So anyhow there was this October when they was prolly 13, 14, and 15 year ol'. Halloween a comin.' Now the principal a the school over there was Ward Livengood. Well, he was "livin' good," what with his nice income from the second-best job in the county. Har! har! Livin' good. I sometime crack myself up. Anyway, ol' Ward, he come out here from Indiana, had him a dee-ploma from Oakland Normal School, doncha know. What was the best job in the county? Why sheriffin', I reckon. You got no idee the ways them fellas can line they own pocket. But that's a tale for another time. So ol' Livengood marry a sweet thang from over to Terre Haute, and headed West. Lureen Tuttle, she was, and the only way I would know that is she never cease from tellin' ever' one she meet about "the Tuttles from Terre Haute."
So Principal Livengood got the school over there, an' that school were the centerpiece a McClave. They had just built hit a couple years afore, and it were a two-story brick, three ya count the basement. Now Livengood drive him a little ol' Model T Ford car, runabout, they call hit. So anyway, morning of November 1 he walk on over to school-- didn't even notice his car wasn't aside his house, on account he only drove hit to work but rarely. But he get to school, unlock the building and clumb on up the stairs. Imagine his surprise when he get to the second floor, and there a settin' in the hallway smack again' his office door is his very own personal Model T!
And do you think that trio and they cohorts had anythin' to do with that? Not much, they didn't; no more'n hit was them left Fred Sparks's outhouse in the middle George Watt's broom corn field.
© 2013 David W. Lacy
You may note at the top of the page there is a new tab, "Short Stories." I have placed the current series of stories I am posting on Thursdays here in one place, should you like to review any of them. New ones will be added each Thursday.