the best we can do is required of any of us. My mama is right there in my living room right now. Far as I know she ain't ever heard a one of these cannons go off, and I shoot one about every day. She does the best she can, which ain't nothing but breathe. Birdie and me do the rest. And the good Lord provides. What time you all want to come out next Saturday?"
"How about ten o'clock?" I said.
"That'll be fine. I'll build a lean-to, start a campfire, and have a regular little show. If there are any men along we'll let them join in. Come here and let me show you where I blew a hole in my tool shop."
I thought: maybe we better think twice.
Mr. Earls had one of those little sheds out back and one side had a big hole in it which he'd covered with clear plastic. "I don't know how in the world it happened," he said. "I had a box of powder and I guess a spark got to it some way. We'd been firing at a reinactment and maybe a spark got in there somewhere and smoltered. I been in the Civil War business over forty year and nothing's blowed up but twice."
"What was the other time?" I asked.
"A cannon. I'd walked about twenty feet from it — to get a drill — and it blew up. Blew a limb out of the tree it was under. Listen, won't you all come in and look at some of my relics?"
We said we'd like to. We walked through the carport door into the kitchen. Mrs. Earls was cooking dinner. Mr. Earls introduced us then took off his belt of tools and dropped it on the bar and said, "Put those tools in the box, honey. Ya'll come on in the living room and have a seat."
In the living room, propped up in a brass bed that must not have been polished in ten years was Mr. Earls's mother. Mr. Earls introduced us but she kept looking straight ahead. She had a tiny brown face that looked like a apple that had been on the window sill for about a year.
" There's my children's pictures on the wall," said Mr.
Earls. "Didn't a one go to college, thank the good Lord. They all make a good living and are respectful of the things deserving respect."
I wondered if Mrs. Earls was going to put up his tools — why he didn't put up his own tools. Then I heard the tools knocking in a box. She was putting them up.
"What you all want to drink — water, milk, or orange juice?"
We both said orange juice.
"Birdie, bring these folks some orange juice. You folks sit down right over there."
Birdie came in with two glasses of orange juice. "He makes me unload his tools," she said, "then load them back up. I told him just to hang up his belt with the tools in it, but he won't do it." She was a tiny woman who looked like one of those migrant worker women in Charles's photography book.
"Stretches the leather," said Mr. Earls.
"He could lay it down somewhere, couldn't he?" I said to Mrs. Earls. I wanted to even things up a little.
"I don't leave things laying around," said Mr. Earls. "Against my principles. Let me tell you: I model my life after Stonewall Jackson, one of the greatest generals in the history of war. Birdie knows I do, and abides it. And I'll tell you this: the German panzer divisions had Stonewall Jackson to thank. He'll go down with Napoleon. He was a great general, a great man, a Christian."
Birdie brought some cookies. Chocolate chip. Bought.
"Do you all know anything about the Civil War?" says Mr. Earls. "If you don't, you should."
"I've heard about it off and on all my life," I said, "but I don't know much."
"I'm reading a book right now," said Charles.
"Which one?" said Mr. Earls.
"Bruce Catton's."
"Which one?"
"The big one."
"Read Shelby Foote's three when you finish that one. They're the best for an overview." He went on to talk about all these books on the Civil War, about Stonewall Jackson getting shot by his own men, and I don't know what all — something about a secret message wrapped around cigars. Then he brought out all these bullets and pistols and rifles, and finally Mrs. Earls asked us if we wanted to eat dinner. We politely
"How about ten o'clock?" I said.
"That'll be fine. I'll build a lean-to, start a campfire, and have a regular little show. If there are any men along we'll let them join in. Come here and let me show you where I blew a hole in my tool shop."
I thought: maybe we better think twice.
Mr. Earls had one of those little sheds out back and one side had a big hole in it which he'd covered with clear plastic. "I don't know how in the world it happened," he said. "I had a box of powder and I guess a spark got to it some way. We'd been firing at a reinactment and maybe a spark got in there somewhere and smoltered. I been in the Civil War business over forty year and nothing's blowed up but twice."
"What was the other time?" I asked.
"A cannon. I'd walked about twenty feet from it — to get a drill — and it blew up. Blew a limb out of the tree it was under. Listen, won't you all come in and look at some of my relics?"
We said we'd like to. We walked through the carport door into the kitchen. Mrs. Earls was cooking dinner. Mr. Earls introduced us then took off his belt of tools and dropped it on the bar and said, "Put those tools in the box, honey. Ya'll come on in the living room and have a seat."
In the living room, propped up in a brass bed that must not have been polished in ten years was Mr. Earls's mother. Mr. Earls introduced us but she kept looking straight ahead. She had a tiny brown face that looked like a apple that had been on the window sill for about a year.
" There's my children's pictures on the wall," said Mr.
Earls. "Didn't a one go to college, thank the good Lord. They all make a good living and are respectful of the things deserving respect."
I wondered if Mrs. Earls was going to put up his tools — why he didn't put up his own tools. Then I heard the tools knocking in a box. She was putting them up.
"What you all want to drink — water, milk, or orange juice?"
We both said orange juice.
"Birdie, bring these folks some orange juice. You folks sit down right over there."
Birdie came in with two glasses of orange juice. "He makes me unload his tools," she said, "then load them back up. I told him just to hang up his belt with the tools in it, but he won't do it." She was a tiny woman who looked like one of those migrant worker women in Charles's photography book.
"Stretches the leather," said Mr. Earls.
"He could lay it down somewhere, couldn't he?" I said to Mrs. Earls. I wanted to even things up a little.
"I don't leave things laying around," said Mr. Earls. "Against my principles. Let me tell you: I model my life after Stonewall Jackson, one of the greatest generals in the history of war. Birdie knows I do, and abides it. And I'll tell you this: the German panzer divisions had Stonewall Jackson to thank. He'll go down with Napoleon. He was a great general, a great man, a Christian."
Birdie brought some cookies. Chocolate chip. Bought.
"Do you all know anything about the Civil War?" says Mr. Earls. "If you don't, you should."
"I've heard about it off and on all my life," I said, "but I don't know much."
"I'm reading a book right now," said Charles.
"Which one?" said Mr. Earls.
"Bruce Catton's."
"Which one?"
"The big one."
"Read Shelby Foote's three when you finish that one. They're the best for an overview." He went on to talk about all these books on the Civil War, about Stonewall Jackson getting shot by his own men, and I don't know what all — something about a secret message wrapped around cigars. Then he brought out all these bullets and pistols and rifles, and finally Mrs. Earls asked us if we wanted to eat dinner. We politely
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