DON

“Daddy horsewhipped a man out there in the road one time.” The cane bottomed chair creaked as he leaned back against the wall and took casual aim. A small crack! Way up in the hickory tree a nut exploded. Don never missed.

“Don’t remember why- I was just a young ‘un, then.” He said it as he said all things, softly.

Aint Vammer- her real name was Velma- dipped snuff. She told terrifying stories- all the more frightening because they were about the valley we lived in. She sat on her hilltop porch and pointed to a spot on the valley floor. “See that big old scaly bark hickory down by the creek?” All the kids nodded and said,”Yessum”. They looked at each other with anticipation. They knew it’d be a good’un. Aint Vammer kept baby goats in her house.

Don looked just like Johnny Cash. Indian blood flowed strong in his veins. His hair was black as midnight, slicked up in a duck’s ass. His eyes were pale, cold. Steel colored. Killer blue. All the women felt Don’s power.

The major, and practically the only amusement on Lime Kiln Road was walking ceaselessly up and down the road. You could visit your relatives up the road, or you could visit your relatives down the road. Don, however, rode his horse to visit. There’s nothing better to cause a hill girl’s heart to race the sight of a handsome man on a Tennessee Walker stallion. The boys did everything they could to copy his walk, his talk. Going down to Mill Creek, they’d soak their heads, then comb their hair, just like Don. 

Alby and Ray stole Aint Vammer’s old swaybacked plowhorses and rode bareback beside Don, shining in the reflected glory of him.

Don had been to Chicargo. That’s where the restless young men of this valley go to get rich. It’s a straight shot up Highway forty-five. No way to get lost.Don spent some time in the penitentiary at Joliet. Some poor dumb Yankee let go a slur about Don’s mother. “Whad’you call my mama?” The Yankee learned the quick and hard way about mountain manners. Don was a well brought up boy.

After a spell, the State of Illinois turned Don loose. He hung around just long enough to rescue his beautiful new wife from the stripper bar. Then, he came home as fast as his old Pontiac could carry him. The momentum of his flight gave out on top of a rocky hill above Lime Kiln Road. He built a nice tight little shack up there. 

Don knew, same as everybody else in the valley, the Maxwell land always produced the finest crop of rocks in Colbert County. Hell, his Daddy had gone broke and died trying to make that place pay. Don didn’t want to die, so he took the only honorable route to financial security. He built himself a still. He made good whiskey. His still was all copper- no car radiators or possums drowning in the mash. Don’s liquor was raw and crystal clear- but it wouldn’t kill you- outright.

“I never give nobody the jakeleg with my cat.” Cat is whiskey and jakeleg is lead poisoning. If you drank enough bad cat, one day you’d wake up all… seized up. Then, you’d have to get yourself a walking stick. Then everyone would understand you had bad taste in cat. 

Don had a good trade. The old rusty-dusty cars squalled up his lane in the evening, raising clouds of red dust in their wake. They’d park downhill, so asto get a good running go at starting the engine.

The men from the rock crusher were white all over, like ghosts, covered in gypsum dust. The crew from the sawmill would appear, reeking sweetly of yellow pine sap. Twelve hours a day, two dollars an hour. Just enough to raise a wild mob of unwashed urchins. Just enough to buy a quart fruit jar of clear white painkiller.

The men squatted in a loose circle, smoking, as the gentle gossip of the evening was passed with the jar. These were the people you’d see Saturdays in Tuscumbia, waliking the streets, looking up with wonder at the tall three story buildings. An entire family crowded around the outside window of the concession stand at the movie house, buying one long skinny bag of popcorn. Sitting in the bed of  the pickup truck, they’d share their treat. Tuscumbia was entertainment enough.

On Lime Kiln Road, the talk was the best pastime. At Don’s house the kids orbited around the edges of the circle of men, soaking up the talk- learning how to be men. Don didn’t allow kids to smoke or drink or cuss. They were almost as safe as if they were home in bed- something their mothers knew well.

Don made a good life for himself. In his quiet way Don was fulfilled, watching the passing of the seasons in the valley. He had seen the Big World, and knew it’s poverty. Once, as he and Alby stood in the streaming glory of a perfect autumn day, as lavendar shadows deepened and bobwhites called, he whispered,” This is the purtiest place in the whole world. I wouldn’t leave Lime Kiln for all the gold in Fort Knox’.