Flossie Smith: The Miller Family Saga Vol 1

By Steven Andrew Williams

Twelve year old tomboy Flossie Smith fights for her right to be herself. Her older sisters, mother, aunt, and school teacher are all pushing the young girl to change her ways and become a proper young lady. Tall and lean, the fiery red head with the support of her father, Jim Smith, only wants to be left alone to spend time with her best friend, Josh Miller. The two of them are inseparable companions fishing and hunting along the banks of Stout's Creek. When Josh turns twelve one of his gifts is a coon hound pup. When he shares the gift with his blood brother, Flossie, it opens a whole new world to her and the argument over her dreams becomes even more heated. "I want to become a Coon Hunter just like Josh," declares Flossie. "Being a girl should not keep me from my dreams." This first book in the Miller Family Saga, "Flossie Smith" tells the story of the training of Bob the hound and the early days when Flossie begins to develop an almost mystic relationship with her hound. With each misstep more pressure in put on the fiery red head to conform to the rural communities standards. Only the intervention of Flossie's father, Jim Smith, helps the girl avoid being forced to join her four older sisters on the front porch, where they sit and wait for a potential suitor to call. Instead Flossie continues to work along side her friend Josh in the Miller's truck gardens, trains her hound, and under the tutelage of Little Harry Waggerman, becomes the finest shot in Connor County.The back story is the struggle of the Millers with the local Klavern of the Klu Klux Klan. The Millers, dedicated Christians hold fast to their faith and their belief in the "social gospel" a philosophy that many consider to be revolutionary. One bishop of the Methodist Church said of the Millers, "Isaac and Margaret are the perfect blend of what it means to be a Christian. They not only ache for the souls of their neighbors, they are willing to lay down their lives for the substance of the faith."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781629513867

Book preview

PERSIMMON GROVE FARM

The Miller Family Saga

Vol 1

Flossie Smith

By Steven Andrew Williams

Lovingly Edited by Cynthia Cradick

Copyright © 2013 by Steven Andrew Williams

All Rights Reserved.

Library of Congress United States Copyright Office #TXU 1718108

Dedicated To My Mother, Harriet, Who Inspired the Character Margaret Miller

Acknowledgments:

Sherry Ann Cutshaw Williams, my partner in life for 48 wonderful years.

Gloria Penwell, my writing coach and encourager

Connie Lynn Havens, story editor

My Oldest Son, Scott, who continues to encourage my writing.

Cyndy Cradick, Editor

Introduction:

Snap! It was the last sound I heard before Stout’s Creek began rising towards my face. When I struck the shallow water it was as if the stings from a thousand bees passed through my body. With my last breath driven out of my lungs by the impact I feared I was in real danger of drowning in just ten inches of water. In order to save myself and fearful for the life of my new blood brother, I pushed down hard and rolled over in the icy cold stream. I needn’t have worried. Next to me I heard the girlish giggles of my best friend in the world as she splashed her arms and legs in a wild celebration of life.

Her name is Flossie Smith. Without a doubt she is the most extraordinary person I have ever known. Even at twelve years of age it is obvious to everyone who knows her that Flossie is different from other people. A tall, skinny, freckle covered, red head, she lived up to every cliché believed and written about people with copper colored hair. Flossie has a fiery temper and an independent streak that at times makes her almost unmanageable. She is also the most intelligent and insightful person I have ever known.

Flossie Smith showed up on our farm in the spring of 1930 seeking a job working for my grandfather in our truck garden. You can work alongside Josh, Miss Smith, instructed Grandpa. He will teach you everything you need to know about working in our fields. The work is hard, Flossie. I am guessing you will learn to do it well. Right now I cannot pay you cash and for today the work is done. Josh was just about to go fishing to bring us back some sunnies for supper. If you like he will take you along and show you the ropes. I suspect your family could use some fish for their supper.

Flossie’s family was one of the many comebackers, a term coined by my grandfather, to describe those that had retreated from the poverty of the Great Depression. The Smith’s had just moved in next door into Flossie’s deceased grandparent’s house. Flossie was the youngest of eight, which included five sisters and two brothers. She told me once that she was a mistake. Unsure what she meant by that remark, I left it a question unasked and no explanation was offered.

The two of us walked in silence back to the place I felt most at home, Stout’s Creek. It is a wondrous place, full of all sorts of adventures for boys and now a girl. A narrow forest of hickories, walnuts, maples, oaks, pines, sassafras, and birch trees lined the ten mile course of the little creek. In those trees live a multitude of birds, thousands of squirrels, and the American Raccoons. In its pristine waters, God has stocked Stout’s Creek with sunfish; bull heads cats, and small mouth bass, just waiting for a boy’s worm to entice them. I had never had a close friend to share it. Male cousins had come and gone. Now, because of the Great Depression, my aunts and uncles rarely visited Persimmon Grove Farm. The closest neighbor that had children my age was more than two miles away. I was a lonely boy. Flossie Smith changed that.

When we first arrived at my favorite spot along the creek, a sandbar some two hundred feet long, Flossie explained to me that she was a city girl who knew nothing about fishing. I went into a stand of willows behind the sandbar, found a lengthy flexible shoot, and cut it off at its base. To the thin end of the willow pole I attached one of my precious fishing lines. I showed Flossie how to thread a worm on her hook, set the bobber, and helped her cast it into the creek. Moments later the bobber disappeared, and Flossie jerked and hooked a large sunfish, and raised it out of the water. Her first victory complete Flossie began a two footed kangaroo style victory celebration that I came to understand she reserved to convey true joy. I showed her how to string her fish to preserve it for her family and from that moment on the girl was on her own.

An hour later our stringers full of fish, I stripped out of my overalls, and waded into the cooling waters in my skivvies. I turned around to discover a similarly dressed girl following me into the water. I had never known anyone who could not swim. Flossie took about ten steps forward, and stepped off a rock ledge, and disappeared from sight. Moments later she resurfaced laughing, giggling, and spitting water in my direction. Within an hour the new girl was paddling around, swimming on her own, and having a fabulous time.

When I got bored with just swimming I climbed the north bank to a ledge some six feet above the blue waters. I jumped in the creek, pulling my legs into a cannon ball shape. Before I could clear my eyes my new friend, screamed for joy as she plunged into the creek in her own cannon ball. She splashed water high into the air.

Not to be outdone by Flossie, I climbed a nearby oak that leaned out over the creek. I grabbed the vine I had cut for just this purpose. Vine in hand and calling out like Tarzan the Ape Man, I swung out over the water, releasing just in time to fall into the deepest part of the pool. Flossie clapped her hands together, and begged me for a turn at the vine. When she swung out instead of just letting go to fall safely into the water, the new girl swung her long skinny legs high up into the air, and began tumbling backward head over heels toward the water in a tight ball. When she hit the water she was flat on her back. I was afraid that she had been seriously hurt. Moments later Flossie Smith reappeared, smiling, and laughing at herself, and looking at me for approval. I knew then that I had a friend for life.

Chapter 1

School’s Out

It was the last day of school for 1932. I stepped out of the shadows of the single class room at Edberg School, and saw my friend, Flossie Smith, nose to nose with one of the older girls. They were jabbering at one another, both were red faced and appeared ready to do battle. Missy Brown was a hefty girl, who worked as a milkmaid in her father’s dairy. She suddenly extended her arms to shove Flossie away. When Flossie fell to the ground school mates, who had gathered around to cheer the two combatants, had a great laugh at the fiery red head’s expense. That was unfortunate for Missy Brown.

Flossie quickly regained her footing, and without regard for her own safety hurled herself at the older and much bigger girl. The skinny red head threw a number of well-aimed punches at the milkmaid’s face. Miss Sachs, our teacher, hearing the commotion on the playground, rushed outside and separated the two girls before any real damage could be done.

It’s a good thing for you two that school is out for term, snapped our teacher. That is especially true for you, Flossie Smith. I know that Missy is not coming back here next year, but you will be. You are going to change your ways, young lady, or I am going to know the reason why. Now all of you go home. School is out until October.

An hour later Flossie and I were sitting on our favorite sandbar, fishing for sunnies upon which both of our family’s depended on for an important part of their diets. Instead of moving off on her own Flossie sat down beside me. She seemed to be agitated, and didn’t seem that interested in her fishing.

Is something the matter, Floss?

What did you get on your report card, Josh?

Straight A’s just like you. I got an A in Math, English, Science, Latin, History, Poetry, and Bible Verses.

What did you get in Deportment? Flossie asked, nervously.

Miss Sachs was mighty big on Deportment. In my mind I could hear our teacher’s voice. It is supremely beneficial for educated people to know how to act and have good manners. It is also extremely important for ladies to act like ladies and for boys to act like gentlemen. If we don’t do that then all we are is educated heathens.

I don’t want some dumb boy helpin’ me to sit down, Miss Sachs, my friend had argued. I can do it just fine without anyone’s help, and I don’t want anyone openin’ doors fer me either. That is just dumb. Why would a boy want a girl friend who is too dumb ta open a door fer herself?

On more than one occasion I had stayed behind at school to help Flossie serve her many punishments for talking back to the teacher. I usually swept out the tiny little school room, while Flossie cleaned the single black slate board at the front of the room and dusted the erasers. When I asked Flossie why she gave Miss Sachs so much trouble about her classes in Deportment, her retort was, I do it fer her own good, Josh. Miss Sachs has been taught ta act stupid in order ta catch a man. She aint’ stupid and someone has ta point that out ta her.

No amount of argument on my part could dissuade Flossie from resisting Miss Sach’s instructions in manners. Now she might have to pay for her sins when she gave her parents her report card.

Maw is goin’ ta skin me alive. She and my paw go at each other about me from time ta time. He has told her more than once, just ta leave me alone, and let me find my own way. Last week Dad told my Aunt Birdie, ta shut her pie hole about my conduct, or get out of his house fer ever. Now this report card is just goin’ ta give Maw and Aunt Birdie, more ammunition ta try ta force me on ta the porch with my husband huntin, sisters.

Flossie shoved her report card into my hand. As I suspected my friend, who was by far the smartest person at Edberg Road Elementary had straight A’s in every solid subject. I scanned down the card to where Miss Sachs had penciled the word Deportment. There next to that word was a U for unsatisfactory. Next to the U was written the one word message unladylike.

For one of the few times since I had known her I thought that Flossie Smith was going to cry in front of me. She sniffed a bit but instead of sobbing, she just turned red faced and looked me in the eye. I won’t do it, Josh. I just won’t do it. I will slip out the window, and escape everyday. Nobody is goin’ ta make a lady out of Flossie Smith. I don’t want ta be somebody else’s idea of who Flossie Smith should be. If I did that I wouldn’t be Flossie Smith anymore. I’d be someone I don’t know. Would ya like me ta be somebody else, Josh?

Why did you and Missy Brown get into a fight today? I asked, changing the subject.

I don’t want ta say.

If you can’t explain it to me now who is going to listen to you later?

Flossie thought about it for a moment, and then began talking. She was takin’ a shine ta you. She was always walkin’ in front of you, tryin’ ta get your attention. Missy’s got those two big brown eyes, and she wanted you ta know ‘bout them.

When was she trying to do this, Flossie?

When we were playin’ dodgeball on the playground, Flossie answered. Missy got real close ta you. I thought she was goin’ ta faint right in ta your arms, and then give you a big smack.

That’s silly. Missy tripped, and I caught her before she fell.

Now ya er the one bein’ silly, Josh Miller. I watch the other girls in the school watch ya. They are all like a bunch of hungry wolves, getting’ ready ta pounce if’n ya give them the slightest bit of encouragement. I warned em all ta leave you alone. I told that fancy dressin’, Mazie Skinner, ta leave ya alone or I was goin’ ta bloody her nose.

I wish you wouldn’t do that, Floss. I am not interested in girls. Maybe someday I will be, but not now. The only things I am really interested in is coon hunting and fishing. So why did you have to bloody Missy’s nose?

She laughed at me when I told her ta stay away from ya.

I have no idea what you are talking about, Flossie. There is nothing going on between me and Missy Brown. She is sweet on some farmer over in Morgan Township. I think they might be getting married now that we are out of school.

Just then I was happy to see that the first fish of the new spring had taken Flossie’s bait. It was quickly trying to get to the north bank to hide under the tree roots and enjoy its stolen worm in peace. Flossie with deft skill, eased the pole back, and set the hook, and landed the pan fish, laughing and giggling at her first victory of the spring.

When the fish took a moment to stop biting I addressed Flossie with an idea that had come from reading "The Last of the Mohicans, and a history book of the red men who had lived near here along the White River. I want you to become my blood brother, Flossie."

What does that mean, Josh? Flossie inquired.

It means from now on no matter where we are in the world, we will always be blood brothers. We will own everything in common. If I get a gift, then half of that gift will be yours. The same is true for you.

But, Josh, I never get nothin’ nice. My folks are so poor we are lucky ta have food ta put on the table. I think that sometimes Maw likes for me ta be with ya, so I get fed a lot by your mom.

My mother does not mind, Flossie. She loves you just like she loves me.

Josh, that ain’t true. Nobody loves me the way your folks love ya. I am just one of eight mouths ta feed. Ya are your folk’s whole world.

Do you want to be my blood brother or not?

What do I have to do?

You take my Uncle Bob’s knife, and prick your finger, and squeeze the blood out of it. I will do the same and when our blood runs together, we will swear to be blood brothers forever.

Do I get a kiss with the promise?

Don’t be silly. We are not getting married.

Okay, she giggled. I just wanted ta make sure.

Moments later we made the tiny cuts, pressed out a drop of blood, and said our pledge of fidelity to one another, and we were made blood brothers for life. At that time I had no idea of what unintended consequences would come of this act. I was to discover that life can turn on such moments.

Being outdoors made Flossie Smith happy. I could not imagine my freckled friend sitting on the porch next to her four sisters, waiting for some boy to come by to talk to them, or ask an available sister out for a walk.

What Flossie Smith wanted more than anything else was to be with me. Once school was out Flossie and I would spend most of our waking hours working in the fields of Persimmon Grove Farm, hoeing, and weeding the gardens. It was a necessary and tedious job. Someone had to do it. Flossie and I were my grandfather’s choice.

When we weren’t farming Flossie and I served as our families’ hunters and gatherers. In the spring we could be found fishing or in the woods above Stout’s Creek hunting for the delicate Morel mushrooms, favored by so many Hoosier families. When mushroom season was over Mom would give us a pair of scissors, and we headed for the fence rows of Flat Rock Township in search of wild asparagus. Nothing set off breakfast eggs better than a pile of the delicate rods with fresh churned butter melting into a steaming pile of the vegetable delicacy.

By mid to late June depending on the amount of rain and sunshine, the wild berry crop started maturing. Mom would fire up her stoves, boil her canning jars, and wait for Flossie and me to bring in milking buckets full of wild berries. Mom and Martha Smith, Flossie’s mother, shared the work of canning our collected produce in mom’s summer kitchen. There were raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries, and mulberries to be turned into pie fillings, jelly, and jams, and stored away for winter.

In late summer, my friend and I searched for pawpaws for pudding. We dug sassafras root that was used for tea when the money for coffee was depleted. After the first killing frost it was persimmons that were gathered for the rich pudding, which was made from the fruit of the trees that were the namesake of our farm.

In the fall Flossie truly stood apart. Harry Waggerman, my outdoorsman friend and neighbor, had taken both Flossie and me under his wing and taught us to handle firearms. After hours of safety talks he put a round in a .22 single shot rifle, and talked Flossie through lining up her shot.

Look down the barrel, Flossie, and put the front bead in the bottom of your rear site, instructed Harry. When ya have the target and the front bead both into the bottom notch of your site ya are ready ta squeeze off a round.

Flossie was a natural. She learned to handle a rifle as if it was second nature to her. For a target Harry nailed a pocket sized Prince Albert Tobacco tin to a walnut tree in the middle of his yard. Hanging some two hundred feet away from his front porch the tiny can was more than a fair target. At first Flossie was happy just to hit the can. By the third lesson she was tightening her grouping to where five shots would look like one single enlarged hole in the can.

In the fall Harry took the two of us hunting. This is when I discovered just how cool the hunter in Flossie Smith could be. It was while she was taking sight on a red fox squirrel. My family needs the meat, Josh. We can’t be killing chickens when there are perfectly good squirrels up in these trees, just waiting to get into my maw’s frying pan. Flossie would sit and patiently stalk an unsuspecting animal for a half hour or more, watching through her sites, just waiting for her kill shot. Only when the game got in the perfect position was Flossie willing to send a precious bullet towards the unsuspecting rodent.

In one ear and out the other, she would laugh, before going to collect her quarry. She had uncanny skill and never missed.

The fish had stopped biting again, and Flossie was beginning to fidget.

I’m bored, declared my friend. It was so unlike her, I couldn’t believe my ears. Usually there was no limit to Flossie’s patience when it came to fishing and waiting for the bite to return.

Ya still got that piece of copper wire your paw gave ya, Josh?

Yes.

Let’s catch us one of them big red nosed suckers, she laughed. When we got here I seen a bunch of em headin’ up stream.

Why? I asked. They are good for nothing. You can’t eat them.

I don’t’ want ta eat one, silly. I want ta do it fer the fun of it, Josh. Come on and help me. We’ll climb out on that big old hickory, and let the copper snare down in the creek. When one of the fish swims through it we will catch him like a cowboy ropin’ a calf. We’ve got plenty of sunfish.

Red nosed sucker fish came up Stout’s Creek every spring at about this time to spawn. Grandpa told me that when he was a boy living in Artesian City, folks used to go out in the shallow water with baskets and gather them to eat. Today no one would voluntarily eat anything out of the Great White River. Indianapolis had begun using the west fork of White River as it’s sewer since near the end of the last century. Meat packing houses, and the downtown sewers from the hotels, and the government office buildings, all flowed untreated into the river. It was a stinky mess. The red nosed sucker, once a small bottom feeding fish had changed over the years, into an unrecognizable garbage eating Behemoth. It would not be unusual during early spring, to see a male up to three or four feet long sitting in a line, waiting for his chance to contribute to the preservation of his species.

It was Dad, who came up with the idea about how to catch the suckers by making a wire snare. Up until now I had not even come close to coaxing one of the long tubular fish into the copper wire hangman’s loop.

Flossie used my Uncle Bob’s knife to cut the hook from the end of her fishing line. Then using a good strong fisherman’s knot she tied the line to the copper wire loop.

Come on, Josh, giggled my friend. This is going to be fun.

It wasn’t much of a problem getting up the old tree. It leaned at a severe angle over the top of the cold blue waters of the creek. The hickory’s roots had been eroded by the never ending pressure of Stout’s Creek’s flow. There wasn’t a doubt this tree soon would to be just another victim of nature’s endless creative destruction. It was very much part of life along the banks of Stout’s Creek.

Come on, Josh, encouraged my friend. Flossie was not a cautious girl. She shinnied out on a limb that overlooked a shallow graveled stream bed. In the water I could see the procession of suckers, each waiting its turn to reproduce and return to the river.

Come on, Josh, instructed my friend. If I get a loop on one of these big fellars I am gonna need your help.

To do what? I wondered out loud.

We’ll figure that out if I can get one near the lasso.

Flossie was staring into the water watching the fish.

I want you to come out here on this limb with me, whispered Flossie. I got my eyes on a real whopper. It’s just short of gettin’ into the loop. I think he is going ta swim into it, Josh.

I eased out on the limb next to my new blood brother. It didn’t seem to me that it was all that stout. Flossie assured me that it would hold us both. Down below I could see the icy cold flowing waters of Stout’s Creek. Only a few weeks before it had been part of the snow pack that had covered the hillsides above the creek bottom. Today that freshly melted snow was passing under us on its way to the Mississippi River. I could see the sucker that Flossie had wanted me to see. It was a monster buck possibly three feet long. I feared what might happen if Flossie actually got it on the end of her fishing line.

Suddenly my friend jerked up on her willow pole. The plan I had failed with so many times had worked out perfectly for Flossie. An unsuspecting fish had swum forward and right into the copper loop. The hangman’s knot functioned perfectly, and the loop closed tight. The giant fish was ensnared.

Help me, Josh, screamed Flossie in delight. I cain’t hold it by myself. It’s too strong fer me.

The flexible willow pole, unable to hold the weight of such a large fish, bent double, into a perfect U.

When I reached for Flossie I suddenly heard a loud crack. She screamed, and the creek quickly rose up to meet my face. The shock of the icy water was certainly a wakeup call to my senses. I felt a burning sensation in my face, and needles went up and down my body. With the wind knocked out me I was fearful I might actually drown in ten inches of water. I was also concerned with the fate of my new blood brother. I need not have worried. When I rolled over I discovered Flossie lying on her back giggling, and trashing her arms and legs in the water in wild celebration.

I looked down the creek and saw the once highly prized willow pole Flossie Smith fished with being slowly dragged away towards the deepest part of the creek.

What in the world are ya two a doin? questioned a mirth filled voice from the bank. It was our mentor, Little Harry Waggerman. Ya needs to get out of that creek before ya catches yar death.

Not ‘fore I land my sucker, said Flossie firmly. I got em, and I am goin’ ta land em.

Why? Harry asked. They ain’t good fer nothin’, Flossie. Some people I know calls em turd bass. Ya sure cain’t eat em.

Never the less, Harry, Josh and I are going ta land that fish.

Harry looked at me with a sympathetic eye. He didn’t have any women in his life who were going to take charge of him. Apparently that was not going to be true for me. I knew whatever Flossie got on her active mind; I eventually would go along with it. That was just me. I was old go along to get along, Josh Miller when it came to Flossie Smith.

What is ya plannin’ on doin,cFlossie? Harry questioned. He had a big smile on his face.

I’m gonna give you the willow pole, Harry. Then Josh and I are goin’ in that water, and get that fish out.

Okay, agreed Harry. The mighty woodsman was no more willing to argue with Flossie Smith than I was. Little Harry, stood on the bank, and Flossie went back into the cold water, and retrieved her pole. She handed it to me to hand to Harry.

When the fishing line on the pole went tight Flossie started following it down into the deepest part of Stout’s Creek. There was no real danger of Flossie drowning. The deepest hole in the creek was probably not more than six feet in depth, and Flossie and I were both good swimmers.

Find the end of the line, Flossie, and we will let the poor animal go free, I chattered my message standing neck deep in the freezing water.

Not on your life, Josh Miller. I snared this fish, and you and I are goin’ ta land it. We can stand this water fer a few more minutes.

I wanted to say, Speak for yourself, Flossie. But I kept my own council, and accepted my fate in silence.

Flossie ran her hand down the line. I feel the copper. The fish is just inches away from my right hand.

See if ya can get your fingers in ta a gill plate, instructed Harry. That will make em a bit easier ta handle.

Flossie did as she was instructed. I got em, Harry. But he is too big fer me ta move. Josh, ya got ta help me, please.

I took a deep breath, and stuck my face into the ice cold water, something that long tall Flossie did not have to do. I reached out, and grabbed for the fish, got it by the tail, and squeezed with all my might. I started dragging it towards the shallows, where I could get my head out of the water. Several times I thought the wiggling slimy fish was going to get out of my grasp, but I was now as determined to land the sucker as Flossie was. The price had been paid.

If ya can get its nose pointed towards the bank,I think ya can walk it out, instructed Harry.

We did as we were told by our teacher. When the icy water had nearly sapped the last of our energy Flossie, and I made one last effort to land the monster sucker. On a count of three we heaved the heavy fish onto the shore. Flossie’s victory was complete.

Get out of that water, kids, be fer ya catch your death. Ya go in the willows, and get them wet overalls off, and I will get a fire started.

Harry tossed us a couple of blankets from his backpack to wrap around us while we shivered next to the fire, and waited for our clothes to dry. I knew why Harry carried the blankets. Harry carried them with him for when he started feeling sad, and didn’t want to stay in his cabin. At home he had a stash of illegal liquor stored in bottles under his floor. Sometimes when Harry started feeling blue, he was not always able to get himself away from the temptation of the whiskey. No one held it against him. Harry Waggerman was a war hero, and had come home from France a damaged man.

Harry freed the ugly fish from the copper snare, and pitched it back into the creek.

Why did ya do it, kids? Harry asked.

Fer the fun of it, Harry, said Flossie, answering for both of us. Don’t ya do anythin’, just fer the fun of it?

I hunt coons. That’s my fun, Flossie.

Flossie’s normally pink lips were now a perfect purple as we both shivered under the blankets waiting for Harry’s fire to catch hold. Unlike her normal self, Flossie Smith was standing in silence looking into what would soon be a roaring fire.

What’s the matter, Floss?

I was a thinkin’ bout that poor fish. He was covered in carbuncles, and I think he might have had some kind of ugly boils. I wonder how much it has ta do with the stinky mess in White River?

It has everythin’ ta do with it, Flossie, said Harry. Them suckers used ta just be little fish. Now they have changed in ta what ya just caught. They are all a sick mess that is useless ta anyone. In a few years thar won’t be no more red nosed suckers, unless they clean up that there river. My grandpa told me that injuns used to live up and down The Great White. There was a whole civilization of Potawatomi, Wyandotte, and Miami who lived, fished, and made a good livin’ out of the river bottoms. Ya sure cain’t do that now.

Seems ta me, Harry, that the people in Indianapolis have got a case of really bad manners, noted Flossie. They should all have come down here every Augustt when the river gets low, and smell what we have ta smell. It ain’t right that they can put their garbage, and sewage in the river, and ‘spect us ta like it.

I hope maybe ya can do somethin’ bout it someday, Flossie.

Me too, Harry, me, too.

An hour later my new blood brother and I were heading back home. With us were two full stringers of fish and a sack full of mushrooms we found on the way to the house. Flossie had returned the dreaded report card to her pocket. She had been smart enough to leave it under a rock on the sandbar, before we got started working that poor sucker. I figured she would also be shrewd enough to give the unwelcome news to her dad first. I doubted that he would bother to share it’s message with Martha Smith, Flossie’s mother. Jim Smith loved Flossie just the way she was, and was not about to ruin her life by exposing what others regarded as her faults. He didn’t share their opinion.

Chapter 2

Saturday Morning Breakfast

Yoo Hoo, Cicero Miller, is ya home? It was the unmistakable high pitched nasal voice of our neighbor lady from across the road, Birdie Smith. I knew that she would be carrying a silver milk bucket in her right hand to fill with water from our pump. When she got ready to go home it would be me who would be tasked to carry it for her. While she was at our house Birdie would gossip with my mother, visit a bit about church work with my father, and to do the Lord’s work in her calling to save my Grandpa’s soul from the fires of hell and utter damnation. Birdie Smith had made my grandfather, Cicero Miller’s salvation, a big part of her life’s work. No amount of persecution, ridicule, or downright cussedness on the part of my grandfather could assuage Birdie Smith from her calling.

Saturday morning breakfast, served late at seven, was a memorable time for my family, and the many visitors who came to see Grandpa. The special meal was served on our great circular black walnut