Down This Dirt Road

By Danny C. Hall

Down This Dirt Road is the second collection of stories from Danny C. Hall, whose imagination and sense of humor knows no bounds. He is still the self-appointed mayor of Turnip Hill, and has no plans to retire anytime soon. (Why leave a cushy government job?) These stories are all G-rated for family friendliness, so you can allow your kids to read them. In fact, they’ve received the Madison Faith Mitchell Seal of Approval. Madison is the daughter of Jessie Mitchell, who also has a few tales in this volume.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danny C. Hall
• Release date: Jul 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370899685

Book preview

Prelude

This book is the second for Danny and contains mostly fictional stories as only he could conjure up. These stories take place in and around Crenshaw County, Alabama, which is located roughly fifty miles south of Montgomery, down US 331. Long before interstate I-65 was built, US 331 was the main route to the Florida beaches.

In addition to the many fictional stories included are a few non-fiction stories by Danny and his old high school friend, Jessie Randy Mitchell. Jessie shares a couple of stories that were passed down to him by family members many years ago.

Five of the stories in this book were also included in Danny’s first book, What Is It with Me? A few have new titles to better define their story line. Whether it’s an old story or one of the many new stories, I’m sure that you’ll enjoy each one.

All stories are as originally written with some mild editing. You will find misspelling, grammatical errors and no telling what else. But one thing you will not find is any cuss words, foul language or trash talk.

This book is family friendly and suitable reading for ages pre-teen and up. Hope that you enjoy this book as much as we did putting it together.

Down This Dirt Road

Down this dirt road, a scared young 16 year old boy rode a car for the first time to pick up a girl he would spend the next 51 years with.

Down this dirt road, a young man would carry his bride to be, home after he asked her for her hand.

Down this dirt road, we would become one in the eyes of the Lord.

Down this dirt road, the young man kissed his young bride goodbye as he left for war.

Down this dirt road, we brought home our first child.

Down this dirt road, we have lost loved ones.

Down this dirt road, we left, but always returned home.

Down this dirt road, has been happiness and sorrow.

Down this dirt road, our children grew to men and women.

Down this dirt road, one day they will carry me to my final resting place, at the end of this dirt road.

Danny C Hall

Contents

Prelude

Down this dirt road

Cowboy way!

RED EYES!

Tiny’s Gift!

Sometimes it’s better to have no luck at all

A Poem - The Rose of Bethlehem!

The Photo – Part One

The Photo – Part Two

Little BoBo was a fierce watchdog!

The Ladder!

The Date!

New Shoes!

The Spark!

Lonely

For the love of money!

Death!

The Gift!

Running Barefoot in the Summertime!

Old Percy

The Enchanted Tree!

Yellow Ribbon!

Be careful what you wish for!

The Choice!

Going through Bergenty Swamp!

It’s Time!

Rutledge Cemetery Loses One of Her Great Oaks.

Automation!

Memories of an Old Man

Daddy’s going to join Mama and Tommy

The Moonshiner – Part One

The Moonshiner – Part Two

Carnival Pony named Leah

Just in Time!

Lucy!

There’s no forgetting!

The worst wreck ever!

The Money Pot

Cotton is King

Granny and Aunt M were team players.

Closing A Road!

Rainy Days and a Prince Albert Can

Old Country Store

Get A Job!

Selected Stories by Jesse Randy Mitchell

Creatures of Benbow Spring / Beaver Branch Swamp!

First Encounter

Second Encounter

Third Encounter

Fourth Encounter

Dishes from the Treetop

A Mess of Fish and a Mysterious Light!

About the Author

Connect with Danny

Cowboy Way

I was dang near 66 years old and still riding herd, never had a wife; been close, but a cowboy could just make enough wages to barely keep his self in boots and saddles and ropes. I’ve had a many a horse, this ‘en here, old paint stud, been a good’en. He’s dang near 13 years old! I reckoned got him and my old dog bout the same time. They keep an old hand like me company on these cold nights riding alone. I remember the old days I was a young buck hired out to Mr. Loving and Mr. Goodnight; we drove them herds from Weatherford, Texas, all the way to Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

Back in 1886, with injuns and outlaws, a hand needed a good six-shooter and a clean rifle. Seen a lot cowboys killed falling asleep in the saddle and falling across some long horn cow, go right through, it would spook the herd and trample him to death.

Been in shoot-outs with rustlers and Indians; bar fights over some old gal, been cut, stabbed, snake bit, blown out my saddle by a tornado, ended up on long horn bull and rode him till I broke his sprit!

These days I’m fixing barbed wire fences (the devils rope) and cutting hay. This ain’t cowboying like it was. I guess that’s why I like night riding the herd, just me, dog and my horse. Like I said, I’m putting on some age.

I do a lot of talking to God now; shoot it won’t be long before this old hand is going to stand before him. I think he understands cowboys; we like wide open spaces, hate barbed wire and love horses and old dogs. I been trying to go to Sunday meetings when I can. Matter of fact, I put on my best jeans and wash off my boots, dust my hat and put on a clean shirt.

Went into town a while back and seen a big fancy church. I come in and everybody was dressed up real fancy; folks looked me over and never said a word. Where I sat down I had plenty of room on each side. That was some good preaching I heard, so I waited around to tell the preacher he done a fine job. Well he looked me over and said, Thank you sir, but then he said, You know, you need to pray about what is the proper way to dress when you come to worship.

So I did. Next Sunday same thing happened - I went to the preacher, told him good job, and he said Did you pray about what you ought to wear to church here on Sunday? I said, I sure did. Preacher said, what did the Lord tell ya? I said the Lord said, he wouldn’t know what to wear here either cause he hadn’t ever been in here.

Well from then on I had to find an old church with folks like me, they don’t care what you wearing.

Red Eyes!

Back in 1949 I was just a glimmer in my dad’s eye; Janice’s granddaddy Mr. Dove Bolling was a gun toting man you didn’t want to cross. He carried his pistol in his belt and had been known to use it. Rural Alabama and Florida were just as lawless as any territory out west; a man could get shot and the law not know nothing about it unless there were witnesses.

There were few people, far apart; bad roads if any; transportation sometimes crude - oh there were cars and trucks but not many in the rural areas. Many people had horses and mules and wagons and buggies. Most farmers plowed their fields with a mule. If you had a two-mule farm you were a big farmer. Mr. Dove was a rounder; he farmed some and he went to Florida and picked oranges and drifted some.

One cloudy dark night, Dove was on his way home on some lonely dirt road in west Crenshaw county - just him and his horse and buggy, when he felt like someone or something was following him (you know when you get that feeling and the hair on the back of your neck stands up) - yea he had it. Now Dove was not a scary man, in other words, ghost and boogermen was not something he worried about. No, bad men and panthers or rabid dogs were more than likely to get you than a ghost!

Anyway, as he traveled on, the horse could see and knew the road but Dove could hardly see the horse, except when the moon came unclouded for a second or two. The horse’s clip clop and the squeaking of a buggy spring was about the only noise made that night. Now Dove heard branches bending and limbs breaking, he stopped and put his hand on the grip of his pistol as smooth as patting an old dog on his head; turning in his buggy seat, his eyes scanned the darkness. Nothing; not a sound except the horse was a little more fidgety than usual, so they rode on and the movement behind them began again. This time Dove drew his pistol and didn’t stop, just turned in the seat and caught a glimpse of moonlight and a big pair of red eyes moving in the trees!

Now a cat’s eyes in the dark are a bright green when hit with moon light; a dog’s eyes are red, and Dove knew weren’t no dog up in the tree top. He got a tight grip on his pistol and slapped the reins on the horse’s back. Get up! he said; he didn’t have to say it twice, the horse was as ready as he was. They were in a nice trot - not a run, but fast enough to worry Dove at this speed in total darkness.

Whatever it was, was gaining on them, tearing through the trees and on the ground. All Dove could do was hang on and watch those big red eyes; finally Dove Bolling had had enough! Whoa horse! He jerked back hard on the reins; this was it, a show down! Those big red eyes had jumped on the back of the wagon!

Dove took aim to fire when the horse spooked and ran, knocking the red eyes off the buggy, and Dove down in the seat hanging on for dear life. When Dove got up, he turned and fired into the darkness; after about a quarter mile Dove slowed the horse to a trot the rest of the way home.

The next morning about 10:00, some fellows came riding up with the high sheriff of Crenshaw county. Dove was in the field plowing by the house so he laid the plow on its side and walked to the road. The sheriff and the men said their how dos and then asked if Dove had seen anything strange around? Dove told them about the thing on the road and said Why, what do ya know? Well, the men with the sheriff was from a traveling circus and they had a big monkey got lose the night before and wondered if Dove had seen him.

Tiny’s Gift

Tiny was 7 years old; she had been given that name by the nurses at our Grace Charity Hospital. Tiny weighed in at 3 pounds 2 ounces at birth. Her mother was DOA when Tiny was born, she never even knew what Tiny looked like. Her birth mother died of a drug overdose, her father - only God knew who he was, but her grandmother was her angel; Granny had very little to give, but all the love in the world.

Granny was a street vender in the hard, cold city. She knew all the street people - the bums, the homeless, the sharks, the thieves - all that society look down on. Tiny was the pet of the street people; she was loved by hookers and pimps, drug dealers and cops. Now Tiny was taught by Granny, you must be street smart; you must know all the tricks to survive here, and everyone on the street has a Gift; we use that Gift to survive.

Granny and Tiny lived in the