Olive Ann Burns' "Cold Sassy Tree" Chapter 1 113 words

She wouldn't of been caught dead in an apron made out of a flour sack, whereas Mama had on one that still read Try Skylark Self-Rising Flour right across the chest.

Mama made me wait till she pinned the black mourning band for Granny on my shirt sleeve.

July 5, 1906, was three months after the big earthquake in San Francisco and about two months after a stranger drove through Cold Sassy in a Pope-Waverley electric automobile that got stalled trying to cross the railroad tracks.

Granny never would let him keep his corn whiskey at home.

When we got there, she handed the baby over to our cook, Queenie, and hurried in where Grandpa was pacing the front all, his high-top black shoes squeaking as he walked.

Mama's and Aunt Loma's mouths dropped open and their faces went white.

Three weeks after Granny Blakeslee died, Grandpa came to our house for his early morning snort of whiskey, as usual, and said to me, "Will Tweedy?

It was six months after my best friend, Bluford Jackson, got firecrackers for Christmas and burned his hand on one and died of lockjaw ten days later.

He had one at the store so he could phone orders to the wholesale house in Athens, but he was too stingy to pay for one at home.

While our spit swam over hoarhound or peppermint, we'd hear the floorboards creak in the closet, then a silence, then a big "H-rumph!" and a big satisfied "Ah-h-h-h!"

I ran all the way, my brown and white bird dog, T.R., bounding ahead.

I found Aunt Loma sitting at the kitchen table, her long curly red hair still loose and tousled, the dirty breakfast dishes pushed back to clear a space.

The heavy, droopy mustache had some dried food stuck on it.

His black hat, pants, and vest were dusty and the homemade white shirt rusty with tobacco juice.

It was six months after my best friend, Bluford Jackson, got firecrackers for Christmas and burned his hand on one and died of lockjaw ten days later.

But then Loma was young-just twenty-and sloven.

When she came down, carrying fat, sleepy Campbell Junior, her mass of red hair was combed, pinned up, and draped with what she called "my genteel black veil."

I know because Grandpa put it down in the family Bible, and also Toddy Hughes wrote up for the Atlanta paper what happened to me on the train trestle that day and I still have the clipping.

I and my little redheaded sister, Mary Toy, always followed him down the hall, and he usually gave us each a stick of penny candy before shutting the company room door in our faces.

He'll know soon enough anyways."

Go find yore mama, then run up to yore Aunt Loma's and tell her I said git on down here.

As usual when we got to Aunt Loma's, the dog plopped down on the dirt sidewalk in front of her house to wait.

I found Aunt Loma sitting at the kitchen table, her long curly red hair still loose and tousled, the dirty breakfast dishes pushed back to clear a space.

Campbell Junior pulled at the veil all the way to our house, and Aunt Loma fussed all the way.

I found Aunt Loma sitting at the kitchen table, her long curly red hair still loose and tousled, the dirty breakfast dishes pushed back to clear a space.

The words hadn't washed out yet, which I was sure Aunt Loma noticed as she said crossly, "Mornin', Sister."

July 5, 1906, was three months after the big earthquake in San Francisco and about two months after a stranger drove through Cold Sassy in a Pope-Waverley electric automobile that got stalled trying to cross the railroad tracks.

I know because Grandpa put it down in the family Bible, and also Toddy Hughes wrote up for the Atlanta paper what happened to me on the train trestle that day and I still have the clipping.

While our spit swam over hoarhound or peppermint, we'd hear the floorboards creak in the closet, then a silence, then a big "H-rumph!" and a big satisfied "Ah-h-h-h!"

She wouldn't of been caught dead in an apron made out of a flour sack, whereas Mama had on one that still read Try Skylark Self-Rising Flour right across the chest.

I know because Grandpa put it down in the family Bible, and also Toddy Hughes wrote up for the Atlanta paper what happened to me on the train trestle that day and I still have the clipping.

Then he stomped toward the open front door and put his hand on the knob as if all he planned to say was good-bye-or maybe more like he was fixing to put a match to a string of firecrackers and then run before they went off.

The heavy, droopy mustache had some dried food stuck on it.

His black hat, pants, and vest were dusty and the homemade white shirt rusty with tobacco juice.

He would come out smiling, ready for the day, and pat Mary Toy's head as he went past her.

I ran all the way, my brown and white bird dog, T.R., bounding ahead.

"Now what I come to say," he blurted out, "is I'm aimin' to marry Miss Love Simpson."

Three weeks after Granny Blakeslee died, Grandpa came to our house for his early morning snort of whiskey, as usual, and said to me, "Will Tweedy?

He'll know soon enough anyways."

Three weeks after Granny Blakeslee died, Grandpa came to our house for his early morning snort of whiskey, as usual, and said to me, "Will Tweedy?

Mama and Aunt Loma went to sobbing out loud, their arms around each other.

For one thing, Mary Toy had gone home with Cudn Temp the day before.

With one cat in her lap and another licking an oatmeal bowl on the table, she sat drinking coffee and reading a book of theater plays.

Well, I done decided, and when I say what I come to say I want y'all to know they ain't no disrespect to her intended."

The heavy, droopy mustache had some dried food stuck on it.

I know because Grandpa put it down in the family Bible, and also Toddy Hughes wrote up for the Atlanta paper what happened to me on the train trestle that day and I still have the clipping.

She wouldn't of been caught dead in an apron made out of a flour sack, whereas Mama had on one that still read Try Skylark Self-Rising Flour right across the chest.

The words hadn't washed out yet, which I was sure Aunt Loma noticed as she said crossly, "Mornin', Sister."

Grandpa's blue eyes were suddenly glassy with unspilled tears.

But even as she spoke she stood up, gulped some coffee, set down the cup still half full, and rushed upstairs to change into a black dress on account of her mother having just died and all.

I couldn't help noticing how in only three weeks as a widower he already looked like one.

Three weeks after Granny Blakeslee died, Grandpa came to our house for his early morning snort of whiskey, as usual, and said to me, "Will Tweedy?

He held up his left arm, the shirt sleeve knotted as usual just below the elbow.

His dark bushy hair and long gray beard were tangled.

I found Aunt Loma sitting at the kitchen table, her long curly red hair still loose and tousled, the dirty breakfast dishes pushed back to clear a space.

With a sort of whimper, she said, "Pa, don't you care what folks are go'n say?"

And Grandpa, instead of coming out feeling good, looked like somebody itching for a fight.

Go find yore mama, then run up to yore Aunt Loma's and tell her I said git on down here.

On the morning of July 5th, he stalked through the house and into our company room without even speaking to me.

When we got there, she handed the baby over to our cook, Queenie, and hurried in where Grandpa was pacing the front all, his high-top black shoes squeaking as he walked.

His dark bushy hair and long gray beard were tangled.

But even as she spoke she stood up, gulped some coffee, set down the cup still half full, and rushed upstairs to change into a black dress on account of her mother having just died and all.

When she came down, carrying fat, sleepy Campbell Junior, her mass of red hair was combed, pinned up, and draped with what she called "my genteel black veil."

Mama made me wait till she pinned the black mourning band for Granny on my shirt sleeve.

Mama called from the dining room, where she was closing windows and pulling down shades to keep out the morning sun.

Then he stomped toward the open front door and put his hand on the knob as if all he planned to say was good-bye-or maybe more like he was fixing to put a match to a string of firecrackers and then run before they went off.

His black hat, pants, and vest were dusty and the homemade white shirt rusty with tobacco juice.

She wouldn't of been caught dead in an apron made out of a flour sack, whereas Mama had on one that still read Try Skylark Self-Rising Flour right across the chest.

She wouldn't of been caught dead in an apron made out of a flour sack, whereas Mama had on one that still read Try Skylark Self-Rising Flour right across the chest.

When she came down, carrying fat, sleepy Campbell Junior, her mass of red hair was combed, pinned up, and draped with what she called "my genteel black veil."

Mama called from the dining room, where she was closing windows and pulling down shades to keep out the morning sun.

The heavy, droopy mustache had some dried food stuck on it.

I and my little redheaded sister, Mary Toy, always followed him down the hall, and he usually gave us each a stick of penny candy before shutting the company room door in our faces.

It was six months after my best friend, Bluford Jackson, got firecrackers for Christmas and burned his hand on one and died of lockjaw ten days later.

He kept it in the company room at our house, which was between the depot and downtown, and came by for a snort every morning on his way to work.

Mama made me wait till she pinned the black mourning band for Granny on my shirt sleeve.

Hearing Grandpa go on about Granny made my throat ache.

Taking off the apron as if we had real company, Mama said to me, "Son, you go gather the eggs, hear?

Granny always prided herself on keeping his wild hair and beard trimmed, his shirts clean, his pants brushed and "nice."

I found Aunt Loma sitting at the kitchen table, her long curly red hair still loose and tousled, the dirty breakfast dishes pushed back to clear a space.

While our spit swam over hoarhound or peppermint, we'd hear the floorboards creak in the closet, then a silence, then a big "H-rumph!" and a big satisfied "Ah-h-h-h!"

He had one at the store so he could phone orders to the wholesale house in Athens, but he was too stingy to pay for one at home.

As usual when we got to Aunt Loma's, the dog plopped down on the dirt sidewalk in front of her house to wait.

When I told her what Grandpa said, she slammed her book down so hard, the cap leaped off the table.

Then he stomped toward the open front door and put his hand on the knob as if all he planned to say was good-bye-or maybe more like he was fixing to put a match to a string of firecrackers and then run before they went off.

Granny always prided herself on keeping his wild hair and beard trimmed, his shirts clean, his pants brushed and "nice."

When she came down, carrying fat, sleepy Campbell Junior, her mass of red hair was combed, pinned up, and draped with what she called "my genteel black veil."

Campbell Junior pulled at the veil all the way to our house, and Aunt Loma fussed all the way.

Mama called from the dining room, where she was closing windows and pulling down shades to keep out the morning sun.

Then he stomped toward the open front door and put his hand on the knob as if all he planned to say was good-bye-or maybe more like he was fixing to put a match to a string of firecrackers and then run before they went off.

I know because Grandpa put it down in the family Bible, and also Toddy Hughes wrote up for the Atlanta paper what happened to me on the train trestle that day and I still have the clipping.

I and my little redheaded sister, Mary Toy, always followed him down the hall, and he usually gave us each a stick of penny candy before shutting the company room door in our faces.

Granny never would let him keep his corn whiskey at home.

He kept it in the company room at our house, which was between the depot and downtown, and came by for a snort every morning on his way to work.

I and my little redheaded sister, Mary Toy, always followed him down the hall, and he usually gave us each a stick of penny candy before shutting the company room door in our faces.

Taking off the apron as if we had real company, Mama said to me, "Son, you go gather the eggs, hear?

He took off his black hat and laid it on the table, pulled at his mustache, scratched through the white streak in his beard, and turned those deep blue eyes on Mama and Aunt Loma, his grown children, standing together puzzled and uneasy.

When we got there, she handed the baby over to our cook, Queenie, and hurried in where Grandpa was pacing the front all, his high-top black shoes squeaking as he walked.

Then his voice softened.

When she came down, carrying fat, sleepy Campbell Junior, her mass of red hair was combed, pinned up, and draped with what she called "my genteel black veil."