The Dilemma

“If God is God he is not good and if God is good he is not God.” Archibald MacLeish

Reprise

A Note on Captured Rotation (Take IV)

Fading legibility,
these letters,
a vague statement
of what happened,
carried
some obscurity
as to the terror
they marked.
Some vague curse
up to God
over cause,
perhaps screamed
some long ago
day
etched
into the skin.
Such was the patina
of her old tattoo,
and such
the cold glow
of it's pale field.
A four-lettered
blackness
that had wrapped
around
her white wrist
bright
and bitter
with no light
of its own,
dragging her cold
as the moon
goes around,
with a smile
that was fixed
after dying.
Dead things
are still things.
Going about
and doing things.
And this one
wore "fate"
dug in shallow
on her forearm
in a murky ink.
Faint,
requiring
repeated glances
several times
over
the coffee
poured.
Glancing
between
the counter
and the window,
and passing back
again
to the counter,
and the window
and seen only then
as FATE.
The window
looked onto nothing
except
the ambiguity
of a dark day.
And neither
that presence,
nor hers,
nor mine,
was to be explained
by any wisdom
asking might gain.
To trail
a cold wet rag
across the counter-
these letters
could I date them-
to wipe up spots
and crumbs-
might spell out
some moment-
to squeeze out
a muddy water
from her fingers
to the sink-
so long ago,
as some day
of last energies-
of some last act
of carving out
resignations
mindlessly,
of wrist from rag-
of elbow from wrist
from rag-
of shoulder
from elbow
and wrist from rag-
of neck
from shoulder
and elbow,
wrist and rag-
of head
from neck
from shoulder
from elbow
from wrist
from rag.
And me.
And what else?
A cup of coffee.
And a spoon.
And, oh yes,
a napkin.
Some "thank you"
drifted
out of my mouth
and into the air
between us.
"You're welcome."
came back
in a distant voice
not seeming to come
from her lips.
Then her eyes
stopped short
with "Who said that?"
And mine looked back,
not knowing.

The Dream Year

What happens when a mind is locked away in some paralyzed comatose head unable to know the world outside? That is the subject of a story I will begin posting soon. First, I want to return to 'Nothing Comes From Nothing' in the coming week.

Meanwhile, to preface 'The Dream Year', it involves an accident, a young man in a coma, and his girl friend. Much of the story will take place within the victim's head. If you'd like a sneak peek, you can read a few of the opening paragraphs HERE.

Awkward

Looking back I guess it was ridiculous to feel in love at the age of six with a girl named Anna Mustard. I wasn't old enough to have pimples yet, no less pubic hair. And it never occurred to me that her last name meant anything other than her hair was yellow. By the time I was old enough to even touch her pale skin, she was some evaporating history. To this day I still remember her though, but her eyes were maybe not as big and blue as I imagined. Or maybe they were.

Blue Christmas

When seven year old Rhema's mother died, Rhema sang this song and dedicated it to her.

(You should be able to click play then double click image to go full screen if you like...)

How You Say....?

I was thinking about what it takes to make a word come out. Any word. The way the tongue knows how to move along my palate. And knows how to touch my teeth. And how my lips take their cue. And my jaw has a part in this too, going up and down several times. All to say...Merry...Christmas...To...You...sigh..........

Is There A Sucker Born Every Minute?

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We currently cover the following states:
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West Virginia, Wisconsin

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Unfortunately at this time we are not equipped to accommodate all species and must limit our services to dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, and small caged mammals. [Please note: we offer rescue services for horses, camels, llamas, donkeys, etc. in NH,VT, ID and MT ]

Thank you for your interest in Eternal Earth-Bound Pets. We hope we can help provide you with peace of mind.

Two Forward, One Back Makes Three?

This post is an attempt to write about writing. Recently I have found myself stuck with respect to my most recent attempt to write a long story (NOTHING COMES FROM NOTHING). Three chapters into it, it seems several readers have found the idea of this story (a noir-styled detective tale) interesting. But, I left off with a cliff-hanger of sorts at the end of Chapter Three. And that was the point at which I got stuck. So, I have been stewing about with it for days now. My realization now is that I have to go backwards in order to go forward.

For one thing, I jumped into this tale in the immediate aftermath of writing DAW. That story unfolded in first-person. It seemed to work well that way. So, I impulsively began this new venture in the same manner, only now coming to a screeching halt. Ooops! It shouldn't be a first-person story. This is a real pain in the ass realization, not just for me, but maybe for my several readers as well.

All I know to do is to pause, and re-write the first three chapters in third person. So, that's my realization. If I am going to write this story at all, it needs to come from a larger perspective.

Also occurring to me alongside that realization, was another one. Initially, I was thinking I would simply lay out two characters (detective and assistant) and move them into a crime drama and then on out to another one chapter by chapter. Now, I think that a larger over-riding story must move throughout the tale while sub-plots unfold and are dealt with. Duh! So, this is where I am on the learning curve of how to write.

So, if you've been following along, I hope you will bear with me as I do this re-write and bring us back to Chapter 4: 'What Really Happened to Melody Johannson'? I will try to bring it all back up from this new (and somewhat'omniscient') point of view over the holidays.

Meanwhile, I'll try to do some miscellaneous kinds of posts on other things. So, wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I hope it is a happy, safe and warm winter season for you. I'll try to be back up to speed on this story by January 1, and hope you will put NOTHING COMES FROM NOTHING on pause, as I try to deal with these 'technical difficulties'! dan

Southern Cuisine

My Stupidity

In all honesty, I don't know what is going on anymore. Politicians seem as stupid as ever. Am I so stupid to think there is a thing called progress? It is a thing between me and them, I guess, as to who is stupider than who?

Is There a Doctor in the House?

Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears without crying
Now I want to understand

I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hiding
You must help me if you can

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long

`Cause I have wandered through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I`ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams
People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it`s later than it seems

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what you see
I hear their cries
Just say if it`s too late for me

Doctor, my eyes
Cannot see the sky
Is this the PRICE for having learned how not to
cry.

Jackson Browne back in the days we kinda thought we could change stuff.

BAM! (A Very Short Story)

Alabama was the name his mother gave him. She never saw that land on the journey from Virginia. She died along the way. He grew up with strangers and ran away at sixteen. He ran away to Kentucky and killed two men along the way. The third man killed him. No one knows where he was buried.

More Nothingness

I just posted Chapter Three of 'Nothing Comes From Nothing'. If you would like to read it, click on BROKEN HEARTED MELODY. :)

YOU

If you haven't been to Dee's 8th dimension blog site today to view a short film he posted by Louis Schwartzberg, you are really missing something. The piece is about ten minutes long, including an introduction by Schwartzberg. I can practically guarantee you that upon watching this, you will look away to wherever you are, and whatever you are doing with a fresh sense of wonder about your own life.

Paste this into your browser, or simply click on the 8th Dimension link in my column of blog links on the left.

http://the8thdimension.blogspot.com/

YIKES!!

I guess I am sorta getting out on a limb here, posting lengthy text on my blog site. I've been blogging three years or more now. And, frankly I think blog sites function better with shorter material. Everyone, including myself, likes to make the rounds of various other sites, and to discover new sites along the way. I've been delighted by the many ways people explore their creativity, and share in their life experiences. And I like it when I can get onto a site, absorb it, say hello and move on in a matter of minutes. After all, I have chickens to feed, and eggs to gather.

I tried for quite a while to post short fictions. Flash pieces which could be perused in a few minutes. I like the succinctness of flash. In fact, it was a flash piece about a boy in a coal mining town that had several follow up tales because people liked the character. Over time, it became a book. I think I lost some followers along the way. Not everybody has time to read longer material. Especially when posted every few days in bits and pieces. I remember when the serial thriller '24' first came out, and the cliff-hanger endings of each episode. I found it very frustrating to have to wait a whole week to find out how Jack Bauer was going to possibly get out of that jam he was left in. In fact, I stopped watching the show, and instead waited for the entire season to hit the market in one box of five discs. So, I watched the second season of '24' in a viewing marathon that lasted about 17 hours. The discrepancy in time being that when viewing it on tv, the clock keeps ticking even though the show cuts to three minute commercials.

Now that I have blogged episode by episode a whole book, I see my blog site as some drawing board for longer ideas. And, even knowing I will lose some folks along the way, it seems what I most want to do. Maybe I will return to shorter posts eventually, but for now, its a 'gotta do what I gotta do' feeling.

So, now I am into another unfolding drama. Nothing Comes From Nothing. Unlike DAW which was a simple story of people overcoming everyday obstacles and the unpredictability of life, 'Nothing...' is a venture into the seamier side of life. People with sinister purposes, evil intentions, premeditated violence. As such, it won't be for everyone. One, it will be long. And two, it will contain unsavory language, violent imagery, and sexual references. So, it's 'R' rated, you might say. Maybe a few people will follow along. Maybe I am sentencing my blog site to death by attrition. In any case, it seems a good way for me to spend the winter days, the site becomes my wordy sketch pad, a fantasy unfolds, pretty soon it is spring, and maybe I will return to drawings and wood work and such. So, if I am losing you here, check back in the spring. Thanks to those of you who find the time to read along. It only takes a few readers to make me think I have an audience. And, if I lose everybody, well, it still can't be helped. I'm into it.

Moving on from all the disclaimers stated, I will post 'Nothing Comes From Nothing' in complete chapters, each chapter exposing a problem and dealing with it. Chapter Two: JOE BLOW, is my current post. Even now, I am in the middle of Chapter Three in draft, BROKEN HEARTED MELODY. (coming soon) For now, for those who like this somewhat cheesy detective genre, here's JOE BLOW.

If you made a start on Chapter one (The Bromberg Matter) but haven't read the ending, you will need to scroll down past Joe Blow to find that.

(All work copyrighted by me on the day posted)

Cold November Sunrise

Conclusion of THE BROMBERG MATTER

If you have been reading along in chapter One of 'Nothing Comes From Nothing',( The Bromberg Matter) here is the conclusion.


From here on out as I continue to write more about private investigator Chuck Morrissey, and his assistant, Penny O'Conner, I will post in complete chapters. Chapter Two of Nothing Comes From Nothing will be entitled 'Joe Blow'. Stay tuned.

More 'Nothing'.....

'NOTHING COMES FROM NOTHING' is an unfolding story presented as I write it, in first draft (and copyrighted) form. The story follows a private investigator (Chuck Morrissey) and his new assistant (Penny O'Conner) as they attempt in this first chapter to unravel the mystery of a 19 year old cold-case murder/suicide. My current post picks up midway in chapter one, 'The Bromberg Matter'. To read the current post click HERE. To read the story from its beginning, scroll past that current post where the story first begins.)

DAW

DAW is the current working title of the collected episodes in the life of Dawson. It has taken three months to write this first draft. It is now completed. 87 episodes, and some 50,000 words. Thanks to those of you who have followed this story along as I was writing it. It meant a lot to feel that kind of support.

PART IV, the conclusion of the story can be read HERE.

The story of DAW in its entirety can be read by scrolling down past Part IV to where the story began back in August.

I will let the DAW site stand for a couple of weeks, then download it and delete the site. My next step will hopefully be to edit/revise the story and to eventually make it available in hard copy.

----------------------------------------------------

Coming up next on the Lifesbone site is a continuation of 'Nothing Comes From Nothing', a noirish crime detective story.....hope you will stay tuned......

.

Okey Dokey

The past few days I have been writing on 'Nothing Comes From Nothing', and thinking a lot about the conclusion for my many episodes in the life of Dawson. It puts me in different worlds. Meanwhile, the dishes are accumulating in the sink, and an appraiser is coming to look at the house on Friday and I have a serious impulse to get my act together and clean house.

Regarding my beginning of Nothing Comes From Nothing, I have 8 new episodes to post. If you have been following along you can find these HERE. The unfolding story can be read from it's beginning HERE.

I will be back in a few days to let you 'friends of Dawson' know how life on Ossabaw Island panned out.

More Dawson

(Some episodes of the story that pick up where we left off, after Jolene Moorhead's sudden appearance.) MORE DAWSON

News About Nothing.....

The evolving story, 'Nothing Comes From Nothing' now has its own site. I have added two new episodes. Click on Nothing Comes From Nothing and if you have already read the opening episodes over the past few days, scroll down (on the new site) to the two new episodes called:

"According to Doyle"

and

"Penny's New Toy"

(I will be back with new Dawson episodes this weekend.)

Red White and Blue (With Strings Attached)

(Should I have added, 'Batteries Not Included'?)

Nothing continues....

It took a few days to get used to having a woman around the office again. I had become comfortable just being my slob self, scratching my balls whenever I felt like it, and other such simple luxuries. No more sitting on the toilet with the door open and reading the paper for an hour. But on the other hand, she was always there early, and by the time I waltzed in, she had the coffee going and was dusting my desk. I did have to gently chide her though when she began compulsively organizing the files and papers I had strewn about the desktop. She was quite naive about the genius of the clutter.
"You see Penny, when I have my papers all piled about every which way, it makes me look like a busy man. It impresses people who come in to request my services."
"Should I make my desk look messy too?" she asked, glancing through the doorway into the front room.
"No. Your desk is the first thing the client sees. It should look very efficient and organized. And, of course you want to be pleasant and courteous to the client, an no flirting with the client."
"Oh, I'd never," she said earnestly. I looked at her and nodded.
"That's what my last secretary said. Ok," I continued, "So you can ask them if they would like a cup of coffee. Tell them Mr. Morrissey will be with them shortly. Then you can buzz me and tell me the client is here. I'll say send them in, and then I'll probably ask you to get such and such a file. See how it works?"
"I think so," she replied with a smile. "Will there be anything else, Mister Morrissey?"
"Look," I said. "You can call me Chuck if its just you and me here. But otherwise, its Mister Morrissey, and I'll refer to you as Miss O'Conner."
"Anything else, Mister Chuck?"
"Not, Mister Chuck, just Chuck."
"Yes, sir," she answered.
"And don't call me sir except when we are in the presence of a client."
"Okey dokey, Chuck," she smiled.
"And one more thing, Penny. Do you know how to use a fire arm?"
"You mean I'm going to have to shoot people?"
"Look, Penny," I said, as I sat down behind my desk. "I promised your uncle I would look after you. Hopefully you wouldn't ever have to shoot anyone, but it doesn't hurt for a gal to carry a little protection in her purse."
"I can take care of myself," she said, "I'm not just some helpless little girl."
"All I'm saying Penny, is that you don't know Terre Haute. In fact there's some things about this city you shouldn't know. So, tomorrow afternoon, I want you to go over to the shooting range at the Police Academy. Ask to see Billy Scriver. Tell him you are working for me, and that you need a quick course on hand guns."
"Yes, sir," she replied, "I mean Chuck." She turned to go back to her desk. "And Penny, see if you can dig out that Bromberg file."
"You got it, Chuck," she said over her shoulder. I looked at her ass as she left. Her snug black skirt. Her black nylons.
"Careful, Chucky," I said to myself. "She's just a kid. And Doyle's niece, at that."

More Nothing....

I don't know why I am starting another story (Nothing Comes From Nothing) when I still have to finish the rambling Dawson saga, but this sketch just came to mind yesterday, and some of you seemed to like it, so I will begin taking it further. Here's the next episode.

A PENNY FOR MY THOUGHTS

I walked the several blocks to O'Brian's pub. The icy blowing rain was a pain in the ass, but it would make my usual bourbon taste all the better. Besides, the wad of greenbacks Bromberg gave me was burning a hole in my pocket, and I owe Doyle a couple of stiff ones.
Jamie Doyle was bellied up to the bar in his usual place along with a young redhead that looked half his age. Doyle was retired now from the force and spent a good part of his pension drinking off 23 years of working Homicide.
"Chucky!" he shouted in a wet raspy voice as I walked toward him. "Come on over here."
I pulled up a stool and called to O'Brian behind the bar.
"Get Jamie and his lady friend another round." I smiled and tipped my hat to the redhead who looked to be a curvaceous young thing. Doyle wrapped his arm around the girl's shoulder. "This here is my niece Penny. She's come over from Toledo looking for work." She reached a slender hand out across Doyle's big belly.
"Penny O'Conner," she said with a smile. I took her hand, noting how warm it was, and how she wasn't sporting a ring, and how manicured her candy apple red nails were.
"Chuck Morrissey," I said, suddenly absorbed by her blue eyes and the lipstick on her cigarette as she brought it to her lips. Doyle slapped me on the back.
"Chucky here, is a gumshoe, Penny. A damn good one too," he slobbered. Penny nodded and flashed a pearly white smile. "You've got lipstick on your teeth, honey," Doyle said to her.
"Oops," Penny laughed, brushing across her uppers with a fingertip. "I'll be right back," she said, grabbing her purse. She headed off to the lady's room. I gave Doyle a nudge with my elbow.
"Is she really your niece?"
Doyle laughed with a sputter and wiped his mouth.
"Hell, yes," he said, "What were you thinking?"
"Well," I answered clicking my glass to his, "You've introduced me to a lot of your so-called nieces over the years, and most of them weren't." He tossed his drink back and motioned to O'Brian for another.
"I suppose I did have me a reputation for robbing the cradle in my day, but Penny here is my sister's daughter. She is a little bundle though, isn't she?" I nodded, looking over at Penny strolling out of the lady's room swinging her purse and stopping at the juke box. "Nice legs," I said under my breath.
"I'm gonna have a hell of a time keeping her out of trouble in this town," Doyle whispered out of the side of his mouth. "Whatever happened to that gal you had working for you, by the way."
"Allison? She ran off with one of my clients last year," I shrugged.
"Well, hell," Doyle said, "Why don't you take Penny on? She told me she could type. And you'd be doing me a favor by looking out for her."
"I don't know, Doyle, I said, "Money's kind of tight these days."
"Hell, Chuck. She wouldn't want much. She just needs a starting place somewhere. I'm covering her rent over at the Biltmore 'til she gets on her feet." Penny walked back toward us as the juke box kicked on. Gale Storm singing 'Dark Moon'. Doyle pushed back from the bar.
"I gotta go drain that damn lizard again," he said, stumbling off to the bathroom. Penny sat down and crossed her legs then dug into her purse for her cigarettes. I pulled my lighter out of my coat pocket and she leaned toward me with her cigarette dangling from her lips.
"So, Penny," I said striking the lighter with my thumb and watching her take a long draw, "Your uncle tells me you are looking for work."
She nodded.
"Yeh, I was thinking of working the bar here for O'Brian, but my uncle said, 'Over my dead body!'." She said it in a funny imitation of Doyle's voice, and laughed.
"Can you type?" I asked.
"Uh huh," she nodded, bringing her hand up toward her face and studying her nails. I took the opportunity of her distraction to give her a quick up and down. Would I really be able to get anything done with a pair of legs like those walking around the office? I was a bit nervous about taking her on, but there's something about blue-eyed redheads that brings out a certain craziness in me.

Nothing Comes From Nothing

Terre Haute in the dead of winter is every shade of grey. Even the snow fell dirty as the coal ash spewed up to the sky by the city was thrown back as a murky sleet. The ancient iron radiator in my office spewed and coughed a puddle of water around its ornate feet. The clanking of the steam pipes throughout the building on a winter's day was a kind of music that rose and fell in movements as the furnace in the basement burned low, and then was re-stoked again and again by some nameless soul who lived down there.
So, it was a pleasant distraction when the one appointment on my book showed up at ten sharp. A lanky young guy who looked to be about 19 or 20. He took the seat in front of my cluttered desk and clasped his hands together.
"What brings you here today, Mister..."
"You can call me Eric," he said. I nodded. "I want to get to the bottom of something that's been on my mind now a long time," he said.
"The first 15 minutes is free, son. So, let's hear it."
"It's about a murder - suicide that happened in 1939 in Cuyahoga County," he said.
"1939? That's some 16 or 17 years ago," I said, shaking a Camel from the pack, and lighting it up. I did have a vague recollection of an incident that made the news, but it was summarily dismissed as a tragic case of a family dispute that turned deadly.
"So, what makes you so curious about something that happened so long ago?" I asked.
"Well," he replied, "That was my mother and my father, and my sister. She was 13 at the time. I guess I was three. I don't have any memory of it. I didn't even know I was adopted until about two years ago. So far nobody seems to have any details about what happened or why. I guess that's what I'd like you to find out."
Suddenly, a light bulb went off in my head.
"So, you're the Bromberg baby? The one that survived?"
"Yes sir. But like I say, I didn't know it until a couple of years ago, so I'd like to know what really happened."
Eric Bromberg didn't look like a guy with much money, but then, I was a dick with not much work. I took out a tablet and a pen from my desk drawer.
"Ok, then," I said, glancing at the clock. "Let's get started."

(To be continued....)

And Then.....

The following episodes re Dawson follow the opening episodes of PART III posted a few days ago.

DRINKIN' OFF THE CURSE

Th' medic tolt Rufus he needs t' git some stitches in his head else he'd have a purty big scar.
"Jus' leave it, Rufus said. "Any man been t' hell an' back oughta have somethin' t' show fer it." Mos'ly th' Cap'n was wantin' a whiskey t' burn th' chill off.

There was a handful of fellas hangin' out aroun' th' bar at Gypsy's when we walkt in.
"Good god, Rufus! What th' hell happent t' ye? Ye look like death eatin' a cracker," they was sayin'. Th' Cap'n waved 'em off an callt fer a double on th' rocks. He put both han's on th' bar an' muttered,
"Th' Folly's done gone t' th' bottom, boys. We got throwed up onta Danger Point an' she split plum in half." Ever'body seemt t' gather aroun' an' th' place got quiet.
"My mate here pullt me outa th' water else I'da been chum."

One of th' fellers bought me a shot. We toasted th' cap'n sev'rel times an' retol' th' story in great detail. When the night was done, me an' th' cap'n had entered th' annals of local legen'. By th' nex' day mos' ever'body on Ossabaw Island was talkin' about th' curse of Danger Point. I was mos'ly thinkin' how was I gonna explane this t' Nelly without scarin' th' daylight outa her.

TH' TRUTH OF CONSEQUENCES

I stayed on at Ossabaw two days more affer callin' Nelly. I jus' tolt 'er that we had bumpt th' boat inta a big rock an' we was tryin' to see if it could be repairt. I felt bad fibbin' like that. The Folly was gone, Rufus seemt in a daze he couldn' shake, an I was in a dark mood myself. There weren't no way t' tell Nelly all that.

Me an' the cap'n threw an ol' fashioned drunk that night passin' a bottle back an' forth in th' boathouse.
"A cap'n ain't a cap'n if'n he aint gotta boat, cap'n," I said. I could hear my own words comin' out funny bein' half-plastered. "An' a mate ain't a mate without a cap'n," I added, tryin' t' stand up.
"We's high an' dry now, that's what we is," the cap'n said, takin' another pull on th' bottle. I climbt th' ladder up onta the Aunt Chovy almos' fallin' off half way up. "This here's a fine boat," I said. "Jus' needs a can o' paint, that's all."
"She had 'er day is all I kin say," the cap'n muttered.
"Wif' all doo respeck, cap'n," I slurred, "She's jus' been a sittin' here like a widder woman pinin' fer her man." Rufus handed th' bottle up t' me. I climbt atop th' cabin an' waved it about,
"Oh, cap'n! My cap'n! Our ferfil trip is done.
Th' ship has wheathert ever' rack,
An' th' prize is one..." I hollert.
"She needs a new motor," th cap'n mumblt, 'an' sev'rel buckets o' tar."
"The Aunt Chovy will rule th' seven seas," I hollert.
The cap'n helt onta the side of th' boat t' keep from fallin over, an lookt up at me.
"Ye know what you are, mate? Yer crazy, that's what you are. Crazy as a loon."

STRANGER IN TOWN

There was plenty other boats trawlin' the water so I was able t' get my seafood t' bring back, but it felt right bad that the Pelikin's Folly was gone. I wasn' a first mate anymore, an' th' cap'n wasn' a cap'n anymore either. But th' good thing what come from our drunken rantin' in th' boathouse, was that, yeh, maybe we could git th' Aunt Chovy back on th' water. She weren't nearly th' size of th' Pelikin's Folly, an' we wouldn' be able t' compete with th' larger boats, but, th' cap'n would git some o' his dignidy back, an' I'd be his firs' mate again. Besides there was a sentamentil reason too. Rufus built that boat with his daddy, an' I know he would feel happy t' see it bobbin' about in th' water instead o' rottin' away ferever.

When I got home liddle Bluebird come a crawlin' acrosst th' floor an' acshuly pullt herself up on my pant leg.
"Well, look at you now," I said. I pickt her up an' sorta nibblt on her cheek. She had fat liddle cheeks. Nelly fried up a chicken granny give her, an' we sat aroun' eatin', an laughin' at th' way Bluebird was suckin'' on a leg bone.
"Did ye get th' boat fixt, Daw?" Nelly askt. I squirmt a liddle in my chair thinkin' what t' say.
"Well, I weren' really wantin' t' talk about it, Nell. But, the Folly went t' takin' on water, an' sunk. There ain't no Folly no more."
"Oh, Daw," Nelly said with a worriet look on 'er face.
"It'll be alright, Nell. We're gonna fix the Aunt Chovy up, an' we'll be back t' fishin' in no time."
"Poor Rufus," Nelly said.
"He'll be alright Nelly, he's a tough ol' bird."

I walkt over t' granny's th' nex' mornin' t' see how things was goin'. She said ever'thing was dandy e'cept Uncle Blaine an' Charlie kept comin' by, an' gittin' in th' way.
"Sometimes they act like I was born yesterday," she grumblt.
"Sit down, Daw, an' lemme fix ye a cup o' granny's coffee. Are ye hungry?"
I tolt 'er I jus' had my brakfuss afore comin' over. She sat down with me an' took t' talkin' about th' baby.
"That liddle Bluebird, she's gonna go some place, ye' mark my words. I never seen a chil' so spunky." O' course I was beamin' quite proudly t' hear such talk. But then she put 'er cup down an' said in her serious voice, "Daw, I gotta tell ye somethin'."
I lookt up at 'er hopin she weren' gonna tell me she had one foot in th' grave. "It's about yer mama. She come by here while ye was gone."
"My mama?" I repeated.
"Uh huh. She was wantin' t' see ye. I tol' 'er about Axel dyin' an' she took t' weepin' fer awhile. She wants t' see ye, Daw, an explane 'erself."
"Well where is she?" I askt, my heart sorta thumpin' over this news.
"I don' rightly know, but she said she'd come along on Saturd'y t' see if ye was aroun'."
"Well, I'll be aroun'," I said. "I reckon I should hear what she has t' say."
"Well, I'll leave that up t' you t' decide. But, I will say, it's a hard tale she's got t' tell."
"What do ye mean, granny?" I replyt.
"I ain't gonna say, I'll leave it t' her t' tell ye her own self."

When I tolt Nelly this news, she tol' me she had seen a woman out on th' road lookin' over at her playin' with Bluebird in th' yard.
"Ye reckon it mighta been yer mama?"
"Could be. What did she look like?"
"She was kinda skinny, an' she had really short hair, that's all I could make out. I walkt tow'rd th' road t' say 'hi', but she jus' walkt on."
"Somehow, that soun's like her," I said.


WHO IS JOLENE MOORHEAD?

Saturday mornin' Nelly took Bluebird over t' her mama's house. She said that if my mama was t' show up, it might be best if I talkt with 'er alone at first. I foolt aroun' out in Uncle Blaine's shed fer a good while. He had a lot of tools an' he tolt me t' look aroun an' see if there was any I wanted t' borry so as t' work on th' Aunt Chovy. I foun' a good set of wrenches that might come in handy fer workin' on th' boat's blown motor, an' a set of chisels I figgered could be useful. Then, from behin' me I heard her voice.
"Jeremy?"
I turnt aroun' but with th' mornin' light streamin' in th' doorway all I could make out was a long an' skinny silowette. "It's me, Jolene," she said steppin' inta th' shed. My heart sorta skippt a beat not knowin' what t' expect from this meetin'. I reacht out an' shook 'er hand.
"Granny said ye was by th' other day," I said.
"Yeh," she said, "I come by t' try t' make amends with ever'body. I guess I ain't askin' fer much more than that. You kinda look like I thought ye might," she said, with a thin smile. "Ye sorta favor my daddy I think."
"Do ye know about th' mine?" I askt.
"Yeh. Mama tolt me. It breaks my heart t' not ever see 'im again. I guess its th' price I pay fer my recklessness."
"Would ye like t' go up t' th' house an' have a cup o' coffee? I reckon we oughta sit an' talk a spell," I said. I really didn' really know how t' talk with 'er, or what t' say. She was my own mama an' yet, such a stranger t' me. As we walkt up t' th' house I could see her a bit better. She was skinny as a rail an' her skin seemt a deathly white. Her hair was espeshuly odd. It was short, an' it was stickin' out here an' there like it had been cut by a drunk with a butcher knife.
"I weren't sure ye'd even talk t' me, Jeremy, she said, as we went up th' porch stairs. An' I couldn' rightly blame ye if ye didn't."
"T' tell ye th' truth, I'd always kinda hoped t' at leas' know who ye was," I replyt.
I pointed t' a chair on th' porch. "Why don' ye sit down an' I'll git us some coffee," I said. She sat down an' I turnt t' th' door.
"Black," she said.
"Ma'am?"
"Jus' black coffee if'n ye don' mind," she said. I nodded an' went in. I took a big breath while I was fixin' th' coffee. When I was liddle I used t' imagine seein' my mama an' runnin' t' her an' huggin' her. But, I wasn' feelin' none of that now. An' yet, I was feelin' somethin', I jus' wasn' sure what. Maybe jus' scart fer some reason. I lookt at 'er out th' window over th' sink. She lookt from some other time, some other place. She sure didn' look like a Shrewsbury gal. She had on a plain black dress with no sleeves, an' she had on red high heels, an' she had a red purse what matcht her shoes. I watcht as she reacht inta her purse an' pullt out a cigarette, lit it up, an' took a long draw.
"That's my mama," I tol' myself. "That's th person what brought me inta th' world. How come I don' feel some way I always thought I would on a day such as this?"

I handed her a cup of coffee an' sat down. '
"I'm marriet now," I said. She nodded.
"Mama tol' me ye marriet Charlene's liddle girl. I'll bet she's purty. Her mama always was."
"Yes ma'am, an we got us a liddle girl of our own now."
"Jeremy," she said, settin' her cup down on th' porch rail. "I jus want ye t' know I'm sorry t' have misst all yer years of growin' up. An' sorry Axel is gone fer ever. See here?" she said, showin' me her arm. It was a small black tattoo. A black heart in sev'rel pieces, an' two black tear drops b'neath it.
"This here is fer Axel," she said, pointin' t' one of th' teardrops. "An' this one down here is fer you." I took a swaller an' jus' nodded.
"I guess I jus' wonnert what happen t' ye?" I said, starin' at her skinny white arm.
"I could tell ye ever' bit of that, Jeremy," she said, takin' another draw on her cigarette. "'Course if I was t' tell ye, ye'd prob'ly hate me if'n ye don' already."
"I don' hate ye," I replyt. "I jus' don' unnerstan'."
"Do ye know about yer daddy, Jeremy?" she askt.
"No, not really. Granny tolt me his name was Bobby John. She said he was th' wanderin' type." Jolene nodded.
"He was that alright. He weren' no good t' any body, leas' of all, me. Ye got a liddle bit of th' best of 'im maybe... th' same cheekbones, an' maybe in th' eyes a liddle."
"What ever become of him?" I askt.
"Well that's th' hard part of th' story, Jeremy," she said, starin' off t' th' road. I lookt at 'er. She lookt like her pichur that granny showt me, e'cept a lot older, an her hair wasn't purty like it was back then. She took another draw on her smoke, then lookt at me. "Are ye sure ye wanna know?" I nodded. "I killt 'im Jeremy. Shot 'im in th' head." My jaw droppt. She lookt away agin. "He had it comin' an' I don' regret it e'cept it cos' me fifteen years in th' Nebraska penetenchiary. Fifteen years that's gone fer ever."
"Why? Why did ye kill 'im?" I said.
"Jeremy, when yer daddy come along I was purty young an' stupid. Mama didn' want me t' have anything t' do with 'im. But I thought I was crazy in love. I follered him aroun' from town t' town like a fool. He started t' take offense at ever' thing I did. Took t' beatin' up on me. One night he had me pinned t' th' floor screamin' at me an' slappin' me aroun'. Broke my nose. I grabbt his gun outa th' fron' of 'is pants an' shot 'im in the head. Turnt me inta a bloody mess afore I could git out from unner 'im. Have I said enough yet?" I nodded.
"They sentenct me t' 39 years, but then changt it t' a lesser offense because of th' circumstance."
"So, ye been in jail all this time?" She nodded.
"Fifteen years of sittin' in a cell. I coulda callt, I coulda writ, but I was too ashamt at th' time of th' mess I done made of my life."

Jolene tolt me she was livin' in a boardin' house up in Freemont about 40 miles north. She askt me if I'd be willin' t' drive her t' the bus station in Round Town. I tolt 'er I could take her over there in the truck. I tolt 'er a liddle bit about th' plan me an' Nelly had t' move t' Ossabaw Island, an' tolt 'er a bit about Bluebird.
"I reckon that makes you a granny," I said. She laught. "Granny Jo," she said kinda quiet - like almos' t' herself. "I'd would love to see 'er sometime, Jeremy. But it soun's like ye'll be movin' far away," she said.
"Well, we ain't leavin' til maybe June or July. Nelly's gotta gradiate from school first. Robin Bluebell' will turn one year olt come June 11th, we should be here fer that. Would ye like t' come fer th' birthday party?" Jolene nodded an' then started in t' cryin'.
"I'd love that so much, Jeremy. I know I don' deserve it, an' I know you don' deserve havin' me come awaltzin in t' yer life such as I am."
"Well, I reckon liddle Bluebird might like havin' an extry granny aroun' now an' again." She laught an' then took t' sobbin' even more.
I gave her a hug goodbye an' her cheek was wet agins' mine. I gave her my hankerchif t' wipe the runny black mascara off her face. She handed it back an' boarded th' bus.

"June 11th," I shouted. She waved an' nodded then was gone. I lookt at that hankerchif a coupla times on the way home, lookin' at the black smudges as thouh it was some proof that I acshuly did meet my mother. An' I did like 'er even thouh her life seemt one big mess.

Of Bubbas and Burgers

There are bubbas all over the southland. Bubba is perhaps how a little child might say, 'brother' in reference to an older sibling. Bubba is a nickname that sometimes takes precedence over the person's actual first name. There is a certain anonymity in it too. I shot a few games of pool in a small town. A pool hall called 'Fat Hat's'. The owner's name was Bubba. He wore a big hat. When I went to get some change from Bubba to put down on a few games, he had a shiny revolver laying on the counter. I shot about six games that night, and won enough dough to pick up a few grocery items on the way home. When I shook hands with a couple of guys I played with, I discovered their names were Bubba too. One Bubba I beat rather sorely, gifted me a hunting knife with a six inch blade. In my truck, on the way home, I took it out and looked at it. It had dried blood on it. As I crossed the bridge over the river, I rolled the window down and tossed the knife into the river. Somehow, I had a feeling Bubba just wanted the knife to go away. That was years ago, but I still wonder if, in that moment, I became an accomplice in a murder. I went home and fixed myself a rare hamburger on a cheap and spongy white bread that turned red as I ate it.

SHOOK

I was just barely a teen when Elvis made the scene. I don't know what to say about the music , other than it made my dick hard. I became aware of repression. After his stint in the Army, he sucked. He was into making schmaltzy movies that even a teenager would think embarrassing. Then, he got sorta fat, and doing cheezy things in Vegas. From being the real deal,he had become a cartoon of himself. It took me awhile to get over him.

...about Dawson

What started out as a two paragraph sketch of a young southern boy's observations (Little Pitchers have Big Ears) has turned into an on-going saga of over 60 episodes. Some episodes were short and sweet, others more convoluted. Parts I and II of the story number about 40,000 words. I am well into Part III now, which I thought would wrap it up, but it may take a Part IV to call it done. So, in some crude way, I seem to be blogging a book. Thank you to my few readers who seem to have latched onto Dawson and Nelly and the others, the way I have.

Here are the opening chapters of Part III.

For those of you who have been following, what should I name this book?

For those who would like to read the story from the beginning, it is posted here.

Newsflash!

At a summit meeting last week in Geneva, world leaders there engaged in much heated debate over the proliferation of rogue pulsations. Estimates varied from country to country, but it would appear that at least 30 percent of the world population have now been infected. Public service announcements have been issued world-wide advising people to stay away from anyone who has a flashing smile, or eyes that glow in the dark, and avoid loading custom ring tones into your cell phones. To determine whether you have become infected, turn off all lights and look into a mirror. If you can see your eyes looking back at you, you have the virus and should terminate yourself and thus spare others the costly task of doing this for you.

Big Busts

What could be better than a big bust on Halloween?

I'm sure they must have done something naughty...

Is It Getting Crowded On This Bus?

I was 6 years old in 1950. There were 2.5 billion people in the world then. They say that sometime today, the 7 billionth person will be born into the world. Projections of world population suggest that by 2050 the world will be populated by 7.5 to 10.5 billion human beings. And I would think it might be closer to the larger number. Could someone please offer the pregnant lady a seat? Uh oh, there are no more seats! Or at least offer her a sandwich? Uh oh, there are no more sandwiches.....

BOO!

Are you scared yet, with Halloween approaching? Personally, the witches and goblins don't bother me. It's the clowns that freak me out. I just know that some of these are killers and are from outer space. Its all such hype I suppose. But yet, doo-doo happens. Like the letter I got from a classmate I know to be entirely rational. What he said was not encouraging, but you can read it here, if you like.

The Madness of Many

I guess it was 1985 or there about when, while in flight from Maine to Atlanta, Georgia, we were held up in Washington, D.C. because of weather, even though it seemed a perfectly fine morning. We were told finally that the remainder of our trip had been cancelled because of a hurricane that was carving its way inland and headed straight for Richmond, Virginia. We were told that some spin-off tail of this huge system would be hitting Washington as well over the next hour. I exchanged my ticket for a flight scheduled to leave the next afternoon, and resigned to spending the day in D.C., and sleeping off the weather at a hotel.

By the time I reached the Marriott Hotel by shuttle, it was raining and the sky was dark and ominous. In my room, I changed out of my business suit and into more casual attire. It was only 10:30 in the morning, but I went down to the bar anyway and ordered a vodka-laced iced tea. I engaged in superficial chit-chat with the bar-tender since he was the only one in the place. I asked him if there was a good bookstore anywhere nearby. He said there was a very nice one about four blocks down Elm, but then added that the Cullman Library of the Smithsonian was just around the corner.

When I stepped outside the wind was howling, and pieces of news paper were flying around in the air amidst a driving rain that was beating them down to the pavement or slapping them wet against cars and lamp posts. I could see the sign for the Cullman just down the street, so I huddled under a black umbrella the doorman gave me and hurried that way.

The Cullman Libary is just one of some twenty libraries within the sprawling Smithsonian Institution. Each one had its own collection of texts amassed according to broad categories of art, science and history. The Cullman's collection consisted exclusively of texts pertaining to natural history, and had over 40,000 volumes of such spread out over several stories and further sub-divided into more specific topical categories within the realm of natural history. In the wing of a floor devoted to the field of cultural anthropology, I turned off into an ante room containing books and journals pertaining to social psychology.

One is not permitted to 'check books out' of the Cullman. It is a research library for the most part, and to even remove a book from the shelf required signing a form at the desk naming the book in question. Almost randomly, I pulled down one of a series of books all similarly bound. A volume chronicling the work and writings of
social psychologists between 1900 and 1910. I sat down at a large table near a goose neck bronze lamp, and adjusted it to illuminate this book, and began to turn the pages. The articles covered a range of sociological topics, but one that caught my eye was entitled, AN INCIDENT OF FOLIE A PLUSIEURS. It was about the occurrence in different cultures of what is commonly referred to as 'the madness of many".

The article was dated Fall, 1903, and it focused on a small town in southern Pennsylvania known as Sheepshank. It was noted that Sheepshank had 183 people at that time, and that the town was situated in a rather remote area along a railroad line that no longer ran. The authors reported that every person in that town seemed to have had the same inexplicable experience never before documented in the history of the field. The ten or more pages that followed broke out as case by case interviews with people in that town both young and old. There was very little difference in their accounts.

Each person described the sensation of a foul smell in the air that hit their face as though it were the hot breath of some beast. And in each case, it rendered them helpless as though in a trance. Additionally they reported that their genitals seemed to feel as though they were being fondled or manipulated. Each account then describes what can be assumed to be an intense, even violent, orgasmic rush that rippled though their bodies, after which they fell into a dead faint.

These accounts, upon verification by the scientific community resulted in the commandeering of a number of grain silos at the south end of the town, and the implementing of a strict quarantine that prevented traffic in or out of the town of Sheepshank. Walls constructed in the granaries divided these cavernous spaces into small holding tanks or cells, and one by one, each resident of the town was given a file and assigned a room. Within ten days the town of Sheepshank with its several stores, and several clusters of houses were empty. Sheepshank became a ghost town.

Numerous scientists and doctors came and went from the grainery complex over the next few months. The grounds were completely contained by then with a double wall of barbed wire fencing.

The report concludes with mention that the people of Sheepshank were never to be seen nor heard from again. Over the next month, their numbers declined as security guards in making their rounds reported one after the other missing from their cells which stood empty and still locked. Guards also reported a foul stench coming from these empty rooms.

I left the library and went to lunch. Over a philly cheese and a beer, I puzzled over this odd account. I wondered what other odd phenomena may be hidden away in the dusty volumes of the Cullman. I returned to the library and signed out this same volume wanting to look it over more closely. As I sat there and opened the book beneath the lamp light, I discovered that the entire section of Fall 1903 was missing. There was the Spring 1903 chapter, followed immediately by the Winter 1903 section. I took the book up to the desk clerk and showed him where 47 pages of text were missing. He informed me that there had never been a Fall, 1903 section. He said that in Fall, 1903, the publishing house had been destroyed by a huge fire and all print and manuscripts intended for publication had been destroyed in that fire. I explained to him that I had been in earlier and had just read through these so-called never printed pages. He shrugged and said that must have been before his shift. "Look in your log," I told him. "You will see where I signed this volume out two hours ago." He ran his finger down the log page, then turned it to me, and said there didn't seem to be any record of my doing so. I began raising my voice and telling him it was there, the pages were there just hours ago. A security guard appeared and asked me to please leave the premises.

I walked on down to the book store the bartender had told me about, and pulled down a travel atlas of the United States. I pored over the map of southern Pennsylvania. I could not find a Sheepshank anywhere on the map, nor was it to be found in the key beneath it that listed towns and cities of Pennsylvania alphabetically. I felt panicky. I knew something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. And, it was either something that happened out there, or it was something that happened in my head. To this day, I wonder which.

Happy Halloween Everybody!!

The New Chanteuse

Tristen, a girl from the Chicago suburbs (my old stomping grounds...) has taken up Southern living. She lives and performs now in Nashville, and is a real breath of fresh air.

Here's a couple of her recent tunes. (I think you can double click the image and get it to go full-screen. I find the double click thing is a bit finicky but if you do it right, its worth the full screen.)

Heart and Hope To Die



Avalanche

(This one is not as clear on the audio, but is live from last week at The Knitting Factory in New York. And, look who has jumped in on the drums? I do believe it's Sam's Myth!! )

The End of Part II

Well, I just finished the last episodes of Part II on the unfolding life of Dawson. Its kinda long, but includes the wedding of Daw and Nelly, as well as the birth of their baby. For those who have been following, I hope you enjoy the read!

The End of Part II

The first two parts of this three part story may be read from the beginning at any time HERE. I'll begin posting Part III next month.

Brainscapes

Eggonometry

Below is a photo of two eggs gathered from the hen house this morning. The smaller of the two would be considered a medium sized egg. It was likely laid by one of my Rhode Island Red hens. The larger of the two, at 3" tall and 1 and 3/4" wide would be off the chart in the commercial egg world. Commercial grading would have culled this egg out since it is well beyond Extra-Large. Eggs of this size often contain a double yolk. This egg was laid by Dingo, an Australian hen. It is a Pottsville record! (As a footnote: My hens are fed an exclusive mixed grain diet without animal fats or by-products. The feed has a higher % of flax seed that yields an egg with about a 20% Omega 3 content.)

Dingo is the award-winning black Australorp hen in the picture below. Annabelle, the hen in front of Dingo is a Plymouth Rock Barred hen. She holds title to 'the prettiest egg' award since all her eggs are brown with white speckles.

Dingo's Super Egg amidst the usual crowd.

NELLY FALLS INTA MY DREAM....and more.

This is a rather lengthy post in that it continues the story of the unfolding life of Dawson with six new episodes. If you are one of some who have gotten attached to this story, it hopefully is a good read. For others, it must look like a whole lotta misspelled words. These episodes approach the end of Part II of the overall story. My next post will conclude Part II. A third and final part will finish this story on out. Thanks to those who do read and comment! : )

(The story, from the beginning, is available HERE. It appears in first draft format.)

NELLY FALLS INTA MY DREAM

That mornin' at th' motel, Nelly fixt us some scramblt aigs fer breakfuss. They was 'speshully good cuz she made 'em. It sorta felt like we was marriet, or somethin'. She sorta fussed at me fer pinchin' her liddle bottom while she was stirrin' up th' aigs. But, I could tell she sorta likt it too.

We took us a liddle walk on th' beach, an' Nelly was barefootin' it in th' waves, an' sayin' stuff like,
"I jus' love it, Daw! I love, love, love it!!!" We took t' layin' down on th' sand an' watchin' th' birds swoopin' aroun' an' th' clouds rollin' by. Nelly was as high as a Georgia pine. I pullt her dress up an' rubbed on her belly.
"Quit it, Daw. Sombody might see us!" I ignort her an' kisst her liddle belly button which was stickin' out. She took t' yankin' on my hair.
"Stop it, Daw!" Right about then, this liddle ol' lady come walkin' by with her dawg. Nelly yankt her dress down, an' I smilt an' waved at th' woman who was pretendin' not t' notice us.

Anyway we went walkin' on down th' beach fer a good while. I kept lookin' at Nelly's big roun' belly.
"Ye' know, Nelly, yer belly is cuter than a sackful o' puppies."
"Oh, shut up, Daw!" she replyt.
"Come on, I wanna show ye' somethin'" I tolt her. I led her offa th' beach, an' though a sorta jungle of Palmettos. I knew we was somewhere's near Rufus's boathouse.

OUR HOME SWEET HOME

Nelly lit up when I showt her th' boathouse. Up in th' loft she started goin' on about curtains an' lamps, an' stuff like that. I was thinkin' more practikle thouhts like how t' put a toilet in th' place, an' git runnin' water. We wound up havin' sex on th' floor, an' got a bit dirty since I hadn' swept th' place out all that good. An' if yer readin' this, don't go thinkin' no dirty thoughts about my woman. It were more a sweet kinda thing. We weren' even that horny. But, I gotta admit, when she grabbt onta me, an' said,
"Do it t' me, Daw - I ain't gonna break," it was over in a flash.

We cleant ourself's up as best we could, an took to examinin' the Aunt Chovy.
"I think she's a purty boat, Daw," Nelly said. "Maybe my mama could live down here in th' cabin." I nodded. Hell, I didn' care. I jus' wanted to git us outa Shrewsbury. Once again, I was lost in thoughts of plumbin' issues. But, I didn' wanna bother Nelly about that none, I jus' wanted her to have the same dream as me.

Later, we took a walk down th' main street runnin' through Ossabaw, lookin' at things in th' store winders. Nelly wanted a fabric she saw that was mos'ly blue, but had liddle boats all over it. She was wantin' t' make curtains fer th' boathouse. We foun' a nice small green shag rug at a thrift store too. I got 'er a nice big floppy straw hat she likt a lot. It had a red ribbon aroun' it. An' she lookt so purty, it would bring tears o' joy t' a glass eye.

IN THE ARMS OF THE WISHBONE

We then went on down t' th' wharf, an' sat down at this little out-door place that was servin' up fryed clams. Darn, them things was good. A coupla seagulls took t' divin' down on us, an' one acshully tryt t' snatch a clam offa my plate. Nelly shriekt, as I shooed it off with my hands. I tosst a clam out across th' wharf, an' them birds pounct down on it, an' took t' a reglar tug o' war. They took t' flappin' their wings an' fightin' over that clam. Nelly tosst another clam down, an' that seemt to' settle th' argyment.

Nelly was likin' the smell of the sea air, an' the fishy fragranse of th' markets as we walkt along lookin' at th' boats bobbin' about. An' who comes a shufflin' outa the tavern but ol' Cap'n Rufus hisself.
"Aye, matey!" he exclaimt slappin' me on th' back. "You done gone AWOL on me, have ye?"
I innerduced im t' Nelly. He shook her han' an' said, "Well now, my mate here tol' me he had him a purty liddle gal, but he didn' tell me you was a gol-durn-tootin' doll! Ye kinda remin' me of a mermaid I saw onct off th' coast of England. You sure do!" Nelly was gigglin' an' blushin' as th' cap'n kept a shakin' her hand th' whole time he was goin' on thata way. "Come on now, me an' my mate here will take ye fer a little spin on th' Pelikin's Folly."

We walkt on out th' pier t' where th' boat was, an' I tol' Rufus about the mine collapsin' an' my gran'daddy an' th' others. He shook his head, an' said,
"A ol' mine like that is jus' another kinda mouth what swallers people now an' then, ain't it? Like this big ol' ocean. Its right terrible, Daw, an' I'm sorry t' know yer family is goin' through that sufferin'. Life kin ride a man hard sometimes, an put 'im up wet. It's a cryin' shame, that's what it is," he said, shakin' his head as we approacht th' boat.

We climt aboard the Folly an' th' Cap'n made Nelly a place to sit on a big burlap sack full of nettin'. "Now you jus' make yerself comfer'ble here, an' me an' the mate will take ye fer a liddle cruise aroun' th' island. Its been a good while since I had me a lady aboard." He started th' Folly's motor an' took t' th' wheel. He smilt back at Nelly over 'is shoulder. "Are ye ready, yer majesty?" Nelly nodded an' gigglt. So off we went. The Cap'n was puttin' on a reglar show fer Nelly, singin' sea-goin' songs like he was some kinda pirate. He pointed ahead to a large rocky crag stickin' out. "Now that there is Danger Point. Many a ship ben tosst agin it, an' many a man has swallered th' anchor tryin' t' nabigate aroun' it. But, don' ye worry none, missy. Me an' the mate here, we know what we're doin'. Ain't that right, mate?"
"Aye, Cap'n, th' Folly 'ere's a salty dog, an ye kin bowl me over an' call me Crab Legs, if'n I ain't tellin' th' truth," I shouted back, tryin' t' talk like a sailin' man. Nelly jus' laught.

When we rounded th' point, Nelly stood an' lookt off t' the beach. "Look, turtles!" she shouted. "Aye, turtles, ahoy!" the cap'n replyt, givin' me a wink. Nelly oohed an' ahhed like a liddle kid as we chugged along. Th' Cap'n tooted his horn at another boat passin' by, an' they tooted back an' waved.
"People's frien'ly, ain't they?" Nelly said, wavin' back.

"Now, I'll show ye a speshul liddle spot," th' Cap'n hollert, turnin' th' wheel twart th' shore. He idled th' Folly inta a channel bounded by palmettos an' some live oaks that leaned out over th' water. Spanish moss was hangin' down from the limbs like tanglt fishin' nets set out t' dry. It was sorta like we was in a jungle tunnel. Nelly was stretchin' out 'er han's an' feelin' th' moss, an' pullin' some of it down.
Th' channel opent up inta a kinda swamp in awhile, an' up ahead was a long rickety lookin' pier.
"We're in 'th' arms o' th' wishbone' now, an' this as fer as we can go," the Cap'n said, as we eased up t' th' pier. I threw th' rope off, an' jumpt down t' tie th' Folly off.
"Now, watch yer step, yer Majesty," Rufus said, holdin' Nelly's arm as she steppt off th' boat. "This here is 'WISHBONE SALT' ", he said with a swing of his arm as we walkt out t' th' end of th' pier. "This is where the water gits no more than knee deep." We lookt out at the marsh that had tree stumps stickin' up
outa th' water, an' places that lookt like liddle islands of tall grass. "Wanna git yer feet wet, missy?," th' Cap'n said t' Nelly.
"Heck, yeh!" Nelly replyt. So, off we went wadin' aroun' in th' marsh. Nelly was excited about th' liddle fish swimmin' aroun' her feet, an' a 'cashunal crab movin' aroun' on th' sand below. She lookt mighty cute holdin' her liddle dress all bunched up above her knees.

Rufus pointed out a green heron flutterin' up from th' water, an takin' t' th' air. It was quite purty with its wings stretched out, an them long legs trailin' behind.
Here an' ever' where, there was clumps or islands of tall grass that would sway back an' forth in th' wind. We saw an island pig peekin' out from one of 'em. Th' cap'n said they likt t' nose aroun' in th' grass lookin' fer aigs, since some of th' local birds like th' Savannah sparrow likt to make their nests down in the tall grass.
"Them pigs sure like aigs, don't they?" Nelly said with a frown.
"Well Nelly, we eat aigs too," I said in defense of th' pigs.
"I know," she said. "But we don't eat sparrow aigs, an' heron aigs, an' turtle's eggs. We jus' eat chickin aigs."
Well, I started t' say that an aig is an aig is an aig, but, I didn' wanna git in an argyment right in th' middle of havin' fun.
"Come on, Nelly. Th' Cap'n sez th' tide's startin t' come up inta th' wishbone's arms, an' th' suns goin' down." I took her han', and we took to splashin' our way back t' th' boat. "We need to git us some supper, an' some rest. I'm worriet you been over doin' yerself."
"I'm fine, Daw, but yer right," she said. It was a purty site goin' over th' water with the sky in lots of colors. Jus' the sound of seagulls, an' th' Folly chuggin' along. An' up ahead ye' could see all the harbor lights twinklin'. Tomorry, we need to load up th' truck an' head back t' Shrewsbury.

TH' EVER CHANGIN' SEEN

Me an' Nelly talkt us a blue streak mos' all th' way back t' Shrewsbury. Nelly said she likt Cap'n Rufus a lot, an' I was glad t' hear that. An' o' course Nelly went on a long time dreamin' about th' boathouse. She'd already figgert out where th' baby bed should go, even though we ain't even got a baby bed. An' she figgert we needed t' make a little pig house fer Wishbone, an' a fence aroun' it what would have flow'rs growin' up on it. I didn' wanna bust Nelly's bubble but, I reckon'd them flow'rs wouldn' last long on accoun' of how Wishbone semt t' have a taste fer all kinds o' things. When she started awonderin' where our liddle baby would go t' school, I finally did say that I thought we was maybe gettin' a liddle ahead of ourselves. But, the mos' important thing was that me an' Nelly both had our hands now on this dream that was jus' gettin' bigger.

Even with the dream sittin' there in th' back of our heads, we had a lot on our plate t' take care of back in Shrewsbury. School, fer one thing. I'd be gradiatin' th' followin' month. At least I was hopin' an' prayin' that were th' case. An' as usual, me an' Nelly was both a bit behind in our school work. But, as usual, Missus Shire continu'd t' have the patience of Job, an' helpt us catch up as best she could.

Uncle Blaine had took t' practickly livin' at granny's house. There was so much gran'daddy used t' do, that granny was too feeble t' manage. There was the garden patch, an' th' animals, an' there was always one thing or th' other needin' fixin', like the fence rows, an' the shingles on th' house where th' rain was threat'nin' t' git in. I tryt to lend Uncle Blaine a hand with these things, as I best I could. He tolt me that if'n me an' Nelly ever changt our minds, we could move inta his place. Granny had willt th' farm t' him an' he was thinkin' one day he'd rent his ol' place out. Anyways, he needed t' be here with granny t' look after her an' th' place in general. I knew me an' Nelly wouldn' be changin' our minds. There weren't no way I could ever work in th' mines, an' there weren' too much else a man could do in these parts. But, it did put my mind t' wonderin' but what if'n we was still here in Shrewsbury when the baby came due, maybe me an' Nelly could stay at Uncle Blaine's ol' place fer a spell. An' afferall, I knew Nelly would want her mama close by when th' baby made its gran' entrance inta th' world.

THE CALM AFORE TH' STORM

Well, t' make a long story short, I did gradiate come June. I felt kinda silly wearin' this purple gown an' funny hat that day. In fact, I thouht th' whole bunch of us lookt kinda like a bunch of quackin' ducks out there in th' schoolyard in front of th' bleacher stand. I was proud of my diploma thouh, an' showt it about. Other than my birth certificate, an' my driver's license, this was th' only official proof there was that I existed. I did thank my teacher Missus Shire fer helpin' me get thouh all this. I thankt 'er sev'rel times over. She tolt me that while I coulda done a lot better, I should git a special award fer bein' th' mos' interprizin' student in a long time. That made me feel right good, I gotta say.

Nelly agin got th' best spellin' award, an if'n they was to give out a wors' spellin' award it woulda gone t' me I'm sure. Missus Shire did tell me onct that I may not be able t' help my bad spellin'. That maybe I had this problum she callt 'dis-somethin'-or-other'. An' she tolt me it don' mean I ain't smart. It's somethin' else alt'gether. I think one of the bes' things Missus Shire did fer ever'body was t' make them feel good about themselfs. And if not good, then at least, ok.

With school behin' me, an summer comin' on, I had more time on my hands. An' good thing I did since there seemt ever more things t' do. Nelly was lookin' pregnanter than ever with only two months t' go. She took t' takin' it easy at her mama's house. She was sewin' things, an' even knitted a pair o' baby boots. One was pink an' th' other was blue. Since she was now a senior in school, she also took t' readin' a coupla books that was requirt fer the fall. She would read t' me from the story about Ivanhoe, an' I enjoyt hearin' her read a lot more than I likt readin' my own self.

I took t' collectin' ol' plumbin' pipe here an' there an' pilin' it behin' granny's barn. I knew if'n we were to go an' live in th' boat house one day, I was gonna have to put in some plumbin', an a concrete septic tank out back of th' place. Rufus tol' me he'd help me figger all that out if an' when th' time come. Mos'ly my days was split between helpin' Uncle Blaine with granny's farm, an' hangin' out with Nelly at her mama's place. I took over milkin' Missus Akkerson's two cows cuz it had got too hard fer Nelly t' squat down on a low stool an' manage. An' funniest thing of all, me an' Nelly acshuly taut Wishbone t' git th' mornin' paper outa th' front yard. He was one smart liddle pig. Missus Akkerson said it was high time Wishbone earnt his keep.

GRANNY TAKES ME T' TH' CLOSET DOOR

Between gradiatin', an' th' time the baby come, I made two more runs t' th' island, an' went out t' sea with the Cap'n. True t' his word he made me his first mate, an' we proceed t' celebrate a liddle too much down at Gypsy's place that affernoon.
With my extra earnin's I went shoppin' aroun' Ossabaw fer a baby bed. I foun' one at a thrift store, an' tuckt it away in th' boat house fer some future day I was still tryin' t' git workt out.

Granny sat down with me on the front porch one day, an' she askt me if I could maybe take her somewhere's she was really wantin' t' go. I tol' 'er I'd take 'er anywhere her heart desirt. Then she begun t' tell me how she had a brother nam't Jonah. Jonah Farlow. Farlow was granny's maiden name 'til she marriet gran'daddy an' became a Moorhead. I'd never heard anybody mention that name, although I remembered Aunt Arnelle tellin' me about Jonah gettin' swallert by a whale in th' bible. So, besides granny havin' a sister Arnelle, she had a brother too. I had an uncle I never knowed about. Then granny proceed'd t' tell me why Jonah's name didn' come up much.

"Jonah was about two years older 'en me," she said. "An' while ever'body said he was a differ'nt kinda chil' from the very beginnin', it weren't nothin' ye could rightly put yer finger on. But when he was 'long about 16 or 17, it were like his mind went fer a walk in th' woods, an' never came back. An' ever' now an' then he'd take to talkin' kinda crazy to somebody that weren't even there. One day, he took th' only radio we had an' busted it up inta millyun pieces with daddy's sledge hammer. That's when folks begun to get a bit scart of 'im. 'Course I was his sister, an' we'd been right close when we was liddle, but I was even scart of him my own self."
"Well, what happent t' Jonah, granny?" I askt. "Did he wind up in jail, or somethin'?"
"Well, I'm fixin' t' tell ye," she replyt. "The sheriff's people, an' a few other folks come out an' convinct Ma an' Daddy that Jonah would be better off if'n he was in a speshul place where people could help him get his mind straiten'd out. So, they took 'im off t' a asane asilem. They tryt talkin' t' him, an they was givin' 'im speshul medicines fer th' brain, an' they even run some electrickal wires inta his head, but, nothin' seemt t' help. So, my brother is still in th' asilem t' this very day."

Granny's story sorta gave me chills. I remember'd seein' this movie about Frankenstine an' this docter that was attachin' all them wires to this guy's head.
"So, Dawson, I was thinkin' that I'd like t' git t' see my brother one more time afore I leave this earth, or afore he does."
"Well, I'll take ye t' see 'im, granny," I assurt her. My mind was fillt with a bunch of questions I hadn' ever thouht of afore. Like what granny's ma and dad was like, an' what th' worl' was like back then. An' what was Aunt Arnelle like when she was a liddle girl. An' where did gran'daddy come from?

Th' asane asilem was about two hours drive north of Shrewsbury. An' we did git t' see Jonah. There weren't much left of th' man, t' tell ye th' truth. He was skinny as a rail, an' it seemt his skin was red an' sorta peelin' off ever'where. Th' docter said it was on account of bein' out in th' sun too much, an' on acount of th' medicine that caust his skin t' be more sensitive t' light. Jonah didn' say much, an what he did say, I couldn' hardly unnerstan'. He did kinda smile when granny talkt t' him thouh, an' helt his hand. I think that meant a lot t' granny. An' maybe it meant somethin' t' Jonah, too.

On th' way back t' Shrewsbury granny tolt me she had used some of th' money th' coal company give her when gran'daddy died, t' take care of buryin' Jonah in th' family plot where Aunt Arnelle was. An' she tolt me that if'n she was t' die afore Jonah did, she wanted me an' Uncle Blaine t' know these things.

That whole experiance of learnin' about Jonah, an' all this talk of buryin' folks put me in a mood fer sev'rel days. In th' cemetery, the stones carryt two dates; when th' person was born, an' when they died. An' a life of a person was all th' years between the one date an' th' other. It was a simple thouht I guess, but it occurt t' me that while we know when we was born, we never get t' know when we died, or how long we lived, 'cause onct yer dead ye can't add or subtract anymore, or figger how olt ye' lived t' be. I had this feelin' that this life I had t' live was th' only life I had t' live, an' if I was to live it, I best be gettin' on with it. Suddenly, jus' holdin' Nelly in my arms seemt t' have a deeper meanin' than ever.

Local Color

I guess every region on the planet, or even a neighborhood, has certain ways of doing things, or even, some peculiar manner of expressing something. Here, in the Southern states, one hears expressions such as,
"Ya'll goin' t' church come Sunday?" Or, "Ya'll come back, hear?" Of course, 'Ya'll' means collectively, 'all of you'. And, it implies the speaker's wish or hope (whether feigned or real,) to 'see you again somewhere', or that you will return. Additionally, the expression, 'Y' hear?' is asking for a response of confirmation.

Today, while picking up dog food at a nearby small town called 'Chapel Hill', I noticed a sign inside the entrance to the grocery store - on their bulletin board there, amidst funeral announcements, lost dog photos, puppies that need a home announcements, this sign I thought a bit unusual:

I don't know if I was more impacted by the illiteracy, or the naive misguided genius of the scam.

Scrap

Today I made a thing, I guess is ok. (Even though there is nothing 'square' about it.) It's made out of scrap wood. I have a lot of scrap laying around. Left-over pieces of wood from earlier projects. It amounts to a lot of interesting pieces of little pieces of wood, but how to put them together to make something can be a challenge. So, rather than throwing them to the fire pit, I decided to make something.

I started working with this piece of wood, and worked it up. It must want to be something! It turned out to be this. I think I will call it 'The Gypsy's Night Stand', since I incorporated some old tin from the unsalvageable remains of an old trunk I found down in New Mexico. I have no more room in my house for another piece of furniture, so, maybe this will find a home in some gypsy's quarters.

The old tin features stars and crescent moons.

Shades of Grey

For anyone reading along about the life of Dawson, these episodes follow my previous post about The Tale of the Turtle and the Pig, etc. The evolving (long) story may be followed from its beginning HERE.


SOME DAYS ARE SUNNY, SOME AIN'T.....

Drivin' away from th' island, I was lookin' forward t' seein' my Nelly agin. An' I was thinkin' myself t' be th' luckiest man aroun'. I had Nelly in my life, an that alone fillt me with some kinda sense of really havin' a life. An' we was havin' us a baby. An' I wasn't workin' in th' coal mines. I had me a dream of a whole other kind I'd a never dreamed possible. Th' island seemt like some magical place where me an' Nelly, an' our baby could all be happy t'gether. An' my sock of money I was savin' was gettin' fat. In fact, I had even started puttin' my earnin's in a second sock. That's what I was thinkin' when I pullt in t' Shrewsbury. But as I drove slowly on through town an' aimin' t' go on over t' Round Town t' deliver my goods, I somehow was gettin' a strange feelin'. There weren't a soul to be seen. No chil'ren playin' in th' yard or wavin' at me. Nobody sittin' on the porches, nobody in th' fields. It was like on a Sunday mornin' when ever'body was off t' church, or was sleepin' off a drunk Saturday night.

I pullt aroun' t' th' back of Conner's Shopalot t' deliver a crate o' shrimp. Ol' man Conners came out, an' waved me this way an' that as I backt up t' his door. He had a kinda grim expresshun on his face as I climbt down outa th' truck.
"Sorry about yer Gran'daddy, Dawson," he said.
"Whadya mean, Mr. Conners?" I said, feelin' a lump in my throat.
"Y' ain't heard yet? Number Nine collapst' th' other day. Yer gran'daddy an' six others is trappt down in th' hole. It's been some 47 hours now, an' things ain't lookin' too good, I'm sorry t' tell ya." I askt Mr. Conners if I could store my other deliveries in his freezer 'so I could go on up t' th' mine. He said I could, o' course. He even had two o' his stock boys help me empty out th' truck. I headed out onta th' county road toward th' mine. Now I knew where ever' body was. They was up at th' mine. I kept takin' big breaths along th' way, knowin' what I was about t' face. I'd been up there afore, back when gran'daddy almos' met his end, an' Nelly's daddy did meet his.

Turnin' up th' dirt road leadin' up t' th' mine, I could see cars an' trucks parkt ever' which way. An' lotsa folks millin' about. The air had a dusty haze what smellt of coal. I had a sick feelin'. It's a rare day fer a mine to collapse where somebody ain't dead. It was mos'ly a question of who an' how many. I pullt th' truck in as close as I could get t' the entrance of Number Nine. I could see Nelly walkin' my way. Her face lookt dirty an' streaked with where she'd been cryin'.
She grabbt onta me.
"It's bad, Daw. Its real bad," she sobbed. I helt her an' lookt over t' the black hole in th' side of th' hill.
"Nelly, ye' need t' git yer mama t' take ye home, sweetie. Y' don' need t' be breathin' this kinda air, or seein' this kinda stuff."

We walkt up th' hillside. I spotted granny sittin' on th' back of Uncle Blaine's pick-up. Missus Akkerson, too. Granny's face lookt numb an' without expresshun.
"I'm afeared th' day has come, Dawson," she said hoarsely. Missus Akkerson had her arm aroun' granny, an' was holdin' her hand.
"Stay here, Nelly," I said. I turnt an' walkt up t' the mine entrance. There was a lot of loud talk goin' on amongst th' men folk. An' they all lookt like ragged soldiers come away from a war. Clouds of dust was issuin' forth from th' mine entrance, where men was comin' in an' out. I saw Uncle Blaine leanin' on th' side of a coal truck, a pick axe in his hand. He seemt covered head t' toe in black coal dust. He coughed an' spit t' one side as I come up.
"Its purty bad, Daw," he muttered, wipin' his mouth with th' back of his hand. I went t' grab the pick outa his hand, but he yankt it back. "Lissen t' me, Daw, ain't no use ye' goin' down there. Them men is way down in there. We's already runnin' outa time, an' we ain't no wheres near gettin' to 'em."
"What th' hell happent, Uncle Blaine?" I said, lookin' up towart th' hole.
"Yer gran'daddy an' six others was way down there in a tunnel offa Parlor Seven. All we know from the signs was somebody musta struck inta a pocket of firedamp, an' the whole place jus' exploded. Mos' of Parlor Seven crumblt, an' we don' know beyond that." I knew a bit about firedamp. It was a danger of legendary purporti'ns. Nine times outa ten, a blow out is accoun' a somebody strikin' inta a pocket of gas, an' that's all it takes. It's been known to take out a whole hillside.
"Ye know if'n anybody kin survive it, gran'daddy could," I said, tryin' to hold out some sense of hope. Uncle Blaine stared at th' ground, an' shook his head.
"I'm tellin' ye straight, Daw. Only reason anybody's still diggin' is they don' know what else t' do. We ain't got halfway acrosst Parlor Seven yet, an' them men was down a shaft beyon' that. They're gone, an' ever'body knows it. Th' only hope now is we might come acrosst their bodies an' bring 'em up fer a proper buryin'. Even that is gettin' doubtful."

The sun was goin' down, an' there was th' sound of generators powerin' up, an' makeshift strings of light begun to flicker on. I walkt back toward granny an' th' others.
"Granny, its best I git ye back t' th' house now. Missus Akkerson, you an' Nelly best get some rest. Thank ye fer lookin' after granny." I took Nelly by th' hand. "Nelly, ye help yer mama git home. I'll be by in th' morning, ok? Granny, stay put, an' I'll pull th' truck on up here t' git ye." Nelly walkt back with me t' my truck. "Nelly, it looks right bad," I said, as calmly as I could muster. "We got some dark days ahead now, ye need t' rest up cuz there ain't nothin' much t' do now e'cept t' mourn an' try t' heal up." I held her a minute, caressin' her hair as she took t' cryin' on my shoulder.
"I don't unnerstan'," she sobbed. "I jus' don' unnerstan."

I backt th' truck up to where granny was sittin', an' helpt her climb in. Nelly walkt off with her mama, lookin' back over her shoulder at me. Granny was silent th' whole way home As we neart th' house she said,
"He promist me he was gonna hang it up afore th' year was out."

We foun' Aunt Arnelle slumpt down asleep in her rocker on th' front porch. '"Granny, ye go on an' lie down now, ye' hear? I'll get Aunt Arnelle t' bed." Granny nodded, an' shufflt off t' her room. I went back out on th' porch t' git Aunt Arnelle.
"Auntie, wake up, Auntie," I whispert, nudgin' her shoulder. I took her hand, an' realized in feelin' her cold stiff fingers, she was dead. I pickt her up an' put 'er in her bed, an' covert 'er up like she was jus' sleepin'. I figgered granny needn't know til mornin' else she might jus' collapse her own self. I sat out on th' porch steps fer a long time watchin' th' moon come up. The mine had swallered a few more of us, an' in a way, it seemt it had swallert all of Shrewsbury, an' all of my dreams of some kinda t'morrow.

THE SHROUD OVER SHREWSBURY

It was a week of seemin'ly never endin' sadness. It seemt all the women of th' world was wailin'. Seven men was lost an' buried ferever down at th' bottom of that Number Nine mine. The coal company sent out its condolences of flowers, and sympathies, but nobody cared to be cordual t' men what don't really care beyond their profits an' their li'bilities. We was glad t' see some feder'l inspectors come inta town. An' we was hopin' they'd shut th' operation down, even though it would spell even worser poverty fer th' families of men put outa work. The inspectors came an' they went. I 'speck they made their reports t' somebody else in Washin'ton, but few expect'd much to come of it.

It's hard t' bury men the mine done buried already. Granny kept a wanderin' through gran'daddy's clothes. She gave me a coupla his shirts, an' it turnt out there was a pair of his boots what fit me, too. One thing I know is that them boots won't ever be wanderin' down no more black holes workin' fer th' man. It was an oath I took in tryin' gran'daddy's boots on.

The coal company said they was plannin' to put up a memorial t' the lost miners, but that weren't much consolation. Granny laid out gran'daddy's best outfit on her bed, an announct we should bury these in th' back yard, an' pay our repecks to gran'daddy. Me an' Uncle Blaine went over t' th' funeral home t' make arrangements fer buryin' poor ol' Aunt Arnelle. She died of heartache, I e'spect. That ol' rockin' chair on th' porch lookt sorta lonely an' lost without 'er. Granny give Uncle Blaine Arnelle's ol' banjo. An' her ol' corn-cob pipe was laid out aside th' dress Auntie would be buried in.
"She's gonna be mighty sore if'n she gits t' heaven, an' God won't let 'er smoke her pipe," granny said with a tearful chuckle. Missus Akkerson an' Nelly came over an' helpt granny get Aunt Arnelle dressed fer th' afterlife.

In my mind I was more mad than anythin' else. I was so tired of seein' my family, an' other families in Shrewsbury suffer at th' calloust hands o' the coal company. Somehow, I figgered if I could ever git me an' Nelly out, we'd be lookin' fer ways to help others a'scape such fate as this. I was burdened about what would become of granny, even though Uncle Blaine tol' me he was aimin' t' look after her.

Its a strange mix o' feelin's to love a place, an' yet, t' hate it. But that's what Shrewsbury had come to repersent t' me. I was lookin' forwart to gettin' throuh that week an' headin' back t' th' island where all my dreams was standin' by wonderin' where I was. An' I had a notion t' take Nelly with me. She could use a little bit of that breeze off the ocean t' soothe her worriet mind.

POW'R IN TH' BLOOD

That whole week I was a broodin' man. If I wasn' worryin' about granny endurin' the loss of her husban', and the loss of 'er sister, all in one day; then I was worryin' about Nelly who lookt too pale t' my likin'. She lookt worn out from all this, an' it made me worry she might go an' lose th' baby if'n she didn' get some rest. Granny put gran'daddy's clothes, an' a few other things in an ol' wood trunk. She askt me to dig a big enouf hole in th' yard to bury it. She tol' me t' write gran'daddy a note if I felt so inclined, an' put it in th' box. I did that even though all I could think to say was, "Thank ye' fer takin' care o' me, gran'daddy."

The nex' mornin' we held a little buryin' ceremony. The hole I dug was right there next t' where me an' gran'daddy had buriet Ma Dawg. I figgered gran'daddy woulda likt that. There weren't but a few folks attendin'. Missus Akkerson, Nelly, an' Uncle Blaine. Granny sat there in a chair I had set out fer her, an' watcht as me an' Uncle Blaine put th' trunk down in th' hole an' covert it up with dirt. Missus Akkerson sung a hymn real sof'ly, an' Nelly joined in. It made me wanna cry, but I knew I had t' jus' help granny get through this, if there is such a thing as callin' a life done. Uncle Blaine stuck a wooden cross he made inta the little hill of dirt. He had painted gran'daddy's name on it. "Cyrus Moorhead". Granny handed me a basket of flowers she had pickt outa the yard. Mos'ly Rose O' Sharons, an' Marigolds. She tol' me t' set it down by th' cross. We all jus' stood there fer a minute payin' our respecks, an' there weren't a sound but fer some birds a twitterin' in th' tree overhead. Missus Akkerson said in a very quiet voice that she had brought down some dinner fer us, an' we all walkt back t' th' house. I helt Nelly's hand along th' way, an tolt her what I needed now.
"Nelly, after dinner I want ye t' go on home an' lie down."
"We gotta bury Aunt Arnelle tomorry, Dawson," she replyt.
"I know. But between now an' then, I don't want ye liftin' a finger, ye' hear me, Nelly? That's what I need ye t' do."
"Yes, sir," she answert. It was funny she callt me 'sir'. I reckon she was jus' bein' polite.

We buryed Aunt Arnelle th' nex' day in th' little cemetery behin' th' church. There was a good han'ful of folks there. Some of 'em widders of th' other men that died in th' mine. The preacher went on an' on, but I didn' lissen t' much of what he had t' say. There was sev'rel ladies of th' church that sung a few songs. An' as they broke inta 'Pow'r In Th' Blood', I took t' thinkin' if'n there was any pow'r in th' blood it weren't from some lamb of god, it were in the veins of th' people of Shrewsbury an' other places, jus' tyin' t' make a livin' fer themselves, an' dyin' along th' way. I had gran'daddy's blood in my veins, an' I damn sure wasn' gonna spill it out in some coal mine. I was more sure about that than ever afore.

Goin' back t' school near the week's end after sev'rel days of funerals, Missus Shire an' th' other teachers all seemt t' want t' help us young folks deal with what happent. Missus Shire read to us from some book callt 'The Prophet' by some man from another land that she said was a spiritchaly wise person. An' she assignt us t' read this essay callt Self Relience, wrote by a feller namt Emerson. I did read it that very night, an' he made a lot o' sense t' me. I even unner-lined some of the stuff he said. Like, "A foolish consistensy is th' hobgoblin of liddle minds." Now, ain't that th' truth? I decided if me an' Nelly ever had us a boy baby I'd like him to be callt Emerson. Emerson Moorhead.

NELLY KETCHES FIRE

Another week rollt by, an' it lookt like life had ever' intenchin of jus' keepin' on keepin' on. I would wake up t' th' smell o' bacon cookin'. It weren't granny, it was Uncle Blaine. I 'member sorta starin' at him there at th' stove. He said,
"Don't jus' stan' there, Dawson. Go git yer granny an' tell 'er t' come t' th' table." It seemt like some kinda spark had gone out of granny fer awhile, but then it seemt she got a bit of her self back. I 'member her sayin', "Git away from that stove Blaine, ye don' know how t' scramble an aig." An' I ' member Uncle Blaine smilin' at me, an' givin' me a wink.

I talkt t' Nelly an' her mama about me takin' Nelly with me on a run t' Ossabaw Island. Missus Akkerson sorta frownt upon th' idea, but Nelly convinct her mama she could do it, an' I promist t' take good care of her, an' tolt her I knew a doctor on th' island even though that was a bit of a lie. But, I figgered surely there was one. Nelly was beside herself in the idea of goin' with me. I'd fillt her head with so many pichurs of th' island, an' now she was gonna see fer her own self.

THE BIGNUSS OF NELLY'S EYES

I have a mem'ry I reckon will be in my mind fer ever. It was standin' on th' ferry alongside th' truck as we was headin' over t' th' island from Savannah. Seagulls was swoopin' an' circlin' all aroun. Nelly was holdin' on to th' railin' an' lookin' ahead at th' island. Her hair was blowing ever which way, an' her eyes was bigger than I ever seen.
"Look, Daw; a pig!" she shouted as we approacht land. There was a pig sure enough, walkin' on th' beach like he was out fer a stroll. I laught at her excit'mint.
"That's one o' Wishbones kin folk, I reckon," I said. T' this day I don' think there's a thing could make me happier than makin' Nelly happy.

BACK T' THE THREE LITTLE PIGS

Nelly started laughin' an' pointin' as we approacht th' motel. "Look, Daw! Dancin' pigs I lookt up at th' neon sign.
"Huh. That's funny. I ain't never seen them doin' that afore. They mus' be happy t' see you." She gigglt.

I interduced Nelly t' Mr. Lombard who owned th' motel. He was mighty slick about it all.
"Well now," he said, shakin' Nelly's hand. "So yer the gal Dawson's always goin' on about. An' now I see why. This island needs a purty gal like you around." Nelly blusht somethin' fierce. I coulda paid Mr. Lombard extry fer makin' over Nelly thata way.

ALL SHOOK UP

When we got t' our room Nelly took a shower fer th' longest time. An' then she came out fin'lly in this purty little calico cotton gown lookin' like a dream boat.
"Well, Look at you!" I said, sittin' up on th' bed.
"Do ye like it, Daw? I made it jus' th' other day cuz' my ol' gowns won't fit over my belly no more." I reacht out an' grabbt her hand.
"Come here you purty little thing." I pullt her down on th' bed an' commenced t' kissin' on her fer a few minutes. Then I decided I needed t' take a shower my own self. Now, I ain't gonna say no more about that night, cuz a man don' say what's between him an' his gal. But, I will say, we droppt a lot o' quarters inta the vibratin' bed machine. But, ye' know, even though we had been lovers fer a good while, an' was even havin' us a baby, that was the firs' night we had all t' ourselves all the way inta mornin. An' we woke up huggin' each other jus' like th' way we fell t' sleep.