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Gobble, Gobble
- University of South Carolina Press
- Chapter
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137 Gobble, Gobble 2011 Lauren Chapman Jones There’sacabinbackinthewoodsonmyfamily’sland—backthereon thepartthatbordersthesixtyacresthatmyfathersoldtoareal-estate developer. Thereal-estatedeveloperwasg oingtobuildah ugesubdivision.He gotstartedontheotherendovernearthehighway—asfarawayfromthe bordertoourlandashec ouldget—andhebuiltandsoldab outtwenty houses.Upscalesorts.Andhestartedfeelingsogoodaboutwhathewas doingandcountingthemoneyhewasgoingtomakethathewentonand clearedtherestofthelandandputinthepowerandwaterandtheroads fortherestofthesubdivision.Justgobbleduptreesandhillsandeverything thatstoodbetweenthosehousesandourland. Andthenboom—thehousingcrisishit,andnobodywantedtobuya house.Hewentdamnnearb rokeforabouttwoyears,stillstruttingand talkingallthewhileabouthow,whenthemarketcameback,hewasgoing todothisandg oingtodothat.Well,themar ketdidn’tcomebackand thenhewentsurenufbrokeandthebankg ottheland,accordingtomy daddy.Soitjustsitstherenowlikesomekindofforgottendream—roads, powergrids,andsurveystakesovergrownwithhighgrassandnosignof people.It’satleastabufferbetweenthehouseshedidbuildandourland orwhatremainsofourland. Gobble,Gobble 138 Andtheturkeysloveit.It’sperfect—closetoourwoodssotheycan roostandnestandyetopenenoughforfeedingandmating.Andnopeople .Theturkeysstrutaroundlikelandowners.Andinmywayofseeing theworld,theydoownit’causethe yweretherebeforethatst upid-ass real-estatemangobbleditup.TheywerethereevenbeforeMama’speople hadtheland. Well,that’sanotherstory.AsIwassa ying,there’sthiscab inonthe land.It’sbuiltoflogsandaccordingtofamilystories,mymother’sgreatgrandfather builtitasahuntinglodge.Backinthosedays,therewereno subdivisions,nor eal-estatemen,onlyfarmsandt owns,andthew oods wereeverywhere—everybody’sbackyard.Theywerefullofgame,andthe menwouldgooutandh untino rdertosupplementthef oodtheygot fromthecowsandpigsandvegetablesandthechickenstheyraised. Yougointhereandyoucanstillsee the old fireplacemadeoutofstone. MotherusedtosaythattheydraggedthoserocksupfromSledgeCreek andusedthecreekwaterandsandtomakethemortar.Howsheknewall thatIdon’tknow.FactisIdon’tknowifit’strueornot.AndIdon’tmuch care.Itmakesanicestory.Iliketolookatthatoldhouseandthinkabout allmyancestorscomingtheretohunt.Thelandisinmyblood,andIhate thatmydaddysoldoutsomeofittothesubdivisionman. Thehouseisinremarkableshapeforsomethingsoold.Ithinkthelogs aresomethinglikecypress,soaccordingtomydaddy,they’renotgoingto rot.Andtheroofbeamsarehuge—theyappeartobeoakorsomething. Andtheroofitselfisshingledincedarshakesaccordingtomyfather.But hereandthereyoucanseewherepeoplehaverepairedit—addedchinking tothewalls,replacedshinglesthatblewoffinastorm.It’slikeevery body whocamehe reparticipatedink eepingthehouseup ,andno wthey’re goneandallwecandoisseewherethey’vebeen. Mybrothersliketoremindmethatitwasm ymaleancestorsthatcame theretohuntandthatthewomenstayedhomeanddidthecooking. “Andsowhathappenedtoyou?”they’llsay—halfkiddingandhalfnot kidding.“YourelatedtoAnnieOakleysomekindaway?” Itell’em,“Just’causeIcanou tshootyoudon’tmeanI’ mrelatedto AnnieOakley.Justabout...