the gristmill

First thing I noticed was how careful that there fellow was ‘bout the grave marker . . . like how he didn’t want to track no red clay on top ah that slab what was down by his feet. You know, there ain’t many folks now days what really gives a damn if mud and dirt makes things dirty, but I do—that’s  my job—keep’n this here place pretty. Besides, keep’n things clean ain’t really all that hard, no how, not wid my Mama and Daddy both sleep’n down there. But being that I take care of this here place, I wanted to know who that man in that fancy store bought suit might be, so I dropped my sling blade and got up ‘hind him. Now I didn’t say nothin’ mind you . . . jus’ stood there an’ dun’ my best to be quiet, but he up and said sumpt’n first. Reckon I weren’t near as quiet as I thought I was. “Bet there’s a story just waiting down there to be told,” he  finally said, and then he tole me his name. Said it was Harold Murray. Yes Sir, “Murray’s” what he said, an’ he asked

Me what be my name. So I went an’ tole him I was  a Murray, too. “Most all of  ‘em in here’s Murrays,” an’ pointin’ at my Great granddaddy’s marker, I said, “Does you wanna hear his story?”