The Little Jones Boy
>> Monday, July 25, 2011
The two little boys were only 7 years old. Cousins, they had spent a day at their grandparent’s place in the country, and had wandered off down to the river, where they were forbidden to go. Their mothers had been distraught, threatening to never let them visit their grandparents again. Both had received a spanking, and they were pouting about the harsh discipline meted out. After all, their fathers had been there fishing only the week before, and the river sounded like great fun.
That evening they were sitting on the porch with their grandpa, and he was sympathetic. “Nothing seems fair when you’re seven years old,” he said, “and subject to the whims of cruel mothers set on keeping you from having fun.”
He had their full attention that warm summer night, as the sun began to set and they were all three enjoying a glass of lemonade Grandma had brought them. “I reckon it’s all because of that little Jones boy, years back, that they is so doggone mean to you two,” he said, “but I reckon we can’t speak of that, it's too awful to remember and I promised I wouldn’t tell you little guys that story. It was a bad, bad thing…best forgotten and too bad to talk of.”
It wasn’t quiet long. The two wanted to know who the little Jones boy was. Grandpa could tell that much, he reckoned. “Cute little guy… lived down the road apiece, but mean as a pet Billy goat. Course I can’t say anymore about him, cause nobody talks about it nowadays… reckon he’d be nigh onto a growed man now if he’d just not been so determined not to mind his ma.”
“Was that a whippoorwill I heard,” the old man took out his pipe, and seemed to want to change the subject. The two little boys wouldn’t hear of it. “Tell us about the little Jones boy,” they said, nearly in unison.
“No, no, boys,” the grandpa shook his head as he filled the bowl of his pipe. “It’s a story you don’t want to hear and yore mothers would skin me alive if I told you about that little Jones boy and the awful thing what happened to him.”
With an interest heightened by his hesitancy, the two begged him to tell them the story. “Please grandpa,” said one, “we won’t tell nobody.”
As the urging continued, the old man lit his pipe in the fading light of evening, swatted a fly with his fly swatter, and gave in. “Well, all right, I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to always keep this a secret between the three of us. Cause I may be the only man what knowed what happened to that little Jones boy.”
The old man sent a puff of sweet-smelling pipe tobacco smoke into the air, and took a deep breath, the two little boys’ attention riveted on him. “I reckon I was just a young man back then, when the little Jones boy up and disappeared. He was bad to just ignore his grandma and his ma, and folks thought for a while he just wandered off into the woods and might wander on back when he got good and hungry. Some folks said maybe he went off down to the river and got drowned or ate by a giant alligator snappin’ turtle or something, but his ma had told him never to go to the river, and she said he was sure to stay away from there, bein’ the kind of good kid he was.”
He drew a puff from his tobacco, noting he had the two boys in undivided awe; their mouths open with anxiety. “Only I never did figger he was a good kid. Mean as a snake, I’d say, bad to lie and sneak off, not mind his ma and kick old dogs and throw rocks at the chickens and that kind of thing.”
The old man continued as dusk settled and the sun left a blood red sky to the west, “So as I remember, that’s when I went down and set me a trotline for catfish in that big deep scary hole of water down there where you boys was just a couple days ago. And I baited it with big old worms and some shade peerch I had caught from the creek.”
With his two grandsons sitting on the wooden floor of the old porch before him, the old man shifted in his rocking chair and put his foot up beneath him, the way that old-timers do. The boys were totally enthralled with the forbidden story.
“Well sir, I tell ya,” the old man puffed on his pipe and listened as a screech owl wailed from the woods across the gravel road before the old farmhouse. “When I went back in the middle of the night, dark and scary as it was, I figgered I’d have me a big ol’ catfish. But I went out there in my ol’ boat and that line was hung up down deep on the bottom pulled back in under a big rock bluff.”
The screech owl wailed again, and the western sky began to dim as the old man continued. “I couldn’t pull that line up at all, so I just strips off my overalls and my boots, and I grabs my flashlight, and I dives into that clear deep river to see if I can unhang that hung-up trotline.”
Dramatically, he took his pipe out of his mouth and shook his head. “Don’t know if I should tell the rest of it,” he said quietly, looking at the floor beneath his rocking chair in mock anguish. The boys, beside themselves with excitement, urged him to continue the story, as they were now on their feet beside the rocking chair, hair standing up on the backs of their necks as the screech owl gave forth its eerie cry again.
“Well boys, you got to remember that its natures way to rid the world of the weak and the stupid,” he said, “when a kid won’t obey his mother, its like a little duck that gets off away from his brood and gets ate up by a big ol’ bass or a fawn that won’t stay hid, and gets ate up by a wolf…”
The little boys knew something awful must be coming. “Go on Grandpa,” one urged.
“Well I swum down into the deep dark water with my flashlight, an’ there he was, a humongous ol’ catfish the size of a full growed Hereford bull. A good axe-han’les distance it was between them beady little horrible eyes…”
Well boys I hates to tell it, I hates to remember it, but there ain’t no way to forget what I saw… there sticking out of his big ol' ugly mouth, full of jagged old teeth…”
The old man’s voice was just a whisper now, as he glanced over his shoulder as if afraid of what might be behind him… “Stickin’ out of his big ol’ ugly mouth was that little Jones boys leg!”
Years later when the two boys were much older, their mothers commented on how they never went near the river again when they were small. Sometimes it takes a grandpa to help raise little boys.
You can see this grandpa’s website at www.larrydablemontoutdoors.blogspot.com or write to me at Box 22, Bolivar, Mo. 65613. The e-mail address is lightninridge@windstream.net
That evening they were sitting on the porch with their grandpa, and he was sympathetic. “Nothing seems fair when you’re seven years old,” he said, “and subject to the whims of cruel mothers set on keeping you from having fun.”
He had their full attention that warm summer night, as the sun began to set and they were all three enjoying a glass of lemonade Grandma had brought them. “I reckon it’s all because of that little Jones boy, years back, that they is so doggone mean to you two,” he said, “but I reckon we can’t speak of that, it's too awful to remember and I promised I wouldn’t tell you little guys that story. It was a bad, bad thing…best forgotten and too bad to talk of.”
It wasn’t quiet long. The two wanted to know who the little Jones boy was. Grandpa could tell that much, he reckoned. “Cute little guy… lived down the road apiece, but mean as a pet Billy goat. Course I can’t say anymore about him, cause nobody talks about it nowadays… reckon he’d be nigh onto a growed man now if he’d just not been so determined not to mind his ma.”
“Was that a whippoorwill I heard,” the old man took out his pipe, and seemed to want to change the subject. The two little boys wouldn’t hear of it. “Tell us about the little Jones boy,” they said, nearly in unison.
“No, no, boys,” the grandpa shook his head as he filled the bowl of his pipe. “It’s a story you don’t want to hear and yore mothers would skin me alive if I told you about that little Jones boy and the awful thing what happened to him.”
With an interest heightened by his hesitancy, the two begged him to tell them the story. “Please grandpa,” said one, “we won’t tell nobody.”
As the urging continued, the old man lit his pipe in the fading light of evening, swatted a fly with his fly swatter, and gave in. “Well, all right, I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to always keep this a secret between the three of us. Cause I may be the only man what knowed what happened to that little Jones boy.”
The old man sent a puff of sweet-smelling pipe tobacco smoke into the air, and took a deep breath, the two little boys’ attention riveted on him. “I reckon I was just a young man back then, when the little Jones boy up and disappeared. He was bad to just ignore his grandma and his ma, and folks thought for a while he just wandered off into the woods and might wander on back when he got good and hungry. Some folks said maybe he went off down to the river and got drowned or ate by a giant alligator snappin’ turtle or something, but his ma had told him never to go to the river, and she said he was sure to stay away from there, bein’ the kind of good kid he was.”
He drew a puff from his tobacco, noting he had the two boys in undivided awe; their mouths open with anxiety. “Only I never did figger he was a good kid. Mean as a snake, I’d say, bad to lie and sneak off, not mind his ma and kick old dogs and throw rocks at the chickens and that kind of thing.”
The old man continued as dusk settled and the sun left a blood red sky to the west, “So as I remember, that’s when I went down and set me a trotline for catfish in that big deep scary hole of water down there where you boys was just a couple days ago. And I baited it with big old worms and some shade peerch I had caught from the creek.”
With his two grandsons sitting on the wooden floor of the old porch before him, the old man shifted in his rocking chair and put his foot up beneath him, the way that old-timers do. The boys were totally enthralled with the forbidden story.
“Well sir, I tell ya,” the old man puffed on his pipe and listened as a screech owl wailed from the woods across the gravel road before the old farmhouse. “When I went back in the middle of the night, dark and scary as it was, I figgered I’d have me a big ol’ catfish. But I went out there in my ol’ boat and that line was hung up down deep on the bottom pulled back in under a big rock bluff.”
The screech owl wailed again, and the western sky began to dim as the old man continued. “I couldn’t pull that line up at all, so I just strips off my overalls and my boots, and I grabs my flashlight, and I dives into that clear deep river to see if I can unhang that hung-up trotline.”
Dramatically, he took his pipe out of his mouth and shook his head. “Don’t know if I should tell the rest of it,” he said quietly, looking at the floor beneath his rocking chair in mock anguish. The boys, beside themselves with excitement, urged him to continue the story, as they were now on their feet beside the rocking chair, hair standing up on the backs of their necks as the screech owl gave forth its eerie cry again.
“Well boys, you got to remember that its natures way to rid the world of the weak and the stupid,” he said, “when a kid won’t obey his mother, its like a little duck that gets off away from his brood and gets ate up by a big ol’ bass or a fawn that won’t stay hid, and gets ate up by a wolf…”
The little boys knew something awful must be coming. “Go on Grandpa,” one urged.
“Well I swum down into the deep dark water with my flashlight, an’ there he was, a humongous ol’ catfish the size of a full growed Hereford bull. A good axe-han’les distance it was between them beady little horrible eyes…”
Well boys I hates to tell it, I hates to remember it, but there ain’t no way to forget what I saw… there sticking out of his big ol' ugly mouth, full of jagged old teeth…”
The old man’s voice was just a whisper now, as he glanced over his shoulder as if afraid of what might be behind him… “Stickin’ out of his big ol’ ugly mouth was that little Jones boys leg!”
Years later when the two boys were much older, their mothers commented on how they never went near the river again when they were small. Sometimes it takes a grandpa to help raise little boys.
You can see this grandpa’s website at www.larrydablemontoutdoors.blogspot.com or write to me at Box 22, Bolivar, Mo. 65613. The e-mail address is lightninridge@windstream.net
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