I admit, Greene had me with the title before I had any idea as to what Prying for Sheetrock was about. Then as I read the first lines, I was mesmerized by the prose—dense and evocative and lilting with a dose of southern backwaters. It is the story of an unlikely hero, Thurnell Alston, whom Greene describes as “a tall, thin, chain-smoking black man with bushy blue-black hair; a long , rather sorrowful face; slate-black skin; and elegant, long hands. Through his life we witness the “large and important things happening in a very little place. While I lived through these times and spent a number of years in Georgia, where the events unfold, I was nearly oblivious to the story Greene presents of the end of the good-old-boy era and the rise of civil rights. It is history told as it should be sitting at the breakfast table in a gritty little backwoods cabin alongside those who lived it.
Painting the scene with words:
“In the tall, narrow Victorian houses of the area called The Ridge, window air conditioners drowned out the calls of the marsh frogs and march birds across the road.
But the blazing summer nights of 1975, as darkness dropped, were full of spitfire and shouting, hand clapping and rage, as the black people—dressed to the nines—stormed into the black churches after work. Ministers thundered at them from abo e, choirs unleashed gorgeous, piercing songs, and the stamp of feet and shake of tambourines lasted late into the night. While white Darien slept and an occasional truck rattled down Highway 17, the black county was wide awake, its front doors open, windows up, lights on, cars coming and going, and little one-room, white-washed churches lit up and filled with hollering.”