I thought I had posted this short story earlier on this blog...apparently not.
So here is the morose story I call simply  "Jess"

He was born seventy three years ago and how he made it this far was a wonder to all who knew him.
He squatted by the fire as would an Indian, smoking his home rolled cigarette, as he had done for
Most of his life.
The old man had lived in the woods all his life, never been out of them.
He knew when the squirrels  were the easiest to get.
He knew where all the blackberry brambles were and he knew how to make sassafras tea.
He also knew when the revenooers were in the area…he just knew.

His mama had named him Joshua, most of his life, he went by pops.
Pops  never had been married, never knew a woman who would put
Up with what he liked to say was “his style”.

Didn’t  know about any kids he had, ‘course he might have had a few runnin around.

Pops had a specialty…

He produced what the hill folk called “pops’ home cookin’”

Moonshine

100 proof , clear, kick-your-butt, make you kiss your ugly ole aunt,  good ole corn whiskey.

You see Pops was sitting around a fire, but it wasn’t any campfire.
Oh, no.
This fire had a still over it…it had to be tended closely, as only Pops knew how to do, to make that still
Produce what he was famous for.

That’s what he did
That’s who he was

Pops had done some jail time. He wasn’t bitter, he just figured the gub’ment was doin’ what they had
To do.
“Them revenooers is mad ‘cause I don’t pay no taxes to the gub’ment. Well, taxes is what pays them
Revenooers salary. “ “ They’s pissed off ‘cause I ain’t payin’ their salary.” “ I’ve heard about them
Type of things goin’ on in Chicago, with the Mob, I think it was called ‘protectionism”.

He didn’t know it , but this was to be his last run of ‘shine.
The very next day the Carrol County sheriff  picked him up.
Pops, sheriff Sutton said, I know you make some great ‘shine,
Had a few pints myself.
But the Feds said if I don’t put a stop to it, they will.
We got to bust up your still…matter of fact , your whole operation.
Them 120 gallon barrels gonna get the axe.
Tomorrow, we’ll come by in the afternoon to pick you up.
That should give you time to find some one to keep that flea-bag hound you call ol’ Jess,
Your two mules and that damned ugly jass-honkey you call Frank.

Now breakin up a man's still is one thing...but talkin bad about a person's critters, well...
hat's just mean!


The sheriff and his deputies did what they had to do.

Pops too

The two mules and Frank were down at the Jones place.

Pops and  ol’ Jess was found curled up in bed.
Their race was run.
They both gave up.
As it should be.