Julia Hill. There, now you know. Yes she is an activist but she is also a nutcase. She wrote a book called, “The Legacy of Luna: The Story of a Tree, a Woman, and the Struggle to Save the Redwoods.” She could have stopped at “The Legacy of Luna,” as far as I’m concerned. And what gives with those damn lengthy, arbitrary subtitles?
Nutcase
I am almost through with what I hope is one of several books I will write in my lifetime and it is simply titled, “My Book.” Having written that now, however, it does sound a lot like Hitler’s “Mein Kampf.”
Perhaps I should get an editor. (Send inquiries to: Jasonholliman1982@gmail.com.) Thanks.
Anyway, to further validate my vote for Nutcase of the Year 1999, her middle name is “Butterfly.” This was the nickname given to her when a butterfly landed on her finger during a hiking trip as a child.
Sometimes it is entirely your parent’s fault. Fuck all.
Julia “Butterfly” Hill. Notice her famous blank stare as she is lost in a deep philosophical conversation with mother nature. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Nutcase.
She lived in a redwood tree from December 10th, 1997, to December 23rd, 1999. Her mother married my Uncle Kevin Bradley who is an ordained minister in Fort Myers, Florida. Now it gets interesting.
My cousin, Benjamin Bradley, said he met Julia Hill once at the wedding and that she was a certified nutcase. I really didn’t know and didn’t care . . . until he started talking about her. Pass me the shot glass.
Nutcase.
Turns out she could speak to mother nature. One night while meditating in the tree, during a full moon, she said the tree began speaking to her and asked if she would name it Luna. At the bottom of the tree camped out several ardent followers who believed in her cause, which I support, but you don’t have to be a nutcase. She named the tree Luna, per the tree’s request, and from that moment on all her “followers” became known as the Lunatics. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be italicized or encased in quotation’s.
Nutcase?
Nutcase.
She told Benjamin how the logging industry tried to kill her. They would disguise themselves as reporters in a helicopter and fly the chopper really close and try to blow her out of the tree; all the while pretending to get a close-up shot with a film recorder. The whole ordeal almost killed her and I must say that I respect hard work and dedication no matter the cause. Still . . .
Nutcase.
The Lunatics even hoisted up a dentist who performed some dental work on her while she was in the 1,000 year old tree. Now that’s my hero. She didn’t even get an infection!
Nutcase.
I would say that my entire family is a nutcase. You obviously, as demonstrated, have to be one, or the mother of one, to marry into this family. My family line mostly stems from incest. My grandmother’s grandparents were cousins. Her grandfather was a Wade and her grandmother was a Stringer, so second cousins to be sure. They tried hard to keep it in the family. Once my grandmother’s mom said she was dating a guy from school. Her dad asked who was it? What was his last name? When she said it was one of those Hodge boys from down the way he almost lost his mind. “Can’t you find you a good Stringer? I’m sure you can do better than a fucking Hodge!”
What could those Hodge boys possibly know? (about incest).
Nutcase.
My poor old grandmother bleeds like a stuffed pig every time she pokes herself with a sewing needle. As she got older she could hardly bend over anymore, so she would use the clothes hanger to take her socks off at night. Once, she caught one of those varicose veins in her ankle. My phone rang:
“Hey, look, I know you are probably drunk and I hate to bother you but I’m in the bathroom. Can you come down?” Jesus H. Christ.
Nutcase.
I have no room to talk. Like my youngest half-brother, Taylor, I had regular nose bleeds until about third grade. My grandmother said that it was because the incest was more potent when you are younger.
Nutcase.
One day my grandmother, much much younger then, and her sisters wanted to go visit the Knight Cemetery. Welcome to Nowhere, Mississippi. Here is where Newt Knight was buried. The cemetery is somewhere near Big Creek, Mississippi. It was a small cemetery at the end of a long dirt road near a few (excuse my inappropriate use of the word) Indian burial mounds. These are large hills where Native Americans were laid and their families would pile stones on their bodies. They were not actually buried in the ground. Over time the stones would start to fill in with dirt. As the grass would cover the hill it would start to look like a large, beautiful, natural formation.
Further on down the long dirt road was a large maple tree with the bark peeling off of it. Even further on down was a small, white, wooden house with lead paint that had been falling off of it for years. It had probably only been painted once to be honest and was about 80 years old.
My grandmother and her sister’s knocked on the door and asked if they could go visit the Knight Cemetery. The 100 year old white-haired lady who looked like a ghost said of course they could, as she commenced to talking to the young girls. Now this old lady, as most of our neighbors in that area are, was a relative. She began to tell a family story, as she had probably not spoken to another human in years.
Nutcase.
She asked my grandmother what was her last name and my grandmother told her that her name was Nola Rebecca Wade. So this is what triggered the story. Turns out that during the Civil War a relative of ours was hung in that maple tree “right yonder.” He was a Stringer (no pun intended.) He was hung by the military for desertion but just after he was hung, the army found his papers for Release of Sick Leave in his shoe. But not all was lost. Turns out his wife was now single. The hell?
Nutcase.
As my grandmother and her sisters were leaving later that day, after walking through the cemetery, the white-haired old lady opened the old squeaky screen door and said:
“Ya’ll stop by there and say hello to your Uncle Newt. I told him yall’s was here!”
Nutcase.
My great grandfather on my grandfather’s (Charles Holliman) side of the family, Loren Holliman, married our cousin Minnie. She eventually went blind. She probably caught incest. Either way, she was a full blooded Native American and mean as hell. Once when Loren asked for some sugar for his coffee our blind Aunt Minnie came and began pouring the sugar. He started yelling at her when she instantly, being a tough ole broad, began yelling back at him. She said he was in the way and caused her to spill the sugar.
“Spill it hell! You was pouring it down my pants!”
NUTCASE.
A random picture of two old people. Thanks for reading.