Sarah, the sky that overlooks you and me, it opened up again today. The light that fills up the dogwoods is the same that curdles the cemetery gardenias. This has become summer once more, so you probably remember how things are colored, and then erased, without me telling you.
We have taken to planting crops again after last year’s calamitous conditions. Mostly it is cabbages, but also some acres of hay for the last two horses. You should see their shaggy stances, the hollowness of lean shoulders, the awful grief in their countenance. They will be confiscated by the army soon, Pa says, if we can keep them out of rifle range.
Lord, a soul can grow tired of salt pork and dooryard plantain, and sometimes you need to take a meal with neighbors (the Sowers, do you remember them and their dour Baptist leaflets?) to affirm you’re not being poor alone. The men will likely share homespun tobacco, the women will exchange recipes, the boys (and Alice) will tear up the yard grass with their raw feet, because that is the nature of this life.
We are each blessed in our own way, according to Pastor Paul, who joined up the fight last summer. Have you seen him? He promised he would write, but so far he has not, not yet.
“Maybe he was killed,” said Cousin Ivy.
Do you remember sassy Cousin Ivy, from the Elridge side of the family?
“Maybe they ain’t found his body yet, so he ain’t on any list of the dead,” she said.
“Maybe you don’t know nothin’,” I told her.
“Maybe he’s too busy fighting to be writing. He got any kin around here?”
“No, don’t think so. I think he’s from Miss’ippi someplace. Seems like he was a solitary sort of preacher.”
“Maybe he found himself a woman, and she’s more interesting than writing back a letter.”
“Maybe you don’t know nothin’,” I said again.
“You ain’t very romantic, are you?”
“I never said either way,” I said. “And what if I ain’t, what’s it to you?”
“Then you are a bother to me,” she said. “Hand me another nightcrawler, these muds ain’t biting today.”
“That’s because you tore up the top of the river with your poor casting,” I said. “You, being a girl, don’t know how to properly fish for muds.”
“And you, being a boy, don’t know how to properly shut your big ole mouth,” she said, and she thumped me hard upon my ear.
I pretended it didn’t hurt, and that raised a smile from her, so we settled back companionably, and we cast out and didn’t say much for a little while.
“Your pa mention the war to you?” she asked.
“Little bit,” I said. “Not much. He wanted to join up, but his leg….”
“You almost sixteen, ain’t you?”
“Yeah. Couple more weeks.”
“Gonna join up?”
“Yeah. If they’ll take me.”
“You don’t look too weak,” she said.
“Stronger than you.”
“Probably not. But they ain’t taking girls. Not yet.”
“Maybe not ever,” I said. “That just don’t sit right with me.”
“And why not?” she asked.
“I’m not trying to be smart, Ivy,” I told her. “I just think it’s… it’s too mean a thing for a girl, that’s all. War is just plain mean.”
“I can be mean,” she said.
“No, you can’t be. Not that mean. I’d rather go instead of you.”
She looked at me, curious to my serious. “You ain’t mean enough, either, Cousin Jim.”
Something grabbed hold of her line, and she tugged hard enough to hook it. She was laughing the whole time, and I didn’t want to think about the war anymore. It was a big ole mud– at least six pounds, I’d say — and it would feed her folks well. Then I hooked one, and, after a while, she pulled in another two. I could smell the sweat on her neck, and I swear it was perfume, the smell of gardenias.
—
And now the hounds watch me and Pa settle in for the night. I slouch next to him as he smokes, and he watches me scrape the fishbones from his supper plate into the weeds. The dogs whine. They have already fed.
“You been spending time with your Cousin Ivy?” he asks. He is hitching up his trousers and he tucks in his undershirt after they are hitched.
“Been with her today by the river,” I tell him. “She caught three and I brung in two.”
“You know what I mean, Jim.”
“Daddy, she is my cousin.” I ain’t called him Daddy in three or five years. “She is also a dependable friend.”
“She is your cousin twice removed, a cousin to a side-cousin. You are allowed to be with her, if she is your preference.”
Charlotte-Bee, our eldest hound, howled at something near the barn, but that dog is half-blind, so we often ignore her.
“Weren’t planning,” I says. “To be with her, I mean.”
“That side of the family is slow,” he says. “They ain’t deep thinkers, is my best way of saying it. The girl herself may not be slow, but she has inherited their dispositions. Probably she will turn mean. Her daddy has that meanness, you know that. And you ain’t exactly a boxful of cleverness yourself, boy. She would have you eating out of a flower pot and drinking out of your shoe if you was so inebriated by her femininity. You understand?”
“Daddy, she’s my cousin,” I say again, for emphasis. “And she don’t look at me that way.”
“But you look at her that way, yessir, and if your Mama was still here, she’d already be ironing the wedding napkins and sprucin’ up her hair for such an event.”
“Ain’t no such event to participate in,” I say, and he spat into the weeds, hitched up his drooping britches, and no more was said about that.
—
Sarah, the rain fell again today, exhausted, and its silver collected in our big pond.
Photo by Skitterphoto from Pexels
I don’t know what to say. It’s amazing work.
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Thank you again. 🙂
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🙂
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Thanks so much. 🙂
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Really enjoyed that. Very clever dialogue.
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Thanks so much, and thanks for the read. 🙂
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I think I held my breath through the entire read, Steven. Masterful.
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Thank you, Diana. I’m so glad you like it. It was an interesting & challenging distraction. 🙂
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Your writing never ceases to leave me breathless. ❤
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Thank you for your kindness. 🙂
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Hi Steven, I’m going to reblog this tomorrow. Just wanted to FYI you. 🙂 ❤
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Thanks so much, Diana, that’s so generous. I haven’t been posting much lately, still looking for the words for such a strange and terrible time. I hope you’re still doing well. 🙂
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I’m having trouble writing, blogging, and sleeping. There are days when I feel weepy too. It is strange and terrible. The pandemic is going to rage on until we have new federal leadership, I think. But…even though the images of these protests are often disturbing, the messages of hope and signs of change are becoming visible everywhere. Perhaps we’ll be a better nation on the other side of it.
And happy to share your beautiful writing, as always. Be well, my friend. ❤
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I hope so. I’m encouraged by some of the things I read. I want to listen and learn more. I dreamed the title ‘Appomattox’ and searched for the story before everything erupted. I think it’s important to listen right now. I think it’s essential. Thank you again for promoting my writing with such enthusiasm… of course, I’m very grateful. Stay well, Diana. 🙂
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From the very first sentence, Steven, this is brilliance!!!! God, I am in awe of what you do!!!!
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Thanks so much, Susan. I’m humbled and flattered. Best of success to you for your forthcoming book!
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Thank you so much, Steven!!!
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You’re welcome. 🙂
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“Box of cleverness.” I like that, Steven. It pulled me right in, and I enjoyed the entire piece. Sorry I’ve been neglectful in reading your work as of late.
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Oh, no worries, Mary. I haven’t been posting much lately. And thank you for the read. 🙂
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That’s some damn good, some fuckin’ damn good, my friend. That first sentence is one of the best I’ve every read.
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Wow… doesn’t get much better than that! Many thanks, Andrew.
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This definitely captures the atmosphere of that time, Steven. Lovely.
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Thanks very much, Jacqui, that’s very kind. 🙂
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Steve, I finally picked up a (hard) copy of Ordinary Handsome. It is an absolute joy to read. It is one of those books that you read and wish you could write like that.
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I agree, Greg. I also wish I could write like that! *Sigh*
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But you have a great talent. I wish I could be as prolific as you… and the worlds that you build. I appreciate the compliment, but you have an amazing imagination and gift for story-telling.
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❤
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Wow, thanks, Greg. Many thanks!
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Lovely writing, Stephen. Thank you so much for sharing it – and thank you Diana, for pointing me in this direction…
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Thanks so much, and for taking the time to read it. 🙂
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Hi Steven, I’m a great admirer of Diana’s writing and therefore take heed of what she says, even if I’m old enough to be her mother…I too am a writer and an admirer of words that paint such graphic pictures. You can certaib ly write, no argument.
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Thank so much. (I apologize for the lateness of my reply… your comment got lost in my email and I completely missed it. I do appreciate your comment and that you enjoyed this story. Many thanks.) 🙂
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Excuse clumsiness ‘certainly’ …Cheers!
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No apologies necessary. Thanks so much for taking the time to read this and comment. And I’m a big fan of Diana’s writing as well. 🙂
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I loved that, got totally wrapped up with the lyrical writing.
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Thanks for much for reading!
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I enjoyed this a great deal.
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Thanks very much. 🙂
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You’re welcome, Steven! The voices in the story are pitch-perfect.
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Beautiful piece, Steven! I was transported to the world of your story instantly and wish to join the company.
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Many thanks, Miriam. I appreciate it. 🙂
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You’re welcome, Steven. 🙂
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Wonderful writing. I’m glad Diana reblogged this, it reminded me that I have your book hiding in my Kindle. Thank you. 🙂
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Thanks so much. 🙂
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🙂
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Very nice world capturing. I really felt the south come alive. Pretty cool you did most of it through dialogue too, that’s a talent, that is. 🙂
Thanks Ms Peach for pointing me here 😉
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Thanks so much, I’m glad you enjoyed it. 🙂
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