Grace's Sweetheart: Part One

A short story. Something I started one time as a free write; I sat down with no thought in mind and just started to write. The first sentence was what popped into mind.

Grace's Sweetheart

 

 

Part One

 

 

Winter was nigh unto settin' in when I came to Hump Butte from Aldersville.  Uncle George-may his soul be preserved- had been kicked in the head by Jeraldo, the new Percheron plow horse, an' with shoes the size of bucket bottoms, poor uncle Georges head was largely disfigured.  Aunte Grace had wanted an open casket funeral, but what with the towns folk comin' to render due solicitations, an' Uncle George, him only having half a head; Pa convinced her to settle for dressing him up in his best suit with a flower in the button hole and nailing the lid on tight.

 

Now this last might give the idea that Aunte Grace was maybe kind of simple, thinkin' people should view him that way, but actually she was only overcome by grief for she loved George very much.  They had been sweethearts ever since they were kids in school.  When she was in third grade she had first carried her red curls and green eyes into the school room and George, who was thirteen and big for his age knew then, that there could be no life beyond school without Grace.  That same spring she was pushed into Culvers pond by Jackson Floyd, the oldest boy in school.  Jackson was actually near grown and already harbored secret thoughts about findin' himself a child bride.  I suppose Auntie Grace, bein' the comeliest/fairest of the school girls although not quite eleven, had caught his attention and intentions first.  But havin' an idea, and bringin' it about are two different things.  Jackson Floyd lacked tact.  But although he missed impressing Grace Bingham, for that was her given name, he certainly did not fail to impress George.  Uncle George had happened to be, along with other boys, on his way home and so saw a slender figure in green calico and hair the color of a burnished sunset, go fluttering like a leaf down into the dark green waters of Culver pond.  George hit the water too, with all the grace a veteran skinny-dipper hampered with overalls could muster, and caught the young girl with his left arm.  Then, using the strong strokes of his right, he towed her in.

 

All this I had heard many times over through the years, but it was Aunte Grace, with a twinkle in her eyes, who would finish by telling how, upon gaining solid ground once again, George had gallantly wrapped the girl in his warm coat, then turned and laid upon Jackson Floyd with such a fury, that though they both missed school, the older an' bigger Jackson got by far the worst of it and was out a whole two weeks.  He said he had to help his Pa prepare for planting, but everybody knew better.  It was that next week that Grace Bingham came to school with half an apple pie in a box and shyly set it on the corner of George's desk.  Five years later, and a half, they were married.

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Though she was no longer the young girl she had been, Grace still had the look'a charm an' slender beauty that had always been a part of who she was.  The flame of red hair had bits o' grey show'n, but the eyes, green as the elm in spring time, hadn't changed.  Least, so I'd been told.  She, bein' the sister of my own mother, had always been real partial to us kids.  Thing is, Aunte Grace never was able to have any children of her own, so she seemed to wrap up all that mother love that had no where else to go, and throw it our way.

 

I was the youngest of my brothers.  Three of them.  An' then there were two little sisters who followed along behind and ruled the roost.  Gracie (named after Aunte) and Amy, were spoiled by the big brothers, an' knew it.  Still, it was in fun, and they weren't selfish nor mean spirited; though Gracie was some head strong, like her namesake momma said.  She had hair the color of the straw out in the barn, and a burstin' of energy that swept every one along in it's path.  Amy though, she was the opposite.  She takin' more after pa, was gentle an' looked at the ground when you'd speak to her, an' if you said somethin' nice, her cheeks would flame and she would take on a radiating smile that more'n lit up her face.  It was a pleasure to behold.  For that reason people tended to say alot of nice things to her.  Now, I can go on an talk about the boys later, but the reason to speak of 'em is to show that it was these, on whom Aunte Grace bestowed all her affections, an to the kids, she became as a second mother, a bright light of affection.  An she carried the role well an' made the kids love bein' around her. 

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The farm was fair-sized.  It begun as a homestead, then Uncle George got to addin' on some pieces he bought from'a neighbor farmer who moved on.   Bottom line was that between some decent-sized chunks of woodland, fenced pasture, and planted fields, it become a mighty nice place that George an' Grace had been right proud 'o.  Here Uncle George worked hard, an' here they prospered.  But because they'd had no children, there was no one, when the time came, to come an' help.

 

That was how I come to be at Shiloh (for that was what Uncle George named his farm).  The funeral ran its course, the well-wishers departed, an' only family still lingered 'bout the house.  The women folk was all inside swirlin' around Grace, soundin' like a coup full of hens.  That was when Pa called us boys to the barn, away from all the commotion, an' said that one of us was going to need to stay with Auntie to run the farm.  He said it was a big 'responsability'.  We knew that, an' knew it would be a bigger change.  None of us was probably real eager to leave our own home and family and go to stay with our widowed aunt.  But, there it was.  When it come down to it, I drew the short straw.  The fact was though, that even with me bein' the youngest of the boys, I was bigger than John or James, and as big as Joshua, "Josh" the oldest.  And since Josh was engaged to Jenny Watkins down Culvers corner way, he was well-enough out of the picture.  Anyway, Hump Butte wasn't far from Aldersville.  No more'n a couple hours in the wagon.

 

It was a cold, grey winter day when I finally come in, Pa bringin' me an' what things I had in on the wagon.  Aunte Grace said she'd turn the parlor into a bedroom, see'n as how there weren't extra bedrooms, but I said "no".  I didn't want to take her one good room for receiving callers, even if she wasn't see'n too many of late. 

 

"I can drag out that old pot-belly stove from the barn and set it up in the lean-to off 'n the back of the house."  Uncle George had built it on as a wood shed, and had made it sturdy and tight against the weather.  It wasn't too hard a job to cut a hole and run up a chimney pipe for the fire stove.  There was a might bit of cleanin' to do, an' I spread an ol' canvas from the barn to cover the floorboards so as to keep down the draft an' the spiders who might want'ta come up to see what all the commotion was about.

 

The house was not big.  Since they'd never had children of their own, Uncle George had never felt any compulsion to expand it; though it was well made, and Aunte Grace kept it clean and neat.  Her touches with sewin' curtains and step rugs an' such gave the place a light cheerful feel.  And the love in that home had always made it a place that felt nice to be in. 

 

My  woodshed room was, as Aunte Grace proclaimed it; "cozy".  An' even with puttin' in the stove and pipe from the barn, it didn't take me long to get it set up.  I figured that as soon as could be, I'd get me some white paint from town and paint the inside to brighten it up.  It had no window, but I figured that a small one would be all that was needed to keep it from feelin' like a cave, an' puttin' that in was a job that could wait for summer.

 

In the mean time it was winter, an' with most plantin' preparations already taken care o' by Uncle George, I was free to mend an' clean an' do the odds an' ends that can while away winter days on a farm.  It was surely settlin' in for some easy days of putterin' and evenings of reading from Graces' collection of books, when, with no warnin' at all, things suddenly became... complicated. 

 

Author's Note

Sentence structure, word choice, punctuation; they are all purposefully designed to give the characters and story a distinctive sound of the era and locale. In other words, it's supposed to sound that way. ;)

Reviews

[Vivian]

:D I love this. I actually think I'm going to read this for a while instead of Nightengale...sorry, but I love this! (Long awesome review later since I haven't read all the way through yet.)

[JustJasmine]

This is awesome. I absolutely love the dialect and the narration. I would never think to write something like that. I'm stuck in the now. haha. But you did the language well and didn't make it hard to read or annoying. You also did a really good job with opening the story up and setting the scene. Very nice work! I hope to read more!

[Cherrie Palmer]

This story is warm and has that heart-felt remember back when feel to it, which is the way a story should be. It should feel as real to the reader as the one who writes it.