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Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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generation had died or moved away, and the youngsters—those under fifty—didn't interest him much. But when he drove out to Tavy Annis's place, he found that one piece of his past was still intact and visitable. There was Tavy, looking weather-beaten and gray, but still the same old buddy he always was, carrying around in his head all the same memories about the days before the war.
Even though it was bare November, it was still mild weather in midday, and Taw insisted that the pair of them go fishing, in celebration of their newly resurrected youth. Tavy didn't look too keen on the idea, but finally he shrugged and went along, as he always did in the old days.
With a trunkful of fishing rods and tackle pulled down from the smokehouse, they had set off in Taw's new Mercury, talking about old
times as they headed through the valley toward their fishing hole.
"Houses look about the same," Taw said, watching the well-remembered landscape slip past him.
"New people in a lot of 'em, though," Tavy told him. "I reckon the Tilden place will be up for sale again soon. It sold last year to some folks called Underhill. He was retired military. Had a wife and a passel of teenagers. They kept to themselves, though."
"He's gonna farm the Tilden place? Cattle?"
"He's not going to be farming anywhere," said Tavy. "I'm surprised you haven't heard about it. A few weeks back, the Underhills' oldest boy took a rifle and killed his parents and little brother before he blew his own head off. The other two teenagers survived, but I doubt if they can make a go of the farm. Don't see why they'd want to live there, anyhow."
"There's no luck in that place," said Taw. "The Tildens never made much out of it, as I recall. Wore themselves out trying. Did these new people fix up the old farmhouse?"
"It's been done piecemeal through the years. You wouldn't know it from the old days. Don't reckon I'd want to live there, anyhow, not if it was a palace and they was giving it away."
Taw lost interest in the Underhills. "How's Wake High doing in football this year? Do we still play Johnson City?"
At a crossroads where a rusted Coca-Cola sign marked the ruins of an abandoned store, Taw slowed the car, and turned down the gravel
road that led past the Tilden farm and onto their fishing spot by the river bend. They parked in a clearing under a grove of locust trees and followed the well-worn path to the river.
Taw took a deep breath of mountain air. "Some things don't change!" he sighed.
Tavy Annis looked at the ground. "Most things do." He stepped back and watched his friend step out of the brush to reacquaint himself with the waters of his youth.
Taw McBryde stood for a long time staring at the flow of earth-colored sludge that was the Little Dove River. It broke over the rocks in brown waves like tobacco spittle that trickled down the encrusted boulders. "I wouldn't a knowed it," he said, slipping back into the speech patterns of his youth.
Tavy sat down on a boulder near the water's edge, and began to rig up his fishing line. "It's that paper company over in North Carolina," he said. "They been dumping poison chemicals in that river for a lot of years now, and we're downstream from them."
Taw couldn't take his eyes off the river. "And there's still fish living in that?"
"Some." Tavy nodded. "If we catch any, we'd best throw them back, though. That's why I didn't bother about a fishing license when you said you wanted to come. Game warden says you can't eat 'em. Don't think anybody would, unless they was half-starved. I caught one once."
"Trout?"
Tavy Annis shrugged, staring out at the river. 86
"Maybe. It had warts growing all over its head, and its eyes were white. I didn't even want to touch it to throw it back. I cut my line and kicked it back in the river, tackle and all."
"There's laws," said Taw McBryde. "Environmental protection. The government won't let you dump filth into rivers anymore."
"I believe they've cut back on the
Even though it was bare November, it was still mild weather in midday, and Taw insisted that the pair of them go fishing, in celebration of their newly resurrected youth. Tavy didn't look too keen on the idea, but finally he shrugged and went along, as he always did in the old days.
With a trunkful of fishing rods and tackle pulled down from the smokehouse, they had set off in Taw's new Mercury, talking about old
times as they headed through the valley toward their fishing hole.
"Houses look about the same," Taw said, watching the well-remembered landscape slip past him.
"New people in a lot of 'em, though," Tavy told him. "I reckon the Tilden place will be up for sale again soon. It sold last year to some folks called Underhill. He was retired military. Had a wife and a passel of teenagers. They kept to themselves, though."
"He's gonna farm the Tilden place? Cattle?"
"He's not going to be farming anywhere," said Tavy. "I'm surprised you haven't heard about it. A few weeks back, the Underhills' oldest boy took a rifle and killed his parents and little brother before he blew his own head off. The other two teenagers survived, but I doubt if they can make a go of the farm. Don't see why they'd want to live there, anyhow."
"There's no luck in that place," said Taw. "The Tildens never made much out of it, as I recall. Wore themselves out trying. Did these new people fix up the old farmhouse?"
"It's been done piecemeal through the years. You wouldn't know it from the old days. Don't reckon I'd want to live there, anyhow, not if it was a palace and they was giving it away."
Taw lost interest in the Underhills. "How's Wake High doing in football this year? Do we still play Johnson City?"
At a crossroads where a rusted Coca-Cola sign marked the ruins of an abandoned store, Taw slowed the car, and turned down the gravel
road that led past the Tilden farm and onto their fishing spot by the river bend. They parked in a clearing under a grove of locust trees and followed the well-worn path to the river.
Taw took a deep breath of mountain air. "Some things don't change!" he sighed.
Tavy Annis looked at the ground. "Most things do." He stepped back and watched his friend step out of the brush to reacquaint himself with the waters of his youth.
Taw McBryde stood for a long time staring at the flow of earth-colored sludge that was the Little Dove River. It broke over the rocks in brown waves like tobacco spittle that trickled down the encrusted boulders. "I wouldn't a knowed it," he said, slipping back into the speech patterns of his youth.
Tavy sat down on a boulder near the water's edge, and began to rig up his fishing line. "It's that paper company over in North Carolina," he said. "They been dumping poison chemicals in that river for a lot of years now, and we're downstream from them."
Taw couldn't take his eyes off the river. "And there's still fish living in that?"
"Some." Tavy nodded. "If we catch any, we'd best throw them back, though. That's why I didn't bother about a fishing license when you said you wanted to come. Game warden says you can't eat 'em. Don't think anybody would, unless they was half-starved. I caught one once."
"Trout?"
Tavy Annis shrugged, staring out at the river. 86
"Maybe. It had warts growing all over its head, and its eyes were white. I didn't even want to touch it to throw it back. I cut my line and kicked it back in the river, tackle and all."
"There's laws," said Taw McBryde. "Environmental protection. The government won't let you dump filth into rivers anymore."
"I believe they've cut back on the
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