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Coming of Age American Friendship

The mugginess of night receded. A thin veil of blushing daylight clung to dark ridge tops under weakening clouds. A swift storm had moved through a few hours before. In its wake, soft gray shrouds rose among the hollows to greet the gathering dawn like resurrected spirits from some ancient sepulcher, accentuated by the ghostly refrains of an L&N steam engine pulling through nearby London, Kentucky.

Lefty lay awake most of the night, mesmerized by the lightning but also lulled to drowsiness from time to time by the rain on the tin roof of the porch. During times of wakefulness he strained for any sign of The Old Man's return. 

He had taken an automatic liking to his grandfather, Jerry Buckhart. Although he had never met him until two months ago, they had whipped up a quick bond. The Old Man bragged about Lefty's hard work, something he never heard from Poppy. Also, the man's jovial attitude and dapper ways appealed to the twelve-year-old. The Old Man was somewhat rotund and clean-shaven with the exception of a gray walrus mustache stained yellow under his nostrils from many years of pipe smoke. He sipped, occasionally and privately, from a silver flask with his initials 'JB' finely etched on one side. Lefty, who caught him a few times taking sips from it, was somehow drawn most to the mystery of the flask out of all of his other finery. He knew the flask contained alcohol. He wanted to try it, but his Mam discouraged alcohol in their home, knowing Poppy had a fondness for "the drink" as well. Despite his age and nips from his flask, The Old Man's blue eyes remained clear and sharp. He kept his fading red hair, which had once been light and wispy, covered with a black bowler hat. His starched shirts were crisp, white, and buttoned all the way to the top. The white shirts cut a stark contrast to the rest of his ensemble: a black woolen frock coat with silk lapels, pin-striped pants, a black cane with a silver cap, and black wing-tipped shoes that he liked to keep shined with a high gloss.

In fact, The Old Man made sure Lefty kept the shoes shiny. He bought Lefty a shoe shine box and talked Mr. Delph into letting him shine shoes this summer at the barber shop down the street from Weaver's Pool Hall. The Old Man could be quite persuasive. Another business venture, an idea put forth by The Old Man, also helped Lefty make a little extra dough. Lefty provided water to the industrial league baseball teams that played in town on Sundays. He sold cold water that he got from the spring house at the quarry. And, because these were such great ideas, Lefty sometimes loaned The Old Man a dollar or two here and there.

With a couple of extra bucks in his pocket, Old Man Buckhart had strolled off toward town in the shimmering heat yesterday morning. His awkward whistling, made so by the gap between his front teeth, lilted among the dawn chorus of birds along the dirt road leading away from the quarry. No one had heard nor seen from the old, strange bird of a man since. 

Lefty and two of his brothers slept on the porch that night because it had been too hot to sleep in the house. They had closed the windows because of fierce winds and rain. He had marveled at the lightning as it played in the darkness, briefly turning midnight to midday and exposing trees in the flickering light as they swayed crazily, bending like dancers to the beat of rain on the leaves. If a little rain blew in on them on the porch, so be it, the natural fireworks display was worth it, and at least they would be cooler than in the house. 

Lefty also wanted to be aware if The Old Man returned in the middle of the night. His stomach soured at the thought that his grandfather could be dead. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of The Old Man falling into a deep ditch and hitting his head on a rock or getting struck by lightning. He just hoped The Old Man survived. Somewhere. 

With dawn glimmering on the horizon, anxiety drove Lefty to get to work milking the cows and bringing in wood for the cook stove. Another reason he needed to finish his chores early was to be able to make it to the railyard baseball games early this afternoon. An L&N team would be playing a team from a Clay County Coal Camp today. He took in a deep breath of the heavy humid air, which carried loamy scents of damp earth and the musky aromas of farm animals.

As Lefty went about his chores, the world awoke and began to unfold. Frogs sang in the waning darkness, enlivened by the storm, which had been a rare occurrence of late because of the intense heat. By noon, summer would regain its composure and assume dominance, wiping away any remnant of cloud or rain from the night before. A shadowy owl flew over on silent wings, seeking rest from its nightly foray. He was unsure about the portent of that omen, but he would ask The Old Man about it; then it hit him: if he saw him again. His heart sank.

Inside the house a different kind of tempest continued to brew from the night before. Carrying an armload of wood inside to set by the cast iron cook stove, he braced himself for the oncoming torrent. He knew Mam and Poppy had been into it; he had heard the arguing last night despite the storm. Lefty shuddered as he entered the house. Poppy's gaze. His father rarely spoke, but the hard, brown eyes expressed volumes.

The Old Man had not arrived for breakfast. In fact, he hadn't made it home at all last night. The room, dimly lit by two coal oil lamps, made his parents' moods seem even more severe. Poppy sat at the head of the kitchen table glaring through the screen, his eyes watching the road, waiting for The Old Man to darken the door. Palpable tension settled in Mam's shoulders and around her eyes as she made the kids file by the stove one at a time. They offered up their plates to receive a cat-head biscuit and a ladle of gravy.  Lefty took his place at the end of the line along with his siblings, a total of five boys and four girls. One by one they sat at the table and began to eat. No prayers, even though this was Sunday. Not that they were that religious anyway. No one dared to utter a word. They silently passed a jar of molasses around the table. The scraping of forks, an occasional cough, the popping and crackling of the wood in the cook stove were, at various times, the loudest sounds in the room. Minutes, like the molasses, poured out slowly.

Mam remained at the stove scowling at her husband who had yet to touch his food. She waited like a coiled copperhead ready to strike if he uttered one word about her father. Lefty pondered his Mam as he slowly ate his breakfast. The Old Man once told him that she had been his favorite. He said Lizzie would not shirk her duties like her brothers and sisters. The others had turned their backs on him. Almost a year had passed since the death of Mam's mother; Lefty never knew her. He had surmised that The Old Man's ways had taken its toll on her. His Mam had remarked once that The Old Man stuffed his sins and shortcomings in a poke wherever he went, but even Lefty noticed that Mam's hard heart softened when he arrived two months ago from Harlan County, hat in hand with nowhere else to go.

A peculiar jaunty sound, distant and haunting, emanated from the semi-darkness; the odd tune crescendoed as it approached the house from the woods along the rock quarry's boundary. Whistling mingled with off-key vocals and drunken humming the closer The Old Man came to the porch. It reminded Lefty of an old, broken pump organ that had been thrown out and abandoned in the yard too long: broken, forced, and wheezy. He vaguely recognized the ditty. "Hard-Hearted Barbry Allen." The Old Man loved that old folk melody, although he butchered it every time. Lefty exchanged furtive glances back and forth with his siblings. None wanted to draw ire from either parent, who remained locked in their stances: Poppy's steely eyes toward the door, and Mam's glower affixed on Poppy.

Finishing on a high note, the Old Man slung the door open and stumbled across the threshold wearing not a stitch of clothes. Every face in the room expressed differing degrees of shock, surprise, or revulsion, except for The Old Man and Lefty. Poppy's scowl deepened. Mam looked as if she would be sick. His sisters, Janie, Viney, and Sybil, hid their eyes; the youngest girl, Norma, slid under the table. Lefty's brothers, Junior, Willie and Arvil, stifled giggles and began elbowing each other; his other brother Ross held his breath, his reddened face looking as if it were about to burst. Lefty felt a sudden pang of sadness, but could not pinpoint the exact source. 

Old Man Buckhart had made an abrupt arrival, like some strange creature emerging from the gloaming. He seemed perplexed that anyone would even be awake much less having breakfast at this very moment. His expression was made more comical by the twitching of his gray, walrus mustache and the puzzled widening of his now dulled, blue eyes. He tried to maintain some bearing and composure, finally realizing that he stood completely naked in front of the entire family and now swayed slightly before them: a cock robin with his broad, hairy, red chest and fat paunch perched atop bird-like legs, which seemed to wear boots made of mud. His thin hair was plastered flat atop his head. Dark circles sagged under both eyes. He made no sudden moves to cover himself, but seemed to search the air in front of him for some type of answer.

"Whelp, The Old Man's back!" Ross's words exploded like a gunshot through the room, which seemed to shrink by the second. He was the only kid smart-ass enough to remark on the situation. Lefty nudged him sharply with an elbow. Ross kicked back under the table. 

"Charlie, Lizzie, I—" The Old Man stammered to find the right words.

Like a spring, Mam uncoiled and closed the space between her and her father, brandishing the ladle like a mace on her approach. Gravy flew in all directions, most of it splattering The Old Man as she jabbed the utensil at him. Drops of gravy ran down his chest, which heaved from the sudden onslaught; he staggered back a couple steps. She advanced.

"You ain't ever goin' to be satisfied. You'll never be content!" She hissed, their faces now so close that their noses almost touched. "Do you know what you've—"

Ross sniggered. She reeled around to face everyone at the table.

"Eat your shittin' breakfast!" Mam's voice filled the room.

The children immediately returned to their food, even Ross, who still wore a devilish grin. Poppy's face, by contrast, seemed set in stone. The visage never changed.

The Old Man, seeing an opportunity for escape, began tottering to the room where the boys slept. "I suppose I'll just go ahead and retire to bed." 

Silence.

Seemingly disgusted with the whole situation, Poppy stood, grabbed his ladder back chair, and carried it out the front door without a word. He sat under the old poplar tree at the furthest corner of the yard with his back to the house. His lanky form silhouetted in the growing morning light, he pulled a hawk-bill knife from a pocket in his overalls and began whittling on a branch he picked up at his feet. Lefty wondered if Poppy's thoughts shifted to knife trades and political gossip he would swap at the courthouse this week. After all, he had been on the receiving-end of Mam's wrath more than he had ever wanted. And because of that, maybe Poppy resolved that it was wiser that he had not been the first to cast a stone at Old Man Buckhart. Maybe he was glad that her anger was directed at someone else for a change.

Mam moved back to the kitchen, grabbing a large, black pot from the side table. It contained the day's soup beans which soaked in the cast iron dutch oven overnight. She slammed it on the remaining open burner, water and beans spilling onto the surface. She grabbed two pieces of wood and shoved them into the stove, then began preparations for cornbread.

The room emptied. The boys filtered outside in directions away from the chaos of the homeplace. Willie and Arvil scattered to the woods to find a good fishing hole, while Junior and Ross headed toward town looking for mischief. Lefty lingered, following his sisters. They would most likely find solace in God. The girls gathered in their room where Janie had ushered them.

"Yuns get ready for mornin’ service. I'll walk us." Janie asserted. She busied around the room getting church clothes ready.

She received lackluster response. Viney, shaken by the adults’ behaviors, lay on the bed they all shared, her face to the wall. Sybil sat on one corner of the bed, a scowl on her face as she tugged a brush through Norma's tangled hair. Norma sat on the floor in front of her. "Ow, Sybil! That hurts!"

Denvil lingered at the door, hoping to find some comfort from the girls.

"Get out, Denvil! We don't want you in here.” Norma exclaimed as Sybil kept fighting with her hair.

Sybil’s voice carried venom. “Go on, Devil!"

Lefty drifted away from the girl's room. He hated the way his sisters and brothers twisted his name. The baseball players and The Old Man called him Lefty, along with a few kids at school. He couldn’t wait to get to the baseball fields today. The team needed its water boy. He stopped to listen to the hard snoring of The Old Man coming from the boys' bedroom. He felt sorry for him; after all, the odd fellow had nowhere else to go.

Lefty sneaked through the kitchen to the door and slipped outside. He paused behind a tree before making his way to the spring house. Through the window he watched his Mam work in the kitchen. She opened the window. No breeze entered. Sweat mingled with her tears. She didn’t hear Lefty nor see him, at least he thought so; she never acknowledged him. He noticed that she allowed a few tears to make their way along the creases in her face. She peered at the sun crowning the ridge of the quarry, her face bathed in a deep, remarkable golden light. She spoke to herself. Maybe it was a prayer or a confession. He felt it deep.

“Good Lord, what have I done? Is this a mistake? I will not let this happen again. Not the cards, not those old, dirty dice, not the billiards, and certainly not the bootleggin. That’s the last thing I need in this house.”

In a soft, slow voice, she sang to herself: “I shall not be, I shall not be moved. I shall not be, I shall not be moved. Like a tree planted by the waters, I shall not be moved.”

She released a long sigh.

“Lord, you know I worked on Charlie. You know I kept him from drinking and womanizing since he got back, at least for now. And for Charlie Jackson to come back here and beg for forgiveness is as close to a miracle as I’m liable to see. Lord, I swear to you, I will bring that old man to heel too, if it’s the last thing I do.”

Some cogs clicked into place for Lefty. Five years ago Mam said Poppy hopped a train for Idaho, remarking that he was just some old hobo out west. Poppy maintained that he worked on a sheep ranch for two years. Now that Lefty thought about it, Poppy seemed a changed man after coming back home, at least changed enough for Poppy. He tried to avoid his father as often as possible.

When Mam moved away from the window, Lefty went to the spring house hoping she had not noticed him. He started thinking about today’s baseball games and changed focus. He prepared two buckets of cold, clear water from the spring to take to the railyard baseball players. This mid-June day was going to be a scorcher. Struggling with the buckets along the road from the quarry, Lefty tried his hardest not to spill any of the precious water. He would probably make good money. Making his way along the railroad tracks toward the ball fields near the tobacco warehouses and stockyards, he could almost hear that change jingle in his pockets. In the trees, jarflies chanted in the morning sun, continuing their daily summer ritual on this longest of summer days.

November 16, 2023 21:23

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113 comments

Kristi Gott
06:06 Jan 07, 2024

This beautifully written story weaves together many threads of setting, character, dialogue, the past and continuing events into a total world. I love this slice of life. The imagery and sensory details made me feel like I was right there too and I could see it playing in my mind like a movie. I am so glad I got to read this! I feel writing like this helps me to learn and progress with my own writing. Looking forward to more of your stories!

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David Sweet
16:40 Jan 07, 2024

Thank you very much! This is based on a family story about my father and his grandfather. I am working on a series of stories with these characters. Some of my other Reedsy stories connect. "Southbound" is about Denvil as an older teenager (and a story based on my mom), "Cicero '59" features Denvil and Doralea's children (my oldest brother and sister).

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Glenda Toews
02:59 Nov 17, 2023

Loved .' Minutes, like the molasses, poured out slowly! And 'coiled like a copperhead. I can feel the era and your family😀 I'm so glad you submitted!

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David Sweet
13:51 Nov 17, 2023

Thanks so much. You are a great inspiration and encouragement to me by sometimes giving me a swift kick in the writer's pants and for giving me honest feedback. Many of your suggestions went to making this story better.

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Ann Imma
08:32 Jan 27, 2025

What a wonderful story, so evocative in place and detail. The harrassed mother was well-drawn, I felt her anger!

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Ari Walker
13:47 Jan 20, 2025

David I loved this story. I had noticed that you and I were commenting on the same stories, which is how I found you. I am so glad that I did. Best, Ari

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David Sweet
14:11 Jan 20, 2025

Thank you very much, Ari! I'll have to check out your work.

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Calvin Kirby
19:01 Jan 19, 2025

David, A wonderful and well written story. I could picture all the characters so well because your beautiful, descriptive words. I can't wait to read more of your stories.😊

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David Sweet
19:55 Jan 19, 2025

Thank you, so very much!

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M B
04:33 Jan 10, 2025

Nicely done, the little details let us know that this is indeed set in the past, but the exact time is still vague. Which I think works really well. The large family is definitely full of characters, and the old man is no exception there. Well written.

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David Sweet
11:27 Jan 10, 2025

Thanks. I appreciate that you read this story and your kind comments. It's based on a family story my dad told me about his grandfather. It takes place in 1940. I suppose i need to make that clearer.

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11:06 Dec 22, 2024

Love your writing.

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David Sweet
11:41 Dec 22, 2024

I appreciate that very much. I will admit I'm not the prolific writer I want to be, and I have started working on my writing later in life, but I desire to write the best I can. Thank you for sharing your story. I enjoyed it very much as well.

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Colin Wadeson
11:22 Dec 21, 2024

Excellent. you have an uncanny knack for deep but clear description. I'm literally jealous reading this haha: Two very giddy thumbs up for you, sir!

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David Sweet
12:15 Dec 21, 2024

Thank you for your generous feedback, Colin. I am humbled and your gracious words are much appreciated. Thanks also for the follow.

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Marty B
06:32 Dec 09, 2024

Thre are some great descriptions, and lines in this little story. I like how the feeling of the tight quarters of the small town came out in different ways for each character. 'Minutes, like the molasses, poured out slowly.' is a banger! thanks

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David Sweet
14:35 Dec 09, 2024

I appreciate the read and your kind remarks.

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Mary Butler
12:08 Dec 07, 2024

David, your evocative storytelling truly brings the setting and characters to life. The line "A swift storm had moved through a few hours before. In its wake, soft gray shrouds rose among the hollows to greet the gathering dawn like resurrected spirits from some ancient sepulcher..." struck me deeply; your vivid imagery made me feel the humid, eerie calm of the morning after the storm. I also admire the layered portrayal of family dynamics, especially Lefty's perception of The Old Man and the tension between Mam and Poppy, which creates such...

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David Sweet
13:41 Dec 07, 2024

Wow! I am humbled. Perhaps the best review I have ever received. These Reedsy stories are precious to me because they have a grain of truth and personal history in them. At the heart of this story is a story my dad told me about my grandfather coming home naked after losing everything in a poker game, and it would be a poker game that would take his life in an even more dramatic fashion (a story I'm still working on). Thanks for the wonderful review. Congrats on your win, and I look forward to reading more of your work.

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Graham Kinross
01:04 Dec 06, 2024

This was such a vivid and atmospheric story! The mix of suspense with weirdness reminded me of the older episodes of Stranger Things—weird, unexpected, but cool. I love the mystery around The Old Man. Will there be a sequel? What inspired this?

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David Sweet
01:33 Dec 06, 2024

This was actually a family story that my dad told me about his grandfather. The basics was that he came home naked after losing, literally, everything in a poker game. This is actually one story in a series about my dad and his grandfather. The Old Man actually died by being hit by a steam locomotive while trying to get to another poker game, but that is another story, I'm working on. Southbound is a connected story. Denvil and Lefty are the same character (my dad). Southbound is based on a true story about the last time my mom spoke to her ...

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Graham Kinross
01:43 Dec 06, 2024

You're welcome, sounds like your family is a rich source of material.

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David Sweet
02:13 Dec 06, 2024

It has been. I promised my dad that I would write the stories. He wasn't much of a talker unless he was in the pulpit. Late in life, he became quite the talker and told many great stories.

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Graham Kinross
02:32 Dec 06, 2024

It's amazing the stories and secrets they come out with later on. You always think they've been calm and parental when you're younger and then all of their rebellious youth tales come out. It's a nice thing about getting older and starting to sit as equals with them and they can level with you about their own mad adventures.

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Rebecca Hurst
15:29 Nov 16, 2024

This is one of the finest things I have ever read.

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David Sweet
17:04 Nov 16, 2024

Wow! That is high praise indeed. I am humbled by your comment. Thanks so much. I am looking forward to reading some of your work as well. This is actually based on a family story my dad told me about his grandfather. The core is true, but of course, embellished somewhat to flesh out all of the characters.

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Rebecca Hurst
17:30 Nov 16, 2024

Yes, I understand that. It is simply a technically brilliant piece of work. As an Englishwoman, I feel constrained by my language. Americans have a more fluid style, but if I were to replicate it, it would not be authentic to me or to anyone else. I truly appreciated this story - I could literally smell the wood, and I hope you go far with this.

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David Sweet
17:44 Nov 16, 2024

I find that the English have their own cadence and rhythms that are lovely. I've been there four times and come back feeling homesick.

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Max Wightwick
13:05 Nov 13, 2024

Hi David, I love the style in which this story was written. It was eloquent, vivid, and intriguing at all times. Your use of short paragraphs, such as "silence" and "she released a long sigh", was very effective. After having enjoyed a lot, I shall definitely be checking out more of your work!

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David Sweet
16:03 Nov 13, 2024

I appreciate your kind words. This is one of a few stories based on family stories. This actually happened with my great-grandfather. He really came home from a poker game once without a stitch of clothing. I just dramatized it a little.

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Max Wightwick
16:12 Nov 13, 2024

hahaha, memories are always slightly embellished. That is very funny, though.

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David Sweet
16:43 Nov 13, 2024

He was killed by a steam train in 1940 because he was late for a poker game and tried to beat it at the crossing. He lost. My dad witnessed the event. I'm also writing that story.

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Max Wightwick
18:52 Nov 13, 2024

Ah, now that is less amusing. Your dad witnessed the event, my god. Is this your next story?

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David Sweet
19:10 Nov 13, 2024

I have a series of 4-5 stories that are unfinished about Denvil (my dad) and Old Man Buckhart. "Southbound" on Reedsy shows Denvil about 7 years older, but the story is really about my Mom. Denvil is the father of the kids in "Cicero '59." My short story "The Essence" is a chapter in the larger narrative that will be about my third great-grandfather George Burkehart, who was character unto himself. The man in that story will be one nemesis of George Burkehart, among others. Thanks again for taking interest in my work.

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Jack Kimball
15:59 Nov 11, 2024

Hi David, Along with the others in the comments, I commend you for the character descriptions, almost a Dickens feel to them, expecially opposed to "contempory writing". "Write what you know" is foremost in my mind when reading this. You obviously know this world and it shows. Excellent. Also, the muse is at your shoulder in many beatiful nuggets: 'weakening clouds' 'bending like dancers to the beat of rain' 'loamy scents of damp earth I especially liked, "..whistling mingled with off-key vocals and drunken humming the closer The Old Ma...

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David Sweet
16:59 Nov 11, 2024

Thanks for your kind words and feedback. I'll check out scribofile. It's nice to have those resources at hand.

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David Sweet
18:16 Nov 11, 2024

This is a story about my great-grandfather based on stories my dad told me before I passed. I'm working on a collection of these stories.

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21:21 Oct 28, 2024

Wonderfully written story. It's so vivid to imagine. Lots of backstory undercurrents come out. How amazing that two boys and a grandfather, Old Man Buckhart, turned into this huge family living in a small home. And the shameful scene of breakfast with an old naked man standing before them. They could have all screamed. The picture you painted of their individual actions was so on point. What had he been up to? Definitely, no good. The mind boggles.

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David Sweet
22:33 Oct 28, 2024

Thank you for your very kind words. I appreciate you taking your time to read one of my stories. This is an actual family story my dad told me about his grandfather. He was a notorious gambler and lost his life because he was late to a poker game. My father saw him get hit by a train! According to my dad, his last words were to the men in the barber shop where my dad was a shoeshine boy: "Does anybody have a deck of cards? Old so-and-so is in town, and I aim to take his money!" He left the barber shop and rushed across the railroad tracks n...

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02:51 Oct 29, 2024

That is so lovely. I have put several family stories into Reedsy, but I am mindful that other family members may not see them the same way or agree with my take, so I have made them fiction. Life can produce some fantastic stories.

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David Sweet
03:16 Oct 29, 2024

Yes. Sometimes it is a fine line.

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07:29 Oct 29, 2024

Haha. Sometimes, fact can be stranger than fiction. One of my stories is called "When real life is better than fiction," and it is based on a true story. (Not a family one.)

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David Sweet
13:31 Oct 29, 2024

I'll check it out

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Thomas Wetzel
12:37 Oct 24, 2024

This was exceptional. You write so well. Really great descriptive language and narrative tone. Poppy reminds me of my Opa. (Except that he mostly just slammed rum and Cokes and watched the Yankees on TV and muttered threats and curses in German from time to time when they were losing.) Looking forward to checking out your back catalogue. You definitely have some serious chops, my friend.

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David Sweet
19:07 Oct 24, 2024

Thanks very much. This was based on my great grandfather who was killed by a train in 1940 because he was late for a poker game. My dad actually witnessed it. Poppy died in 1974. He was quiet; I think my grandmother did most of the talking. She died in 1964 before I was born. I am working on a series of Lefty (my dad) stories. He is Denvil, the same character in Southbound, which is about my mom's last encounter with her dad. Cicero '59 is about my oldest brother who passed almost 2 years ago and kind of continues the saga. I take your kind...

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Thomas Wetzel
20:02 Oct 24, 2024

Your grandfather's passing is obviously tragic, but if I ever get smeared by a train I hope it's for something important like being late for a poker game. (When it's time to post those blinds so the dealer can let the cards fly and get ready to turn and burn you really gotta be there, man. No excuses. I have played a few hands in my time.) I will definitely check out your other submissions. You are very talented. I just write pulp fiction. You write actual literature.

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David Sweet
20:09 Oct 24, 2024

Thanks so much. I don't have much experience in the land of poker. I may have to throw some ideas out at you to get the intensity of the game itself. I have played for fun with nothing at stake. Perhaps you could advise me. I'm working on a short story that deals with the flood of 1902 in this area and interposing it on top of another story that comes from my wife's family about being swindled out of land called "Lord Willimantic the Creek Don't Rise."

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Thomas Wetzel
20:19 Oct 24, 2024

Sounds like a really cool story. I have always held a strange and voyeuristic interest in natural disasters. I have seen some hurricanes (and one tornado and a few earthquakes) and I think I am just awed by the raw power and destruction of it all. Naturally, I feel for the victims but I guess I just kinda like things that are really intense. Happy to consult on any poker-related questions. Trust me, I am a subject matter expert there. Where are you located btw? I'm in Silicon Valley (San Jose, CA).

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David Sweet
21:04 Oct 24, 2024

I live in Newport, TN. All the way across the country!! I have social media and my email is davidmsweet.author@gmail.com if you want to communicate that way. I am Appalachian born and raised. Lived in KY (original home of the first KFC) until my wife and I retired from teaching two years ago. We moved to her home town a year ago.

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J Hublick
15:09 Oct 15, 2024

Your imagery is so vivid, my senses feel so engaged reading your work.

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David Sweet
15:41 Oct 15, 2024

Thank you! I really want to establish a sense of place and put the reader into the world. I am grateful for your kind words!

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Ken Cartisano
06:18 Aug 20, 2024

Amazingly descriptive writing. I concur with Katherine Widdows, except for the L & N criticism, which is described as a steam engine in the very first paragraph. Although it would be better if it was described as a steam locomotive. Other readers, along with Katherine have offered up more cogent advice than I could summon, but the story deserves high praise for its wonderfully colorful and descriptive phrasing.

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David Sweet
13:38 Aug 20, 2024

Thanks. I always appreciate feedback on my stories. I'll definitely take your recommendations into consideration for both stories.

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VJ Hamilton
00:37 Jun 30, 2024

What fine, lyrical descriptions! Ex - "He had marveled at the lightning as it played in the darkness, briefly turning midnight to midday and exposing trees in the flickering light as they swayed crazily, bending like dancers to the beat of rain on the leaves" - this could be a in a book of poetry! Thanks for a great read.

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David Sweet
01:01 Jun 30, 2024

Thanks. I began writing in poetry before I took on prose. This story will be part of a group of stories based on tales told to me about my dad (Lefty) and his grandfather (The Old Man).

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Jeremy Stevens
12:29 Jun 10, 2024

David, where to begin. Your description is marvelous, of both the Kentucky environment and of The Old Man (in particular). The baseball took me back to the je ne se quois of my own youth. Then, of course there was the traumatic climax, an alcohol-induced fiasco with which I am familiar. Had to Google "cat's head biscuits...simple enough. I likened your style at times to Jack London (his short story War, to be precise). Thank you for the entertainment.

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David Sweet
13:18 Jun 10, 2024

Thanks for the review! This was based on a story my dad told me about my grandfather. I am working on a series of short stories about their relationship. My dad became an alcoholic, but was sober by the time I was born. He was a Baptist preacher in rural churches my entire life. My stories "Southbound " and "Cicero '59" touch the lives of my mother and my oldest two siblings (I'm the youngest of six) during the time my dad was an alcoholic. I am grateful for the father I had. My brothers and I often talk about how we had three different fath...

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