 1950, whenever there was a burial or a decoration day at the old cemetery on the mountain people would always stop by Mr. Sizemore’s grave and shake their heads in wonder. The wooden grave marker was charred black. The grave itself was black. Green grass would not grow on it. Had Mr. Sizemore’s grave been struck by lightning? Yeah, white lightning. No one ever knew the truth. The drunk man didn’t remember and his buddies never told. The End