the story’s here… but first, the rest of Mr. Laird’s Southern Legitimacy Statement:

And God said, "Take these words and treat them gently.  Prepare them and mix them as you would a savory gumbo.  Give them fire and give them sweetness.  Give them character and give them color.  Use these words to tell stories and write them down.
 
"And in the fullness of time, I will honor your storytelling by moving the literary capital south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Hollywood producers will come and marvel at your words.  I will give you air-conditioning, and everyone, if would seem, will want to move to the land of the storytellers.
 
"You will elect presidents, and southern accents and words shall prevail in the halls of Congress.  And, yea, even grits will be honored in the lexicons of the finest chefs.  Catfish and hushpuppies?  Maybe."
 
And the people did.  And God did.  And God called it, "Good."  And all the people, even the Yankees, said, "Amen."
 
Thus it came to pass that all persons who told, wrote and read good stories became Southerners, and knew in their hearts that they were, whether they were blessed to live there or not.
 

and now the story by  Ed Laird 

Smokey and Dixie sat on opposite sides of Mam-Maw’s front porch and made good-natured faces at each other.  Smokey sucked in his cheeks and puffed out his lips to imitate a guppy. The light-hearted imitation was not wasted on Dixie, who turned away, ending the game. 

A setting sun turned South Avenue into a wildfire of reds, yellows and oranges.  Smokey raised his thin hands in front of his eyes to watch the sunlight illuminate his veins.  Dixie caught the sun rays in a webbed bag of marbles and twisted the collection to create a kaleidoscope against the white clapboard house. 

The quiet of the street was interrupted by three cars and a truck bed loaded with children, all yelling and laughing, riding gleefully toward an unknown attraction. Smokey and Dixie stood and watched as several adults and children passed on foot, all going in the same direction as the automobiles and all excitedly talking and motioning to each other, kicking up red dust from the road. 

“What’s happening?”  Dixie yelled.  “Where y’all going?”  She couldn’t be heard above the din. 

A straggler, four yards behind, was more informative:  “The Goat Man’s on the highway!”    

Dixie jumped up and down, clapping her hands.  “Mama, Mama, Goat Man is on the highway!  Can me and Smokey go see him?”  Without waiting for a reply through the screened door, she took Smokey by the hand and they started for the road.  “Smokey, you have to keep up if you want to the see the Goat Man.” 

“What’s … a goat … man?”  he asked between heavy breaths as he navigated the road’s ruts and tried to match Dixie’s running pace. 

“Just you wait and see.  I’ve been waiting for him for three years.” 

After a right on Goshen Road and three long blocks to the top of Goshen Hill, they stood transfixed at the twilight scene below them.  In the parking lot of the Fruit Stand stood a converted railroad car with steel wheels, now a wagon with a canopy of goat skins stretched to cover all except the driver’s bench.  Surrounding the wagon were five, ten, no, more, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen goats foraging on the grassy slope that stretched upward from the wagon toward the kudzu growth.  Near the front of the wagon, sitting on a three-legged stool, was a balding, bearded man clothed in goat skins. His rounded face and powerful arms looked the color and texture of brown leather; his gnarled hands stirred a bubbling pot over a fire of dry tree branches.  Three baby goats cavorted in mock battle in and around the campfire. 

Most of the town had turned out for the event.  Cars lined both sides of the highway for a mile in both directions, and the police with red lights flashing fought a losing action to keep the traffic flowing when motorists stopped to gawk.  A hundred or so persons stood in a semi-circle around the encampment and watched as the center of attraction carried out routine chores: carrying milk to an ailing goat lying on straw in back of the wagon, mending harnesses, and placing handwritten placards of plywood against the wagon side. 

Holding his hand, Dixie took Smokey across the highway where he sat down on the grass as close to the Goat Man as he dared.   

“Dixie,” he said, “what do the signs say?” 

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord; make his paths straight. Repent for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.  Store up your treasures in heaven.” 

“Is he a preacher man?”     

“I think so.”  

“What’s happened to you since the last time we saw you?” an onlooker asked. 

“Well, I nearly froze to death coming over Signal Mountain.  Started snowing, so I just piled more goats in the wagon and we kept each other warm.  Next night someone put a gash in my head and killed three of the goats.  Cut their throats.  I spent one night in the Chattanooga hospital, but I’m alright now. The Lord provides.”

“Do you ever get lonely?” 

“Do I look like I need company?”  He swept his hand around at the hundred folks listening attentively to every word. 

“Do you ever wish you could move faster?  Maybe get a truck?” 

“No, goat speed is fine.  I don’t have a definite place to go and don’t have a definite time or day to get there.  Speed is not important.  God gives me water when it rains, and heat when the sun shines.  I don’t have to pay for gasoline.  Have an oil lamp when I need to read after dark.  I’m just passing through. Don’t need much.” 

He spread out picture post cards of himself and the goats which he sold for a nickel apiece.  Each time a customer dropped a nickel or dime in his hand, he graciously responded, “My goats thank you.  They work hard and they like to live high.”  He posed for those wanting a picture of themselves with him and the goats. 

“Are you ever hungry?” 

“Hungry?  With these many goats to give me milk?  Never.”  To amuse the crowd, he stopped a passing nanny, gripped her teat, and sprayed milk into his mouth.  The children all laughed, so he pressed the teat in the opposite direction and sprayed them with warm milk. They giggled and pulled back in pretended horror. “And I have more friends along my route than I can count.  They keep me well-supplied with vegetables. Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word of God, fresh vegetables and a little goat’s milk.”  He smiled. 

“Do you think you will ever settle down and get a job?” 

“What need do I have for a home and a job?  These goats are my job, and this wagon is all the home I need.  The lilies along side the road here don’t work, yet King Solomon at his finest never looked as good as these day lilies.  They greet God every morning, bask in his love all day and enter into their final rest each night.   Doesn’t God, who loves day lilies that only live one day, love us even more?” 

“Are you saving anything for your retirement?” 

“I don’t plan to retire.  I plan to be here one day and in heaven the next.  Absent from the body; present with the Lord.”  He pointed to the sign.  “Don’t lay up treasures for yourself on this earth.  Put your treasures in heaven.  Lots of folks think that heaven is the dream and that this is the reality.  Right the opposite.  This is the dream and heaven is the reality.  Reality lasts a lot longer than the dream.” 

The crowd fell silent as he bowed his head briefly, scooped up a cup of broth from the pot and drank it from a tin coffee cup. 

“Too many folks,” he said, “live as if they are going to be on this earth forever.  This life is just a snap of the fingers.”  He snapped his fingers for effect. 

“ Did you ever go to school?” 

“No.  Even as a young boy I had to work.  My family was poor.  I went to New York when I was fourteen and married a knife-thrower.  I was her target in her act for the three years we was married.  After three years she found a better looking target. Never argue with a woman with a knife.”  He winked.  The crowd laughed.  “Better for man to live alone if he can.  A married man has to consider his wife’s needs.  I only have to consider God’s needs.” 

“You sound like an educated man.” 

“Well, God taught me to read the Bible.  But that’s the only book I can read. So all I know is what God has taught me and what I have learned from watching folks like you.  The best educations come from God and life. Most folks don’t know how to use the educations they’ve got.  I ride along these highways and God teaches me a lot of things.  Shows me a lot of things.” 

It was dark now and the crowd was starting to thin.  Smokey and Dixie sat on the ground and did not move or miss a word.  The campfire and the boiling soup added warmth and aroma to the evening.  The adult goats, the white ones eating the kudzu near the top of the hill, looked like floating ghosts. 

“Are you a prophet?” 

“Not the kind of prophet you’re probably thinking about.” 

“What kind of prophet are you?” 

“I don’t predict the future. I let folks see what God has already showed them, but they can’t see.” 

“What’s your real name?” 

“I had a ‘real name’ once.  One that my parents gave me.  But when I became a new man, God gave me a new name.” 

“What’s your new name?” 

“That I can’t tell.  Goat Man’s good enough.” 

“Do you eat the goats?” 

“Would you eat your friends?  These goats are my friends.  They all have names.  That’s Isaiah. That’s Jeremiah over there.  This here is Mary Magdalene.” 

“Them’s religious names.” 

“Yes, and these are religious goats.  Every one of them are saved and sanctified.  Stephen even speaks in tongues when he gets mad at me.” Goat Man smiled.  “The goat skins over my wagon and the ones I wear don’t mean that I eat the goats.  When they enter their heavenly rest, I skin them and bury the remains along side the road.   I keep their skins to remember them by. Like some of you who keep locks of your loved ones’ hair.  I know where each is buried and I visit their graves.”  

By now fewer than a dozen persons were still standing or sitting on the ground.  Absorbed in his own thoughts, the Goat Man looked at the stars.  Returning his gaze to his small congregation, he looked at Smokey, whose eyes had never left the Goat Man’s. 

“What’s your name, young man?” 

“Smokey.” 

“Smokey.  That’s a good name.  For you look through a glass darkly now, but someday you will see clearly.”  He stirred the embers on the fire and added more wood. “Smokey, come here and let’s see what The Great Spirit is showing you.” 

Without hesitation, Smokey surprised himself by getting up and crossing the five feet to sit in the Goat Man’s lap.  Though gnarled, the Goat Man’s hands were smooth as lanolin.  His odor reminded Smokey of freshly bathed kittens.  The Goat Man turned Smokey to face the fire.  Dixie, a protector if needed, stood by Smokey’s side.   

After dipping his fingertips into a cup of goat milk, the Goat Man covered Smokey’s face with his large hands and with the middle finger of each hand pressed against Smokey’s closed eyes.  “What do you see, Smokey?” 

“I see stars and flashing lights.” 

“Look deeper.  What do you see now?” 

“I see the man with the sweet breath who hurt me!” 

“Yes, and what is he doing?” 

“He’s underwater in the river.  His hands are inside a hole…a cave under a big rock.  Why is he under the water?” 

“He’s a noodler.  He’s trying to catch fish with his bare hands.  What do you see now?” 

“The big rock fell on his hands.  He can’t move!  He can’t come up from under the water!” 

“Yes, and…” 

“He’s wiggling, and wiggling, and wiggling, but he can’t get loose!  Will he drown?  Will anyone see him?  Will anyone save him?” 

“That’s his Maker’s decision.  ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord.  Jesus said it would be better for a man to have a millstone tied around his neck and dropped into the sea than to harm a child.” 

“I see big bubbles coming from the man’s mouth!” 

“Yes, and now he’s quiet and still, ain’t he?  Quiet and still. Don’t worry, Smokey.  He’s no longer in his body.  He’s in another place.  You won’t ever see him again, and he can’t hurt you. Ever again.” 

The Goat Man took his hands from around Smokey’s face, and they both stared into the fire. They looked at the stars. 

Whispering into Smokey’s ear, the Goat Man said, “You’ve been hurt, Smokey, but God has marked you.  Do you know about the mark?” Smokey reached and touched a scar that separated his right eyebrow when he fell against a chair while playing hide-and-seek in Mam-Maw’s house. 

“Yes, the mark,” the Goat Man said.  “The mark is to remind you of God’s promise.  The mark will disappear someday but not until you are an old man and have been healed of the hurt.  You will have to become an old man before you can become a young man.  Do you understand me?” 

“No, sir.” 

“No, you’re too young, but someday you will.  Every bad thing that happens to you that you don’t understand leads to something good, either in the dream or in the reality to come. Joy comes from pain.  Laughter comes from tears.  Triumph comes from defeat.  You can bank on it.  You have a great adventure ahead of you, Smokey.  You and me will meet again someday, somewhere.  Here’s something to remember me by.” 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace of small shells and dropped it over Smokey’s head.  “They’re pookas.  A Cherokee Indian, a holy man, gave them to me.  Never take them off.  Not even when you bathe.  They’ll protect you from further harm.” 

Smokey saw his mother and father step out of the car that pulled alongside the encampment.  Smokey and Dixie ran for the car. “Mama, Mama, I talked to the Goat Man!”  Smokey rolled down the window and stuck his head out the window as the encampment receded.  The Goat Man, illuminated by the campfire, was still standing, smiling and looking at Smokey. 

“Daddy, I’m hungry.  Let’s go get hamburglars.” 

“We have to go straight home, Smokey” his mother said.  “We have to take Grandma back to her old home.  Her Cousin Willy has died.” 

“What happened?” 

“He drown.” 

Smokey shivered, sat very still, and said nothing.  Dixie grasp his hand and held it all the way home.