Categorized | Opinion

Maybe You Can Hear it, but Can’t See It

By Otis GriffinOtis Griffin pose

Ever so often, pore country boys like to have a little fun.  Normally, these rednecks are referred to as ‘good ole boys’.   Fun is where you find it, when there ain’t no fun in the corn crib.
Occasionally, what started as a good time, would turn into a fiasco.  I’m not saying, what is right or wrong, but that was just growing up in the country.
One of the worst things a country boy can do, is let anyone know they are ‘skeered’ of anything.  Word spread real fast, and usually that someone will have a ‘Bad Day at Black Rock’.  At the Mudville graveyard, where we cut grass and pulled weeds back then, was a perfect setting for anyone that was afraid of ‘boogers’ and ‘haints’.  Sure enough, we had  an Amigo that was petrified of the mystic misinformations.
Friends, it seemed like every time we cut the graveyard, there was going to be funeral in the near future.  Graves were being dug on a regular basis.  Did the dying grass coincide with the soon departure of our neighbors?  A veil of visions fell over me.
After our big high level meeting of enticing ‘Big’ Paul to Mr. Hugh Mills emporium for some cold drinks, surely we can’t let this opportunity pass us by.  Perfect set up!
Where else to have some fun, but in a graveyard.  Yep!!  Since there were about 10 of us there was nothing to be afraid of, or so we thought.
Our surprise plan of attack was similar to General Nathan’s, the Great Southern Confederate Leader.  Just reminiscing will bring a tear to a glass eye.  After partaking our refreshments of cold drinks and moon pies, highlighted by penny jawbreakers, now it time for some fun.
Arvis, dutifully nicknamed, the “Rabbit”, had eased from the battalion, along with Phil and Emerson to points beyond our scope!  Actually, Arvis crawled down into the freshly dug, black, bottomless pit.
The others hid behind some head markers approximately 30 feet on each side of the grave.  However, in the dusky light no one could be seen.   In all the talking and scaring each other at this young age, momentarily, ‘Big’ Paul forgot about the graveyard.
Slurping on the big bottle of ROY-YAL Crown,  Big Paul unknowingly, accidentally woke up and let everyone in Little Texas know he wasn’t going through no graveyard, especially at night.  Bud reminded Paul, “hush up, Lawdy you ‘gonna’ wake the dead, hollerin’ that loud!”  Heh, heh!
At this early age, as we say in the South, ‘Big’ Paul was ‘full growed’ in the seventh grade.  Big enough to pull a section harrow, trace chains, cross ties  and all.  When he got riled, maybe we could hook him up to a planter or cultivator, if needed.  None of us would weigh a hun’ert pounds if we had a turning plow hanging off our bridle.   That alone kept us from getting too brave.  However, we ‘figgerd’ if we all stuck together maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t tromp us too much.
After some good Southern coaxing, we convinced ‘Big’ Paul to take a short cut through the graveyard.  Surely with this crowd ain’t no way any ‘booger’ is ‘gonna’ mess with us.   When ‘Big’ Paul started to bolt and run we formed a wall, or tried to.  Reluctantly he relented.  Reassuring Paul we were fine, silently through the almost darkness, swiftly he headed toward George Robert Billings backyard.
Since Paul was in a hurry he wanted to move fast, but we lagged behind.
He’d get ahead of us, then wait for us to catch up.  Of course, down in the hole, Arvis could hear us from a distance.  Paul was shying away from the freshly dug tomb, going toward Idaville.
Just about in the middle of the cross country trek, a voice from out of nowhere slit the sky wide open.
All of us knew the plan, but it was still eerie.  With a moan in the clear night air of oooohhhhh, ‘Big’ Paul stopped dead in his tracks.  Looking from side to side, real fast and slow at the same time, barely above a whisper, Paul squeezed out a muffled, “what was ‘zat?”  No one heard  anything!!   We froze.  No one moved or made a sound.  Bud bravely relayed, “Aw, that aint’ nuthin’.”
About that time a quivering voice escaped, “it’s cold in here”.  ‘Big’ Paul jumped about 10 feet in the air.   I wanted to jump also, either from the sounds, or afraid Paul was going to hull my head.  As soon as he hit the ground, I believe it was Emerson who squeezed out a pitiful, pitiful, “someone help me”.  “I can’t get out.”
Phil on the other side of the now dark graveyard went bbbbooooooo.  Paul wants to fly, but which way??
The Goblins are out in the Middle of the Summer in the South — GLORY!
— What do you think? Send Letters to the Editor to thomas.sellers@journalinc.com.

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