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From down at the landing, a long, deep, multi-voiced grumble rolled up the street and burst onto the square. At first, I thought it was some disgruntled gamblers looking to collect from Uncle Rich. As it grew louder, I realized that rather than disgruntlement, the voice indicated a boisterous, almost drunken, satisfaction . Well, not almost. The sheriff looked down Main Street, and horror streaked his face. It was the crew of the Golden Cloud, drunker than they'd ever been. Somebody had slipped some shine into town and the Golden Cloud had made good use of it. Suddenly, it all became clear. The great mule debate had been a set-up. With Oscar on the rampage, a load of white lightning had been brought in and sold to the crew. And now, they were tanked up and ready to fight. Well, the rest is history. By the time the sheriff's deputies got the tugboat crew rounded up, the town was a disaster . And with the sheriff laid up, moonshine soon flowed freely once more. Chess, Oscar, Henry, and Rich had all disappeared during the fracas with the tug crew. They never could prove for certain just who was involved in the caper. Truth to tell, Oscar never could smell trouble, though he was jim-dandy at recognizing the law. Back up in Buncombe Hollow, he served as watchdog for three different stills. Let him see a star, and he was a mule possessed. To him, argued Chess, trying to collect his winnings from Rich later, "The law is trouble. "But," pointed out Rich, as he counted out Chess' share of the sale to the Golden Cloud, "He didn't smell it, he had to see it. Always read the fine print, Chess." And Oscar, well he went right on keeping moonshiners safe from the law. At least until the day of his marriage. Only mule marriage in county history. Biggest social event in a two-state area. But, that's another story. Take Me Down That Row One More Time, Green-Eyed Boy I always have plenty of green for you, Cousin, the green silk corn shucks of our childhood piling us in Uncle's harvest wagon up to the moon or your mama's green peas and fried green tomatoes tasting like hues of shade beneath the fence-line tree on the cotton picker's sack when the noon bell rang. And on days when work was done, we sat on the fat pond moss of our playhouse rug or ran through the tall meadow grass, hiding, rolling, planning in the earth and itching, powerful with chiggers, to be grown, silly things, and the summer blades cut our faces, without pain. In those days, sweet Cuz, even blood ran green. -Bonnie Roberts 26 ...

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