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Fiction: Winning Entries |
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First Place Road Trip By Wayne Scheer – Atlanta, GA
Parnell Phipps sat at a computer in Harold's Coffee House, sipping coffee and pondering the boredom of his life in Clarksdale, Mississippi. He hated his job and had recently broken up with his girlfriend. Even his dog ran off. About the only thing Parnell had going for him was his truck. If he knew how to play the guitar, he thought, he might pack up his life and head to Nashville. Since the computers at Harold's wouldn't allow him to play games or look at porn, he decided to call up a map of Mississippi and ask for directions from his apartment to Paradise. Seemed like a good thing to do. But the computer informed him there was no Paradise in Mississippi. So he decided to go the other way and request directions to Hell. The computer immediately offered him the most direct route. That had to be a sign. Never one to argue with a computer, a woman or a bulldog-ugly man with tattoos, he went back to his place, packed some things into his truck and told his landlord he'd be taking a road trip to Hell, and if he wasn't back when his rent came due, he could sell his things. The landlord grunted without looking up from the television. Parnell first stopped at the chicken processing plant where he worked to tell his boss he'd be needing a two-week vacation starting immediately. The boss sweetened the deal by offering to make the vacation permanent. One whiff of the slaughterhouse in the humid Mississippi air and he gladly accepted the two weeks' salary he was owed, which he added to the money he had already taken from under his mattress and his underwear drawer. For the first time since his breakup with Candy, Parnell felt alive. "Whoo-whee," he sung, displaying his God-given talent to go falsetto on the second syllable. "I'm going to Hell!" Studying the map he bought when he filled up his truck at a local gas station, as well as the directions he had gotten off the computer, he decided the best thing to do was to take 49 to 8 to 35 to 25 and just head south on 13 to Hell. However, he soon discovered the roads weren't always marked and even when they were he didn't always pay attention. Parnell soon had no idea where he was. But it didn't matter since he figured he'd end up in Hell if he just kept heading south. At first the ride was as dull as a filet knife after gutting a mess of catfish. Just pines and kudzu, with an abandoned trailer now and them. So when he spotted a pretty young thing in red shorts with her thumb in the air, he slammed on his brakes as if Patsy Cline's ghost had just sashayed in front of his vehicle. "Howdy," Parnell said, rolling down the passenger-side window as far as it would go, which wasn't quite half way. "You need a ride?" She stared at Parnell for a long time before saying, "Sure. Where you going?" "I'm going to Hell. You wanna come along?" "Hell's a good ways from here. But why not? Seems as a good a place as any to be headed." "You know how to get there?" Parnell asked. "Sure do. Been knowing all my life." With that, she climbed into the truck. Two things caught Parnell's attention right off: her left leg and her right one. They were long and thin, and he wondered how far up her reddish brown suntan ran. "My name's Parnell," he said, tipping the brim of his baseball cap and smiling big enough to show all the teeth he still had. "Parnell Phipps." "Pleased to meet ya, Parnell. My name is Linda-Berry Swinton, but most everyone calls me "Sweet Berry." Sweet Berry asked Parnell why he wanted to go to Hell. When he told her about the computer making the decision for him, she said she still didn't understand. "I had a friend who went down there once," she told him "He didn't never come back." "I don't really care if I get back," Parnell said. "I reckon I could find work there as good as anywhere's else. I just want to see the place with my own eyes." She offered him directions, which, in a few miles, involved turning down a deserted gravel road she assured him would connect to the road that would connect to the road that would connect to the road to Hell. For the next few minutes neither spoke as they studied the twists in the road and the signs on each other's faces. Sweet Berry kept looking in his cracked side-view mirror. Parnell figured she wanted to pretty herself up for him. She was trailer trash pretty. Her tangled, brown-blond hair hung down to her shoulders and her white T-shirt, which clung to her in the moist Southern air, made it obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. She tied the T in a knot, exposing a tanned, tight belly and a ring in her navel that glistened in the sun. At first glance, she looked young, maybe still teenaged, but something in her eyes made her look older. Black eye liner couldn't hide what looked like half-empty sandbags under droopy eyes. But snake-long legs and breasts that bounced with each pothole more than made up for that. He also liked how her cherry red lipstick made her lips look like they were begging to be kissed. Parnell feel happy and horny, his two favorite states of mind. He thought how much he had missed feeling like something good might soon happen to him. Now he wished he had gotten the radio fixed before his trip. He wanted to listen to old-fashioned rock and roll, maybe the Isley Brothers singing, "Twist and Shout," with the volume turned up loud. Normally, he listened to country, but country music made him sad, and today he wanted to pound out a beat on the dashboard and sing loud enough to make the devil plug his ears. He watched Sweet Berry open and close her bare legs like she was signaling him in some kind of sexual Morse code. He didn't want to come on to her too soon, afraid she'd see him as a pervert, so he waited for a sign he could understand. Just then, after she took a quick look in his rear-view mirror, Sweet Berry turned her head towards him and wet her lips with her pink tongue. Without a word, Parnell pulled off the road and they were on each other faster than rats on peanut butter. They couldn't even wait to get out of the truck. She tugged at his pants and he yanked off her T-shirt and shorts, surprised she wore no panties. With his pants and boxers bunched down at his boots, Parnell ignored the cramped quarters as he humped and pumped his way into Sweet Berry. That is, until he heard a vehicle pull along side. He soon found himself looking down the barrel of a sawed off shotgun held by a bulldog-ugly man with tattoos covering his arms. "Where you been, Larry?" Sweet Berry shouted. "You was supposed to stop us before he made his mess all over me." "Give me your money, buddy," the man growled. Parnell didn't argue. He sat up in the cab, grabbed his wallet from his pants, which were still around his ankles, and handed over three twenty-dollar bills, turning the rest of his pockets inside out. Sweet Berry was so surprised to see even that much cash, she grabbed her clothes and hopped out of Parnell's truck and into the other buck naked. The two drove off whooping and hollering. Parnell pulled up his pants in silence, took a deep breath and let out a "whoo-whee," with the falsetto so piercing he nearly shattered the windshield. Reaching into his boots, he grabbed the bulk of his cash. Still got plenty enough to get to Hell, he thought, as he jumped back behind the wheel. This sure is my lucky day.
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Second Place Charlie's Shirt By Liz Hoyt Eberle – Fredericksburg, TX
Picking up the last towel in the basket, Maggie stopped dead in her tracks. Sweat dripped off her thin face, trickled down her neck, and into the front of her cotton dress. She stood rooted to the ground staring at Charlie’s shovel. It was leaning against the shed, covered in rust and dirt, its wooden handle weathered and rotting away. She shivered as sweat ran down her back and the towels pinned to the clothesline flapped against her face. She began to moan, “Nooooooooooo!” She swayed back and forth. “Oh, God, let it stop! Make it go away. Ooh, God.” Dropping her face into the cool, wet towel still clutched in her hands, for the first time since the telegram arrived on that hot July day three years before, she began to sob. Deep, wracking sobs without tears spewed up from the bottom of her gut. She fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, sobbing and beating the dirt with her fist. Hideous sounds gurgled up from her throat, over and over, until she felt her little girls patting her face, hugging her, and crying, “It’s okay, Mommy. It’s okay. Don’t cry. Mommy, please don’t cry.” The towel in her hands was no longer cool. She raised up and, still shaking, drew the girls into her sweaty arms. “Oh, Babies, I’m sorry. It’s okay.” Sniffling, she wiped her face and theirs with the towel now soiled with tears and dirt. “We’ll be fine. Mommy loves you so much. It’s okay. Shhh.” Maggie fought down the urge to lie back down and never get up. Instead, she found the little blue buggy and settled the girls under the Mulberry tree with their dolls. “At least those towels are done,” she muttered, wiping her face. “Pulling heavy towels out of the rinse water gives a woman ugly muscles and makes her talk to herself.” The towels had been on the line since early morning, so, sure as death, the Texas summer sun would bleach them white before supper. Now she could get the dark things washed. Her washroom was on the south side of the house where it was supposed to get the cool breezes of summer, but she was sweating again when she lugged the last of the wash to the clothesline. Her mama lived two streets over and Maggie knew all the neighbors watched her yard from their kitchen windows. News of the state of Maggie’s laundry traveled fast. Maggie guessed it was worth sweating early in the morning not to hear Mama lecture, “Now, Maggie, don’t forget the bluing in your whites. You don’t want the neighbors to think you can’t keep a good house.” She cared not a whit about the opinions of her neighbors or what Mama’s friends thought, but she held her tongue. It was easier not to stir a fuss. On most days, it helped to show her nosy neighbors, and especially her mama and daddy, that she could manage quite nicely. On the bad days, like today, it took plain old stubborn pride to keep going. Summer was especially hard for Maggie and as she pinned colored clothes to the clothesline, memories flitted around in her mind like flies on a fresh cut watermelon. Try as she might, she could not swat them away. Trudging back to the washroom, she waved at her little girls. In spite of her dark mood, Maggie smiled. Mary, a regular tomboy, shook auburn pigtails out of her freckled face and tried to reach the first limb of the tree, while Susan’s strawberry-blond curls bounced as she trotted to keep up with her big sister. They giggled squashing purple mulberries with their toes. The day stretched on forever, but Maggie got through it. After supper, she gave the girls their baths and had to read three stories before they fell asleep. Then she was alone in her own bedroom at last. Standing in front of the closet door, trembling, she took a deep breath and gently turned the glass knob. Charlie’s clothes were still hanging next to hers. * * * * * * * * When Pearl Harbor was bombed, little Mary was only one year old. Maggie smiled, remembering how broke they were that Christmas. Charlie came into their bedroom on Christmas Eve and shut the door. Maggie was sewing the final stitches after stuffing Mary’s new teddy bear. “Did you find a box for the teddy bear, Charlie?” The silence made her look up. His eyes were dark and he stood there, just looking at her, his new winter hat crushed in his big, work-worn hands. “Charlie? Honey, what…” “I’ve enlisted. In the Marines, Maggie.” “Charles! No!” “Maggie, Baby, listen…” “No, I won’t listen!” Tears poured down her face and she was shaking. “You can’t do this to us. No! Please, Charlie, don’t go.” She wiped her face with both hands but the tears kept coming. “Wait for them to call you up. Maybe the war will be over before your age comes up in the draft. Not now! Oh Charlie, nooooo.” He tried to pull her into his arms but she shoved him away. With a set jaw and tight lips he said, “Margaret Mary, I’ve waited long enough. I have to sign up. It’s the right thing.” Charlie always did the right thing and she deeply loved him for it, but that day she hated Charlie and she hated the “right thing.” He left for boot camp January 2nd and the dark days of winter blurred in her memory. In July, he surprised her with an unexpected leave—a leave she had to share with everybody, but it was all right because they were together again. His mama and daddy, her folks, even the neighbors wanted to see him and hear about being a Marine. His buddies, the few still left in the county, constantly dropped by, and at church older men clapped him on the back. Charlie, being Charlie, managed to make time for everybody. He played with Mary in the kitchen while Maggie cooked his favorite meals. He cleaned the shed, spaded up the little garden and set out new tomato plants. Coming in from the yard, hot and sweaty, Charlie said, “It’s late for tomatoes, Maggie, but if you keep them watered, you’ll have a fall crop.” He grinned, twirled her around the room, and hugged her, a little too tightly it seemed. Charlie mowed the yard while she did the wash. They talked long into the nights and rose before daybreak to drink coffee together on the back porch. Every morning after breakfast he went to town. He took Mary with him, riding on his shoulders. Daddy and daughter. One special night, Maggie’s folks kept Mary at their house and Charlie took Maggie to a summer dance at the old pavilion. He held her close as they danced under the stars. Afterward, they went for a swim at their favorite place in the river and made love on the soft grass at the edge of the water. Then he was gone. Shipped to the Pacific. Susan was born the next spring. Maggie tended her girls, wrote letters to Charlie every day, knitted sweaters for the boys fighting in Europe, and pretended to be alive. Everyone had advice for her but she pasted on a smile without hearing what they said. She existed on memories, hope, and letters from Charlie. On a hot, July afternoon the world stopped. With no warning. She was sitting in the rocking chair under the Sycamore tree at Mama’s house, nursing Susan. A boy pedaling his bicycle up the hill looked familiar. Why, that’s Clara’s boy, she thought. He was just toddling when Charlie and I were kids. We taught him to climb trees when he was three. How did he grow up so fast? The boy turned his bike into the yard, keeping his eyes down. At 14 he was a man before his time. He wore a Western Union uniform two sizes too big. She didn’t look at the boy, but she noticed the leaves on the tree did not move, so neither did she. She refused to extend her hand to accept the yellow paper. Tommy fidgeted awhile then laid the envelope with the black band on it in her lap and said, “I’m sorry, Ma’am.” * * * * * * * * Long days and horrible nights slowly turned into three years. It was summer again and while life went on, she never planted more tomatoes. Maggie’s daddy stopped by her house every morning. “Hi, Daughter. How you doing?” “Oh, we’re fine, Daddy.” Maggie hugged him. His shoulders drooped and his steps were slow. She didn’t know how to help him. Every day she poured coffee, they talked about the weather, and Cal played with his granddaughters. Every day he said, “Need anything?” He didn’t know how to help his beloved first-born. “Not that I can think of. But thank you, Daddy.” He ended every visit with, “I love you.” “I love you, too, Daddy.” Yesterday, though, he stopped at the back porch and fumbled with his old straw hat. Finally, in a tone she hadn’t heard from him since she was twelve years old, Cal said “Now, Maggie girl! You just gotta get hold of yourself. Time’s are changing. You gotta change and you don’t got much time left. Margaret Mary? You hear?” Maggie turned away, not answering. Her daddy slammed the screen door and stomped down the porch steps. Yes, she heard, all right. From everyone. It wasn’t like she was wallowing in the mire of self-pity, for heaven’s sake. Today had been a hard one, but she had pulled herself together and finished her washing. And, she always smiled. Even six months after the telegram, on that awful Christmas Eve when the postman delivered the last letter Charlie had written, she did fine. She smiled through the rest of the evening, politely got everyone out of her house, and put the girls to bed. Of course, she polished and shined Charlie’s old work boots for hours before she read the letter. But she didn’t cry. Every Sunday she took the girls to church in their starched pinafores. She practiced the piano so she could do her part in the monthly music study club even though she hated wearing a hat on weekdays. Why, even when victory was declared in Europe, she and the girls went to the Pavilion with Mama and Daddy to celebrate and Maggie smiled all day. Nobody knew that afterward she painted the back hall until daybreak. That August, though, when the town turned out to celebrate the victory in Japan, she gave in to a “summer cold” and stayed home sewing a dress for Mary. But, she did not cry. Tonight was different. With a knot in her stomach ready to explode, she reached into the closet and took Charlie’s favorite red plaid flannel shirt off the hanger—the shirt he was wearing when he signed up for the Marines. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as tenderly as she had pulled on her wedding gown. She could smell Charlie; sense his warmth; see the muscles on his back; feel the power in his arms and the gentleness of his touch. Wrapped in Charlie’s shirt and lying on their bed, she cried hot tears long into the night. She knew it was time but she wasn’t ready; the ache for Charlie had never stopped. The truth stabbed at her heart and pounded her mind. She was alone. Life was different. Daddy was right. Even Charlie’s papa had told her, “Women gotta be smart these days. It’s been three years, Maggie, and now the war’s over.” She didn’t know what difference a year, three years, or even fifty made, but near dawn and still wearing Charlie’s red plaid shirt, Maggie began to pull his clothes out of the closet one by one. She laid them on the chair—the chair where he always sat to pull on his boots. When she came to his brown pants she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Those old work pants still had the blue stain from when they painted the doll buggy. Paint never did come out. Charlie’s Sunday meetin’ shoes and the worn boots that had been his pride and joy finished the job. Tears trickled down her cheeks. I’ll take these clothes to the old men at the Refuge House. Well, except for the red plaid shirt. She took it off and stroked the soft material for a long while. Then she hung it at the back of her closet. The box of Charlie’s letters, the American flag, and the medals were still on the closet shelf, behind her winter hats. She would look at them one day, but not now. With a deep sigh, Maggie closed the closet door. “I’ll clean out the shed this afternoon. Then… maybe… maybe I’ll get a new handle for the shovel.”
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Third Place Things Was Changing By Anne B McKee – Meridian, MS
Imogene clung to the crusty-barked pine tree close by where Santa was sitting on the walking trail next to the school. Tears rimmed her brown eyes as she watched and waited. Maybe, just maybe, she would take a turn in Santa’s lap. No, no – she couldn’t. What would she say? She watched her friend Misty skip toward Santa wearing her red boots with bells and tassels. “The most beautiful boots in the world,” Imogene thought. Oh, how she wanted a pair of boots just like them. Misty had even let her try them on and they fit! Yes, it was as though the boots were made just for her, but she had to let Misty slide her little pink feet back inside the boots. No, there would not be any boots for Imogene. Misty hopped onto Santa’s lap and he laughed. She gave him her best smile and then asked for a pony – a real, live pony of her very own. Santa asked if she had been a good girl and studied hard and talked sweet to her parents. She nodded and then he said he would add the pony to his list for his Christmas Eve trip to her house. Misty squealed and hopped down. She waved goodbye to ole Santa and then waved happily over at Imogene as she stood by the pine tree. Then Santa looked her way and asked her if she wanted anything for Christmas. She squeezed her pine tree even tighter. Should she talk to Santa? Should she? Earlier that morning she had pulled the last sock out of her drawer – the last sock without a hole. Yes, earlier she wished for those boots, but Momma said, “No, Imogene. You know we ain’t got no money to spend on red boots. Girl, don’t you know that?” She had walked to the kitchen and grabbed a cold biscuit – a leftover biscuit, but it was good. She tasted the brown crust and wiped the crumbs from her face. She then took another one and wrapped it carefully in an old paper bag. It would be her lunch. It was then she remembered. Today was the Christmas party. All of her class had worked really hard to earn enough points to go to the party. Not just go, but to enjoy all of the activities, like storytelling, and ornament decorating. They would roast hot dogs over a fire of stacked logs, and eat and drink good things like hot chocolate, popcorn, and candy. Then they would take a short trip through the walking trail where Santa would be waiting to talk to every student. She hesitated at the kitchen door and her smile faded as she remembered her momma’s words. The words rolled around in her head. No, she couldn’t talk to Santa. No need in wasting his time with her useless requests. There would not be any Christmas presents at her house, her momma had said. But wait a minute, her eyes popped as she remembered the words of her teacher. Her teacher told the entire class that things are changing, and that the whole nation had made a change. A new President was elected in November and he would make the world a better place. “Yes, things was changing,” she thought to herself. She ran back into the house. “Momma, Momma,” she yelled. “Yes, Baby, you gonna be late for the school bus.” “But Momma, my teacher said things are gonna get better.” “What are you talking about, girl?” “My teacher said we have a new President and that things are gonna get better.” “Oh, my baby girl. Don’t you go counting on that now.” Her momma’s eyes welled with tears. The sight of her little girl wantin’ things broke her heart. “But Momma, we gotta believe. Its gotta get better.” That’s when the crock-pot slipped out of her momma’s hands and fell to the floor. It shattered into a dozen broken pieces. So like the pieces of a broken family and a broken heart. Her momma slumped to the counter, uncontrolled tears poured from her eyes and deep groans spilled out of her body. With gripped fists she banged the counter as if the scratched plywood was somehow responsible for the plight of her family. Imogene hugged her momma with strength of love and compassion that came from deep inside her little six-year-old heart. The two stood together holding onto each other and a beginning of peace found their souls. “Momma, don’t worry, things is gonna get better. You just wait and see.” With those words she ran out the door and down the rickety steps just in time to hop on the bus. When Imogene walked into her classroom, the chatter and squeals were high-pitched as all the students readied themselves for the Christmas party. The teacher rapped on her desk. She explained that Santa had already arrived and their class would be the first to see him. That news brought more excitement. Imogene seated herself calmly at her desk even though her insides were quivering like jelly. She wanted to talk to Santa and explain about her family. Maybe he would understand. And then it was time to go. The entire class marched single file to the walking trail next to the school, and once inside, the students darted here and there throughout the park. For this special day, Santa would see everyone at the walking trail – the trail had been a school project and the students were especially proud that Santa had come to visit their trail. Imogene breathed in the smell of hot chocolate and popcorn as she searched for him. Oh, there he was all dressed in his bright red suit. He waved at the children and a line began to form. She filled her cup with the foamy brown drink – one of her favorites -- and glanced again over to Santa. Maybe she should just sit for a while and watch the others. She sipped the sweetness of chocolate –a rare treat. She looked at Santa again and saw that her best friend Misty was in line now. She finished her hot chocolate. She walked slowly toward the line, but stopped at the pine tree. One by one each child visited Santa, and after Misty’s turn, Santa called to her. “Hi, little girl. Want to tell me what you want for Christmas?” She finally nodded and made the long trip over to Santa. Should she ask for red boots with the wonderful bells and tassels? No, she remembered standing in the kitchen earlier that morning. She would ask for a new crock-pot for her momma. They needed to cook and celebrate, cause things was changing.
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Honorable Mention Jim Crow, the Old Wino and Freedom By Bobby Jenkins – Reedville, VA
On a bright September day, my brother and I returned to the Appalachian Mountains to visit a cemetery where family members lie. As Tony and I got out of the car and proceeded on our way, a mockingbird jumped nervously among the branches of a blackberry bush, protesting our intrusion. Along our grassy path, grasshoppers leaped from tall weeds and sailed gracefully away for short distances. At the edge of the cemetery, broom sage rustled in a light breeze, just the way we had known it when we were kids running through the hills. “Norton’s the best place I ever lived,” Tony panted as we walked up to the family plot. Right after that, some crows flew over and called in the distance. Instinctively, I looked skyward and began to recall Jim Crow and the old wino. More than sixty years ago, they had taught me what freedom was. The odd incident began when I was eight years old. As I waited at home for my two teenage brothers, Jack and Tony, to return from a camping trip, they arrived with a baby crow. “We came upon him on our way down Stone Mountain,” Jack explained. “He’d fallen from a nest.” “Do you want him?” Tony asked as he presented the bird to me. I was dumbfounded. “Can I keep him?” “If Dad says it’s okay,” Tony answered. When Father came home from work, he gave his approval. Later that night, I had difficulty falling asleep as I thought about my good fortune. Lying in bed with eyes wide open, I gazed out an open window toward Dorchester, a coal camp which lay just across the hill. Beyond the hill, the sky had a reddish glow from a battery of coke ovens that stretched a mile or so along Powell River. In our yard, crickets sang incessantly. From the surrounding woods, whippoorwills called while somewhere farther in darkness, a dog barked faintly. The following morning, I was awakened when Father left the house for an early shift in the mine. Jumping out of bed, I ran straight for the kitchen and the cardboard box where Dad had put the baby crow the previous night. The bird was resting on an old blanket. It looked up with soft dark eyes. “You don’t have to worry,” I whispered as I reached down and gently picked up the warm feathery body. “No one is going to hurt you.” It had no fear. For a while, the two of us looked at each other in trust and wonderment. By late morning, word spread and every kid on Spruce Street came to see my unusual pet. “Whata you goina name him?” everyone seemed to ask. “Don’t know,” I answered each time. Finally, Ben Ely, one of my close friends, suggested, “Why don’t you call him Old Crow?” It sounded good to me, and later that evening at dinner I announced my decision. “Did you know that’s a bottle of whiskey, Billy?” Mother countered disapprovingly. I was stunned. “Are you sure, Mom?” “Yes, and you can bet Ben Ely knows it too.” Next day, I told Ben what Mother had said, and he promptly suggested “Jim Crow.” I went straight home. “Mom, is there any whiskey called Jim Crow?” I asked. “No,” she answered. “Okay, it’s Jim Crow then.” Over the next few days, my dog, Tinker, and I taught Jim to fly. With Tinker standing upright and his head turned toward his rump, I placed the baby crow on my dog’s back and encouraged Jim to jump. At first, Jim did not understand; however, Tinker eventually barked out of frustration, and from shock Jim took his first short leap. After that, it became a game, and the baby crow began flapping his wings with each new plunge. Within two weeks, he was soaring. Not long after Jim learned to fly, I met the old wino. The encounter occurred as Ben Ely and I were sitting together on a rock wall that ran in front of my house. Tinker was with us. Also, Jim flew out of a nearby hickory tree and lit on the wall beside me. As the four of us sat together and Ben and I discussed the dreaded prospect of attending school in September, we noticed a black man walking across Dorchester Hill. “Who’s that?” I asked. “Ralph Finnery,” Ben answered as he brushed some blonde bangs from his forehead. “He’s a wino.” “A wino?” I said, turning to Ben. “What’s that?” “He drinks wine and Sterno,” Ben replied. For a moment, I stared at Ben to see if he was kidding. “Are you talkin’ about Canned Heat for camping?” I asked. “Are you sayin’ he drinks Canned Heat” Nodding, Ben replied, “Yep.” Still unable to accept what Ben had told me, I pressed on. “Are you sure about that, Ben? Are you really sure?” “Yep,” Ben replied matter-of-factly. “But why would he do that?” I challenged. “To get drunk,” Ben explained. “Dad says Sterno’s got alcohol in it.” “Are you kiddin’?” I said as I glanced up and watched Ralph make his way to the foot of the hill. “Nope, that‘s what Dad said,” Ben replied. As Ralph approached us, I became apprehensive. The old wino’s thinning gray hair was uncombed; his sad brown eyes were bloodshot; his wrinkled dark face was unshaven; his red flannel shirt and baggy green work pants were soiled. “Whal, whal, what have we here?” Ralph said cheerfully as he walked up. “What’s yar boys’ names?” “Ben Ely, Billy Johnson,” we answered. “Yar Roscoe Ely’s boy?” Ralph asked Ben. “Yes, sir.” The old wino looked down at Jim who was pecking at a rivet on my blue jeans. “Yar Bill Johnson’s boy, aren’t you?” he said. “Yar Daddy told me all ‘bout that crow.” “Yes, sir,” I replied. “What’s his name?” asked Ralph. “Jim Crow.” The old wino seemed disappointed. “Why did you name him that?” “Ben suggested it,” I answered. “Oh, I see,” Ralph said, nodding his head. “When I was your boy’s age, I found a red fox pup in the woods and made him into a pet. He was just like a little dog. We used to walk together ‘round our place. One day I found him dead not far from the house. Someone shot him.” “Why they do that?” I asked. As I looked at Ralph and waited for a response, I noticed tears forming in the old man’s eyes. “I don’t rightly know,” he answered softly. “I felt bad ‘bout it but there weren’t nothin’ I could do.” “I’d sure like to have a red fox as a pet,” Ben mused. “Tell Mr. Bill and Mr. Roscoe I said hello,” Ralph said as he turned and continued on his way. Throughout summer and fall, Ben, Tinker, Jim Crow and I often sat on the rock wall together and watched all the activity going on in the neighborhood, including milk deliveries, egg deliveries, ice deliveries, dry cleaning deliveries, grocery store deliveries, mail deliveries, coal deliveries and wood deliveries. Even vendors selling fruits and vegetables came by. We sometimes saw Ralph too when he crossed Dorchester Hill. Each time, the old wino stopped to talk and tell us a tale before continuing on his way. That winter, crickets sang through the end of December; however, by mid-January, heavy snows came to the mountains, closing schools and businesses. In the late 1940s, television had yet to penetrate the Appalachian Mountains, and ours was a unique society because of that. With no incentive to stay inside, adults came out of their houses and built bonfires, and everyone rode sleighs all day and into the night. Not only was it an exciting time for Ben and me, Jim and Tinker even got in on the action. When I sat down on my sleigh, Tinker jumped up between my legs, and Jim swooped down from a nearby tree, lighting on my shoulder. As the three of us raced down the hill together, Jim squawked while Tinker barked. It was a funny sight, and everyone who saw it pointed at us and laughed. Those fleeting moments were more than magic SYMBOL 8212 \f "Times New Roman" \s 12they were the happiest of my life. That same winter, Jim developed into quite a character. He knew he was part of the family, and he looked out for everyone, even Tinker. When Tinker and another dog in the neighborhood barked at each other, Jim took Tinker’s part by flying up and harassing the other dog. Jim became a raider too. He forever flew off to unknown destinations and returned with booty. He stashed his treasure in the loft of a small shed beside our house. One day I climbed up for an inventory. “Whata you got here, Jim?” As Jim stepped back, I surveyed the unusual contraband: marbles, a couple of coins and clothes pins. Then I spotted something quite shocking. “False teeth!” I gasped. “Where did you get them false teeth, Jim?” That evening, when Dad came home from the mine, he went around the neighborhood trying to identify the owner of the partial plate that Jim had procured. Dad never solved the mystery. With the arrival of spring, Jim began harassing the neighbors’ dogs. One day I watched him light near a sleeping beagle and grab its tail. The old hound jumped up and let out a howl as if it had seen a ghost. Jim also started making a lot of racket at night. One time, after the family had retired, he began squawking from his nest in the shed. When he finally stopped, Mom called out from her bedroom, “Billy, we’re goina have to give that crow away. Neighbors are beginning to complain.” I was horrified. “Don’t worry, Mom. He won’t make no more noise.” Right after my consoling remark, old Jim really started squawking. In response, Carl Meadows’ fox hounds, two houses away, began howling. That set off Tinker and other dogs throughout the neighborhood. Jack and Tony burst out laughing too, upsetting me even more since I failed to see any humor in losing Jim. By summer, Jim still flew around the neighborhood, getting into trouble. I knew things were bad when Dad told me we might have to do something. “Your mother’s right, son,” he explained. “A lot of folks are beginning to complain. We may have to give him away.” The next day, Ben suggested that Jim could be controlled by clipping his wings. “If he can’t fly no more, he’ll hafta stay home,” Ben explained. “But that’ll hurt him,” I protested. “Won’t do nothing of the kind,” countered Ben. “He ain’t got no feelings in his wings.” Ben went home and brought back some scissors. I reluctantly picked up Jim. “Hold him tight now,” Ben said as he moved forward with his clippers. Frightened, Jim looked up at me with a pleading expression. “Don’t hurt him, Ben,” I said. “Hold him tight thar, boy,” Ben answered back as he grabbed a wing and began clipping. Jim squawked and struggled frantically. When it was over, I set him down on the ground. He looked up with an angry expression of betrayal. Turning his back, he then waddled away to a nearby bush and hopped up into it where no one could reach him. He stayed there for two days. When he finally came down, Jim would have nothing more to do with me. Days later, Tinker and I were sitting together on the rock wall when the old wino came by. Jim was perched alone in a bush next to our house. As Ralph walked up, I was shocked by his appearance. He had lost considerable weight. His unshaven face was thin and pale. His bloodshot eyes had a tired, glazed look. His filthy clothes hung on his emaciated body. Down wind, he smelled terrible. “Where’s Jim?” coughed the old wino. As I began to tell Ralph what had happened, he became focused and quiet. Before I finished, my emotions got the best of me and I started to cry. “I was just tryin’ to keep him out of trouble so they wouldn’t take him away.” Ashamed of exposing childish emotions, I fixed my eyes on the ground as tears rolled down my cheeks. When I got the courage to look up, I saw the old black gentleman staring at the bush where Jim was perched. With a sad expression, Ralph turned and said, “You took away his freedom, Billy. That‘s why he won’t have nothin’ to do with you.” Jim Crow grew back his feathers, but he never forgave me. One day while Tinker and I sat on the rock wall, I noticed Jim perched on a fence, staring at me for the longest time. He appeared to have the same expression of wonderment as on that first morning when our eyes met. Suddenly he took flight, and I never saw him again. I never saw the old wino anymore either. Two weeks after Jim left, Father told me someone found Ralph lying beside the railroad tracks near the Dorchester coal tipple. Dad went to the funeral home to pay his respects. I tagged along and cried once more. Over the years, I often thought of Jim, Ralph and the lesson they taught me. As Tony and I ended our visit at the family plot and headed back to our car, I assumed my brother had long forgotten Jim Crow and the old wino. I was wrong. “Those crows flying overhead reminded me of Jim and Ralph,” Tony sighed. Surprised, I glanced at my brother. “Did they?” He nodded. As the two of us continued on our way down the grassy path, cicada in the surrounding woods filled the air with their undulating songs. High in a white oak tree, a blue jay quietly watched our departure.
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