Author: melgrieves

Quail’s Creek Hollow, West Virginia-1923

“Silas, Silas Tucker, you better get yer butt up to the house right now. I’m danged tired of shouting fer ya every time I turn around. Get up here and start splitting those logs, now!” came the shrill demand, as always, from Ma.

I liked the refuge where I sat. It was my getaway from everything, even if it was just down in a little hollow that was a hop, step and a jump away from the house. I had found a nice protected spot walled in on three sides by a big old red maple stump. It was a perfect spot for me to drag out a sharpened pencil to write down things. I took out my little note book, a present that I received from my teacher. It displayed a pink flamingo picture on the front. I sure would like to see one for real. Strange looking bird. I been thinking about my miserable life and scribbled those thoughts down as best I could.

My gosh, another ruined writing time, and I was planning on being right here for a spell. And just when I was gonna write about the butterfly that keeps flitting around my head, probably wondering what I’m a doing in his territory. Ugh!

They called me gangly and skinny. I were a full fourteen-year-old but my untamed haystack of hair and my usual unkept look gave the idea of me being wild. I groaned and pushed myself up from the nest. I done tucked my trusty pencil and note book into the ripped back pocket of these worn-out pants, sighed and headed up the steep embankment. It took just minutes before I heard the obnoxious noise coming from my sister’s mouths, all five of them, hollering, complaining, crying, or just plain arguing.

Luckily, I had been the first born, and I figured my folks kept trying to have another boy somewhere along the line. Instead, the place was infested with girls. There was Eva Jo, Ruby Jane, Lilah, Lurlene, and the baby Waynelle. I hoped mightily the two were done thinking stupidly that maybe I might need a brother. I had listened to a baby squalling and crying and smelling stinking diapers my whole entire life. I just shook my head in disgust.

I slowly approached the ramshackle home, one that barely stood on its pins, and grabbed the axe off the outside wall. Normaleen Tucker, my ma, with little Waynelle slung on her hip, started in on me, again.

She was wearing the only sack dress she owned, or at least the only one she ever had on, a worn out yellow colored thing. It did a good job of covering her thin body. A good wind could have blown her away. Her brown hair, some of it in what I called a bun, looked like a bird’s nest. The hard life had put deep lines in her overly tanned face. Smiles came few and far between across her face. I really, down deep, felt sorry that she was caught up in this life of misery. Seemed to my way of thinking, that with every new baby she kept getting more and more beat down. A great sadness.

“You get that firewood brought up before your Pa gets home from work, or you’ll really be getting a jawing to.” She chipped at him.

I didn’t even acknowledge her but headed down to the wood pile.

Home from work, right, I thought. Moonshining was the only thing my Pa had ever done.

“He ain’t made a lick of money from that thing, and drinks down any profit that could have been there.” I mumbled to myself.

I tried to tightened the old twine I had fashioned as a belt, and reminded myself, again, to be careful since I had nothing to protect those feet at the end of my legs. I kind wondered what real shoes felt like. I mostly wore some leather socks fashioned by ma. Deer skin came in handy. I took a gander down at my pants. They fit just fine about two years ago, but were riding up my shin bones now. I grimaced at my tattered clothes, then grabbed the axe, a pine log, and started chopping.

I scribbled thoughts, at times, about my Pa coming home almost every night plastered to the gills, carrying on about the way things were so tough, and talking big about making a big sale to a buyer in some town in some county nearby. It never happened.

Bodhi Tucker was also a mean drunk who would slap around his wife if he felt like it, blaming her for whatever he could think of. Even broke a couple of her ribs, gave her black eyes, and poured boiled water on her hand because he didn’t like some food she prepared. And he didn’t stop at just Ma. Most all us kids received some kind of negative treatment. I felt the sting of the switch a lot of times, but learned not to yell out but to just stare the man down.

The main problem that nobody talked about, was how he was coming around to Eva Jo now and then, making her nervous and confused. Ma knew, I was sure, but nothing was said. I, just for my best mental being, wrote things down about that, too.

I just gotta do something to help out Eva Jo, but darned if I know what. If Ma ain’t gonna do nothin I guess it’s up to me. I want to say something to sissy but I don’t think she knows what is ahappenin. Good thing I was awake when he come moseying next to Eva Jo’s bed buck naked. He hightailed it when I asked him what he wanted. It ain’t never right, that sort of thing. I plan things in my head. Maybe I should club Pa over the head with a piece of log while he’s a passed out. Maybe shoot him with my squirrel gun and claim it was an accident. But I gotta do something.

I certainly wished that nice Miss Hayden hadn’t moved away. I liked her as a teacher and the teachings she laid out for all us kids. The sixth grade was as far as I got but Miss Hayden was giving me eighth grade school work to do since she said I was smart and gifted. Really did like that. Smart and gifted. But that was the end of education in these parts as she got a better job in next county. Most folks never went for schooling to learn anything. Lot of them couldn’t even read or write.

I continued to lay the pencil to the paper.

Learning things is the most important part of living around here. Getting ahead ain’t possible when everything stays the same and nobody cares to improve their lot in life. I spose I’ll be up to me to teach the little ones, otherwise there ain’t no one to do so. Ma never schooled and neither did Pa. Anyway, I’m running out of thoughts so I guess I’m close to being done here.

So, I am stuck here in the forgotten hills of West Virginny.  Just heard from some people passing through we got a new president of the United States. Fellow by the name of Coolidge. Those folks telling, didn’t think much of him and were sad to the fact that Warren Harding passed before he could really get things going. The real good news they brought to the area was that the Prohibition Act were still being upheld. Shiners liked to hear things like that. Those who imbibed came from miles around and laid their money down to get fine moonshine made in these here parts.

Them visitors came chugging to our parts in one of those new-fangled horseless carriages, automobiles they was called, one of the first seen in these parts. Folks here got no money for such things but it was quite a spectacle for everyone to inspect. “Way of the future, was what the owner said, but you need some good roads.”

Well, I wasn’t afraid of my folks finding my writings because to them it was just chicken scratch. I decided, though, if I came up with a plan to cause my pa grievous harm, I be better off leaving it to myself, and not write any of that down in my notes.  I, for danged sure, had to stay away from any incrimination, a fancy word I learned. I liked the way those big words rolled off my tongue and often sat and wrote the words out several times just to get the feel of it. Yep, smart and gifted, that I was.

That night Pa came home reasonably sober and excited about something.  It turned out that Rebel and Sonny Brown had stopped by his still. They sat and talked awhile and did a little sipping, as Pa told it. They were impressed with his shine and were willing to buy a mighty supply.

“That gonna bring us a whole lot of money, Ma. I gotta get working on the next batch right away. I think that nineteen hundred and twenty-three will be the best year yet, yes sir!” Pa said and punched the air.

Normaleen pleaded with her husband, “You know darned well you don’t want to get hooked up with that bunch of murdering thieves. With them two boys and their old man, Jacob, they caused more trouble than any other family in all the mountain hollers. They just ain’t no good.”

“Ma, don’t matter none where the old money come from, do it? It still spends. Tarnation woman, I’d bet you’d like to get out of that plain old sack dress and get a brand new one wouldn’t ya?” Bodhi Tucker pushed his big plans in his usual manner.

“Anyways, I’ll take Silas tomorrow and we’ll get started on the batch. Eva Jo, come on over her and take your poor Daddy’s boots off, will you sweet pie?” her pa suggested as he turned and eyed his oldest daughter.

I was uncomfortable as all get out, as I watched as Eva Jo kneel down in front of her father to untie his old rotted leather boots. I watched, mighty troubled, as he grabbed her head and moved it toward his crotch. I quickly jumped up and moved over to the two.

“Here, let me pick that tight knot you got in that lace.” I said as he shoved his sister out of the way and began working the boots until they were off.

I purposely did not look up at all, for fear I would see a seething look from the old man. I just finished the order of business, got up, and walked outside. I swore that I had to do something, and soon.

The next morning me and pa headed down to the still, one that had been tended for as long as my memory worked.

“Them boys said they wanted three full cases of my specialty, so we gotta get going on that mash. We need a ton more apples from the old orchard. I’ma headed to Willards Market and get me some more sugar. We got everything else, so get you movin.” Bodhi ordered.

I worked steadily throughout the day when my soused pa finally showed up late afternoon.

“Old Willard gave me a little credit, seeing how I is about to do a big sale. Even bought some penny candy for the youngins.” He said proudly.

And that was that. Typical, I thought. Nothing, as usual, for a son who was doing all the work.

“Looks about ready to fire up the cooker so you head on home now and tell your ma not to wait supper fer me cause your soon to be rich pappy be tendin this batch through the night.” My father said and pulled out a big bottle of fancy whiskey from a packsack, along with a chunk of meat big enough to choke a horse.

I truly hadn’t seen that much meat on the table since I shot a two point buck the year before.

“Go on now, this here’s gonna get me through the night.” Bodhi said and pointed to the meat and the bottle.

My old man didn’t offer a slice of the meat to share, but shoved it into his own mouth.

“That mean old selfish bastard.” I mumbled all the while surprising myself that he used a cussing word.

My brain was working fulltime and I knew what I was going to do. It was coming together.

Walking home I stopped by Widow Ham’s place. I had done odd jobs for her ever since her husband had passed away some time before. She once told me she had tried to keep the corn patch going, but the rats and varmints were too much for her.

“Ms. Ham,” I shouted as he neared the shack.

“Well land sakes, ain’t seen you in a coons age, young Mr. Tucker. How you be?” the pleasantly plump and smiling woman said.

“Would you like to come on in and have some sweet tea and jaw for a while?” she asked.

“Thanks, that sounds might temptin, but I’m a bit short of time. Lots going on and I been keepin busy, but thought I’d check on you and all.” I said apologetically.

I pointed out toward the back yard, “I noticed the storage shed door is off its hinges. Thought I might put a nail or two in her so it don’t fly away with the next wind.”

“Well, mighty thoughtful. Things just ain’t been the same since old Hiram passed, land sakes, almost three years ago. Don’t have no change to pay ya ifn that’s alright,” the old lady said apologetically,” but I got a jar of preserves you can take home for your mama.”

“No problem at all. I’ll just take care of it and be on my way. Good to be talkin with you. I is sure we’ll enjoy the preserves, too.” I said and walked to the back of the house toward her dilapidated storage shed.

I sat outside the house, contemplating, after our dinner of some bread sprinkled with sugar, carrots and radishes from the garden plot off away from the house. We protected the patch as best as we could with pieces of wire and fence that had been scavenged from the area. Our meal even included a bit of milk that came from the social government people. They stopped every so often with a box of groceries. Ma hid that parcel from Pa because he said he didn’t need any handouts from the do-gooders.

I grabbed my trusty pink bird notebook to do some more writing. After the meal I grabbed a kerosene lamp and brought it over to a corner of the house, as twilight was giving way to darkness. I gave my pencil a couple of swipes with my trusty pocket knife and began composing.

I wonder if everyone else in the holler puts up with this life the way we do. Just gettin by and acceptin their fate. This whole countryside is a sad situation. Why did I have to end up being put here on the side of this godforsaken mountainside. Folks around here just awaitin to die, I guess, like old Hiram Ham did. I’m not going to be a part of this. I got plans.

I sat and watched the last bit of light leave the countryside. The curtain was dropping so the night stars could come out. They were always spectacular and I surely loved laying out and dreaming as I scanned the sky. Most of my wild thoughts were of me escaping this life and maybe sailing on the oceans or being a fancy dan in some big town. The dreams were nearly always of my existence somewhere other than here.

The next day I awoke, sleep still in my eyes, and watched with curiosity and astonishment as Eva Jo was just finishing wrapping up all of her worldly possessions. She began to tie them up nice and neat in an old travel bag. Ma said was sending Eva Jo to stay with a cousin for a while. I could see fear but resolve in my sister’s eyes, and a look of determination in Ma’s face he hadn’t seen before. Nobody had ever left the place before, for any period of time.

“When she comin back?” I asked ma.

She looked off into the woods and quietly said, “When it’s safe, I reckon.”

That was the end of what had been going on and the beginning of Eva Jo’s new life. Ma knew it and I, her big brother, knew it, too. Words were just unsaid. We watched as my oldest sister trudged off into the woods, swinging her case and singing a church song.

I noticed ma tear up a bit and whispered,” Well that’s that, now we got chores needin done.”

She turned around and went into the house.

I reluctantly set off to the still the next morning. It was not of big surprise to see my pa, splayed out against a little aspen, snoring loudly. His hand was still wrapped around a mostly empty bottle of liquor he finagled from Willard. I took a bit of courage but I shook him as roughly as I dare, gave him a not so gentle kick in the side, then waited around until he was ready to get moving. It wasn’t the first time I had a requirement to do just that. But I enjoyed it.

The two of us never seemed to connect in a loving, or even caring, manner. I felt like I was always his slave who needed to do this or that, mostly so he wouldn’t have to. Handshakes or hugs between us had never happened. He loved his moonshine, and harassing his family, period!

I stared at my pa laid out there. The man was thin, without much muscle, sported a straggly unkept beard that covered up burn scars from when he tried to put out a fire at the still several years back. He wore the same long sleeved blue cotton shirt he always did and the dirtiest undershirt in the county. His patched filthy khaki pants were so dirty they could have stood on their own. His beat-up straw hat was nearby. I knew that Pa washed up at least one night a month and only when ma got after him.

“Bodhi Tucker, you get down to Quail’s Creek and take some soap with ya. Time ya needs to get that top layer of stink off that scrawny body else ya be sleeping on the porch the rest of your days. Ya understands what I is sayin?” she would announce.

“Even the skunks hightail it when you come round.” Ma continued.

He always seemed to comply. Folks are funny, I thought. Pa didn’t even argue when ma used those words.

Pa and me, we worked hard, or it could be said that I worked hard, and pa just sat testing the new clear white lightning batch.

Suddenly we both heard a rustling of the brush behind us. The Brown brothers, both toting long rifles showed up, or more to the truth, snuck up on us moonshiners. 

They are really rotten, mean looking men, I thought.

“Howdy boys.” Bodhi said in a guarded but genuine greeting.

“You got anything for us yet.” questioned Rebel the bigger, uglier brother.

He wore bib overalls and most likely nothing underneath them. The look gave everyone a chance to see his big muscles. He showed a long red scar down the side of his face. Folks said he got cut in a knife fight with his younger brother. I could believe it. A full dark beard and long hair held by a bandana gave him a certain look. I wondered if he checked myself out in a looking glass and just scowled and snarled until he got it just right.

“Workin the batch right now, whole bunch be ready tomorry.” My pa said and grinned his mostly toothless smile.

“Well, we been talkin up your tasty stuff to Daddy, and sadly enough he all but run out of his personal supply. We was wonderin if you have any drink left from what we sampled that we could give him. He would surely appreciate a friendly gesture like that. Might even up the buying price some.” Rebel continued.

“You bet, rest a spell and I’ll round up a fruit jar full for your pa.” my pa said, happily relieved of the request being so simple.

“Silas, go on now and get that special jarful for these fine men’s daddy, ya hear.” He ordered, “and wrap it up tight so it don’t get busted if it be jostled.”

I took my time filling up a quart jar, put a lid down on it and wrapped it in some cardboard paper.

“Boy, get a move on, we ain’t got all day.” shouted one of the Brown boys.

I took the trusty pencil carried in my back pocket at all times, and wrote on the side of the labeled jar.

Gift to Mr. Jacob Brown from his friend Bodhi Tucker. Enjoy

Rebel Brown snatched the jug roughly from my hands, looked at the pencil scratching, growled, and stomped away.

“We’ll be back this time tomorry for the rest. Have it ready now, Bodhi, ya hear?” came the final snarl from Sonny, the brother with the wild eye, a lopsided grin, and a look of crazy all about him.

Me and pa stood quietly for a moment.

“Silas, you get those jars ready cause we gonna stay here and finish this job tonight.” My pa said relieved that the two Brown boys had moved away from the cooking camp.

“No needs fer ya to be around when those boys comes to trade my goods fer some fine Yankee money.” Bodhi ordered.

“I probably don’t want to be around. Them boys are mighty scary.” I said quickly agreeing.

“Ah, all talk. They ain’t nothing.” Pa said as he gave a dismissive wave with a hand.

“Now, let’s get on to workin.  And bring over that jug I left by that tree. Might just as well have a short snort of that store bought whiskey whiles I get on with things.” He ordered, and pointed to the almost empty bottle he had slept beside the night before.

That evening the goings on at home were not pleasant. Pa was really upset that Eva Jo took off and he hadn’t known anything about it. He began tossing things and banging on tables and walls. Ma stood her ground and told Pa that his daughter needed to be around girls her age for a while as there was a lot that only girls talk about. Private stuff.

“And that be that, Bodhi Tucker. Now ya want any supper or do you just want to keep playing out that stupid snit?” Ma said.

Later on, Pa got pretty drunk on his own moonshine, and started into a tirade about not knowing about happenings that goes on in his own home. He slapped ma a couple of times, probably because she was the one nearby. Of course, all the little ones got scared and kept yowling the entire time. It was chaos. At that moment, like many other moments in my life, I really did hate that man.

The next morning, Pa hightailed it down to the still with plans on his brain as to how to spend the money coming his way, I was sure.

 But my pa, the miserable Bodhi Tucker, never came home that night, or the next, or the next.

Ma figured he got his pay and took off somewhere to find a younger woman or fill up on fancy liquor.

Well, it turns out it that wasn’t the case.

Word travels fast in the hollows. Fast like a wild fire.

Word was the Brown brothers were looking for my pa. And they had blood in their eyes. Their daddy Jacob Brown passed away suddenly and old Doc Devers figured it was arsenic poisoning from something he ingested. The family narrowed it down to that quart of shine that pa had given to him, with an inscription on the jar that said just that.

A week later some kids hunting squirrels found pa’s body down at the bottom of a steep ravine. It was pretty beat up and recognition was difficult.

The sheriff from way out of Grant County never did figure who killed him. He didn’t spend much time looking neither. I came to find out that the sheriff knew pa from way back when he was younger. The lawman claimed he arrested Bodhi Tucker more times that he could count. Aside, he told folks he wasn’t going to waste a lot of time on the crime. He asked around but none of the folks in the hollers were talking.

I spent the next year or so trying to figure out the moonshining business. According to the other locals I wasn’t getting the mix right, and even if I did, most buyers already got their usual producers all lined up. I had to build up a reputation, they said. I ended up selling the whole setup to Moe Harkins. Made a little money but not much.

If it wasn’t for the county welfare and neighbors, things would have been desperate. I was the almost sixteen-year-old man of the house but didn’t want that job. A few bachelor men came round sniffing at ma, and I ended up butting heads with those I didn’t feel were there for an honest visit. Ma even got after me for not minding my own business. Finally, some good came along. His name was Sam Simmons.

“Ma, I’m headed out on my own. This Sam fella seems to be genuinely able to give you some assistance in the living and food on the table part of the family life. I just think it’d be better if I did some searching out of this place. You okay with that.” I asked just to be polite.

“Silas, I ain’t never wanted to hold you back. We can manage alright, sides you’ll probably land on your feet nearby. Let me know where in case you is needed.” She smiled and reached out to tousle my hair.

Well, I got a job at the Claymore County newspaper, The Daily Trumpeter here in Wilkes. Quite a fancy name even though we send out the news just two days a week. The editor was impressed with my skills and put me on to write about happenings around town. Nothing spectacular but I am making enough money to rent a back room at a boardinghouse. Meals are included. And I get all the writing pencils I need from the shop.

Learning the workings of the printing process was pretty easy. It is really just what is known as a letter press. Paper size is about one and one-half wide and about two feet long. We cram six columns on the two and sometimes three sheets of the newspaper that goes out. A sizeable amount of information can be put in any edition. Just ink it, set the type and get the fly wheel moving, then sit back and wait for the news.

Another big thing was to learn that the way we talked around these parts was not the way the newspaper put in words. Like, ain’t was always isn’t, and atalkin printed up as talking, and all. My boss said that proper English was to be used at all times. I sure got a ton of learnin to do.

“If you want a first-class newspaper, then the language has to be first class. Lot of readers from outside our area. We have to show them we aren’t a backwater community,”

Eva Jo is staying on with our cousin and is happy as a pig in slop. Ma is still being courted by Samuel S. Simmons, an old bachelor of means and I kind of think a wedding is not too far off into the future. Glad I gave those two the space to do some right serious courtin. She even smiles now and then when I visit. I admit the get-togethers have been few and far between but this place keeps me busy.

I never heard her mention pa’s name once, since his demise.

Yesterday I started out on a walk to visit ma and veered off in the direction of Widow Ham. Long old hilly journey took a couple hours, but new shoes covering my feet made the trip a little easier. I kinda was just making sure that her returned box of arsenic rat poison was still in the same place I laid it. I might almost feel guilt, but that hasn’t happened yet. Maybe that comes later for someone who is smart and gifted.

Claymore County, West Virginia-1926

I’m sitting out in front of the mercantile with a nice cold ginger ale. Balancing on this old rickety stick chair and leaning back against the wall is tricky but comfortable. I been thinking about my family a bit, goings on in this little place folks call a town, and what I might do in the future.

My pencil is itching to write something important. Hate to disappoint that thing.

I have to say this job at the Trumpeter is mighty fine. Stanley Ray Marshall, the editor lets me, more or less, have the run of the place. I walked in at the exact right time that he was getting tired of racing round the countryside digging up news and trying to put the paper out mostly by himself. I remember that day.

“Well son, can you read and write, might be positives to getting on with this job. Gotta have half a brain in that noggin, too. Newspapermen are a rare in the world. We can twist up the thinking of folks with just putting out words, especially in this neck of the woods. Just sayin, not that I am casting any ill will toward those people. I’ll give you a couple of months to prove up, then we will revisit the situation.” The boss man offered after setting some provisional guidelines of qualifying.

One afternoon he came sauntering back from the tavern, or as polite folks call it, the mercantile back room, and started in on talking. The man, some folks would josh, was fatter than a tick on a coon hound. He was big. Always wore the same stained white short sleeved shirt and a tie that was never up to his neck. The wire glasses and the bald head full of wrinkle folds gave him a mighty particular look.

“If you stick around long enough maybe you’ll have the smarts to run the whole shebang yourself, Silas Tucker. I can’t, for the life of me, continue doing this forever you see.” Stanley Ray added sluggishly in his usual intoxicated manner.

I acknowledged his suggestion quickly, “That would be nice but I’m having too much freedom to get tied to any strong responsibility. Maybe down the road I might be thinkin different.”

He leaned way back in his chair then spoke again, “To be honest with you boy, I hired and fired a bunch before you came along. Most didn’t have the brains of a chicken.  They filled in alright running the press and all, but I had to set every blessed bit of type. And they didn’t know an interview from a hole in the ground. So, you put in some serious thought about my offer.”

My move to Wilkes township in Claymore County had resulted in increasing my interest in books, literature and writings because of their availability. I wandered over the county library, if you want to call it that, every once in a while. Not many books, but that was where all the history of the town and countryside was kept. But, you know, a person had to dig around to find anything. I thought I might discover some interesting things to write about.

And, although hard to believe, all the local law events were kept in wooden boxes out on a back-room shelf, clear as day for someone to snooping through.  I’ve snuck a time or two or three just to see what I might conjure up.

The other major thing for me concerns changing the way I speak. I am trying to abide by the correct usage of verbs, nouns, adjectives, and everything else that we use in the press. Ain’t easy!

Being on my own was pretty okay with me. I’m settling in nicely.

I haven’t heard hardly anything lately from the family, so unless I want to take a six mile or so walk back to Quail’s Creek Hollow there isn’t much of an exchange of news. Sometimes I get there and they always have something going on, so the conversation in pretty meager. I find we don’t have much in common other than the past, and that isn’t conversed about much. I’ll keep trying though, being they are my kin and I still feel a little responsibility for their well-being considered my past transgression involving my pa. I picked up by the grapevine that some guy was pretty serious about hitching up with my oldest sister Eva Jo. Hope he treats her fair and loving. There was a time long ago when Pa was messing with Eva Jo. Luckily, we sent her off to stay with some cousins so that type of bad stuff would come to an end. I received word that ma was getting remarried so I visited her and the new husband on their wedding day. Both were quite appreciative. Nice get-together. I even wrote up an article for the paper about the social happening. Samuel Simmons was the best thing to ever happen to Ma. That bastard she was married to, Bodhi Tucker, my pa, made her and all us kids’ life down right miserable. The beating and yelling was truly frightful.  I am not one bit sorry for the demise of that man. Sam treats her respectfully and offers her a good life.

Ruby Jane, my second oldest sister, ran off with some yahoo said to be bad news. She is only thirteen. Crazy idea got into her head that this boy would make her happy. Five months and she come moping back to Mama, sure enough, in a family way. Dumb kid.

The little ones are still with Ma, but haven’t heard much about them. Imagine they still screeching and crying most of the time.

I finagled the purchase of a little shack on the outskirts of town. Just right sized, a pumping well beside the place, a two holer around back, bedroom and cooking area in one big room. I rescued an old desk my neighbor was gonna toss out, and I sit on a chunk of Blacktail oak, with a thick pillow covering over the top just to make it comfy. Yep, pretty darn nice.

I bought myself a used typewriter, an old Underwood. Clacks so loud it chases the rats outta the house. I had to wait three weeks to get a darned ribbon for the machine as the mercantile only carried newer models that fit the machines used over to courthouse. I need to remind myself to buy two next time. I admit, I have taken a great liking to that machine, the way it puts my thoughts down on paper and all.

Best I think, I have a couple young ladies that like to spend some time in my company. One of em’ even does climb into a bed with me every once in a while. Ain’t got lots of real love feelings for Celine Crawford, but we both decided that the special time together thrashing around on that old spring and mattress bed is about what each of us is looking for.

Celine has a husband somewhere, but she says she hasn’t heard hide nor hair of him in a couple of years. I don’t register any guilt about that situation.  That woman is quite a few years older than me, with an ample top and bottom. Didn’t bother me too much as she was also highly educated in bedtime delights.

“Do you think your man Toby will every come back?” I asked Celine after a romp.

“Well, I hope not, now that I know what real fornicating is. He wasn’t worth a hoot and a holler. Why you got more desire than a landed fish lookin to get back into a pond. More than he could ever put together, not to mention the size of that trouser snake of yours. Don’t care if he ever shows up at my doorsteps again.” She said and gave a knowing look at my crotch then danced her eyebrows.

Celine was never afraid to say exactly what was on her mind. Gets my juices flowing just like that.

My other girl that visits is named Delilah Grote. She is mighty nice and all that, when she wants to be, overly plump and soft, and we mainly talk and wrangle up some arguing and do a little spooning but nothing hot and heavy. She’s a good decent girl that I don’t never want to take any advantage of, really have no desire neither, sides all my carnal urges are taken care of.

 I got invited over to her kin’s place for a pig roast and enjoyed it all, except when her cousin Harkle got likkered up and started firing off his pea shooter at a turkey down the way from the house. And then having to sit around while that dang family was constantly yelling at one or another about some disrespect. Folks in that bunch are all big, big eaters, wow.  Did a write up about that invite for the paper but left that shootin part out. Her family decided that was a pretty nice thing to do.

 She came over to my place just to thank me.

“Silas Tucker, you is a mighty fine writer. My ma and pa sent me over to tell you just that. They’d like you to come on back ifn it suited your compunction. And I’d like to see a little more of you myself. You knowed I am a full seventeen years of age and prime to get hitched. Just sayin, ya hear.” She finished speaking and I watched her cheeks turn a rosy red.

“Ima guessin I should not have said such a forward thing, but it just spurted out of my heart. Just letting you know where I stand if maybe you ever come real interested.” She said and bounced out of my little house.

I made a mental note to myself not to intermingle with two females at my place during the same time. That would produce a heap of trouble. Mostly for me.

Never did hear anything more about Pa and his untimely demise. He was found beat to a pulp at the bottom of a holler. Nobody ever come forward with the name of a culprit who did the deed. As a proper newspaper man, I am always listening for gossip and such, but not a single whisper was about. Fine with me.  Everyone kinda knows who did it. Those two mean bastards, Rebel Brown and his brother Sonny are still terrorizing anybody they think they can get the best of. Halfway expecting somebody from the hollers is going to end their miserable living, too. Wouldn’t be surprised one little bit.

I’m, for sure, completely aware of what was undertaken. Now I knowed for a actual fact that it was them that ended Pa’s life. They were particularly angered up when their old man drank some of the sour mash made up by Bodhi Tucker and it set him a quick trip to the devil. The Brown boys went on to blame Pa for the terrible result of drinking that stuff.

The truth is, and I keep thinking about my part in the whole miserable thing, was that I added some rat poison that I kind of borrowed from the widow Ham’s shed, to a bottle made especially for old Jacob Brown. What happened, my desired results, was exactly what I was hoping for. The old scourge of the hollers kicked the bucket shortly after downing some of the drink. Deader than a doornail the next morning.

I figured Rebel and Sonny would come looking for Pa, and give him the comeuppance. They surely did; that plus some.

Strange enough, I felt no guilt about what happened. Two scoundrels, pa and old man Brown, left this earth in a quick way. I haven’t heard anybody complaining about either fella, each I considered a spot of horse dung, gone to his maker.

Now then, getting back my thinking on track, the Daily Trumpeter, or rather Stanley Ray, believes a large part of the paper should carry social happenings, events, and particularly deaths and obituaries. He explained his reasoning.

“Folks around here want to know that someone else is more miserable than them. They’s curious about who died and when and what kin they might be. Sells lot more papers if a good one passed. We spiffy it up as much as we can. You know, was there a funeral, what’d happening to the remains, things like that.” He pontificated.

Pontificated. I had just learned that word last week from a book.

“You spend some time over yonder at the library and get you familiarizated with past issues of the Trumpeter. Good for you to check out the fine writing I did with folks passing, in years gone by. Mighty fine writeups and got a lot of thanks, even a few rounds of shine come my way by appreciated folks. Yep, mighty fine.” Stanley Ray finished his talk and sauntered out of the building, tugging at the ever-present tight collar.

I turned to the back of the shop and looked for a pencil and pad when the owner suddenly reappeared at the door.

“Oh, and see if you can scare up any more advertisers. Costs money to run this paper. Maybe head on over to Jackson City. Hear there’s a home goods store selling jams and such. You tell them we’d do a fine job letting folks know they is up and running.” He suggested emphatically.

“You go on now and do that, I’ll handle it here the rest of the day.” He declared.

I knew there was nothing needed doing until tomorrow.

“Okay, Stanley Ray, like a chicken on a June bug. I’ll get to it.” I said more to myself than the big man walking away.

Jackson City was about four miles away as the crow flies, but a lot of windings and climbing and fighting gully washes, the walk took some time. Passed a couple little ones on a slump backed donkey, one loud Model-T ford with a driver who was lost and asking for directions, but not another darned person along the way.  I stopped to soak my feet in Asher’s creek, hardly more than a trickle of water, but it was cold and refreshing.

The town is just about as desolate as can be and since Wilkes was the county seat, most government-like folks tended to live around near their work. I walked past a run-down whiskey joint, and a general store that also served as the post office. Down toward the end of the street stood an old jail. I hadn’t seen any bad guys for lots of years, I decided. Not much else on that main street cept barking dogs and bratty little ones making a lot of noise.

I found the shop that Stanley Ray had described. Only place that had any newness to its looks. Steps swept off, and all. I walked in and a little bell dinged somewhere above my head. Place looked nice; stuff filled nice on the shelves. Big mangy dog lay out to one side taking a nap in the stream of sunshine.

“Hello, anyone about? I shouted.

“Land sakes, child, I’m right here.” Came a voice from down under a counter top.

“Sorry, you were hidden from my otherwise good visual sighting.” I said apologetically.

The lady stood up. About my ma’s age, pretty, with a ribbon wrapped around mostly blonde hair. A bit chunky but that didn’t detract from anything. She wore a nicer dress than most woman in the hollers, so I figured she had a little money in her direction. Might be able to get some for the newspaper. I was ready to give my sales pitch.

“Names Silas Tucker, ma’am. I’m a writer for the Claymore County Trumpeter. Boss told me of your new business and I thought I might write up an article about it and all. Fine store here. You been open long?” I inquired.

“Two weeks now.” She beamed.

“Business is slow but that is expected in this area. I’ll just stick it out and see how it goes. Was in the same business down Dellwo way, but that big fire burned down most of the town. I tried my best to keep things going. Gave it two years then gave up. Thought I’d give a restart up this way. Just not many folks buyin now days, due to no jobs and such.” She lamented.

“Well, I know that Wilkes people might come your way if they see what fine goods you have. I see preserves, candles, napkins, table furnishings, and all kinds of things. I could include all of that in my newspaper writing.” I said as I was thinking as fast as I could.

Now to get down to business.

“Advertising is the way to go. The paper could put a regular spot of information about what special of the week is offered, or a listing of goods and services and anything else you’d like. You could change the arrangement of the space with anything you wanted to tell folks. Helps us get out the paper and give your business a little boost.  All that for four dollars a week. Pretty reasonable I’d say. Interested?” I finished with a flourish.

“Why Silas Tucker that was a mighty fine presentation. And as a businesswoman I appreciate the opportunity to consider your offer. But. I need to take stock of my financial situation before I commit to a regular outflow of my hard-earned money. That alright?” She asked obviously in charge of the conversation.

“Yes, ma’am, I surely understand.” I said somewhat defeated.

“My name is Nancy Southern, most call me Nan. S’alright if you do to. If, and only if I take you up on your fine offer, I’ll send Sadie over to Coulter City with a planned advertisement and some money up front. How’s that sound.” She asked.

Before I could acknowledge her idea, she shouted to the back room of the store.

“Sadie, get out here, someone I want to introduce to you.” Came the order.

Just then the most beautiful thing I have ever seen came through the door curtain. She had blue eyes that were like pools of water I would drown in, blonde hair, blonder than her mother, tall, almost as tall as me, and the fine dress showed off a pretty nice figure. I just nodded to her. I was stupefied.

Nan explained the presence of myself and ordered Sadie to help me write the article of introduction of the new business. Sadie glanced often at me while her mother talked, smiling a dazzling set of good white teeth. I was momentarily smitten.

The next hour flew by as Sadie, in a soft melodious voice explained where store items came from, locally made candles and preserves, dishes and cooking bowls, utensils, wall pictures, and a whole load of other things. I was taking notes the whole time but my heart was beating so fast as I stood next to the girl, taking in her scent, the scribbling was almost unreadable.

“You have many friends down Dellwo way?” I asked

Sadie hesitated then answered.” A few but not close friends, I’d say.

“Me neither, I mean not many friends in Wilkes. I’m also a newcomer to these parts.” I smiled toward her.

“Ya got a Pa?” I asked then immediately thought I should ought a not asked such person questions.

“Did, but he’s gone now.” Was all she said and walked toward the back of the store.

“Well, Nan, and Sadie, glad to meet y’all and hope to see you in Wilkes. Show you around the parts and introduce you to folks. Thanks for your time.” I finished my spiel and turned to leave.

Right across the entire door lay that fat lazy mutt, not looking like he was in any concern, nor ever gonna move for me to depart.

“Winder, the girl spouted loudly, get out the way.”

The dang dog lifted his head a few inches offn the floor then flopped it back down.

“Guess you just might step over him, I spose.” She said apologetically.

The walk home was like cloud walking while I thought about Sadie and those eyes, and that darned pretty smile, and her hair, and her body, and everything else about her. I pulled out my note pad and wrote a quick note.

Wow, Sadie Southern is cuter than a speckled pup. I need to see her again!  For sure!

Stanley Ray was seated at his desk way too early in the next morning considering his usual routine, when I arrived. He started in right away.

“Well, you get us some advertising money, boy.” He asked quickly.

I explained all about my visit, the agreement with Ms. Southern, and my hopes of future business.

“Well, did she talk some about how she happened to move into Jackson City, quick like, to start up her business.” He continued.

“Lady said there were some fires and not much left of Dellwo for sales. Nice enough though.” I added.

“Well son, I am giving you a perfect opportunity to be a deeetective newspaper man.  You hustle right on over to our records and see if the name Southern comes up in any fashion or style. Get that information straight out and come one back here, then you and I will have a little comingling of the minds.” He finished then looked down at whatever began to find his interest.

I was a bit confused by all of that jabbering but did as directed. He was the boss.

I spent the rest of the day, dusting off piles of old newspaper copy, sorting through boxes of news clips, and a few of the sheriff’s reports, sparse as they might be.

I saw reports like, so and so took someone’s horse and buggy for a joy ride, or this old boy was put in the hoosegow for being drunk and disorderly, or there was a big to do between some shiners and revenuers.  Not much about anything.

I finally came upon the story in a regional press newspaper concerning the big fire in Dellwo. It turns out that Henry Southern was running a still right outside the town. Plain as day, the paper said. The story went on to say that the still blew up and Henry, drunk as a skunk, like usual, tried to put the danged thing out but made things worse. Wind came up an lit the town on fire. Locals went looking for old Henry who was holed up somewheres. Townsfolk got mighty riled but even worse when Henry started firing his old squirrel gun in their direction. Young Zeke Burns took it upon his self to fire back. A bullseye right into the drunk man’s chest. Dead as a doornail was a quick verdict. Apparently, the Southern family, the wife Nancy, and daughter, Sadie moved lock, stock, and barrel out of town, shortly after the dust settled, as folks’ kind of turned their back on old Henry’s family.

The report says that most folks just moved on to start building up somewhere else. I was pretty much shocked by the nature of the situation. A sad thing for sure.

I slowly walked back to the newspaper building. Stanley Ray was leaning a rocker back against the building front.

“Well, did you learn what did happen to that nice lady Nancy Southern who you are going to write a pretty piece for.” He asked in a weird snide way.

“Yessir, I sure nuff did. But I can’t see what happened in the past, and not being her fault, and all, should have any bearing on what I might write.” I said in kind of a retort growing a little angry at his attitude.

“Well, you just have to know all the facts about situations before you ever write anything. Make you a better newspaperman. I agree with you that she is a victim, but now you know the real facts, if some know-it-all comes up in your face and tries to attack your writings. Understand, Mr. Tucker.” Stanley Ray said in a much softer and even voice.

“Cause its gonna happen time and time again. You get all the facts about anything then decide what needs to be said in this newspaper. I don’t want no lies, guesses, or flim-flam. Just be true to what you need to say then do it. Now I hear a cold beer hollering for me acrost the way. Start on that piece now, ya hear.” and began to heft himself out of the groaning chair.

Stanley Ray walked out the door without so much as a wave. He took on a sweet slow moseying to the Mercantile. Funny way to be teaching me, I thought.

I continued to spend time with the present and past. The old stories and crimes, and escapades of the folks of the Ozarks, the mines, and the hollers began grabbing all of my attention. Interesting things appeared from the piles of dust and confusion of the country record keeping. I jotted some notes about future ideas including how a former sheriff ended up stiff as a board outside a local business establishment noted for a couple of la-ti-da woman residing in the upper rooms. Stiff, as in dead. Nobody found a reason for his demise. Wonder if he died with a smile on his facial looks.

Even found the story about Mrs. Ham’s husband dying. Not much to tell there. Apparently, it was quick and the old Doc weren’t sure what caused his expiring, but jotted down some concerns of unusual symptoms. Might follow up on that, just for my own curiousness.

I finally wrote my piece about the brand-new store with brand new gifts and all belonging to Nancy Southern. I fluffed it up with fine explanations of goods and how everything is set out all pretty. I figured that might bring some curious folks to check it all out.

Must have worked cause none other than Sadie Southern was at the newspaper door a week later, carrying a big smile and a passel of money in her dress pocket.

“Come on in, Miss Sadie.” I said and beckoned her through the front of the place.

“Oh, thank you Silas. My ma sent me over to tell you she thought you did us right proud with your story and it done give our business a big boost. This money is to do some advertising in your paper. And this is the specifics from ma.” She added and pulled out a listing of sale items for the week along with almost a months’ worth of prepaid advertising money.

Stanley Ray would be happy.

We talked for a while when I got an idea.

“Hey, can I walk you over to the Mercantile and I’d be willin to buy us a soda to drink in the shade of that old oak tree yonder.” I asked and pointed across the way.

“Well, Silas Tucker, I most certainly could go for a cold drink. That is nice of you to suggest it.” She said and turned to me with those eyes, and that smile.

I was smitten and I wondered maybe she might conjure up some like feelings for me.

We sauntered slowly, as slow as I could make it, across the street and headed for our get-together.

Just then Delilah Grote and a fella walked past. I noticed she pretended not to pay me no mind.

“Why Delilah, how you doing.” I said breaking the silent look.

The couple stopped.

“Hello, Silas, I plumb didn’t see you coming this way.” She feigned surprise.

We were the only people in the whole street.

“Delilah, this here is Sadie Southern from up Jackson City way, we is doing business over at the newspaper right at the moment.” I explained.

“Nice to meet you.” Delilah said and scanned my walking partner up and down, curling her lip as she did so.

“And this is my beau, Harper Cornwell, we all are planning on getting hitched in a few weeks when the Justice of the Peace travels to town.” Delilah beamed.

“Glad to meet you Harper, and congratulation on your upcoming matrimonial adventure.” I said in acknowledgment.

The kid wasn’t much older than Delilah and a good burst of wind could blow him into the next county. The straw-colored hair, ears that stuck straight out from his round head, and an obvious lack of a full set of teeth kinda set him off peculiar like. He was barefoot with a twice rope holding up his baggy pants. I was glad for Delilah, or maybe my thinkin was I was glad she got he sights on someone other than yours truly.

The boy started to speak but was cut off by her loud voice.

“Yep, Harper stepped up as a man to ask for my hand. Lots of other boys had a chance but he is my wonderous knight in shining armor.” Delilah said with emphasis on boys and a directed stare to me.

I wondered how long it would be before that knight disappeared into the night. I certainly didn’t think it would be long. Delilah was kinda overbearing like.

“Well, then, see y’all sometime.” I said as we closed our conversation.

“Seems like a nice couple, Sadie said, but I think she is going to be in charge of that union.”

We both snickered on the thought and headed for an ice-cold drink.

I saw plenty of Sadie Southern for the next long time. I just about wore out my store-bought boots walking that old roadway to Jackson City, but the feed Nancy Southern put on for her Sunday dinner invite would find me walking barefoot just to taste them mighty fine vittles.

“Glad you could come today, Silas, we really enjoy your company and stories of the past you been digging up.” Mrs. Southern said one Sunday.

“But I got to be cleaning up. Sadie, would you show Silas out, please.” She asked.

Sadie and I stood at the front door of the shop for the longest time. I sensed Sadie had something she wanted to talk at me about.

“What is it.” I asked my new best girl.

“I know you are looking into old stories, but I want to tell you about our family fore you find out things that may turn our courtin inside out. Remember you asked about my pa and I kinda just let it slide? Well, I got to come clean since I’m trying to be totally honest with you and all.” She teared up as she talked.

“You mean all the shining, and fires, and drinkin, and the shootin in Dellwo.” I said quickly and put my finger to her mouth to stop her from talking.

“I know all bout that unfortunate scene, and I don’t change one whit what I think of you or your mother. I ain’t like that.” I finished.

“Oh Silas, thank you, thank you.” Sadie squealed then wrapped her arms around me to give me the sweetest kiss I ever did get.

Sadie stood back and looked at me square into my shocked eyes.

“And I plan or giving a lot more of those the same way or better.” She whispered in a throaty, sultry voice.

I floated home, planning my next visit and a whole lot after them. I was in love with a most beautiful, stupefying, best kissing girl I ever did know.

A group of good old boys came into town riding a big heavy looking automobile called a Buick. First one we had ever seen in these parts. It was mighty sleek. Anyway, they were passing out pamphlets and information about their organization called the Ku Klux Klan, out of Morganville. Apparently they were on a recruiting tour. Folks were pleasant to them, and they were on their way.

I did some research on what they are all about. I was glad they left town. Spreading hate and negativity isn’t one more thing to weigh these poor folks down.

I got a letter with notification that my little sister, Ruby Jo delivered her child, but with complications and all the baby didn’t make it. Ma mentioned she hated to say it, but it was for the best. The baby was malformed and tiny. Everyone else was doing fine and they added a new addition to the side of the house so as to allow privacy for her and the new husband.  Youngins getting bigger and eating them out of house and home. She hadn’t heard anything about Eva Jo and hoped my job is doing alright. Nice letter, I wondered who wrote it for her. Maybe Sam, the new man in her life.

One day I asked Sadie if she would like to meet my family.

“Why, of course I would.” She exclaimed.

We set out on the course and were both excited to jump on the running board of a car owned by the proprietor of the Mercantile, Hawk Hawkins. It was fun and thrilling as neither of us had ever traveled that fast before.

We both wished the drivable road went a little further but it ate up a chunk of our journey distance.

Ma was surprised by us walking up the incline to her home. She was greatly pleased to meet Sadie. All the little ones gathered around from behind ma’s dress and stared at us both.

“Sam will be around shortly; can you sit and have a meal with us?” she asked.

We had already discussed to pass on food as it was not plentiful in that household.

“Thank you Mrs. Simmons, Sadie said, but we have plans later on with my kin.”

We sat on the porch and talked for a while, suddenly Ruby Jo walked out of the house. Things were a bit quiet for a moment then I stood up and spread my arms. My little sister rushed up and laid her head on my chest. She cried like a baby for the longest time. No words were spoken because there was nothing to say. What was, was, and what is, is.

We marveled at the new additional room built onto the house. A first-class job. I started thinking that the old section would be rubble some day and the new part looking as good as ever.

Sam came around the corner and we made the introduction to Sadie. He’s a swell fellow.

We all had a few sips of some moonshine before we headed off. I had seen what that liquid can do to a man, namely Bodhi Tucker, so imbibing of that throating searing stuff was not something I did.

Heading home, Sadie and I talked about my family and their lives until we exhausted the topic. The last part of the trip was a quiet one as we walked hand in hand back to Wilkes township.

I continued to dig up more historical stories of the life in this country. Folks like to see articles and remember the past. The stories included who visited who from out of town, or what was the coal miners up to way back when, and what businesses were closing down or opening up. The paper got lots of complements from locals who thanked us for mentioning their old kinfolk that passed on. They thought that was really special.

I came across the report of death concerning the husband of Widow Ham again and began it as a reread. I was taken to amazement to find the man named in this paper was Jubal Watkins. Different from Hiram Ham. I studied the details. Appeared the man died that same was as old Hiram. Questionable circumstances but no foul play according to the death report and the law people. I made a note to go talk to the widow to find out a little more. My mind was getting suspicious and all.

The big news got everyone all in a tizzy. Plenty of automobiles had been seen propelling up and down the road and paths in our region. Folks, though, never seen one that carried goods in a box-like back end. According to the people standing close to the contraption, a man, funny goggles on the eyes and a leather hat flat on his head, hit a sizeable pothole and sashayed sideways almost clipping Moses Perkins mule. Folks say that could have been a disaster cause old Moses, every fond of his animals, would have plugged the offending machine without much of a thinking moment. The driver called the machine a pickup truck. He loaded some lumber in the back and headed on out. Maybe these parts is catching up to the rest of the countryside as far as inventions and conveniences go.

I made a note to research what I could about automobiles and pickup trucks, and get a writeup for the readers. They would most surely like that.

One gloomy afternoon I sat back in my cubby hole doodling and thinking about Sadie when a loud voice shouted from the front.

“Anyone here.” a deep gravelly voice yelled.

“I here in the back, you just hold on for a shake of a lamb’s tail, now.” I puffed up to sound busy and important.

I approached the front to see one of the largest men I had in my life every seen. He had a big bushy black beard, dark inset eyes, and a knit cap on his head. He stared down at me as I approached slowly.

I noticed his hands were like Thanksgiving hams and just as big. They were tightly balled up. His arm muscles were bigger than my legs.

“I’m looking for a kid called Silas Tucker. Folks say he work here. That you?” he asked while folding up a piece of paper then pocketing it.

“I’m him.” I stuttered.

“Well, boy, my name is Toby Crawford, my wife Celine, I think you know. Ain’t that right.” He growled.

If my bowels hadn’t been emptied just some time ago, I would have messed them for sure.

“I do indeed, and I don’t recollect ever seeing you, her husband, in this here parts.” I stammered.

“Well, that woman, Celine, offered, with some coercing from me, to give me the name of some fellas she been shining up to this last bit of time I been gone. You know, that woman would sashay around town naked tossing big butt back and forth for all to see if she thought it might entice some woman- starved man. She shake it you too, boy.” The big man’s eyes narrowed.

I stood for a moment and stared up, deciding to be righteous with what I should say.

“Well Mr. Crawford, I will not deny that I had gotten to know your wife in the biblical sense more than once, but she led me to believe you were gone from her life. I am truly sorry, sir.” I spoke contritely.

The big man looked at me for a moment then started to laugh, a big full loud belly laugh.

“Son, you are the only one on this here list I got, who was man enough to face up to me. But I don’t care a ding dong hankering what she is doing or with who now. I brought me some deevorce papers to legally and truly get her out of my life, since I got me a nice woman down at the mines where I is making a pretty good living nowadays. The other thing you need to know is when a woman messes like she do, a strong possibly of getting one of those variable diseases you know, clap or the crabs or some such.  Ima thinkin she might just be passing that around to all her beaus as we speak.” He added.

“Just be a lookin out for all that my boy, and you might warn these fellas about what I said.” He turned to walk away but not before tossing a crumbling paper with the names of five other men and boys written out on it.

Wow, I thought, look at these names! Some were married up nice, one was kind of the town idiot, and maybe I was an idiot too. I headed quickly over to the doctor to get check out. I wasn’t gonna pass anything on to anyone, even if I might get a chance.

Strange but not more than less than a week later, Celine was knocking at my door, wanting to have a spell of fun. I denied.

“What in this poor worn out country world is the matter with everyone. You’d think I got some strange exotic disease that if I touch their pecker, it might fall off or something.” She said not knowing she wasn’t mighty far from the truth.

Her coarse language kept on echoing down the street as she stomped away. I wondered if old Toby just spread a few lies to cool off her hot need for a bit of sexual relations at every turn. Luckily Dr. Watkins cleared me with a clean slate and we had a nice understanding talk about preventing such an ugly thing that might happen at any time.

I decided to take the day off, much to Stanley Ray’s displeasure and follow up a story that had been kind of percolating in my mind for some time now. I took off in the direction of the family home. Again, a five- or six-mile hike but walking the hills like I did make the trip easier. Nice breeze today felt good on my face.

I hollered as I got close to the Widow Ham’s place as to not startle the woman. I saw her look out from sheer curtains covering a window, and was soon outside the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Well, Silas Tucker, you sure are a sight for sore eyes. How you been?”  she asked.

“Fine, I’ve just been fine. And you?” I returned the nicety.

“Been pickling some beets the Clocker family gave me. I do the work and give most back to them and keep some. Works out kinda nice, don’t you think?” she said.

“Sure enough do.” I agreed

“Well, what brings you to this neck of the woods, your face is scarcer than money growing on a tree around here. Gonna see your Ma, hear she’s pretty happy these days. And that poor Eva Jo and her misfortune. Land sakes so much going on.” came a barrage of statements.

“No, I wanted to talk some with you.  You know I’m with the Daily Trumpeter newspaper and doing a lot of lookin back on things, and I run into an odd incidence about your name and jawin with you might straighten things out.” I said as I started to strategize my questions.

I reached into my back pocket and extracted my little flamingo notebook I always toted around with me It came in handy for ideas, and plans, and things I heard.

“I noticed that poor old Hiram, your husband who passed away not in the too distant past, weren’t the first husband you was hitched to, but another named Jubal Watkins before that. Did I get them there facts about right, Ms. Ham?” I paused then looked up from my writing pad, pencil poised to jot words.

The widow, now sitting on her front porch, and leaning all the way back in an old cane rocker, adjusted her apron, then answered.

“That’s absolutely right, Silas, I was married before poor old Hiram became my second husband.” she said quietly.

“Well, then, both of your husbands kinda died in mysterious and confusin ways according to all the reports I read. But you said than Hiram’s heart gave out and he just plopped down deader than a doornail. So, I am much confused.” I added looking toward the woman.

“What is it you are askin me, a poor old woman livin alone against this God forsaken country side.” She said in a raised voice.

“Well, I don’t rightly know. What kind of fellas were you two husbands.” I began to divert my angles.

The woman looked out over the sparse tree cover on the downward hillside, then at the hard pan dirt surrounding her home.

“Both of them were pretty nice fellows when I fell for them. Jubal was a fast talker and swept me off of my feet when I was just a young girl. We had lots of fun and laughs for a few years, then he started to drinkin and chasin around, and, most hurtful like, he started to ignore me. He’d be gone for days on end and didn’t have no idea if he was alive or dead. Then he’s come back all contrite as if nothing ever happened.” She stopped for a moment in wistful thought.

“Hiram came from Madison County as big as you please not more than six months after Jubal passed. I was a widow with a few dollars in my pocket I got from Jubal, and he jumped right into that hoop. I put up with his gambling and laziness until we didn’t have a bean to put in the pot.” She finished.

“So, both your husbands just died, like that?” I asked and snapped my fingers.

“Silas Tucker, you didn’t come all the way out here to ask questions you already know the answers to. You are not a ninny. What you are askin is if I might have, in some way, help send both of these bastards on their way to purgatory. That’s what it is, isn’t it?” she asked sharply.

“Well, I don’t mean to cast aspersions to anyone but…” I was interrupted.

“Silas, you and me just ought to have a coming to Jesus talk right here and now, ya hear. And I’ll do the talking. Ifn you want to add anything when I’m done then be my guest. Okay?”

I shook my head up and down, greatly intrigued.

“Not too long ago, I saw a sight that I still can’t quite forget. I watched a young boy, looked a lot like you Silas, wander around my back shed there to fix something or the other, but noticed him carrying a bag of something out with him when he left the place. You with me so far?” she asked.

I nodded, and felt my gulping Adam’s apple go into confusing bounces.

“So, I went to check, out of curiosity and all, what might you have hauled away. Well, lo and behold, my precious rat poison box was nowhere to be seen.  Two days later I got the understanding that that old mean Jacob Brown done succumbed from that very exact same arsenic what was in my rat poison. And, of course, those no good rotten sons of his blamed your poor Daddy for the act. Still following me.” She said with a wicked smile on her face.

My mouth was drier than the heart of a haystack.

She continued, “Not just sometime later that old box reappeared right where had been previous like. Kind of confusing don’t you think, Silas Tucker.”

“Now I would never even consider that you may or may not have had something to do with the demise of those two miserable creatures who disappeared off the face of this earth, your daddy, and the pa of those newly orphaned boys he left behind. Those poor boys who most likely beat you pa to death cause they thought he poisoned old Jacob. And, I would certainly not cast any, what did you say, aspersions, toward anyone about my thinking and seeing.” She stopped to take a long slow breath.

“So, whether I did or didn’t do what you might think I did, and same going for you, I think it best to leave well enough alone, don’t you, Silas?” She kinda asked and stared hard at me.

I nodded my headed up and down, feeling some of the long suppressed down guilt of my crime, and the feeling of being found out.

“Well, nice talking to you Mrs. Ham, I’ll let you get back to those beets now, ya hear.” I said quickly and began to leave the porch.

“Come on back anytime, Silas Tucker, anytime.” She chuckled and turned toward her front door.

I forgot to keep on the trail to visit ma.

So, a lot has happened in the past year and I just have to put down on paper. Maybe look back at all this someday and write a danged story of my life, who knows.

 Stanley Ray got a call from his sister asking him to come down to Parkersburg and live in the big house since her husband’s passing and he just handed me the keys to the Daily Trumpeter building and walked away. Not so much as a by your leave. And I’ll be gull danged if there wasn’t an green colored automobile waiting outside to pick him up. It had parked right in front of the shop. And there, handling all the instruments and stuff, was a woman. Must have been his kin, but he never did make an introduction.

The article in last week’s paper announced the engagement of Miss Sadie Southern to Mr. Silas Tucker. The story, written my both me and my sweet bride, reported that the fine-looking couple plan on getting married on the Fourth of July, kinda symbolic of independence but united. I myself thought that was a nice touch. Thought about putting the readings on the front page but decided it belonged on the new society section I started some time back.

Celine Crawford left town for greener pastures, where unsuspecting males with a certain persuasion, don’t know her yet.

 I haven’t had any particular reason to go on out to visit old widow Ham. Can’t think of a single one as I write this note, don’t you know.

Wilkes township, Claymore County, West Virginia-1928

These days now are mighty happy. If you don’t know, my name is Silas Tucker, newspaper man extraordinaire, or some such thing. Anyway, I am the proprietor of the only news spouter in the whole county. I grew up in these regions and took off from home about a year or so after my pa passed away. I did my best to support the family but I did succeed. Ma, and my sisters, took up home sharing with one Samuel Simmons. A few of the older sisters are spread out in the area, like a weeks’ worth of washing.  I get news every once in a blue moon but it sounds like everything is ticking like a well-oiled time piece. I don’t make it back home so much as I am a busy man, still it is good to see everyone when I can trapse the six miles back to those parts.

I still having a little black cloud that’s hanging over my head about the to do with pa’s demise, the poisoning of that real onery sort, and finding out I am not as clever as I thought I was with that situation.  I can be blunt, me and the Widow Ham did come to a quiet agreement about things. She knows I fixed up some mash cooked by my pa, Bodhi Tucker, with some rat poison. That old man Jacob Brown, drank that vile mix, and was deceased right off. His sons blamed on my pa. Beat him to death and left him a lying at the bottom of a holler.  In the course of my poking around the facts of the area, I discovered that the widow done killed, in the same type and manner, her two husbands. We did a stare off and went our own ways. So that, and lots of other things have kept me a busy man. I use the term man, now, since I am a whole twenty years old and almost able to sprout a hillbilly beard. That is until Sadie says otherwise.

  My new wife, the former Sadie Southern, now Sadie Tucker, spends plenty of time with me at the Daily Trumpeter, two times a week newspaper that covers all of Claymore County and continues spreading its circulation even more. I have found that folks seem to like a little sensational twist of the news as life can be boring in these hills. I am the number one ace reporter an work to improve my writing skills. My wife is the smile and the dazzle at the front desk that even grumpy folks soften to when they come in to the shop full of conniption fits.

I decided this local paper ought to be following stories from throughout the whole state, thanks to the communication of the phoneline. I can now pick up a line and hear what is going on in real time. Just right up to the second. This connection makes my job a whole lot easier.

That mine collapse over in Wolverton had folks waiting at the front of the store for a latest edition of what was happening with that, and the governor getting caught up in racketeering charges got everyone a jawing, too.

Yep, things is a heading in a positive direction is all I can say.

One of the town’s fine upstanding women just left out the door. She dropped off the weekly words from her husband, the good Preacher Stevens that we print up once a week. It keeps the church going folks happy.

There were a time I thought it best if I hightailed it out of this miserable patch of countryside. Most are poor folks, unable to read or write to save their souls, and there is nobody around to teach that kind of thing. Schools were scattered around here and there but too far away from the hill people. These folks just kept on doing what they learned from their old kin. Just trying to scratch out a existence in poverty.

We’re seeing more and more automobiles coming through the countryside. I guess folks get lost a lot driving those darned things. They always seem to be consulting a road map or two. Why even the mayor of our town is driving a new Model A Ford. It is a monster of a car that he drives up and down the streets at all hours of the day. Just showing off, I imagine.

You know, I’m kind of settling in to this territory. People are genuine, and will help the next neighbor, if need be. I’m thinking I need to really learn what needs to be learned about the business. I guess this might have been my calling when I walked into this newspaper office with a hope for a chance of some kind of employ, and Stanley Ray Marshall, proprietor took a throw of the dice on me to be of some kind of help. That big old boy taught me a bunch about this business and I’m doing my best to expand on such a deal.

Other big new is I hired a helper to set up the printing. Yep, none other than Harper Cornwell, who got hitched up with Delilah Grote, is laying printing blocks as I sit here. Kind of funny how that came about.

One day the kid stopped me on the street with one of our newspapers in his hand.

“Excuse me, Silas Tucker, I’s wondering if I might trouble you with a question about this here paper.” He said pointing to the latest edition of the Trumpeter.

“Most certain, Harper, what is it that is wondering you.” I answered

“Well, he scratched the back of his head, how do you get these words all in a nice near row and just the way you want them and all. Seems it must be pretty complicated like. I’s just a bit curious.” He stated.

What a confounding thing to come to me about, I thought

“Why don’t you and me saunter over toward the shop and I’ll explain the process in full detail for ya.” I suggested.

I went through the whole concept, explaining that there was a lot newer presses and ways to put out a newspaper but that the because the Trumpeter was fairly poor, and small, the old ways seem to work out just right.

“This here’s an article I plan on Friday’s edition. These here are the exact words in the particular order I need to put down. You want to try your hand at setting these blocks.” I asked.

Well, I was ding-dong astonished at the boy’s ability and he done that job in no time.

“I guess you telling me that you can read and write, Harper.” I spoke.

“Was my favorite thing of learnin at the old Swing holler school until it got burnt down by a bunch of older kids. Makes you able to step up in this world knowin those things.” He lamented.

I doubted he knew the powerfulness of those words.

“You interested in maybe putting a little work in this place, I mean, not full all the time but on certain days I might need a type setter?” I asked.

Harper Cornwell’s face lit up.

“Well, now, anything to get away for Delilah and her family for a spell. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovin wife, but can be a bit overbearin at times. Same with that family. I just can’t abide going along with them cutting down trees on property that ain’t theirs, then milling it up nice to sell as ifn it were an up and up proposition. Sneaking around at all hours and dragging that wood out of the hills ain’t what I want for me. Can’t believe they ain’t been nabbed yet, or at least fired on by a righteous owner.

“ I imagine a getaway every once in a while might ought to keep my brain on the straight and narrow. I accept, Silas.” He beamed.

“Know what you might be saying. Had a few how dee dos with Delilah’s folks. Sides that, welcome to the Daily Trumpeter.” I said and pumped the skinny boy’s hand in appreciation.

It wasn’t more than three days later that Delilah Grote-Cornwell come marching into the shop.

“Silas Tucker, what’s the meaning of putting my husband to work in this place and depriving me of his matrimonial favors. I never did hear of such a thing. You should ought to be ashamed of that low down misdeed you done pulled on me and my family.” Delilah finished with her head sticking out like a chicken ready for the choppin block, and he hands wound against her substantial hips.

“Well, a friendly hello there Delilah, good to see you are in fine form.” I chided.

“But what you jawin at me fer, seems communication with Harper should be what you should be attempting instead of standing here just to waste your loud yellin on me.” I suggested.

“Pfft, that no good stubborn mule says he got hired fair and square and needs to be desirous of something sides listening to his woman complain about every little thing under the sun. Can you imagine?” she asked in an incredulous tone.

I stared at Delilah, wanting to shake my head in agreement but would be flat out lying to us both.

“I got an idea for you that maybe works. What if you was to come down here a coupla days each week and straighten up and sweep and mop, too. That way you and Harlan can spend some real good quality time together right here at the paper. What you think?” I asked knowing the answer.

Delilah shrieked and stomped out the front.

“I ain’t no chore woman, I got my family at home to maintain, you know, cooking and such. Your offer is better given to some dumbed down hillbilly from these parts, not a newly and very happy, I might say, married woman who aspires to improve the misery of this town’s society. You ain’’t heard the last of this situation, ya hear.” She yelled.

“Bye now, Delilah, you have yourself a real nice day.” I said with my most sarcastic ability.

Things went along smoothly throughout the fall months. All the trees, which were few and far between, were losing their leaves that had turned yellow, orange, brown, and anything between.  Shame that a lot of this fine wood was being chopped down for one thing or another. Just a shame. But folks got to stay warm and have themselves a roof over their heads.

Sadie and I was walking to visit her ma, Nan, in Jackson City for the weekly dinner table feed. We shuffled through the leaves making noise aplenty, kicking up those dry leaves and laughing as we went. Suddenly Sadie got it in her mind to grab a passel of leaves and toss them right into my face. Well, I just couldn’t let that go. Soon, we were wrestling and laughing even more, and rolled down a little gulch. We finally stopped, wrapped up in each other. We both got a look of hungriness about us and after checking the territory, some clothes came a flying off. We were both wild and pumping and moving together really fast until both Sadie and I ended up throwing something out of our mouths like a scream, or grunt, or gasp or something. All I know for sure is that it took sometime before we could breathe normal like.

“Land sakes, children, your tardiness for dinner is not helping the tastiness of the vitals laid out on the table.” Nan eyed the both of us.

“I spect you’ll want to run a brush through your hair and get all those bits and pieces of leaves and grit off of you.” Our host said and I saw a smirk coming from her mouth as she turned slightly.

“And Silas, step outside and slap whatever you were laying in, offn them pants you is wearing. I never.” continued the admonishment. Sadie and I snuck a side long glance at each other. We wasn’t fooling this woman at all.

The meal was wonderful and as I got up to clear the table, Sadie came into the room with a cake all shining with burning candles. Twenty of them lit the place up. I didn’t give a single thought to my having a birthday but I was sure appreciative of the tasty dessert.  Put a nice topping on the day.

We walked home hand in hand. We came to the spot that we had done a little romp earlier in the day.

“Silas, you hankering for a birthday gift right at this here moment?” Sadie said with a devilish grin on her face.

I looked down at the side of the pathway then back up to her.

“I am already standing at attention, might as well do something about that.” I suggested.

Sadie screeched as I pulled her down the hillside. Happy Birthday to me!!

I decided to begin a program of barter and trading advertisements for locals. Those that might come in with something they wanted to get rid of but wanted maybe another worthless item in its place, were our clients. I would examine the thing, a tool, an axe, some preserves, a sewed or knitted piece of material, and even shine, but used the ultra-secret word, beverage, in its place. I used flowery description in the paper, and explained what the owner was looking for in return. Soon folks were dragging in the darndest things for me to advertise. They were coming in from all parts, some even from Washington County if you can imagine. I wondered if most items were found laying out in the hills and brought in. I looked at wagon wheels, old worn-out boots, rusted out two-man saws, called misery whips in this area, just bout everything.

Folks would pay me a few dimes to print their prize items, and in return, ended up buying my paper to see what someone else might be trying to unload.

Charlie Farnsworth even wanted to trade out his old outhouse as he had put up a brand new two holer. There was no surprise that he couldn’t find any takers for that.

Well, the swap got so big I took over a dilapidated building next to my place that used to be a coffee and sandwich shop that never did get off the ground according the longtime residents. Now, all these items I advertised, could be put in one spot and maybe catch the eye of another buyer.

Sadie and I planned to work in that store as time allowed, or if someone came a knocking at that door, but, by gosh, Mary Thistle, an old lady that been living alone on the edge of town forever, showed a desire to help out. She started manning the station on the days of the week that the Daily Trumpeter came out. She was paid a percentage of what she flat out sold.

She was as happy as a fat pig in slop, and she was good at it, too. Most folks walked away happy that they come out with somebody else’s worthless junk but had decided it was exactly what was needed at their place.

Mary named the business, The Trading Post. Mighty appropriate!

Sadie and I were sitting at our home, talking about adding more space, changing our furniture arrangement, and just moving to another location. A few moments later, I looked over at my girl and she had this sad, sullen look across her face. There was big tears pooling.

“Honey bear, what’s troubling your mind?” I asked quietly.

“Sorry, Silas, I’m just rehashing the demise of my father. You know the story and all or him starting his still on file and getting all crazy with moonshine and shooting at people and all that. Well, I was just thinking it weren’t really the way he was. He was a hard-working man, hardly ever drank up much, provided for ma and I and all. It’s just hard to swaller, that’s all.” She explained

“In fact, the only time I ever seen him over imbibe was when his cousins from Morton came over to stay a spell. They stayed up to all hours just doing a reminisce.  So, I just don’t understand what got into him all fired crazy that day.” my forlorn wife continued.

I reached around her arms and held her tight as we sat in that sad little shack we called our home.

“I tell you what, why don’t I do some searching and snooping and looking at recollections and all and see ifn I can figure anything other than what folks is saying. That help soothe you a bit, Sadie?”

She turned to me with a slight smile.

“That would be a mighty fine thing to do, Silas Tucker.” she said as she nodded approvingly.

In the meantime, I guess you could say that the prospect of being electrified was coming to these parts.  Folks were pretty excited until they found out it was necessary to pay a fee for such a nicety.

“We get along just fine with these here kerosene and gas lanterns. Don’t need no fancy electricity. Sides, ain’t got no things in the house that run on the stuff. A waste of time. Nope, no need for sure.” Came the comments.

I considered the possibly of upgrading the shop and throwing in some lights but was cautious. I was starting to think like others in these backwoods of this country.

Soon we had a couple of different outfits coming in, touting what electricity could do to change a person’s life, make things easier, a constant source at the push of a button. They certainly weren’t friendly with each other. Howard County Light and Power offered to put up a couple of street lights to show they meant business in the area, and Brewer Rural Co-op would offer a free wiring of a house if folks signed up with them.

I spent some time interviewing the bosses of the groups. They wasted a lot of time touting the positives of electricity, bad mouthing their competitor, and wanting to pay the newspaper to tout their company in the best light.

But there was something else at play in the goings on that I soon uncovered.

The federal government was willing to throw some big money the way of a business that was able to obtain promises for electrification in our area. Apparently we were talking a lot of money. In fact, the government was tossing money left and right for programs to bolster up the living conditions in this area. The trouble was, very little programs got past those upstanding folks who promised to implement them. The money got funneled to some other needy place, like their pockets. This seem to happen all the time.

All in all, it was exciting until finally one morning, both rivals left the area. They failed to sign up a single subscriber for all their effort. They probably quit trying to shake money out of an empty piggy bank. I gave an honest and full write up in the Trumpeter with all the true facts about their efforts. The falsehoods that twisted everything all crazy were uncovered also.

Guess the streetlights will have to be on the back burner for a while.

I came across other facts as I was researching this electricity thing. I saw a list of several programs meant to bring prosperity and business to our area. Danged politicians and their cronies.

Winter was on us quicker than a rooster on a June bug. Sadie and I stoked the old wood stove at the shop. It was mighty cold, let me tell you. Christmas was coming soon, only ten days away, but everything was frozen tight. Ot was the coldest temperatures on record, according to the old locals. Harper was trying to put the print blocks together with big oversized mittens on his hands, a knit scarf wrapped around his face, and all the time bouncing on his toes just to get some circulation a moving.  The printing apparatus even groaned mightily as it slowly moved through its motion of repetition. Good thing I ran some heat to the ink, otherwise there would be no paper to put out.

“Silas, we are almost out of wood for this heater, time to bring in another load, okay.” Sadie ordered.

I grabbed the sled from the side of the building and pulled it around the back. I noted some movement by the pile and figured a varmint was looking for protection from the cold. I got closer and noted a pair of legs sticking out in the snow.

“Sadie, Harper, get out here as quick as you can. We got trouble.” I yelled.

My excitement and surprise probably caused the entire town to hear my voice.

The three of us pulled an otherwise stiff cold boy who belonged to those legs, into the newspaper office and set him in a chair by the stove. He had frost on his face and his skin was bright red. I grabbed a jar of moonshine that Stanley Ray had never finished and gave our visitor a sip. He coughed and gagged but was moving around a bit better.

“Who are you, and what you doing trying to freeze to death round the back.” I asked.

The young man looked up with a kind of haunted look about him. I couldn’t tell if was flat scared, confused, or what. He wasn’t clothed for the weather. He had on two flannel shirts over top of one another, plain old cotton pants held up by some wide suspenders, and some completely worn-out shoes. The shoes had big holes showing right up on the side of each foot.

“My names Zeke Burns from up Dellwo way originally.  I got to walking in this snow and the coldness just caught up to me real bad. Thanks for taking me in for a bit while I get thawed.” He said through shivering lips.

Sadie’s face turned a pale white.

“You’re Zeke Burns, you that one that shot and kilt my pa, Henry Southern, that right.” She spoke with a certain amount of indignance.

“Now, that ain’t exactly all the truth, just the story made up.” He spoke defensive like, as we looked at him with mighty great curiosity.

I wondered just exactly what he meant by that statement.

“What’s that mean Zeke?” I questioned.

“Not saying a word more. Those onery bunch said I’d be dead if I opened my trap about truth. They twisted things up and told people lies until everyone believed em. Sent me out of town fer good. They got too much sway about things in that burnt town of Dellwo.” He muttered.

“I been wandering the country for almost three years now but had to come back to see my kin.” Zeke said with a sadness in his words.

“Did a quick visit and them boys, they saw me, so I lit out leaving the family confused with my abrupt leaving. Forgot my coat and gloves, I was in such a big hurry.” He continued.

“Who you talking like that about.” I pressed him.

“Just so’s you know, Henry’s daughter, I didn’t plug you pa, in fact, I didn’t ever shoot my squirrel gun no ways. Heck, wasn’t even loaded. I feel bad for all your kin but it ain’t safe for me to be hanging round this countryside. Those three bastards kilt Henry Southern just as sure as I’m sitting here in front of you all.” He finished.

“And that’s all I be wishing to say about that.” He looked up at me and I could tell that was a finality.

Sadie and I hurried across the street and got a can of vittles to heat up on the stove and warm that poor kid up. We got back shortly only to find him gone.

“Where’d that boy go?” I asked Harper.

“I tried to hold him down, but he pushed past and told me he was headed for parts unknown, cause he wanted to live a long life and all. Sorry.” Harper answered.

That talk with Zeke Burns put both Sadie and I into mighty confusion. Who was he pointing fingers at? Was he telling the truth or just joshing us? How could a killing like that get passed over. I made it a newspaperman’s priority to look into it. The old mind was swimming.

The cold let up a couple of weeks later.  The timing was just right for the Christmas holiday. It was not a big deal around here, you understand. There wasn’t any extra money in people’s pockets to made a big to do. Usually, a hog got butchered and cooked up nice. Folks usually shared food and shine but not much else. It was usually quiet times.

Christmas, for us, was spent at my mother-in-law’s place. It offered much more comfort than our little shack. I had recently put some tar paper up on the sides of the place and we chinked any holes we could find, but the cold just come blasting in enough to make the place rattle like a snare drum. I still hoped to make enough money to build something a little more pleasing.

Gift exchange came up after the big fried chicken dinner. Sadie presented me with full bib dark blue overalls.

“I want you to be wearing these at work so there is no more of those danged ink stains on your clothes. Why that nice new white cotton shirt I just got you is such a mess it is impossible to be cleaned up. You got to look presentable when folks come in to do business with you.” Sadie announced and kissed me nicely.

We both presented her ma with a big wooden sign we had been working on for all fall. We chiseled out words and painted them a black while the full sign was a bright white. She unwrapped the big gift and declared in the best thing ever and that we’d have to figure out how to hang it for best visuals.

“I declare, this is really something. Thank you both. I wish Henry was a sitting over in that yonder chair saying the same thing.” Nan said quietly.

We had told her about our suspiciousness with Henry’s dying and all but would be waiting until the weather clears to do some investigations.

The sign was set by the front of the shop and shone pretty nice, we thought. It read.

SOUTHERN STYLE GIFTS

It came my turn to give a gift that had been burning a hole in my winter pants for a month or so. Mary Thistle come bouncing in the shop one day to show me something.

“We get lots of stuff folks just want to donate and can’t be bothered with barter or trade or swap or such. I found this is a little wood box at the bottom of a worn out old wooden trunk. Must have been sitting in someone’s attic for years. Anyways, I thought you might want this, seeings how I surely don’t have a reason to be a keepin it for myself. This old lady got nuff junk to last the rest of my days.” She confided.

She opened her hand for me to see. It was quite a sight.

 I did the same in front of my Sadie.

“Honey Bear, I figured that wire ring on your finger was nice and symbolic at our wedding ceremony, but I decided you need to be upgraded. Now you take off that old thing so’s we can do this up proper.” I ordered.

She complied and I slid a beautiful genuine gold band that just fit he finger perfectly. She was speechless and got pretty teary before launching into a bear hug that lasted a long, long, time.

“Why Silas Tucker, however to this come about to your hands. It is just beautiful and all. Where did it come from?  Could we afford such a thing? How long you had this and not be telling me?” the questions came in bunches.

“Not saying a word except Merry Christmas, and I love you more than anything is this whole wide world. Okay?” I said with a finality.

The rest of the day was quiet with some book reading and the occasional neighbor stopping by to spout some season’s greetings. The walk back home that night, despite being so crisp out, was quick and happy. We both mentioned how nice to finally get tucked under that big heavy quilt we used to fight off the winter cold.

Sadie laid beside me holding her hand up to capture one more look at her ring.

“Silas, how can I ever in my life thank you for this fine gift.” She said with a smile.

I lifted the covers off her beautiful body just for a glimpse.

“Oh, I can think of something.” I said and grinned my biggest grin.

“Now that is one mighty fine solution to my concern.” She said and crawled deep under the covers.

Spring came quickly and I would see a flower blooming every once in a while. Time marched on and the newspaper business was keeping me busy.

Word started circulating that electricity was finally coming to the region, complements the federal government. That meant residences wouldn’t have to pay for service to be installed in their homes or businesses. Most area newspapers had strong opinions about what the feds would be having us doing next since we accepted their generous gift. On the other hand, were those, who I labeled progressives, ready to move the hill folks forward in this world with whatever means was needed. Politics had arrived. After that earlier debacle with some private competing power companies, it would be interesting to see what happened. Progress, most certainly, will be marching this way.

The testimony of young Zeke Burns was still taking up space in my little used brain. He had been mighty scared. I started snooping. First thing I did was to head to Dellwo, such as it was, and talk to some folks about that sad situation.

Most people clammed up soon as I mentioned the demise of Henry Southern. Some shared second-hand information as to what somebody said to someone and that it was probably gospel truth. And a few warned me not be sticking my nose in local situations. Interestingly enough, that set me digging deeper.  I wasted the whole day without one bit of information to sink my teeth into. That was until I talked to old Doc Porter. He was kind of a doctor but more of herbal healer, someone who could put together a poultice for infection, soup to cure a stomach ailment, or a salve to rub on a youngin’s chest cause of the croup.

“Hi Doc.” I said and introduced myself.

I wasn’t about to tell him just exactly what I was looking for but hoped for some answers.

“Hey, I was talking to Zeke Burns last winter, you know, the boy what shot old Henry Southern. Well, he tells me he figured his pea shooter of a gun must have caused the ball to ricochet off of something because he said must have been bumped when he took aim down the barrel. You see signs of a flattened bullet in old Henry. Zeke was just curious, and all.” I finished with the lie.

The old man looked up from the seed grinder he was working on, and narrowed his eyes.

“Nope didn’t see any deflection marks but it musta clanged off of something mighty sturdy, and slammed right in the opposite direction to the middle of Henry Southern’s back. Yep, quite a ricochet. Shame about Henry, though, him being harassed and all by that Will Chaffin and his kin. Now boy, I got some goods need delivered to a mighty pregnant lady in Swim Hollow, so what don’t you maybe mosey along, ya hear?” he suggested.

A lead at last.

I discovered that Will Chaffin was a former West Virginia State policeman who was involved in the uprisings around the Blair Mountains. It got to a time when the miners had enough of bad working conditions and low pay, and striking was their only way. Well, the police were brought in on behalf of the coal and mining companies, to shut down the working boys. The big money was ganging up on the miners. Sure enough, there was shootings and fights and name calling all over the map.

Before the smoke settled, it was on evidence where a few of the patrol boys just started firing guns willy nilly at innocents. The facts got out, but the money backed its own. The state patrol was quickly disbanded, but word was that Will Chaffin was right in the thick of the murders. He hightailed it back to the hills before he could be lynched by some mighty unhappy citizens. He came strutting in, according to some observers, and announced he was the genuine appointed law in Dellwo until the governor brought in another. A deputy sheriff he called himself. Folks did not like that man.

He and his cousins, Tolbert and Bud Hardy provided enough reason for folks to give them a wide berth. Just plan onery and thought they were privileged.

I began my investigation from that point, hoping to find some answers to give Sadie and Nan Southern some less misery.

The Hardy and Chaffin family flew a Confederate flag, wore some hand me down parts of the southern soldier’s Civil War uniform from almost sixty years before, and bragged on it at all opportunities. They somehow decided that the kin of Henry Southern were Yankees. Bad mouthed him at most opportunities. According to his widow, Henry never did mention one way or the other who his past folks backed.

“That’s history, not a concern.” he’d tell his wife when she asked him about the taunts.

It seems to me that I was spending more time in Dellwo that my home town. I was persistent in thinking that I should be righting a wrong. A friendly attitude, persistence, and suggestions caused most honest folks into feeling the need a step forward and give him some information.

I come up with the facts of the case and began to number them down on my note pad, then brought the whole kettle full back to the house and typed up the works on my Underwood. Sadie watched intently over my shoulders.

1.  Henry Southern was making better moonshine than the others in the area and was taking away some of their usual customers.
2. The other shine cookers warned Southern that it wasn’t right and there would be a reckoning if he kept it up.
3. Henry Southern was not shot by Zeke Burns, no how.
4. The victim was back shot
5. Folks were warned not to talk or testify about the happenings for fear of bodily harm.
6. Contrary to many stories, Henry Southern was toting a pitchfork, not a rifle.
7. Henry Southern hardly never drank a drop of liquor.
8. The victim was not cooking mash at all when his still went up in flames, so someone else must have torched it.
9. Remains of the still shows most of it was smashed and flattened by persons unknown.
10. The fire, aided by the wind, was caused by someone other than Henry Southern.
11. Henry, according to his widow, left her place of business to help extinguish the fire that was out of control
12. The community crowd gathered to the excitement, were goaded and prompted to blame Henry Southern for all the damage.
13. Folks were mighty sore about the fire damage and satisfied to blame someone, that being Henry Southern who was the victim of some malicious finger pointing.
14. There was no report of the death by anyone medical or from Deputy Sheriff Will Chaffin.

She read in amazement as I went along. She stopped me every so often to confirm that I really meant what I was putting down on paper.

“Silas, if this is true than nothing we thought happened and my pa shouldn’t be blamed for all the misgivings going on in Dellwo.” She exclaimed.

“Sorry to make the brightness go a little dim, but most of this is my best guessing, a twist of a few words and testimonies, and reading into words what people’s faces were telling me. But I plan on maybe setting a trap and see what comes from it.” I said and stood up to hold a sad but hopeful Sadie.

“We just oughta let things unfold. You know, shaking the trees to get the nuts off it.” I added.

The next five or six issues of the Daily Trumpeter sure enough got locals curious, and in some cases, riled up at an apparent misconstruing of justice. I slow fed information, using a newspaperman’s ability to twist things, into each chapter of my story. The Murder of Henry Southern became quite an interesting ongoing story. I had to run a special printing as folks around the Dellwo area and Jackson City were hollering for extras.

Regional newspapers picked up the stories and there was great concern from the most curious of places. A government representative, hoping this horrible scenario wouldn’t tarnish the governor’s reputation of promoting law and order, landed at my door one day to ask questions.

“The governor sent me to get some things figured out, Mr. Tucker, but we are mighty confused. You write about this misadventure and murder. We wanted to know how come you didn’t do conference with Sheriff Floyd Sessler? He been in these parts, assigned especially to the three-county area of the hills. It is a consternation for the politics of the governor’s office.” The well-dressed man said in recitement.

“Well, I would have been pleased as lemonade punch to talk with the man, himself, but we never have seen a Sheriff in these parts, ever. You round him up and sent him our way and we most certainly will trade words.” I answered.

The man looked at me in an amazed face and asked me to repeat what I had just said. I found out he began to ask others in the area about the absent lawman. They confirmed what I had just told the fellow.

It wasn’t more than a couple days later that an official looking automobile, covered with dust and mud, compliments of our poor roads, parked on the street in front of the Trumpeter. A fellow, whose face I can only describe as a weasel, hitched up his pants and sauntered into the newspaper building.

We had quite an interesting conversation as he spent most of his words explaining why he hadn’t ever been to our little town. I wondered if he had ever been to any of the places he was supposed to cover. We had words about my writings and said he’d be back in a week’s time as he would be a regular from here on out.

I was coming in early on a Friday morning, the day of the last installment of my exposing findings. I got near the shop and noticed the front door was off its hinge, been abused by someone, and a front window was broken. I hurried in. Papers was spread far and wide, my desk was in pieces, but the worst was seeing Harper Cornwell laid out on the floor in the back part of the place. I made haste to see my employee beat up bad. Blood all over his face and his arm hangin loose at an odd angle. Harpers nose had been smashed and a tooth or two was missing.

“Harper!” I yelled and knelt down aside him.

He looked up at me through his damaged eye sockets trying to focus his surroundings.

“Them boys we been printing about, came in looking for you. I took what they had to offer. No good bastards not getting the best of Harper Cornwell, by God.” He whispered.

“They says stop and desist your printing all them lies or you’d get the same as Henry Southern.” He continued, then closed his eyes for a moment.

“Harper, I’ll get some help and be back quicker than a dry fart through those pants of yourn.” I yelled out rapidly as I went out the door.

The next few days had lots of folks talking and concerned. Nothing like this had happened in our neck of the woods and made for some uncomfortable feelings.

I cleaned up the shop best I could and boarded up the bashed-up winder. Sadie cleaned around my desk and put things in order.

“Silas, she said as she swept up the mess from the floor, I don’t care what it takes but we will print, from now on, the best possible truths for all the wrongs goin on around these parts. I want the Trumpeter to be the center of news and justice. Promise me that.”

I walked across the shop and stood beside her.

“What was done to your pa was not right by any stretch of the word. Same goes with Harper. We are here to put up the fight, you and me, Honey bear, you and me.” I proclaimed.

Two days later Delilah Grote-Crowell came marching across the main street, with several members of her family in tow. I braced myself for the mighty blasting that Delilah could conjure up. She walked in alone.

“Silas Tucker, I come to apologize for all my negativity I ever sent your way. What happened to Harper got my craziness up and all. I was ablamin you for all of it and told my husband I was going to come over and let you have my unhappiness for sure. He grabbed my arm to talk and we talked.” Delilah said through tears.

“My man told me he was proud of his work, and his worth, and his wife. Then he said, not in any particular order, you see. Harper stood up to those bastards what did that to him but told me it was not, in any way or fashion, being your fault. He’s mending and told me to let you know he would be making an appearance as soon as he was able. So that’s that.” She said and walked out the door.

Suddenly Delilah’s father filled the doorway and stepped in. He wasn’t a tall man but sizeable, like all them hanging out behind me on the front walk.

“How do, Silas.” came a greeting from Bubba.

“You got a quick minute to jaw with me.” He asked politely.

“Sure nuff, got the rest of the day. What can I be a help with.” I answered.

“Well, what Ima goin tell you might go agin the grain of fine upstanding folks, but when Harper got beat, those who did it didn’t realize that that boy was part of the Grote clan for real. He is like a son it hurt me gravely to see what had happened to him. Now me, and Cletus, and Hank, and Cyrus, outside may oughta visit those fellas at our convenience and see if maybe they can tell us what happened in all of this.

A week later a little parade of good ole boys marched into town; I suppose for everyone could see. The sheriff’s car was sitting in front of the Mercantile and all. Tolbert and Bud Hardy along with Will Chaffin came a stumbling along being not so nicely pushed by Cyrus Grote, the biggest of the whole bunch. They parked their behinds and Bubba Grote walked in to see Sheriff Sessler. Lots of talking and yelling and such then the sheriff loaded up the boys from Dellwo and took them off. I never did see them again in this town but followed the action that followed with delight.

Did I mention that all three of the men who weren’t kin to the Grote family had cuts, burns, and bruises covering their bodies?  Mean looking black eyes almost swollen shut, too. I learned that the bottom of their feet got a little red from the coals of a fire, I’m guessing. I didn’t feel bad. They deserved what was dished to them. Turn about is fair play, I thought.

Two months later I got notice of a court date concerning the murder. I was to be acting the role of a witness if called. I figured that duty allowed me the best way to get the correct facts concerning the entire process.  I left for Adams County and that big court house that set right smack dab in the middle of the town. I rented the last room at a boarding house and awaited my turn. Since I had never been to an actual trial I figured it would be a good chance of education.

I got called up on the stand to tell what I knew, but only volunteered what was asked, knowing there might have been some fabricating on my part in my reporting along the way.

“Now Mr. Tucker, as owner and editor of the Daily Trumpeter you printed out a series of thoughts and facts concerning the death of Mr. Henry Southern, am I right.” The attorney asked.

“Yes, indeed.” I answered.

“Now if this heinous crime mostly found out by you, was so wicked, don’t you think you should have contacted the law enforcement agency?” he implied that I was being wild and stupid of propriety.

“Would have if there was any around.” I answered as those in the courtroom started talking at once.

That lead to the whole thing about the absent sheriff and failing to do his duty.

“Why did you pursue this crime as it was already tied up in a neat bow and all.” came one of the last questions.

“Because the deceased, Henry Southern was the pa to my missus, and she claimed everything opposite of what the story going around was saying. It was only right.”  I said in finality.

Strange things happened during the affair. Folks who’d been bullied and bamboozles by those three accused came up with the real story of what they saw and what they were told to say. Even Zeke Burns came to tell his part. His family was sitting there and showed a pride in his facing his tormentors.

There was a few funny parts I have to tell you, especially when Tolbert Hardy claimed he shot in self-defense and in fear of his life.

“Alright, Mr. Hardy, you are telling me that Henry Southern, walking away from you, away, right, with a pitchfork in his hand was a threat to you so you shot him right square in the back. Did I get that correct?” the attorney stated followed by plenty of laughter in the courthouse.

The jury was out for four hours before coming back in with a verdict. Most folks figured they stretched that time out so they could be a free lunch.

All were guilty one way or the other of murder. I was sorely satisfied with it all and couldn’t wait to get back home.

“Well, Sadie, your pa was completely vindicated of any wrongdoing, I hope that helps you a little.” I announced.

“Thank you Silas, but he’s still gone from us due to the hands of others. I pray he’s happy wherever he might be.” Sadie said and broke down in racking tears.

The healing had started for her and Nan. If I never do another good thing in this world I shall be a happy man. Nan was visited by people whom she hadn’t talked with for years, mostly those who had turned their back on her. She received apologies, well wishing, and even some new customers.

The end of the 1920’s was fast approaching. The paper was doing just fine, Harper was given an opportunity of go out and get some news on his own. The untimely death of a prize pig, and the arrival of street lamps wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but he had to start somewhere.

One day a couple of well-dressed fellows come into the shop and looked around. Wanted to talk with me for a while.

It turned out they ran the Garber Newsworld, a fancy name for multiple small newspapers that were all printed by the same most modern printing press in the region. The smaller places send in bits and pieces of local news in, and they are added to the major stories coming out in the world.

“What we want is the right to use you and the local news to help our complete offering to folks in this here area. We print the paper and send it off to the subscribers you have pieced together over the years. We will pay you for that. The building, all this equipment in this here place, it stays here, we don’t have a use for it. Interested?” one of them asked.

“How much local news will be used in this octopus like paper and how often does it come to our region.” I asked.

“Well, it ain’t like an octopus but have to admit we got a lot of feelers out?” the man gave a belly laugh.

“Anyway, we ship, cause it’s a might distant, an edition three times a week, kinda like what you’re doing now.” He stated.

“What about my hired help, they got good paying jobs here and I’d hate to have to send them onto a poor track.” I inquired.

The older man, the quiet one, wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“This is how interested we are in providing the best news to Claymore County. Nuff there to float your help for some time. We’ll be back in a week’s time, expecting an answer then, fair enough?” the older man suggested.

I hadn’t looked at the note, but came home to run things by Sadie. She was skeptical and concerned about what if any local goings ons would make the fancy newspaper. And what about Harper? That was a big question. They were all valid concerns. Those thoughts slipped away when I opened up the note. The dollar amount was more than I ever seen written out. They were serious alright.

I was sure indecisive about my next move. Even thought about just flipping a coin. The things I could do to our home with that kind of money, and I would still be writing up stories and news. I had enjoyed writing ever since I was a young kid, so that part wouldn’t be taken away.

In a weeks’ time and I was a pretty rich man, kept Harper on to do some local gossip, and basically shuttered the door of the Daily Trumpeter. A sad day for me but a lot of folks came by to wish me the best with the new adventure, and then went on to state that they understood my reasoning for the action. Good sound thinking hill folks. They were my people.

Well, it’s been a year since I had time to look at has happened to me and Honey bear.

I have some quiet time, finally, so will finish up on this well-worn notebook that has been with me ever since I was young complaining boy outside my family home. The pink flamingo on the front still interests me. Someday I’d travel to Florida and see one up close.

Now, golly, what has happened..

A thing called the great stock market crash literally took the nation’s economy to its knees. On the local level, Garber Newsworld, flat broke, inquired as to whether I would like to buy subscription rights back for my old newspaper. I agreed and handed them two percent of what they had paid me a year earlier. They were happy to get what they got.

Sheriff Floyd Sessler lost his job shortly after the murder trial. I wasn’t surprised. It turns out he was collecting tribute from bootleggers and moonshiners and anyone else he could think of, as he might turn a blind eye to their activity. That included a special quiet agreement, he had with the Hardy boys and Will Chaffin. He basically ignored a crime of murder.

But the biggest news is that our little house now has two added bedrooms, one so we could have some privacy, and the other room for Henry Southern Tucker, our baby son. Right now, he’s gets laid out in a nice crib I found next door at the trading post.

I have done some things over the years I’m not too proud of, questionable things, you see, but holding that little boy in my arms while I’m a rocking and he’s sleeping, I easily let those things slide out my mind.

When I was a young boy, I thought the best solution for me, and my family problems, was to run away, to go to a big city, and find people who understood about life and good times. I dreamed that for years.

Old Mary Whistler said something to me one day as I was lamenting about things that were happening in our country, all the misery, how helpless I was to do much about it, and unable to change a danged thing.

“Silas, it’s not the weight that breaks the camel’s back, but how he carries it.” Came the message that I have never forgot.

I spent years just thinking about running away, now I realize this is my home, and these are my people. Yes sir, my people.

Nope, I ain’t got no desire to be aleavin.

We’re going to the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump. A typical precursor of excitement that was our made-up mantra. We started that chant when our father had announced that the barrels standing in the alley were full and needed emptying.

It was another time, the late 50’s and early 60’s. Our small town had a poorly maintained garbage dump about four miles outside of town. The eyesore sat in a low-lying area just about three hundred yards of the state highway; the main connector of many small communities in a north south direction from Great Falls, the big city in north central Montana. The dump, as everyone called it, had a single dirt roadway that was slightly elevated, and eventually gave way to a couple of branch roads off to both sides. Every six months or so, the city maintenance vehicle, which was really a pickup truck with a push blade in the front, would clear the buildup of trash dumped unceremoniously on the actual road and force it down into the tall grass and weeds that grew unchecked.

The typical resident of our farming community had many vehicles including at least one pickup truck. The usual refuse container area, was filled with yard clippings, branches, and household garbage. Fifty-five-gallon barrels, the typical garbage can for the area could be found in almost every alley. They may at one time been filled with fuel or oil but repurposed. The top was cut off and the barrel was a sturdy long lasting household garbage container.

Burning bans were not in existence during those years and common sense was the rule. Trash was incinerated if the barrels overflowed. As kids we stood around and watched the flames, as if it was our own personal campfire. Conscientious home owners would toss some kinds of screen over the barrels to prevent flaming debris from flying out.

The seagulls instantly appeared when we approached the dump, and the smell of the area was a signal of drawing near. I wondered what highway travelers thought as they drove by our dump. That was just the way it was back then.

I never did figure out what was so exciting about taking the drive to the ultimate resting place of unwanted piles of junk, but I never missed a chance to journey there. I imagine anyone following my dad down the back roads with a full load would be bombarded with limbs, grass clippings, and ashes from the uncovered barrels.

My mother would complain that dad would inevitable come back with more stuff that he left with. She was often right. He was a tinkerer; his love was old radios.

“Why this is perfectly good, or, all this needs a new plug on the cord, or, the radio works fine without that plastic cover, or, I have some tubes I think will fit this one.” He would announce in justification to add to his hoard in the garage.

Occasionally he would get one working and we all had to marvel at his genius. He gave me one small radio he had resurrected, and I kept it on my night stand. The first night I turned the thing on, it threw up a big puff of smoke, a bang, then went dark. The next day it was back out in the workshop being examined and resurrected.

Now I’m getting sidetracked a bit too much. I wanted you to get an idea of the times. There weren’t container trucks built specially for trash, or container cans approved by the city, or certain days for pickup. There were certainly no rules for trash burning in the city limits. The garbage got emptied simply when the barrels were full, or the roads were reasonably clear of winter snow, and someone had a truck available.

My dad, as well as a large percentage of the fathers in my town, were Word War II veterans. They came back home to take over the family farms, set up mechanic shops, worked in farm implement stores, and other businesses endeavors. Almost all started families, their kids were friends of mine. The Baby Boomers they called us.

Everybody knew everybody and everybody’s business it seemed like. It was a town of three hundred and fifty people. So, you can imagine. It was also a community that would lend a helping hand when needed.  One farmer was laid up and unable to harvest his wheat. The others in the area abandoned their own fields and brought in the entire crop in one day. That’s how it was.

Again, I can’t seem to get to the point, but you get the idea that these folks were salt of the earth.

One day a new man came into town. He rented a small three-room house right near the edge of the community reservoir. His name was Jake Funkhouser. Jake was of slight build, prematurely white hair that stuck out like a haystack under his pith helmet. You know, the one that all the rich people on African safari wore. The helmet had a little ribbon on the front of it.

My dad told me it signified a person had earned a Marine Crop silver star citation for his action of bravery and gallantry during the war. Dad explained the decoration to me in his words with an air of respect.  I had no idea if that star was a big deal or not, but I guess it turned out to be the case.

I never saw Jake wear anything but dark blue bib coveralls and a white tee shirt. Never. 

The man kept to himself, exchanging short conversations with people, but not making an effort to prolong their interaction.

Dad said the man was probably suffered from shell shock, explaining to me that sometimes the pressure, tension, fear, and seeing death on a major scale affected a guy’s mind, and it took a while for him to get straightened out.  Today it is called PTSD, post-traumatic stress disease.

The people gave Jake his space and privacy. That’s how it was for a short time.

 Jake drove around an old truck that was popular with the Army during the war. Dad called it a “deuce and a half transport”, which apparently meant a two and one-half ton truck. It looked a bit like a jeep, but didn’t have anything fancy on it. Just a plain old truck. The insignia on the truck was that of a REO. Some of the farmers in the area drove the same make vehicle but they were grain trucks. Jake’s truck was painted olive drab, the favorite color of the United States Army. Dad figured he bought it at an auction, a sale of surplus equipment from the war.

Jake’s landlady, a really old woman who came to our church on Sundays, was quite a baker. Everyone lined up early when her cinnamon rolls were being sold for some community fund raiser. She also baked a ton of bread, giving it to needy people and friends. She was a nice woman. Apparently, she had mentioned to Jake that the man who usually ran to the dump for her had torn up his leg in a bailer accident and she was concerned about how she was ever going to get her garbage containers emptied. And that is actually the beginning of this story.

Jake began to haul trash, junk, and garbage for the people of the community. Word of his service traveled quickly in the small town. And he refused to take payment. At least payment of money. He was bombarded with foodstuffs, baked goods, hot dishes, and fresh fruit and vegetables. He was given tickets to spaghetti dinners, the Lutheran lutefisk feast, school functions, and vouchers for gasoline. But never money.

Jake kept the work up, without complaint or conversation. He didn’t drink as far as anyone knew, was an avid reader and traded books with various people in the town.

One day his truck pulled up in front of our house. My dad went out to talk to Jake for a brief moment. I watched dad turn away and walk toward the garage. He had three radios of questionable condition under his arms. Jake had made a point to bring dad a treasure trove from the dump. A big smile shone on my father’s face. I never did figure out how Jake had known what my dad’s passion was. Somebody must have said something.

One week Jake didn’t show up on his usual route. A few men came around to his house and found he had injured his back. Apparently, it would be some time before he could help the people with their trash. A few fellows borrowed his truck, under the guise of covering for him until he got better. In reality, a bunch of the town mechanics and metal workers, and farmers installed a hydraulic lift on the back of his old REO. No more lifting those big barrels into the back of the truck.

If Jake showed up at a church dinner of some kind, the church ladies descended on him like a flock of birds. I watched him at one dinner. I thought he was a little bit embarrassed but he sure put away the food set in front of him. Polite, appreciative, and quiet.  Wearing the same clothes as always.

He was once asked why he chose our town to hang his hat. He said he had been traveling the state, drove by the town and noted a military service being conducted in the cemetery, the city graveyard situated right beside the highway. He stopped to pay his respects, heard the twenty-one-gun salute and the final end of day melody of taps. He thought this might be a good reverent town that honored those who had served in the armed forces. Why not, he said.

Jake lived in our town for about eight years, then one day was gone. He left no notes, forwarding address, or anything else. It was quite a topic of conversation for some time. A mystery.

The town started to forget about Jake Funkhouser, until one day an event brought to the forefront his memory. High school graduation was nearing and a stranger visited the school for a brief time. He was invited to come back and speak to the graduating class.

The tall ramrod straight speaker was about the age of my father. He talked with a slight southern accent but was easy to understand.

He explained that his brother, Jake Funkhouser, who had lived in our community for years, had passed away from cancer shortly after leaving this area. The brother said that Jake didn’t want to burden the community with his illness. The man also went on to tell other details of his life.

His family had a successful business in Texas, an oil processing corporation. Jake had the opportunity to be a high-level manager, but, after the war, had no desire to be involved.

Jake was a decorated war hero.  He had won a Silver Star citation.

The brother went on to tell the story:

 Jake’s platoon, one of many on Midway Island, was being impeded by cross fire from machine guns. Jake crawled and ran through the maze of bullets, tossed a grenade into one machine gun nest, then race on to engage in hand-to-hand combat and silence the other machine gun. Jake saw so many of his fellow soldiers die that day and for days afterward. It had a great effect on him and he closed himself off from much of the world. I’m sure many of you saw that part of him. He was a gentle soul, a hard worker, and a great friend. In the days before death, he talked about the kindness this community had shown him, a stranger in the midst.

He wished to show his appreciation in some small way. I have directed the local bank to manage a large money fund that will be used for future scholarships for this community’s high school graduates. The Jake Funkhouser Memorial scholarship will be awarded to any young man or woman who has aspirations of serving with Uncle Sam. If the recipient continues to be enrolled in the college or university and remains involved in the reserve officer training corps curriculum, all expenses will be paid by the scholarship. He loved the Marine Corps.

My brother was also an avid reader. He told me that he often exchanged books with other readers in the community. My brother has set aside an amount of money for the city to use to build and maintain a public library. His only directive is that the words, “Behind every Great Community is a Great Library” be displayed somewhere on the premises.

Jake was buried with full military honors near Austin, Texas.  He was a good man.

The brother, on completion of his talk was given thunderous applause. I have to think, though, the ovation was for Jake, the garbage man.

LABOR DAY, 2023, 1P.M.           

I stood staring at the face of my Samsung 23 ultra, the newest hottest cellphone on the market. A blinking movement of light faded and I barely noticed a slight device vibration as the telephone call ended. The audio connection had finished and suddenly a bright picture of the Lake Tahoe shoreline appeared. Charlene had chosen to display that snap as the current background screen. She picked the gem over all the hundreds of others that filled the gallery of this little electronic wizard. She had told me it would bring me to a happy place every time I looked at it. She wasn’t wrong.

A memorable vacation indeed. Char, myself, and our crazy mix of a mutt, Shorty, were the travelers. It had been the last road trip of the year and the weather had been beautiful the whole time. The lake water was clear and blue, and the different pine trees that framed the shot provided a nice contrast. I didn’t take it, of course, since I had no patience to work the landscape and the lighting for just that perfect image. Char is the one to take the snaps, and they seem to always turn out beautifully.

We had camped, I fished, she cooked, we napped, and Shorty, our adventuresome dog, found every pile of animal dung in a three-county area to roll in. He had been given more baths in those two weeks than in his entire life.

I was trying to flesh out a storyline for my latest novel. I was blank. Nothing seemed to come to me. I was trying to keep my literary agent appeased. No distractions outside of a few late-night partiers in the campground could help in that endeavor. Char was able to get in some quality studying to ready herself for the national testing to finally receive her much-deserved pharmacy license. Thirty days and counting for that big event.

I mindlessly focused on the cell phone image for quite some time until its face turned dark.

I had been engaged in a conversation for the better part of fifteen minutes, but barely speaking a handful of words. Information from the other end had bombarded me; things that I just couldn’t understand or comprehend. My head was whirling in confusion when the line started its long steady buzz indicating the call had finally ended.

“Who was that Teddy? “My wife asked with concern.

She had been watching me during the entire telephone call.

I spoke with a soft, almost whispering voice, “That was my brother.”

“Who?” Char said apprehensively.

“My brother.” I repeated louder that I wanted to.

“Ted, you don’t have a brother!” she blurted out as she quickly walked toward me.

ONE MONTH EARLIER….

“What is this?” I asked my diminutive wife. Her Asian heritage height was typical of her cultural background. She claimed to be five feet five inches tall but that would have been with six-inch platform shoes. Height didn’t matter. That was fine with me. She was my Vietnamese beauty. The bronze skin, dark hair, warm brown eyes, and perfectly curved lips drew me to her immediately the first time we had met.

A chance encounter as classmates in a basic history class at the state’s university began it all. She was definitely not just another pretty face. The class we shared was just an elective for her to fulfill her general requirements in order to enter the School of Pharmacy. I took it just because, but struggled with the class. It was, to me boring and full of memorization. I would have rather spent my hours in the library reading the classics and trying to understand the styles of successful writers.

She had earned a Doctorate in Pharmacy. Me? I sat around thinking up things to write about. I should have paid attention when the professor was talking about the early twentieth century bourgeois. Oh, and the succession of royalty in Europe. That’s about all I remember of that class, except I made sure to sit next to Char every day.

Coffee dates, movies, and dances, when she could fit them into her busy schedule started things off. Soon after a whirlwind romance and approval by her extended family, we were wed. We had agreed on a small quiet ceremony. A quick honeymoon to Disneyland and we were soon settling into married life routines.

“I know what my heritage is. It is quite obvious, but I thought it would be fun to discover where your genetic background existed a few hundred years ago. I bought this kit so you could find out why you are so handsome and strong.” Charlene answering my question with a big smile.

My Charlene, known as Hoa to her family, had always been so thoughtful and pleasant. I, in turn, made an extra effort to support her in all of her activities. She was working as a pharmacy intern at a local independent pharmacy, and loving it. I became a reluctant or willing chief cook and bottle washer. I didn’t mind as I was at home in front of my computer many hours of the day.

I had published three mystery and drama novels in the past two years under the nom de plume of D.D. Masterson. I have no idea where that name came from but my editor was all for it. I was told that Theodore Zuckermeier just didn’t have the right pop. It was easy to agree to the alias.

Char had asked me about my family history a few times, and as we couldn’t really pinpoint a region where there were many Zuckermeiers, she decided it was high time we find out. I was a little over six feet tall, a barrel chest, a bit hirsute, but not hairy like some middle eastern and Mediterranean men, strong upper body build, dark, and somewhat curly hair, a light beard, and a strong chin. She was right. I needed a little DNA information.

“If we have any children, I’m sure they would like to know why they look the way they look.” She said as a continued encouragement.

“So, I just spit into this tube, wrap it up, and mail it away? And that’s it?” I asked Char.

“Yes, sir. So easy even you can do it.” She teased.

“Why don’t you drop it in the mailbox when you walk the dog? Shorty is anxious to see if the boulevard trees have any new messages on them. I think he’s ready to leave a few of his own, too.” She added and giggled.

The name Shorty was a no brainer. We thought he might be a dachshund and corgi mix, but his coat and tail really didn’t belong to either breed. His belly was about two inches off the floor; hence, Shorty became his moniker.

The ancestry information had arrived by mail about a month later. A time of discovery was at hand. It was “Who exactly is Ted” time, I guess.

“Well, this is interesting.” my wife commented as she sat, curled up in our one and only oversized, overstuffed chair. It was her reading and studying domain and I dare not sit in it upon fear of death. She was busily scanning the results of my ancestry. The packet displayed more advertisements on the face of it for further options with their company. Promote, promote, promote.

“It says here that your ancestors came from the German states, England and Ireland. They touched Spain sometime along the way, too.” Char continued.

“Did you know any of that, Teddy?” she asked as she looked up at me.

“No, my mother thought she had ancestors in England, but my dad was pretty closed mouth about any of that stuff. I don’t know why. Maybe he either didn’t have a clue or it wasn’t important to him.” I answered.

I could see his point on both of those possibilities.

“You, my husband, are just about as big a mix as Shorty.” She smirked and handed me the pages of information that a one hundred dollars’ worth of saliva had afforded me.

Some of what was presented was interesting, but most was as exciting as watching grass grow.

“Is that what you think of me, Doctor Charlene?” I said and reached down to kiss her warm lips.

“I hear that Spanish lovers are the best, and it’s in my DNA. Be forewarned.” I smiled and raised one eyebrow.

“Hay lam tinh.” She spouted enthusiastically in her native Vietnamese language.

My educated wife didn’t need to interpret those words for me; I knew she had said” let’s make love.” That was one of the first phrases I learned. I didn’t hesitate. We quickly made our way to the bedroom, undressing each other along the way.

We both napped for a short while trying to rebuild the energy we had gloriously exerted, then I slid off the side of the bed quietly as to not awaken the sleeping beauty.

I looked at the newly found information about my ancestry for just a minute as I flipped through the pages once again.

“That’s nice.” I said offhandedly to myself, then tossed the packet under the pile of “I’ll get to it later” mail and correspondence and completely forgot about it, concentrating on other duties.

That is until I got that telephone call.

LABOR DAY, 2023, 2P.M.

“Yes, a brother. He had apparently been searching for his birth background for quite some time when my genetic profile alerted him as to my existence.” I said to my wife, still not believing what I had just heard.” He had a lot to say over the phone.”

He told me his age; he was three years older than myself. I figured this tryst with his mother would have been in the years that my father was still in the hills of northern California, living free and easy, and enjoying the life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He had always claimed he was the consummate commune hippie.

I didn’t offer that information to the caller, but he did confirm that his mother had also lived the same life style as my dad, and became pregnant during that time. She had, quite honestly, told him of her early years, and that his father could have been any number of men. He learned all of this before he was even a teenager. She had told him that people came and went on a whim so she couldn’t honestly give him the information he had longed for. He said it had been a pretty heavy load for him as a young person to carry, but that his mother wasn’t necessarily concerned about his feelings. It was just the way she was.

The man, Joe Lightness, was quite animated over the telephone and wanted to meet with me and any other siblings I might have.

“Nope, it’s just me.” I said keeping all my cards close to my vest.

I wasn’t sure of any of what he was saying, but agreed to meet him at a later date. I told him I would text him as to the time and place.

“I know you live in Montana. The telephone number prefix gave that away. I’m in Coeur d’ Alene. I’ve been here most of my life, and now have a wife and three kids. I hope to make a visit, as it isn’t too far away. I’ m really anxious to fill in some blanks about my father. I can imagine you must feel bombarded by all of this so just take some time to decide what you want to do.” He finished.

“Oh, and by the way, if you Google me, my name in most hits will be Journey Lightness. Compliments of a spacey, but commune loving mother.” He added as an afterthought, then ended the call.

“So, Charlene, my dear, I guess I got more than I bargained for when my DNA discoveries hit the information highway. Now what should I do?” I asked my wife, her jaw still dropping from my pronouncement.

“Well, you’ve lived your entire life as an only child, but now you find out you may have to share your father with a brother. Can you do that?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t really have a choice, but the other thing I thought about was whether or not I should tell Dad all of this. I don’t know if any of this is true, so maybe I will wait and do my own investigations to confirm the whole mess.” I continued vocally firing off all of my jumbled thoughts.

“I think we should wait, but not for long, and maybe the whole question is moot. You know the progressiveness of Charley’s Alzheimer’s.  Some good days, some bad days, and some terrible days. Even if everything is on the up and up, this Joe character might not get the satisfaction of actually meeting his father, such as he is.” Char spoke in practical terms.

Charles Zuckermeier had lived alone, then with home assistance, as long as was practical before I had to make the gut-wrenching decision to move him into a facility. His home, my home, was sold long ago to pay for the horrendous medical bills of my mother’s sojourn through cancer treatment. He was settled into a nice apartment and was quite upset when we had to move him again. I realized during all these moves that possessions, or lack of them, weren’t important in the big scheme of things. He had nothing now, a ward of the state, and barely hanging on to sanity.

Charlene was right. The sooner the better so that Journey Lightness’s curiosity of his progenitor issue would, at last, be answered.

I did some quick research and found my newly discovered brother was an owner and operator of a small construction business outside of Post Falls, Idaho. It seemed to be a viable long-established business. They advertised the success of all sorts of work modalities. The owner, Joe Lightness started the business alone and had built it up. That told me something about the guy. I couldn’t find any photographs of him, however.

What was truly amazing is the fact that my father was also in construction. He had been a finish carpenter most of his career, but also branched out into foundation and concrete work. That, in itself, was interesting.

The main thing that kept bombarding my brain was what effect, if any, would have on my father’s fragile situation. I wondered whether I was being selfish, not wanted to share him with this person, or was I truly concerned about my father. I didn’t know if something like this would really set him off.

I made the call.

TWO WEEKS LATER..

I met Joe alone at the Big Perk, a coffee shop just off of Higgins Avenue. He was excited that I had wanted to talk with him and fill in some blanks about his father, my father, our father.

I saw him walking toward the shop. He was easy to recognize. It was as if a younger version of my father had somehow and miraculously recovered from his debilitation and was coming toward me. I did a double take and waited.  He walked in, and directly to me. I became, finally, excited to meet.

“I knew your face from the picture on one of your mystery books. They are a great read by the way, when I have the time. I did a little research, or should I say one of my kids did the whole computer bit. That skill is pretty minimal for me.” Joe said, the first thing out of his mouth.

I apologized for staring at him without speaking for a moment. I explained his family resemblance.

I knew at that moment that his story rang true. He was my father’s son.

We talked at length. He told the story of his mother, Moonbeam, becoming addicted to heroin after years of dabbling with other drugs. He was taken from her at the age of fourteen and raised by his grandparents. He got word that she had died of an overdose somewhere in the San Francisco area. They never talked much about her, ever.

The fact that he and his father were both in construction gave him a great moment to ponder. He asked all sorts of questions about that career, where he worked, what it involved, was he a union guy, and other things. He even suggested I look into insurance policies that might have been taken out and carried by the union. I hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

I showed him a group of photos of my father. I had chosen several that would be indicative of his life, from the time I was a baby, until just recently.  The man across from me silently studied his picture.

He finally looked up at me through tear filled eyes.

“Thanks Ted, you have no idea what it means to me to see these pictures. When did Charles, right, Charles Zuckermeier pass away.” came an innocent question.

I measured my answer carefully and said, “He’s still alive, he lives in an Alzheimer unit here in town.”

I could tell the answer caused some anxiety from my newly found brother.

“Do you think it would be appropriate to at least see him?” Joe asked.

I was greatly relieved by the way he worded the question. He was concerned about me, and my father.  I made the decision quickly.

“No time like the present. It’s early in the day and he is usually a little sharper than in the evening. I’ll drive us, or you can follow me. It’s not too far.” I suggested.

Joe explained almost apologetically, “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take my own rig. I’ve got a big job bid this evening that I need to be present for. But I appreciate the time you are taking for this.”

“Hey” I said and lightly slapped his shoulder, “that’s what families are for.

He quickly turned his head, hiding an emotion, and we walked out of the coffee shop.

The drive to the old Deaconess Hospital, now strictly a unit for dementia and Alzheimer’s sufferers took about twenty minutes.

“How’s he doing today”, I asked Mary, the patient coordinator, who seems to know answers to all my questions.

“It’s been a pretty good day. He acted out this morning about something that was bothering him but he’s settled down. Go ahead on in.” she suggested and pointed to a day room that held another half dozen people.

We approached our father quietly. He was sitting still in a day chair, looking out the window. I walked around in front of him and sat down.

“Hi Dad, it’s a beautiful day outside isn’t it.” I said, never asking him to try to remember anything.

“I saw a bird on the ledge. He was trying to get in.” he said and pointed a wrinkled arthritic finger past me.

“I brought a friend. His name is Joe.” I said and Joe walked around quietly and sat next to me.

Charles just nodded.

“Joe wants to talk with you, is that okay?” I asked.

He nodded again.

“I am glad to meet you, I live in Idaho and came to visit. My mother Moonbeam said to say hello.” Joe said in an uncertain voice.

Charles turned his eyes toward Joe and looked at him for the longest time.

“I was in love with Moonbeam and wanted to marry her, but she said no. Where is she?” he said and turned slightly in his chair to look behind him.

Joe gripped my forearm so tightly after dad had finished talking. I knew that affirmation meant the world to him. He finally got his answers.

“Moonbeam isn’t here right now.” I said quickly.

My father, by then, became lost in the jumble of brain waves that would no longer make sense to him for quite some time. He moved his head slightly and gazed blankly out the window.

“I saw a bird on the ledge.” The old man said and nodded to the window.

I gave him a kiss on his cheek, and the two of us walked out together. Joe excused himself and headed to a restroom. I could hear muffled sobs behind the door. I understood.

We stood out in the parking lot for quite some time just talking about different things. We exchanged e-mail addresses, home and work addresses, and everything else we could think of. I promised to send Joe the entire medical records of our father in case a question of heredity came up for himself or his kids.

We set another meeting date in Coeur d’ Alene the following Sunday. I was anxious to meet my nieces and nephews and my sister-in-law, and, in turn, bring my sweetheart along to brag on her.

A new chapter was about to open up in my life, one I never, in my wildest dreams, could have imagined.

ONE WEEK AFTER MEETING MY BROTHER FOR THE FIRST TIME….

I began to formulate a storyline for another book. It would be one of love, tragedy, and intrigue. It began:

They thought the feds would leave them alone. A little weed here and there wasn’t a big deal.  Aquarius, our leader, had called a meeting of the community. We were to decide if we would protect our home in the woods, or, as he put it, let the fascist bastards run all over us. He stood in front of us, holding an automatic rifle across his body as he spoke.

I was sitting next to my very pregnant girlfriend, and feeling very alarmed.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Serenity. This is not a safe place to be.” I whispered.

“I can’t go, all of my friends are here, besides where would we go?” she said quietly.

Suddenly shots rang out.

Claudia looked intensely at her boyfriend for the longest time before she spoke.

“It’s been almost two years; you can do this.” She said with encouragement.

Danny didn’t say anything but kept his eyes on the two-track road. The tall grass between the paths brushed the underside of the old Chevy producing a strange flapping sound, the autumn hatch of grasshoppers trying desperately to jump out of the way.

Claudia reached out and gently grabbed his forearm.

“You haven’t said a single word since we started down the river breaks road. It’ll be okay, I know it will. You just have to get past what happened.” She said quietly.

Danny turned quickly to his girlfriend and blurted out, “I know, I know all that! I’m here aren’t I?”

Claudia, a bit startled by the outburst, moved from the center of the front seat, and reached for her towel. She opened the passenger door and began to slide out.

“You’re coming, right?” she said.

Danny turned to her before speaking, “I’ll be there in a few.”

“If we don’t see you in ten minutes, the whole gang will be back here to drag you out of this car, do you hear me!” Claudia said forcefully and shut the door with an unintended force.

She walked toward the old growth of cottonwood trees shadowing the edge of the river. Danny watched her move so gracefully. He thought himself a lucky kid to have such a beautiful girlfriend. And that body!

Danny looked at the collection of four other vehicles parked in the same area. He knew who was probably in the water right now, just from recognizing the cars. It was small town familiarity for sure.

He stared out the front window, unmoving.

“Get out and enjoy the day, Danny boy.” a barely familiar voice suddenly broke the silence from the other side of the car.

Danny looked to his right.  He was stunned and wide eyed at the sight of his old friend, and just as quickly felt an anger creep into his mind.

“Why did you have to dive. I told you not to go head first until we had checked the bottom. You knew the spring runoff changed things in the Mud Hole. No, you had to be the first one off the tall bank, didn’t you.” Danny said in admonishment and looked over to see his best friend, Mark, sitting next to him, wearing nothing but a swimming suit.

“I know, I had to show off. I heard you yelling up at me but I ignored you. I figured it was safe. I’m sorry, man.” Mark answered in a quiet even voice.

“The river was so muddy you could have at least checked around the dive area beforehand. Why didn’t you?” Danny asked, his voice cracking.

“Honestly, I didn’t even think about it, I just saw the ledge up above, and the water down below, and everybody watching, so I went for it.” Mark answered.

“And when you came up floating on your face, I thought you were faking, so I ignored you.” Danny lamented.

Mark looked out the front window then back at his lifelong friend before explaining, “I was already gone. I hit that bank full on and broke my neck. It was over and I didn’t feel a thing.

Danny was crying while he did his best to explain, “You kept floating and I couldn’t grab you. I had to get out the river and run along the bank to catch up to you. That current was really strong and taking you downstream.”

“I know, I saw you coming. I was somehow strangely hovering above the whole scene. Thank you for nabbing me when you did, and also using that CPR we learned in Boy Scouts. But like I said, it was too late.” Mark explained.

“You had been my best friend, and you still are. I haven’t forgotten all the fun times we had, and all the trouble we got into, too. I don’t want one stupid act on my part to cause you any more pain. I love you too much to let that happen.” Mark, continuing in a quiet soothing voice, said.

“Please get on with your life and remember me. I’m doing just fine. I’ve got to go now, but it was wonderful to talk with you again, Danny boy. See ya.” He said with a smile then vanished in an instant.

Dan looked over at the now empty space and whispered, “I miss you, but will always remember you, man.”

He sat quietly with his head bowed for what seemed to be eons, then raised his chin enough to notice that Claudia hadn’t made it to the tree line yet. He beeped the horn of his Chevy, grabbed his towel and goggles and jumped out of the car.

“Wait for me.” He yelled.  

People have loved magic since the beginning of time.  Who hasn’t enjoyed watching a magician do his tricks?  He seems to make things you thought were lost or destroyed appear right in front of you – such as the ripped apart playing card trick.  Or conversely, he can make something disappear that totally surprises you – things which are supposed to be there are no longer visible.

I remember watching a TV special with David Copperfield as the magician.  He did everything – card tricks, the bunny in the hat trick, the escape artist trick, and he made an entire airplane disappear – a Lear jet no less.  But his most famous trick was done in 1983 in front of multiple cameras, with millions of people watching from home and another ten or twenty in person, and no one watching could figure out how he made a 310 foot, 225 ton Statue of Liberty vanish. Years later, the secret was revealed by David himself.  

How did he do those things?  Most magic involves redirecting or refocusing the audience’s attention, thereby enabling the magician to hide something from the audience, all the while talking soothingly to those watching, and perhaps pressing a few buttons.  Then the outcome is revealed, and the audience is appropriately stunned and impressed.  In the case of the Statue of Liberty, he hung up a sheet in front of the statue, refocused the audience’s attention in a different direction, talked soothingly to those watching, pushed a few buttons, rotated the stage ever so slowly so that a post on which the sheet was attached came between the statue and the viewer, and the Statue of Liberty magically disappeared when the sheet was lifted.  The statue was still there, but we couldn’t see it because our viewpoint had changed.

A British science fiction writer, Arthur C. Clarke, once said, “Magic is just science that we don’t understand yet.”  Science is explaining a lot of the magic in our world, but magic still exists.  It exists every day in nature, in the beauty around us, in other people, and especially in children.  But beyond all that, I experience that sense of magic every time my grandson comes to my house, I tell him what my computer or cell phone is doing or not doing, he talks soothingly to me, pushes a few buttons, and my attention is refocused as he magically shows me the now properly working device.  As always, I am appropriately surprised, wonder how he did it, and am seriously impressed. 

Technology is still magic to me!

Emotions –  we all have them.  Have you ever noticed how people behave when they are happy, or frustrated, or sad,  or simmering about something that happened that they had no control over, or so angry they seem ready to erupt? 

Most people experience a whole spectrum of emotions, usually over the course of time, but occasionally all at once – that is especially true with teenagers.  It seems like younger children experience one emotion at a time, but teenagers seem to have a great many emotions which can come tumbling out all at once.  Vicky was a young teenager, so her emotions sometimes came in bunches.  

Vicky and I were about the same age and we lived next door to each other after her family moved to Colorado.  We became good friends.  We felt comfortable together and enjoyed each other’s company.  When I saw her, I could usually tell what her mood was.  Now and then she confided in me because she learned that I wouldn’t betray her confidences; I’d  never tell her secrets to anyone else.  Other times I may not have known why she was frustrated, or sad, or whatever because there were times when she didn’t really feel like talking to me about what was bothering her.   We seemed to understand each other’s needs though, like sometimes friends don’t need someone yakking at them.  They may just need some quiet time, so they can think things through.  Every so often, with a good friend, you just have to wait for some indication of their readiness to talk, to move on, or perhaps to socialize.

I knew that Vicky’s dad died suddenly a couple of years back and that her mom decided to move the family here to our little town in Colorado.  Vicky wasn’t really happy about moving away from their home in Ohio.  There were times when she seemed lonely and sad.  Sad about her dad, I was sure, but also sad that she had to leave her friends at her old house.  Young children seem to adapt easier to change – wherever their family is is where they want to be, and they accept whatever changes come along. Vicky, however, did not seem to be adapting to her new environment very easily.

So when I saw Vicky out and about, I sometimes paid her a friendly visit.  I just wanted her to know that I was there for her, just like she was always there for me.  Every now and then, a friend just needs comfort, so I did my best.  This particular day just seemed like one of those days, so I walked over to her house, stood quietly by her side, and wagged my tail.

I live in a 55+ community, and love it. Love my house, love my neighbors, love all the great benefits a neighborhood like ours offers. And I love my boyfriend—or as I call him, my true love, Jack. He lives in another town, 45 miles north. Lucky for me, he makes the trip down here most weekends and we enjoy our time together very much.

Many of the residents here know him, but not all know that he doesn’t live here. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when I attended a midweek gathering and someone asked, “Where’s Jack?” I explained he is here on weekends and would be at the next gathering on Saturday.

The woman who had asked was sitting at a table with her husband and a few other people. She nodded at my answer. Then her face exhibited a progression of emotions as she thought about what I’d just said. Finally, with a dreamy look on her face, she asked, “You mean you have five days each week all to yourself?”

The other women at the table uttered soft moans and hmmmm’s as they, too, considered this idea of partnership. The men’s foreheads wrinkled, a few eyebrows raised, and their smiles turned downward. “Whadda ya mean?” said one of them. “Hmph!” said another. And quickly, the subject was changed and the community chatter went on as usual.

Jack and I don’t have a marriage certificate, nor kids together, but we’re as much a couple as any other duo I know. He’s my family, an important part of my life the past 13 years, and is named in my will equally to my siblings. But neither of us are keen on living together, unless, as we’ve often daydreamed, we could build a log cabin duplex in the woods. With a passage door between the two units. With a light over the transom that could switch from green to red whenever one of us needed our space.

Recently, one of the more hip members of our community remarked, “Oh, you’re like Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“Huh?” I responded. I mean, look at Gwyneth, look at me. No resemblance in any way, especially shape or form, unfortunately. And listen to Gwyneth, listen to me. I hope to hell I have more common sense than that broad. Just look up Gwyneth and Goop if you don’t know what I’m talking about.

“No,” my friend continued. “You’re both into LAT.”

Oh god, I thought, is this another weird sex/health thing the celebrities are doing, like Gwyneth’s jade egg or vaginal scented candle?

“You know. You and Jack.”

I was about to tell my friend she was getting way too personal here, but she finally explained.

“LAT stands for Living Apart Together. It’s the new trend. Gwyneth and her husband are married, but they live in separate homes.”

“Oh, that! Okay, sure.” I was relieved. “I didn’t know that was a trend.”

Well, apparently it is. People in lasting partnerships, married or not, who choose for whatever reasons to maintain separate living spaces. Some do it for financial reasons, some because their work makes it practical, or some because they feel that not being together constantly strengthens their bond. Maybe they just like to have a good amount of individual space.

I think it takes a certain level of maturity, self-awareness and trust to make Living Apart Together work. When I was young, I would never have been able to handle it. That trust thing is a big deal. Maybe we’re just old enough now that we don’t have energy to be on the lookout for alternative partners. Or maybe we’ve both had it up to here with untrustworthy partners and know a great thing when we have it.

When Jack and I met, we each had our own home, each fully furnished and outfitted to accommodate our single lifestyles. We both knew how to be happy alone. Plus, he’s still working and his business is based where he lives. When I retired, I scouted around and figured out just how far south I could go before he would have second thoughts about coming to visit. I think I hit our sweet spot with Ovation at Oak Tree. At least for now.

And hey, who knew we were being trendy? Might be the first time ever for either of us.

The old house timbers creaked and moaned as the winter wind began its introductory onslaught of a wicked snow storm that was supposed to hit the region. Fred pulled the old thread bare quilt over his shoulders and looked at the hot red coils in the wall heater.

“You sure as hell had better crank it up. What you’re throwing out isn’t cutting the mustard.” He spoke with distain to the unit sitting four feet away from his rocking chair.

Fred Phillips looked across the room toward an identical rocker.

“Belle, best be putting on a heavy sweater tonight, it’s going to be a cold one.” He suggested.

“You know, for the life of me I can’t figure out why we quit wintering down in Arizona. What’s it been, eight, ten years? Anyway, cozy up.” The old man continued.

Just then he heard the familiar slap of bells announcing that someone had come through the back door.

“It’s just me. I’m back to clean up the supper dishes. I’ll be out there in a minute.”  came the familiar voice of his daughter.

She, her husband and four kids lived next door. A nice convenience for everyone, Fred had always thought.

“I left some cinnamon rolls and put some cut up fruit in the frig for tomorrow morning.” She spoke loudly from the kitchen.

The woman soon came out to the living room. She still had the heavy parka hood covering her head, and fur lined boot on her feet.

“It is so cold out there. The radio said its going to be around zero tonight. I see you’re up close to the heater.” She said with a laugh.

She grabbed a nearby comforter and tucked it around him as he sat.

“Yessiree, I was just telling your mother here that we should have kept on going south during this miserable winter weather we always seem to get. We’ll be okay, don’t worry about us.” Fred answered.

Just then his daughter walked over and stroked her father’s thinning white hair.

“Oh Dad, Mom passed away almost ten years ago, don’t you remember?” she said sadly.

The old man stared blankly at rocking chair sitting across the room.

“Well, of course I do, honey.” He said in affirmation and patted her hand.

There was a moment of silence between the two, then his daughter grabbed the television remote, pushed a few buttons on it then handed it to her father.

“It’s on the Western Theatre station. John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. I know you like them. Now make sure you keep warm and I’ll be back tomorrow late in the morning.” She said as she kissed his forehead and headed for the back door.

Fred watched the movie, cussing every time a commercial started. Finally, at the end, he hit the off button, shut off the lamp next to him, and pushed the chair into a reclining position.

“You know, Belle, I’m concerned about our daughter. There is something not right in her noggin. I had to play along with her notions that you were gone.” The old man, blankets  pulled up under his chin, said softly.

“We’ll talk about it the morning when this brain isn’t so tired. Sweet dreams, old gal.” Fred said and drifted off to sleep.