The Blue Ridge

A little something a may expand on.

Sadie stabbed at the few remaining embers in the pot-belly stove then dropped the black iron poker to the floor. With a thud, it then rolled a quarter turn -  like the second hand on a clock; away from her cold bare feet. The December chill now took over this humble ole house. Draped in a frayed quilt, her mangy dress peeked out anxiously as she paced back and forth, glancing out of the window on every pass. The warped floorboard’s croaked and whinnied beneath her heavy footsteps.

“My Pa grew up ‘ere," she grumbled - "I wer’d born ‘ere.”

She took a long draw off her corn-cob pipe, opened the door and screamed out at the workmen in the bulldozer,

“My great grand pappy built dis house”.

Then she raised her double barrel shot-gun and took aim.

The blasts in the distance rang in a new era for the Blue Ridge Mountains.

 

By William Teague