She lies in bed thinking about her Granny - tougher than desiccated cowhide but with a heart that broke easier than Depression Glass. They were both Sand Mountain Girls, courtesy of Albertville, AL. She knew that wasn't a compliment. "Sand Mountain Girls are looser than a dust ball in a storm," the boys would say.
Sand Mountain was all about snake handling, sacred harp singing, and bootleg whiskey. More Baptists than hound dogs. Higher rainfall than most anywhere in the South. That's probably why a short-lived commune of 40 Russian Jewish families in the early 1900s moved on after two years - too much isolation and limestone soil. She got that!
Her dogs start to whimper from their mats on the floor. She's heard dogs can sense a drop in barometric pressure and feel changes in the static electric field. She sees a crack of lightning, and the windows start rattling. The rain drops from the sky like big wet cement blocks.
She idly wonders which animals she would leave off the ark. Certainly, the damn squirrels; she's caught 77 so far in a live trap, but they must have hitchhiked back from their drop-off place in the woods. Chipmunks are on her "Sin Entrada" list (too many damn holes in the yard), and whatever critter keeps digging through the pine straw and making the dogs go sniff crazy.
A heavy thud sounds on the roof right above her. "Good thing I had the huge branches trimmed off the tree." she thinks. Undoubtedly, she will still need to borrow her neighbor's chainsaw for the residue.
The dogs continue to pant and pace around the room. Outside, the River Jordan appears to be flowing through her backyard. "Thank God my house is on a hill. I didn't appreciate it when I was a runner dragging my sorry butt up the last couple blocks to get home."
She wonders how many of the downtown businesses are underwater at this point. The last time it rained hard, a roof in a local restaurant collapsed, and now they are tearing down that whole block of buildings. She's guessing the local coffee roastery is flooding for the fourth time in as many years.
Outside trucks screech and clang as they pick up trash cans. "At least they don't have to get out of their cabs," she thinks, "but I bet the driver wishes he'd stayed in school for a dead-end job in some dry office."
She ponders where the city's homeless people are right now. Hopefully, they have a room in the Golden Cherry Motel or a bridge to lie under. Now that the weather's warming, some have been hanging around the dog park downtown. Last week, one asked if her dog bit and said he was really a good guy. She pointed at her ear as if she couldn't hear and moved toward the back of the park. He probably didn't mean any harm, but she still felt nervous since her chicken shit Golden Retriever would lick rather than bite him.
The rain slows, but she continues lying in bed, reading the news on her Kindle. She's interested to learn Tiger Woods turned down $800 million to join the Saudi LIV golf series. "I'm glad to know Tiger has become so ethical in his later years," she smirks.
When it finally stops raining, she hauls her stiff frame out of bed and starts downstairs for coffee. The young dog, who wasn't smart enough to poop before the downpour, bolts into the yard. The Sand Mountain Girl thinks of her Granny again and how she loved Johnny Cash's rendition of the Rising Creek song. "Hopefully, the Lord is Willing," she thinks. "Because the creek ain't cooperating, not one damn bit."
— opelikakat
Sand Mountain was all about snake handling, sacred harp singing, and bootleg whiskey. More Baptists than hound dogs. Higher rainfall than most anywhere in the South. That's probably why a short-lived commune of 40 Russian Jewish families in the early 1900s moved on after two years - too much isolation and limestone soil. She got that!
Her dogs start to whimper from their mats on the floor. She's heard dogs can sense a drop in barometric pressure and feel changes in the static electric field. She sees a crack of lightning, and the windows start rattling. The rain drops from the sky like big wet cement blocks.
She idly wonders which animals she would leave off the ark. Certainly, the damn squirrels; she's caught 77 so far in a live trap, but they must have hitchhiked back from their drop-off place in the woods. Chipmunks are on her "Sin Entrada" list (too many damn holes in the yard), and whatever critter keeps digging through the pine straw and making the dogs go sniff crazy.
A heavy thud sounds on the roof right above her. "Good thing I had the huge branches trimmed off the tree." she thinks. Undoubtedly, she will still need to borrow her neighbor's chainsaw for the residue.
The dogs continue to pant and pace around the room. Outside, the River Jordan appears to be flowing through her backyard. "Thank God my house is on a hill. I didn't appreciate it when I was a runner dragging my sorry butt up the last couple blocks to get home."
She wonders how many of the downtown businesses are underwater at this point. The last time it rained hard, a roof in a local restaurant collapsed, and now they are tearing down that whole block of buildings. She's guessing the local coffee roastery is flooding for the fourth time in as many years.
Outside trucks screech and clang as they pick up trash cans. "At least they don't have to get out of their cabs," she thinks, "but I bet the driver wishes he'd stayed in school for a dead-end job in some dry office."
She ponders where the city's homeless people are right now. Hopefully, they have a room in the Golden Cherry Motel or a bridge to lie under. Now that the weather's warming, some have been hanging around the dog park downtown. Last week, one asked if her dog bit and said he was really a good guy. She pointed at her ear as if she couldn't hear and moved toward the back of the park. He probably didn't mean any harm, but she still felt nervous since her chicken shit Golden Retriever would lick rather than bite him.
The rain slows, but she continues lying in bed, reading the news on her Kindle. She's interested to learn Tiger Woods turned down $800 million to join the Saudi LIV golf series. "I'm glad to know Tiger has become so ethical in his later years," she smirks.
When it finally stops raining, she hauls her stiff frame out of bed and starts downstairs for coffee. The young dog, who wasn't smart enough to poop before the downpour, bolts into the yard. The Sand Mountain Girl thinks of her Granny again and how she loved Johnny Cash's rendition of the Rising Creek song. "Hopefully, the Lord is Willing," she thinks. "Because the creek ain't cooperating, not one damn bit."
— opelikakat
Beautiful prose!
ReplyDeleteColorful and down-home as heck! This person is alone and complete (with the dogs). I really like this person! Have you seen the book, "Salvation on Sand Mountain"? Great photos of the snake-handling. But as far as yer writing goes, I swear, I almost got wet with rain from reading this! --- Macoff
ReplyDeleteI agree with Macoff! You can see this character for sure. Love the Tiger Woods reference.
ReplyDelete