This is the original piece from a previous post and the latter is the revised work narrowed to 600 words for the Lulu contest. Great practice for me. I hope to complete the Writers Month novel in November-see archive, A Cave in China. I think that is 50, 000 words. Want to bet I have to trim it, too! I don't know Mitt Romney didn't do too well with that bet thing, did he? It is pretty bad when Rick Perry makes you look bad.
Playing under the trees, moonshine brewing in the hills, the love, the laughter, the sadness, and the choices-it was all there in a place in Kentucky called Speck Ridge.
Speck Ridge Smoke
The school bell rang and recess began but even before the boys and girls spilled out of the schoolhouse door the smoke would rise from the hollows close to Speck School. The cool, fresh water springing from SpeckCave was winding, heating, blending through copper, coil, and daub in an alchemy of alcohol.
As the games of squirrels in trees and ghosts in graveyards would begin with the boys, the girls would start building their houses under the big trees. The boys would whoop and holler tearing through the play houses riding their imaginary horses through the girls’ tidy rooms. The girls would shoo them out with their tree branch brooms as they’d seen their mothers do when a muddy boot dared thump on a clean floor. Some boys would see the smoke rising from the valley below and note the location as one to go wide around by unwritten law, if out hunting within the woods. Others would notice, too, and view it not as a wispy snaking cloud but as something a clan with them. A Daddy, a Brother, an Uncle’s life was signaled in those hill country smoke stacks.
The boy would separate from the rest with shouts , come on, come back, but he would venture into the woods anyway. He knew each path from here to there whether in afternoon’s dappled light or midnight’s clear black. What drew him so? Would draw him all his life? Kin, tradition, friend, foe, taste, smell, or something in him, which was waiting to make him surrender?
He’d come to his tree and lean awhile and take out his pocket knife and cut off a branch. He’d smile as he saw the heart he’d cut, SAB loves SAP. He laughed, he’d had to reach as high as he could to carve that heart, now it was barely chin high. He loved her still and always would, forever forged together as a brother to her he’d be.
His thoughts turned to the younger sister who would soon be sweeping out the dirt floor of her schoolyard house around the trees. She’d probably play the Momma with a baby on her hip. No way could he know how many in their life would be really cradled there and sadly how many times he would cause a worried brow. But, he’d always be loved right till the end. Couldn’t help but love him with that grin. As he studied in thought with a whittled sweet gum brush in his mouth of the work there would be for him to do when he got home, maybe to tote a runoff load. He’d have to do it to be a man but the boy in him would grab a hot baked sweet potato out of the stove and kiss his Momma before he’d go.
Before that though, he’d return to the well-worn playground even though he was too far away to hear the school bell ring. It wasn’t a fear of a switching that hurried him back. No, there were stories to tell, double dares to give, jokes to make, and marbles to hit. Yank a few pigtails, pull a few pranks, and to be patted on the back by many as the school bell rang. They’d all go back in after a drink with the dipper from the pail. He’d be among the last and give a glance back before he entered the shadow of the door.
Sometimes early in life we choose a path urged this way or that, good and bad; most times a mixture of both. That trail twists and turns like those steamy columns of air and he followed his as sure as Speck Ridge smoke.
Speck Ridge Smoke
(Limit 600 Words) 1930’s, playing under the trees, moonshine brewing in the hills, the love, the laughter, the sadness, and the choices-it was all there in a place in Kentucky called Speck Ridge.
Speck Ridge Smoke
The school bell rang and recess began but before the children spilled out of the schoolhouse’s door the smoke would rise from the hollows close to Speck School. The cool, fresh water springing from Speck Cave was winding, heating, blending through copper, coil, and daub in an alchemy of alcohol.
As the boys’ games of squirrels in trees and ghosts in graveyards would begin, the girls would start “building their houses” under the giant grove of maple and oak trees. The boys would whoop and holler on their imaginary horses tearing through the girls’ tidy playhouses. The girls, mimicking their mothers, would shoo them out with their tree branch brooms. Some boys would see the smoke rising from the valley below and they would swing wide round that dangerous mark by unwritten law. Later, they’d be hunting for the table not for trouble. Others viewed those wispy snaking clouds as something akin with them. Their folk’s means of getting by was signaled in those hill country smokestacks.
The boy would separate from the rest. Even when thy called his name, no schoolyard urging could make him stay. He knew these woods. Each path, whether in afternoon’s dappled light or midnight’s clear black. What was there would draw him all his life. Whether it was belonging, rite, taste, smell or something instinctive buried within him, sadly it was just waiting to make him surrender.
He’d come to his tree, lean awhile and take out his pocketknife and cut off a branch. He would smile as he saw the heart he’d cut in its bark. His thoughts turned to the one who was sweeping out the packed earth floor of her schoolyard house. She’d be playing Momma, one of the younger ones from the one room schoolhouse, to play the baby on her hip. No way could he or she know how many would be really cradled there and sadly the times he would cause her tears and a worried brow. Even with all the fret he would cause he’d be loved by all, right till the end. Couldn’t help but love him, that dark black hair and that grin. He, while working a sweet gum brush in his mouth, studied with a practiced eye the volume and length of the smoke. He figured the hours and labor of the crew. Work for him to do for sure when he got home, to tote runoff loads.
No bell, switchin’ or teacher hurried him back. It was his youth, though swiftly evaporating with each batch of sour mash steam, which still called to him to hasten back. There were stories to tell, double dares to give, jokes to make, and marbles to hit as he sought the safety of his quickly vanishing childhood. A drink from the pail of cool unfermented water carried from Speck Cave’s spring. He’d be among the last to go in and he’d give a backward glance to the beguiling vapors that continued their rise then he’d enter the shadowed temporary shelter of the weather-beaten schoolhouse door.
Life makes people choose a path urged this way or that. Games and dreams, love and grins can be swallowed by the monsters that dwell within and the weight of needs that tug, heavy as loaded whiskey jugs. Life’s trail twists and turns like those steamy columns of air and he followed his as sure as Speck Ridge smoke.
Copyright © 2011 Donna Brock
All rights reserved.
