[SLS con’t]

I never had the privilege of living on Southern soil, but growing up with Daddy and Grandma Pearl, and eating her cooking gave me a good idea of the Eden that we’d lost.

She was the worst cook ever, or maybe I just didn’t like lardy slimy greens cooked gray. I don’t remember her ever making sweet tea, but she did chew tobacco (smoking wasn’t ladylike) and kept some kind of white liquor in a glass jug under the kitchen sink.

When I was about eight, she took me to meet Jesus. Seems he could be found on Sundays and Wednesday nights at the Chicken Coop Church of God in Christ, a church occupying a former chicken coop and full of Okies and Arkies, people from Oklahoma and Arkansas and some from Mississippi (but they didn’t have a cute name).  On hot days (which was every day from June to September) you could sure tell what it used to be.  That Sunday, Grandma took me up to the front with some other kids and told me to give my heart to Jesus, and choir sang ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’  About a month later we all went out to the river on the edge of the desert and got dunked by Reverend Sayers.  I wanted to stay in the water.

Wasn’t that a great Southern Legitimacy Statement!? See why we love asking for them?
And NOW for the story:

Fire Fight

Owen and I hunkered down. Our little fire of scrap lumber leaped bright and hot. Fat Howie Gunn, king-bully of the sixth grade and our arch enemy, crouched thirty feet away in the darkness over his own fire. Neither of us had made a move in five minutes. It was time.

We’d been playing fire fight ever since sundown in the maze of foundation trenches dug for the building of the new school. As always, it was a fight to the death, or until we got called in for supper. OK! I was gonna give it to him. I pulled a flaming brand out of the fire, peeked up over the edge of our trench, and flung it high toward the glow on the other side of the building site.

“Ow!” yelled Howie, and then let out an elephant belch, his trademark, just to let us know he wasn’t scared.

“Ya got him, Annie,” whispered Owen who’s only in third grade, easy to impress.

Yeah, I throw pretty good for a girl.

Then, out of the hot August night, “Owen! Owen! Time for supper.”

Owen brightened, “Ma! Ribs and cornbread tonight. My favorite.”

“Just a minute, Owen. You watch now, Howie’s gonna attack ’cause he knows you’re leaving and I’ll be alone, besides his ma’s gonna start bellowing too.”

THUD. A flaming, foot-long two by four hit the lip of the trench, bounced and landed between us in a shower of sparks and embers.

“Ow! Owen! Help!” I batted at my long, tangled hair. “I’m on fire! HELP!”

Owen knew what to do–he knocked me over, kicked the embers away and started clawing at the trench wall, bringing down a rain of dirt.

“Stop, Owen! I’m OK. Ack!” I sputtered and spit crumbles of mud.

We were rolling around in the bottom of the trench when another large belch announced Fat Howie’s presence. He loomed over us, hands on hips, grinning. “Ha, ha, ha! Gotcha, you helpless twits.”

Then, his mom hollered, “Howie! Howie Gunn, dinner!”

He glanced toward his house as if wondering whether to answer or just run, upon which Owen picked up the very piece of flaming wood that he’d heaved at us and pitched it right back at him. Got him right between the shoulder blades.

I’m pretty sure Howie got home in plenty of time for dinner.