One of the clearest, it was this day when I were blessed to be up early, afore the rooster crowed as they say, and it happened to be whilst I was in North Caroline, when the family were stayin' with me Mother's folk one summer.
I rub the sleep from me eyes this one day, and I sees the front door ajar. I go up to it, and I sees me Grandpaw Hutchins sittin' on the porch, a small porch it was, with bright white pillars holdin' the roof up at the corners, a loaded shotgun layin' across his lap. That is the home of me Aunt Bobbie today, but it were his back then, along with me Grandmaw. And I asks if I might sit with him.
Sure, he says, and he produces a chair from somewheres. I sit to his left upon it. "What are you doing, Grandfather?", I ask, speaking in some obscure talk and with this odd tongue which were by itself maybe grammatically right in highfalutin' circles.
"Gonna scare them crows from my crop," he explains in a properly rural dialect which I rightly understand. He spits snuff into the plants aside him right after he says that, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I see straight away what he means. He's gonna blast that shotgun at the sight of a crow so darin' to steal his corn.
I search the skies for them crows. I search it for hours for any speck of predatory bird. I find myself wishing they would come, darin' them to come. I wish to see me Grandpaw blastin' them corn thieves from the sky. I wanna hear that shotgun blast.
If it had ere occurred, it woulda scared me more than them crows. I know that now. Back then, I wanted that old man to rise up and blow them bottom feeders from the sky.
It didn't never happen. That's prolly just as well. It woulda spoilt a great few hours sittin' alone with me Grandpaw Hutchins. A truly quiet hours where I truly felt one with him. To this day, it's been me favorite hour with one o' me two favorite grandfathers.