Open Writing

That spring my fiddle-playing Uncle Murrel came to stay with us for a few months. He was mature for fifteen and a bad influence on my brothers. One night when they came home early from a school function, as Mama had told them to, I overheard the three of them making an inordinate amount of noise—dropping their shoes on the floor and bouncing on the bed. Although it was freezing outside, they raised the bedroom window for "fresh air."

I was suspicious of these unusual theatrics and pressed my ear to the wall so I could listen intently. What were they up to?

Finally, I overheard Murrel's hushed voice, "I'm out, hand me my shoes." Within seconds, all three of them escaped through that window and were running down the hillside scattering rocks in their wake.

"Mama," I yelled at the top of my voice, "the boys are sneakin' out!"

She already knew. Before they had a chance to cross the cattle guard at the bottom of the hill, Mama swung the front door open wide and hollered, "Get your asses back here and into bed."

They crept back up the hill, sheepish, with heads down. I felt smug and righteous at helping to foil their getaway. They must have heard me yelling to Mama, because for weeks to come, they sought revenge. They taunted me and even bent my baton.

Although I never asked anyone to spend the night with me I was delighted when Wanda Gurley, a friend whom I admired, asked me to spend the night at her house. Her dad, Denver Gurley, was the most handsome man I had ever seen, except for my own daddy, and her mother, Odessa, was the sweetest lady one could ever meet.

The night I stayed with her, Denver drove home after tipping a few too many at Cordelia's bar. Upon stepping from his truck, he noticed Odessa's hens were roosting in the pine trees instead of in the chicken house. The sight of them perched on the pine tree branches at the back of the house must have enraged him, because he grabbed his pistol from under the seat and with a drunk, loud whoop and a holler, began target practice.
"I'll teach you chickens to roost in the hen house," he yelled. "I'll shoot your damned tail feathers off."

When his rampage was over and the feathers settled, five of Odessa's chickens lay dead on the ground. Poor Odessa, already tired from waiting up for Denver spent the rest of the night picking feathers from the murdered chickens. It is the only time I can ever remember having fresh fried chicken for breakfast. My friend Wanda seemed to take it all in stride, but Sherril, her brother was embarrassed. I had a terrible crush on Sherril and his discomfort only made me like him more. Unfortunately my love for Sherril went unrequited. My attempts to gain his attention were exercises in futility. I blamed this on shyness, considered it a challenge, and continued my campaign to make him like me, to no avail.