Fulton Tales: A Collection of Short Stories

By Linda Garrison Brown

Neatly tucked away off highway 43, in the south Alabama woods, sits the small sawmill town of Fulton. As you gaze at the wooden buildings you are taken back to a slower, kinder time when the lines between right and wrong were more defined


Fulton Tales is a collection of sixteen unpretentious stories, delightfully seen through the eyes of a young boy growing up in this special place. Randall Brown was that boy. These stories were written by Linda Garrison Brown, Randalls wife of thirty nine years. Find a comfy chair and journey back to the Deep South of the 50s and 60s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 8, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469102757

Linda Garrison Brown

Linda Garrison Brown, the author of Fulton Tales and More Fulton Tales grew up in a community near Tuscaloosa and now resides in Northport, Alabama, with Randall Brown, her husband of 40 years. They are retired and have three sons and four grandchildren.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Neatly tucked away off Highway 43, in the south Alabama woods, sits the small sawmill town of Fulton. As you gaze at the wooden buildings you are taken back to a slower, kinder time when the lines between right and wrong were more defined.

The smell of new sawed wood fills the air as smoke bellows from the three smoke stacks towering over the mill. The hum of saws as they cut through one log after another is occasionally muffled by the grinding of loaded log trucks as they make their way into the mill to be unloaded. Slowly, the empty trucks driven by men with weathered faces, calloused hands, and soiled hats, cross the railroad tracks to leave and return another day.

In the 50’s and 60’s Scotch Lumber Company was the largest sawmill in the southeast. This was a company town where the mill workers lived in company houses and shopped in company stores. Social life in this small town consisted of church and school. The occasional baby shower and wedding shower were entertainment for the women, while men hunted the woods of Clarke County. Fulton was filled with hardworking people who lived uncomplicated lives.

Three neighborhoods existed in this community, each with its own charm. There was the upper end, the lower end, and across the creek, and none held a distinction over the other. Randall Brown was born while his parents lived in the upper end of town, but at the tender age of three the family moved to the lower end of town. This is where he lived until he was fifteen years old. This house which he remembers as his childhood home, sat behind a white picket fence in a row of wooden houses with shingled roofs. This two bedroom house was heated with coal, and cooled by a homemade window fan. The community clothes lines stood on a vacant lot nearby.

Things were changing in Fulton in the 60’s, when the Brown’s built their own house across the creek. When Randall reminisces about this special town he always adds, Fulton was a great place to grow up.

In the summer of 1968 I met Randall Brown in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. It wasn’t long before I was introduced to his home town of Fulton. This sawmill town was filled with interesting traditions, normality’s, and people. After thirty nine years of hearing stories of life in Fulton and Clarke County, I’ve decided to set some of these down for everyone to enjoy. It’s my intent with these stories, not only to entertain you, but to give you a view of life as it was in this small town during the 50’s and 60’s.

A VISIT TO MUNN’S STORE

The place where I learned commerce was at Munn’s Store, a white clapboard building in Fulton, Alabama. It stood beside a dirt road facing the railroad tracks and was the only store in the lower end of town-my neighborhood. I soon learned that an empty drink bottle was worth two cents, so Jerry, my best friend, and I were always on the lookout for empty bottles alongside the roadways. When we collected enough bottles we’d visit Munn’s store to get a drink or candy.

One steamy day in August Jerry and I’d roamed the neighborhood and swam in Bassett’s Creek. Two pals with dirt covered tennis shoes, tee shirt, and cut off jeans were just having fun. We were hot and tired so we headed for our stash of bottles underneath my back porch. We counted six bottles, just enough for each of us a soda pop. I hurried into the kitchen to get a paper sack from underneath the cabinet.

Maaaa ma, I wailed, then noticed her ironing in the dinning room. Jerry and I are going to Munn’s store, I said pulling out a sack that’d been neatly folded.

O. K. son, she said looking up as I pulled the screen door open. She braced knowing it would slam as soon as I let go. After jumping off the side of the porch I handed Jerry the sack. He stuffed the bottles into the bag and rolled the top down for manageability. We were ready to bargain as we headed down the road towards Munn’s store.

I’m gonna get a Sun crest orange, Jerry said as his steps quickened.

I’m not, I’m getting a Coka Cola, I said as I tried to keep up. Suddenly, I heard Sheila calling my name. Sheila was my four year old sister, and she knew she wasn’t allowed to follow me to the store. I didn’t want her tagging along behind me; after all I was eight years old and Jerry was even older. We didn’t have time for little sisters, they were too much trouble.

Sheila, go home, or Mama will get you, I warned.

Then I turned and caught up with Jerry as we crossed the rail road tracks. We dusted most of the loose dirt from our shoes as we stepped upon the first step, and hurriedly made our way onto the broad wooden porch of the store. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Sheila crossing the tracks. Boy, was she gonna be in trouble!

Turning, I walked through the double screen doors, and felt the cool air generated by the two large fans that hung overhead. The smell of hoop cheese and sliced meats were present throughout the store. I glanced to my left just to take in the candy counter; there was what seemed like a hundred kinds of candy sitting in that case.

I hurried to the counter with my paper sack developing a wet spot, and I stood behind Martin Simpson. The dark haired Mr. Munn, with his black rimmed glasses, stood behind the counter and listened intently to Martin. Mr. Munn always wore a white shirt, khaki pants, and shiny brown shoes. I liked him because he was fair in our business transactions, always giving me my full two cents worth.

Mabel wants some baloney for supper, said the elderly man with faded clothes and run down shoes. He was leaning on the counter in front of Mr. Munn, and I wished he would hurry because we were thirsty.

How much bologna does she want, Martin? he asked in his usual business manor.

Oh well, I don’t eat baloney so it’s for her supper. Ah, make it about three pounds.

I was thinking this was a lot of bologna for one person. Most of the people in the room must have thought so too, for laughter came from throughout the store.

Mr. Munn moved to the meat counter and cut Martin’s bologna. With a smile he walked back to the cash register to charge Martin for the package wrapped in white paper.