Harvest Moons

By CW Spell

Given the current wave in the entertainment industries of anything to do with the South, gators, moonshine, girls and so on, this book takes place in the 1950s. it's about two boys growing up in the deep south raised by their Granny and trained in the swamp by a transplanted Cajun from Bayou La Batre, Alabama. Leroy, the oldest grows up entangled in a classic struggle between two different lives. One, learning to run a large farming empire and the other being a more lucrative and darker side of the family's history. The one seeped in the illegal manufacturing of moonshine and the illegal importing of rum from countries strictly forbidden to engage in commerce with the United States. Leroy experienced all the joys and pains of young manhood and learning the cost involved in putting family above all else.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jul 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662915758

Book preview

Prologue

Sometimes to know the story, one needs a connection to know the man. This is a man with extraordinary gifts and talents, a man who has seen the highs and lows of life where very few have dared to travel. A man who embodies the soul of blue-collar, yet possesses the wit and communication skills of a Madison Avenue negotiator. With grease up to his elbows, could rebuild a diesel engine, transmission, or hydraulic controller on a large earthmoving excavator or dump truck, and then deliver a powerful word picture on Sunday. It is a man who led an international, multi-million dollar business one day, and who lost everything in the great economic meltdown of 2008 in just a matter of months. The cover of this book was his brain child that transcended into this wonderful work of art, hand drawn by a very good friend whose talents brought to life a memory of yesterday's youth.

A quintessence perception of the story of two cousins, Leroy and Junior, growing up in a poor Georgia tobacco farm. A journey from boyhood to manhood, being fathered by God, without knowing it at the time.

The cover presents the full, rich color of these two boys' journeys through life flavored by their experiences of love, friendship, betrayal, hardships & life & death. However, the next page is where the story begins... a simple life in black & white... a twilight walk on a dirt road with the fellowship of a dear friend and cousin; exploring the unknown horizon backlit by a Harvest Moon.

Shaking Water Series of Novels is based, in part, from the author's life in south Georgia near the Okefenokee swamp. Okefenokee was the name used by the original Creek Indians and translates, Land of Trembling Earth. This however, is a popular but very weak translation. Oka means Water and Fenoke means Shaking in the Hitchiti Creek language. So the true meaning of Okefenokee may be better represented as Waters Shaking. The book is a fictional novel.

CHAPTER 1

Somewhere off the coast of Brunswick, Georgia the wind swirls and beats against itself pulling moisture from the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, rising higher and higher creating and building dark luminous clouds. As the sun disappears behind this curtain of darkness, boats head to shore seeking the safety of a harbor. Large ocean-going tankers gear up for high waves and strong winds.

Sea gulls and cranes, the dive bombers of the ocean plunge below the surface of the blue catching fish brought to the cresting waves by the oncoming storm. Strong winds blow from the Gulf Stream pushing the storm inward as if to break through an invisible barrier between land and sea as Mother Nature rushes over the land consuming all that lies within her path. As the land disappears behind a wall of wind and rain even the most primitive of creatures seek shelter. Farmers caught in their fields head for cover.

By the time the wind reaches the edge of a small town in southeast Georgia folks have just enough time to find safety. On the outskirts of town there is a large farm and on that farm are many pole barns located to the north. Along the swamp is a much larger barn. Within it reside old tractors and square bales of hay stacked to the roof. Buried deep within the caverns of square bales lays a boy and a girl oblivious to the impending weather. The only thing they see and hear are the sights and sounds associated with two young lovers who are experiencing the first joys of passion. As the rain beats against the barn walls they retreat to the safety of an old car.

Unbeknownst to them, the storm brewing around their warm and dry hay nest pales in comparison to the tempest that their sinful acts will cause. But, despite the wind, the hail and the pounding rain, desire will not be denied.

In an old Ford coup in the worst storm in over thirty years, a baby was conceived and in the course of nine months these two young lover's lives were forever changed.

Leroy was born in September and his cousin Junior followed six months later. Their surroundings were poor. Poor, I guess is a relative term. They didn't have much in the way of worldly things. What they did have, though, could not be bought. For Leroy and Junior life would be an adventure only limited by their courage and imaginations.

Small farming towns did not offer much in the way of entertainment, especially if you were born on the poor side of the tracks. However, what do two boys filled with life, love, an unending supply of energy and a huge dose of mischief need with outside entertainment? They were the entertainment. They were the masters of their own destiny.

Growing up in a town whose main industries were tobacco farming, chicken business or wood pulp mills; Waycross, Georgia, in the 50's and 60's was a young man's paradise. The town consisted of the typical stores like the Piggly Wiggly (that was the big food supplier), Dale's Lumber (this was before the Lowes and Home Depots), a movie house and Wendell's Drive-In where all the kids would hang out and drive their hot rods. At the end of town was the courthouse and jail, a couple of furniture stores, McCory's Clothing, two gas stations and the farmer's market where you could come to town to sell what you grew.

Cross over the tracks and there was the chicken plant, Shadyside where the Coloreds lived as well as the poor white trash. That's where Leroy, that's me, and Junior grew up with our Granny. Now, Shadyside ran along the Okefenokee Swamp which ran all the way to Florida. This was the playground for me and Junior.

Nobody really knew what Granny did for a living. Rumor was she would on occasion entertain businessmen who came into town on chicken or wood pulp business. Granny, in her younger days was a dark haired raven beauty. She was endowed with all the qualities that were needed to apply her trade. She was bred in a home where God, family, and hard work really mattered. Granny was never a shy woman, and no one could tame her; she was and still is a force to be reckoned with. One thing the McKinnon's never did was talk about themselves or their kin, so there's a limited amount of information about Granny.

She was born one of thirteen children. Her daddy worked on the rail road and was a travelling preacher. Her mother (my great grandmother), Ms. Oda Mae, as well as her siblings, would move to whatever farm or factory was hiring. They settled in Waycross, Georgia, where tobacco and cotton were king. My grandfather, Elijah McKinnon, bought a small piece of land down on US 1. That's where Elijah and Ms. Oda Mae are buried today. My Granny moved off the farm when she was younger, and my uncles took it over, where they farm over one thousand acres that border the Okefenokee Swamp. There's not much I know about Granny's life, but I do know that she gave birth to four girls and three boys with different daddies. Later on, there was a host of grandchildren, too many to mention; but make no mistake, Granny loved them all. Believe me though, that Junior and I had a special place in her heart. For me and Junior, to love was as natural as breathing, and Granny filled a place in our hearts that was almost as deep as was the love for our own mothers.

The house, or what some referred to as The Shack, was located on Route 1 in Shadyside; just out of town in the heart of tobacco country. It was a very meager and homely looking place with a front porch, green asphalt shingles, and a tin roof with small cracks in the wood floor, just so you could be reminded that she was built on top of the dirt.

The inside consisted of two small bedrooms, a living room, and the kitchen, which doubled as a part time butcher shop. The Shack had no indoor plumbing, no bathroom, a well pump in the kitchen, and a wood burning stove for cooking. They did have an old pot belly stove in the living room, which made them one of the lucky few. Granny referred to that as the Love Stove. My Aunt Betty used to say Granny called it the Love Stove because a gentleman caller fell in love with Granny and was captured by her charms. He thought he was going to stay, but Granny would have no part of that; Granny said all she got out of the deal was a buck stove and nine months of pain.

She rented that old house from a banker man downtown. He was the only banker I ever saw come a callin' to collect his rent. Junior and I didn't like when he came by 'cause Granny would make us go and clean the pin and collect eggs. She'd say she had business to take care of.

For Junior and I, The Shack might as well have been a million dollar home, it had all we needed. The Shack decor left a lot to be desired, interior decorating was not one of Granny's strong suits. Decorating was for those who had money; she couldn't afford curtains, so she just hanged checker board table cloths and called them curtains. An old round rug sat in the middle of the living room in front of the Love Stove; which had stacked beside it a pile of lighterknot and kindling, mostly pine. In the far corner was a dresser, one of those that looked like it belonged in a bedroom, and probably did. There was not much room with two small boys living there; where a door should have hung going to the bedrooms was more table cloth curtains, which made for interesting sounds when company would come a callin'. In the other corner sat Granny's rocker and spit can, which she could hit from five feet. I hated when she would try and kiss us. It just didn't seem like good hygiene. On the wall above Granny's rocker was a big picture of Jesus mounted on one of those fake gold frames with a backlight. When you turned the switch on, the picture would change into another scene. It always ‘kinda freaked me out. Just above the dresser was a picture of John Roy, my mom's younger brother, he was killed by a log truck in front of Wendell's Diner.

Growing up in that old house was a challenge. The only water was sup plied by a hand pump in the kitchen, and this was the kitchen where Junior and I would take our baths. We would sit in a large tin tub. Granny would heat water on the wood burning stove, so we might have a warm bath.

On occasions Granny would go out back and kill one, or sometimes up to three, chickens by ringing their necks. Then she'd bring them in the kitchen, place them in the same tin tub that Junior and I would bathe in, and take a knife. With the skill of a surgeon, she'd gut the chickens and clean them.

At that point, she would clean the tub with hot water; and then she would put the chickens back in and let them soak, so Junior and I, could pull the feathers out. All this sounds gross, and it was, especially when I'd take a bath and find blood still in the tub. But until this day, I have never tasted fried chicken like Granny made.

As far as the bathroom needs, well you had two choices… Option One - a white pot which stayed in Granny's room; you could do number one or number two. Then you would take the pot outside near the woods and dump it. At night time this task was a little spooky. Option 2 was to go about twenty yards off the back porch and use the outhouse, which consisted of a door with a half-moon shape cut in it, as to allow light in, and you sat on a wooden toilet seat. Now if you chose to do this, you had to understand outhouse protocol. That requires you to first look in the hole where you are about to put your butt; for on rare occasions a rattlesnake would somehow find himself down that hole, where he could stay warm on cool nights. It's a hard life when taking a crap places your life in danger. Just ask my Aunt Betty. She got a mark on her backside from just such an event. There was an upside to the outhouse, though, for us boys. The wooden boards would warp, and when our female cousins would come over, well, there was an obvious anatomy lesson for us McKinnon boys.

Growing up in the country in those days, for Junior and I, was fil led with life lessons, love, and a sense of belonging. Each day brought new adventures and unlimited possibilities. Looking back through our eyes, as young boys, was a world of dirt roads, old tobacco barns, and Sunday dinner with everyone that worked on my uncle's farm. It didn't matter if you were from Shadyside or a migrant worker; all were welcome. We went to church on Sundays, except for Granny (she said she had a deal worked out with God). In the country you would also find old trucks, farm equipment and of course, girls. Country girls... there is just something about them. Fishing, trapping, hunting… or anything that stands on four legs or flies through the air.

Early life for Junior and I was pretty uneventful, other than sleeping together. On that thought, I guess because I was taller than Junior by a good three inches, I would find that every morning when I woke up, his nose would be stuck under my arm pit. That may account for his ability to find me when we would get separated in the woods hunting. Anyway, we'd eat together, and bathe together; as little boys you would have thought we were twins, but we weren't. Junior was born to Nelly McKinnon, and I was born to Bobby Joe McKinnon. Both Nelly and Bobby Joe were single moms, and therefore Granny would have to take care of us boys while our mothers worked at the chicken plant. This might sound like a tough start for us, but it really formed a bond that would span a lifetime, and make us tougher than most boys had a right to be.

CHAPTER 2

Living in the country as small kids, growing up with limited toys, forced us to become very creative. Some would say that, idle hands are the devil's workplace; and there may be some truth to that, for as a young lad, there were always opportunities for me and my cousin to express our creative natures, and there was a host of things to occupy our time.

It was Christmas, and gifts were few; but none of that mattered. What we got was far more than what Mom or Granny received. What we got was given out love and bought with hard labor. Besides clothes and cowboy boots, we got a Long Horn Pump Action bee-bee-gun, guaranteed to bring down any varmint that crossed our paths. I should have known that a bee- bee-gun in the wrong hands could cause a whole lot of trouble. Junior and I shared the Long Horn Pump Action bee-bee-gun, and we became quite proficient with it. Besides birds and any game that might have made the mistake of coming within firing range, we shot Uncle Monroe's prized blue tic hound with about four rounds in the backside. Junior and I to this day have a blood oath not to rat on each other about that (but just for the record, it wasn't me).

Once, Junior came up with the great idea to have a shooting contest. Best man got the gun for a whole week. You know, winner take all. I thought that we would just set cans up by the chicken coop, but Junior thought that we might miss and kill one of Granny's layers, so he found a special tree that just happened to be across the road. We lived on a main highway down in a holler, and you had to walk up the drive a little to get to Route 1. So Junior placed a can in a knot hole, and we started shooting at the can. When my turn came I missed, so I handed the gun back to Junior and ran down toward the house to take a leak. My uncle used to say that for boys, the whole world was a urinal. As I returned, Junior was nowhere to be found. But lying on the ground was the bee-bee-gun. So I picked it up and was aiming at the can when out of nowhere this big black Cadillac ‘came racing backwards down the road, and it stopped right in front of me. Well you can figure the rest out. I got the worst beating from Granny that I ever got. The worst-part was that Junior shot the car, and never said a word. We lost the gun for a whole month, which was more devastating than the beating. When it came to guns and Junior, I should have known that this was a prelude to what was to come.

For back then, though, life was grand. Each day was filled with hard work and lots of fun. I am sure there were hard times when I was young, but Granny never let it be known. There seemed to be an unending supply of money to meet our needs. Not the kind that rich folk have, but simple money. Like if we needed milk or bread, Granny would go to her room and come out with old snuff cans filled with dollar bills. When she died, they found about twenty thousand dollars rolled up in snuff cans, hidden everywhere in that old house.

Sometimes Granny would want Junior and I to run down to Old Charlie's Market and pick up a few things. This was clearly the wrong thing to say to two wild young boys with adventure and mischief as their constant companions. We could turn a simple trip into a major adventure with perils galore.

Old man Charlie got to know us pretty well. He had a way of dealing with young hooligans when they came into his market. He would call us up to the counter and give us candy. Back then you could get super duper bubble gum for a penny a piece, and cinnamon Pixy Stix, for just a nickel. Junior and I always had enough to buy us at least four pieces of gum each.

This was when real gum was made. One piece, if you took great care and did not chew it at night and swallow it while you were sleeping, could last for weeks (Just a side note: do not give any to your uncle's prized blue tic hound. To this day we are not sure what he died from. But there are those who have their suspicions).

Summers at Uncle Jesse's farm were filled with hard work. This started as soon as we were old enough to sit in a tractor or pick tobacco leaves. There are certain memories that will never leave you, no matter how hard you try to forget.

It was in the middle of summer, and tobacco season was in full swing. In the country the qualifications for operating equipment such as tractors, combines, old trucks and a 1957 Chevy that belonged to my older cousin (who will remain Nameless for fear of retribution) was if your feet could touch the gas and brake pedals. It was a go, even if you could just barely see over the dash. By the time you were twelve to fourteen, you were an expert. There is nothing like country dirt roads to teach a young man about driving and girls. They go hand in hand, but all that I'll get to later.

Since I am telling a story, I might as well tell you about the time that Junior and I were working in the southern tip of Uncle Jesse's one thou sand acre farm. We were all picking tobacco, and it must have been around ninety degrees. We had gone through two coolers full of water, so Uncle Jesse turned to me and Junior and said the greatest words two boys could ever hear: I want you two to take the Chevy (yes the '57 Chevy of my nameless older cousin), and drive it to the barn, fill up two water jugs and bring them back. Simple enough.

I could never understand what my cousin saw in that old car, it didn't even have a trunk lid, and two back windows were knocked out, but it sounded really fast, and it was. After a short wrestling match to see who would drive, followed by a swift kick in the backside by Uncle Jesse I got in the driver's seat. Just before starting the engine, my nameless cousin came to the passenger side and began to explain in great detail the length he would go to, and the depths of pain we would feel, if we did anything to his car. I don't know how he could have known, even if we did something, 'cause that old car was just beat all to pieces. But we just smiled and said, no problem. I should have known by the look on Junior's face that this was a mistake. But with wind in our hair, off we went on our great water retrieving adventure.

It took me just a little while to get the hang of a Coleman shifter. When we pulled out, I left it in second 'cause it would stall out in first. The clutch was almost new so it was real quick to release. After I got out of sight Junior said, Let's open'er up, and we were off. There was, as we found out later, a dust trail for a mile, which, when compounded with later evidence, did not weigh very well in our favor.

We got to the barn and loaded up the water jugs in back of Nameless's car. Junior wanted to drive and swing by Granny's house and pick up our fishing poles. Now, anybody who has a brain knows that boy plus pond plus car plus fishing pole is heaven on earth! So we got our poles, a little bait, and even grabbed a couple of sandwiches. These were the times of RC Cola and Moon Pies; life was hard but simple, and you did the best you could with what you had. There are few pleasures that equal RC Cola and chocolate Moon Pies, dirt roads, and an old car… and nothin’ but our own imagination to hold us back.

Junior was at the wheel, I was co-pilot, and we were heaven bound for Uncle Jesse's pond. We knew that by now the harvester would be rounding the first field, and wouldn't take a break for about an hour. So we had just enough time to wet our hooks. Junior did a great job pulling the '57 right to the edge of a slope to where the ground gradually dropped away to the water's edge.

Out of the car we jumped, bait and poles in hand. Rumor had it that Uncle Monroe, one of my mother's brothers, had put a nine and a half pound bass in this pond. And that was a year ago. So by now, we were thinkin’ he must have been weighing around twelve pounds. What a catch he would be! Around thirty minutes or so go by, and the only thing we had caught was a sunburn and a slight case of a bad attitude. So we decided our best course was to hide our fishing poles and bait, drive back to the field and deliver the water jugs. Nobody needed to know about our little lay over at the pond. Have you ever had a feeling that doom was lurking? In Junior's rush to get back, he flooded the engine and the car wouldn't start. By now, we were, of course, running late, and so we decided that we would carry one water jug back to Uncle Jesse's and just explain that the car stalled out down by the lower pond.

So off we went. Uncle Jesse was not happy to see us coming carrying one water jug. But he did have to give us credit for the effort. We explained what happened to the car as best as boys our age could come up with. But old Nameless didn't buy it. Up until this point, everyone was on our side, I think that was the only thing that kept Nameless from going ahead and thrashing us within an inch of our lives.

The rest of the day went well. At around two in the afternoon it was time to eat dinner, our last meal of the day. Jesse said we would run by and get Nameless's car after we ate. If you've never worked on a farm, you cannot appreciate what real food tastes like. Our days normally started at about sun-up, which was around 5:30 to 6am. Granny and my great grandmother Oda Mae, along with other women, would have a full breakfast waiting for all of us -about twelve in number -and around twenty near pickin' days. This was done every morning except on Sundays. Our afternoon meals, which were served around 2 p.m. was our last meal of the day; but man what a meal! For breakfast, homemade biscuits the size of hubcaps, sawmill gravy, eggs and grits. Real homemade sausage, pepper-cured bacon, hash browns with coffee for adults and milk for us. Dinner -that's what we called lunch -was fried chicken stacked a foot high, more biscuits with gravy, or cornpone, green beans, corn on the cob, black eyed peas, sweet tea, and blue berry or pecan pie; take your choice. After dinner we would sit out on the porch, and Junior and I would listen to the old men tell lies about their female conquests and other assorted stories.

At about 5 p.m. it was time to retrieve Nameless's car. This is where things get a little blurry. I have blank spots about the events after arriving at the pond. It may have been from being in and out of consciousness. When we arrived, the car was gone. Our first thought was that someone had stolen it, which would make no sense, seeing that the car was a piece of junk. Looking back, that would have been a much brighter outcome, at least for me.

It was Junior who made the astute observation that there were tire tracks that led all the way to the water's edge, and quickly proclaimed that, everyone saw Leroy driving. It was at that point that the lights went out. I woke up with Grand Ma at my side, a headache, and a black eye. I never told that Junior was the one who left the car in neutral, and she rolled into the pond completely out of sight. I believe it was Sunday when Uncle Jesse took the tractor down to the pond and pulled Nameless's pride and joy out.

CHAPTER 3

The rest of the month was pretty uneventful. Junior, as you can imagine, was not allowed to drive anything after he confessed and the whole story came out. I was fine with it, but Junior had the fever. He loved to ride or drive anything on the farm.

If you cannot tell by now, we both had a deep tendency to lean towards mischief. I remember hearing Uncle Jesse say, That boy's not right in the head. I'm not sure which one of us he was referring to, but no matter, it was us against the world. We were young and full of life. It took a while for Uncle Jesse to come around. But as they say, time heals all wounds. Plus, there is only so much one man can do. Uncle Jesse didn't have boys. Just girls.

The call came when Uncle Jesse told us to go with him to the