March 29, 2018
Volume 48 - No. 13
Editor’s Note: We seldom publish fiction but we’ve found a writer that writes so beautifully we wanted to share him with you. He writes in the manner of Mark Twain - a fairly talented person who captured the idiomatic expressions of Southern and Midwestern folks as he weaved his tales.
I think you’ll find Pete Peterson has a similar talent. And, we think, you’ll enjoy him as much as we do. By Pete Peterson
The flames that ate baby sister Mandy alive and turned Pap to a black cinder, The The Paper Paper -- 760.747.7119 760.747.7119
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left me blistered and scarred ugly. Ain’t nobody knows how the fire started, nor where my Mam’s at. Miss Ethel brung me to Yellowbird today so the church ladies can see how she made a nine-year-old boy live agin.
Pap said always pay your debts, so I'll do her biddin’ but I’d rather be fishin’. The Rebecca Circle ladies Miss Ethel’s shows me to is all lathered up cause today is 4th of July, the birthday of the good ol’ U.S. of A. I don’t hardly know what that means, nor how to act but Miss Ethel said we’d have a dinger of a good time, watch soldiers march and shoot guns and eat fried chicken and ice cream
and apple pie and cake and peach cobbler ‘til we founder.
When Pap lived, he taken me and Mandy and Mam to a shindig like this down by the Iron Bridge in St. Charles. Them city boys set off fire crackers and ground streakers that made dogs howl and horses go wildeyed. In the evenin’ fireworks soared high as the moon, turned the sky red, white, and blue, and made real-looking flags and waterfalls and pitchers of good Ol’ George Washington his very self. Folks oohed and aahed something fierce, I tell ya. The bang of firecrackers and what
folks called Roman Candles skeered Mandy. She crawled into my lap, hid her face in my overalls, her stubby fingers holdin ' my thumb like a baby possum clingin’ to its momma’s tail, and wet her pants.
When the smoke settled in the holler and chores was callin’, Pap went to feed the mules. Mam seen her chance and slipped off to a speakeasy to chug beer and guzzle moon shine. It were 3 days ‘fore she stumbled home, smellin' of piss, her face swole up like a stubbed toe. Pap laid her in the wagon and fed her corn bread and warm milk. All the while, Mam moaned and swore she'd never drink
An Old Fashioned Fourth - See Page 2