Before My Shotgun Wedding (Volume One of My Shotgun Wedding Series)

By Paul David Robinson

In 1952 on a Kentucky mountain, Jimmy and Curly are trapped by history and poverty. There are no roads. You walk or ride a mule or a horse, if you have one. What happens one summer, when the best friend and buddy you ever had in your whole life turns out to be a girl instead of a boy like you? You are best friends in high school and roommates in college. Then an abusive father with a shotgun changes everything: The brother you never had; who became the sister you never had; may actually be the lover you never had?
“Curly,” Jimmy said, “We don’t have a choice. Things change. Everyone dies. We have to do the best we can to make the kind of life we want. And sometimes we just have to live with the life we get.”

Follow the trail to adventure and romance with Jimmy and Curly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul David Robinson
• Release date: Dec 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310326301

Paul David Robinson

Dear Reader,I've been writing stories and poems for sixty years. I have a closet full of rejections and this year I decided to e-pub.The first novel I chose for this is dedicated to my wife, Carolyn. I wrote it in 1998. It is entitled: Summer. It is about pain and suffering, the difficult choices people face, and how love can overcome anything.As a pastor and theologian, I do not separate the sacred and the profane. The difference is in the human mind and not in life itself, just as evil is in the human mind and comes out of the choices people make and not from the devil who made me do it. The devil has nothing to do with it. We are the ones who choose to do evil or good. The whole world is in our hands. Enjoy the books.Paul David RobinsonReverend Paul David Robinson,BA, MDiv, Pastor, Retiredhttps://www.pauldavidrobinson.comhttps://www.pauldavidrobinson.com/blog/

Book preview

Before

My Shotgun Wedding

By

Paul David Robinson

(60,055 words)

Cover Design by Rebecca Swift

Copyright 1962, 2014 by Paul David Robinson

ISBN: 9781310326301

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prologue:

My Shotgun Wedding

James Bennett, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live? If so, say, ‘I will.’

I didn’t answer right away. I was thinking about all the questions the preacher asked in one paragraph.

The shotgun stabbing me in the small of my back forced the words out just a little sooner.

I will, I whispered hoarsely. Then I repeated myself, louder, in case I wasn’t heard the first time, I will!

I swallowed and then I tried to stay as calm as possible with the shotgun pressed against my back.

Now that he was sure that I would go through with the rest of the ceremony, Pa Duncan moved his shotgun away from me and pressed it against his daughter’s spine, forcing her to step forward and stand next to me and in front of the preacher.

Before

My Shotgun Wedding

"Curly, my best friend and buddy

Became the brother I never had!"

I remember six years ago when the Duncans moved into the old Townsend homestead in the hollow across the creek from us. The Townsend homestead had been abandoned for as long as I could remember.

The Duncans came in by mule, because there wasn’t any road. No one in our neck of the woods had a road to their homes. The mailman rode a mule up to the country store and post office in the lower valley and left all the mail there.

Anybody who wanted their mail had to go and get it. Most people got their mail once a week, during the summer.

When school was in session across the street from the country store and post office and a family had someone going to school, one of the kids would drop into the store after school and bring the mail home. Otherwise, they got their mail about once a week all the time.

My ancestors followed Daniel Boone into this country. And then they took off on their own. They went up the mountain, through the lower valley, and settled in the upper valley, way up in the hills away from everybody.

Even the Indian tribes never came into this area. There was no way out of it except back the way you came. No Indian wanted to be trapped in these hills with no place to go. They always like to have an escape route. Well, we were trapped by history and poverty.

The Duncans moved in on Saturday, April 19, 1952, one week after Easter. I was working in the field then and didn’t pay much attention to the moving in. I hadn’t noticed much about the Duncan family.

The Duncans walked ten miles up the mountain from the road and the country store at the foot of the mountain. They passed through the lower valley and went by the store and post office and the school. They walked another eight miles up the mountain to the upper valley.

The Duncans followed the mule train that moved their belongings up the mountain. The Duncans brought with them: farm tools, some furniture, some household goods, some clothing, one milk cow, a pregnant sow pig, and chickens.

That was all they had to work the Townsend farm. There was a man, a woman, and five boys to work the land by hand.

After everything was unloaded, the mule train went back down the mountain.

Of course we had cows and chickens and pigs. But we also had a work wagon to haul hay or other crops to the barn. We had draft horses to pull the wagon, the plow, the mower, or the rake. And I had a mule to ride to school.

My great grandfather bought the wagon from a lowlander. He took it apart, brought it up to the high valley in pieces, and put it back together.

When my father was twelve years old, his father bought an engine driven hay-baler. It could run on moonshine. It was shipped in crates on a mule train to the upper valley where they lived. They put it together following the blueprints that came with it.

Over time, that was the way our family got most of our farm equipment: in pieces or in crates. And we spent a lot of time keeping ancient farm equipment in good repair.

I had heard all the neighborhood gossip about the Duncans from my mother. And my father warned me to stay away from the likes of them, because all those Duncans were dirty Alabama thieves. That’s where they’d come from: Alabama.

It was three weeks later that I met my first Duncan. It was another Saturday, May 10, 1952, the day before Mother’s Day.

After helping put the hay in the barn all morning, I was looking forward to going to my private fishing hole and fishing for Old Silver, the biggest brook trout in the creek.

I walked down our lane until I came to a side trail. It was fairly wide until it started downhill through the woods. Then it narrowed and wound around through the undergrowth and over rocky outcrops until it seemed to end at a huge deadfall.

I went to the spot I always used. And there I crawled under the old dead tree and stood up. Then, whistling as I walked, I went down the short avenue of trees and brush.

As I came out of the trees into the little cove where the fishing hole was, I saw a boy. He had caught Old Silver, the biggest and smartest brook trout in the crick! There was Old Silver dangling in the air at the end of a throw-line. I was outraged.

I yelled, What are you doing?

The boy looked up and saw me. He dropped Old Silver with his throw-line, and turned to run through the brush. I dove for his feet and tripped him. He fell on his face and began to cry. His crying was in broken sobs because when he fell, all the wind had been knocked out of him.

I turned him over and he sat up, covering his face with his hands. After a while, he got his breath again and began to cry in an incessant flow.

I begged, Aw, stop crying. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

The crying didn’t subside. Disgusted, I turned away.

Seeing Old Silver make a few fitful flops, I gingerly picked him up and set him into the water. After turning him around and around, he soon revived and attempted to swim away.

I pulled him out of the water and carefully removed the hook. Then I put Old Silver back into the water. Much to my satisfaction, Old Silver took off down stream.

I was glad that the fish was not mortally wounded, but I was angry with that boy for ruining my whole afternoon. I turned around to talk to him, but he was gone.

I rolled up his throw-line so it wouldn’t tangle. Then I hung it on a tree limb out of the way. I figured the boy would come back for it.

He did. It was gone the next time I looked for it.

Two weeks later, I was swimming in the fishing hole. It was a very hot day. I had spent most of the day in the haymow stacking bales to make room for more. When I got to the fishing hole I just took off all of my clothes and jumped in.

After I cooled off, I was trying to swim like a porpoise when I heard some rustling in the brush near the fallen tree. Someone was coming into the cove. I stopped swimming and began to tread water, ready to dive under if the wrong person emerged from the brush.

Shortly the brush parted and I saw that boy again. He was barefoot and he was wearing clothes that were at least three sizes too big for him. He looked like a turtle with a shell of cloth.

His pant legs were rolled up several times and so were his shirt sleeves. And he had a piece of rope for a belt.

The boy stared at me with his mouth open. In silence we looked at each other.

He had a pug nose, pearly-white teeth, short auburn curls and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen.

I had never seen green eyes before. I had blue eyes. My father had blue eyes. My mother had hazel eyes. Most of the people I knew had brown eyes.

Getting over my surprise at seeing him, I called out, Come on in, the water’s fine!

Then, as if he’d been shot, the boy stiffened. He quickly backed away from the stream and fell over a log behind him.

I called out, Hey! Don’t run away!

But the little boy scrambled to his feet and disappeared into a patch of poison ivy.

I laughed at his flight. Then I dove under the surface of the water to get a shiny rock I saw beneath it.

On Sunday afternoon, June 8, 1952, I was fishing again. We only did chores on Sunday. So after Sunday dinner, I had the whole day to myself.

Old Silver never came back, not that I blamed him any. Now all I did was daydream and fish for food. Before, I had the added pleasure of watching Old Silver steal my bait and chase the other fish.

I had been in the cove for an hour when I heard a noise behind me. I turned slowly and I saw the boy that had caught Old Silver.

As before, he was dressed in an old shirt and pants much too big for him. I walked toward him. As I approached, he cowered and hid behind a convenient bush. I looked over the bush and right into two green eyes.

I said, Hello, there! I had gotten over my anger at him already.

I asked, Do you like to fish?

The boy didn’t say anything but just blinked his green eyes and stared at me.

I jeered, Cat got your tongue?

Still no response.

Shrugging my shoulders, I walked back to my fishing pole, sat down, and checked my line. The hook was bare. As I re-baited my hook, I heard a twig snap.

I dropped my line back into the water and strained my ears to hear any noise behind me. I was rewarded with the sound of a foot on a dried leaf. I smiled to myself and pretended to concentrate on my fishing.

Shortly I heard sharp, uneven breathing behind me.

Then in almost the same motion, the boy sat down beside me and slipped his bare feet over the edge of the bank and into the water.

He said, Hello, Jimmy. He had a low voice, lower than I thought that he would have.

I looked down at my new companion and smiled. I said, Hi, Curly.

How did you know my name? he asked in astonishment.

I laughed and tugged at one of his soft, auburn curls. I asked, Couldn’t you guess?

The boy giggled and blushed.

Then it was my turn. I asked, How did you know my name?

He smiled as he answered, I heard your father call you.

I demanded, Spying on me, are you?

At the sharpness of my question, the boy moved away from me. Near tears, he whispered, I’m sorry.

Not wanting him to cry, I said gently, I was only teasing, Curly. Don’t mind me.

Oh, he said.

A moment later, he slid back beside me. We sat in silence as I re-baited my hook again.

He wondered, You aren’t mad at me now, are you?

I asked, Mad at you! Why should I be mad at you? I was not at all as puzzled as I tried to sound.

The boy answered, I caught your fish!

I said, Aw, forget about that. Old Silver wasn’t hurt much anyway.

He responded, Old Silver! Is that what you call him?

I answered, That’s right. He’s the biggest and the smartest fish in the crick.

He was big wasn’t he, said the boy in a softer tone.

I looked carefully at the boy. He had that short, curly, auburn hair, a small face, and those green eyes.

I had straight brown hair like my mother. My father had wavy blonde hair.

The auburn hair on Curly’s head seemed shorter than my straight brown hair. My mother cut my hair about once a month. Maybe his mother cut his hair once a week. But then again, maybe his hair would be longer than my hair if it didn’t curl the way it did. I wondered about that.

I asked, How old are you?

He answered, I’ll be fifteen on July seventh.

I wondered, fifteen! But he’s so short?

I remembered that when I was looking at him over the bush, his head only came up to my chin. He was probably about five foot two inches tall. I would be sixteen September 24 and I was almost six feet tall, I weighed 150 pounds, and I started to shave last year. I didn’t tell any of that to the boy.

I commented, Small for your age, aren’t you?

He snapped, I wouldn’t say I was!

I smiled at the boy and placated, No, I guess you wouldn’t.

We sat there in silence for a time.

After awhile, I asked, Did you get any poison ivy?

Curly laughed and said, I was covered with it and my whole face swelled up. When Ma put the calamine lotion on me, my face looked like a big pink balloon.

I laughed with him and looked at his face. His green eyes returned my gaze unflinchingly.

As I noticed his unblemished features, I commented, You didn’t have it very long.

Curly said, I never get poison ivy very long. I usually don’t get it at all, but I really fell into it that day.

Remembering his comical flight, I laughed at him and I said, I thought it was very funny.

He glared at me for a moment and then he giggled again. He said, I guess it was funny, now that I think about it.

After I lost my bait again, I handed my fishing pole over to Curly. Curly promptly showed me up. He caught three beautiful trout, one right after the other.

At dusk, Curly and I both left with eight fish each, strung on willow branches.

It was a good day.

A few days later, I was in the haymow again. I was moving hay bales to make room for more. Curly came up the ladder to help. Curly couldn’t lift them, but he would drag them over for me and I would pick them up and stack them higher.

It got so hot that I took off my shirt. I suggested to Curly that Curly take off his shirt too and then after we finished stacking the bales we would go for a swim at the fishing hole.

Curly ignored me and kept right on working in his shirt.

When we were done, I hung my shirt around my neck. Then we went down the ladder and sat down by the pump housing.

I released the windmill so the pump would work.

Shortly, fresh water began to pour into the stock tank. I diverted some to the faucet and gave Curly a drink of the cold water from below ground.

Curly drank and drank and drank. I refilled his cup three times. Then I took a drink, rinsed out the cup and hung it on the faucet before I secured the windmill again.

I said, Now, let’s go swimming. And I headed down to the fishing hole.

Curly walked along with me.

I mentioned to Curly that sometimes I had a whole day to spend doing whatever I wanted to do. If that happened, I would just come up to his house and look for him.

Curly told me that I should never come up to his house and ask for him. His family didn’t want him to have anything to do with a Kentucky ridge-runner.

I laughed. I told him that my family didn’t want me to have anything to do with Alabama thieves.

Curly got upset about it. Do you think I’m a thief? he demanded.

I said, No, Curly. It’s just talk. Like me being a Kentucky ridge-runner. Do you see any ridges around here?

Curly looked up at me and smiled. Naw. You’re right. It’s just talk. It doesn’t mean anything.

Since Curly was concerned about me calling for him at his house, we decided we needed a way to leave messages for each other.

I went back to the house and got a tin box from my mom for our messages. She had some extra tin boxes in her sewing room. Then we hunted until