Anuther one of Newt's tales.
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Ocie
The boys always approached Ocie’s place quietly -- not looking exactly in her direction, but catching glances from the corner of their eye -- usually in pairs or threes, they were always shy in her presence, more like small, feral puppies than preteen boys. They often brought her gifts -- wild plums and blackberries in season, cow skulls and deer antlers, fresh perch just caught from the tank, ducks just shot or maybe a coon or deerskin – they mimicked ancient serfs approaching their matriarch.
Ocie examined each offering with equal interest and care, never favoring one boy over the other. This was one of her qualities that attracted the boys to her.
She wasn't exactly what you'd picture as a woman likely to attract preteen boys. She was rawboned and rough skinned, and when she spoke her mouth revealed only a few remaining teeth. Her high cheekbones, brown eyes and dark, coarse hair bespoke of an Indian heritage. Her big, scarred and spotted hands were evidence of many years of hard toil. She wore a man’s khaki shirt under her ragged overalls which she cinched around the waist with a piece of rope. Shoes hurt her feet so more often than not she was barefoot, her knotted, arthritic toes sprouting cracked, yellowed nails and covered in dried mud from tending her turtle traps.
She lived by herself in a lean-to hovel near a bayou way back in the woods with only a couple of hound dogs, a stray cat or two and few razorback hogs to keep her company. She shied away from civilization except for the occasional trip into town to sell fresh blackberries, honey she'd robbed from a bee tree, may haws or some other produce she'd gleaned from nature’s bounty. There were rumors Ocie occasionally sold moonshine, but no one knew for sure. The money she made went to purchase staples such as bullets, flour, salt and snuff.
On this day, Marlon came alone to her shack for the first time. He brought her a squirrel he'd killed on the way. Straddling a bench on the porch of her shack, Ocie watched him coming down the path through the thicket with the squirrel dangling by the tail from one hand and his .22 over his shoulder.
Ocie tucked a dip of snuff under her bottom lip and accepted Marlon’s offering of the squirrel.
“Don’t you want to carry this home to your Ma to cook up?”
Marlon scuffed the toe of his hunting boot in the hard packed clay. “Nah, that one’s the onliest one I killed this morning and it wouldn't even be enough to make the skillet stink at our house.”
“Do you know what to do with it?” She asked as she spat a stream of tobacco juice off the porch and pulled a well-used pocketknife from one of her overall pockets.
Marlon scuffed his boot toe once more and said, “Uh, yes’m, I reckon I do. There’s a special way my daddy taught me to skin squirrels that’s supposed to keep the hair off the meat.” He looked at Ocie to see if she approved of his answer, and then continued, “you shave a small spot of hair off under the tail right at the base…” He could tell Ocie was no longer listening and was about to show him a better way to do it, the same as she had about sharpening knives, catching fish, calling turkeys and several other things usually considered to be the province of men only.
Ocie took the squirrel; layed it flat on its belly and about midway between head and tail, pricked a pinch of the back skin with the point of her knife, and made a small slit.
“It’ll work just as well whether the squirrel is gutted or not, but it’s easier when they’re not gutted, you just have to be careful not to cut into the belly,” she said.
Marlon watched as she worked her fingers into the small hole and deftly using her fingers and the knife widened the cut in the skin until it went all the way around the squirrel from the back to the belly.
“Then you work your fingers in under the edge of the skin ‘til you can catch hold and then pull the hide off just like pullin’ off a glove.” She did this and cut off one of the feet to give him. “Here’s a paw for good luck.”
He accepted her offering, saying he’d heard of rabbit feet being lucky, but never a squirrel. She said, “feet from all kinds of critters is lucky, my Uncle Booge had him an ashtray made from a horse’s hoof he claimed was his lucky, lucky piece. It must not have worked too well since Aunt Crystal killed him dead with a derringer pistol, sitting right in the chair beside his lucky horse foot.”
Marlon stood watching as she took him through the entire process of dressing the squirrel, pointing out the heart, the liver, the intestines and stomach. The ripe smell of fresh entrails filled the air, mixing with the earthy smell of Ocie. She finished by putting the carcass in some water. Her hounds smelled the fresh offal and woke up long enough to scuffle with each other over the leavings.
“So, I reckon I can expect you to come by tomorrow to eat some of this squirrel for lunch?” she said.
“Uh, no m’am -- you can have it.” For some reason Marlon felt a bit queasy. He and Ocie had shared honey, wild berries, plums and other fruits in the woods, but somehow the thought of sitting down to a cooked meal with her was unappealing.
Ocie told him, “Well, that won’t do at all. I know your folks have taught you it’s wrong to kill something you ain’t aiming to eat. Killing just to be killing ain’t right. You get started to killing God’s creatures that you don’t need for food and before you know it you’ve got the blood-lust in your heart.”
The boy looked down at the toe of his boots as he once again scraped first one, then the other in the hard-packed clay. He’d never before been chastised by Miss Ocie and wasn’t exactly sure how to react. He’d brought her game he’d just killed several times before so was his friend trying to teach him a lesson about killing only what you need or was she miffed at his refusal of her invitation to lunch?
Finally he reached a decision, with tears welling in his eyes he said, “Miss Ocie, I ain’t wanting to get the blood-lust and I sure don’t want you too be mad at me so I’m gonna be here for lunch tomorrow and me and you are gonna eat this squirrel.” With that he impulsively hugged Ocie, grabbed up his rifle and ran down the path away from the shack, afraid she might see the tears streaming down his cheeks.
Life’s tough when you’re 12 years old.
******************
Ocie
The boys always approached Ocie’s place quietly -- not looking exactly in her direction, but catching glances from the corner of their eye -- usually in pairs or threes, they were always shy in her presence, more like small, feral puppies than preteen boys. They often brought her gifts -- wild plums and blackberries in season, cow skulls and deer antlers, fresh perch just caught from the tank, ducks just shot or maybe a coon or deerskin – they mimicked ancient serfs approaching their matriarch.
Ocie examined each offering with equal interest and care, never favoring one boy over the other. This was one of her qualities that attracted the boys to her.
She wasn't exactly what you'd picture as a woman likely to attract preteen boys. She was rawboned and rough skinned, and when she spoke her mouth revealed only a few remaining teeth. Her high cheekbones, brown eyes and dark, coarse hair bespoke of an Indian heritage. Her big, scarred and spotted hands were evidence of many years of hard toil. She wore a man’s khaki shirt under her ragged overalls which she cinched around the waist with a piece of rope. Shoes hurt her feet so more often than not she was barefoot, her knotted, arthritic toes sprouting cracked, yellowed nails and covered in dried mud from tending her turtle traps.
She lived by herself in a lean-to hovel near a bayou way back in the woods with only a couple of hound dogs, a stray cat or two and few razorback hogs to keep her company. She shied away from civilization except for the occasional trip into town to sell fresh blackberries, honey she'd robbed from a bee tree, may haws or some other produce she'd gleaned from nature’s bounty. There were rumors Ocie occasionally sold moonshine, but no one knew for sure. The money she made went to purchase staples such as bullets, flour, salt and snuff.
On this day, Marlon came alone to her shack for the first time. He brought her a squirrel he'd killed on the way. Straddling a bench on the porch of her shack, Ocie watched him coming down the path through the thicket with the squirrel dangling by the tail from one hand and his .22 over his shoulder.
Ocie tucked a dip of snuff under her bottom lip and accepted Marlon’s offering of the squirrel.
“Don’t you want to carry this home to your Ma to cook up?”
Marlon scuffed the toe of his hunting boot in the hard packed clay. “Nah, that one’s the onliest one I killed this morning and it wouldn't even be enough to make the skillet stink at our house.”
“Do you know what to do with it?” She asked as she spat a stream of tobacco juice off the porch and pulled a well-used pocketknife from one of her overall pockets.
Marlon scuffed his boot toe once more and said, “Uh, yes’m, I reckon I do. There’s a special way my daddy taught me to skin squirrels that’s supposed to keep the hair off the meat.” He looked at Ocie to see if she approved of his answer, and then continued, “you shave a small spot of hair off under the tail right at the base…” He could tell Ocie was no longer listening and was about to show him a better way to do it, the same as she had about sharpening knives, catching fish, calling turkeys and several other things usually considered to be the province of men only.
Ocie took the squirrel; layed it flat on its belly and about midway between head and tail, pricked a pinch of the back skin with the point of her knife, and made a small slit.
“It’ll work just as well whether the squirrel is gutted or not, but it’s easier when they’re not gutted, you just have to be careful not to cut into the belly,” she said.
Marlon watched as she worked her fingers into the small hole and deftly using her fingers and the knife widened the cut in the skin until it went all the way around the squirrel from the back to the belly.
“Then you work your fingers in under the edge of the skin ‘til you can catch hold and then pull the hide off just like pullin’ off a glove.” She did this and cut off one of the feet to give him. “Here’s a paw for good luck.”
He accepted her offering, saying he’d heard of rabbit feet being lucky, but never a squirrel. She said, “feet from all kinds of critters is lucky, my Uncle Booge had him an ashtray made from a horse’s hoof he claimed was his lucky, lucky piece. It must not have worked too well since Aunt Crystal killed him dead with a derringer pistol, sitting right in the chair beside his lucky horse foot.”
Marlon stood watching as she took him through the entire process of dressing the squirrel, pointing out the heart, the liver, the intestines and stomach. The ripe smell of fresh entrails filled the air, mixing with the earthy smell of Ocie. She finished by putting the carcass in some water. Her hounds smelled the fresh offal and woke up long enough to scuffle with each other over the leavings.
“So, I reckon I can expect you to come by tomorrow to eat some of this squirrel for lunch?” she said.
“Uh, no m’am -- you can have it.” For some reason Marlon felt a bit queasy. He and Ocie had shared honey, wild berries, plums and other fruits in the woods, but somehow the thought of sitting down to a cooked meal with her was unappealing.
Ocie told him, “Well, that won’t do at all. I know your folks have taught you it’s wrong to kill something you ain’t aiming to eat. Killing just to be killing ain’t right. You get started to killing God’s creatures that you don’t need for food and before you know it you’ve got the blood-lust in your heart.”
The boy looked down at the toe of his boots as he once again scraped first one, then the other in the hard-packed clay. He’d never before been chastised by Miss Ocie and wasn’t exactly sure how to react. He’d brought her game he’d just killed several times before so was his friend trying to teach him a lesson about killing only what you need or was she miffed at his refusal of her invitation to lunch?
Finally he reached a decision, with tears welling in his eyes he said, “Miss Ocie, I ain’t wanting to get the blood-lust and I sure don’t want you too be mad at me so I’m gonna be here for lunch tomorrow and me and you are gonna eat this squirrel.” With that he impulsively hugged Ocie, grabbed up his rifle and ran down the path away from the shack, afraid she might see the tears streaming down his cheeks.
Life’s tough when you’re 12 years old.
