About me:
Do you remember the days of Southern saints? Do you remember the men and women who without thought or question would put their life on the line for their kin, bound by blood and love to those who surrounded them? We do. We knew such a saint.
With an aging face that crinkled the way a leather jacket would if it was worn every day for sixty-five years she appeared just as she was, tough and weathered. She had to be tough as nails after her husband swindled $100 out of the mayor in a fixed poker game. She didn’t shed a tear when the floor dropped out from the scaffold and his body writhed about in violent search of air. She was as strong as any man in town, and had a temper that would not tolerate a cross word from any soul.
Granny Estelle was what we all grew up calling her. Proper folk around town (blood or not) used the same name as her kin, because as she put it, “I’m kin to the South, and ya’ll are the South. So I’m kin to you.” Though kin with all, the law never seemed warmly accepted in her heart. But when you’re the leading bootlegger of moonshine in the South East, the idea of someone you love wanting nothing more than to see your old carcass rot in the county jail doesn’t quite fit. But even when her savings reached more than she would ever need, she lived always helping those around her. Her generosity undoubtedly led to her abrupt end.
Shotgun in one hand she led us with the other. We never knew what had happened before we were taken by that calloused tight grip. Placing us in the pantry, she swore we would be safe and they wouldn’t make it out alive… We didn’t know what she meant at the time, but soon found out. The door shut, and the first shot rang out, screaming of the fact that war had begun. We stayed in the pantry in which we were placed, listening to crash after crash of lead hitting everything.
When the gunshots finally stopped we noticed the bitter burnt smell of gun powder and warm blood drifting through the air. We waited, but the door never opened. When we finally worked up enough nerve to go into the “fresh” air three uniformed officers and four men we had never seen in town lay scattered about in bloody mangled bits around the perimeter of our cabin.
There was one officer still clinging to life slouched over himself not more than three paces in front of Granny Estelle. The blood bubbling out of his mouth made his breathing sound a bit like someone gargling and smoking at the same time. He looked straight up as his pupils dilated while small portions of red filled his once white eyes, and said, “Estelle… you’ll have hell to pay.” Coughing more red onto his shirt and the grass he sat on.
Granny Estelle looked him dead in the eye and smiled saying, “I just paid it in full. Now you take the payment to hell with you.” And as those words spilled from her lips with fiery righteousness, she pulled the trigger and his soul left this world leaving bloody bits of skull as mementos of his existence.
“Remember this day. Live your life with honor and for those you love.” She spoke to us then closed her eyes forever. We saw her die but didn’t cry. She was the last one standing, too strong for us to be weak.
She would be painted as a monster, with no regard for the law or human life… But we know the truth. She is someone to be remembered, admired and loved. All we do we dedicate to her and we will work and live with the same honor and pride held in her old frame. God bless Granny Estelle. God bless us, the southern saints.
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Thanks duder bug. Its got a ways to go yet. but i like where its going. the chair is awesome. Just gotta watch the base of it so it doesn't dump a mother fucker right off in the floor. Unless of course you wanted to dump that mother fucker off in the floor, then its all good. Miss you man. I am gonna try to come down with Jenny on Monday. Just gotta make sure its good with ol' Horton. I didn't originally plan on making this comment the length of a message, but I'm too lazy to copy and paste it into a message, so deal with it. I'm sure there is some idiot you don't care anything about somewhere toward the bottom of your comment list you wouldn't mind getting bumped off. I love you.
