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Pastimes : Where the GIT's are going -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Alan Smithee who wrote (190404)	1/23/2010 4:10:42 PM
From: Mac Con Ulaidh	1 Recommendation Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 225578

shhh. anyways - I thought of your bil when I talked of my Uncle James... the little things in story and keepsake that might matter to your daughters, it seems they were involved and loved him. as to discriptive - it is simple porch talk. my Granny was the storyteller. I'd sit on the porch with her and she'd tell me stories. And I'd ask for some over and over or more detail or tell me more about so and so. A great unspoken was James. She never spoke of him and I never asked. The story was in that jar of marbles on the porch and the drawer I opened to find his pipes and razor etc. It is one thing if your child dies young and you save such things, but he was 44 and it had been 24 years... but she never parted with the things dearest to him. even his push mower still stood in the barn. she was as harsh an old dirt farmer woman as could be, but maybe you didn't know till you found that jar... you being moi. and a lil southern tale of lil southern people? :) perhaps, Alan of the motorcycle. perhaps. I had a friend in SF, as wild a dyke as you could meet... she drowned when I was 31, but that aside... I used to tell her tales that Granny told me, and Granny liked to tell tales of her Granny - Annie Johnson. And Autumn (the wild friend), especially when she was sad, would ask me... tell me another story of Annie. I guess you just never know.

To: Alan Smithee who wrote (190404)	1/23/2010 4:16:35 PM
From: Mac Con Ulaidh	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 225578

btw - I 'might' with a really really good editor. :) I ramble. I talk in code and southerneze. I sometimes go over 2 syllables but my spelling fails. i do not mind my grammar however... it is pure porch talk. k, a lil cleaning up. here and there. I am thinking a lil something to do with his biking... your BIL and your daughters. like the marbles I hold so dear. oh, and I have his mower, still. and Papa's swing blades. and a couple of... those double sided saws for taking down trees with a guy on each side. but I like the swing blades best. he hewed the handles himself, and worked the blades.

To: Alan Smithee who wrote (190404)	1/23/2010 4:39:20 PM
From: Mac Con Ulaidh	Respond to of 225578

whoops... pm to follow

To: Alan Smithee who wrote (190404)	1/23/2010 4:45:55 PM
From: Mac Con Ulaidh	2 Recommendations Respond to of 225578

An Annie story that my granny told me... see, I ain't nothing but a transcriber - not to mention it could use a big editing. Annie's Porch He wiped the blade, handing it to me. “Why don’t I teach you to hone that thing?” I sheathed the knife. “What excuse would I have for visiting?” Phil passed me a beer, “What reason do you need but to share a beer and listen to an old man?” I popped the can, winking, “Mountain Man, you know women round here ain’t supposed to be drunks.” He looked across the cove to the thick woods. “Don't know why you want to go out there. Ain’t no ‘live souls no more.” I shrugged. He shook his head. “I swear, I think you prefer ghosts to real people. And you don’t talk to no one under sixty, ‘cept them boys who come round to ride your tractor.” “I have to hear a lecture every time I stop by?” “If you want your knife sharpened, you do. Now get gone. And mind them rattlers.” ---------- The October sun still held the heat of summer. Arms torn by briars, I cussed myself a fool for wearing short-sleeves. The cabin wasn’t far from Phil’s, but the paths were overgrown from disuse. Connecting trails that criss-crossed the mountain were near lost. I knew I was close but wasn’t sure I’d know the right way at the crossroads. If I found it, after fifteen years. I’d stopped my trips to the old place. Instead of the pleasure of homecoming I’d felt when young, I felt loss, knowing I was a trespasser on Annie’s land. I’d heard the new city-bred owner was quick with both temper and shotgun, so I stayed on guard. When I saw the ancient oak that marked the crossing, I swear I caught the scent of the sweetest well-water ever tasted. I imagined Annie Johnson, her image turned sepia… long dark hair and strong arms to match her will… pushing a plow through the field, two young’uns racing behind, on this mountain that was named for her, my great-great granny. Lashing at the last briar gate with my freshly-honed blade, I turned west on the path… and headed home to Annie’s porch.