Mike Addington's Blog - Posts Tagged "southern-literature"

Just read "Outer Dark" by C McCarthy, which captures the microcosm of generationally poor Appalachia life style in vivid detail. Too vivid on occasion. Quite graphic and dark with long beautifully written sentences, which, at times, didn't add anything to either the character or the story. I'd really like to know his thinking behind some of paragraph-long descriptive sentences that, eg, only impart that a horse is coming down the lane (see end of approx third chapter from the end; chapters aren't named or numbered). His writing style has changed so much from earlier works to, eg, "No Country for Old Men," which I liked much better. Kinda weird: I'm a fan of his, but at times I wonder "what the heck was he thinking?" at some sentences or depictions.

Time will pass. Will you?

Out Late


“This night is made for moonshiners,” Georgia state trooper Edwards muttered as he flipped his headlights to low beam. Mist from the creeks and moist ground drifted through the forest and settled on the road, hanging beneath the canopy of leaves. He squinted looking for old logging trails, hoping to see signs of use: churned earth, packed grass, broken limbs or underbrush. It was almost nine o’clock when he saw freshly trampled weeds.
Edwards drove another half-mile then pulled the patrol cruiser to the roadside. He flung off his hat, jerked the shotgun from its mount, then opened the trunk and put on a green windbreaker, slipping his badge into the pocket. He turned the cruiser around and, lights off, coasted a quarter mile back down the road.
After working his way through the roadside briars and wild plum trees, Edwards moved into the forest. Damp, packed leaves from the old oaks softened the steps of his massive body, and he made it to the trail in thirty minutes. If there were a lookout, he should be around here somewhere.
Edwards sank to the ground, watching for a lit cigarette, a movement, a sound. Ten minutes later, he backed up and crept farther up the trail, watching and listening, hammer back on the shotgun.
A glint of metal caught his eye, and Edwards froze when he saw the silhouette of a car. His gaze moved up the trail, but it was just the one car.
The trooper edged closer until he reached the side of the car. Low moans came from inside.
Edwards eased up and peeked in the window. Teenagers, kissing in the back seat.
The kids leapt from the seat when Edwards banged his fist on the roof. “Get up from there,” he bellowed, then pressed his badge against the window. “Open this door.”
The boy stepped out of the car. He was only a couple of inches shorter than Edwards and powerfully built. Blue eyes stared straight into the trooper’s, but there was a hint of embarrassment. “Hello, Mr. Edwards.”
“Franklin Downey, what are you doing out here?”
Franklin shrugged but his eyes didn’t lower. “You know, Mr. Edwards, just fooling around. Not doing anything bad.”
The trooper held back a smile. This was a bad place to be “fooling around.” He grabbed Franklin’s arm. “Listen to me, son. These are ‘shiner haunts. Wrong bunch catch you out here, it might go bad for that gal there. You too maybe. Don’t you come back out here.”
Franklin’s chest swelled. “Don’t reckon they’d bother me much,” he said with the certainty of a 19 year old.
“I know you think you’re grown, just about are but not quite. Now you do what I tell you and stay out from down here.” Edwards’ meaty hand loosened its grip. “Your daddy know where you are?”
Franklin grinned. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Guess I do. So where are you supposed to be?”
“Wednesday night prayer meeting at Brenda’s church,” Franklin said, motioning to the young woman sitting in the back seat, hands covering her face.
“Close to ten now. That story going to hold up with your daddy? Prayer meeting was over at eight thirty, nine o’clock.”
“Oh, he gives me a little leeway now and then,” Franklin said with a sheepish look.
Edwards grunted. “Never knew Matt Downey to give anybody leeway. I guess you being the oldest, he might be a little soft on you. Anyway, whose car is this?”
“Brenda’s.”
“Well, you tell her to get home. I’ll take you by your place.”
“No need for that; she can drop me off.”
“Oh, no. Y’all might decide to take another break.” Edwards glanced at the young woman still holding her hands over her face. “She looks a little shy,” the trooper said with a grin. “You tell her to drive out. We’ll walk behind her and up to my car.”
In a few minutes, the two men reached the cruiser. Edwards unlocked the door and motioned Franklin inside. “You worried about what your daddy might say when he sees you with me?”
Franklin blew out a deep breath. “I’m hoping he’s in bed already.”
“I bet you do.”
A mile or so further up the highway, Edwards slowed the cruiser. A man wearing a hat pulled low stood outside what was not much more than a shack, set back in a small clearing. The man stared at the car as it passed.
Edwards gave the man a hard look. Their eyes locked as the cruiser crept up the highway.
Franklin couldn’t help noticing the exchange. “Who’s that, Mr. Edwards?”
“Bad man, Franklin, a bad man. Buel Hollins. They ran him out of Kentucky. Claim he killed some people but couldn’t prove it. Didn’t stop them from running him off though. He’s been down here a few months. Nothing I can do about it. Not yet anyway. I hear he’s selling a few drinks now and then in that shack: moonshine.” Edwards sighed. “Sooner or later, he’s gonna be trouble. Mark my words.”
Edwards stopped the cruiser a quarter mile from Franklin’s farm. “I’ll let you out here,” he said with an amused smile. “You can make up your own story.”
Thankfully, Matt had already gone to bed, and Franklin made it inside without having to make one up.
 

My second book, "The Home Place," had been perculating for many years. When I was ~7 years old, my mom received a phone call that her brother and brother-in-law were missing but their car had been found under several feet of water in Lake Lanier in north Georgia. Eventually, the bodies were found, and the deaths were ruled "accidental drowning," although the bodies were outside the car and the windows were too small for men that size to have floated out. Hearing stories from my many aunts and uncles and other relatives, I wrote a fictional account based on real events as told to me by eyewitnesses or people involved in those events. Hoping to preserve the culture and society of the period from ~1930 to 1956, the story stretches from the childhood of children growing up poor on a farm in northeast Georgia to their escape from the harsh life on the farm to jobs in nearby small towns and the appearance of a ruthless criminal, who was eventually arrested by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation for selling drug and who the arresting officer told me in a years-later interview about the man: "there's no telling how many dead bodies there are in wells up that way that he is responsible for."

"The Home Place" was selected by the PBS/NPR station in Atlanta for their 2007 Suggested Reading List, which is a very big honor, and gave me validation that I had some skill and encouraged me to continue writing. Of course, I would have anyway, but it's nice to know that what you're putting on paper is getting through to the readers you hope to reach.

Greetings to all: There are quite a few newspaper articles, book reviews, and other information related to the actual events that inspired "The Home Place" on a Facebook page I created.

I think it can be accessed without being a FB member. I copied the link then signed out of FB and pasted the link in my browser window and it allowed me access. As we all know, these things can be tricky. It may have allowed me access because of a cookie in my PC.

If interested, try the link and hopefully it will work for you. Thanks for your interest.
Sincerely
Mike A
https://www.facebook.com/search/resul...