Coon Dogs and Outhouses Volume 2: Tall Tales From The Mississippi Delta

Sometimes I stop and try to figure out where the stories come from and why I write the way I do. I’m sure much of it is a result of the land I grew up on and the people who were trying to scratch a living from it. One of my earliest memories is of a large fire in the middle of the cotton field. It was wintertime and I was helping Daddy burn chunks of stumps and roots which had accumulated during the crop season. It was a new ground farm only recently drained and released from the clutches of the brackish water of a Mississippi bayou. The soil was buckshot - rich, black, and grainy – unlike the light-colored, sandy loam of the old Delta. But the type of soil doesn’t matter. If he stays in contact with it long enough, the land will brand a man as surely as the red-hot iron brands a Western calf. I’m sure the flat, almost treeless, bayou studded Delta of my early years which later was replaced by Mississippi’s rolling, red-clay hills both placed their marks on me. My family had long been people of the soil and although I chose another profession, I have always been aware of the pull of the land.

And then, there were the people—those quirky, down-to-earth folk who saw the world and their place in it through a different set of lens. My family tree had plenty of these sitting on all the branches and there were plenty more just down the road or over the hill. And in our rural society, they could not hide. Everyone knew them and also knew all about them. And the stories of their quirky escapades and misadventures were told and retold until they took on a life of their own. For, you see, that’s the way the common history was kept alive and where much of our entertainment came from—through the stories.

It was the Depression and very few areas were as economically depressed as the rural South. The road in front of our house was dirt (mud when it rained) and with no electric lights and no plumbing, we lived a bare and stark existence. There was no money to purchase entertainment so we made our own. Whether rocking on the front porch before bedtime or sitting around the kitchen table after supper, it was story time. Daddy was a storyteller and had a number of tales he told on a regular basis. My brother and I enjoyed new stuff but if talk got slow, we’d ask to hear about “the kicking gun” or “The Stone Mountain deer.” These and more of his tales are included in Coon Dogs, Volume I.

Stories flew thick and fast when visitors were in the house. With my uncles it was tales about the family or about people they grew up with. With neighbors I learned who had been caught making moonshine and who was stepping out on his wife. Much of my early education came from sitting on the floor off to the side during these sessions. I not only learned the stories, I also learned how to tell one.

This Coon Dogs Volume II of is a little different from Coon Dogs Volume I. Most of these pieces are short stories but many of them came from some of these early tales. Most contain some element of truth although sometime that element is pretty small. Some are almost totally true. Hopefully, the reader will have a difficult time distinguishing between what is fact and what is fiction. Just where the reader draws the line is immaterial. The important question is: “Do they entertain?” I hope I have extended the front porch or added chairs around the kitchen table.

Although this volume does not contain actual stories about a coon dog or an outhouse, they are there in the background. Both are always close to any rural, Southern setting. And most of these stories are about those rural, Southern folk who are really a breed unto themselves. For, you see, those are the folk I really know—the people of the soil. That’s why I considered myself a “Southern writer” which my wife, Sara, defines as “someone who writes about nothing but still makes it interesting.” There’s more truth in that statement than most of us are willing to admit.

Even though the words and stories are mine, I owe a tremendous debt to others who actually made them come to print. Foremost was Sara, my “tech support,” who did all the typing and computer work. Our marriage has survived for 53 years, three books, and numerous short literary pieces—a remarkable feat in and of itself. Thanks also to Steve “Hog” Reeves who was in the right place at the right time and who has his own story to tell. And last, but surely not least, thanks to Bruce Moran and the folks at TotalRecall Publications who know how to put it all together.