A Carolina Morning

Brian's tongue was swollen and hanging out of his mouth but he was still trying to bad mouth Eric, who was scratching for all he was worth. "I'mba gonna kwill ya, Ewic, whenba I ketda chance," he muttered. "Dontcha twurn yer back on me, I'll tro yer butt outa da back of da twuck. " "You boys had better shut up," said Fred, "as soon as I can see again, I'm gonna bust your heads." Dad drove us all back home. He made Fred sit in the back of the truck, for a couple of reasons. He wanted Fred to watch Brian and Eric. He knew that either one would sure enough try to heave the other over the tailgate going down Buck Creek. The other reason was because Fred's pants were still wet where Fred had wet on himself. Dad told Fred and his boys to kind of keep hunkered down, so no one would see him. With Fred's black and swollen eyes, and a large wet spot in his camouflage pants; Eric and Brian covered in welts with Brian's tongue hanging out; none of us wanted anyone to know we were kin. A Carolina Morning Brushing against the homestead, the heart-shaped leaves of a linden; scratched into its trunk, a history of childhood knees. In the distance, an unreachable figure flaunting his fishing tackle through mountain mist. Somewhere above, a downy woodpecker with shoe-mender's beak, tapping our lives together surer than time. —John Grey 55 ...