The cotton mill village....

     Located just inside Alusia’s southeast town limits, Saratogan
is the only place that Crackers and I have ever lived. I was born in
a house on First Street and when I was seven years old, we moved
to Second Street and Crackers was born there. After almost six
years we still live on Second Street. Like the other houses, which
lie in semi-circular rows, our house also pays homage to the
cotton mill, which squats on a small hill like a blue bug laying
eggs. The houses are the property of the mill owners and are alike
in all respects. They are painted white and have four rooms, with
the toilet in a small enclosure on the back porch. The mill
supervisors’ houses, however, have five rooms and are the envy
of all the workers.
     The cotton mill itself is constructed mostly of blue painted
glass and from its insides comes a continuous hum that never
stops whether day or night. To one not used to the hum, it is very
irritating to the ears. But we who live there have learned to accept
the noise as part of ourselves and give it no attention. In fact, it
has become so much a part of our lives that when the machines are
stopped for repairs we become uneasy. The silence drives the
people out on their porches where they sit and talk while awaiting
the resumption of the noisy motors. When the repairs are made
and the hum returns, breathing seemingly becomes easier for all
of us.

Those Infamous Buckalews....

     During those sweltering nights, I could hear people laughing and
shouting around the village. Sometimes various noises would
continue until early morning or until some strong man’s voice would
shout, “Shut up out there!” Some of the voices I recognized, such as
Buck’s and the Buckalew brothers. It seemed to me they never slept!
     As I sat on my porch steps one morning, they drove by in their old
Ford talking loudly, whistling and occasionally tilting a brown
whiskey bottle to their mouths. I could tell they were daring each
other to hang by a foot out of one of the car doors. The first one out
was Dade who waved the whisky bottle as if it were a flag. Waving
his arms like windmills, his foot slipped and he sprawled out onto the
sandy street. Buck stopped the car so he and Carl could laugh. Dade
got to his feet and staggered around as if he just had stepped off one
of those carnival rides. He shouted a sling of cuss words that
overwhelmed every soft sound of the morning. While he weaved in
the yellow sunlight, he looked at me.
     "Who ya lookin’ at, runt!” he shouted. With a mighty heave, he
hurled the whiskey bottle toward me. I leaped backward, but the
bottle was far off his aim and it fell short of the porch. It popped into
thousands of brown slivers. Fighting the brightness of the sun with
one hand, he fell off-balanced to the street again. Mother rushed to
the door.
     “What happened!” she exclaimed.
      I answered, “Dade threw a bottle and it busted on our yard.”
      Looking at the glass, she motioned for me to come into the house.
As I stepped inside the screen door, she walked past me to the front
steps. She watched as Carl helped Dade to his feet and the both of
them swayed in unison.
     Mother called out, “Go home or I’ll call the sheriff!” She walked
down the steps and began picking up the brown glass. Dade stretched
out his hand, clawing the air in front of him. The sun was stronger
now.
     “Who’s that!” Dade yelled.
      “Go on, I said!” Mother repeated. They muttered some bad words
and walked unsteadily back to the car. Buck started the car and it slid
away. Mother walked back up on the porch. Looking at me she said,
     “Ark, watch out for those boys. They’re mean…real mean.”

The Altercation....

     Two one-gallon jugs were filled with gas from the sheriff’s car.
Several of the men stuffed oily rags from their cars into the mouths
of the jugs. Then they took wire and tied it around the rags and the top
of the jugs to be sure that the rags didn’t fall out. They looked real
heavy to me, but Sheriff Davis picked them both up with ease. I had
forgotten how big he was. He set them between his feet and called for
the Buckalews to give up one last time. Their answer was two quick
shots that sent everyone diving again. The sheriff cursed under his
breath and then called everyone together.
     Uncle Boyd and Cecil Gibbons, each carrying one of the jugs,
were sent in a wide circle around the house. They made sure to stay
out of sight of the Buckalews. In a few minutes they stood in a weed
patch behind the house looking down an open breezeway, which was
just right for what they were going to do. By throwing the jugs in the
breezeway together, the fire would spread into both sides of the
house at once. We waited as they lit the rags with matches. Virgil was
poised to shoot his rifle in the air when the two of them were in place.
When he saw that the torches had been lit, he hurriedly brought the
rifle to his shoulder and looked at the men who stood in a half circle
around the house. Then he fired!