Read Online Spencer's Mountain by Jr. Earl Hamner - Free Book Online Page A

down to church in the mornen and listen to his sermon.”
    â€œLord, Miss Ida,” laughed Clay. “The roof would fall in if I ever walked in that Baptist church.”
    â€œDon’t joke about it, Clay,” admonished Ida. “Don’t you want to save your soul so you can go to Heaven and be with all decent folks when you die?”
    â€œMiss Ida,” said Clay, “the Baptists have got one idea of Heaven and the Methodists have got another idea and the Holy Rollers have got still another idea what it’s like. I’ve got my opinion too.”
    â€œI can just imagine what your idea of Heaven is,” sniffed Ida. “A fishen pole and a river bank.”
    â€œThat’s part of it, yes ma’am,” agreed Clay. “I use up a little bit of Heaven every day. Maybe it’s just haulen off and kissen the old woman, or haven one of my babies come and crawl in bed with me at night and snuggle up against my back, or a good day’s work on my house up on the mountain.
    â€œI don’t have to wait to die for it, Miss Ida. I got Heaven right here.”
    â€œThat’s not Bible Heaven,” said Ida.
    â€œIt’s the only one I ever expect to see,” said Clay.
    â€œI’ll pray for your soul anyway, Clay, if you don’t mind,” said Ida.
    â€œAppreciate the favor, Miss Ida,” replied Clay sincerely.
    They parted at the Baptist parsonage and Clay continued on down the road toward Rockfish River.
    When Clay reached the bank above his favorite fishing hole he set down the box he carried his fishing tackle in. Looking for a lead sinker, he pushed back one of the upper trays and found—forgotten but happily nearly full—a quart of whiskey. He remembered now he had hidden it there the last time he had been drinking.
    He pulled the cork out of the bottle, sniffed the contents. This was a habit he had acquired after Olivia once found a hidden bottle and diluted its contents with castor oil. Satisfied that the bottle held what it was supposed to, he lifted it to his lips, tilted it back and took a long gurgling throat-searing drink.
    â€œThat’s prime whiskey,” he said to the world.
    He searched around in the tackle box, found the sinker he had originally been looking for and attached it to his line. Then out of the minnow bucket he lifted a large black chub, saucy and active, hooked it through the flesh beneath the dorsal fin and dropped it into the water to recover from the shock of the hook. The minnow shook itself fiercely. Satisfied that it was an inviting bait, Clay cast into the river in a little eddy just above an outcropping of stone.
    Clay lay back on the bank and there began in his mind a fantasy he often enjoyed after throwing a particularly inviting minnow into a particularly productive-looking pool. “That looks like a place where the grandaddy of all the bass in the river lives. That old ripstaver is layen down there against that rock hopen some June bug is goen to come floaten past him and when he sees that minnow I got on my line he ain’t goen to believe it. He’ll just sit there for a little while and stew about it, but after a while that minnow is goen to makehim so hungry he’s goen to priss over there and see if he’s real or not. Then he’s goen to open that big old mouth of his and chomp down on that minnow and that’ll be the last of you, Mr. Bass. Come on, you slippery monster! Bite.”
    Clay’s daydream was interrupted when a car came to a stop on the highway above the bank. Presently Clay heard the car door open and slam shut, and a head appeared above him. The face was a friendly one and though the man had a city look to him—he was dressed casually in a sport shirt and slacks—Clay liked him immediately.
    â€œHowdy, stranger,” called Clay.
    â€œHow’s the fishing?” the man asked.
    Clay could tell at once if a question of this kind was mere