A Down Home Feeling
By Harry McDonald
Copyright 2011 By Harry McDonald
Smashwords Edition
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A blazing sun beat down on the old farm house. The stifling summer heat, a staple of the
Georgia hill country, baked the shingles until they almost melted, and cooked the grass a dull yellow.
Mason stepped outside, and sat on his rocker. He liked to sit on the front porch in the afternoons, after the sun had moved to the back side of the house. Almost fifty-five, he looked good for his age, with just a bit of grey, and a broad, tanned face.
He figured it was hotter in the cities. That‘s what he had heard - that it was hotter because of all the cars, and buses. The farmer looked around at his expanse of pastures, and the cows crouched under the trees. He didn’t think of himself as particularly lucky. But he had something better than what city people had. It was a down home feeling - something that no amount of money could buy.
Mason surveyed the long, dirt drive, with its patch of dead grass going down the middle.It started from just above the old wooden bridge, then came up and went right past the front of the house and beyond, to his barn buildings, and pastures. Due to all the water oaks beside the river, the house could barely be seen from the road, unless somebody came over the bridge slowly. But he knew just where to look, and could see any cars plainly. That was when he first saw them.
The black truck came slowly up the drive, with a cloud of dust hanging behind it. A big box structure, covered in tar paper, sat over the back of the old, rusted vehicle. Hanging from its sides were farm implements and tools, and tied to the top were bulging, old wooden boxes and burlap bags. As it got closer to the house, he could see three people in the front. They looked like poor transients, and he assumed they would ask for work, like others had done. But they drove right on past the house, without even looking. Mason rocked in his chair, and watched the dust settle. He knew they would turn back when they saw the pasture gate, and realized it wasn’t a through road.
But they didn’t come back. He wondered if they were looking for something to steal, so he walked around the barns. The fronts of the buildings were ornamented with hubcaps, old license plates, and a large Coca-Cola sign. But nothing was gone, and he didn’t see the people. Instead, he saw the gate to the pastures open. Hardly knowing what to think about them, he put a shotgun in his truck, and drove through the gate himself.
Out of sight from the barns, the drive went down a hill, and over a shallow creek. Then it followed the contour of a large hill, went through a wooded area at the top, and went downhill through more trees, until it opened up to a big, flat pasture. Near the base of the hill was a rocky outcrop, and an old, hewn log house. Mason figured it had to be a hundred years old, and it’s dilapidated condition made it unsafe. It was long, and looked like two separate houses, with a large opening in the middle that went right through.
Mason wiped the sweat from his forehead with the edge of his hand, and the farther he drove, the more he wondered what in the world they were doing. From the hill, he saw the truck in front of the old house. Some small birds flew over, harassing a crow. Crows were about the only thing Mason had ever shot at. He got out of the truck, but didn’t anticipate any trouble, and left the gun behind.
“Hello?” he called out. A thin-looking man came out of the house, and walked a few paces beyond the stone front step.
“Hey there. I’m Mason Roberts. Can I talk to you a minute?” The man didn’t reply. His face was gaunt and unshaven, and his little eyes looked as black as his stringy, slicked hair. On his back was a dingy and hot-looking, long sleeved red shirt with yellow lasso patterns. The man looked down, and spit chewed tobacco through rotted teeth. It landed with a big splat on the dust, between his new-looking cowboy boots. He didn’t look like someone who could have afforded them.
“What’s your name?” Mason asked him. The man looked past Mason, and at his truck.
“Dawn’t mahtter none.”
“Well, you went on past my house, and didn’t ask me if you could come down here. You can’t stay here. This old house it’n a good home anyway.” As he spoke, he saw a woman get something from the old truck, and take it inside.
The man didn’t seem to pay him any attention, and just looked toward the trees on the hill. Another man came out, and leaned against the big opening of the house. Mason could not tell how old he was. He looked a lot like an overgrown boy, but his face showed the wear of someone older. He was tall, with scruffy, sandy colored hair, and wore a t-shirt with dirt all over it. His lower lip and chin jutted out a lot more than his upper lip, and his eyes looked as pale and lifeless as a dead man’s.
“You’re gonna have to leave, alright?”
The man-boy took a knife out of his pocket, and pulled grime from under a fingernail. He pricked himself in the process, and wiped the blood on his shirt. Mason avoided looking at him. The older man turned his head a little, and made a slight motion with his thumb, towards the house behind him.
“This yore house?”
“Yeah,” said Mason. “It is. Did you hear what I said?”
The woman came to the doorway, followed by several skinny, barefoot children. Painfully thin, she wore a dirty, old cotton dress, and her graying hair was unkempt. Mason thought she looked a lot like the older man. He tried to greet her in a pleasant manner, but her vacant expression gave no indication that she understood.
One of the children ran up to Mason, and looked up at him.
“Hello, little girl. What’s your name?”
“She caint hayer,” said the man.
A little, sandy haired boy also left the step, and stood beside the girl. His face was smeared with a mixture of snot and dirt. Mason got an uneasy feeling that the boy wanted to kick his leg, so he walked a few feet toward his truck. He again told the older man, a bit more forcefully, that they would have to leave. The man pulled some tobacco out of a can, and looked like he had to think about it. Finally, he said that they had nowhere else to go. Mason held firm on the subject, and at last the man agreed.
Satisfied that they would leave, he drove home and told his wife about it over supper. She could hardly believe the gall of the people.