NOTE -- I've written several stories and have received many generous comments; also many kind letters. I want to thank each of my loyal readers and welcome newcomers. My only reason for writing stories is to bring enjoyment to the reader. It gives me great pleasure to think of you masturbating to them.
*
My maternal grandfather died at the ripe old age of eighty and I attended his funeral along with my mother Maureen. Granddad owned a fifteen hundred acre farm south of Hawkinsville, Georgia. After the funeral Mom and I drove Granny home where Mom's four sisters and three brothers joined us. We ate a late lunch from the mountains of food neighbors and friends had brought to the house.
We'd been there barely an hour before the tension erupted into arguments among the siblings. It's not possible for Mom's family to all get together at once without fighting and the funeral of their father was no exception. For some reason my grandparents seemed to encourage the familial hostility, forever pitting one child against another, and because of this war zone I'd never been close to any of Mom's family. Mom dreaded each visit to the farm, only making obligatory visits one Sunday a month. She never dreaded them more than I did.
As the cutting remarks escalated into yelling and screaming curses at each other, I put my suit coat and tie in the car and decided to wander the paths that crisscrossed the farm. As I started down a path near the house a voice call to me and I turned. It was my Uncle George, Mom's youngest brother. Forty-two years old with premature salt and pepper hair, his mischievous sense of fun was more typical of someone much younger than him and totally alien to Mom's family. He had a stunning smile and personality, a firm muscled body from the marathons he ran, and he was the only one of Mom's siblings I'd ever liked. He seemed to be the only one who couldn't be baited into the family arguments and I hated he rarely came home to the farm except Thanksgiving and Christmas. He was a radio disc jockey for a light rock station in Memphis and loved his life there.
"Ryan, I see you've got the right idea. You're going for a walk, right?"
I nodded. He'd changed into jeans and a Titans tee shirt with Nikes. I suddenly wished I had a comfortable change of clothes. At any rate the suit pants and dress shoes weren't too bad and I hoped with any luck I'd be headed home to Macon before dark. I had my cell phone so Mom could call me when she got ready to leave. George was at my side as we walked down a path that led to the barn where corn was stored.
"Goddamn, I can't stand to come to this place. I hate Hawkinsville, I hate Pulaski County, shit, I hate the whole fucking state of Georgia." George laughed. "It's like being in fucking Afghanistan or Korea. There's a constant fight over who's going to inherit what, if the farm's going to be sold so they can divide the profits, and Daddy always threatened to leave the farm to only one son so it would stay intact."
"Do you think he really did that?"
"Probably; he was a total bastard and it would have been just like him to have done it. We'll see when the will gets read tomorrow."
"Tomorrow!?? What the fuck? I sure as hell am not going to stay with this goddamn bunch of whackos overnight!"
"Don't worry; Maureen said she's leaving and will come back in the morning for the big moment in the lawyer's office at ten."
"I'm not coming with her."
"Aren't you interested?" he grinned.
"I don't give a shit what they do with this place as long as he didn't leave me any of it."
"Honestly, I don't give a shit either. I've got way more money than I'd ever get out of this place after it got divided between Mama and eight children. And it's going to be worth even less after the lawyers get their piece of it. They're all threatening to sue each other if they don't get what they want."
"Isn't there something you want, anything?" I teased. "Granddad was worth several million dollars."
"Daddy's assets were tied up in this goddamn farm and in this economy we'll never get what its worth. Plus, he'd taken out a five hundred thousand dollar loan to upgrade the farm equipment, the tractors, the watering system, put in this year's crops, and lots more. If he hadn't been so fucking stingy he'd have started replacing all that shit a little bit at the time instead of waiting until it was all falling apart and then doing it all at once. And the son of a bitch did it when he was fucking seventy nine years old. I swear to God he did it deliberately so we couldn't get rid of this shithole. Mama and the rest of them are all pissed because they're afraid they may get stuck keeping this place running for a few more years and not one of them wants to do it."
I laughed. "Maybe he made good on his threat and left it to one of the boys, maybe you George."
He chuckled. "Dad wasn't that stupid. He knew if it was left to me I'd ditch the motherfucking place as soon as I got it no matter what kind of loss I took."
"So who do you think is the lucky one?"
He snorted. "I hope its Wendell. That prick's just like Daddy, a thieving bastard, a pathological liar, and a cheapskate. The thing is Wendell doesn't want it now because he owns those three restaurants he's laundering money through. Still, I hope he gets stuck with it just so he'll go through the hell he's always rained down on the rest of us."
Wendell was the oldest son and thought he was a financial wizard. Instead he was a brainless turd. He'd always treated his younger siblings like scum and every one of them hated him. He'd had several failed businesses until he bought the restaurants. Mom said Wendell's used the restaurants not only to launder illegal money but to siphon money from Granddad's estate.
The second son, Randall, was a Methodist minister with a gambling habit and eight kids on his third wife. I've always thought he had early dementia and he definitely didn't seem like the best choice unless Granddad's plan was for the farm to evaporate into Las Vegas slot machines along with alimony and child support payments. Mom always said Randall was nothing but a con artist and had only become a minister to stay out of debtor's prison and also because it pissed Granddad off.
George had never married and although he was incredibly masculine with the requisite deep voice, male pursuits, and a sports fanatic, behind his back his brothers and sisters referred to him as 'the faggot'. In my personal opinion the cruel jokes about the mystery of his sexual preferences were not because he'd never married but because he didn't pay thousands of dollars every month in alimony and child support like they did. Even the girls had lost money on marriages because they were rich and they married men with no money. Every one of them had been married several times, spent a fortune every month paying for it, and now they were all bat shit crazy. What made them even more hostile was Granny doted on George all his life; he was her favorite child and it was a bitter pill that Granddad had hated him and called George 'his mother's queer son'. Granddad's real problem with George was he made six hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year as a DJ and had never made less than two hundred and fifty thousand a year since he was twenty-four. He didn't need Granddad's money and hadn't been under his thumb like his other children.
"You don't think he'd leave it to one of the girls?" I asked.
"Hell no, Daddy always said once the girls got married they were their husband's responsibility and that no goddamn son-in-law would ever get his hands on this place."
As much as I didn't like Granddad I grudgingly agreed with his sentiments. Between Mom and her sisters Madeline, Louise, Carol, and Alice they had nineteen marriages. Mom was the only one who didn't have children by each husband and that was only because her Fallopian tubes had been destroyed by the venereal disease Dad had given her after one of his pussy escapades. In my opinion between the five girls they might have one working brain.
George stopped suddenly. "Listen to those birds, Ryan. That's the only thing I miss about this place; nature and the peace in these woods."
We walked in silence for awhile listening to the birds and the sounds of the woods. I agreed with George, the farm was wonderful when you got away from the people on it. We were walking down a path that led to one of six ponds on the farm.
"Do you see Vick a lot?" he asked.
"Sure. He lives in Atlanta now and works in management for the Braves."
"Not that he needs to work. Vick was the lucky son-in-law. His parents own a piece of Coca-Cola so he's never needed money. He didn't have to put up with Daddy's shit."
