Cuddlee Bugs: Revenge O' the Peach Potion

By J. B. Roberson

All Tommy Dailey wants is an unforgettable summer with his bug friends. Too bad spring takes its time coming to Peach County, Ga., where the eight-year-old lives. When the cold weather clears, the peach orchards come alive with the insects. But somethings wrong. The bugs arent getting along and Tommy is being asked -- no -- demanded to do something about it.
On top of all that, a ladybug and a firefly start up a relationship that gets the insect rumor mill going. All the while, Tommys folks are having their share of troubles with the county gossip and her husband, a rival peach farmer. Things are heating up faster than a Middle Georgia thermostat in July.
Can the growing potion his daddy uses to spray the peach trees be responsible for all of this unseasonable behavior? Or is something else at work? Only a crazy old spider seems to know the answers. So does Tommy. But he gets "distracted when the Peach Festival takes over the county. Follow Tommy on his journey to understanding life, love, family and friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 11, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469122892

J. B. Roberson

J.B. Roberson makes her home in Warner Robins, Ga., with her husband, and two children. A native of Baton Rouge, La., she has a bachelor’s degree in print journalism and worked for a decade as a newspaper reporter in Middle Georgia. During nine of those years, she lived in Byron, Ga., located in none other than Peach County.

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Copyright © 2008 by J. B. Roberson.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2008901291

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4363-2153-2

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4363-2152-5

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-2289-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Author’s note

Big Day Gone Bust

E.N.T.O.M.O.L.O.G.Y

Sprang Cleanin’

Surprise, Surprise

Loaded fer Bear

Mercy!

Hawg Heaven

Mind Yer Manners

Pride Goeth

Pigs Fly, Git Et,

and Go Wee, Wee, Wee… 

Some Kind o’ Hoodoo!

Jus’ Peachy!

Festival Time

Cuddlee Bugs

Dedication:

I dedicate this book to my children, Brianna and Brandon. Thanks for re-awakening my muse. I love you both for teaching me boundless love, patience and fun. Y’all are my very own Cuddlee Bugs!

Author’s note

I have always been fascinated with the art of storytelling. Particularly those stories that incorporate dialects and regional expressions. I view them as what helps to make each place, people call home, unique. I find the dialect in Middle Georgia extremely endearing, and have done my best to capture the spirit of some of it in this book. Sayings and speech patterns from other places in the Deep South are also peppered throughout this tale. I aim to offend no one, but rather, hope that readers will embrace the lessons tucked away, inside the colorful speech. More than anything, I hope that readers will enjoy this genre of storytelling. J.B. Roberson.

Big Day Gone Bust

There’s times when the smell o’ bacon fryin’, and biscuits bakin’, wake men from a otherwise peaceful sleep; and guide them to the table. And then there’s days like the one Tommy Dailey waked up with a big ol’ grin.

The smile plastered ’cross the eight-year-old’s face wudn’t there ’cause he could smell the jus’-cooked breakfast, waitin’ fer him, downstairs. Naw, Tommy’s thoughts didn’t have nothin’ to do with fillin’ his belly. He had bigger plans.

First day o’ sprang, he declared, ’fore jumpin’ out o’ bed, and tradin’ his Junior Locomotive pajamas fer a pair o’ blue jean britches and a red, flannel shirt.

He seen what he figured to be daylight, thoo his handmade, patchwork curtains, as he put on socks and shoes.

"Dang!" he said, pullin’ his Mee-Maw’s handiwork open on his east-facin’ winder. The sun was peepin’ over the dew-covered hills that separated his family home from the rest o’ the world. Well, as fer as the good eye could see from smack dab in the middle o’ Peach County, Georgia, anyway.

Even in his flustration, Tommy had to smile at the thought o’ the world outside his winder.

There weren’t no mystery to Peach County. That’s where the freshest, most mouth-waterin’ and juiciest peaches growed. Folks in the peach growin’ bidniss called ’em Georgia’s biggest cash crop. But Tommy jus’ called ’em chin-drippin’, tongue-lovin’ glory.

’Sides peaches, some farmers in the county growed pee-cans and row crops like beans, peas, peanuts, greens and even some cotton. But mostly, the roads leadin’ into and out o’ Peach County was lined with peach trees, ever which way you looked.

In jus’ a few weeks, the stout, low-slung trees would be full o’ the tasty, fuzzy fruit. And folks – from pickers to drivers – would flock to the county, like a starvin’ man on a Christmas ham. They would take the bountiful goodness straight to roadside stands and markets, near and fer.

To Tommy, Peach County was as close to paradise as a fella could git. Few places compared to the peaceful beauty o’ farm country, where folks could enjoy the view o’ rollin’ hills; or a barefoot walk in fresh-plowed dirt, ready fer plantin’. It was a place where a never-endin’ carpet o’ green grass growed underneath the peach trees and all over the Georgia red clay. Most days, a clear blue sky and fluffy, white, marshmeller clouds hung overhead.

It was the kind o’ place where folks set on the porch, sippin’ sweet tea and wavin’ to friends and strangers that traveled the hilly, curvy roadways. And it was the kind o’ place where a youngun could stay busy, enjoyin’ the smell and taste o’ fresh honeysuckle; or gittin’ his fangers all purple from handlin’ blackberries at the U-Pick farms. Pick ten and eat one – that was the unwritten rule.

Fer Tommy, it didn’t get no better’n that. No matter what the city folks, who passed thoo, said. And after a long, cold winter, the youngun was lookin’ forward to warm weather settin’ in; and all that it brung with it. I wanna have the summer to beat all summers, he thought.

As the boy warshed up, brushed his teeth and wrestled with red hairs that his cowlicks made stand straight up, his mind was workin’ overtime. He had to come up with a idear to git out o’ the house, without actually settin’ down and eatin’. Bound and determined, he was, that no plate o’ biscuits and gravy was gon’ stop him. After all, he had been plannin’ this day fer months.

A quick flip o’ the quilt that matched his curtains, and his bed was made. Tommy fluffed the piller and put it back on the bed. Sprintin’ from his room, he jus’ ’bout run full-speed into his daddy.

Wait! Hold up there a minute, said Walter Dailey, catchin’ the boy by the shoulders.

Mornin’, son. Breakfast is ready.

Jus’ then, Tommy caught a whiff of a turrible odor and made a funny face. He grabbed ’hold o’ his nose and didn’t let go.

Yes, sir, he said in the nose-holdin’ voice, and lookin’ into the farmer’s hunter-green eyes. Whew! You been mixin’ up that stuff again?

Growin’ potion, his daddy told him, with a nod and a smile. Yessir, I just might be onto a blue ribbon crop o’ peaches this year.

When it come to peaches, Farmer Dailey was one o’ the top growers in the whole state. His fruit was sold clear ’cross the country. And fer that, he was mighty proud.

Ever year, the new season got kicked off with the Georgia Peach Festival, held right there in Peach County. It was the biggest party in the whole state – bigger’n Mule Day, Rattlesnake Roundup and the Mossy Creek Festival put together.

And ever year, a blue ribbon was give to the farmer who showed up with the heftiest peach o’ the new growin’ season. Some folks said that biguns was a sign o’ good luck fer the whole crop.

But fer the life o’ him, Farmer Dailey couldn’t’ figure out why in more’n 10 years o’ tryin’, he hadn’t been lucky enough to snag the top prize in the Biggest Peach Contest.

That didn’t mean his luck was all bad. He hadn’t never walked away from the festival empty-handed. Thoo the years, he won prizes fer growin’ the most dee-licious peach; and the most perfectly formed peach; and even the funniest lookin’ peach. But he couldn’t git ’hold o’ the prize fer the bigun. And that dogged him like a week-ol’ toothache.

A fella named Sam Winslow had won that prize fer the past eight years runnin’. But Farmer Dailey figured his time was comin’.

Growin’ peaches was good, honest work. But it got downright competitive, come festival time ever year in June. Growers done their best to impress the peach lovers who come to witness the usherin’ in of a new peach season.

Why, you could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Georgians from Dacula, Rochelle or Lizella; right ’longside folks from the Carolinas, Mississippi and way down in Florida. All come to watch the judgin’, and git a taste o’ the new crop. Everbody – from the farmhand, to the politician, to the school girl with pig tails – come together in the name o’ good eatin’.

Settin’ jus’ above the line separatin’ Peach and Macon counties, was Sam’s place – Winslow Farms. It was a good piece from Dailey Orchards, but competition jus’ the same.

If Sam knowed anythang, he knowed peach farmin’. But he didn’t know nothin’ ’bout bein’ modest, Earline Dailey, Tommy’s momma, would say. She was right. Nary a time did the two farmers cross paths that Sam didn’t remind Farmer Dailey ’bout his champion peaches.

Dailey, he would say. Thank you got a chaince next time?

Not if I don’t enter, Farmer Dailey would answer, smilin’. Like he had jus’ shot a prize-winnin’ buck.

While it was true, that answer always set Sam’s blood to boilin’. He woulda been happy to hear Farmer Dailey say he was quittin’ the contest, but there weren’t no chaince o’ that happenin’.

Sam had no idear, but Farmer Dailey was somethin’ like a shade tree chemist. Fer five years, he had been workin’ on a spacial batch o’ fertilizer. He figured it would change his luck in the competition. This year, he was purty shore he would give Sam a run fer his money. Worked extry hard to keep his potion a secret, too.

And it would stay a secret if Tommy had anythang to do with it. That stuff smelled so bad, that findin’ out what his daddy put in it was the last thang on the youngun’s mind. It was so bad, that Tommy hated goin’ near the work shed when his daddy was ‘sperimentin’.

When he got to the kitchen that mornin’, Tommy run past his momma, who was at the stove, and set down to the table.

Mr. President, her dawg, was sleepin’ by the kitchen door. He stirred a li’l bit when Tommy come in. But other than that, he didn’t move a paw. Earline found that teeney-weeney hairball by the road on the way into town one day. She fed him a cookie from her purse, and took him home. Then she posted Lost Dog signs all ’round the county. When nobody called, well, she was purty happy. ’Cause she had took a real likin’ to the furry, li’l critter. That was ’long ’bout the time she was havin’ a real, hard time gittin’ Tommy to set on her lap and be kissed.

Momma, I’m a big boy, he told her. No more kissin’.

’Fore long, Earline was treatin’ that dawg like he owned the place. And he started believin’ it, too. That stray ball o’ hair weighed eight pounds, drippin’ wet; had a right smart mean streak; and wanted to be treated spacial. When he wudn’t all over Earline, he was follerin’ her ’round. Like she needed protection.

Tommy liked dawgs all right, but Mr. President had a habit of gittin’ underfoot at the worst o’ times. Earline had spoiled that critter like he was another Dailey child. To tell the truth, there was only one child in the house. One human child, that is.

At the table, the youngun reached over the hand-painted, ceramic rooster salt-’n-pepper shakers; past the cheese grits, eggs and bacon fer a biscuit. Then, he chomped, chewed and swallered. Next, he picked up his glass o’ orange juice and took a swig, ’fore jumpin’ back up.

Mmmmm! he said, holdin’ his jaw and headin’ fer the door.

You done, already, son? his momma ast, stoppin’ the boy mid-stride. Don’t you even want a piece o’ bacon?

Tommy turned and grabbed a slice o’ hick’ry-smoked pork from the platter, and lightnin’-quick, bolted fer the door, again.

Got a loose tooth, he told her, his kicks squeakin’ on the white, tile floor. ’Sides, I wanna see if the bugs is out yet. It’s the first day o’ sprang, ’ya know.

Earline Dailey rolled her eyes and set down in front o’ her breakfast plate, while her husband joined her at the table.

Soon as Tommy stepped outside, he was hit with a blast o’ frigid air. So cold, it made his eyes bug out – like he had hooked a big fish! He turned ’round and opened the door to see his momma and daddy settin’ at the table, grinnin’.

There’s a right nip in the air today, said Earline, holdin’ a cup o’ hot coffee. She let loose a chuckle, but got a good look at her son and turned real serious-like. Bless yer heart.

E.N.T.O.M.O.L.O.G.Y

Ms. Pinkerton, musta been havin’ a bad mornin’. ’Cause all o’ the sudden, she jus’ went to hollerin’.

Thomas Dailey! she shrieked, snatchin’ the boy from his pretend flight ’longside a new butterfly species, back into his third-grade classroom. It’s time for science.

"Yes, ma’am,’’ the boy answered, reachin’ fer the science book tucked inside his seat, and puttin’ it on his desk top.

Two days after his disappointin’ weekend, he felt like he was fixin’ to have a caniption fit. Somebody had fergot to tell the boy that jus’ ’cause the calendar said it was sprang, didn’t mean the weather got the same message.

Shoot, the temperature outside was still cold enough to slow the pour o’ molasses. So there weren’t a bug in sight. Havin’ to wait fer the weather to change, ’fore he could see his friends made Tommy sad and worried, to boot.

Since he was old enough to know what a bug was, the youngun had been studyin’ the critters. They was purty-much the only