Thursday, September 30, 2010

An Afternoon with Grandpa

An Afternoon With Grandpa

By Kimberley Jones



We spent the morning

sanding rough awkward

edges of leftover two by fours

that was cut down to four inch

blocks until they were smooth, and

we could run our fingers over them

without fear of a splinter.

Upon afternoon we wrote

our names on them with a worn

down red pencil and made the slow

steady walk four blocks away to drop

them over the bridge and into

Buffalo Creek only to watch them
float quietly away.

______________________________

I am an elementary school teacher, and I live in Lewisville, NC with my husband and two children. I have been writing since elementary school.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Hand-to-Hand Transaction

Hand-to-Hand Transaction

The girls shake in their seats. Not their whole, thin bodies, but just a finger or two, the side of the neck, an eyelid. They scratch the tops of their summer brown thighs, pick at sores along their collarbones.

Bright lights along the side of Route 122. Pointing in opposite directions. Two vehicles parked police cruiser style. Two heads, the drivers, leaning just inches from the windows. They are masked in the darkness created by the bright headlamps. They are talking. One is smoking a cigarette, the other is not.

Both have passengers. The shaking girls. These two, thin and ravenous, waiting for their men to finish business.

An arm reaches across the span from window to window then withdraws. The other arm does the same. The trade has been made. What could have taken five minutes, instead takes nearly two hours while the drivers laugh and talk and the girls relax into the passengers seats and are still now.

All of this has taken place in the parking lot of the community post office at the intersection of Route 122 and Route 45.

We watched this from our bedroom window with the lights out. Bedtime and the sounds from the living room like the sounds from outside.

_____________________________

Sheldon Lee Compton

Bio: Sheldon Lee Compton survives in Kentucky. His work has appeared a number of journals including Keyhole, Staccato Fiction and Pank. He writes and interviews and such at www.bentcountry.blogspot.com.

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Thursday, September 23, 2010

Southern Gentlemen


I’ve heard a lot in the last 20 years about southern culture, much of it uncomplimentary. You’ve heard it too I am sure. Well I’ve got news for Foxworthy and the rest. We ARE NOT REDNECKS!

I’ve known many southern men in my life and the true Southern Gentlemen I speak of is:

A devout man of faith. First and foremost our people (either Jewish, Catholic, or Protestant) are religious people. This man prays often for his family, his community his employees, even his boss. He regularly attends church. He may not be a theologian but he knows what he believes and it impacts his life and his practices. He’s involved and he cares about those in his church.

Full of love. He loves his wife and children. He cares deeply for them. Is involved with them and shows his affection thru his interactions with them. He goes to his girls dance rehearsals and plays. The boys baseball and football games. He stands by and cherishes his wife. He is faithful and loving. Kind and caring. He helps in any way he can.

He has a deep connection to the land. He dreams of one day owning his own version of Tara. Land to love and nurture, Land to provide for his family. Most love to be outside. Most Southerners fish and hunt or at least hike or walk. If he hunts it’s because he loves the sound of the woods in the early morning. Gobblers on the roost in the spring and deer walking thru the leaves in November. Hunting is passed down thru the generations. Father to child, grandfather to grandchild, uncles and best friends. The hunter/gatherer lifestyle is a way to connect to his forefathers. To the grand idea of the early South.

He smells of gun oil, tobacco, and brown liquor. Guns are a part of his daily life. He thinks about them, dreams about them, has strong family connections to them. He hunts with HIS Grandfathers rifle. It connects our day to his. Our adventures to those of his youth. Guns have history, place and meaning. A Southern Gentlemen may often smoke a pipe or cigars. In the old days maybe Bull Durham roll your own cigarettes. The scent clings to his clothes and in his study. He occasionally enjoys a nip or two from a good bottle of bourbon or whiskey. Nothing is finer than a bourbon on the porch on a sunny Sunday afternoon. He might even have a little shine laying around somewhere… It’s good for the soul you know.

He is well dressed. This does not mean the most expensive clothes or accessories. This means he dresses appropriately for the occasion and the place. A Southern Gentlemen does not go out to dinner in a sleeveless t-shirt or cutoffs. He isn’t AT church in ragged jeans and beat up clothes. If poor he wears a sport coat over his overalls to church. His attire Is his way of being respectful to those with whom he comes in contact. He carries with him a handkerchief and a pocket knife (maybe one his grandfather or dad gave him long ago). He is usually OFTEN known to wear one particular item. For instance when I was a young man I knew a man who always wore an ascot. If I came to his house in the middle of the day unexpectedly, he had on an ascot… For me it’s a bow tie. For some it’s a fedora or a panama hat. It’s part of his attire and he wears it well. It is his signature. We are AN eclectic and eccentric people.

This southern man I refer to has a sense of history and place. He may not live in the town of his birth anymore but he identifies strongly with it. He is proudly from there. Social Circle for me was a great place to grow up. Again I find myself living in a small southern town. Some A place where the lady at the post office knows my name and helps with my mail. Southerners connect strongly to our home states and the history they contain. There is no need to re-invent the South as some have done. We are proud of the people we come from no matter what. The soldiers, the statesmen, the lawyers, the preachers, and the crooks and moonshiners. The bible salesman and the fortune teller in my case… They make up who we are today. The stories, the places they lived and died. Fought and loved. Tamed and wandered. We love where we are from.

The Southern Gentlemen is becoming a thing of the past. Kept alive by only a few. You can find them on Sunday’s in the local church. Sitting quietly with their families. Everyone neatly dressed and in line. He’s loved by those who take the time to get to know him. Respected and admired. A pillar of the community.

This to set the record straight as to who we are. This is who I want to be when I grow up. These fine men are the men whom I admire and from whom I am proud to descend.


_____________________________


James Pressley

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Spindle -Weave

Spindle - Weave


One spindle - two different weaves

You were woven for laughter and pleasure

For fancy parties and teas

For hands that were bathed in scented lotions

To be held while being helped into horse drawn carriages

To be kissed at the eve’s end and escorted to copper doors

To rest in a box filled with tissue paper and scents of lavender

Crisp white gloves, starched and pressed

One spindle, two different weaves

Tattered and worn

No lavender scents for me

No nice soft tissue paper for me to rest on

No kind hand will reach for these frayed gloves -

With missing finger tips

Mingled with the scent of blood and sweat

My color has faded, what use to be bright is now dark

There will be no remembrance of me

I will not be passed down from daughter -

to granddaughter

When night falls my resting place will be

~UNKNOWN~

One spindle - two different weaves


_________________________


Author Angela D. Harris was born in Maryland and now resides in Danville Virginia.

Night Light is the first book Angela has published. She has completed one other book called, Tabby’s Great Adventure. She is working on two more children’s books, The Day Homer Hedgehog Laughed and There Once Was a Land, soon to be completed. To learn more about the author visit her web site at, www.angelascreativeworks.com.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Amos and Rocky

AMOS and ROCKY
(A Southern Tale)

By Paul H. Yarbrough

This isn't such a bad story if you got time to listen. Anyway, most of the guys down at the seed store are always trying to get me to retell it and retell it. It's about my old friend Amos and his cousin, Rocky. They weren't such bad guys, just that they were a bit nutty lots of the time. That is, Amos and Rocky, not the guys at the seed store.

Anyhow, one summer about five years ago, Amos and Rocky decided they'd start a bed and breakfast. It seemed to be the rage, as Rocky's bartender, Rayette, had told him; and the two boys could start without almost no overhead. And she told them they ought to make a fortune, as there wasn't any local competition. The only motel in Toxicburg had burnt down five years before after lightning struck the propane tank.

Amos and Rocky decided to call their bed and breakfast the A&R, B&D.

It never occurred to them that the reason no one ever rebuilt the motel was that there weren't no customers in the first place. And the previous owner, a lowlife from Red Oak, Alabama, hadn't been seen since he collected his insurance money. Personally, I was always a bit suspect of the lightning claim, especially since that Red Oak immigrant was a retired doodlebugger and had been accustomed to handling explosives most of his life. But I'm gettin' away from the story.

Anyway, Amos and Rocky bought an old double-wide, cleared out the innards and put up some dividers, making separate rooms, and they filled them with a dozen army cots they bought at the war surplus store over in Newton. They took apart and reassembled a picnic table they had stolen from the National Park over in Scott County for the breakfast table. They then painted the whole dang place Mississippi State Maroon and White and put up a life size cut-out of Dolly Pardon in a bosom-bustin' blouse out by the interstate. They printed two words, “exit” and “here” on each of her endowments. Amos said it didn't have nothin' to do with breakfast or beds, but he thought it added a little class. And also, it should get the truck driver traffic.

Rayette offered to moonlight in the day as sort of a manager, and suggested Amos act as a concierge. That would leave Rocky to the cooking duties. Course, Rocky nor Amos neither, for that matter, could cook dirt in a microwave oven without screwing it up. And I don't know if I mentioned; that was the entire kitchen for the A&R,B&D, a microwave oven.

“When do you think we'll get our first customer?” Rocky said. “Ain't nobody come off the interstate all mornin'.”

“I don't imagine you see much checkin' in in the morning,” Amos reclined in one of the lawn chairs they had set up on the front of the double wide. He reached into the cooler and took out a Miller Lite. “Yeah, we don't need to start really lookin' 'til after noon. But you need to be thinkin' 'bout what the menu'll be this evenin'. After all, Rayette'll be tendin' bar after five o'clock. She won't be here to help out. And the Dutch Bar don't let her go til midnight.”

Rocky took on a puzzled look. He, himself, reached for a Miller, full strength. “Well, this ain't a bed and supper, it's a bed and breakfast. Besides you're the con-see whatever. You need to be findin' them places to eat at night. That's what that book Rayette got us says. You know, Bed and Breakfasting for Dummies.

“C-O-N-C-I-E-R-G-E, you dumb ass. She shouda got you the Bed and Breakfasting for Rednecks.

Rocky took a pull on his Miller with one hand, and with great smoothness and aplomb, with the other, shot Amos the bird.

“Well, I'll take care of the concierging, you just take care of the cookin',” Amos said.

About then, Rayette came waddling up to see if the boys were all set. Now, Rayette wasn't such a bad looker in the dim light of a bar at night with some bright red lipstick and four or five pounds of rouge. And she always had her hip hugger jeans riding low enough to reveal her tramp stamp tattoo of a mushroom--Lord only knew why she made such a selection--but in the daylight, in her pull-over, tent-like, day dress and her hair in curlers she wasn't gonna win any beauty prizes. Fact is she's lucky she didn't get shot. But again I'm getting' away from the story.

“Now I heard you boys fussin' all the way across the highway. Now you don't wanna scare your customers off with a lot of bickerin'”

“Hell we ain't got any customers yet. Anyway, this dumb ass ain't got anything planned for supper.” Amos took a pull on his Miller then dropped a light belch. In deference to the lady in attendance, he didn't want to drop one of his thunderbolt belches.

“I ain't supposed to. I'm just supposed to fix breakfast. And, double dumb-ass to you.” Rocky was what you'd call adamant!

Now I need to move the story along a bit, I suppose. Too many details are liable to clutter it and some of them get a little sticky as far as crudeness is concerned. And I've told it so much I get bored with the details.

Now, Rayette was having what they call an ulterior motive for pushing success on Amos and Rocky and their B&D. She had been married three times, none of which had been any great achievement. Her first husband was shot over in Meridian for trying to hold up the Piggly Wiggly. Her second was run over by a moonshiner when he was crossin' the highway one night, and the third just took off for parts unknown. Some say he was so glad to get away from her that he may have even run off to Arkansas. She had now pinned her hopes on the A&R,B&D being a huge success, and she could retire from her bartending duties and move to her trailer down on the Chunky River and live in peace and style.

But the upshot for the afternoon was that Rayette needed to work out a compromise so the boys didn't get drunk and screw the enterprise before it got started. Therefore, she proposed for any new customers, that Rocky fix a nice supper the first night, and after that only breakfast.

Well, I gotta tell ya'll that Rocky remained stubborn at first. However, after about six Millers and Rayette smoothin' him out with her wiles, which she seemed, to Rocky, to have after six beers, Rocky said he would go for the compromise: a single supper for a new customer.

Long about five o'clock, up along the gravel driveway came the sheriffs car with its big whiplash antenna a swayin' and a swingin'. Lenny, the deputy, was always forgettin' to tie it down. Or so he said. I think he just thought it looked important. Anyway…

Lenny got out and opened the back door for a highly polished and finely dressed couple, the woman of which was wearing a diamond ring about half as big as a cell phone and the man wearing a Rolex that reflected more sunlight than the moon. Lenny walked in front of them up to the stoop. “Got a couple of customers for you boys.”

Amos and Rocky looked at each other. They knew that they were in the right business now. Cliental like this had to be high-toting, money-fied, rich people. They surely must have heard about the A&R,B&D. “Well welcome, welcome,” Amos said, unable to suppress a light belch.

“Yes ma'am and yessir, welcome,” Rocky beamed.

“Well, Lenny it's pretty darn good of you to recommend our little bed and breakfast to these travelin' folks,” Amos said. He leaned into Rocky with his elbow and whispered something. Rocky looked down. “Aw, scuse me, folks.” He quickly zipped his pants

For folks on vacation and looking for a place to spend the night they seemed to have the well-known scowl-look. “Well, boys they don't have much choice. They was passin' through on the old highway when some drunk at the Dutch Bar spun out and ran slap into them. Tore that Lexus a new…excuse me folks…tore the fender up so bad the wheel won't move. Had to have it towed over to Bubba's body shop. Gonna take him a couple of days to get to it. I told the Van Asstons here, this is the only place to stay for the night.”

“Well folks come on in. We got a fine section for you. And you can each have your own cot.”

“Cot?” the lady asked.

“Oh, yes ma'am. We feel like anything that was good enough for those boys in Korea is good enough for the A&R,B&D We're gonna make you feel right at home. Yes ma'am, right at home. By the way, where is home?” Amos really laid it on thick.

“Fifty year-old cots?” the gentleman asked.

“To answer your question we are from Santa Barbara. We thought we'd take a cross country trip to our other home in Florida, when we were attacked by some drunken fool in a red pickup truck. A Ford at that,” Mrs Van Asston said.

“Florida huh? Bet y'all are going to Panama City. Me and Amos got a friend over there. Rides on a big Harley. Y'all oughta look him up. Name's Henry. Just ask anybody in Panama City for Henry. He'll show you the best places to go. Boy, he is a hell raiser!”

The two looked at each other like Rocky had farted at a Paris art show. The lady finally spoke. “No, we were going to Palm Beach.”

“Uh, Rocky why don't we get them inside and we'll get 'em something to eat. They're probably bushed a bit,” Amos said.

When the Van Asstons got inside, Amos sat them down at the picnic table and proceeded to offer them a pre-meal wine and snack assortment.

“Now, y'all just set here and enjoy and I'll get some clean sheets for your cots.”

Rocky popped the cap from another Miller and sat down at the end of the table, having placed a dip and platter of crackers in front of their guests. Mrs. Van Asston looked at the presentation as if she were looking at her first cow patty. “Excuse me. What do you call this? It looks like melted butter with flies in it.”

Amos stopped, sheets draped over his arm and smiled, as if he were fixin' to reveal a gourmet delight. “Why that's Rocky's famous mustard and chocolate-chip dip--and the saltines is what you scoop it up with. We got the saltines at the Dollar Store on account of they was past the date-to-be-used. This is a way of cuttin' costs to our special customers.” He beamed. She didn't.

“I see,” Mr. Van Asston said. “And we are, of course, special customers?”

“You bet! Say, Rocky why don't you twist that cap off the wine and let Mr. Van Asston sniff it.”

Before Mr. Van Asston could protest, Rocky had that cap off and under the nose of Mr. James T. Van Asston, III from Santa Barbara, California. His eyed widened like a flashbulb had been shot a foot away. “Well, no doubt about it,” he bellowed. “That's Thunderbird!”

“Now y'all dig in. I just put some sheets in your room. And I put a can of Lysol on top of 'em. Y'all might wanna freshen up.”

The Van Asstons turned to one another and stared.

Now most of the information I got for this story is first hand from Amos and Rocky. But sometimes the passer of information passes it in a way more or less favorable to himself, depending on circumstances, of course. Nevertheless, you can bet the glances the Van Asstons exchanged weren't about honeysuckle happiness. And their glances an hour later didn't improve much at supper when Rocky laid out his microwaved plates of butterbeans and hot spam. The truth is, spam should be placed in a frying pan and cooked at about 15 minutes on medium high. When you microwave it, it kinda curls up like one of them Dutch shoes, and the edges get black. He did give each a Milky Way for dessert.

Sometime during the middle of the night the Van Asstons, apparently, decided that they needed to get on over to Florida. Lenny told me that he found them down at Bubba's, about 2:00A.M., Mr. Van Asston using a ball pin hammer to knock the fender away from the tire. Since it was his own property Lenny couldn't arrest him for nothing, and had to watch the old Lexus pull off into the night, sort of limping on one side.

Rayette was hotter'n a pistol when she drove up to the B&D the next mornin' “You two lame brains let your first customers get away? Are you crazy? Them kind of people that have cars like that got big money.”

Both Rocky and Amos were a bit red-eyed. They had not only finished every Miller in the cooler, but had polished off the Thunderbird. “Well, maybe this isn't our callin', Rayette. By the way, what happened to your truck?” Rayette's pickup truck, red, Ford, had a crushed front fender and smashed out headlight. At least Bubba would make some money on this little adventure.

“Hit a deer.”

Rocky and Bubba took off a few months later. Last I heard they were a few miles outside Chattanooga. Rayette moved to Red Oak and made the low life her fourth husband. She probably's gonna nag him into retiring to the Chunky River--if she don't shoot him first.

Rocky and Amos had taken the insurance money and set up a road-kill taxidermy business. They figured that people who didn't eat what they ran over might want to have it stuffed and saved for their friends. But they didn't want to stay too close to Toxicburg in case some insurance investigator came around curious about two propane explosions caused by lightning in spots so close to one another.

My personal opinion is maybe if the insurance people had done some investigating as to how Toxicburg got its name in the first place, they might not sell insurance here anyhow. But that's another story.

THE END
____________________________

Author Bio:

Published flash fiction in Muscadine Lines and Dead Mule School of Southerm Literature. Also a non fiction essay to be published in Muscadine Lines Oct 1, 2010 and a flash fiction in Oxford So and So in next issue.

First Novel, Mississippi Cotton to be published early in 2011 by Wido Publishing.

Born in Mississippi. Went to Miss State, then went to work in Louisiana and later Texas. Presently reside in Houston, Texas

Friday, September 17, 2010

Gray Bars

GRAY BARS

The view ain't much; staring at the world

through gray bars. Get used to it, you'll

be here for the next six months.

It took more than two years for those

revenue boys to catch me. I moved

the still every two weeks. My friends

lit fires all around so the smoke wouldn't

give me a way.

I cried long and loud when they smashed

my still. That old still was my best friend.

It produced finest sipping whiskey; none of

that awful white lightning stuff.

Sour mash smooth as glass, with a hint

of jackpine used to stoke the fire. It was

aged more than a week. The good old boys

who bouht the stuff only had good things to say.

It cost half of a bottle of Jim Beam.

This is my third stint in the gray bar hotel.

The food is bad but the company is great.

They don't put tough guys in the county jail.

They treat me like a king. When they get out,

they will buying my stuff.

___________________

Author: Mike Berger

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Ship of Dreams


Ship of Dreams
Author: Fred Miller

She sat slouched in a granny rocker, her hands in her lap, the chair stirring in a gentle sway. Her head turned, her ears alert to what she thought might be footsteps in the hallway. And for a moment a haunting stillness filled the room.

“Why, Alison, what a delight to see you, my dear! And just in time for tea.”

“Bertha, set out another cup for my niece…thank you. That will be all, Bertha.”

“What a splendid surprise. Let me look at you, child. Why, you’ve grown into such a lovely young lady. And I just adore that dress. You know, your auntie wore dresses such as that when she was young. Can you just imagine?”

“Your mother and father, they are well, I trust?… Good. You know, Alison, afternoon tea has been a tradition in our family for generations. Indeed, my mother often entertained at high tea. And a number of socials took place in this grand parlor when I was your age. Ah, I remember the hats—cloches, toques, peek-a-boo brims. And bonnets and boaters in the warmer months. And, oh yes, perfumes wafting from porcelain necks and delicate wrists. Lilac and lavender were my favorites. Unfortunately, there was a price to pay for these events. Mother had a weakness for social news shared, if you will. Had no qualms in vetting the suitability of available young men for my matrimonial review, regardless of how far into the future that might be, and what shortcomings would eliminate most.”

The old woman paused and pursed her lips. “Many memories have been pirated away by time, my dear; some forever. And others reappear at the oddest moments. Oh dear, they do come in clusters, you know. Never evenly spread like the hours on that clock you’re admiring. Want to know more about auntie’s clock?”

“Well, of course. How often does one see a fine timepiece set in the hull of an antique model ship? Many dreams may have vanished, my dear, but none relating to that unique clock.” The old woman smiled, her eyes lost in a world of memories.

“After guests had departed from mother’s teas and the servants had cleared the china from the parlor, I was allowed to play with this ship on the very rug beneath your feet. What? Oh, yes, of course it’s Persian. And the colors and designs were just perfect for my schemes, you see…the soft blues fused with jagged indigo waves that appear out of nowhere and plunge toward unseen threads. Can you see this, dear?”

The textures in her cheeks seemed to melt as she smiled, her eyes swimming with excitement. “I navigated that ship over untold distances, steering toward mysterious islands with mountains rising into billowing mists. Such was the imagination of my youth,” she sighed, “and I took the revelations of those voyages along with me once the time had come for suitors to call.”

“Well,” she touched her lips with a boney finger, and the runners on the rocker came to a rest. A glimmer in her eye suggested forgotten scenes aborning, “Never quite arrived at any of those islands. Searched for ages.”

“Mother continued to extol the virtues of patience and perseverance. I listened. I tried. Oh, how I tried and I knew what life lesson was being taught. My hands and heart propelled that ship of dreams across uncharted latitudes from every compass point imaginable…on courses to unfettered adventure, innocence abandoned,” she giggled. “Well, as time bore down, I found my compass missing as it were, set adrift, I suppose. Deviations found no safe harbor as I’d hoped. Castor and Pollex, elusive to your auntie, my dear, hidden in the fogs of heaven. Your mother, my sister…she understood the game, understood it well…knew just how to play the men.” Her eyes followed a dust bunny of uncertain origin as it frolicked across the floor, first hesitating, then jerking to and fro in a metronomic pattern between light and shadow.

Her eyes brightened. “I coveted that vessel and the mysteries it wrought. And I should imagine it’s not quite proper to admit this, but ’tis the truth. Steered in a mad sense of urgency, it rolled over tempestuous seas in a delirium of expectation.” Her voice began to soften into whispers. “Those gales frequently subsided with sighs…oh, the rapture of those brief encounters…against the rules, you know. Mother would have just died if she’d known. But I recall the tunes I hummed thereafter and the thrills accompanying those voyages through dreamy fogs.” She was silent for a moment, her eyes attempting to gain purchase on an idea. “Allowed those boys explorations I was sure would bring one closer…abiding…my dreams fulfilled.” Lost in thought she gazed across the room, then blinked.

“You know, Alison, a girl’s dreams are her life, her resolve fortified by potentials yet imagined.” She stared down at her small feet, her brow wrinkled. Then with a twinkle, “Alison, have you turned your attentions toward men? Well, of course you have. You needn’t blush for your old auntie…sweet Alison, so like your mother. Well, your auntie wishes to share a few truths about men with you. They’re no mystery, my dear, no mystery at all.

“Hmm, let’s see. How shall I put this…oh, yes! Much like efforts in the kitchen. You’ve seen water boil? Well, of course you have. Then you know you cannot be too eager or it will never boil. Nor can you even pretend a passing interest or it will never reach the desired state. Men are much like that, my dear, yes indeed.”

“And you’ve seen your mother prepare meringues? First comes the heated task of beating egg whites, mixing the ingredients and such…a fervent affair, perspiring at times, but, oh, what results are in store: delicate milky caps. Oh, men just love the touch of the delicate…positively sends them into frenzy. And they do become ravenous. Oh yes, passionate romances can be much like the preparation of meringues, my dear.”

“Let’s see. Well, silly me. How could I forget? And much like cookies. You’ve baked cookies, have you not?…Good. Then you know if you pull them out of the oven prematurely, the consistency expected is quickly lost, and if you allow them to tarry too long…oh, horrors, dangerous if one does not mind the time.” The old woman narrowed her eyes and mumbled to herself, “…can’t afford to get discouraged, just can’t.” Her eyes widened as if some distant object she’d waited ages to see had appeared. Then her eyelids eased shut, her head gently drooped forward, her lips moving, “A mystery, such a mystery, but your mother, she understood…knew just what to do.” The rocker awakened with a quickened pace.

“Why, my dear Alison, your tea has grown cold while Auntie just prattled away. Bertha! More tea for my niece please…thank you. Alison, won’t you try one of these lemon teacakes? They’ve a divine tartness I so treasure. No? Well, a young lady must watch her waist, I suppose. But you, you shouldn’t be concerned…not with your hourglass figure.”

“Well, I wondered what lay beyond those distant horizons. There’s something mystical, about the fear and excitement of the undiscovered, like searching for clues that accompany expectation, promises that color a young girl’s imagination…promises to be kept.” She hesitated, shaking her head, “My plans seemed to have gone adrift, lost in untold mazes…my, my.”

“Hmm, never noticed this before, Alison. The colors of the seasons are in this rug, all of them. Why I’ve never seen this before is beyond me: the autumn foliage here, winter’s barren scape there. How could I have missed this? Ah, a rainbow…or is it a late season flower? You see this, too, my dear? Are you quite sure?”

The door behind her opened, and a woman in starched white stood rigid on the polished tile floor with a hand on the doorknob, the other holding a small tray. “Time for our meds, Miss Emma.”

The old woman, seemingly lifeless, stared blankly at a small vanity just beyond her reach. The fruition of her life lay spread on an embroidered linen: a sepia photograph of a young girl in a confirmation dress, a model ship alist with a broken clock, and a single votive candle reduced to a puddle. And on the wall hung a faded print of a beach scene with two young girls waving at the camera, their hair astir in the breeze.

She sat very still, unaware of the nurse’s voice echoing from the bleached walls of her nine-by-ten world. Her eyes appeared fixed on unknown vistas, her thoughts frozen in solitary isolation. A single tear slipped down her cheek, hesitating on the edge of her chin as the nurse held out a cup of water.

________________________

Fred Miller was born and raised in Mississippi and currently lives in South Carolina. He is a retired Wall Street executive who holds two university degrees. His first short story was published in 2003 and he has been published in Puckerbrush Review, Oxford Town, and ScarlettRosebud. His short story, "Executions," has been accepted for the forthcoming edition of Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal and "The Parade" will appear in an upcoming edition of Cantaraville.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Sprawl

Sprawl


Minnie collapsed on the green imitation leather couch and flipped on the Merle Haggard CD. She was whipped after the night at COUNTRY STEAK SHOPPE. Friday nights were murderous things with the all-you-can-eat chicken fried steak. People, mostly fat, the rest slobs, plus kids in shorts and flip-flops, lined up out the door. Her bunions screamed, but she kept delivering platters of mystery meat slathered with imitation cream gravy until the kitchen closed at nine.

Now she could try to recover as she nursed her bottle of vin rose. Her starched pink uniform, name tag, orthopedic nursey shoes and hairnet were scattered on the floor. She looked at her heavy breasts. Hey, you two, she said, we survived another night. Her belly was huge and she wished this wasn't so, but she too had eaten way too much of the make-believe banana pudding at the STEAK SHOPPE. For way too many months. It was fake stuff, not anything like Mamaw used to make at the farm. But Minnie believed that Merle would still love her if their starcrossed paths ever came together, even if she didn't know for sure if Merle liked his girls plump or skinny, and this heavy doubt made her so nervous she ate more and more pudding.

She was thinking about slimming down when she noticed the dark spot on her inner thigh. It was new. What had she done or run into to cause a bruise? She pulled her heavy white leg up as close as she could without hurting, and what she saw frightened her.

It was no bruise. It was a new strip center, just a few stores she could see so far. There was a five buck haircut joint, a fifty cent store, a used wig shop and a pizza place. The pizza place was so new their sign wasn't even up yet. She took a big sip of vin rose and, god help her, there was another strip center growing on her other thigh. This one was larger and, given the location, much more intimate. There was no zoning that she could see. There was a tanning place, a NAUGHTY-NEGLIGEES-R-US outfit, and a psychic reader that she imagined was a cover for something nasty. She could see people parking their cars in the brand spanking new parking lot and coming to the stores. She even recognized a few of them from church and the COUNTRY STEAK SHOPPE. And one woman she knew from AA. Beyond the strip centers, she could see new subdivisions reaching into and swallowing the fields. There were cars in driveways and kids riding bikes, teenagers selling drugs on corners and thieves carting things out of houses while people were away at work. She saw steeples of churches and admired them, but she also saw, what do you call it, a mosque, kinda like that castle at Disneyworld but not, where the suicide bombers lived. There were car repair stores and drive-thru donut shops. It was exhausting to see it all, and especially on her body, even in crevices where the sun don't shine. Mercy me, she said.

What's happening, she wondered. She wanted to know what was in that imitation cream gravy. It had to be that. Her vin rose had never let her down before. She looked closer to see if there was a new COUNTRY STEAK SHOPPE coming about, but so far there wasn't. Secretly she hoped there would be, one with a nicer manager than Bert, who farted and belched so much she was afraid her tips might suffer. She tried to flex the muscles in her thighs to see more, but she was too tired and fat, and she feared that the muscles had left town for good.

Merle, she said, I've only had one glass of vin rose, what's happening to me? But he crooned on in that crusty voice that always sent shivers up and down her spine. Her thighs always had the "Open" sign out for Merle, but she was afraid the new businesses would keep him away.

She was afraid to look at her inner arms. She feared more, and worse, discoveries. She couldn't look at her thighs again, but she could feel them growing, swelling up, as more stores opened.

Which was why she struggled so in the morning once she awoke and remembered she had volunteered to work Saturday lunch for Sandy, who needed to drive a hundred miles for an abortion. Saturday lunch was all about catfish, all-you-can-eat. She fought like hell to get her stockings on, but they ripped with all the new businesses coming about. Hell, she said, I'll just go without my nylons. She staggered to her battered Buick in the driveway and drove on the feeder all the way to the COUNTRY STEAK SHOPPE, where a line was already forming.

On the way there she surveyed her thighs again, balancing her mug of strong coffee and trying to keep her eyes on the road. That's when she noticed the psychic reader's store again. Now, out in front and for all and God to see, was a placard that read, "Psychic Assistant Required - Inquire Within."

Minnie almost drove off the road. This was a divine sign to her. She decided she would drive to that psychic store and apply for the job. Maybe it wasn't a cover for something nasty. Maybe she was just being prejudiced because of the way she felt about gypsies and their kind. Or, if it was something nasty, maybe she could get used to it. She wasn't getting any younger, and her Merle had never shown up in all the years she had worshipped him.

As she drove past the COUNTRY STEAK SHOPPE, she could see the line of people outside, waiting for the restaurant to open. It was like a shrine being overrun by zealous pilgrims. She saw Bert standing in the door, and she knew he was smelling up the foyer.

She sipped her coffee and didn't stop. She kept driving. She headed to the new parts of town. The New World. She kept one eye on the road and the other on her thigh, which she knew would lead her to her new life just a few miles away.


________________________

Christopher Woods lives in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas.
He is the author of a novel, THE DREAM PATCH, a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. Presently he is working on a novel, HEARTS IN THE DARK, about a crazed radio talk show host and his victims in the American
underbelly. He is also a photographer.

Moonbird Hill Arts-
www.moonbirdhill.exposuremanager.com/

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Midlothian

Midlothian


There's nothing like the sound

of fourteen fourth grade boys

who've yet to discover deodorant,

to coat their armpits in Phoenix Ax,

or dream of fingering

the hot sunflower breasts

of blue-eyed girls in plaid

purple bras, eager to let the straps

show. Midlothian soccer field,

summer place, you: under an abacus

of gilded clouds—still green grass

where boys weave each other

in blue mesh shorts, highways

of red Kool-Aid sighing down

their chins—and I am still

a silent cheerleader—peeling threads

of milkweed from the wet

uneven ground, one who hides shells

of cicadas in cheap insect caskets

of interlocking twig. This is where

a person goes to become the torso

of an instrument: cello deep

mahogany, a guitar=s paved

stomach, and my brother:

his rib cage a marimba, almost

ready for the mallets, and my own

legs: a pair of tubular bells

lasting and lasting in the wind.

____________________________

Sarah Crossland

Sarah Crossland studies creative writing and folklore at the University of Virginia, where she is Editor-in-Chief of the school's DIY/handmade literary-arts magazine, Glass, Garden.


Ribs


Ribs

by R. Eric Johnson

Rodge sat on the four-wheeler with his hands on his hips, looking back over his shoulder.

”You outa the way?” he cried. The force of his breath blew ashes off the end of the Marlboro clenched between his teeth in a snowy spray.

With his left boot, he engaged the reverse and began to back the machine off the makeshift trailer that his friends, Smooth and Bonner, had welded together the weekend before.

The contraption consisted of an old rusty boat trailer, sawed and shortened, with the load bearing members reinforced with tubing, which was salvaged from a discarded metal headboard. Smooth had stumbled over the headboard last winter while hunting and brought it back for just such a project.

The ramps creaked as Rodge eased the machine off the trailer and down the ramps. The duct tape, which secured the bracing to the ramps, began to stretch, and Bonner flashed an uneasy look at Smooth.

“C’mon back!” Smooth yelled confidently, waving one arm in the air and not paying Bonner any attention.

“You got it!” Rodge was half way down the ramp when one of the coat hanger support members on the right ramp began to fail.

Seeing this, Rodge employed his, self described, cat-like reflexes, and stomped hard on the rear break. The front end of the four-wheeler rose slowly off the trailer as the rear wheels locked.

“Stay with it son,” Smooth yelled, as he took a step backward. Bonner began to move toward the impending disaster only to be halted by one of Smooth’s huge arms.

“Better let him ride it out.”

The four-wheeler was perpendicular to the ground now and rotating about the rear wheels.

Rodge had begun to crawl over the handlebars in an attempt to stay on top of the situation.

Bonner and Smooth watched, their faces screwed in sympathetic one-eyed stares. Bonner’s shoulders were up to his ears, and he was now on one foot.

“I can’t watch,” he said, and turned away, hiding his face in his hands.

Rodge had almost made it over the bars when his Bass Masters belt buckle became caught on the break cable. He yelled something that Bonner would later try to look up in the Funk and Wagnels, but not find.

The four-wheeler slapped it’s rider against the ground like a fly swatter, landing squarely on top of him, producing a Rodge shaped impression in the earth. It then continued to roll back upright, still holding the dazed limp man.

With his arms raised to the sky, and his hands open wide, Rodge rolled back up with the machine as if doing the wave at a football game.

Bonner could see that a small bit of concern had crossed Rodge’s face. The flattened bill of his hat and the fact that half his mustache was missing punctuated this look.

The four-wheeler abruptly came to a stop against the side of Bonner’s truck. The impact had thrown Rodge free, and he was now upside down in a large rose bush on the other side of the driveway.

Smooth lowered his arm and Bonner sprinted over to the scene.

“Rodge! You okay?!?”

“Ribs… Ribs,” Rodge said, obviously in pain.

“It’s only 9:00 in the morning. How in the world can you think of food at a time like this? We probably ought to get you to a hospital.”

“Ribs,” Rodge wheezed again.

Smooth walked up behind the kneeling Bonner and was standing with his hands in his pockets.

“You would think that a man could back his four-wheeler off a trailer after all these years,” he said, calmly.

Bonner tried pulling one of Rodge's arms in order to help free him from the bush. “Ribs,” came another cry from Rodge, amid the thorns.

“Let’s get him up so we can get this show on the road,” Smooth said, reaching for one of Rodge’s thorn covered boots. “Get the duct tape outta the front seat of my truck and fix that ramp.”

About an hour later, the four-wheeler, and Rodge, were loaded into the truck, and they were finally on their way to the hunting property.

Rodge sat between Bonner and Smooth, his breathing labored and wheezing. Neither seemed to notice that Rodge’s hands were braced against the dashboard, and there were little indentions in the vinyl where his fingers touched.

“Ribs,” Rodge wheezed.

Smooth turned off the blacktop and onto the bumpy dirt road, hitting a large pothole in the process.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” Rodge screamed, grabbing the two men by the neck in a desperate attempt to manage the pain. “Can’t ….Breathe.”

Rodge had both men in a headlock. His eyes rolled over white.

“Let go, you big baby! I can’t see the road,” Smooth scowled.

The truck was now out of control and swerving across the road. The trailer swung wide and took out most of old man Minyards picket fence. Smooth struggled for control of the vehicle.

“Rodge let go, I can’t feel my legs!” he heard Bonner scream.

“Stay out of the light,” Smooth replied with a horse croak.

“Riiiiiiibs!” Rodge managed to repeat, with higher intensity.

The truck left the road and started down a small hill, bouncing and jerking over stumps and rocks before striking a large pine tree and coming to rest.

Rodge loosened his grip from Bonner, who in turn, inhaled a sweet gulp of much needed oxygen.

“Smooth! Smooth! You alright?” Bonner screamed.

He was leaning over Rodge who had passed out.

Smooth’s body was pressed against the steering wheel and his nose was smashed against the windshield.

“Smooth, speak to me. You okay?”

Smooth turned his head slightly to Bonner, and said, “Ribs...”


_______________________________________

R. Eric Johnson was born in 1969 in Adamsville, Alabama. He is a part time writer and part time metal sculptor. He writes about his family and friends and growing up in central Alabama. Eric has been published in local papers and nationally in a collection of award winning humor shorts entitled “Laugh Your Shorts Off” as well as several e-zines. Eric has also created a comic strip that ran in Creative Loafing magazine entitled Last Gasp. Eric finds humor in everyday situations and believes that humor and unbridled imagination is what keeps us young and content.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

The Farmer's Daughter

It is almost autumn here in Tennessee...always a good time to reflect on football and tailgating. If I had a dollar for every party I've attended with an orange t-shirt on, I'd be one rich woman. Daddy has two entire rooms decked out in vibrant white and orange. There is an autographed picture of some famous player, and every little gadget you ever saw bearing the UT emblem. As a child, I could never ever understand why he escaped into sports. Now I think I understand the man thing a bit more clearly.

I was born back in '55 while Daddy was still in college at Martin after his Air Force duty in the Azores. When he graduated, we all moved out here to the rural neighborhood where my brothers and I got to experience a childhood filled with the surprises and bounty of nature. Mama said she remembers the spring that he stood by the window of the log cabin and watched the rains wash out an chance of a decent crop that year. Mama always worked a day job, and by night she would help him harvest and preserve things from the garden. His degree in ag-science paid off in their beautiful yard, always full of seasonal delights like forsythia, zinnias and mums. Every holiday or season was an occasion to be celebrated in my mother's world, complete with matching china and table decorations. If there weren't so many kids to sit at the children's table there would probably nameplates at each station.

Papa, my granddaddy, turned the farm over to Dad sometime in '56. He died two years later when I was a three-year-old who will always remember the special feeling of being the first grandchild to a warm and generous man that everyone loved to do business with. He ran the service station across McGaughey from the Methodist Church, and had a tab at the burger joint next door. Mom and her friends never had to worry about lunch because their high school was right up the hill from the Silver Castle. The Roberts family had an auto business to the left. This entire scene faced east toward the Baird Brewer hospital where I was born. The USDA office where Daddy worked was in the basement and I spent many an afternoon tracking the progress of the Japanese beetle through southern cotton fields. Each spot of interest was marked with a colored push pin, noting when and where the latest import lurked. If I was smart, I'd figure out a way to set 'em loose on a kudzu pile and watch the fun begin.

Our upbringing was totally grounded in the dream of American agriculture and all of the ideals involved with homeland security and a survivalist attitude. One of the most vivid impressions of my Daddy that is burned on my brain is the sight of him coming in the house all decked out in winter gear to a special Christmas breakfast with our family. He drove a tractor during the summer, hauling hay and kids in the trailer that trailer that fed the cattle during a hard freeze. It might just be my imagination, but I think a big piece of his soul died when they were sold at auction last year. I still miss the sound of moos on an evening when there's nothing but bobwhites and doves competing for attention. Heard some gunshots today so it must be the season for bird and gravy.

More and more often, I pause to say thanks to whoever is in charge of our universe for the opportunity to be a redneck country girl. A sunset ride in the back of a pickup counts as entertainment these days...'specially when it involves a trip to the Forked Deer wetlands that frame our homeplace. Wood ducks. Skunks and squirrels and groundhogs dug up in the kudzu covered hill below the dairy barn. Money can't buy that stuff 'ya know? It is unique and special and something that I will carry to the grave with me. My parents are elderly and homebound now for the most part. Oh, there is an occasional outing to the beauty shop or church...a doctor's appointment here and there. We have had discussions about the "options" like assisted living to ensure their safety and sanity, but they aren't ready for that step. I wouldn't be either, truth be told. I moved back out to the farm when my daughter was four years old so that she could experience some of the same childhood memories that I cherish. And she certainly did! To a child, a farm is a wonderland of living things and it's not hard to find something fun to do no matter what the season.

She has moved on now, into her own house with the father of my someday grandchildren. When I first visited their place in the country I was amazed at the resemblance to the old farmhouse where she grew up and I still live. The view is panoramic, filled with hay, barns, cows and a horse. There is a shaded front porch with a swing that looks like a perfect place to relax and ponder. I look forward to spending time out there with her, talking about the old days and remembering when.

Because home? Is where the heart is.

Monday, September 6, 2010

The Aucilla River, Disappearing Water

The Aucilla River, Disappearing Water

In early 2005 while browsing fishing information on the internet, a story in the Gainesville Sun by Tim Tucker about the Aucilla River piqued my interest. The story stirred memories of days gone by and stimulated forgotten intrigue that had once caused me to long to explore the mysterious Aucilla River of the Big Bend area of North Florida. I decided to follow up on the desire that began in my early twenties before I was married. Somehow things like a wife and a career had deferred my dreams of exploring the Aucilla River, but now I had developed a new commitment. On a recent August Saturday afternoon we finished the Townsend family reunion in Lake Park, Georgia with some time to spare. I needed to wind up in Orlando that night which was southeast. Although I am now in my sixties, the boy in me made it seem logical to begin a trip to the southeast heading due west on my mission from the river god. I started out in a rental car to trace the Aucilla from the Florida State line to the Gulf of Mexico on my way to Orlando. This was the first step in my long deferred exploration that will include some fishing on each section of the river in Florida, and hopefully lead to me winning a fishing tournament along the way with some lunkers from this remote river.

Memories flooded my mind as I retraced the steps of my younger days. My Uncle Grady Townsend and I would leave Valdosta pulling boat trailer with a Volkswagen bug carrying a 12-foot plywood riverboat with a small Mercury outboard motor on the way to the Wacissa River where we would spend days catching stumpknockers, bass and freshwater mullet. First to Shan’s for some pond worms then west over to Quitman, Georgia and then south down to Ashville, Florida where we would turn west again and soon cross the Aucilla River. At the crossing point, Grady would invariably say, this where the Aucilla heads up. He then go on to tell me that it ran on top of the earth for a while then would go down into the acquifer only to rise again later. The river rises and submerges several times before the Wacissa River flows into it just a few miles before the then much larger Aucilla River runs into the Gulf of Mexico. Uncle Grady was right about all that except this was not where the Aucilla headed up. Having now studied topo maps and satellite photos, I know the river forms over just west of Boston, Georgia and up north a little towards Barwick, Georgia in Thomas County. Here where Uncle Grady and I used to cross the river, it is a wide, lake looking river on this Saturday afternoon as the river is near flood level due to recent daily thunderstorms.

A quick study of my map showed the next bridge crossing to be west of Greenville, Florida so I headed that way. Standing on the US 90 bridge west of Greenville, Florida, I noted that the river was running in several small channels weaving a spider web through the swamp here rather than one large defined channel. A dirt road south right at the west end of the bridge was marked enticingly, Blue Lake Road, but I didn’t want to risk some costly damage to my rental car so I looped back to the west and continued south.

The next bridge on the river is Interstate 10, which I did not visit on this trip since it is illegal to stop and explore on that road. I was in for a surprise because only about 2 miles down from Interstate 10 I came into a small community at the railroad crossing named of all things, Aucilla. I saw there the other end of the Blue Lake Road as well, which came into the town from towards the river. Believe it or not, in Aucilla there is a bear crossing warning sign on the Blue Lake Rd. and a sign cautioning that read “No Digging Bait on the Right of Way”. Again in deference to the rental car I did not go toward the river on that road but believe there must be access on the river from that road or the railroad bed.

Now I moved on down about 8 miles downriver to the bridge at US 19 & 27 just east of the town of the town of Lamont. The Aucilla seems to really have taken on the characteristics of a river now rather than the channels through a swampy bottomland that it had been at previous crossings.

Uncle Grady never took me to the Aucilla but many trips to the paralleling Wacissa River caused him to tell me stories relating the two rivers. The Wacissa rises in massive springs near Wauhkeena to flow for fourteen miles without a bridge crossing or public access until you get to Goose Pasture that is an access from the east gained by travel on a dirt road from Cabbage Grove community. The road to Goose Pasture crosses the Aucilla in a section where it is underground and marked only by a tree line through a wide prairie. I had been to Goose Pasture by boat many times as I fished the Wacissa with Uncle Grady. He always would say you get to this place by coming in from Cabbage Grove which is down the road from Lamont. Now for the first time I was in Lamont and the words of my beloved pipe smoking, fish catching uncle reverberated in my memory. Deceased since 1990, no one loved this area of Florida more than Uncle Grady and I never loved an uncle more than I loved him, so it was just a special day for me, filled with special moments of memories of the old river man who is now “Gone Fishin” as it says on his tombstone.

I went into the General Store (real name) at Lamont and approached the man behind a meat counter who said he knew little about the river but the old timer checking out at the register knew everything. I approached the old timer as he paid for his two smoked link sausages and a few other items asking him to tell me a little about the river. “I can do that,” he said with a toothless smile, “cause I was born on it and lived on it, and it has fed me all my life.” I will soon be sixty years old so you know that by me calling him old timer that he had to be eighty or so. He proceeded to tell me that there were two landings on the east side of the river north on the dirt road just east of Lamont. There is good access up that road he said and plenty of good fishing. I asked about down river and he said he never went down there but knew something about it. The section below Lamont where the Aucilla submerges and come back up only to go down again is called the Middle Aucilla. This section is where Junior Dice, who was referenced in the story by Tim Tucker published in the Gainesville Sun, has caught trophy largemouth bass. My older new acquaintance went on to say that there are rapids in there near what they call Rock Pile. Again the memories flooded back as I recall Rock Pile on the Wacissa where Grady and I would scoot the boat through a chute in a small set of shoals. I thought there must be a rocky fall line crossing through the Big Bend there that both rivers have flowed over since God created the earth. Later I found out this was the remains of a 19th century railroad crossing. This area has remained pretty much unchanged I would think since the waters receded form the flood and Noah landed on Mount Ararat. The old timer went on to tell of Cabbage Grove and Goose Pasture and Nuthall Rise. I will share more of these places later as I interviewed two more locals who mentioned them as well.

I went on down the west side of the river swamp. I came to a sign at a dirt road towards the river which said Middle Aucilla. An exciting part about the river here and on down is that the land is in a WMA and is for public use. I am sure that there is access down that road. I wished several times I had my 4WD F150 but I was in a rental car so I kept going. About eight miles from Lamont, SR 257 crosses a well-defined Aucilla River then the highway turns to dirt and becomes SR14. I guess I will see Junior Dice one day, maybe fish with him, and I will find out as much as anyone alive knows about this wild place.

Going on south on SR14, I saw a deer leap across the road as I came to the big open prairies that are on both sides of the Aucilla which is mostly submerged down through here except for Half Mile Rise where it comes up and stays up for about a half mile. I came to Cabbage Grove and took the road to Goose Pasture. There is network of roads between Cabbage Grove and US 98 and they are all dirt but high and well maintained by the graders. I came to a bad spot in the Goose Pasture Road and was meeting a truck towing a boat coming out so I stopped and got out. A man and his young son had been fishing in the Wacissa and were headed home. He stopped to talk and I found out that the only bad place in the road was where I was but I had best not try it for fear of hanging the bottom of the car in the mud. I didn’t need that advice but thanked him for it. They had caught a mess of bream mostly. I asked him about the area and he showed me the tree line where Aucilla crossed the prairie running submerged and then pointed way down the prairie to Half Mile Rise. He showed me where a public access is where the Aucilla goes down just above the Goose Pasture Road. He called that access Cattle Gap and although I found the WMA sign pointing out the access I never saw or heard another reference to Cattle Gap. I traveled on out behind him back to Cabbage Grove, then went on down to US 98 where there is JR’s Aucilla Store. I found a short paved street on the east side of the river with a few houses on it and at the end a fine boat landing. This is about 100 yards down from where the river comes up at Nuthall Rise.

Now my day got even more fascinating when I went into JR’s Aucilla Store. It was apparent that JR’s is the local hunting and fishing HQ. There is large hunting club operating out of there called Three Rivers Club. The three rivers are the Aucilla, the Ecofina, and the Finholloway. Back in 1982 I had a great adventure on the Finholloway but that will be the subject of different article. Reflecting on it now, I don’t know why they didn’t call it the four rivers Club and include the Wacissa. I will have to ask JR about that. The proprietor sort of eyed me as a green horn Yankee type from Atlanta driving a sports car but when we talked a little he warmed up. When he realized that I was part of a river fisherman and knew a thing or two about rivers he got real friendly. I got a map of the Three Rivers Club, which has a lot of good detail on it. I found out a lot about the section of the river from Nuthall Rise to the salt water, which is about 5 miles. Between the US 98 bridge and salt water, the Aucilla splits into two runs. The west run is the most interesting because JR said down it what he called the Slave Canal comes in bringing the Wacissa. The Wacissa turns into a vast area of flooded swamp land with a myriad of runs as it leaves Goose Pasture and is generally not navigable between Goose Pasture and the confluence with the Aucilla except for the Slave Canal which is not very long. I don’t think I have told you but as black as the Aucilla water am its entire length then the Wacissa is just as clear. So at the Slave Canal the clear spring water of the Wacissa meets the dark, tannic black water of the Aucilla. J.R. informed me that the island between the east and the west runs of the Aucilla, which come together about a mile down from the US 98 bridge, is 700 acres of land.

I went on down to the last boat landing on the river where the water is turning brackish and the tide moves it. This is where the salt-water fishermen put in and take out. Now as the sun sank low and I prepared to leave for the trip on to Orlando, I saw a boat coming up the river. It was a local who had been out to the flats hunting reds but had smelled the skunk that day. He had great things to say about the river, whetting my appetite by describing big largemouth up the Slave Canal. Had his line broken up there a few times he said. That reminds me that JR said the flurry of hurricanes coming through Florida had created so many blown down trees up the Slave Canal that no one traveled up in there for any distance.

I made one last stop to see JR again and thank him for his hospitality before heading for Orlando. I got his phone number and he sent me on my way with a strong welcome to come back and visit the area anytime. The scenery of that part of Jefferson County Florida is spectacular and the people are hospitable.

© by Blackwater Bill


_________________________

Bill Prince

A minister teaching financial seminars based on biblical principles for the last ten years, Bill Prince retired from business after 38 years experience in the business world. A speaker, author, and counselor, Bill’s exploits as a leader in the business world have been featured in the Wall Street Journal, Newsweek Magazine and he has appeared on Fox News with Neal Cavuto on the program Behind the Boardroom. Since co-founding Biblical Principles Inc in 2001, bill has conducted over 300 seminars in 25 states speaking to over 100,000 people and has counseled approximately 3000 people in private sessions at churches throughout America.