Blue Mud tells the story of a small, Southern, rural American town and the often-strange behavior of the inhabitants of Clayton, Kentucky through the eyes of one of its younger citizens, Woodrow.
Excerpt
YOU SHOOT FOR A WHILE,
I’M TIRED
“It’s hell getting old, but it sure beats the alternative.”
All I know is what I’m told.
Of course it does depend on who’s telling the story. To hear Dad or Grandma tell it, it’s just one of those things; to hear Grandpa’s version, it escalates to the almost unbelievable. The truth is somewhere in between.
All I know for sure is Dad, Grandma and Grandpa go squirrel hunting. After that, details get a little sketchy.
They’ve been hunting for hours with nothing to show for it when Dad and Grandma see a squirrel on a limb. The size of the squirrel is such that they ordinarily would not fire at a squirrel this small. Dad and Grandma are in different parts of the woods; basically, he’s in front of the squirrel, and she’s behind it, her with a 20-gauge shotgun and him with a 22 rifle. By some fluke, they both fire at the same time. Now the squirrel is small to begin with, but after getting hit with a 22 and a 20 gauge there’s not a lot left. I think Grandpa’s only comment at the time is a very nonchalant, “I think he’s dead.”
Over the next few weeks, Grandpa’s much more colorful version takes on a life of its own, and the more he tells it, the smaller the squirrel gets and the more they fire, until finally reaching the point, “You shoot for a while, I’m tired.”
Dad, Grandpa and “Sleek” Grosbeek decide it’s time to put a TV antenna on Dad’s roof. Sleek’s real name is Oscar. He’s called Sleek because he is prematurely bald. Not just a patch of hair missing on the top. He takes his baldness seriously. There’s not a hair on his head. And this is long before shaving your head is fashionable.
In July, it’s hot on a roof and a person gets winded easily, which leads my grandpa to say, “I’m not as young and good looking as I used to be. This ain’t as easy as it once was.” Sleek’s response? “I ain’t as young as I used to be.”
“You ain’t too damn good looking, either.”
Guess you have to be there. Dad gets so tickled at them, he almost falls off the roof.
Grandpa cusses a lot, but not in a mean way and he’s not offensive, so you don’t notice it, and he thinks practical jokes are the best things since sliced bread. At the time, the person on whom the practical joke is played might not think it is funny, but eventually they will, and, if not, screw ‘em.
He never “robbed” the bank or does anything that is blamed on somebody else; Grandpa looks very austere and official, essentially no one you ever suspect. Using that to his advantage, he is able to play more practical jokes on people without getting caught than anybody I’ve ever seen. He’s funny all of his own, but he feels he’s in his element when readying a practical joke. And he doesn’t mind waiting hours or days for a joke to come to fruition.
Mr. Greenwell has a trotline down at the river. A trotline has a hook about every foot and four or five hooks on it and you can bait it and throw one end in the water when you leave. In other words, fish doesn’t originate at Long John Silver’s. And from that point, you just check the trotline once or twice a day to see if you’ve caught anything. On one particular day, Mr. Greenwell decides not to set his trotline, instead tying the loose end to a tree on the other side of the inlet so the line is stretched tightly and none of the hooks are in the water. About a half an hour after he leaves, Grandpa wanders by.
He is on his way home from fishing when he sees Mr. Greenwell’s trotline out of the water. The practical joker in him takes over, as this is too good an opportunity. He takes five fish off his stringer and puts them on Mr. Greenwell’s trotline. Then he hurries on home to later hear Mr. Greenwell’s tale of how the fish “jump out of the water” to get to his trotline.
The best way to keep kids busy? Send them to Lew Carnahan at the Mercantile, or Clark Manchester at the Auction House, Bill Gunderson at the Drugstore or Leroy Purvis at the Garage. Sometimes it’s for a board stretcher, sometimes for striped paint, sometimes for a left-handed monkey wrench, and when one doesn’t have it, he’ll send you to someone else; hours of fun, my ass. Everybody falls for that once.
Grandpa always seems so serious, but inside he’s just a big old play-baby. But when Grandma and Grandpa talk in private to Mom and Dad, he’s serious for real.
My grandpa’s driving would fill a book, but for his retirement he gets a new Thunderbird. As he says, “What I know about mechanics and cars, you could put in a thimble with room left over.” Up until then his cars always have clutches; the Thunderbird does not. So instead of having three foot pedals, the gas, brake and clutch, the car just has two, the gas and the (power) brake. Before, Grandpa mashes down on the gas and revs the engine when he starts a car. Then he slowly lets out on the clutch until the car moves. He sure is loud. Grandma looks up at the sky for the airplane, poking fun at him. Grandpa really does ride the clutch a lot.
Since the Thunderbird only has two pedals, he decides to use the brake the way he uses the clutch. A car without a clutch; what will they think of next? The difference between automatic and standard transmissions is lost on him. He puts the car in “Drive” after starting it, and eases out on the brake. All I can say is it’s a good thing no one is in front of him and nobody is coming. When the transmission engages, that car flies out of the driveway, across the road and into the neighbor’s yard. All you can see is a head snapped back and two arms up in the air. A car in the yard is, I’m sure, not how the neighbors intend to start their day. “Somebody’s at the front door” or “Mr. Beckman would like to see you” doesn’t quite cover it. Luckily, the only thing hurt that day is Grandpa’s pride.
I go with Grandpa to the “big city” when he goes to the store. He’s a lot of things but intimidated isn’t one of them if he thinks he’s right. At the checkout he is overcharged and proceeds to tell the attendant. The security guard comes over and tells him,
“You’re getting a little loud.”
“You haven’t heard loud.”
The problem is corrected.
Grandpa’s not overly religious, “I can watch a game between Notre Dame and Brigham Young and I don’t care who the winner is.” He can’t see very well and it really cuts down on his drawing and painting, which he loves to do. He’s reduced to doing paint-by-numbers. Or as he says, “It’s hell getting old, but it sure beats the alternative.”
Read more about BLUE MUD: THE STORY OF A TOWN and James Deaton HERE.
Copyright 2008 James Deaton. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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