Grudges in the Garden

By the time little Davey Young commenced to courting Margaret Ann Elliot, the families had been feuding so long that no one could remember how it had started.

“Ain't my business,” my grandmother told Uncle Shad over iced tea and pimento sandwiches,

“But after 30 or 40 years, if'n I couldn't recollect the cause of a quarrel, I b'lieve I'd let her go.”

“Ayuh,” Shad nodded, “But you ain't the Youngs or the Elliots. They ain't what you'd call forgivin' folks.”

“Reckon that's so,” Uncle Willie agreed, accepting a sprig of mint for his tea, “They's both hard families. They tend their grudges like some folks tend a garden.”

“Damn foolishness,” Nana pronounced, always preferring to have the last word, and the two men nodded solemnly while she refilled their glasses. The two young people under discussion were disappearing over the rise of The Old Road. At the sound of an approaching engine, they picked up their pace, snatched each other's hands and gracefully jumped the guardrail, vanishing into the fog but it was only Cap's old pickup truck and it passed harmlessly by. It took several seconds before I realized that we'd all been holding our breath.

Not that it made any difference, but the village was far and away on the side of love. Very few were willing to actively risk the wrath of the warring families but islanders tended to turn a blind eye. No one reported when they were seen together, no one followed their movements, no one turned them in at the Saturday night dance. The general feeling was that the sins of the fathers - whatever they might have been - should not be visited upon Davey and Margaret Ann decades later. The elder Youngs and Elliots saw things differently. It was, as anyone could see,

a storm in the making and it broke on a fine Sunday morning just as the Baptist Church let out and Davey and Margaret approached the pastor. They were, as they told him, using the then popular phrase, “free, white and 21” and they wanted to be married. The reaction of their families was predictable - rage, horror, shame and shotguns - and James quickly led them back into the church and sanctuary.

“Not while I draw breath!” Margaret Ann's daddy, Nathan, shouted and took a swing at Davey's daddy, Gilbert, with the butt end of his gun.

“Hell will freeze first!” Gilbert shouted back and rammed his own gun into Nathan's belly. In a matter of seconds, both men were on the ground in a tangle of arms, legs and shotguns, flailing wildly at each other and raising a cloud of dust and gravel into the summer air. The crowd watched with that morbid kind of fascination people have for car wrecks until the families finally stepped in and separated them. Both men broke free and rushed the front doors of the church with God only knew what intentions but the pastor intervened.

“THIS IS GOD'S HOUSE!” he roared at them, “YOU'LL NOT DEFILE IT WITH ANGER OR GUNS!”

This unexpected show of temper was so unlike the pastor, a generally patient, soft spoken, and forgiving man of grace and mild manner, that everyone was caught off guard. Nathan and Gilbert froze in their tracks and it gave James the time to collect himself and his thoughts.

“God's house,” he repeated firmly but calmly, “I'll have no more violence outside or inside it.”

“This ain't your business, Mr. Minister,” Gilbert said sullenly, “Stay outta of it.”

“Send the children out,” Nathan advised darkly, “Or God's house or not, we'll jist take 'em.”

But the island had had enough. Uncle Willlie and Uncle Shad stepped forward. Sparrow hobbled up beside them. Cap and all four of his sons, both the Ryans, and a half dozen of the Sullivan brothers stepped neatly between the pastor and the men with the guns. They were joined by several of the womenfolk including Miz Clara, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi. My grandmother sighed, took my hand in her's and moved up beside them. Aunt Jenny and Ruthie came along as well,

then the McIntyres, the Tituses, the Albrights. Miz Hilda and Doc McDonald stepped up arm in arm, then Gene with Buttons at his side, and Johnny with his crowd of brothers and sisters. The rest of the congregation stood squarely and umistakably behind them. The Youngs and the Elliots were outnumbered and outflanked and they knew it. Nathan and Gilbert lowered their guns reluctantly.

James allowed himself a small smile. “Good,” he said approvingly, “Now maybe we can work all this out.” The crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Happy endings though come in all sizes and colors and they're not always what we hope for or expect. After a time, the Youngs and the Elliots did reach a kind of detente and learn how to more or less peacefully coexist, proving that people can change. But without a common enemy,

Davey and Elizabeth Ann changed as well. Without the allure of a forbidden romance, they drifted apart and over time became fast friends but never anything more. They'd taken the long way around, Nana said, but in the end, they got where they were meant to be.

Death of a Mailman

The tragic death of an innocent mail carrier has stunned my small city.

This middle aged father and grandfather was gunned down in broad daylight, not but four houses and a fence away from my own house, in a neighborhood I drive past and occasionally through several times a week. His alleged killer is behind bars, charged with 2^nd degree murder.

The community is shocked and appalled, the mayor ordered flags on federal buildings to half mast, and every politician has offered the appropriate thoughts and prayers to the devastated family.

The first rumor, that he had maced a dog on his route and the killing was the owner's revenge was quickly dismissed. The second, that he had tried to intervene in a case of domestic abuse has more staying power but the truth is that the investigation is ongoing and at this point, no one really knows for sure what happened. A black mailman is dead and a wild-eyed, tattooed, meth-addled white man with bad teeth is in jail. The news reports that the shooter's girlfriend is arrested the following day on drug charges.

It's impossible to make sense of a world where you can be shot delivering the mail.

Hattie & The Road Crew

The crew that came to pave the road was prepared to be resented and distrusted. They were ready for the fog that so often would make their work impossible. They were warned they would not be welcomed. But they were not ready for Old Hat and her shotgun.

“I'd have a care,” Sparrow advised the crew foreman, “She's a dead shot. Why, she kin shoot a flea off'n a damn frog at a hunnert yards and she's meaner 'n a cross-eyed snake.”

The foreman shrugged. He'd been building roads for 3o years, he told Sparrow, and he knew a thing or two about doing it.

“They ain't made anybody can stop a dozer or a hot tar spreader,” he said with a careless grin,

“Sure as hell, not one damn fool old woman with a scattergun.”

“I 'spect you know your business,” Sparrow persisted, “Ain't sayin' you don't. But she don't like strangers and she don't like change.”

“Come hell or high water, this here road's gon' be paved by next week,” the foreman said calmly,

“The province says so and that's that.”

“Ayuh,” Sparrow said and winked at us, “Reckon it's your funeral.”

Hattie's first shot bounced harmlessly off the dozer's shovel. Her second whined past the driver's ear. Her third knocked his hard hat off and sent him scurrying for the floorboards. There was no fourth, Sparrow reported to my grandmother.

“That boy give up right and proper once she aimed that shotgun the last time,” he laughed, “He rammed that thing into park and come outta it like a longtailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs. Ain't been seen since.”

It couldn't stand, of course, progress was slated for the village and progress it would be. The province was not about to be bullied or put off my one little old lady with a mean temper and a couple of days later the Mounties arrived. Hattie was duly arrested and carted off to the mainland - it was said she fought like a mule and wailed like a banshee - and while she was gone, the road crew returned and quickly finished the paving job. Hattie came home in a fine rage, swearing death and destruction to the province and revenge on anyone who'd helped them but there was no one to go after and she soon wore herself out with threats and temper that no one listened to. By August, she retreated to the shelter of her shack and shotgun and there she stayed. The road had won, albeit on a technicality most folks agreed, since not one inch had ever made it onto Hattie's land. Years later, folks still talked about hearing her old shotgun break the silence of moonlit summer nights as she took potshots at the pavement and cackled with every pull of the trigger. The road may have won, but Old Hat considered it a draw and that was close enough.

Night in the Graveyard

“Dare ya!” one of the Sullivan brothers shouted defiantly.

“Double dare ya!” one of the other brothers added with an unmistakable sneer and a malicious laugh.

And with all the confidence and pride that two stubborn little seven year old girls can muster,

Ruthie and I accepted. We knew if we were caught, we'd likely be grounded for the remainder of the summer – who knew, maybe for several summers to come – but a dare was a dare. We were blessedly sure none of the grownups would understand.

And so it was that by eight o'clock when the light in the lighthouse on Peter's Island came on, we were tucked snugly into one of the upstairs feather beds with the covers up to our chins. We listened to the night birds and the incoming tide and the steady hum of the hydo electric poles for the next three hours, finally creeping out of bed and down the stairs barefoot and hardly daring to breathe. When we got to the kitchen and crossed the linoleum floor directly in front of the sleeping dogs, we moved like molasses, one careful, silent inch at a time. Then we were outside, running like wild animals up the gravel driveway, through the strawberry patch and finally to and across the road to Uncle Willie's pasture. There was a sliver of moon to guide us but otherwise we were stealth itself. The entire village seemed to be asleep, it was eerily still and quiet and when we spoke it was in whispers.

“Car!” Ruthie hissed at me as we passed Curt's shuttered up store and made the turn onto Overcove Road. Like shadows, we dove for the ditch but it was only Hubie and his battered old Volkswagon, making his way home after a night of drinking. He choked and sputtered past us without a glance but we could hear every word of the song he was singing, “Hey, Good Lookin'” by Hank Willliams. The words were clear and sharp on the night air.

“Hubie always could hold his liquor some good,” I whispered to Ruthie once the coast was clear.

“Ayuh,” she whispered back, “But he cain't sing for dogshit!”

We reckoned it was close to midnight when we got to the cemetary but there was no sign of any of the Sullivans. Hearts pounding, we inched open the cemetary gates just enough to squeeze through and cautiously, lightly, carefully walked in among the shadowy gravestones. We could hear each other's fear in our panicky breathing and I think we were both regretting leaving the feather bed for such a foolish and dangerous dare. Could you die of fright, I wondered and thought Ruthie might be wondering the very same thing. An owl hooted and we nearly jumped out of our skins. When something unseen rustled along the tree line and we froze in absolute horrow and desperation.

“Let's go!” I whispered, pulling at her sleeve, “I don't care what they say 'bout us!”

“Don't be such a baby!” she snapped at me, “You'll care in the mornin'!”

I was so scared I wasn't sure there was going to be a morning, but I kept it to myself. Then something slithered by my feet and I let out a small shriek of pure terror. Ruthie caught me square in the jaw with a right hook, hard enough to knock me down, bring me to my frail senses, and pull myself together against the mounting hysteria. She half-pulled, half-dragged me

to the least occupied corner of the graveyard, shoved me roughly down so that my back was to the fence (and to the dark woods, I shuddered at the thought of what fearful, bloody-eyed creature might be hiding in those trees) and setttled down Indian style beside me.

“All we hafta do,” she said with a remarkable calm, “is sit here 'til the sun commences to come up. Then we'll go home the way we come and be in time for breakfast.”

“How we gon' prove to the Sullivans that we was here all night?” I wanted to know.

“We ain't got to prove nothin',” she said grimly, “They'll know allright. They's watchin' and they'll know.”

“But...........” I began and she punched me not so lightly in the ribs.

“Jist sit and shut up,” she told me and moved a little closer, “We gon' be fine and we ain't gonna get caught neither.”

I wasn't convinced but I did sit and shut up. For the next several hours, we sat and shut up, slowly smoking our way through an entire stolen pack of my mother's Parliaments and waiting for sun up. At times it was so deadly quiet that we imagined we could hear the owl smoothing his feathers. At other times, the woods seemed alive with things that crept and crawled and hid and sounded like footsteps.

“Mice,” Ruthie would whisper confidently, “Maybe a fox or a badger. Maybe even a deer.”

I hoped so but I hated how brave she was.

Dawn finally came and the sky began to lighten. There had been no sign of the Sullivans and nothing had come slinking out of the woods to ambush us or do us harm. We had spent a whole night in the graveyard and were just the same as when we went in, then made our way back home the same way we had come and slipped back into the feather bed unnoticed. If it hadn't been for us both coming down with incredibly virulent cases of poison ivy, we might've gotten away with it. Instead, we had nearly a week of vinegar baths, antihistamine shots, and being lathered in calamine lotion daily. In the end, we were so miserable that we confessed, hoping it would somehow ease our suffering. It didn't but Nana didn't have the heart to hand out any additional punishment.

We never did tell the why of it and it earned us the grudging respect of the Sullivans. We were young enough and foolish enough to think it was worth it and at the time, it was.