The Shack on Redwing Road
by Jerry Whorton
"Son," he would say, taking a puff on his Prince Albert cigarette, "if you knew some the things I know about your kin folk, you would probably change your name."
Remembering that now, I stood on Redwing road, looking at my late Uncle's house. The black tar paper was peeling on the side and thick, tall Johnson grass sprouted around and through the cracks of the aged porch. A forty-model Chevrolet sedan sat on cinder blocks in the front yard like a tombstone over a grave.
I pushed on the front door and the hinges almost broke from the lack of use. The door opened about a foot until it hit the original immovable object: an aged, pot-bellied stove. I entered the hovel of memories. I was surprised to see the old wide-armed mended chair positioned in the exact same place it had always been. I immediately seated myself and stared at the stove, which appeared forlorn from lack of use. The flume that used to carry smoke streaming toward the sky lay at one side of the stove, faded and rusted. The stove door that once swung open and closed, now hung from wire on a mended hinge. Ashes of yesterday's firewood, piled six inches high, lay inside the stove's belly. I felt sad, wanting to feel the warmth of the heated stove like I had long ago. I wanted to see the flames of multiple colors, or to hear the crackling of the logs. Depressed, I rose and walked into the last room.
The familiar four-legged table was missing, but the crude little shelf remained nailed to the back wall. Neatly arranged upon the shelf were whiskey bottles that Uncle Jeff collected (after he finished them off). I moved closer and gently touched the bottles, wondering if the one I touched was the last one he had touched. I wiped the cobwebs clear from the corner of the shelf and noticed something red in the corner, behind one of the whiskey bottles. I reached up and pulled an old Prince Albert can from the shelf. A crazy thought entered my head and I quickly fumbled with the top of can to open it. The can was half-full of tobacco and a few tobacco papers.
Propping my feet on the pot-bellied stove, I braced my back against the old chair. I struck a match on the wooden arm and lit the cigarette I'd made with the dried tobacco and paper. I took a long draw.
" Appreciate it, Uncle Jeff," I said.