I need words and lots of 'em

Is there a story in me?  They say a novel can be written by anyone because everyone has a story in them.  If there is it seems to have been lost in the fog of years.
  My son writes and is so much  better at it.  I have come to the conclusion that he is much smarter than I ever was.  I always enjoy his pieces when he is willing to share them.
  As for me?  My vocabulary is limited.  My understandings of the subtleties of writing are sorely limited.  the choice word and the delicate phrasing are at present beyond me.  My sentences tend to smack one over the head with the simplest of Anglo-Saxon words.  But you don't care about my limitations, do you?  It's the story that's most important.  Well, once again, I must let you know that those ideas for stories are extremely limited to beginnings with no endings or endings with no middle or a middle with no way to start or finish.
  Let me show you.  We'll drift back to a time when life was an adventure.  Back to the days when responsibilities was a word that had no meaning.  A time of ponds and bare feet as the family dog ran beside you while you explored.  He was a toy collie and was there with us kids always checking out the area to be certain it was safe for us.  His name was Rex.  He had a dark brown coat edged with black around the white patches along his paws and underbelly.
  We walked along the fringe forest of the golf course on a daily basis.  Old man Williams was always on the look out for us kids walking over his golf course.  We were distractions to the golfers who complained about the noise or the fact that we were on the fairway as they were about to tee off, not to mention the time we would throw their beautifully driven balls from the middle of the green back to them.  Their tendency to stand waving their clubs and yelling to god were well known to us as we ran into the trees away from their threats.
  Our walk this particularly fine day...  There that is an example.  I tell you it is a fine day.  A writer would describe the day to allow you, the reader, to make your mind as to whether the day were fine.  Slipping in description without intruding into the story so that it tends to interrupt the flow is tricky.  I haven't discovered the way to do this.  It's a fact that the more reading one does the more exposed they become to the conventions.  A simple study of how other writers do this would be easy enough by stopping and analyzing what transpired in the passage to move one from this point in the narrative to this without the reader being made aware that it happened.   That is part of the problem.  My reading has become limited to a computer screen and snippets of info that filter through my eyes into a sieve at the back of the brain.  The info is of no particular value other than to be lightly interesting at the moment of reading but of no real significance to anyone or anything when all is said and done.  It is simply a time filler and progresses to a time robber which affects the mind by removing it as surely as a surgeon's scalpel removes the frontal lobe in a lobotomy.  Just as effective without the physicality.
  Oh where was I?  Oh yes.  The description of the day to set the scene of kids exploring their neighborhood with their faithful dog Rex.  Now there was another dog in the family whose name was Ginger.  She was a full grown collie who was, naturally, ginger in color with a white underbody and paws.  She didn't wander with us as faithfully as Rex.  However, she did have a shining moment one bright afternoon on the golf course.  She was with my uncle.
  Now you have to realize that my uncle was a little different from most people.  He saw the world totally different from your average person.  He saw it in the colors of the artist along with the deeply embedded desire to be Douglas Fairbanks with sword in hand or Kirk Douglas with saddle bags on his shoulder.  He wanted to know all there was to know.  He asked countless questions of everyone until he became a complete nuisance to them.  The questions weren't those of a general variety.  They might begin as a general question but with an answer they would become more and more specific until the one being questioned became frustrated enough to yell go to hell or answer with a fist.
  He walked out onto the golf course with a six shooter strapped to his leg. It was a time when the open country was less populated.  The river was west of us and the opposite shore was not inhabited nor developed as it is now.  One could shoot a pistol in that direction without the fear of hitting a living soul.  It was a perfect place to practice a quick draw and fire at a target set up in the trees.  With visions of Doc Holiday and Wyatt spinning in his head he walked toward the tree line with determination.  Ginger was at his side.  She must have known because she remained at his side instead of bounding into the trees ahead.
  His determination was apparent as he slowed with eyes ahead staring at the tree before him the imagined insult by said tree to his manhood lingering in his fantasy riddled brain.  He stopped.  Ginger looked up at him and took a few steps away and behind him.  His face locked in concentration.  A word slipped into the afternoon air, "Draw!"  His right hand slipped to the butt of his gun gripping and pulling in from leather and sending a blast of flame and an ounce of lead slamming into the trunk of the tree which allegedly insulted him.  The tree before him buckled and fell forward face first.  Of course the tree did not fall in the actual world but for him it was a dead man who had insulted him.
  A short walk forward brought him to the site of the bullet's impact.  He took out his knife and dug into the tree to retrieve the slug.  It had hit dead center.  A heart shot splattering the tissue of his imaginary foe killing him immediately.
  He checked the cylinder and removed the spent cartridge, replacing it with a live round.  Satisfied he was prepared he slammed it home into the holster strapped to his leg.  He turned and walked back along front street headed for the saloon he pictured there when one of the other trees called out to him.  "Hey, sidewinder.  You just killed my buddy.  You gotta answer for that you son of a bitch!"
  He spun around to face his new nemesis.  "Smile when you say that hombre," he said in a slow drawl.  "You don't want any part of this iron I'm totin'."
  "I said you killed my friend.  You gotta answer for it."  The slender pine rustled in the wind.  The movement was just enough in his eyes to see a gun slipping up and out of a holster.  My uncle's hand was like lightning.  Down went the palm to cover the butt, his finger slipped around the trigger, his thumb fanned back the hammer.  The barrel cleared the holster.  In the excitement of the new kill he pulled the trigger at this juncture of the quick draw sending a half ounce of lead into his leg.  He collapsed.
  Ginger, who was a safe distance from his shenanigans,  whimpered and slunk over to the writhing body.  She avoided the smoking six gun lying on the ground and nuzzled him.  She lay up against his body and remained there until help came.
  She was a gentle girl who was half as high as I was tall.  She stayed around the yard mostly.  Her excursions were few.  She didn't have the curiosity or the protective instinct of the smaller Rex.
 

Ahoy matey!

Seagulls whipped around the air like kites zigzagging on taut string.  The breeze buffeting them rippled through the marsh grass above the wavelets breaking over their anchor of plough mud.  My hair rose and fell in the chilling air cavorting about my head.  I clutched my wool herringbone coat tight against my throat.   My cheeks were ruby red in the cold of early winter.  I struggled to keep my balance on the weathered boards that made up the ramp leading to the dock out over the white caps of the Cooper River.

I caught my feet several times in the cracks and crevices of the old creosoted two by fours.

“Watch out, Rickey.  Give me your hand.  This wind is stronger than your daddy thought.”  My mother grabbed my mittened hand.  She smiled down at me. 

“You sure you want to do this?”

“Oh, yes ma’am!”  I yelled over the seagulls and wind. 

My dad had only recently begun work on the Tugboats of White Stack of Charleston.  It was the first job he had been able to get since bringing us to America keeping his promise to my mother.  He told her often while looking for work that his accent was not helping his efforts. 

“A touch of prejudice, I think.”

“Got nothing for a Limey,” he’d heard until he had approached the right person on the Charleston docks.  His work as a stoker in the Royal navy throughout the war had been his ace in the hole for this one.  He was hired on for twenty-five cents an hour.  Big money in 1950.

“So, you want to see where daddy works, eh?”  My answer had been yes to seeing boats on the water.  Our trip from England had been by ship across the Atlantic.  The smell of the ocean and rolling decks had become wondrous memories and here was a chance to go back onto the water.

“YES!”  I yelled jumping up.  He caught me in his arms and slipped me to his left hip in the crook of his arm.  It was like sitting in a cradle of steel.  He smiled at me and said, “I think it will be alright.  The skipper said I could bring you both on a run one day.”

That had been a few weeks prior to his being able to make the date.  Mom and I were walking out along the pier to where the tug was tied up.  It was a blustery day with grey clouds flying along overhead, the sun playing hide and seek behind them.  It might rain dad had told us.

Dad was at the gangplank waiting.  He stood next to the anchoring post that stood stoutly beside him.  Two posts over a couple of seagulls sat waiting to follow the tug’s wake.

“Come on,” he said waving us on impatiently.  “We need to get aboard.  The skipper is behind schedule.”

He took my mother’s hand guiding her along the gangplank over the gunnel and onto the deck with a slight jump.  I held her hand tightly as I ran quickly behind her.    Dad jumped onto the deck and picked me up.  His mates stowed the plank and lifted the ropes from the posts and the engine began to throb sending vibrations up my legs when he placed me on the deck.  The air was still active with an accompanying mist of salt water from the Cooper River.

I started to run to the port side when dad called out, “Don’t run, son, and stay near your mother. Both of you might like to go below to say hello to everyone and see if there is anything to eat.  I have my doubts that you’ve had your tea yet.”

Reluctantly, I took my mother’s hand and we descended below deck.  His mates were sitting at a table eating when we set foot on the lower deck.

“Welcome aboard!” they shouted almost in unison.  “So you are Alf’s son?  And you Mrs. Alf?” the nearest one said.

“Yes sir,” I answered eyeing the deviled eggs sitting in a dish.  “What’s that?”

“That my boy is what is known as a deviled egg,” said the same man. 

“Why do they call them deviled eggs?”

“I don’t have a clue, little ‘un.  Would you care to try one?” he asked holding the plate in front of me.

“Nuh uh,” I said shaking my head.  My mother gave me a triangular sandwich half which I bit into immediately still eyeing the eggs.

“Your husband is a hell of a deck hand, Mrs.,” said the same man.  He was more open to us than the others.  Something to do with a woman on board I guess.

“Thank you,” said my mother.  She sat at the table and they began to talk.  I finished my sandwich and slid my hand into the pile of egg halves snagging one.  I climbed up the ladder with egg in hand.  On deck the wind was blowing stiffly from the direction of the bow.  The sun had decided to hide behind the curtain of grey which sent down a light drizzle combining with the spray of the river.  It was exhilarating.  I bit into the egg.  I immediately knew this was to be one of my favorite foods.  I gobbled it down and returned to the lower deck step by step latching my eyes on the eggs at the table’s edge.  The grownups were caught up in chatter as I grabbed eggs, one in each fist.  My right hand pushed the entire thing into my mouth and automatically grabbed another.  Munching away I took one step at a time balancing over the rolling tug.  Slowly I made it to the deck once again. 

I walked to port and as I came from behind the cabin the wind hit me with its   salt spray.   I stuffed my right hand egg  into my mouth and inched along the deck as it rolled to port.  My legs scampered beneath me and I grabbed the rail as I bumped into it.  I looked down to see water within reach sliding rapidly past.  The wake was rolling along grey with white foam jumping into the wind steadily blowing against my face open to that spray and the needle drizzle from above.

I could feel the engine’s steady throb through my shoes, its power pouring into the screw pushing us forward.  The pistons’ thrum was energizing and I began to walk forward while cramming my last egg into my mouth.  As I chewed my new favorite food I bent into the wind keeping my eyes on the deck sliding my feet inch by inch toward the bow while clinging to the railing.

Almost in front of the cabin I looked up to see my dad.  Behind him was a wall of grey steel.  I followed that wall up, up, up…  I nearly lost my balance looking straight up.  The sky was totally block astarboard.  It was the tallest thing ever to meet my eyes.  True I had been aboard such a ship coming to America but to see it from this angle was awe inspiring.  The tug was a puny vessel compared to the ship we were alongside near enough to touch.  My mouth was locked wide open, startled by the size of the ship beside us.

My dad happened to see me.  He was about to yell when I was picked up by my mother.  Even in her arms I could not take my eyes off the height of this vessel we chugged along side.

“What are you doing out here?” asked my mother.  “You were supposed to stay with me.”

“I just wanted to see the water.”  My trance was broken. I looked at her face full of fear and concern.  “It’s alright, mommy, I’m alright.  I got good sea legs and I was holding on tight.”

She looked to dad who was frowning at her.  A shrug of the shoulders and a whispered I’m sorry crossed the short distance.  He turned back to his work and my mother turned back aft stumbling as the roll of the tug caught her off guard.

Back below I settled on one of the benches by the table and grabbed another egg shoveling it into my mouth.  I quickly repeated this move twice more.  Just one more I thought and began to reach.  Before I could gather up one more egg the tug took a mighty roll and my stomach went along with it.  Its contents continued up and over onto the deck as I heaved a second time.  The deviled eggs refused to stay comfortably in my stomach.  The deck, the seat and my coat along with my shoes were covered in the previously eaten egg halves.

I was told I turned green.  I sat with my head on the table, the uncovered side, as everyone moved to clean up the mess I had made.

“How many did he eat?” I heard one person say.

“Looks to be all of them,” said another.

“Here let me,” said my mother.

“No ma’am.  We clean up all the time like this.  You sit back down.”

The ship was led into the port and our tug turned back toward the wharf we had left.  The rest of that trip I remained below deck at the table with my head resting on my arm.  Dad came in one time to say something to mom about allowing me to come on deck alone but didn’t say anything when he saw the mess being cleaned up.  He came over and put his hand on my forehead. 

“No fever,” he said.  “Touch of seasickness, perhaps.  He will be fine when we get back to land.”   He returned to his station as the tug throbbed on.

The lines were tossed to the hands who tied them back to the anchoring points.  As the gangplank was put in place, dad lifted me up. He placed his hand into my mother’s and led her up onto the dock. The steadiness of land settled into me.  I lay my head on his shoulder and closing my eyes said, “Thank you daddy.  It was so tall.  That ship was so tall.  How can anything be so big?”

“Some things just are, son.  Some things just are.”  I drifted to sleep as he walked toward the car.

Viva el Borrachos

He tilted the pint over my glass.  I watched the amber wave of liquid grain splash into the ice cubes I rattled from side to side.

“Say when.”

“When,” I answered.  “Want to hand me the coke now?”

“I can do that, nef.”  He slid the jumbo plastic bottle to me.

“Have you thought about my suggestion?”  asked Clyde. 

I took up some time concentrating on pouring my mixer into my Calvert’s Extra.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Placing the bottle of coke back on the table I slowly guided my glass to my lips and poured a hefty amount into my mouth. 

“Whoa, unk.  You poured too much in my glass,” I coughed out.

“I poured like always, like it ain’t mine,” he replied.   “Well?”

I couldn’t stall any longer.  I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I gave it some thought.  I just don’t know, with school and all.”

“What’s school got to do with it?”  He knew I didn’t have clue.  It was just his way of making me stew a bit.

“Hell, unk.  College is hard.  I’m flunking a couple of course.  I never flunked anything in my life.”

The smirk got me.  I knew he knew.

“That don’t cut no ice.  It won’t take that much time out of your schedule.  Besides if you had to study or something we could get a substitute.”

I sipped my drink. 

“Well, I don’t know.  How much will it cost?”  I had him now.  He couldn’t answer without revealing what we were talking about.

“Not enough to be a burden,” he said the twinkle in his eye growing brighter.  He had me.  He hadn’t revealed a thing.

“Let me be the judge of that.  Tell me what it’s going to cost.”  I smiled back figuring he’d let something slip.

His smile spread wider.  He watched me squirm while he slipped the pack of smokes from his shirt pocket.  He tapped the pack against his left hand.  Three cigarettes slipped up through the opening.  He placed the highest between his lips and pulled the pack away and in my direction offering one.  I took it.  He continued to watch me as he clicked his Zippo open and snapped his fingers over the steel wheel producing a flame.  He lit his and held it out for me.  I pulled the flame into the tobacco.  We both exhaled.

“I’m waiting,” he said breaking the silence.

“Ah, hell!  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I knew it.  You were too drunk last time to remember.”

“Yeah, yeah, so what is it then,” I asked, giving in.

“Bowling,” he said.  “We talked about bowling.”

“What about it?  You know I’m not very good at it.”  My highest score, ever, had been 120.  I never could manage the curve ball and my straight ball went into the gutter as often as down the center.

“We discussed forming a team and signing up for the league games.  We have to decide soon because the signatures have to be in by next week.”

“A bowling league?  I’m not good enough to join a league.”  My surprise came through at the top of my voice.

“Don’t get excited.  Who cares how good you are.  We’d be in it for the beer frames.”

“Beer frames?  What’s that?’

“That, nef, is the beauty of bowling.  With several members in our team we get the chance to drink beer for free.”  He ended his sentence with a flourish and several smoke rings.  He was beaming.

“How does that happen?”  I was somewhat dubious.

“Whoever bowls the lowest score buys the beer for everyone.”

I looked at him pointing to myself,” Not a good bowler!”

“Maybe not at first, but everybody gets better with practice.   Besides I’ll help you when you have to buy.”

“Don’t forget,” I said pointing at myself again.  “Student.  No income.”

He smiled. 

“No problem.  Until you’re throwing strikes, I’ll buy your rounds.”

“How much is it going to cost to join this league?”

“Not that much.  I’ll pay your way until you can pay me back.  What do you say?” 

He watched me with the twinkle in his eye. 

‘I’ll probably regret this,’ I thought to myself.  “Well, OK.  When does it start?”

He beamed as he picked up the phone.  “In two weeks.  Just enough time to wrangle up some other members and get shirts.  While I’m talking be thinking of a name for our team.”

A name?  What kind of a name, I wondered.  Clyde continued to dial the phone until he had a quota of members aboard.

“OK,” he said.  “Did you come up with a name?”

“You said it’s for the beer frames right?”

“Yeah.”

“How about The Beer Drinkers?”

“Mmm, no.  I’m more inclined to the Calvert Extras.”

“No.  It’s beer drinking we’ll be doing.  How about The Beer Hallics?”

“That’s even worse. 

“What about The Booze Hounds?”

 “I don’t like it.  How about something in German?  How about The Beer Hall Putz?”

“Hell no!” he said.  “Sounds like Hitler.”

“Um, how’s this then?  The Roller Schnaps.”  I grinned as I said it.

“What the hell is that?”

“Well, bowling ball rolls and schnaps is a drink.  I thought it would be good in referring to a bunch of drunks bowling.”

“Hey, wait a minute.  How about The Drunk Bunch?”

“Sounds common.  Let’s spice it up using a foreign phrase.”

“Like what? Die Drunken Bunchen?”

“How about simply, The Drunks?”

Clyde looked at me.  “How about el Borrachos?”

“What’s that,” I asked.  “Sounds like Spanish.”

“It is,” he said.  “I kinda like the sound of that.  It means the drunks in Spanish.”

“How do you know that?”  I asked.  “You studying Spanish in your spare time?”

“Naw, one of the guys at work called me that.  I like the sound of it.”

“OK.  We will be the el Borrachos.  It does have a ring.”  It might have had a ring but was a bastardization of the Spanish word since the el should have been los and Borrachos is an adjective and not a noun.  For us it was good enough.

“Now the shirts have to be designed.”

“How about a big red dot on the back with the name at the top and bottom?”

“I like that,” said Clyde.  “We can make the shirt black and have the red dot, from the red dot stores, on the back.  El can be on top and Borrochos on the bottom curving with the circle of red.”

“Perfect!”  And with that el Borrochos came into existence.

Our team had fun.  Beer frames were always the aim of league night, at least for Clyde and me.  Things began to change as we neared the end of the season at the bottom of the league.

“Hey, Clyde!”  It was one of Clyde’s friends from the Navy Yard.  “Can I talk to you alone,” he said watching me start on my first beer.

I put on my shoes and found a ball that fit my hand while they talked.  His friend was waving his hands in the air and pointing at me on occasion.

As I placed my ball in the lineup Clyde came over to me.

“Hey, nef.”

“Yeah,” I answered as he stopped beside me.

“Uh, the fellas want to get a little serious about the games.  They don’t like being dead last in the league.”

“What does that matter?  I thought we started this as a beer frame night.”

‘Well, we did.  But they don’t think it’s so fun being so far down the ladder.  They think everyone is laughing at them.”

“So?  It’s the beer frames.  Right?”

“Maybe, when we started.”

“So we have to make an effort to win?  That kind of defeats the purpose of why we wanted to bowl every week, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yeah for you and me.  But I’m the head of the team and have to go along with the group and they want to start getting serious.  Maybe they could win a most improved trophy or something.  Think you can bowl your best tonight?”

“I’ll do what I can but I’ve never taken this seriously since it was beer frame night on my calendar, not bowling night.”

“Yeah, I know but would you give it your best?”

“I take it there will be no beer frames tonight?”

“Well, yeah.  They say you get wild with your throws the more beers you suck down.”

“OK, unk.  You’re the boss.”

I bowled my best that night.  Everyone was happy because we won our match.  Almost everyone.

The next day I met with Clyde.

“You did pretty good last night.”

“Thanks.  I’m resigning from the team.  Here’s my bowling shirt.”

“No, nef.  You don’t want to quit.”

“Yeah, I do.  It was fun in the beginning but I saw the serious looks on the rest of the team’s faces.  Even yours took on a bit of determination.  I had fun.  I liked the beer frame idea.  All I ever had in mind was the fun of getting together having a few drinks and throwing a ball at some sticks at the end of the alley.  I’m glad we did it but it’s time for me to get serious about my studying.  I’ve pulled my grades up a bit and need to do more.”

“Well, OK, nef.  If you think you hafta.”

“I do.  You guys win a trophy or something.”

I swear I heard a sigh of relief as I walked out the door.  

And again, shhh...

Every Christmas and Birthday I would ask the same question.

“Can I have a BB gun this year?”

To which my dad would answer, “No son.”  He would always end that sentence with, repeat after me, “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

Even knowing that, I would ask each year and receive the same refrain.

It always seemed silly to me because BB guns were all over.  I could shoot a friend’s any time I wanted by simply asking, “Can I shoot some?”

Clyde always had a BB gun.  He liked to walk around the golf course plinking at anything that caught his eye.  I would always follow along behind hoping to have a shot.

“Do you have BB’s,” I asked.  I wanted him to know I was along.  

His exasperated look never registered with me as I ran to keep up.

“Shhh…  Keep quiet.  I’m gonna get us a squirrel.”

He waved me still.

I stopped.

Clyde’s Toy Collie, ever with us,   bumped into me.  He looked up, tongue lolling,   as if to say, “What the…?”  Then he licked his muzzle and smiled as dogs do for children.

“Sorry Rex.  I didn’t mean…”

“SHHH!”  Clyde looked at me sternly.  He looked his four years older in those moments.

I slapped my hand over my mouth.

He nodded pointing.  I followed the gesture to a silhouette balanced on a pine branch ten feet above us.  He took his finger from in front of his mouth and placed it on the trigger as he settled the rifle butt to his shoulder.

Poof!  Air popped from the barrel.

“Dang it! No BB’s!”

“I asked…”

“Tuttut… don’t,” he said leaning the gun against his leg.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cardboard barrel.  He rattled it as he reached for the top.  A sharp pop was heard as he pulled the top off.  Up ending it, he poured the contents into his mouth.   Cheeks puffed full of copper BB’s, he lifted the gun, opening the entry point for the little orbs.  This he placed to his mouth and sprayed BB’s into the barrel.  PFFFST…

I heard them rattle down into the bottom of the chamber.

He rolled his tongue around his mouth then spit a couple more into the opening.

“There,” he said.  “Full in no time.”

He shook the rifle smiling as the copper rattled around inside the gun.  A swift cock of the lever and he was ready, bringing the sites up to the branch once more.  The branch was empty.

Rex panted at his feet.  He stood ready to move on as he knew we would.

“If you hadn’t made so much noise,” said Clyde.

“But you didn’t have any BB’s in the gun.  How was it my fault?”

“Shhh… Don’t bother me with questions while we’re hunting.”

The trees at the edge of the golf course grew thinner as we approached the creek behind the 15^th green.

Rex ran ahead to the path at the side of   the waterway leading to the Stono River.  Clyde pushed through the chest high Marsh grass looking for the path.  Finding it he waved me on.  I rushed through the reeds that reached over my head losing sight of him.

“Wait for me!”

“Shhh… Nef, how many times I gotta say shhh?”

I reached the path.  He was a few feet ahead walking straight for the Stono which was about a quarter mile in front of us.  It seemed longer for my short legs as I ran to catch up.

Half way there was a path that forked ninety degrees to the right.  It was a line of dirt a foot and a half above the plough mud.  It meandered crookedly toward Maybank Highway.  Clyde turned to walk its natural path.  Rex was a few feet in front.  I was a few feet behind.  I watched the ground as I hurried my steps .I ran into Clyde who had stopped at Rex’s first bark.

 Getting up off my duff, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“Shh...  Rex has spotted something.”

I peered around him.  I saw Rex moving stealthily forward.  He broke into a run growling loudly.  Stopping short, his face went into the dirt and up.  His growl grew louder all the while his head whipping rapidly back and forth.  In his teeth flailing to and fro was what looked like a piece of rope.

“What is …”

“Shhh…  Rex is killing a snake.  It coulda got us.”

“Is it poisonous?”

“If it is it ain’t no more,” said Clyde with a smile.

Rex dropped the three foot snake on the ground.   He watched it for movement.  It lay flopped across the path.

“Good boy,” said Clyde walking up to him.  Rex was sitting now.  “You took care of that thing,   didn’t you boy?”

“Is it poisonous?” I asked.

“Heck, I don’t know,  nef.  It’s a snake.  It coulda been.  Rex saved us if it was.”

He aimed his gun and pumped a BB into the dead thing’s head. Clicking the lever, he pumped another one into the lifeless form.

“He’s dead.  Musta broke his back.  Atta boy, Rex.”

Rex sat, tongue draped over his lower jaw, heaving summer air.  He looked up at Clyde with a dog grin.

Looking around for another snake I said, “Maybe we should head home.”

“Don’t you want to shoot?”

“Yeah!”

“Still think we should go home?”

“Maybe a little longer,” I said reaching for the gun.

“Come on then,” he said, cradling the air rifle in the crook of his arm.

I trotted along behind, Rex beside me.

Me too

"Is that all there is?"

"Well, whadya want?"

"I thought there would be more."

A worm's life

I followed along behind, my cane pole over my shoulder. The line was looped around the end I was holding with the hook embedded in the round cork stabbed through with a small wooden red shaft. I had to run every few steps my granddad made just to keep up. He was carrying the bait bucket in one hand and two more cane poles bobbling horizontally in the other. He wore faded overalls that looped up over his shoulders under which was a faded blue shirt with the collar askew. Draped at an angle was a shabby straw hat with a broken spot splaying straw strands in all directions the brim bouncing ever so gently with each step forward. I looked down at the ground to watch the worn heel leave a cat's paw imprint in the sand along the shore. "Are we going to get a boat, granddaddy?" I asked looking at the rowboats lined along the shore. They rose and fell slightly with each ripple coming towards us. "No, Rickey. We're going to find a stump over in that direction to sit on the bank and drown our worms quietly." Disappointment flashed across my face. "Now don't give us that look. I don't like being on the lake. We don't have any life preservers and I can't swim and I know you don't swim being such a little fella." "I'm a big boy! I started school this year." "They teach you to swim?" he asked smiling at me. "No sir. But I can write letters good." "That's fine. Maybe you can show me in the sand while we watch our corks." I smiled and nodded my head. The stump was right where he had pointed. It was just at the edge of the pond under a tall oak which gave shelter from the sun. The shade was cool and the water was warm. I knew because I had slipped off my Keds and was wiggling my toes under the wavelets. "You're gonna have to sit and not disturb the water, Rickey. Those fish are skittish and anything unusual will make them stay away from our worms." I backed out of the water and sat in the sand. He lowered the bait bucket to the ground next to the stump. He sat and began to untie the lines on the poles. The shortest one he untangled. He reached into the pile of loam in the bucket. Digging around he found one pulling it out. It wriggled in his hand as he stuck it on the hook. "Here you go, son. Now let it swing out into the water over there," he said pointing away from him. I tried several times but the line dragged in the sand. "Hmm, guess you need to grow a bit." He took the pole and lifted the line up and over. With a plop it settled on the water and bobbed in the tiny waves. I sat and took the pole from him. "Keep a watch on that cork. If you feel a tug and it goes under that means you got a fish on your line." "OK, granddaddy. I'll watch real close." He went about baiting his two poles which were much longer than mine. One he flipped out in the opposite direction from mine then placed the butt of it into the sand so that it stood on its own. The other he tossed between the two. He pushed the brim of his hat back settling on the stump to wait for the fish to bite. I watched him pull a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket beneath the left strap of his coveralls. He shook it so that the cigarettes stood like stairs from the opening. He placed the tallest between his lips pulled the pack away in one smooth movement placing it back into his pocket. I heard the click of the Zippo and the scratch of the tiny wheel. A flame lept up to his Camel. He pulled it into the tobacco then let out a cone of smoke into the summer air. His smile told me all. "Can I have one, granddaddy?" I asked knowing the answer. "No. It'll stunt your growth. Besides this is a grown up pleasure. You got plenty of time to grow up. Oh, watch your cork. I think I... Yup. There it goes." It dipped below the surface and I felt a tug as the cane bent down toward the pond. "What do I do? Granddaddy, what do I do now?" I shouted. "No need to get so excited. Just stand up and pull up on the pole. That's it" I was on my feet yanking the cane pole upward. The cork rose dripping water. Up further the line beneath the pole rose higher and there struggling to loose itslef was a small bream." "Oh, hold it steady and bring it over so I can pull it off the hook." He looked at me then said, "Unless you want to do it." "Yes sir, I do!" "Alright then. When you grab it grab over his eyes and slide you hand back." He had grabbed the line and was holding the shaking squirming body towards me. I reached but it flicked and I snatched my hand back. "It's OK. Try again. Like I told you. Wait til it calms a bit." It slowed its frantic slashing body. I reached again closing my hand. "OW!" I screamed. "You didn't do what I told you, son. You tried to grab his body. Those fins on his back come up and jab hands. That's why you have to cover the eyes and slide back. Like this. See? Ok. Want to try now?" I held my hand which was smarting from the jab of the spiked fin. "No sir. You do it." He unhooked the fish. "That's a nice size. About the size of my hand. Always keep them when they're like this. Always throw them back if they are smaller. That'll be about right for the pan when we get him home." "Are we going?" "No. Not yet. I'd like to catch one or two myself." He threaded a cord through the fish's mouth and out its gill. The threading end was tied to a metal bar which he dug into the sand. The end with the fish attached he tossed into the pond. Meanwhile his pole to the left had begun to bow down the cork having disappeared. "Granddaddy! Your cork! It's gone. His pole was bending further and coming loose from its base in the sand. He grabbed it as his catch began to tug it out toward the middle. The line was taut at a long angle into the water. He pulled back. "Whoa Nellie! He's got some strength to him that one." "Look at your pole! It's gonna snap!" I yelled. "Hold on to your britches, son. We'll get 'im." He stood up from the stump and braced himself on his feet. He pulled back and the line zigged to the right. Another pull. The line whipped to the left. "This boy's gonna be a big one. You want to help?" "No sir. Looks to big to me. You're gonna need a bigger frying pan." He laughed. "You might be right." He held on to the pole as the line whizzed from one side to the other. He began to back up holding tight. "OK. Get ready," he said. With that he yanked the pole backward. He fell over. The sound was like a sack of flour hitting the ground. The line whistled past me. My granddaddy was sitting on his rump, a look of surprise on his face. The line smacked him across the cheek. The hook was gone, the line dribbled pond water down his face. "John Browned black sea buzzard got away." "Where's the hook?" I asked, pointing. "That sorry Caspar took my hook. Felt like it could have fed us for a week. Guess my line's too light. Didn't know they had something that size in here." "Whatcha gonna do now. The hook's gone." "Oh, no worries there my boy. I always have an extra hook with me." That was a life lesson I obvioulsly never learned. He placed a new hook on the broken line and unravelled more line from the tip of the pole. Another worm, another lazy toss and another plop as the cork hit water. We sat there for a while after that with no more bites. Then each pole bobbed its cork. I pulled mine in like he showed me earlier and he took each of his up and out. Three more about handsized. "Well it's a little after noon now. Reckon we can go. We'll get these home, fix 'em up, and cook 'em for our dinner. Just enough for you and me, eh?" "Yes sir," I said with a grin. We got our poles out and tied the strings and embedded the hooks into the corks. I put mine across my shoulder while my granddad finished gathering everything. "Want to carry these?" he asked pulling the strung fish out of the water. "Yes sir!" "Don't drag 'em in the sand now." I picked them up. "They're heavy. Maybe you better carry 'em. I'm too short." He smiled and took them. We followed the sandy path back to the car. He placed the fish in the back inside the bucket he had brought. The worms he'd dumped at the water's edge and dipped pond water which he now poured over the fish. I climbed onto the running board of the old black Chevy then stepped up and climbed into the drab tan suede covering of the front seat. I slid over then leaned out to grab the door handle. I pulled as hard as I could. The door slammed. My granddad reached across me, opened it again and slammed it with a solid click. "You are a little 'un, huh?" He smiled and put the keys into the ignition. His foot pressed on the starter on the floor board. The engine came alive with a roar as he pressed the excelerator. "Next time we'll get that big one." He grinned. "Yes sir!" I said looking forward to it. Our trek took us to the Cooper River Bridge. As we began the incline upward the radio announcer said, "Here is Marty Robbins." "A white sport coat and a pink carnation..." I looked out over the guardrails at a precipitous drop and closed my eyes as we crested the first hump and didn't open them until we had begun our horizontal drive at the end. "Thanks, Granddaddy. I like fishing with you." His grin lifted the Camel between his lips. He inhaled, lightly clamped his fingers over the cigarette and removing it said, "Next time maybe I'll use you for bait. Maybe we can get that big fish." He looked ahead. Two columns of smoke poured from his nostrils. He looked at me again, saw the look of fear in my face and chuckled. "I was kidding, Rickey." He tussled my hair and continued driving. "I knew that," I said voice atremble.

I gotta go...

It was bloody hot that day I pulled into Shoney's parking lot.  As I turned off the engine and opened the door the cool inside air was sucked from the car and the heat of the sun, at twelve o'clock in a cloudless sky, bore down oppressively.  Sweat was immediate.  The tar in the parking lot sank beneath my weight.  It was an oven.  I motioned for my son to hurry along.  I pulled open the front door of Shoney's.  A rush of cool air hit my reddened face.
"Oh, does that feel good," I said to my son who followed me in.
"It's so hot," he said.  "Could I get one of those big slushy drinks?"
"Yes, you can, but first we have to locate my date."
"Date?  You didn't say anything about a date."
"Yeah, I know.  Just a figure of speech.  I told your aunt's next door neighbor we could meet here for coffee and some lunch.  She said she would bring her little girl along.  So you'll have company."
"Oh no.  Not some old girl."
"It'll be OK.  Just for a half hour or so."
"Yeah, I remember the last time you took Kyndall and me to some girl's house for just a half hour or so.  You said it would be OK then because she had kids our age."  He rolled his eyes as he said it.
"Yeah.  Yeah."
He was right.  I'd dragged them both over to an old flame's house to see her and see how my kids got along with hers.  It was a disaster.  Her kids were on their home turf.  They resented my two right away.  Their mother had told them to be nice to mine and to play in their rooms for a while.  In about ten minutes mine came back to where I was and sat beside me.
"What's up?" I asked.
"They were ignoring us like we weren't there.  They wouldn't play or share."
We were going to have lunch which my friend was in the process of bringing to the table.
"There we go," she said putting the plates on the table.  Then she noticed my two were sitting beside me looking bored.
"Oh, didn't you want to play?" she asked them.
"No ma'am.  We got hungry," said my daughter.  She always tried to mollify.
I clapped my hand over my son's mouth as he began to tell the true reason.
"Mmmph, mmph," came his mumble beneath my hand.
"Well, let's eat then," I said.  My face for my son was stern as I slowly released his mouth.  He looked miffed but kept his tongue. He has always been one to tell it like it like it is but I caught him in time.  He would spout off at me later I knew.
As we ate I watched her children who were very silent.  When they did talk it was to each other completely ignoring Derek and Kyndall. I crunched on chips thinking what a bad idea this had been.  My kids were miserable.  Her kids were miserable.  I was smoldering.  My kids were being ignored because I wanted to rekindle an old flame.  Needless to say, I never called her again.  Her kids could have her all to themselves.  My kids never missed going back there.
"Oh, there she is," I said touching his shoulder and guiding him down the aisle toward the red upholstered booth.
She was facing the door.  Her daughter was beside her on the inside.  I waved walking in her direction.  Her hand came up and dropped quickly back to the tabletop.
"Hi," she said.  "I tried to call you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, I..."
She doubled over as she began to speak.
"Are you alright?" I asked.  She appeared to be in some distress.
"UH...I...Gotta go!  I...got...DIARRHEA!" she blurted out as she took her daughter's hand.  She slid out of the booth, daughter in tow and ran out of Shoney's.  It was so fast I was still standing as all good Southern gentlemen do when a lady stands, or shouts DIARRHEA!  and runs past.
I looked at Derek.  He looked at me and burst out laughing.
I signaled the waitress who brought over menus. As I pulled Derek up from beneath the table where he slid while laughing so hard, she placed two before us.  Every head in the place was turned to see the two left behind by the woman and daughter.  I smiled sheepishly as Derek began to calm down.
I handed him a menu and a jab.
"Well, son, what'll you have.  We might as well eat since we are here for lunch."
He had calmed down enough to read the menu.
"I'll have a burger, fries and a big coke, er, do you have slushies?"
The waitress said no but they did have ice cold cokes.
"OK, ice cold coke.  The big one."
She turned to me.
"I'll have the same except with coffee and no coke."
She wrote it up then walked off.
"You can really pick 'em, dad," said my son who was grinning at me.
"Yeah, I guess I can."
"I got diarrhea," he said in another fit of laughter.  "Best excuse to get away I ever heard for breaking a date. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"OK. OK. Let it go"
"Do you suppose she just thought that one up on the spur of the moment?" he asked.  "She couldn't have run any faster after seeing you."
"She's seen me before,"  I said.
"You gotta admit that's the fastest you've ever been dumped," he said cackling some more.
"I think I've heard enough now."  Yeah, that's the fastest and the most unique excuse I'd ever been told.  I doubted it could be beat.
We ate our lunch silently.  Derek choked on his coke a couple of times while laughing.
I kind of avoided my aunt's house for a long time afterward.  It was an unusual date but there were newer dating adventures to come in the computer dating scene.  But those are in the another story category.