Percy.
“Hoppy wouldn’t allow it.” Hoppy would never have considered such a thing. Father Tim knew his limitations and they were numerous.
“What about th’ kids in your own backyard? You ever thought of doin’ somethin’ for them?”
The fact that he’d supported the Children’s Hospital in Wesley for twenty years was his own business; he never talked about it. “Tennessee is our own backyard.” How he ever ended up with this bunch of turkeys was more than he could fathom.
“We’ll miss you,” said Mule, clapping him on the shoulder. “I won’t hardly know what to order around here.”
Father Tim laughed, suddenly forgiving. He thought he might miss them, too, though the possibility seemed a tad on the remote side.
“Here comes Hamp Floyd,” said J.C. “Hide your wallet.”
“What for?”
“Th’ town needs a new fire truck.”
“Seems like a good cause,” said Father Tim. He took out his billfold and removed a ten.
“Th’ town’s got th’ money for a standard truck, but Hamp wants a few bells an’ whistles.”
“Aha.”
“Plus, he won’t have anything to do with a red truck,” said J.C.
“Seems like a fire chief would like red. Besides, what other color is there?”
“Yellow. He’s holdin’ out for yellow.”
A yellow fire truck? Father Tim put the ten back in his billfold and pulled out a five.
The usually talkative Puny moved around the kitchen without once acknowledging his presence. He might have been a bump on a log as he sat at the kitchen island drinking tea.
He peered over his newspaper.
He knew that pinched brow of hers and the soulful cast of her eyes; Puny Guthrie wore her heart on her sleeve, she couldn’t hide anything from him. He should ask her straight out what was going on, but then again…maybe he didn’t want to know.
He dropped his gaze to the story about the grave sites of Union soldiers presumed to exist on Edith Mallory’s sprawling ridge property above Mitford. Coot Hendrick, their unofficial mayor pro-tem and great-grandson of Mitford’s founder, wanted the graves identified and available to public view, as did several preservationists in the area. Edith Mallory, secure behind a combination of electric fences and electronic gates, continued to deny access to anybody, much less what she called in a letter to the editor, “the morbid and profane.”
Though the controversy between the town and Edith Mallory had dragged on for two or three years, most people didn’t give a hoot either way. Who wanted to see graves? And especially Yankee graves? The legend that the soldiers were shot in cold blood by the town’s founder might have gone over big a hundred years ago, but in today’s world, said another letter to the editor, it was murder, plain and simple, and “nothing to be proud of.”
As usual, the Muse printed a sidebar containing all the verses of a song said to have been composed by Mitford’s founder, Hezekiah Hendrick, and believed by Coot Hendrick and his elderly mother to be proof positive that the graves could be located on the Mallory property.
Shot five yankees a-runin’ from th’ war
Caught ’em in a cornfield
Sleeping by a f’ar
Now they’ll not run no more, oh
They’ll not run no more!
Dug five graves
With a mattock and a hoe
Buried ’em in th’ ground
Before th’ first snow
Now they’ll not run no more, oh
They’ll not run no more!
Editor’s note: Mrs. Hendrick, who enjoys singing the song passed down through her family, believes the first verse may have originally said, caught ’em in my cornfield, adding weight to the theory that five Yankee soldiers do, indeed, lie buried on the Mallory property.
“Brouhaha!” exclaimed Father Tim.
This comment elicited no response from his longtime house help, who remained silent as a tomb as she peeled apples for a pie.
“Puny, what’s on your mind?”
She turned from the sink and looked at him oddly, then burst into tears.
See there? He should
“Hoppy wouldn’t allow it.” Hoppy would never have considered such a thing. Father Tim knew his limitations and they were numerous.
“What about th’ kids in your own backyard? You ever thought of doin’ somethin’ for them?”
The fact that he’d supported the Children’s Hospital in Wesley for twenty years was his own business; he never talked about it. “Tennessee is our own backyard.” How he ever ended up with this bunch of turkeys was more than he could fathom.
“We’ll miss you,” said Mule, clapping him on the shoulder. “I won’t hardly know what to order around here.”
Father Tim laughed, suddenly forgiving. He thought he might miss them, too, though the possibility seemed a tad on the remote side.
“Here comes Hamp Floyd,” said J.C. “Hide your wallet.”
“What for?”
“Th’ town needs a new fire truck.”
“Seems like a good cause,” said Father Tim. He took out his billfold and removed a ten.
“Th’ town’s got th’ money for a standard truck, but Hamp wants a few bells an’ whistles.”
“Aha.”
“Plus, he won’t have anything to do with a red truck,” said J.C.
“Seems like a fire chief would like red. Besides, what other color is there?”
“Yellow. He’s holdin’ out for yellow.”
A yellow fire truck? Father Tim put the ten back in his billfold and pulled out a five.
The usually talkative Puny moved around the kitchen without once acknowledging his presence. He might have been a bump on a log as he sat at the kitchen island drinking tea.
He peered over his newspaper.
He knew that pinched brow of hers and the soulful cast of her eyes; Puny Guthrie wore her heart on her sleeve, she couldn’t hide anything from him. He should ask her straight out what was going on, but then again…maybe he didn’t want to know.
He dropped his gaze to the story about the grave sites of Union soldiers presumed to exist on Edith Mallory’s sprawling ridge property above Mitford. Coot Hendrick, their unofficial mayor pro-tem and great-grandson of Mitford’s founder, wanted the graves identified and available to public view, as did several preservationists in the area. Edith Mallory, secure behind a combination of electric fences and electronic gates, continued to deny access to anybody, much less what she called in a letter to the editor, “the morbid and profane.”
Though the controversy between the town and Edith Mallory had dragged on for two or three years, most people didn’t give a hoot either way. Who wanted to see graves? And especially Yankee graves? The legend that the soldiers were shot in cold blood by the town’s founder might have gone over big a hundred years ago, but in today’s world, said another letter to the editor, it was murder, plain and simple, and “nothing to be proud of.”
As usual, the Muse printed a sidebar containing all the verses of a song said to have been composed by Mitford’s founder, Hezekiah Hendrick, and believed by Coot Hendrick and his elderly mother to be proof positive that the graves could be located on the Mallory property.
Shot five yankees a-runin’ from th’ war
Caught ’em in a cornfield
Sleeping by a f’ar
Now they’ll not run no more, oh
They’ll not run no more!
Dug five graves
With a mattock and a hoe
Buried ’em in th’ ground
Before th’ first snow
Now they’ll not run no more, oh
They’ll not run no more!
Editor’s note: Mrs. Hendrick, who enjoys singing the song passed down through her family, believes the first verse may have originally said, caught ’em in my cornfield, adding weight to the theory that five Yankee soldiers do, indeed, lie buried on the Mallory property.
“Brouhaha!” exclaimed Father Tim.
This comment elicited no response from his longtime house help, who remained silent as a tomb as she peeled apples for a pie.
“Puny, what’s on your mind?”
She turned from the sink and looked at him oddly, then burst into tears.
See there? He should
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