Down South
Geri Buckley Borcz
DOWN SOUTH
a
short fiction sampler
by
Geri Buckley Borcz
~~~~
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual places, events, persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Geri Buckley Borcz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author, excepting brief quotes used in critical articles and reviews.
Discover other titles by Geri Buckley Borcz at https://www.geribuckley.com
~~~~
Dear Reader:
I'm sharing my Southern roots in releasing this short fiction sampler.
The American writer and literary critic Alfred Kazin once said, "The South has produced writers as the Dark Ages produced saints," and I believe there's truth in his words, for the writers who fired my imagination when I was growing up all hailed from down South.
Each story is a quick and economical read - seven or fewer pages in length - and was inspired by true events. They originally appeared in a variety of venues, and while my writing has seen many changes over the years, my love of writing in different forms and time periods has never wavered.
Please know I truly appreciate loyal readers like you and value your feedback. Why not take a moment to drop me a line and let me know how I'm doing?
My best,
Geri
[email protected]
~~~~
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dear Reader
Story 1 - Crapped Out Again
Story 2 - Conspiracy of Silence
Story 3 - The Story of Julia
Story 4 - Remove Smigma with Cat Butter
Story 5 - Sweet Denial
About the Author
More Works by Geri
Story 1
Crapped Out Again
short fiction
~~~~
Two blessed weeks of wet and dreary, and the toilet in Adlee Bruner's cabin glubglubglubbed until it couldn't work up a convincing glub anymore. This left Adlee two sorry choices for his morning sit-down: trot out behind a loblolly pine in forty degree rain or hang his bare backside over the porch railing.
He tried them both when his septic tank filled with water, and so help him, couldn't rightly see much to recommend either one.
One quick crouch behind the wrong tree and poison oak crawled up spots he druther it not. And the water sluicing off the cabin's tin roof got him cleaner than his mama ever dreamed he'd be, but the frigid zoop to his warm privates at daylight this morning was the first time in thirty years Adlee had wished his mama's three-hole privy hadn't rotted down to nothing but a memory.
It was high time to do something about his septic system, yet in the midst of parlaying about it with his buddies over breakfast down at the Black and Bleu Diner, politics hit home for Adlee: he needed a bevy of permissions to extend his own drain fields.
"Didn't need no fool permits back in '44," Adlee said. "Me and my brothers worked like dogs, sweated plenty putting that tank in for Mama. First indoor plumbing we'd ever had and didn't have to ask a blessed soul to so much as kiss our fanny. I work the land, pay my taxes, and don’t see no banner-waving folks offering to come help me do diddly."
"Times change," said one of the geezers. "It's called progress."
Adless snorted. "I gotta bathroom. Now that was progress."
"Ain't you heard of save the planet? Save the whales?"
"Why?" Adlee said. "Somebody telling whales where to crap?"
"It's all about the environment now. Ain't gotta get a permit for a clogged crapper, but extending yer fields is digging and new tile, and that's called construction. The permit'll run y'about eight dollars."
Adlee's eyes widened. "I gotta ask and pay, to boot?"
He grumbled all the way to the county utilities office, plunked down his greenbacks and, in return, got a piece of computer paper with a big red stamp on it. To his way of thinking, that kind of progress was better served on the roll next to his toilet.
Nothing called for fancy stamps. Just plain common sense and elbow grease, and he could go back to enjoying his morning sit-down in peace.
Daddy had built the cabin near the stream-fed pond, so Mama could sit in the porch swing and watch the wood ducks light on the water in the evenings. Now, as Adlee drove onto the dam, he spotted the bug-and-bunny boys' truck parked next to the cabin. The green paint job with the gold Game and Freshwater Fish Commission tattooed on the door made it easy to recognize his visitors at a distance.
The Walkers in the dog pen set to howling and yelping for attention the minute they caught Adlee's scent. He parked and got out, the ground squishy wet, the carpet grass and clover ankle-high to his boots. Ahead of him, four boys, each young enough to be a grandson, tramped on the cabin's east swale. Any fool could see where the septic tank sat—the spot where the Bahia grass tickled your knees.
They introduced themselves while Adlee sized them up and dismissed them in the same glance. Chances were he'd forgotten more about working the land than these boys had ever learned in their school books.
The wildlife biologist held a clipboard in one hand, and Adlee noted more computer papers protected by a clear plastic sheet. He shook the empty hand and said, "Me an' the old fella you replaced went back a long ways. He stopped by real regular. Been dead now purt near three years and I do believe this is the first time you and I have met."
Apparently, the rebuke whizzed over the kid's head, because he never blinked an eye. "County utilities radioed us that you applied for a septic tank permit. Is that right?"
"Nope," Adlee said and gestured toward the oak branch. "Got the tank. Need to extend the fields. See I figure to—"
"Your land use is classified as agricultural, sir."
"Yeah, it is. So?"
"So it's our job to make a prelim impact report."
"Prelim? That's right official sounding. What's a prelim?"
"An initial evaluation," the kid said. "Based on our observations, the decision will be made whether a more in-depth study is required—"
"Is there a real live body who decides all this?" Adlee said. "Or are you talking about some computer somewhere that ain't never seen a farm and ain't got brain one?"
"I assure you our report is reviewed at the district level, the regional, then it's sent on to the state."
"I ain't reassured, son," Adlee said, "about hearing that folks I don't even know are interested in my bathroom habits. I ain't gonna tell you your business, but I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Only thing I see's gonna get impacted here is me, if I don't get back to a proper sit-down. Now, unless you fellas brung a shovel with you and some drain tile, I don't know as you can be of much help to me…"
And Adlee commenced to finish explaining the simplicity of his chore.
The EPA officer, who stood next to the wildlife biologist, shook his head. "Can't put drain fields that far."
"Why not?" Adlee said.
"Wetlands."
"That's swamp forest," Adlee said. "It's stayed swamp forest on account it gives good cover for the deer."
"Sir, the plants are endangered. Egrets, ducks, and herons bed in there."
"So did me and Brenda Rutledge one summer afternoon back in '68," Adlee said, "but wasn't no agency 'round then to protect what she endangered."
"That foliage, Mr. Bruner, is a nesting area, and you can't disturb nesting areas."
Adlee gazed heavenward.
"Fine, son," Adlee said. "Then I'll just come south here of the septic—"
"No can do," the fish biologist said. "Ground water seepage contaminates the pond, kills the fish, if it hasn't already."
"I've pulled bream outta that pond so fat they were square," Adlee said. "Bass and catfish, too."
But the fish biologist was on a roll and turned to the other three agency boys like Adlee wasn't even breathing.
"If we changed the pond's slope," the kid said, "adding, say, twenty yards of clay to the bowl bank—"
"We'll have to reshape the dam then, too," said the water management kid. "Bring one side up to code, they all have to come up to code." He turned to Adlee as an afterthought. "Is your bridge steel and concrete?"
"No, wood pilings and—"
"Then you'll have to redo that, too."
And Adlee was ignored again.
"That will work," said the EPA kid. "Of course, this whole project will take re-engineering."
"What project?" Adlee said.
"Fax me your recommendations," said the biologist to the other three. "I'll draw up a master land plan and submit it to the Corps of Engineers for the final say-so. Shouldn't be more than six or eight months to get it all signed and stamped for approval."
"Just a cotton-pickin' minute!"
Four puzzled faces turned at Adlee's shout.
"What about me?" he said. "All I want is to sit on my own toilet."
"We understand your concerns, sir," the EPA kid said.
"No, I don't think you do. If you think I'm gonna wait six months to take a crap without getting wet or a rash, you gotta 'nother think coming."
"Sir, we're doing our job. We're enforcing laws that are here to protect your future."
Adlee rubbed his sour stomach.
"Son, right now, my past is looking better than my future. Cheaper, too."
"Well, you're certainly under no obligation to enact our recommendations."
Adlee frowned. "And if I don't, what?"
The four boys headed to their truck.
"We'll get back to you on this," said the EPA kid. "Until then, do any work on those drain fields and you'll be in violation of EPA laws and subject to fines."
Adlee talked to the air while their truck bounced out of sight. Sure, he couldn't do a thing until the rain stopped and the ground dried anyway, but now it burned his hairs to be ordered about by kids who'd probably never lived a day in their lives without a toilet.
He'd bet good money they'd probably never seen an outhouse, either, let alone ever had to use one.
He went inside the cabin, got himself a cold beer from the fridge and carried it out to the back porch. After he settled his bones into the rocker, he watched the rain come down steady over the peanut field that stretched to the horizon beyond the pond.
What was it folks said nowadays. . .what goes around, comes around? Yep, progress was a cycle, he figured. Today he'd certainly come full circle.
Adlee heaved a resigned sigh. He had some milled oak stored in the barn, not enough for a three-holer, but plenty for one, maybe even a two-holer—who knows, might have company some time—and 'soon's he finished his beer, he'd put the boards to good use.
* * * * *
~~~~
Story 2
Conspiracy of Silence
short fiction
