The Creekers: Short Stories

By Jeanne Martz

Along a five-mile stretch of creek that runs through East Sheridan Community lives a proud band of misfits who just want to fit into society. Brought to life in a collection of twelve short stories, the scrappy Creekers work hard to put food on their tables. But even as they face a harsh reality, the Creekers occasionally dare to dream of another life.

Reverend Jones, a pillar of peace and harmony that unites East Sheridan Community, is competing in an annual charity race against notorious tough guy Roy Dean Youngblood for a lucrative prize. But after the race concludes, Youngblood surprises Jones with a prize he never expected.

Dixie Hawthorne, the girl of Larry Kincads high school dreams, has been living in the fifties for the past twenty-five years. When Larry meets her, he too is transported back in time.

Chilled to the bones on tradin night, young Billy Wesley finally summons the courage to set things straight in his dysfunctional family.

In this charming collection of short tales set in the rural Midwest, a poor, hardworking class of people from the wrong side of the creek learns to embrace all life has to offer with passion, determination, and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475998344

Jeanne Martz

Jeanne Martz is the author of four books. “The Sons of Nels Swenson” is a sequel to her book “The Women of Swenson Farm” published in 2015. Her love for rural communities, farming, and country folk has inspired her books. She is a graduate of Iowa State University and has always called Iowa home.

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Copyright © 2013 Jeanne Martz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9833-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9834-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013912472

iUniverse rev. date: 07/22/2013

Contents

Introduction

Battle of the Nuts

Someday

Racing for God

Mama’s Choice

Bob Taylor’s Bull

Friday Night Tradin’

The Homecoming

for Mary Jane McCormack’s Father

The Island Rug

Cleon’s Friend

The Auction Piece

Till Death Do Us Part

The 3:47

Introduction

C reekers is a name for a poor, hardworking class of people who live along a five-mile stretch of creek that runs through East Sheridan Community. Living on the wrong side of the creek has marked them as a proud community of misfits.

This place is fictional, and the characters are composites of people and events remembered from the author’s early years growing up in the rural Midwest.

Battle of the Nuts

B rian tramped along the banks of Five Mile Creek. His coonhound pup, thirty feet ahead, followed the raccoon scent he had planted in the thick brush before the pup got out of the truck. Dawn was just breaking, the sun shining bright through the trees and illuminating the steeple of Community Methodist Church. Just a few months earlier, spring rains had forced the creek out of its banks and sent sheds, outhouses, goats, and chickens bumping southward with the flow into Capital City River, flooding the church.

Brian had helped rescue the organ and hymnals as water crept across the parking lot into the sanctuary. That day he also had helped himself to a few of the chickens and the pup as they floated down the raging stream. At present, the creek was only a trickle winding lazily through the thicket.

The small black and tan dog came to the end of the trail and became preoccupied with a squirrel that scurried up a tree in front of him. An hour training the pup to track the coon scent to an actual pelt was about all the floppy-eared dog could handle. Compared to the other dogs Brian owned, the hound was proving to be a waste of time. Selling the trained animals and the coon pelts they provided was an important supplement to his income.

Brian grabbed the pup by the scruff of his neck and hauled him back to the truck, all four feet fanning the air as he turned, twisted, and yelped.

I should have left you in the creek with the other trash, you good-for-nothing chucklehead.

He shoved the pup through the open window on the passenger side of the truck, and the dog quieted but watched his master out the top of his eyes as Brian got in and started the engine.

As they pulled away, the pup came back to life, jumped out the window, and took off toward the creek. Brian cursed the dog. Throwing the gear shift into park, he went after him. The agile pup was too fast for Brian’s short, stocky legs, and his only option was to follow the beaten path through the weeds and the sound of the dog’s continuous bark.

His breath came in short puffs as he jumped over decaying logs and scattered stones, hardly visible underfoot, until he came to a clearing where he stopped to catch his breath.

Well, I’ll be. He bent over, gulping in air.

The hound had treed one of the biggest raccoons he’d ever laid eyes on. It clung fearfully to a tree limb across the creek. The dog’s shrill yap as he leaped high against the tree trunk kept the raccoon immobile.

A coon that size was a real prize, and he hoped the pup could hold it until he could fetch his gun from the truck.

One shot brought the coon down and raised the pup up into Brian’s good graces, especially when it pounced on the coon’s throat, holding it until Brian bagged the lifeless form.

You’re one heck of a hunter, he said as the pup followed him back from the hunt. I might have to stop and get you one of Dottie’s donuts on the way home. The bakery’s early-morning aroma wafted across the west side of the community, tantalizing his senses.

With his new best buddy, Brian drove the gravel road back to town and pulled onto Beacon Boulevard, the main drag through East Sheridan Community and so named for the radio tower of KRST at the bottom of the hill.

Ina Shore lived on the corner where the two roads intersected. Brian rolled down his window and whistled a catcall through his teeth as Ina trekked the well-worn path from the porch to the outhouse in her pajamas and curlers. She ran faster, scattering the chickens and ducks congregated around the porch waiting for their morning meal.

At six in the morning, many town people were waiting for the shuttle bus to take them into the big city for work and school, some having walked a mile or more for the hourly service.

A light was on in Lenny’s one-pump station, so Brian pulled in to fill up. Lenny came out with a stack of daily newspapers and proceeded to fill the rack. Brian laid on the horn.

Come on, Lenny. I ain’t got all day.

Hold your horses. I just opened up, dang it.

Carter’s station at the other end of Beacon Boulevard gave much better service, but Lenny was always a penny per gallon cheaper.

The pup jumped from window to window, barking at Lenny as he filled the tank and swiped the windows with an oily rag. Brian swatted the dog off his lap onto the seat beside him, applying pressure to his head as he commanded him to sit.

He handed Lenny a couple of bucks and drove off, grumbling about the windows looking better before he pulled in.

He waited for a line of cars to pass before pulling out of the station, cars full of men carpooling to the packing house south of the metro or to the farm-implement plant in Fairfax County. He honked and waved at the driver in the last car, a fellow he knew from the Sundrop Tap on Friday nights.

His last stop was the bakery, where he and the pup got their donuts, a cherry glaze for the dog and nutty fudge for him. Once home, he sat in the driveway, finished off the donut, and watched his next-door neighbor standing on a ladder tacking tin pans up and down the trunk of a walnut tree in his backyard next to the garage.

Eddie climbed down the ladder, removed his hat, and wiped sweat from his forehead with a red paisley handkerchief.

That ought to take care of the buggers, he said to no one in particular, folding the ladder and hanging the hammer in a loop on the leg of his overalls.

It was a hot day for mid-September, but if he wanted to harvest any nuts this year, he had to outsmart the squirrels. The pans should keep the squirrels from climbing the tree.

There had been only a few walnuts last year, because his proclaimed enemies had taken more than their share. Eddie counted on the nutmeats to give as gifts at Christmas or to trade for eggs, milk, and other staples throughout the year. In a good year he could get as many as ten sacks of unshelled nuts, but most of his customers preferred them cleaned because of the black stains the husks left on hands and clothes. Even with gloves, the stains could last for weeks.

Hey, old man, Brian hollered, getting out of the truck, what cockamamie thing you building now?

Mind your own business, you smart-mouth hillbilly, Eddie snarled back. Then he added, I see you got another hound to keep me up all night baying at the moon.

You couldn’t hear hail if it was dancing on a bucket over your head, you old coot. Besides, this little hound just earned his keep this morning, Brian said, holding up the gunny sack with the raccoon.

Ah, go tend to your critters, Eddie said, making his way to the garage to put the ladder away. He was proud of his tin-pan scheme.

For breakfast, Eddy fixed a bowl of Cream of Wheat and strong coffee, rich with cream and sugar. While he ate the meager meal, he watched out the window.

His archenemy, Chucky (he called all the squirrels Chucky), scurried across the lawn, his tail flicking back and forth as he approached the walnut tree. He stopped and sat up as if sizing up the situation before him.

Eddie chuckled, stirred his coffee, and then set the spoon down and leaned closer to the window to see what the fur bag would do next. After several minutes of contemplation, the squirrel took a running leap at the tree. Eddie heard the clank against the pans, and his smile turned into uproarious laughter as Chucky rolled to the ground, stunned.

Ole Eddie won’t be outsmarted this year by a mangy rodent like you, he yelled.

He found a wrinkled apple to eat with his second cup of coffee and finished his meal, replaying the scene