Jake Richards - Doctoring the Devil: Notebooks of an Appalachian Conjure Man

What some call superstition you will see in Doctoring the Devil is a way of life for the folks of the Appalachian Mountains. I love the stories Jake tells here and the weaving of the tales. Jake has outdone himself! He always seems to place hidden gems within his writings.

STARR CASAS, author of Old Style Conjure and Divination Conjure Style

I do believe Jake has outdone himself. There are so many gems in Doctoring the Devil that should be read more than once. I personally love the explanations given here as well as the proper distinctions between certain works. The clouds in the sky definitely speak a message, as he so eloquently writes. This is a wonderful readfull of instructional jewels. You will be blessed by the words given here and the wisdom that lines this book's pages.

HOODOO SEN MOISE, author of Working Conjure: A Guide to Hoodoo Folk Magic

This edition first published in 2021 by Weiser Books, an imprint of

Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC

With offices at:

65 Parker Street, Suite 7

Newburyport, MA 01950

www.redwheelweiser.com

Copyright 2021 by Jake Richards

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC. Reviewers may quote brief passages.

Bible verses in the text are from the King James edition.

ISBN: 978-1-57863-733-1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.

Cover design by Kathryn Sky-Peck

Moth art Xunbin Pan/Dreamstime

Interior by Maureen Forys, Happenstance Type-O-Rama

Typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro, Hey Thalissa and Alligator

Printed in the United States of America

IBI

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www.redwheelweiser.com/newsletter

To my grandmother, Mrs. Margaret Trivett,
March 1939January 2020

The mountains shall bring peace to the people,
and the little hills, by righteousness.

PSALM 72:3

N one of this work, nor this writing, would have been possible without the aid of my ancestors. Writing demands sacrifices, not only of time and energy, but also of faith and love. Like many things that are spirit led, you walk into it blindly, without a clue as to how it will turn out. Much like writing, life is the same.

Each time I write, life has its demands and the enemy throws everything he can at me to stop me. With each writing, my family has endured hard times and trials, from strokes and blood clots to my grandmother's hip surgery during the writing of this book.

Mrs. Margaret was born in March 1939 to wonderful parents. She went to church her whole life and knew who she was and what she wanted to be. She played piano in grade school and had a talent for itshe could replicate any tune she heard just by listening. She worked as a certified nurse for most of her life until she retired, all the while making and raising a family with my grandfather, Gene. They met in church and he showed up on her porch one day and asked her out. They got married in 1958. Together they raised not only their own family but also hundreds of foster children who needed a home filled with love. At Nana's house there was plenty of that. You never left without being fed or cared for in some way.

From a very young age, she was my best friend. It may sound clich to say I always sat at her feet to hear stories and talk with her up until she passed, but it's true. We always sat at the foot of her recliner to listen to her and enjoy her company. But life goes on, and we grow up and opportunities take us away from home. But every chance I got I was hearing her stories.

After Papaw passed, she started showing signs of dementia. It's the hardest thing to watch someone you love disappear a little bit each day, all while seeing them and holding their hand. We figure God gave it to her because He knew she wouldn't be able to handle the heartbreak of losing Papaw after forty-seven years of marriage.

Even with the dementia, though, and her memory coming and going, she was always herselfmaybe herself before she had kids or before she had grandkids, but she always knew herself. It was like simultaneously losing her, but meeting who she was at different points in her life. Regardless of what happened, she was always wrapped in dignity and peace. We made sure she stayed that way to the end.

She was a strong woman in the flesh but even more so in the spirit. In the days leading up to her passing, my mother (who has the sight) continuously saw her surrounded by her mama and daddy and her lost love; heard angels singing as the windows shook; and saw the light hands of ancestors reaching to comfort her from the picture frames on the wall. I was sure the world would end when she went, but I told her we'd be fine. That morning, as we waited for the coroner to come, the sun broke through the clouds after a long week of rain and it was the most beautiful, colorful morning I'll ever live to see. After that the world lost some color, but the Land of Beulah gained it.

We weren't sure how we would go about the funeral. We didn't have the money or the insurance for it. I was willing to do anything to make sure that wonderful saint of a woman was laid to rest with the dignity she lived by and not in pinewood box. We spoke with bank after bank; we tried every possible thing we could do until a friend made a fund for it once I put aside my pride. To my surprise and amazement, we were able to raise the funds for her burial, all donated by past clients I've helped. It still has me speechless, and I can never repay any of you for that blessing.

So, Nana, I hope you can somehow see this book like you did the first. I hope you know I will never forget you. That's why I'm saying this here. Because a saint died on Exum Street and the world kept going on without you. So here in this moment, on this page, you're still with me. And we can remember, together.

I have lived in east Tennessee my whole life, but I've also traveled across the countryand I swear there ain't no better place than Appalachia. Maybe I'm biased, but after seeing the rest of the country, I understand what Nana meant when she said this was God's country. Appalachia, the never-ending forest, continues to surprise me. The growth of culture, both animal and human, is astounding, as is the relationship between the two connected by blood and spirit, sometimes quite literally. I've worked roots and conjure now going on thirteen years, having learned from my elders, from my dreams, and from my own experience. I was raised by family in many placesmy mother's home, her mama's house going toward Piney Flats, Tennessee, my paternal great-grandfather's in Unicoi, Tennessee, and my paternal great-grandmother's holler in North Carolina, near Devil's Nest on Big Ridge. I'd play in corn rows, catch caterpillars in a jar. In the spring, I'd be chest-deep in the mountain creek beneath the little bridge covered in wild yellow roses, opening my chest from the previous winter. From an early age, I was exposed to the local lore in each community, equipped with stories that would one day be of aid one way or another.