great aunt ruby's house
The following morning I was awakened at 6:30 by a drop of water hitting my face, which was odd considering we were inside a tent. As it turns out, the moisture from our breaths and from our sweat condensates on the inside walls of the tent. By mornings, the tent was always soaked.
I started to go outside, then noticed the screen. DOZENS of mosquitoes were evenly spaced, awaiting their next meal. It was actually kind of creepy, the way they just sat there an inch or two away from each other, occasionally twitching a wing or adjusting a leg.
“We know you have to come outside sometime… we’ll wait,” they seemed to say. We became very quick and efficient at opening and closing the zipper.
A few days later we arrived in Woodson, with a population of just under 300, and rode to my Great Aunt Ruby’s house. I know this is a gross generalization, but sometimes people who grow up in small towns aren’t exposed to as much diversity as people in larger towns. In this instance, it resulted in Scott and Jerry learning some new phrases, casually tossed out in normal conversation, such as “nigger in the woodpile.” They were pretty flabbergasted that people still used that word. After all, this was 1982. However, they were even more taken aback when Scott asked, “Where DO the blacks hang out around here?” The answer was, “Right under that tree.”
Scott had no idea that sawed-off shotguns were an actual thing. He thought they were just movie props until he saw one.
Shirley, one of Aunt Ruby’s friends, told the story of the man down the road who shot his brother “right between the eyes.” She looked around to see if anyone else might be lurking in the corners, then added, barely above a whisper, “He didn’t know it was his brother.”
Our education continued. Having been raised in the city, none of us had ever gathered eggs. Jerry was scared off by an irate hen who didn’t want to relinquish her eggs, but a few minutes later he decided he wasn’t going to let a fowl boss him around. Tentatively reaching toward the bird as if it had a sawed-off shotgun tucked under its wing, he grabbed the eggs and took a few running steps backwards. He then looked the chicken in the eyes and said “HA!,” a clear note of triumph in his voice for besting the 5-lb flightless fowl.
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