The Second Born: The Dead Giants

By Arnold Robinson

Book One

It was an inherited struggle for many generations of those living on the outskirts of Appalachia. A poor man with poor ways, our father dictated the Bible to his own liking. Hed preach hellfire and brimstone from the pulpit before falling prey to the devils holy water again. Wed as a child, our mother, sixteen years younger than our father, guided her nine children with love and hope that all things be possible through the Lords will. My older brother was not just my brother but also my best friend. Wed confide in each other to protect our mother as hatred of our fathers sinful ways grew. With trembling hands, Id reach out to touch the dead giants that I gained courage to carry on. But at last a prayer was answered as we played in the cool springs at our farm and anticipated having a warm house to spend the cold winter in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524575601

Arnold Robinson

I am finished with my three book series, The Second Born. For many years I kept this story to myself thinking it might not be book worthy. But in 2001 I read a book that lit the fire in my heart, the very thing I needed, to write this novel. And for many years I worked on it with every chance I got. The Dead Giants, The Reverends Ways, and The Gant House all tie together to reveal the struggles in a young boys life in a place where change never came easy. From personal experiences of love and sometimes its tragedies come the settings for ones best works.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Arnold Robinson.

Library of Congress Control Number:              2017900451

ISBN:                  Hardcover                     978-1-5245-7562-5

                            Softcover                       978-1-5245-7561-8

                            eBook                             978-1-5245-7560-1

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

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/04/2018

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

750970

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Hope

Chapter 2   The Farm

Chapter 3   The Old-Fashioned Tent Meeting

Chapter 4   The Modern World

Chapter 5   Mr. Colemans Offer

Chapter 6   Bill McCoy

Chapter 1

Hope

T he smell of springtime had finally come, and another cold winter, as they all were, was almost over now. The colors of a new year were filling the small valleys and creeping up the hillsides with light yellows and greens. But for now, what I needed was a place in the tall grasses to block the cool wind and let the sunshine take my worries away.

James and I sat motionless on the edge of Mr. Winfield Cox’s front porch watching our Dad pace back and forth with eagerness in his step. It was sounding like there’d be some extra money this year, as he was making a deal to sharecrop two acres of tobacco with Mr. Cox. But all the while, Mr. Cox went on and on how he’d got rid of the people who’d raised it the previous year. He seemed to think they’d done him wrong and possibly swindled him out of some of the profit.

Now I’m a fair man, Jim, Mr. Cox huffed, so I’ll make you the same deal as I did that bunch that was here last year. He shook his head slightly as to agree with himself before spitting a dark mouthful of baccer juice off his front porch. But there will be one exception, he said, wiping a small dark spot from the corner of his mouth with a quick thumb. Now I’ll furnish everythin’, except labor, and in return I’ll give you half the profit. Without warning, he stamped a long straight cane against the porch floor as to finalize what he’d just said. His cane seemed to have authority like the picture at church that hung at the back door. It was Moses, pointing it toward the Red Sea, to make it part. I thought maybe Mr. Cox might think his cane as being something like that the way he’d finalized his threats with it. I swallowed hard and was sure they all must have heard me as I was thinking about what it’d be like with us having real money for a change; I mean, that’s if Mr. Cox didn’t find out about our dad. Maybe we wouldn’t be so poor this year and could even have enough money for some hardtack candy.

Now see that old mule down there? That’s Kate. He made a quick gesture with his cane. The coal-black mule looked content standing in the shade of the barn stomping her feet and swishing flies with her tail, but did take notice that we were talking about her. Now, she’ll be a little spunky bein’s she’s not done anythin’ all winter. He grinned, turning his head slightly. I thought it looked a little sly. But layin’ all jokes aside, she’s the smartest mule I ever seen in my life, he said then coughed to clear his throat.

Either one of you boys ever worked with a mule before? he asked while creaking forward in his rocking chair. I quickly sat up straight, looking over at James waiting for him to answer for us. I know old Jim here has. He gestured with a wink, pushing the tip of his cane across the porch in Dad’s direction.

Now, these boys seen me plow the garden many a time, Dad quickly interrupted. And even though they’ve never gee’d nor haw’d, they’re old enough to plow now. He said while pushing an open hand up behind his ear. They never dealt with a cash crop before either, but they’re quick learners, he said, nodding in our direction.

Dad pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, offering one to Mr. Cox who shook his head no, with a terrible frown like he’d just bitten into an unripe persimmon.

I thought back to the times that Dad had sure enough borrowed a mule long enough to plow and cultivate our garden and would be cussing up a storm in no time. James told me that he had a hunch that cussing must be part of plowing and seemed a time when a Christian man could sure enough lose his religion for a little while. Dad wasn’t the only one as we’d seen other church goers do the same. I could never figure out why the first thing they’d do was swear at the poor mule before it even did anything wrong.

And there’s another thing. Mr. Cox frowned with hesitation. It was the way he said it that made me thank he’d been pondering on it for a while. I glanced at James once more who returned my questioning look. Mr. Cox’s hesitation was long enough that a drop of sweat slowly ran the distance of my cheek resting on the side of my chin but wouldn’t fall off. I hoped no one would notice it as the fear of Mr. Cox’s threats was starting to pile up. And getting nervous wasn’t a good thing for me when at times my teeth would chatter a little.

That one exception I told you about, he reminded. There was a weed as high as the baccer down there last year. Mr. Cox pointed his cane as if it were a gun pinpointing the spot while looking down the shaft with a crisp blue eye. Then with lightning speed, he thumped it one hard time against the floor. I wanted to leave this porch many a time to go pull it up, but as you can see, I’m not able with my leg like it is, he said, striking the shiny store-bought cane against a stiff leg a couple of good hard licks. I thought that alone should’ve hurt, but I guessed that by the way he dragged his foot when he walked, the leg didn’t have much feeling in it. And don’tcha know, I told that sorry bunch, includin’ their dad, about that one weed and even pointed it out to them from right up here, where I’m sittin’ right now, he said, jabbing his finger on the arm of his rickety rocking chair. Why, they all gawked down there laughin and actin like they couldn’t see it at all, I mean, like I was plumb crazy or somethin!

They weren’t much good about any of that bunch. Why, the only thing they were good at was sittin’ up here bullshittin’ for half the day and flickin’ their damned cigarette butts off the side of the hill there. He pointed a gesturing finger. He cupped his mouth, leaning slowly back in his rocker. He had gotten worked up and was getting short of breath but after a moment continued. I know that they were laughin’ at me about that damned thang, and they never did pull it up. He sucked in a deep breath that calmed him some then shook his head slightly.

But ya know, the real slap in the face, Jim, come when they left it there all by itself after they’d cut the baccer all down. But I’ve got good eyes, he said, pointing to them, very good eyes. The Lord has blessed me with a lot of things in my life, boys, and has also taken some of them away but! There was silence other than my heart pounding loud as Mr. Cox wiped a tear from his eye, giving me a second to brush that damned drop of sweat from my chin. I started feeling sorry for the old feller and had to look away for a second when his chin started quivering.

But now what the good Lord took away, I’ll see again someday. His glance toward the heavens looked to be sincere, I thought. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose with a long red handkerchief he removed from a deep pocket in his bibbed overalls.

Now, boys, I can see a weed anywhere in that field from this porch right here. He spoke clearly now. When I used to farm, I guarantee that you wouldn’t find a single one in my baccer patch! He stamped his cane with even more authority behind it. I glanced at James who had been taken by Mr. Cox’s actions also. Not a damned one! His voice shivered this time to get his point across.

It was obvious that Mr. Cox still held a grudge over that one weed. Judging by how far he’d just spit led me to believe that he’d had his say-so in the end with that bunch, as he’d referred to them. Even though Mr. Cox had showed anger when he talked bad about those people, not one time did he cuss. I’d already sided with him that they weren’t any better than a bunch of assholes but knew exactly what I would have called them.

By now, Dad was ranging the full length of the porch at a pretty good pace. He’d been ciphering everything that Mr. Cox had complained about and was ready to answer them.

With one hand deep into his baggy pants pocket, he started rattling change around. And that was just the beginning when he’d slowly push an open hand up behind his ear. It wasn’t that he was hard of hearing or anything like that. He’d do it in church while preaching all that hellfire and brimstone also. He’d hold it there long enough to read something from the Bible and then all hell would break loose as the hand turned to a hard fist slamming down on top of the pulpit. He’d do it anytime he quoted some famous saying or something he’d made up and thought it should be famous. James told me that Dad didn’t get all the wording right in some of his quotes, which changed a lot of the true meaning he thought.

And I’ll guarantee ye one thang—you’ll not find a single weed this year, he said, dropping that hand to shake his finger at James and me like we’d already done something wrong. I sat up a little straighter though with Dad’s implied threat.

Mr. Cox seemed satisfied with it all when he smiled, removing his handkerchief, once more wiping sweat from his forehead. Mr. Cox was by no means a small man with his arms, legs, and belly well rounded. I figured he’d gotten that way because of his bad leg though. I thought his bald head fit well with the rest of his build.

It wouldn’t be the last we’d hear about weeds as Dad reminded with a wavering finger on the way home and his usual threat of how he wanted things done.

Now, boys, even if Mr. Cox weren’t concerned about weeds, I’ll tell you one thang right now, and that’s there ain’t gonna be a one. That baccer’ll be kept just like our garden. He ain’t goin’ to refer to us like that bunch. And you boys know I’ll bust your asses if it ain’t done right! For some reason, he always had to throw out the threat just to keep us tuned up, as he’d say.

We’d learned at a much younger age exactly what he meant with his constant threats of a whipping. The whippings were nothing short of horrifying, especially from the switch he’d make you go cut. Sometimes depending on how pissed off he was and needing to get started quickly, he’d jerk his belt off and start in on you. The switches, however, were his favorite but our least. His reminder that if your switch broke before he was satisfied you’d go cut another one wasn’t said much anymore. He knew we wouldn’t come back with anything less than his desire.

It gave you time to think about what you’d done wrong when you went to find the perfect one. Anytime he was drunk justified that we both get a whipping for something whether we deserved it or not. As bad as we knew the pain would be, we managed to laugh at how many perfect switches you could find that you didn’t want him to use on you. James, with one of his great ideas, once put a small cut on the side of one hoping that it’d break and his punishment would be shortened. It broke just as planned. But Dad wasn’t as dumb as James thought, and after inspecting the place, he sent him back into the woods to cut another one. There was no worse burning than that of a switch that had drawn blood. Mom would put salve on the welts, which helped a lot.

Dad turned thanks that night, as he did before every meal when he was living a Christian life, that is. He thanked God for everything he’d bestowed upon us this day and sounded more sincere than usual, I thought. There were many things I’d witnessed him pray for and with sincerity, but it didn’t seem that too many were ever answered.

But whether or not they’d be answered, our lives were much better when he lived a Christian life and preached how great it was. But I could only wonder how long it would last this time.

Amen, Mom said after Dad had finished. Now, honey, this is the last of Mom’s green beans from last year’s garden. We should all give thanks for havin’ enough to last for a big part of the year. Thank you, Jesus, and amen. She’d no more than finished when James and I went for the corner pieces of the golden brown cornbread at the same time. The hard baked corner pieces were best suited for crumbling up in a bowl of soup beans.

After supper, Dad and Mom sat at the table talking about us getting half the profits for the baccer. Mom was happy that we might have extra money coming in but didn’t think that James and I were old enough to work a baccer crop let alone a mule. But Dad’s answers were always that there was no comparing his life to ours to what he’d been through.

Now, Marie, there’s no reason to worry about them two boys, he said, sliding his chair out far enough to cross a leg and light up a cigarette. Why, I was younger than them the first time I ever worked a mule. He said it matter-of-fact-like. James glanced across the table at me. We knew that Mom needn’t say anything as Dad started in with his confused whistling, which he’d do anytime he didn’t want to hear our mother’s or anyone’s concerns that questioned him. No matter how loud Mom’d get, he’d just whistle louder, punctuated by high shrieks when he needed to cut her short.

But the interrupting whistle was minor compared to the things I’d seen him do to her over the years and for those reasons I’d never love my father like I should. He’d hurt my mother too many times for me to forgive him. I had heard her long, sad, and painful cries too often.

Please God, I had heard her unanswered prayers so many times. I didn’t pray much for anything other than my mother’s prayers be answered. The only hope was that Dad stays a Christian as he was doing right now.

There were times that I really thought our dad was the devil himself and I would upset Mom when I would talk about him, careful to not let a cuss word slip out in front of her.

I really couldn’t say that there was much that I liked about my father and confided my thoughts continually with James about it. He wasn’t just my big brother; he was my best friend. He never hated anything or dwelled on things like I did. He’d simply say that he thought it was a waste of time. That very saying seemed to keep him smiling most of the time. He was quick to forgive and just stop talking about it, as I on the other hand let it push me to the point of cussing, which James hammered me continually, saying that it also was a waste of time.

James, me, and some of the oldest of the nine kids went outside and down to the little stream of water that ran between an abandoned stone quarry and the weigh station building that we called our home for now. Judy had lots of questions as to what a cash crop was all about. James explained while everyone listened intensely. I didn’t think anyone of them really understood other than me. I stopped the questioning as I interrupted without warning.

Look, it just means me and James’ll work our asses off so Dad can run through our half of the money in no time. They all laughed anytime I’d say a forbidden dirty word.

After everyone had gone to bed, James and I sat along the small stream and talked well into the night about how hard we’d have to work and our first time we’d be plowing with a mule.

And that’s going to happen tomorrow, James said, standing up to brush the sand from his butt.

It was well before daybreak when I woke to the whistling and Dad yelling for me and James to get up and eat breakfast. Mom commented that she thought I looked a little tired. I probably did as I’d rehearsed every turn that mule would have to make and at one point in the night went outside to pee and practiced saying gee and haw a few times more. But I had to be quiet so James wouldn’t hear me and say something about my voice that had recently started to change.

I fetched the milk bucket and walked across the small field to a shed where Red stood waiting to be milked.

We ate breakfast under Dad’s hurried command then drove over to Mr. Cox’s farm where the breaking dawn revealed him sitting in his rocking chair with cane resting firmly between his legs. It didn’t look like he’d moved from where we’d left him the evening before.

Well now, there goes our cash crop, Doodle, I whispered after Dad got out of the car. I think Mr. Cox kicked the bucket last night.

That’s not even funny. James gave me a stern look as he clambered out of the door with me right behind him.

I heard Dad tell Mom that our share of the baccer crop could be as much as a thousand dollars, Doodle! Why, I can’t even thank what that much money’d look like all stacked in one pile.

Well, it’s a lot, James answered as if he were surveying such a sight himself. We ran to the barn and watched as Dad threw the harness across Kate’s back. Mr. Cox’s assumption that she’d be a little feisty was right by the way she moved about in the stall. But another scoop of shucked corn calmed her down as Dad explained how every cinch and strap played a part on how the harness worked, and shortly after, we were off to the field with her dragging a plow behind her.

We couldn’t hide our laughter, no way in the world, when Dad sank the plow into the ground and said, Get up! Gee over there, you son of a stubborn bitch, followed by his confused whistle. Kate’s long ears flopped back and forth with every command.

Mr. Cox wasn’t dead after all, watching from his front porch as Dad gave James and me our first lesson in plowing with a mule. In Mr. Cox’s excitement, he banged his cane several hard times against the porch floor as the plow turned a layer of black soil over on its side. He cleared his throat with anticipation as Dad turned and started back up the field. There was the smell of fresh soil and heavy breathing when he stopped Kate at the edge of the field.

OK, who’s gonna be first? he said, placing the reins over the plow as Kate pranced about. James hesitated as he knew me all too well. He was older, stronger, and bigger than me and could outdo me in most things. But worst of all, he was smarter also. He had no problem letting me try something first, and if I succeeded, I’d be stuck with doing it forever.

But James, more honest than me, always had a truthful hunch of anything I’d ask. He also had a way of putting me in my place when I’d get too out of control. A Royal Ass Whipping he’d call it.

In the short time I’d watched Dad work Kate, I would have hated to think what a dumb mule must be like if old Kate was one of the smartest.

I’ll give ’er a try. I walked to the plow and put the reins around my neck as Dad had instructed. Two hard thumps came from Mr. Cox’s porch as he readied himself for my attempt. Get up there, gal, I said in a strained voice. James snickered from behind me. The mule just stood there swishing her tail like she hadn’t heard a word I’d said. My teeth chattered for a few seconds as I collected myself for another attempt.

G-get u-up, I said a little louder. She never flinched. All the practice I’d done the night before wasn’t getting me anywhere. I had to do something before James would make an effort and maybe show me up. Then without warning, I saw the dirt clod hit Kate square on the ass, sending a puff of dust straight up into the air. She farted and in a split second I was getting up off the ground trying to figure what had just happened. She’d flipped me over the top of the plow with me stopping several feet away, looking back to where I’d once stood now in disbelief.

Dad and James were laughing up a storm by now. I could also hear Mr. Cox’s cane pounding steadily on the porch floor. I was truly embarrassed but determined as I was with everything I’d try. I remembered the grin on Mr. Cox’s face when he was telling us about Kate the day before. I glanced up at the porch and could see him watching closely with both hands now clasped over the top of his cane. He was waiting to see what I was made of, I figured. Maybe she was smart and knew how to get the best of me. But I couldn’t stand the thought of Dad doing this at a younger age than me. I strained standing the plow back up and placed it in front of me with authority, stabbing it into the hard ground as best as I could. I didn’t want another clod of dirt as I looked over my shoulder with concern.

Get up there you, stubborn son of a— And off she went before I could swear at her. Maybe it’s the only way to talk to a mule, I thought as I struggled to hold the plow in place. I knew that if you had to talk bad to her, James would never plow. Maybe Kate felt sorry for me as she made her turns at the end of the field without me having to say much. After a couple of trips back and forth, I stopped as Dad pointed how crooked my rows were. I hadn’t been paying much attention to that when it was all I could do to hold the damned plow up. Now I was getting a little frustrated about the whole thing.

But as my frustration was about to get the best of me, I thought how Mom had told Dad that we were too young to work a mule. And how Dad said he was younger than us when he plowed the first time. Just that thought made me want to try even harder. So with a little more practice and lots of laughter from Dad, James, and a steady thumping coming from Mr. Cox, I got it pretty well under control and was plowing away. In a low voice at the other end of the field, I thanked Kate with kind words. It seemed her long floppy ears understood my meanings now. I wouldn’t admit that it was plenty hard and had about gotten the best of me though.

Dad went on up to talk with Mr. Cox, which I was glad he did so. After a couple of more times back and forth, I stopped where James sat in the green lush grass watching.

OK, Doodle, it’s yer turn now.

No, you’re doing a great job, Brub, so just keep it up, he answered with a self-satisfying laugh. He crossed his legs and lay back on his elbows.

Shit, Doodle, my damn back is startin’ to hurt, I complained to where only he could hear me talk. I don’t really care to plows the whole damn field! I just wanted to be the first to try my hand at it.

Yea, I know, Brub, like you always do and you’re doing a fine job right now. You ain’t got much more to do, he said, squinting his eyes as he gazed over the unplowed part of the field. But you know, Arnold, it doesn’t matter how much you got left. It isn’t worth cussing about! I gripped the handles on the plow firmly.

Shit and damn ain’t cuss words, Doodle! I snapped back, spooking Kate a little. And besides, I thought you said cussin’ was all part of plowin’ anyway! I laughed out loud to where Dad and Mr. Cox took notice.

You know, that’s the only reason I cussed this time . . . because you said it’s OK when you’re plowin. James rolled his eyes up as if to disagree.

Just never mind I had a hunch you’d cussed regardless of what I said. Just get finished, I’m getting a little hungry. He put a long weed in his mouth to chew on. He was finished talking when he clasped his hands behind his head and lay all the way on his back.

Anytime I wanted to get James’s attention, all I had to do was say a few bad words. And if I really wanted attention, I’d slip a cuss word or two in there. The only problem was he called all of them cuss words.

I didn’t get all the plowing finished when Dad said Kate had done enough for the day with no concern about what I’d done.

We talked about Mr. Cox and Kate on the way home that night. Dad asked me if I was tired from follerin’ a mule’s ass up and down a field all day.

Why, heck no, I said, squirming in the seat as James shoved his elbow into my rib cage that got us both snickering. I could a worked all night, I answered then moved quickly before he could push further into my side.

Well, now you boys are gonna see plenty of long days here pretty soon, old buddies, Dad said, spitting a small piece of baccer from the end of his cigarette out the winder. He explained step by step everything we’d do with our baccer crop right down to the day we’d sell it down at Maysville, Kentucky. It sounded like other than planting and stripping the leaves off at harvest time that I was right that me and James were going to do about all the work. We’d seen plenty of baccer fields all our lives but had never tended one of our own.

Mom’s rustling around in the kitchen the next morning was enough to wake me up. Filled with excitement, I hurried through the pasture to milk Red. Dad had also talked that the baccer would sell just before Christmas. Maybe there’d even be a gift for everyone this year, I thought with a tingling in my stomach.

James helped put Kate’s harness on with Dad’s watchful eye but never said a thing about his turn to plow. That was all right with me, one more thing that I could beat him at.

It didn’t take long to finish with the plowing; then shortly after, I started disking the field up. We’d stacked some rocks on the disk so that between them and my weight, it sank to a depth that Dad said would work. Kate lumbered from one end of the field to the other as I sat on the metal seat. She let me know when it was time for her to take a break regardless of where in the field that might be. I didn’t have to tell her when it was time to start again; she’d do so on her own. Mr. Cox was right; she was plenty smart. I didn’t feel right riding while she was working so hard though. I did find however that when she’d stop, she enjoyed me scratching her forehead and chest while she rested.

But at any rate, sitting on the disk and riding around was way better than what James had to do, and I had to make sure he was aware of it. I’d whistle to get his attention when I’d get to the edge of the field to make a turn.

His job was to shovel all the shit out of the barn that had piled up through the winter from Kate. I could see his shirt wringing wet from sweating, and as soon as he’d look my way, I’d wipe my dry brow. I knew that if I was in his sweaty shoes right now, I’d more than likely be cussing up a storm. But not James, he seldom cussed, and I knew shovelling mule shit wasn’t going to be enough for him to act like me.

Dad had taken us over to Mr. Cox’s place about every day to do something for the old feller.

He’d talk a while with Mr. Cox until he was satisfied that we had plenty to do, then shortly after jump in his car and take off somewhere. I was always glad when he didn’t come back before we’d be finished with everything that Mr. Cox had given us to do. There were times that Mr. Cox would stop our work for the day and have us sit and talk with him on his porch even though there was always plenty to do.

We nailed boards back on the corncrib and chicken house that had fallen off. We used scythes for three solid days to whack down all the tall weeds that grew in the fence rows and along the side of the road. We painted the baccer barn with flat black paint then put a silver coating on the metal roof, which made everything look brand new, I thought.

Mr. Cox enjoyed every minute that we were there, saying it was starting to look like a real farm again. I followed his gaze while he surveyed from his porch.

To help matters and stay on the right side of the old feller, Dad would sometimes have Mom make him a plate of food in the mornings. You could see him pep up from the time we’d get out of the car with the heaped plate of food. It was the highlight of his day leaning his cane up against his rocker and rubbing hands together with anticipation. A rarity, he called it, to have a good home-cooked meal then he’d go on and on how good it was, something I already knew being Mom was the best cook in the world. James said it best that she could take a little to nothing and make a whole lot of something out of it. I thought about Mom’s water gravy that she’d make when we didn’t have a cow at times. It wouldn’t be thick and creamy when spooned on a hot biscuit, but at least we had something to eat.

Mr. Cox couldn’t do much of anything because of his bad leg and possibly a few other things wrong with him that we didn’t know about. But I’d guessed that he’d spent plenty of time sitting in his rocker wishing he could work all the things that needed taken care of. He knew exactly what he wanted done as he directed from his rocking chair with fine detail. He’d always first ask if we’d like to do the chore, something Dad would never do. I could never remember Dad asking us to do anything. It was more like Get your asses over there and get it done. I knew that if Mr. Cox’s leg hadn’t been messed up, he’d be the one doing everything including raising his own baccer crop like he’d done for many years.

You boys can finish that tommar, he’d say, sounding more like a command.

We had to admit that going over to his farm and having a nice person like him to work for and to talk with gave you a good feeling in your stomach like you’d done a good deed.

We were talking with him one day when he asked James for a hand up from his rocker as his stiff leg seemed to be hurting pretty badly. He steadied himself with one hand on his cane. Then he pushed his other hand deep into his pocket and pulled out two shiny fifty-cent pieces, handing one to James and the other to me. It was the most money I’d ever had in my hand in my life. And I couldn’t believe how heavy it was, giving me a sense of being rich.

What’s this for? James asked as I squeezed mine tightly in my hand.

It’s my way of thanking you boys for what you’ve done for me. He smiled and with some difficulty sank back down in his rocker. And now, that’s you boy’s money, and far’s I’m concerned, Jim don’t need to know anything about it, he said, coughing to clear his throat. It’s yours so buy whatever you like.

You don’t have to pay us for working around here, Mr. Cox, James said, extending his open hand out with the coin at his fingertips. Mr. Cox slowly gestured no with a head shake, tipping his chin off to one side.

It’s yours, and believe you me, if I didn’t want you to have it, I wouldn’t have offered it.

I squeezed tighter, thinking of ice-cold Frosty Root Beers and candy bars that it would buy.

I kept my hand pushed deep into my pocket all the way to the house that night, worrying the coin might fall out and land on the floor then Dad would be asking a lot of questions after that. James had said earlier that he couldn’t see how Dad could take the money being Mr. Cox had given it to us and was sure he wanted to stay on the right side of him. I figured he was right about that, but then again, we knew what he’d do for a pack of cigarettes.

After supper, James told Mom that we were going down to the stream and wash off before I had to go and milk the cow. Some of the boys wanted to tag along, but James told them not tonight.

The small creek widened a couple of hundred yards from the quarry house with the banks lined with flat rocks that had shells and snails imbedded in them. James decided we’d hide our treasures under a large slab that had a huge shell on the very top of it as a marker. I glanced back at the house several times to make sure Dad hadn’t suspected something and decided to follow us. James put the flat rock down, twisting and turning it to sink it into the sand and make it somewhat level. Then he covered it with about an inch of the soft sand. After slowly removed his coin from his pocket he pushed it down into the sand with his thumb, the face side looking up toward us.

There, I did that for you, Brub, he almost broke out laughing.

You did what for me? I questioned.

Well, I had a hunch that after looking at a mule’s butt for so long the other day, you’d enjoy seeing a shiny face for a change.

Without warning, I dove into his midsection. This would be the day that I’d take him to the ground, I thought. But it wasn’t, as I lay there with one hand still in my pocket and him on top of me. I should have tried it with both and not fearing I might lose my coin. We brushed the sand from each other before I laid my treasure next to his.

It took both of us to set another big flat rock over our coins. Then James got a piece of brush and covered up our tracks just like in the westerns on TV so the outlaws couldn’t find our money. I found it hard to sleep thinking my fifty-cent piece was so far away from me, it seemed.

We were back at Mr. Cox’s place the next morning where Dad didn’t hang around long, telling Mr. Cox that he had some business matters to take care of.

Boy, Doodle, I wish I had this barn to milk Red in every day. Can you believe that that’s all it’s made fer, just to milk a cow in and I’ll even bet the roof don’t leak either.

Hold it right there, he said, hammering a nail into the board I was holding in place.

I’d been doing most all the talking that morning as it usually was with James listening. I’d been told before that I talked a lot and on some things even too much. And not everyone agreed with me that I was just a quick thinker.

James made the observation that the faster he nailed, the more Mr. Cox would rub the top of his cane. We laughed at the sight then stepped around the side of the barn so as not to alert him. I’d noticed how smooth and shiny the cane’s top was the first time I’d laid eyes on it.

We’d gotten caught up on the things that Mr. Cox had for us to do one evening and now had time to sit on the front porch and listen to him and Dad bullshit about everything. If there was one thing I enjoyed, that was listening to older people talk about things and all the bullshit that went along with it. Mr. Cox would tell about all the good and bad years he’d had on his farm and how many bushels of corn he’d grown on a single acre.

Depending on the rain, he said, it all depends if the Lord lets it rain or not. He repeated his story again about how many bushels of corn per acre he’d gotten, and as the amount went up, he’d be working that cane over. I tried to be close enough to James so that I could nudge him as Mr. Cox would up the amount of corn with every story. Those must have been the years the Lord let it rain, I thought. I got James laughing hard when I nudged and whispered what Mr. Cox’s hands and cane must look like during a thunderstorm with lightning and all.

I gazed out over the grassy fields in the small valley when Mr. Cox started talking of the hailstorm back in the forties that stripped every stalk clean of its leaves. But ya know, that only happens in a lifetime. He nodded as if to agree with himself. I never put much thought into such a disaster picturing, the brown ears of corn waving in the cold fall wind. Just the thought sent a shiver up my backbone. I thought back to the times Dad would get us jobs from all the local farmers picking up ears of corn that the picker had run over. It wasn’t a bad job but seemed it was always the coldest day of the year when we’d walk the fields putting the loose ears into piles to be picked up later. Mom gave us socks to wear on our hands, being we didn’t have gloves. Had it not been for that, I think our hands would have frozen off. We never had very warm clothes either, sometimes not even a winter coat. Dad’s remedy was always the same—stay busy and you won’t get so cold.

There were other families that picked also, mostly welfare recipients as we were. It was a dead giveaway at school who did so by their raw and sometimes bloody knuckles. We’d handpicked a whole field one time when a farmer’s picker broke down, and needless to say, I could barely move my fingers the next day. I’d a probably cried if no one would have been around. Sometimes Mom would be able to order some salve, which helped a lot.

Cigarette money, was what the old-timers called it when they’d all gather around the stove at Turners General Store to spit baccer and tell stories.

But Mr. Cox had captured my imagination, talking of corn so thick you could hardly walk through it and the tallest in the world from right here on this little farm. A tickling came to my stomach, thinking of Jack and the bean stalk, which always put me in a dream world. My thoughts were interrupted when Mr. Cox cleared his throat. A tear ran down his face when he looked toward heaven as he finished his story. I thought how hard it must be for him to watch us work all day and not be a part of it. I knew by the way he talked that he’d really enjoyed his farm, and I could see how easy it would be to fall in love with it, as if it were ours. I was clueless as to how big a hundred and twenty acres must be, but I knew it went on forever.

I’m going to count to three, James whispered in my ear, and you’re going to wake up. It was like Mr. Cox had hypnotized me for the brief moment of sharing the love of his farm.

Shortly after our arrival at the house that evening, I started in on James. I’d used every excuse that I could think of to dig our coins up. He laughed the hardest when I told him I’d forgotten what President Jefferson’s face looked like. I’d even sworn that the face on mine was different than that of his. But no matter what the threat was, James just wasn’t going for it, saying we’d be taking a chance that someone might see us. The truth was I yearned for the taste of something sweet, and there was nothing better than a Frosty Root Beer right after you’d chewed a Zero candy bar till it was syrup-like. I’d only had one in my life but had yearned for another ever since. But no matter how sweet I built it up to be; he just wouldn’t go for it.

Now, boys, you need to get your asses out of bed and quit lollygagging around this morning! I ain’t goin’ to tell ya again, Dad yelled for possibly his second time as we jumped to our feet. We’ve got a baccer bed to build this morning. He sounded short-tempered.

Our brothers did their best to leave a small pathway between the bed and where they lay on the floor, but the room was very small. We had to walk gently and try not to step on someone’s hand or foot. Two of them still wet themselves, and on occasion, you’d step on a wet spot. Don, who could make a joke out of about anything, said they weren’t bed wetter’s but floor wetter’s.

Dad and James were waiting in the car for me to finish with the milking. He’d blown the horn several times for me to hurry up. But as fast a milker as I was, it wasn’t fast enough for him.

Upon our arrival, without hesitation, he told Mr. Cox that he didn’t like the spot the bunch last year had used for a baccer bed. It was as if it was what Mr. Cox had yearned to hear when he said, amen to that.

He picked a place a little closer to the woods, saying the soil was dark and a lot richer there. Mr. Cox agreed whole heartedly, head shake and all. James had a hunch that Mr. Cox would have the last laugh and rid himself of the bunch from the year before.

I hooked Kate up and in an hour or so plowed and disked the new spot for our new baccer bed. We cut and dragged brush and small trees from the woods as Dad stacked it higher and higher on the bed. All seed beds looked to be about the same, as we’d seen baccer growers prepare every spring. Dad talked how he’d done lots of them when he’d lived in Kentucky at a young age. But for James and I, it would be our first.

The brush was to the point that we had to toss it to reach the top when Dad finally said we had enough.

But now I need you boys to stack another pile over there on the side so we can keep puttin’ more on it as it burns down. You can’t ever have too much! he proclaimed, dropping his hand from behind his ear. He’d spoken loud enough that Mr. Cox sounded a satisfying cough, stamping his cane a couple of good whacks on the porch floor. Dad went to join him on the porch while we stacked another pile of brush several feet from the bed.

Now it’s time to lighter up, he said, walking up behind us with a large can of gas. He slopped it all over the brush until the last few trickles emptied from the container. The smell of gas was everywhere by now. It was like something from a movie when he took a cigarette from his pack followed by the familiar squeak from the hinge on his shiny new lighter. Slowly, his thumb dragged over the striker till the wick caught fire, usually after the second strike as I’d counted so many times.

He lit his cigarette and, after a long drag, slowly lowered the lighter toward the brush pile. James, always ahead with thought, grabbed my arm, pulling me away when without warning there was a loud wooouff of blue fire that raced the length of the bed sending smoke high into the air.

Dad came running toward us with his pants legs on fire. He managed to put them out quickly as it was only the fumes that had gathered on them. But James and I never dared laugh until Mr. Cox did so from his porch. It looked as if Dad had received the Holy Ghost there for a minute, I thought. But in the end, he laughed saying that it was the first time that’d ever happened to him.

We’d eaten our biscuits and fried potatoes sandwiches, but it wouldn’t be long that we’d complain of our hunger once again. Starving to death was how we always referred to it. It was almost dark when Dad finally got around to going home to get us something to eat, satisfied that we could take care of the fire without him for a little while. He didn’t stay long after bringing us a container of soup beans with fresh onion sliced up and a pone of corn bread. We’d spend the night keeping the fire going. We sat back away from the heat under a small tree and on occasion would throw more brush on the fire.

It looked scary when the flames would leap high into the air and to know that we were in charge that nothing goes wrong. One large flare-up revealed that Mr. Cox had gone on to bed. Later on into the morning after the brush had all burned and lay in a glowing heap of ambers, we would rake them all level. The major work was all done.

James lay back, putting his hands behind his head, getting comfortable. The ambers popped and cracked and hissed at times, bringing back a reminder of a past fire.

Dad had been drilling water wells for Buck Chynoweth over by Rocky Fork Lake. Buck was paying him cash under the table so Dad wouldn’t have to pay taxes. As part of the trade-off, Buck gave us a house to live in and for not much rent. It was by far the best place we’d ever lived with all the doors and winders closing easily. Buck had just put new linoleum in the front room a month before we’d moved in. The first walk across the smooth surface told James and I all we needed to know. We’d spend hours lying on our sides and pushing off from the walls with our feet and see how many times we could spin ourselves round and round. I’d never quit until I set a record that James would never beat. Mom, laughing all the while, gave us some rags to tie on our feet so we could run and slide, breaking each other’s distance record almost every time. And again I slid long after James quit to set the world’s record.

It was the longest I could ever remember our dad working for anyone. He started working for Buck in the spring after we’d come back from another bad trip to Florida. It was always the same every time when we’d make our way back to Ohio. He’d take Mom to the county seat where she’d apply for help and then go to local churches that handed out food on weekends. Dad, who always stayed in the car, made sure Mom had all of us kids with her so they’d see that we were in need for sure.

But James and I were proud of our dad when he climbed up into the seat of the big drilling rig and drove off. He joked one evening when James asked him how deep the well was by saying, Almost all the way to hell. Mom interrupted at about that time. I mean, the last thing I needed was a place for the devil to escape after all the preaching I’d heard about the world coming to an end. The fact was that there was more talk about Satan than the Lord in church at times.

What money he made drilling was enough to pay off part of the rent each week and still have enough for food and cigarettes but never enough for a piece or two of hardtack candy.

Look at that! James burst with excitement, holding the tall weeds apart for me to see his find. Buck owned a junkyard that was full of old cars and trucks where we’d spend day after day climbing to the top of ones that had long sloping backs to slide the distance to the rear bumper. And then when needed, we’d call them mountains so we could continue our cowboy and Indian wars just like on TV. I simply was a faster runner than James and ran wildly through the old cars, crawling under a few as he ran past in hot pursuit. The tide would change however when he’d jump from a fender and land on me. Things were different in the junkyard compared to the outcome on TV though. Here, the Indians always won the wars in the junkyard mountains.

I told James that the cowboys had to win; I mean, after all, they did on TV. It was the very reason I’d elected to be one. But no matter how I argued the point, he wouldn’t go for any of it, especially when it was time for a scalping, when I’d run to my fort and stand next to Mom.

But he had me pinned down one morning and informed me that I couldn’t get away and a scalping was sure enough going to happen. I tried all the usual lies to get him off me, and also as usual, none worked.

I’ll bet it’s time for breakfast, Doodle, don’t you?

Mom’ll yell, he answered, sounding almost like a real Indian with his knees holding my arms so I couldn’t move them. I was doomed with no way out.

With smoke bellowing from the chimney while Mom cooked, James said it was a smoke signal from the Indians that more were on their way. I didn’t think he really needed any more help since I was already down on my back with him sitting on top of me. All I could do was look at the smoke and wonder how many more were on the way to help him.

That’s not a smoke signal, Doodle. I squirmed wildly. Doodle, our house is on fire! I pointed with my chin the best I could.

White man, think I’m stupid? He pushed my shoulders harder against the ground.

No, just look! I screamed. After a quick glance, he climbed off as fire bellowed from the roof. We ran through the rows of Junkers as fast as we could and finally through the back door where Mom stood at the cook stove, her hands covered with biscuit dough.

Mom! Mom! The house is on fire! James screamed. One of Dad’s friends, Ben Holt, who happened to be visiting, came down from the upstairs just after James made his announcement.

Now, honey, don’t say somethin’ like that! Mom scolded but still with concern in her voice.

Ben Holt didn’t need to be convinced. He jumped from the last step of the stairwell and was out of the front door, shouting, Fire! to alert all the neighbors.

Mom panicked, hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron and began gathering all the kids up with the two youngest still in diapers. She cried, telling us to run out the back door where she followed us with baby Robert in her arms. James carried Ronald; then several neighbors arrived and started getting things out and putting them in the front yard.

There’s one missing, she cried out loud, wiping tears quickly with her apron before counting us again. Dough hung like loose white skin on her hands and forearms where she’d wiped them the best she could in her haste to get her children out of the burning house.

Mom, we’re all here, James assured her. I’ve counted three times, and everyone is here. She pulled us close to her side, crying as I’d never heard before as flames boiled from under the roof and now were leaping high into the air.

The neighbors got out as much as they could before the smoke and heat blew the windows out, which made us cry harder. Ben, saying he’d drive out and tell Buck and Dad about the fire, lit a cigarette up and drove away. In a few minutes, Dad and Buck raced up to the burning house