~~~ In His 5^th Year ~~~

The older man had taught the lad not to fear electrical storms … no, not even when walking through the dense woods of the Piedmont, nor the forests of the Blue Ridge/Appalachian Mountains.

'Sandy' was just five years old – the cutest little sandy-blond-haired, blue-eyed tyke you'd ever want to see. He had just donned his little yellow slicker pants, raincoat, and hat, and his little black rubber galoshes; he was beaming with excitement, jumping up and down, trying to hurry his granddad so they could go outside and play in the rain or walk amongst the dripping trees. 

'Outside', Sandy's world consisted of a wonderful back-yard with his own swing-set and tricycle and lots and lots of pretty flowers surrounding the grass-covered yard. Even at his young age, he loved helping his grandmother plant and take care of all the flowers.

Beyond the flowerbeds and all around the house were acres and acres of hilly woods with two creeks running through them. He didn't know what 'acres' were, but that's the way the grown-ups talked about the land on which they lived.

Though Sandy's biggest thrill was walking in the woods and jumping in the puddles when the rain was pouring, the loud claps of thunder and the bright flashes of light still scared him a bit and made him jump toward his granddad.

"Now, just calm down, 'Tiger'; don't go gettin' so rambunctious. Ya know it takes yer ol' gran'pa longer to put on his rubbers than it does a li'l tyke like you."

"Yes, sir," Sandy responded with an exasperated little-boy sigh, plopping down on the musty-smelling, tattered old couch on the back-porch. His head drooped as he pouted; his dangling feet nervously began to wriggle, alternately banging against the front of the old piece of furniture that was where his favorite girl usually slept.

Quick as a Jack-rabbit, lickety-split, Sally was right there, standing in front of him, wagging her stub of a tail, her right-front paw on his little-boy crotch, and her tongue lapping at his face. She knew her little master was going out-of-doors, and she'd be there at his side to protect him and ward-off any lions or tigers or bears, oh, my! In reality, the only animals she ever scared away were rabbits and squirrels and chipmunks and the occasional King snake, Water Moccasin, or Copperhead, but it was fun to play 'jungle hunter' together ... at least when it was sun-shiny.

"Not this time, girl; not in the rain. You don't have a raincoat or galoshes, and you'd get wringin' wet. No, no ... you have to stay in this time," Sandy said, stretching down to scratch between her clipped, pointy black ears.

As soon as she'd heard the word 'no', Sally withdrew her paw and lay flat on the floor, prostrate, with her chin on top of her crossed and outstretched front paws, her eyes attentive to every movement in the room. She whined a few times. It looked as if she were praying to her little human god – begging him to allow her to accompany them into the windy, dark-gray, stormy jungle / pine-oak-elm-dogwood forest beyond the yard.

"Okay, Son ... I'm ready to meet the elements now. You ready?"

Having only four daughters and no sons of his own, his first-born grandchild by his first-born daughter had unexpectedly become like his own son when his daughter had married and then quickly divorced her first husband.  Years later, Sandy would learn the real reason for the divorce – there was no way of determining which of two brothers was his REAL biological father!

Returning to the comforting protectiveness of mother and father, she found that she was with child – a child who would always play second fiddle to her need for a MAN! She wasn't around very much, but the forthcoming young lad would have a loving grandmother, and a grandfather who loved him but seldom expressed any affection for the little guy. That was the way of heterosexual men in an unenlightened world.

Before Sandy could jump off the couch, Sally had sprung from the floor and was scratching at the wooden door leading outside. It was as if she could understand every single word that came from 'her' humans.

"NO! ... SIT! ... STAY!" commanded the grown man with his World War I Sergeant's voice of authority.

Immediately, Sally sat, whining her pleas.

"No, no, girl," Sandy said, patting her head. "You stay. I'll be back soon. I promise." He leaned over and kissed her cold, wet, black leather nose. Once more, she lay down, but with her chin on the wooden threshold, sniffing at the cool, moist air that the wind was blowing through the little crack under the door. "Good girl."

As his granddad turned the knob and eased the door open toward the turbulent weather, Sally's head jerked up, but she kept her place on the floor. The man and the boy stepped through the opening and were met with a tremendous gust of rain-filled wind that knocked Sandy back inside.

Immediately, a bolt of lightning blazed from the sky with an instant thunderous roar, splitting a pine tree in half, from its height to its base. Sally sprang to action, darting between the two humans and their legs, toward the flaming tree-halves, one of which was toppling toward the garage some fifty feet from the house. Her barking was louder and more excited than normal. She ran toward the tree.

Sandy jumped up, letting out a high-pitched little scream and grabbed the only adult man in his young life. More accurately, he thrust one little hand and arm between the man's legs, from the rear, and then thrust his other hand and arm through, from the front, and squeezed himself against the outside of the big, strong leg. He felt safe, pressed against his granddad.

They all heard the creaking sound of the two halves of the falling, flaming tree. His grandmother ran to the enclosed porch, wiping her hands on a kitchen-towel, her apron flapping in her rush. "Alfred, what was that hellacious noise? OH, MY GOD," she screamed, pointing toward the outer building, "THE GARAGE IS ON FIRE!" The shake-shingles had not yet ignited, undoubtedly due to the rain, but in her fright, she probably had only focused on the reddish-orange flames spewing from the tree lying atop the roof.

Alfred disentangled his grandson's arms from his leg, saying to his wife, "Keep Sandy inside!" He fled toward the garage. "I'll do what I can," he hollered through the noise of the storm.

"Sally! Sally!" little Sandy yelled, yanking, jerking, and finally breaking away from his grandmother's grasp and running toward his best friend in the whole wide world – his friend who was jumping and barking at the fire leaping from the base of the tree. She ran toward her little master, then back toward the flaming tree. As Sandy rushed nearer, she again ran toward him and blocked him from getting any closer. He knelt down to hug her.

"Sandy, get back in here, Honey!" his grandmother yelled, running toward him while being drenched in the downpour.

"Get back to the house, NOW, Kate. Since he's already out here, he can help!" Alfred yelled to his pleasingly-plump, white-haired lady. "You'll catch your death of cold!"

"But he's just a little boy, Alfred ..." she yelled above the storm, arguing, almost crying.

"That may be, but NOW he's old enough to help. GO!" he ordered, pointing toward the log-house as he climbed up onto the seat of the farm-tractor which had two small wheels in the front and two large wheels at the rear.

Sandy had heard the conversation between his grandparents, and beamed with pride at hearing he was old enough; he'd always been told he was 'too young' or 'too little'. He stood tall and straight as the 'Little Soldier" his granddad occasionally called him.

Obediently, Kate turned and went to the house as any good wife would do, always honoring her husband's wishes. Her heart must have been bleeding as her wifely obligations over-rode her maternal urges and natural instincts, but Alfred WAS the head of the household.

"Sandy!" his grandfather called above the screaming of the wind, "Go 'round that way..." he pointed to the opposite side of the building from the blazing tree, "... and get Daisy outta the barn. Take Sally with you! We don't want her to get hurt, now, do we?"

After several attempts, the old tractor coughed and roared to life, belching black smoke into the downpour and wind.

"Come on, Sal; come on, girl," Sandy called as he avoided the on-coming tractor and ran ‘round to the barn which occupied the back half of the garage building. The smile on his face was radiant – his granddad had, in his own special way, just called him a 'little man'; Sally was right beside him; and as he ran, he jumped in every puddle he could find. Out of sight of the fire, Sandy quickly dismissed from his mind the need for emergency action. He felt like a 'big boy', doing alone what his granddad had told him to do, and besides, he and Sally were having fun.

But in no time at all ... well, maybe it WAS just a little longer than he SHOULD have taken ... he was at Daisy's stall, fully half the area of the entire building, and opened the gate.

Daisy was a Guernsey milk-cow who had never had her horns cut nor removed. She was always gentle in nature, and, after Sally, was Sandy's favorite playmate, even at his tender age; but it wasn't the time for play.

Though obscured by the mighty thunder, the roaring of the wind, the beating of the rain, and the coughing and belching of the old tractor, Sandy could faintly hear his granddad yell, "Hurry up, Sandy; hurry up and get her out!"

Even Sally seemed to sense the urgency. As she dashed behind the placid cow, Daisy slowly turned her head, watching the Doberman Pinscher move behind and start nipping at her hind legs. Sandy reached up and took hold of one of Daisy's horns and began leading her from the stall.

Back out in the rain again, he led Daisy to the corner of the garage/barn so that he could see his granddad who had just finished lashing a heavy metal chain around the still burning half-tree trunk and had secured the chain to the old tractor.

Pointing off into the distance behind his grandson, he yelled, "Now, take'er up to Prince's barn and you and Sally stay there till I come for ya." Then he climbed back up onto the seat and began to pull the fallen tree off the roof of the dual-purpose building.

Inch by inch, the old tractor crept backwards until the chain was taut. As Alfred adjusted the choke and gave the engine more gas, the rear wheels spun faster and faster in the rain-slick, pine-needle-covered red dirt, so typical in the Carolinas. Soon, red mud was flying forward from the spinning of the huge wheels, splattering not only the tractor itself, but also Alfred AND the side of the log-cabin-style garage.

As soon as Sandy and Sally had encouraged Daisy to vacate the relatively dry comfort of her shelter, the three trudged the three hundred-some yards through the wind and rain to Prince's barn.

A black stallion, he had a white star in the center of his forehead – truly beautiful. To little Sandy, Prince was HUGE, but everyone knew that he, too, was gentle – that is, unless he was around a female horse! Thus, there would be no problem with Prince and Daisy temporarily sharing the same corral and housing. She seemed to enjoy licking his coat, and he seemed to enjoy nibbling her forehead.

*******

It was early morning, barely light yet, when the household had awakened to the sounds of thunder and howling wind. After attending to personal needs, the three had gotten dressed. Kate then began to stoke up the wood-burning stove in preparation for making the standard breakfast of ham-and-eggs and grits.

Little Sandy had hurriedly dressed himself, but didn't do a very good job of tucking his plaid flannel shirt-tail down inside his corduroy knickers (loose fitting trousers gathered-in just below the knees).

Albert had thrown on his bib-overalls over his own plaid flannel shirt. As was his usual morning practice before going to work in town as an auto mechanic, or to church every Sunday, he would make sure that Daisy and Prince had enough feed and hay in their troughs – enough to last until the afternoon/evening feeding time. Sandy usually helped his granddad with the morning chores, and he was familiar with the routine – except for the lightning, the falling tree, and the fire.

With the proud confidence and encouragement that the man had shown him, the little boy was determined to show just how 'grown-up' he really was! The hay-trough for Prince was nearly empty from the prior night's feeding – only a few sprigs of hay remaining – so, Sandy went into the completely enclosed feed-stall, tugged at a bale of hay until he could grab a couple handfuls and returned, holding out a hand to each, Daisy and Prince.

Sally had followed him into the small area and quickly began routing about, sniffing here and there, even as she eagerly clambered to the top of the bales. Again and again, Sandy made the short trip, two handfuls at a time, while Sally searched for some unknown intruder. She began barking, and within seconds came bounding out of the hay-stall chasing a gray mouse. The little rodent scurried into another stall, escaping the Doberman's advances.

"Whoa, girl; whoa, there. Whatcha so excited about?" Alfred called, rounding the side of the horse-barn. Seeing her sniffing and clawing the ground at the base of the enclosure's partition, he further asked, "What'id ya see? Huh? A little mouse? Wouldn't be much of a breakfast for ya, and it's not really gonna hurt anything." Then he turned his attention to Sandy as he opened the gate and entered the fenced-in part of Prince's shelter and barn.

"Ya did good, Son," he said. "I'm proud of ya, boy, and I see that you've started to feed the animals. That's good." He rested his hand on Sandy's shoulder and winked at him. A huge grin suddenly appeared on the boy's face. "But it would take all day if you kept on feeding them one handful at a time, now, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, Gran'daddy, I guess it would." A disheartened look began to replace the cheery grin. "Butcha won't let me use the pitchfork."

Squatting down, Alfred spread his knees apart and held his arms out, signaling for Sandy to give him a hug. The boy was there in an instant, so fast, in fact, that the impact knocked the older man backwards, and he landed on his back, squishing one of Daisy's fresh cow-chips; his arms had wrapped around the boy, and Sandy was lying on his chest!

"Peeeee-yew!" he exclaimed suddenly and loudly as the stench wafted up from underneath his granddad. "What … is … THAT???" Sandy asked, pushing himself up and away and then pinching his nose closed in disgust. "Yuck!!!" He ran to the farthest corner of the open shelter.

Alfred roared with laughter at the antics of the little guy. He scrunched up his face and swatted the air from under his own nose trying to shoo away the putrid odor. In no time at all, he jumped up, yanked off his slicker, and threw it out beyond the overhang of the barn, to let the rain wash the shit off – never mind that the soft lining was getting soaked as well, on the drenched ground!

When he turned back, he saw Sandy with his head hanging down. With a sad, whining little voice, the boy said, "I'm sorry, Gran'daddy, for knockin’ ya over. I didn't mean to."

"I know ya didn't, Son. Come'ere." He held out his arms again, and Sandy ran to the invitation. "It was just an accident; that's all."

Suddenly, Sandy stopped before causing ... another ... 'accident', but Alfred reached out, picked him up under his arms, and tossed him into the air, nearly to the rafters of the over-hang.

"Wheeeee!" Sandy giggled.

As he came down, his granddad grabbed him in a bear-hug, knocking off the little guy's slicker-hat; he kissed the squealing boy on his forehead.

"Awww, Granddaddy," he squeezed his little arms around the man's neck; "I love you." Then Sandy kissed him squarely on the lips.

Quickly putting him down and holding him at arms' length, Alfred looked at him and said, "Sandy ... Son ... we don't kiss like that ... not on the lips."

"Why not, Granddaddy?" he cocked his head to the side and asked in all seriousness. "You and Gran'mama always kiss like that."

"Well, Son ..." he hesitated, as if trying to find just the right words; "I'm a man, and your gran'mama's a woman, but men and boys don't kiss each other on the lips – it's just not right ... you understand?"  Sandy could tell that his granddad was serious – not mad, mind you – but there were no lines on the man’s mature face to indicate that he was happy with the little kiss.

The towheaded youngster felt Sally leaning against his leg. Looking down at her, he laid his hand on her head, and softly answered, "I reckon."  He then retrieved his fallen rain-hat and returned it to it’s rightful place.

Alfred must have known that the boy didn't really understand what he was trying to instill in his young mind, so he changed the subject. "What say, we give Prince some breakfast, then take Daisy back to her own barn, and then feed her? Wanna try the pitchfork, Son?"

Looking a little more cheery, Sandy enthusiastically nodded his head.

After several minutes of trial and error ... with a lot of hay ending up on the ground between the trough and the hay-stall ... Alfred finished the task for little Sandy. "Not bad for your first time, little man!" he praised his grandson. "A little more practice, and I'll be out of a job, I think."

"Nahhhhh ..." Sandy giggled, "... you do it a lot better than me, Granddaddy."

"Maybe for right now," he agreed, "but pretty soon, you'll be doin' fine. Now, let's take Daisy back to her barn."

Alfred put the pitchfork in the hay-stall, and as Sandy took hold of Daisy's horn again and led her out the gate, Prince lifted his head from the trough, chewing slowly, and watched them leave. Sally darted out into the windless, light rain, and Alfred picked up his only-slightly washed-off slicker, wrinkling up his nose at the mess.

Half an hour later, Daisy was back in her shelter eating her morning rations, and Alfred, Sandy and Sally were just entering the back-porch. Kate had been watching and had some towels ready for them.  She had also closed the door between the kitchen and the porch, thus preventing the dripping dog from running through the house to roll herself dry on the hand-braided oval rug in front of the fireplace in the front room.

"Oh, thank God, Alfred. You got the tree away from the garage before it could do any damage!" she exclaimed. "I just hope Sandy doesn't catch the death of cold."

As she started drying Sally's coat, she suddenly stopped, smelling something obnoxious. "What the hell stinks so much?" she asked, looking around.

"Granddaddy fell in some doo-doo," came the giggling answer.

As she continued drying Sally, Kate said, "Throw that ol' slicker outside for now, and you boys get out of ALL those wet clothes and go take a nice, hot bath. After I finish here, I'll get back to fixin' breakfast again, and I'll make some hot tea with lemon and honey for ya both. Now hurry up, 'for I skin ya alive!"

No real man argues with a woman when she takes charge, and Alfred and Sandy were no different. Soon they were down to their white underwear – Sandy, to his snug little white briefs, and Alfred, to his clean but baggy, saggy, briefs with a hole just above the hem on his right leg, and another in the seat of his drawers.

Glancing back at both of them, Kate continued with her orders. "Off with 'em, Sandy ... NOW! And wrap the towel around you before goin' to your bath. And you, too, Alfie ... STRIP!"

"Don't call me 'Alfie'. You know how I hate that name," he scowled at her.

She gave a quick, forced grin back at him, and raised her eyebrows in shock and said, "I DO believe you need some new underwear ... AL-FRED! ... those things look terrible."

As he turned his back to her and lowered his underwear, Sandy had but a 'brief' glance at his naked grandfather. Quickly, he took a surprised double take, glancing at the privates of the grown man, albeit there was not enough time to get a 'good' look, as Alfred wrapped the towel around his waist.

Innocently, Sandy shucked off his underpants, and strode merrily, naked as a jay-bird, through the kitchen on the way to the bathroom – no adult self-consciousness there!

"Didn't you forget some..." Alfred began to call after him, but was stopped when Sandy turned back, scratching an itch under his little penis.

"What'id I forget, Granddaddy?"

"Your towel," he answered, tossing it to the boy as he entered the kitchen and closed the porch door behind him.

"Oh, yeah," Sandy remarked, "but I haven't had my bath yet." Instead of wrapping it around himself, he simply carried it along, dragging it on the wooden floor. "You gonna take a bath with me, Granddaddy?"  He looked back, over his shoulder.  "It'd be fun. We haven't done that before."

"Uhhh ... uhh ... sure, Son," the grown man stammered; "we can do that."

"Oh, goodie, goodie, goodie. You can wash me, and I can wash you."

He had to admit that the boy was cute in his juvenile exuberance. "Well," he took a breath and exhaled deeply before replying, "we'll have to see about that."

Without thinking, and without really needing to do it, Alfred's thumbnail began to pick at the corner of his index fingernail; he was a little nervous.

Sandy dashed into the bathroom, dropped the towel on the floor, and hurriedly leaned over the edge of the tub to put the rubber stopper in the drain, and then he turned on the hot water spigot.

His naked upturned bottom greeted his granddad when HE entered the small room and closed the door. "Pick up your towel, Sandy, and lay it on the seat of the commode. I'll get the water just right for us."

"Okay, Granddaddy," the little guy said as he picked up the towel, laid it across the toilet seat, and sat facing the man he worshiped.

While the water was running, Alfred sat on the edge of the tub. "You made me proud of you out there, Sandy. You're gettin' to be a big boy..."

"That was fun!" he interrupted. "I like it when we go out in the rain and play."

"Well ... that wasn't play, this time, Son. That was work, and one of us could have gotten hurt if we hadn't been VERY careful. But you did fine."

The boy beamed with happiness from being praised. He jumped off the toilet seat, flew the couple of feet to his granddad, and hugged him, almost knocking him backwards once again.

"Whoa, there, li'l feller; don't go getting' so feisty," he said, quickly twisting around and reaching back to the wall for support to keep from slipping into the tub. As he did so, Sandy jumped back and Alfred's legs spread wide, suddenly sticking straight out in front of him; regaining his balance, he lowered his feet to the floor. His towel had come loose and he found himself sitting there, totally exposed to his young grandson. Sandy's eyes were glued to the man's groin.

As Alfred reached down for the fallen towel, Sandy begged, "Wait! Wait, Granddaddy. Wait!" Alfred sat frozen, not knowing what was coming. "I ain't never seen a nekkid grown-up before. What's that?" he asked, pointing at the man's package.

Alfred's eyes darted uncomfortably around the room. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He prayed to be guided to say the right thing. Thank God, he must have thought … with four daughters and no sons, he'd never had to broach the subject with a child. But now, the time had come, since Sandy had no other man in his life to whom he could ask sensitive questions. Then Alfred began.

He tapped his lower abdomen. "This is what makes me a man, Son."

"But it's so much bigger than mine!" exclaimed the five-year-old, looking down at his tiny cocklet, jutting straight out.

"That's because you're just a little boy. You'll grow up big and strong and tall like me, and your dick ... uhhh …PENIS..." he corrected himself with emphasis, "... will grow bigger and longer ... like mine."

With the unpredictable innocence that all children have, Sandy stepped forward again and took hold of the end of his granddad's ... PENIS! "Will mine look like THIS?" he asked, pulling on the dangling foreskin.

He removed Sandy's hand and said, "No, Son. A doctor cut yours off eight days after you were born."

"Why?" he asked inquisitively, head cocked, and a frown on his little brow.

Alfred smiled at his cuteness, then replied, "That's just the way they do it these days."

"Why?" the question came again.

"Well ... they say it's ... cleaner."

"Why? How come? Don't you wash it like I do … or like Momma does for me?"

The question didn't just go over Alfred's head; it must have gotten filed away somewhere for future consideration.

He reached over to the water knobs and turned them off. Testing the temperature with his hand, he stepped in gingerly and sat down. He reached out and lifted little Sandy over the edge of the tub.

"Now, kneel down here between my legs and I'll show you how I wash it."

Inquisitive as always, Sandy did as instructed. Alfred soaped a wash-cloth and then retracted his long foreskin, revealing the reddish glans.

"Ohhhhh," remarked Sandy, before licking his lips. "Now it looks just like mine – only bigger – lots bigger!" Putting his hands on his granddad's thighs, he leaned in closer to the object of his fascination. "Ummmmm ... what's that funny smell?" he asked, crinkling his nose and suddenly looking up into the adult's eyes.

"Ohhh ... that's ... uhhh ..." he hesitated before continuing; "... that's 'cause I didn't take a bath yesterday." He rubbed all around the exposed head with the soapy wash-cloth. "There, that should do it." He slid the foreskin back over the glans.

"That looks like fun, Granddaddy. Can I do that for ya?" he asked with a delightful little giggle.

"No, Son;" he said, gently pushing Sandy back into an upright, kneeling position. "Little boys don't do things like that with grown-up men."

"Why not?"

After a moment's hesitation, he said, "It's not the … uhhh … it’s not the … the Christian thing to do. It's just ... not ... right," he answered firmly and in a deep tone that Sandy recognized as something he shouldn't talk about any more. "Now, turn around and sit down here between my legs. Use this wash-cloth to wash your front, and I'll wash your back for ya. Okay?"

Sandy nodded, then squatted down and scootched back against his granddad's groin, actually sitting ON his granddad's ... PENIS ... imprisoning it between his little butt and the enamel bottom of the tub. Before he could say or do anything, Alfred gently shoved him a few inches forward, releasing his own chubby dick from the fleshy, warm constraint. "Careful there, Son. Careful where you sit."

"Yes, Sir."

As his granddad scrubbed his back and arms and butt-cheeks, Sandy found himself sliding further toward the water knobs and drain. Several times, he slid back a little, but finally, he really pushed back hard and once again pushed against the grown-up groin. Immediately, Alfred grabbed his own thickened cock and laid it on his thigh, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. It bounced up and slapped Sandy in the lower back.

"That tickles," Sandy giggled, reaching back and grabbing it.

As any healthy man-tool is prone to do when grasped by any warm hand, his penetrator throbbed, flexed, jerked and expanded a little more. Though unseen by Sandy, Alfred’s face was beginning to turn red.

"Alright, little man, I think that's enough of a bath for you. Out ya go," he said lifting the little tyke over the side of the tub. "Now, dry yourself off, wrap the towel around you, then hurry upstairs and get some clean clothes on. As soon as I'm … uhhh … all finished in here … and get dressed, your gran'mama'll fix us a nice hot breakfast."

~~~ In His 7^th Year ~~~

Just before his seventh birthday, Sandy's mom announced that she'd married again and would be moving with her new husband, Tom, about twenty-eight miles away. She said that Sandy would have the wonderful experience of living on a REAL farm with cows and horses and pigs and chickens and acres and acres of home-grown vegetables and ... COTTON!

Little did he know!

But soon, he was a happy and excited little boy discovering a whole new world!  Picking string beans and okra and tomatoes and cucumbers and beets and carrots and turnips and potatoes and peanuts right from the plants or vines.  He helped with the feeding of the livestock and the chickens.  Gathering fresh eggs from the hen-house was, at first, troublesome to the lad, because the hens pecked at his little hands as he hesitantly reached under them to retrieve their bounty.

The homestead had a well from which was drawn water for drinking, cooking, and ... in the wintertime ... bathing in the kitchen, standing or squatting in a galvanized tub, completely exposed to anyone who wanted something from the open cupboards or icebox.  Sometimes, the tub was moved into the front room – the warmest in the house, as it was the only room with a fireplace.  In warmer weather, the family bathed in the creek several hundred yards behind the clapboard house with its kerosene lamps as the only source of lighting. And of course there was the ever-popular two-seater outhouse with the proverbial Sears Catalogue for reading and wiping. Oh, what a stench it was, sitting there, doing his duty. And the embarrassment!

One day, while he was tending to nature's call, his new step-grandmother, a tall, rotund lady who dipped snuff and spat a mighty stream of dark brown liquid anywhere whenever the need occurred, opened the door (with the crescent moon cut through it, of course), said something to Sandy as his hands quickly covered his little-boy crotch, hiked up the bottom of her flowered dress, and sat next to him ... on the OTHER hole! He wanted to cry, but she reached over and patted him on his naked little thigh. Quickly he tore a page from the notorious catalogue, cleaned himself as best he could (rejecting her offer to assist!), and dashed out the door while pulling his trousers up.

He ran to the barn, climbed the ancient, rickety ol' ladder to the loft, threw himself behind several bales of hay, and cried his little heart out. He wanted to go home – home to Gran'mama and Granddaddy and Sally – where he was happy, and where he was loved, and where he had privacy when he needed to relieve himself.

That night, his step-father, Tom, informed him that 'tomorrow', a bunch of 'darkies' would come to the farm and begin the seasonal picking of the cotton ... and he, Sandy, was expected to do his part. It would take about a month to pick, even with the fifteen or so 'darkies', and the cotton had to be gotten in before the rains came. He'd have to work hard.  “We’re ALL gonna havta work hard!” the man said.

With music blaring on the radio, and the unkempt living room with its several unmatched slip-covered, over-stuffed chairs and couch, Sandy was told to go to bed while the grown-ups played poker ... and drank beer (and, frequently, some other booz) ... with a few neighbors.

After a restless night of trying to sleep on his little bed pad under the stairs leading to the attic, Sandy awoke to the crowing of the rooster as the sun made its appearance; he also awoke to the stench of the stale cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoke from the night before, beer bottles strewn all over the place.

The 'darkies' had arrived a little earlier, and soon, the fourteen of them plus the males in the family (Grandpa, Tom and his three brothers, and Sandy), gathered the big canvas bags and headed to the cotton field. The women (Grandma, Mama, and Kathleen – Grandma's only daughter) stayed at the house to begin fixing lunch for everyone.

Twice in the morning and twice in the afternoon, the women took buckets of well-water and ladles to all the workers in the field – the white folk used one bucket and ladle, and the 'darkies' used another. It was ‘unthinkable’ for both groups to drink from the same ladle or bucket.  So bigoted! Sandy would think, later in life.

It doesn't sound like it, but it was backbreaking work – pulling the soft staple fiber and seeds from the hard, prickly cotton bolls, then dropping the sometimes blood-stained product into the bags, then after one four-foot plant was stripped of its offering, pulling the increasingly heavy bag about two feet to the next plant. At first it was easy, but as Sandy's bag filled more and more, it became a real chore.

Sandy was surprised to see the 'darkies' turn their backs to him and actually pee, or drop their overalls, squat down, and take a crap right there between the already-picked rows of cotton plants. Like some animals do, they'd cover up their 'droppings' with a little dirt, and then continue with their work.

Laboring constantly until dusk of that first day (with only a short break for lunch for all and outhouse business [for the white folk]), Sandy was only able to fill his bag once, and he needed help to haul the fifty-pound bundle back to the truck for emptying. The grown-ups, however, seemed to have little trouble in filling each of theirs four or five times.

That night, Sandy was scolded for not working harder. His mother tried to explain that he was only a little boy who had never picked cotton before, and besides ... "his fingers are bloody and raw from the hard, prickly bolls!"

"He's got to learn. His hands will toughen up," Tom roared, after chugging down another beer.

The next day, Sandy filled his first bag and started on his second, filling it about half-full. Another harsh scolding that night, and the following day, the little guy worked as hard and as fast as he could – up to two bagsful. He never did get more than that – it was just too hard for him. AND painful. His fingers hurt like the dickens.

The month passed quickly; but to Sandy, it seemed it would never end. When the truck left for the last time, taking the last load to the cotton-gin, the dark indentured workers left, too. Sandy stood, waving 'good-bye' to them. He liked them; they had been friendly to him – in a quiet sort of way. They had also helped him drag his heavy, full bags to the truck for emptying, even though it meant that the helper lost a few minutes in filling his own bag. The 'family' never helped him – they only pushed him harder and harder until they finally gave up.

"What kinda sissy man-child did you bring into this fuckin' world, woman?" Tom asked Sandy's mother. "He gets a little older and he'll be a cock-suckin' queer! Get me another beer! 'Sides that, he's gonna be a damn nigger-lover, less'n' we beat some shit into his head," he yelled as she went to the kitchen.

"Over my dead body!" she yelled back.

"That can be arranged, too, woman," he hollered.

Sandy wasn't worried about the comment – he'd heard things like that, all too often, and he'd never seen Tom hurt his mother, but he knew that after the screaming was finished, they would play in their bedroom and both would be yelling HAPPY screams.

It wasn't long before Sandy began to notice that his mother was getting bigger around her middle.

And then there was Billy-Bob – Tom' youngest brother. Oh, yeah!

Billy-Bob was fifteen years old, had sun-bleached blond shaggy hair, and, in Sandy's eyes, could lift ANYTHING!  Ohhh!  He was STRONG! They quickly became friends, and Sandy began to think of him as his 'big brother'. Billy-Bob sorta became his caretaker – showing him how to do things around the farm, and he also took Sandy down to the 'crick' for his weekly bath.

After Sandy was bathed, Billy-Bob always left him to play in the water while he, himself, went upstream to take his own bath – out of sight of the 'young'un'. Finished, they would play for a while, splashing water on each other, or watching the crayfish or small carp that lived in the creek. But even though Sandy bathed and played completely naked, Billy-Bob always wore his baggy briefs or clingy-wet boxers.  Either way, they left little to the boy’s hungry imagination.  They also spent time lying in the water, looking up through the weeping willows and pointing to faces or animals in the clouds.

Those were some of the happiest times Sandy spent on the farm.

One Sunday afternoon, Sandy saw Billy-Bob take his 22 caliber rifle out to the front of the house.  There was nothing unusual about that as (1) everybody in the family (except for Sandy) had his/her own rifle, and (2) Billy-Bob liked to practice his marksmanship by shooting holes in pennies lodged in the bark of the tree about thirty feet from the front door.  That particular Sunday, he’d placed about twenty pennies in the bark.

Sandy sat on the ol’ wooden steps off the front porch and admiringly watched his ‘big brother’ hit the bull’s eye with every pull of the trigger.  Ever moving farther and farther away from the tree, Billy-Bob never seemed to miss his copper mark.

“You’re good!” Sandy yelled across the grassless, dusty, pebble-strewn ‘yard’.

“I’m the best, li’l guy,” he bragged, shouldering his ‘piece’ with one hand and reaching for a Camel with the other.

Sandy jumped off the steps and ran to his older buddy.  “Gimme one,” he said with unexpected firmness and directness of purpose.

“No!  You’re too young to smoke, kid,” Billy-Bob rebuked.

“I ain’t gonna smoke it!”

“Then … whatcha want it for?”

“Somethin’ I saw in a movie once … ‘bout a circus.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re such a good shot, Billy-Bob, I could go ‘way over yonder by the tree, put the Camel between my lips, and I bet you could shoot it outta my mouth … just like they do in the movies.”

“I betcha I could, too,” the older boy said, grinning.  He handed Sandy one of the short, regular-sized, cigarettes.

Sandy stood up straight, very dramatically lifted it to his lips, slowly turned ‘round and sashayed over to the tree.  Once there, he posed, facing away from the house with his hands behind his back and his left side toward the shooter.

Billy-Bob snuffed-out his own cigarette with his foot, slowly raised the rifle, and took aim.

Simultaneously, a shot rang out, the front screen door slammed shut, and Sandy’s mother screamed as loud as she could, “SANDY ... BILLY-BOB …WHAT THE HELL?”  And then she started crying as she ran toward her little boy.  “Baby!  Baby!  Oh, God, Baby, God help us!”

Sandy turned around, dumbstruck, his eyes as big as saucers, seeing his mother’s fright.  All six others in the family were running toward him from the house;  Grandpa changed his direction and rushed toward Billy-Bob, who had quickly lowered the rifle, acting as if he didn’t know where to run.

“What were you two up to?” his mother cried, crushing her son to her bosom.

Grinning proudly, little Sandy pushed himself away and announced, “Billy-Bob’s the BESTUS rifleman around!  Didn’t you see him shot the cigarette outta my mouth?  I wasn’t scared;  I knew he wouldn’t miss … and besides … it was MY idea.”  He tapped his chest with pride, and turned to look across the yard toward Billy-Bob, but his mother pulled him back to her breast.  Sandy could tell that she was extremely happy, yet he could feel her heart beating wildly.

Suddenly, trying loudly to outdo each other, everyone was ranting and raving, spouting-off at the two foolish boys, no one wanting to even mention the worst that could have happened.  The voices became nothing but gibber-jabber; no word was distinctive enough to be understood.

Sandy broke away from his clutching mother, covered his ears with his little hands, and ran to the barn to hide in his favorite place … ABOVE the livestock.

*******

Another afternoon, after they had finished their chores, Billy-Bob and Sandy went up into the hay-loft above the cows' stalls and pitched down some hay to them.   When they finished, there were no other chores left to do for the day, so Billy-Bob took off his shirt and lay on a pile of hay, with the afternoon rays of sun shining down on him through the window-like opening on the front of the barn. Sandy sat not far from him, and they talked for a while about ... whatever. The older boy was chewing on a piece of straw, and Sandy was copying him – his big brother whom he’d never had.

The straw was dry and tasted dusty, so Sandy started twisting it in his fingers. He noticed Billy-Bob's eyes were closed, so he made light little strokes with the piece of straw across his big brother's chest. His hand shooed-away what he must have thought was a bug. Sandy laughed; Billy-Bob opened his eyes and saw the young'un about to do it again, and said, "Stop that." He closed his eyes again.

He didn't sound mad or angry, so Sandy ventured forth, once more.

Then Billy-Bob pretended to be angry, pushed the little guy over onto the pile of hay and threw himself on top of him. With one hand he mussed up the kid's hair and said, "I told you not to do that anymore."

He lay back down again and Sandy asked him if he was mad; Billy-Bob told him that he wasn't. Then he closed his eyes again, just relaxing and enjoying the warmth of the sun. Sandy picked up another piece of straw and started, ever-so-slowly, making very light strokes across the bigger guy’s stomach just above his belt. Billy-Bob didn't say or do anything, so Sandy continued to frustrate the older boy.

He opened his eyes and raised up on his elbows, watching what Sandy was doing. After a bit of time, Sandy noticed the bulge in Billy-Bob's Wranglers startin' to get bigger. He asked him what was happenin' there, and was told, 'Nuthin.' But the more he toyed with the straw, the bigger it seemed to get.

"Is that your peter that's getting' bigger in there?" Sandy asked, pointing at the older boy’s crotch.

Billy-Bob looked into Sandy’s eyes for a moment, saying nothing, then gazed down at his own growing bulge, and merely nodded his head.

“Can I see whatcha look like … nekkid?”

Another wordless glance and then Billy-Bob said, “Okay.” He undid his buckle, unzipped his pants, and slid them and his jockey-shorts down below his butt, and then he lay back on the hay, his right forearm covering his eyes.

Sandy reached out and held Billy-Bob’s 'thing' in his hand, and when he touched it, it jerked and tightened up. The little guy pulled it to one side, released it, and it sprang back, stickin' straight up. Then he pushed it to the other side, released it, and it sprang back, stickin' straight up, again. This is fun, Sandy thought to himself.

Suddenly, he saw a picture in his head – a memory of his granddaddy in the bathtub … with all that extra skin, just like the throbbing … penis! … in his hand … and what he had wanted to do at that time – and said, seriously, “Uncle Billy-Bob?”

“Yes?”

Hesitating through a quiet moment, he finally asked, “Do you know how to … KISS it?”

“What?”

“Do you know … HOW … to kiss it?”

“Nooooooo,” came the surprised but curious response.

“Like this.” Tentatively, Sandy put his lips on the head of Billy-Bob’s manliness.  He gave it a little kiss, and, leaving his lips on the reddish flesh, glanced across the taut belly with a little line of dark blond hair pointing to the older boy’s navel.  He noticed Billy-Bob beginning to breathe heavier.  Not seeing any anger in the eyes looking at him, he then ran his tongue around the head and neck of  the pulsing rod. Each time he did something else – it would give another little jerk. He heard Billy-Bob making strange, soft little moans. He raised his head and looked at him once more.

The young uncle’s eyes were again closed, and he had just a hint of a smile on his face.

Sandy opened his little mouth as wide as he could and slowly, teasingly, lowered his head, letting his lips slide down the length as far as he could go. Then he began doing an up and down motion with his head.

The young man’s sounds got louder and louder until suddenly, Billy-Bob yanked Sandy’s head off of himself, stood up, and hurried to the back of the hay loft, telling the kid to stay where he was.

Sandy obeyed, but soon, he could see Billy-Bob, with his back to him, slightly bent over. For some unknown reason, Sandy thought he was hitting himself in the stomach – maybe even beating himself because of what he had allowed Sandy to do … It must be wrong! he thought.

Several years later, Sandy sorta figured out that Billy-Bob was masturbating-to-climax, what he, as a little boy, had started. But he also realized that at that tender age, just seven years old, he knew instinctively how to perform oral sex on a man, without ever having seen it done before, and without ever having been coaxed, coached, or told what to do. 

It was only natural for him.

He enjoyed doing it. It made him happy, and Uncle Billy-Bob certainly seemed to like it – for a little while, anyway!

*******

And then along came Tommy – Sandy’s little baby brother … well … HALF-brother, anyway … whatever THAT means.

If he’s not ALL my brother … what’s the OTHER part of him called? he wondered. Sandy knew what HALF an apple or an orange or a banana was, and, if you put the other half with it, you had a WHOLE apple or orange or banana.  He just couldn’t figure out where the OTHER HALF of his brother was!

Summer and fall had come and gone, and winter was nearly over.  Sandy had been enrolled in a new school, but his progress was not as good in the Second Grade as it had been in the First – back home with his granddaddy and gran’mama.

The small farm house was crowded – REALLY crowded in the winter – Grandpa, Grandma, his three uncles, his one aunt, his step-father, his mother, and Sandy, himself.  Oh, yeah!  And Baby Tommy and the five yapping hound-dogs.  There was no way he could forget THEM, hard as he might try … not with the crying and the yapping!  The crops were all in, and the proceeds from the cotton and vegetables, and the slaughter of the beef and pork, was quickly being spent in order to feed and clothe the growing family. Sandy’s step-father started looking for work. 

Nothing was to be found in the rural South, so he expanded his horizons and finally found a job on a shrimp boat, harbored in a port in coastal Texas. The little family of four left the homestead and  headed west on Sandy’s first train ride.

He was excited as any seven-year-old could be with the clickety-clacking sounds and the scenery passing by so quickly, but, in just a few hours, the same ol’ stuff quickly became boring for the boy.

Two days later, they arrived in the Lone Star State. Tom arranged to rent a small house near the Gulf Coast – all white walls and with little more than the absolute necessary furnishings – bare light bulbs hung from the ceilings and no rugs or carpets were on the floors, nor were there any curtains on any of the windows.

Another school and little or no progress.  Somehow, Sandy passed and was not held back to repeat the Second Grade.

One night, a couple weeks before his eighth birthday, after Sandy went to bed, Tom was well into his nightly 6-pack … or 12-pack … or whatever it was.  The boy over-heard something that perhaps he shouldn’t have.

“I don’t want another man’s goddamn son living in my house!” he heard his step-father tell his mother.  She started crying, and Sandy covered his little head with his pillow and cried himself to sleep.

The next day, Saturday, while his mother was grocery shopping, Sandy was in the front yard, pulling baby Tommy in his Red Rider Wagon, faster and faster – as fast as his seven- nearly eight-year-old legs would carry him. A quick U-turn, and the wagon spilled over.  Tommy began crying.  LOUD!  There was a little blood coming from his one-year-old head.

Tom came running out of the house, yelling profanities at Sandy.  He picked his name-sake up, and hurried back inside, screaming for Sandy to change clothes and to get Tommy’s baby-blanket and bottle of juice.  They were going to the hospital.

It was just a tiny scratch – nothing really serious – and Tommy was okay to go home.  Sandy was relieved when Tom NICELY asked if he wanted to stop somewhere for a Coca-Cola.

“SURE!” Sandy happily replied.

The nurse said that Tom must be a wonderful father.

Yeah, right!

Back in the car, he drove to a neighborhood beer-bar and carried baby Tommy inside and set him on top of the bar.  He ordered a beer for himself and a Coca-Cola for Sandy.  The older boy held the bottled juice for Tommy.

After his ribbing from the bartender and a few other patrons, Tom turned to the older boy and asked, “How’d you like to go back to your grandmother and granddaddy, Sandy?  You sure talk about’em enough.”

“Oh, I’d like that, Daddy Tom,” he excitedly answered with a huge smile on his innocent face and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, hurry up and finish your Coke-Cola and I’ll let you go.”

“Ohhhh-kayyyyy,” he jumped down off the bar-stool and chug-a-lugged his drink. A mighty burp followed.

Off they went to the airport, and a short time later, Tom handed Sandy over to a Stewardess.  She assured the man that his ‘son’ would be well cared for.

“Oh, I’m sure of that,” he said, hugging baby Tommy – his REAL son.  Without even saying ‘good-bye’ to Sandy, he turned and left.  Good riddance, the bastard must have thought!

That was the last time Sandy would see his alcoholic step-father until he was eleven years old.

The year was 1947, and the Eastern Airlines’ Douglas DC-3 ‘puddle-jumper’ of an airplane touched-down in every state along the way until Sandy finally arrived on the Eastern Seaboard – some twelve hours after leaving Texas.

He was to find out that Tom hadn’t let anyone know he was coming … not until the kid was more than halfway there.  Not even Sandy’s mother had bothered to call her parents to let THEM know.

But he was finally home.  Home!  With his granddaddy and gran’mama, and Sally – all whom he loved, and who he knew … loved him.  He was to become their only son – not in name, but in the love they gave to each other.

Finally, he was happy!  Once again.

*******

One Summer day, Sandy and Sally were playing in the woods – Sally as the ‘wild animal in the jungle’, and Sandy, the ‘jungle hunter’, with his bow and suction-cup-shaped rubber-tipped arrows.  The hunter carefully pulled back the taut string, took careful aim, and let the arrow fly.  It hit Sally in the hind-quarters.  She was not badly hurt, but still let out a yelp.

Alfred had seen the encounter;  he called his grandson to him as he sat on a white-painted wrought iron bench.  “Son,” he said, motioning for Sandy to sit at the other end of the bench, “I know that you were playing, and I know that Sally’s not really hurt, but I want to tell you something.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Sandy sat where directed as the man stretched his arm out and placed a comforting hand on the youngster’s shoulder.

“We people … humans…” he began, “…are the … the HIGHEST things … that the animals know,” he continued, haltingly, probably searching for just the right words to use.  “And God … is the highest … thing … that we … that WE are aware of.”

Sandy nodded his head in understanding.

“Now…” he went on, “…if we want God to be good and loving to us … then, WE … we have to be good and loving to the animals.”  He squeezed his ward’s shoulder with love – as much love as he could – to the young male.  Sandy tilted his head and rested it on his granddad’s hand.  He took a whiff of the sweaty aroma coming from it;  the hand felt so warm and smelled so good.  He went to move closer, but the man applied a little pressure and kept the lad at arm’s length.

He looked up at the man, thinking, Oh, Granddaddy … why can’t you hug me?  Why won’t you let me just hug you?  I love you so much.  He raised his head, saying “Thank you, Granddaddy;  I think I know what you mean.”  Then he turned his attention to Sally, whistled for her, and when she was near, he knelt down on the ground and hugged her – not a bad replacement for the affectionate youngster’s need;  not a bad replacement at all.  At least, Sally didn’t push him away.

Quickly, as if nothing had been spoken, the two playmates ran back to their ‘jungle’ and were happy again.

But something would happen soon – something that was tragic.

*******

On Christmas Eve, Sandy and his Gran’mama went into town to do some last-minute shopping.  Cheerfully, excitedly, he had just one more special present to buy – a red leather collar with a row of shiny rhinestones down its length, for the love of his young life – Sally.

But when they returned home later that afternoon, Sally didn’t greet them as usual.  Neither did Tabby nor Sugar, the two reclusive cats who earned their room and board by keeping the mouse population down.

Sandy ran all around the snow-covered property – all twenty-eight hilly, wooded acres of it – calling her name, whistling for her, calling again, until his throat was hoarse and the tears on his cheeks and eyelashes felt like ice sickles.  He didn’t even want to go in for supper when he was called, but he knew that he had to;  it was getting too dark – in light, and in spirit.

Sally was gone.  Disappeared.  Stolen.  Something.  She just wasn’t there.  His eight-year-old heart hurt like it had never hurt before.  NEVER!!!  Gone, also, his Christmas spirit and the childlike joys of Yuletide.

Why, dear God?  Why? he sobbed on his knees beside his bed that night, completely avoiding his usual, “Now I lay me down to sleep…”.  Was I bad?  Am I a bad boy?  Did I do something wrong?  WHY?????

There was no answer to soothe his torment.  His world had just collapsed.

The next morning – Christmas morning – he didn’t even want to open any of the gaily decorated presents for him that were under the tree … not even the two complete Lionel Train sets with all accessories – a Passenger train from his grandparents, and a Freight train from his grandmother’s brother – his Great-Uncle – (they didn’t know that the other set had been bought for him!).

“All I want is Sally!” he bawled, ignoring his presents, grabbing his winter coat and running out the door to look for her again.  And again.  And again.  Until the Spring thaw.  He just wouldn’t give up hope.

A few weeks into the New Year, his granddaddy had found the dead animals and had buried them, sheltering Sandy from the trauma.  Both grandparents continually told little white lies, trying to console him by saying that since he was getting to be a BIG boy, Sally had probably found another LITTLE boy whom she could play with and care for and love … as she had done with him when HE was little.

It helped a bit, but not much.

Many, many years later, he was to learn the truth – that an uncle (by marriage to one of his aunts) did not like the Doberman, and, as he was working for an exterminator, he had access to poisons, and had set out tainted meat scraps around the property, thereby killing Sally and Sugar and Tabby. 

After learning that … Sandy hated his uncle, but by the time he learned the truth, the uncle was dead, and there was nothing that Sandy could do … except rejoice in his well-deserved death!  It didn’t happen soon enough, he thought … and, even though he was a middle-aged adult when he finally learned the truth, Sandy could wrongfully wish for no other than the Old Testament law of “An eye for an eye”, with the burning, painful death by poison for his uncle!  In the freezing snow!  Languishing alone!  Suffering!  And he wasn’t sorry for wishing it on the sonuvabitch.

~~~ In His 9^th Year ~~~

Times were changing – they HAD been for a couple of years.  The Second World War had been won by the Allies four years earlier – V.E. Day (Victory in Europe) was on 8 May;  V.J. Day (Victory over Japan) was three months later on 14 August, 1945.  The men and women had returned home, and the government-subsidized War Plants were little more than staying alive, four years later.  Housing projects for the returning veterans had sprung up everywhere.

Prince had been sold and the horse barn had been torn down.  Daisy had fallen in a sinkhole and broken a leg; Alfred had had to put her down with a rifle shot, and bury her with the help of the trusty old tractor.  Sandy shed more tears when another dear friend was suddenly removed from his life.  But such is life when one is growing up.

Owning the property for the past seven years, Alfred and Kate had decided to sub-divide the twenty-eight acres.  After negotiating with the town, a reversed ‘S’-shaped public road was cut through the woods and over the hills and the two creeks.  Acre-sized parcels were officially surveyed and duly recorded, and then began the sales of the land – the land that he loved, the land where he had played and ‘hunted’ with Sally, the land where his granddaddy had taught him to shoot a 22 caliber rifle – but the only thing he was allowed to down was … MISTLETOE … high up in the Oaks … and that takes some real marksmanship to accomplish!  The young boy even bettered his old granddad, now in his early fifties (hee hee).

He hated knowing that his little woods-friends (rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and yes, even the garter/garden snakes and the King Snakes!) were being uprooted from their old territories. And he hated to see some of his favorite climbing-trees felled in the name of progress.  He hated to see his favorite wild flowers (Jack-in-the-pulpit, Bloodroot, Trilliums, Lady’s Slippers, Solomon Seals, and Wild Ginger) destroyed by the bulldozers.  He saved a few from destruction by transplanting them into a wild-flower-rock-garden that he created without anyone else helping him.  It was all his, and his alone!  

But as new homes were being built, Sandy became fascinated with the construction … AND the construction crews – all shirtless and sweaty and muscular.  He’d rush home from school, grab a potted meat sandwich (or some cookies) and a Coke-Cola, and dash down the tree-lined street to one of the busy construction sites, just to watch the big carpenters, pipe layers, roofers, et al, hurrying to finish the day’s assignments.  More than once, he felt a strange stirring in his trousers or Bermuda shorts.  But he tried to dismiss from his mind what his Sunday School teacher had said was ‘evil thoughts’.

All the men, from the older architects and foremen to the younger laborers and grunts, got to know Sandy.  From time to time, as the men were putting their equipment away in the late afternoons, he’d walk through the new construction, filled with questions – questions about tools and wood and studs and rods and inches and nuts and bolts and stuff like that – questions of all kinds.

As this man or that one finished up, while giving an answer, the man might occasionally say, “Gotta take a leak before heading home,” or something like that;  “wanna come with me?  Back into the woods, away from everyone else?  We can still talk – just us men, ya know.”

“Sure.  I gotta take one, too,” the boy would answer.  Maybe he’d get a chance to see another man’s … ya know.

With streams flowing, they’d each take a quick gander at the other.

“Ya gotta nice one, kid;  ya know that?” the man might ask.

“Yeah?” Sandy would ask.  “Really?”

“Yeah, really!  Ya gotta girlfriend, kid?”

“Nahhhh.  Got slapped a couple of Sunday’s ago by Rev. Babcock’s daughter.  We’re not talkin’ anymore.”

“Got slapped?” the carpenter asked with a chuckle in his throat and a smirk on his face.  “What’id ya do?  Try to get in her pants?”

Sandy noticed the man’s penis jerk and swell a little.  They’d both quickly looked away.  “Oh, no,” he would blush.  “Nuthin’ like that!  I could NEVER do that!  It ain’t Christian, ya know?”

NOT the answer the man expected!  Maybe he’d choke or cough or do something, trying to cover his embarrassment.  But he wanted to hear the rest of the story.  Shaking the last drips from his deflating manhood, the man asked, “So why did she slap you?”  He shoved himself back inside and began zipping or buttoning up.

Sandy finished and copied what the man had done – shake;  stuff;  button or zip.  “There was a meetin’ of the Elders after the service, and Joanie and I were just sittin’ on the back steps of the church…”

“Yeah?”

“… and we were just talkin’ about school or somethin’, ya know…”

“Yeah.”

“… and I just put my hand on her knee to make a point…”

“Was the bottom of her skirt above or below her knee?”

“Below.  I wasn’t trying anything … honest, I wasn’t! … not like the guys at school talk about … but she jumped up, stepped down another step, turned toward me, and slapped me.  Then she ran back in the church.  I sure got a chewin’-out when I got home.”

By then, they were walking back to the new project.  The man had his arm around Sandy’s shoulders and pulled him tightly against his own side.  It was a little difficult to walk that way, but soon they got in step with each other, overstepping the other’s foot that was firmly set on the ground.

“Well, she’s not the only fish in the sea, kid.  And with what I saw a little bit ago, you’re gonna make a LOT of fish happy when you get older.”

“Fish?  Who’s talkin’ about fish?” Sandy asked, a little discombobulated.

“Girls.  Women.  They’re sometimes called ‘fish’ ‘cause most of’em smell like it.  Boys and men smell much better to me.”  He squeezed Sandy’s shoulder.

The lad turned his head into the man’s sweaty work-shirt and took a deep whiff.  “Ummmmm … yeah, I like the way YOU smell, too,” he said.  “Almost as good as my granddaddy smells.”  He looked up at the man and smiled.

“Hey, pedo,” one of the workers (probably a foreman) called from the framed house, though Sandy heard it as ‘Pete-o’, “whatcha doin’ with the kid out yonder in the woods?”

“Just takin’ a leak … we both had to, and you know he’s full of questions,” Pete called back.

“Yeah, I know,” the other man replied.  “But get your ass back up here, pronto.  We gotta date with a couple of hot puss… errr … girls … tonight.”

On returning to the house, Sandy heard his grandmother whistle real loud for him to come home for supper.

“See ya next week, kiddo,” the man said, removing his arm from around Sandy’s shoulders and extending a hand to shake the boy’s.

“Okay, Pete;  see ya next Monday after school.  As their hands clasped in what Sandy took to be a ‘grown-up’ handshake, he felt Pete’s middle finger scratch the inside of his palm several times.  He cocked his head and looked up at the adult with a questioning look.

“I’ll tell ya what that means, if we get to know each other better, kid,” Pete said, just above a whisper.

Suddenly, Sandy realized that he and Pete sorta had a ‘secret’ between them.  “Okay,” he giggled.  “See ya, Monday.”  He happily took off running back home, three houses up the street.

He never saw Pete again, and the others only said that he no longer worked with the crew.

*******

That Sunday, as usual, Sandy and his grandparents went to Sunday School and then stayed for the main Service;  then home for noon-time dinner – the yummiest Southern fried chicken, corn-on-the-cob, fresh picked collards and green beans, home-made buttermilk biscuits with fresh-churned butter (from the neighbors, since Daisy was no longer there), and fresh strawberries and cream for dessert.

“Bless this food, O, Lord…” Alfred began when the three held hands and bowed their heads, “…to the nourishment of our bodies, and us to thy service … Amen.”  Loosening hands and looking at his wife, he added, “And may God always bless you, dear Kate, for the wonderful food you always prepare.”  They gave each other a little kiss;  it had almost become a breakfast and dinner ritual.  He seldom forgot to thank her for her hard, delicious work.

During that Sunday dinner, Alfred and Kate were discussing the morning’s sermon.  “Did you catch who the reverend was talking about in his sermon?” Alfred asked his wife.

“You mean about the stupid feud going on between Fred Hunt and his neighbor, John DeLameter?” she answered with a question.  “That’s so silly of them, all because Fred loaned John his new gasoline lawnmower and then broke it.  He should know that John is so poor, he can’t afford to buy him a new one.”

Before Alfred could say anything else, Sandy spoke up and simply said, “Mr. Hunt sure must not love himself very much.”  Perplexed, both grandparents suddenly looked at him.

“Why do you say that, Son?” his granddaddy asked.

In a very matter-of-fact way, as if it should be perfectly clear to anyone else, little nine-year-old Sandy answered, “It says in the Bible that we should love our neighbors as we love ourselves, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does, Sandy,” Kate replied, smiling.

“Well … if Mr. Hunt hates Mr. DeLameter, then he can’t love himself, can he?”  With that being so succinctly stated, Sandy hungrily went back to nibbling the corn off the cob.

Alfred turned to Kate.  “Out of the mouths of babes!”

With a look of disgust, Sandy glanced up at both his grandparents.  “I ain’t no baby!”

“No, you’re not,” his granddad said, reaching across the picnic-style kitchen table, “no, you’re not.”  He took Sandy’s hand in both his own, squeezed tight, and said, “You’re gonna make a mighty fine preacher-man one of these days, Son.”

They smiled at each other.

~~~ In His 11^th Year ~~~

With Sunday School, Church Service, Sunday evening Service, and Wednesday night Prayer Meetings, much of Sandy’s life had been centered around the religious life.  He was as active in that life as any young boy his age could be.  He was a boy-soprano in the Junior Choir;  a Youth Minister in the main pulpit when called on;  attended church camp for two weeks each summer;  helped set-up, serve, and clean-up after church suppers and picnics;  and was responsible for many new young people attending their church.  He was the darling of the parishioners.  Everyone seemed to love him.  Even Joanie Babcock, the minister’s daughter, started talking with him again, and rumors abounded, everyone talking about them getting married when they were old enough.

One Sunday evening, to the surprise of Sandy’s grandparents, Rev. Babcock announced that Sandy had a few words to say.

Taking Joanie’s hand in his, Sandy led her to the front of the Sanctuary, and said, “Thank you, Rev. Babcock … ladies and gentlemen…” 

Such a little gentleman he was.  Oh, yes.  Yes, indeedy!  Sandy could comport himself and talk like an adult when he was talking TO adults!  And … they … loved it!

He continued, “…Joanie and I know that we’re still very young, and we know that y’all expect us to get married after we finish school and college.”

Nearly everyone in the congregation was smiling and nodding their heads in agreement.  Nearly everyone, that is, except for Kate, Sandy’s grandmother.

He grinned at the young girl beside him, then turned back to the congregation and said, “We’ve been talking about what we want to do later on, and we both promise you that … when we finish our schoolin’ … we BOTH want to become Medical Missionaries … to AFRICA!”

In shock, Rev. Babcock collapsed into his chair in front of everyone.  Evidently, it came as a surprise to him as well as to Sandy’s grandmother.  However, Alfred, a preaching Elder who frequently took the pulpits for ill or vacationing Presbyterian ministers around town, was beaming with pride for his grandson.

The foot stomping and hand clapping was thunderous.  The Hallelujah’s and Praise the Lord’s and Amen’s were deafening.  The rafters in the Sanctuary were surely shakin’ with a mighty shake!  God help us if they come tumblin’ down like the walls of Jericho! Sandy thought to himself. 

Little did he know what WOULD come tumbling down only a short time later!

He and Joanie returned to the pew amid handshakes and pats on the back, and once the reverend had composed himself, the evening Service was quickly conducted and finished.

With a firm handshake and an exuberant smile, Alfred praised his grandson on his promised commitment.  Right there in church, in front of God and everyone, he threw his arms around Sandy and hugged him tightly to his chest. 

Ohhh, how Sandy loved that, but not a word was forthcoming from Kate – not until they returned to their log cabin home.

She rushed Alfred off to bed, stating that she wanted a word with Sandy.

Alone, the young boy and the older lady sat at the kitchen table.  Sternly she looked at him and said, “I want you to pay very close attention to me, Sandy.”

He nodded his head.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your granddaddy is an auto mechanic, Sandy … has been, most of his life, and if it’s good enough for him, it’s gotta be good enough for you.”

“But Gran’ma…” he started to say.

“Don’t interrupt me, young man;  I’m not finished,” she said, looking over the tops of her glasses.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’re not loaded with money, and it doesn’t look like we ever will be, so we won’t be able to send you through college, then seminary and on to medical school, and besides that …” her demeanor changed at those words, and she became almost angry with her next words, “…no grandson of mine is EVER gonna go to any GOD-FORSAKEN, DAMNED FOREIGN COUNTRY … NOT even in service to the LORD!”

Sandy was shocked.  He’d never heard his grandmother use that kind of language before.  NEVER!  His eyes were large as saucers, and his mouth hung open.

“Now,” she went on, “if you JUST want to become a preacher-man, when the time comes, we’ll try to see about getting’ ya a scholarship … but that’s still seven years away, and a lot can happen in that time.  Now … go do whatcha gotta do in the bathroom, then git upstairs, and go to bed.  End of discussion.  We don’t need to talk about this anymore.”

Sandy knew better than to argue with her.  She could send him back to his mother and step-father at any given moment, if she took a notion to do so.

*******

It was becoming evident that changes were occurring in Sandy’s mannerisms.  He was walking with a girlish gait – his legs – close together, his steps – short and plotted;  often balancing a book on his head, in private, of course.  Girls are so much more REFINED and PROPER than boys are, he thought to himself.  He moved his hands delicately – ‘limp-wristed’ others might say.  Boys at school started calling him names, and making fun of him.  He’d talked about taking piano lessons.  His grandfather looked askance at him – silently, but with disapproval.

For his birthday, Alfred gave him a baseball mitt, a bat, a baseball, and a softball.  “Getting involved with sports will make a man out of you,” he told his ward.  “Let’s go out in the backyard, and I’ll teach you how to hit and throw and catch.”

It wasn’t long before he strongly reprimanded the boy.  “How did you EVER become such a sissy?  You certainly didn’t get it from me!”

“I don’t know, Grandaddy.  I’m sorry.  I just don’t like baseball.  But if you want me to learn, I’ll try harder.”  He began to cry.  So desperately did Sandy want approval from the man he’d looked up to all of his life.  For the man he’d always loved, he was willing to do anything.

“Is there ANYTHING … MANLY … that you DO like to do?  Football?  Basketball?  Boxing?  Wrestling?”

“No.  No.  No.  No,” he’d replied shaking his head as each sport was mentioned, tears running down his cheeks.

“Then, what the hell WOULD you like to do, Sandy?”

“Well …” the boy said, looking up and choking-back his emotions, “I like the tumbling we do at school … and I think I’d like to learn how to ice skate…”

“You mean, hockey?”

“No.  That’s too rough.  I mean figure skating – it’s so pretty…”

“That’s sissy, too,” the disgruntled man harrumphed, disgustedly shaking his head.  “Isn’t there anything NOT QUEER that you like to do … that REAL men do?

Sandy cast his eyes to the ground and toyed with the buttons on his shirt.  Softly he answered, “When I go to the circus or see a circus movie, I really like the acrobats and the men on the trapeze.”

“Yeah – in their tights;  I can just see it, now – my grandson, the trapeze artist!  Damn!”  He turned to walk away, and after a moment, he stopped, turned back and said, “At least that’s something – and it’ll build up some muscle on ya.”

*******

Most of the lots had been sold, and new houses were in various stages of completion.  Alfred and Kate had kept the two most desirable acres for themselves and had built a new, 1950 California ranch-style Home of the Year.  Alfred had even built a forty-eight square foot 'L' shaped train-table for Sandy's two Lionels, in the partially finished attic.  It was heaven for the young boy.

And it was the Summer of 1951.  Over the next couple of weeks, Sandy and Alfred worked like Trojans … clearing a plot of land, and then, laying bricks in a herringbone pattern for a twenty-by-forty-foot patio beyond the grassy backyard of the new home.  And then, once that was finished, they used a post-hole-digger to dig four holes, each two-feet deep and eight-feet apart as the corners of a square.  Four eight-foot lengths, and four ten-foot lengths of two-and-a-half-inch galvanized pipe were assembled together into an open 8' X 8' X 8' cube, cemented two-feet deep into the holes.

Using good, strong-linked chain, from one cross-bar (pipe, really) they attached a swing, sturdy enough to hold a large adult;  from the cross-bar to it’s left, a trapeze bar with only one chain attached to its center;  from the next cross-bar to the left (opposite the swing), a normal trapeze bar with a chain at either end;  and from the fourth cross-bar (to the right of the swing and opposite the single-chained trapeze), two rings, each with its own chain.

Sandy had never been so thrilled with anything in his life. Countless hours, day in and day out, he spent learning how to do many of the aerial acrobatics he'd seen at the circus.  True, time and again he fell, only to get up and try again and again and yet again, until he succeeded with his maneuvers.

Often, one or the other or both grandparents would sit on the patio and watch him 'perform'.  Eventually he got to the point where he could … with the help of a balancing pole … around the top of the assembled framework – eight feet off the ground!  It scared the living crap out of his grandmother, the first time she saw him do it, but Sandy LOVED it – he was finally in his element – performing!

While swinging high, he learned … sometimes, painfully! … how to leap through the air and catch the opposite trapeze bar, throw his legs up and swing by the backs of his knees, then raise his legs, fall further backwards, catching the trapeze chains with his ankles, and continue swinging until he'd straighten his feet, do a one-eighty flip in mid-air, and land on the ground, upright on his feet.

Try as he might on the rings, he never succeeded with the Iron Cross (considered to be the very epitome of men's gymnastics), but it was evident that his upper body, shoulders, forearms, biceps, lats, traps and pecs greatly improved from the pip-squeak of a boy he WAS. ( http://www.t-nation.com/readTopic.do?id=581914 )  He did, however, learn to do a perfect Split, with a foot secured in each of the rings.

His granddaddy became his greatest fan, praising him on his accomplishments, and even hugging him tightly to his side … BUT … Sandy still had some girlish, effeminate ways about himself.  Perhaps the older man had come to block out those dandy, foppish mannerisms.  Perhaps he was remembering some of his Army buddies during the war, in the foxholes of France.  Or perhaps … perhaps … ???

*******

One day when Sandy had finished cutting the half-acre front lawn, he was returning the mower to the garage.  He heard a yelp, followed by a string of loud profanity he'd never heard his granddaddy use before.  He knew his idol was in pain. 

Rushing to the open garage, he observed the man flailing his left arm, occasionally sucking his thumb, an excruciating expression on his face.

"What happened, Granddaddy?" Sandy shouted.

"Smashed my damn finger with the hammer – that's what the hell's the matter.  Shit, it hurts!"

"Oh, is THAT all?  It'll get better."

"Fuck!"

"GRANDDADDY!!!  Watch your mouth!" the boy scolded the adult.  "I guess it's just one of those days for ya."

"You goddamn sissy sonuvabitch!" Alfred's venom shot forth, each word increasingly louder, as he angrily back-handed the boy and sent him sprawling onto the cement floor of the garage.  "Don't you EVER speak to me that way again; ya hear me, goddammit?

Within seconds, Alfred was kneeling straddled over the boy's mid-section, slapping and hitting the boy unmercifully.  They were screaming at each other, words that just a few years later would be completely forgotten.

Ironically, even with the battering he was receiving, Sandy relished the closeness of his grandfather sitting on his crotch, and he realized that he was getting a 'stiffie' under the man's weight.  He surrendered to the man, and stopped trying to protect himself.  He loved his grandfather, and if this was the way that love was returned, this was the way he would accept it, come hell or high water … no matter what!

Suddenly, he heard another voice screaming – his grandmother's.  She had come running at the sound of the ruckus in the garage.  Seeing her husband clobbering her grandson, she grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on – a hoe, a rake, a shovel, a broom … Sandy never knew what it was – and began hitting Alfred with it until finally he stopped his attack, got up without a word, went into the house and to his own bedroom, and started reading the Bible.

"What was THAT all about, Honey?" she asked as she knelt beside him, cradled him to her bosom, and gently began to rock back and forth.

"I don't know," the boy replied, sobbing.  "Granddaddy must hate me."

"No, he doesn't, Honey;  no, he doesn't.  He just … sometimes … he just doesn't understand you."

~~~ In His 13^th Year ~~~

Mid-June had come.  Sandy was helping his granddaddy pack a suitcase  for a week-long conference of Presbyterian preachers and lay-ministers at church camp.  He and Rev. Babcock were the only representatives from their particular church to be in attendance. 

And because of the conference, his granddaddy wouldn't be at Sandy's birthday party.

Oh, how the boy wanted to accompany the men that week – but it was not meant to be.  Once again he was to be with a bunch of women and all his little cousins.

Over the past couple of years, with him being the oldest of the grandchildren, and the 'logical' baby-sitter for them all whenever needed, he had learned that he could focus his eyes in such a way as to 'frighten' the younger ones into obeying him.  He never had to spank or verbally order them what to do.  He needed only do that 'thing' with his eyes and point with his index finger, to get them to mind him.  Later, they would go running to their parents and tell them that Sandy had the 'eyes of Satan"!  Of course, he had NO idea about what they were talking.  He was a good Christian boy who was planning to become 'just a preacher-man'.  And he let everyone know it.  Like George Washington, he could NOT tell a lie.  And like the boys at school said, he was a 'goodie-goodie' boy.

The suitcase was nearly filled.  Alfred told Sandy to go to the hall closet and find his old Army swim-trunks, "… 'way in back, on the bottom shelf."  He and the reverend would have some time for fishing and swimming in the lake. 

A few minutes later, Sandy returned to the bedroom with the dark blue woolen trunks (sorta cut like present-day boxer-briefs) that he'd never seen.  "Is this them, Granddaddy?"

"Yep.  That's them.  Haven't worn them in I don't know how many years.  Check and see if there are any moth holes in them, would you, please?"

Sandy held them up to the light – he could just imagine what they'd look like on his granddaddy – all wet, and clingy.  Oh, how he wished he could go to camp with him, the man who was forty-three year older than himself.  If only … he thought, secretly desiring …

And then, Alfred was gone … if but only for a week, it would be too long.  It would seem like a lifetime before he was back.  But he WAS back.  Thank God!

That night, sitting at the kitchen table eating supper, Alfred reiterated the week's activities to Kate, little of which held Sandy's attention because most of the conversation centered around complicated discussions with different preachers, and particularly one individual – Reverend Babcock!

Yeah, Sandy thought, Rev. Bab-COCK!  Wonder what HIS cock looks like?  He had learned what THAT word was, from listening to the guys at school.  Wonder if he's cut like me, or uncut like Granddaddy?  Maybe someday…

"… and we were taking a shower before going to bed…" his granddaddy was saying, when Sandy's ears perked up.

"You and the reverend were taking a bath together?" he blurted out, looking straight into the older man's eyes.  "Were you … NEKKID?"

"Well … yeah …"

"And was Rev. Babcock nekkid, too?"

Alfred nodded his head as he continued what he had intended to say.  "… that's the way you usually take a shower.  And I'll have you know that I washed his back, and he washed mine."  Then, almost instantly, Alfred's attitude changed as if he suddenly realized what Sandy was asking about.  He frowned … and asked rather harshly, "To WHAT, may I ask, are you referring … you little … PERVERT?"

"ALFRED!!!  Stop that!" Kate strongly corrected her husband.  "He's just a young boy, and he's never been exposed to what goes on in a man's world!  Don't you know that?"

"WOMAN!" he barked, rising from his seat at the table.  "That … BOY … knows a helluva lot more than you or I can even imagine!"  He stormed out of the kitchen and out of the house and didn't return until all the lights were turned off, signifying that Kate and Sandy had both gone to bed.

Grandfather and grandson said not a word to each other for a good two weeks afterward.  If they had anything to say to each other, it was through the lone female intermediary in the house.

*******

At some point in late Summer, Sandy had his first sexual climax, albeit without even using his hands.  He was in bed, lying on his stomach, humping a pillow.  He'd been doing the same nightly exercise for several months, though without any messy outcome!  But THAT night, the tingling was better than ever … MUCH better, but he thought he'd peed in the bed.

Quickly he threw the sheet off himself, jumped out of bed, turned on his desk-light, and saw … not yellow, but white and clear gooey stuff!  Is that the stuff the guys talk about? he wondered. 

He leaned closer and took a whiff.  It smelled different – it wasn't pee, he knew THAT for sure!  He dipped his finger in it and tasted it.  UMMM YUMMY!!!  He licked his lips, then leaned further in and quickly lapped up all the mess on the sheet.  Then, using a sock, he tried to sop up any tell-tale signs.

Sandy was happy for a change.  NOW, I'm a man!

*******

September came, and on Tuesday after Labor Day, he entered the eighth grade.  Quickly, he learned an important lesson in social decorum – to carry his books in front of himself at crotch level.  Otherwise, the girls giggled and shyly pointed toward him;  the guys slapped him on the back and said, "'Way to go, stud!" or asked, "That a banana in your pocket, Sandy?" or "What boy's ass ya gonna use, faggot?"

Nine days later, on Thursday, September 17^th, 1953, after he got home from school, he and his grandmother were sitting in the living room, waiting for Alfred to come home from work.  Charlie, the neighbor across the street, rang the doorbell.  Kate went to answer it, and soon Sandy heard her crying.

He dashed to the front door to see what was wrong.

Charlie worked with his granddaddy and had rushed home to break the news to Alfred's widow.  Alfred had had a heart attack, and before the ambulance could get him to the hospital, the doctor in attendance had pronounced him dead.

Sandy ran out the door, crying.  He ran to the backyard and to the trapeze set.  He sat in the swing, bawling his heart out.  Slowly, he started swinging – then faster and faster, higher and higher.  Charlie and his grandmother found him and called to him, begging him to stop before he fell and hurt himself.

At the highest swing ever, he jumped, hit the opposite cross-bar, and tumbled with a thud to the ground.  In his two years of practicing, he'd learned to fall without hurting himself.  But that jump was different!  He didn't care WHAT happened.

They rushed to him and helped him up.  Charlie put an arm around his shoulders;  Kate put an arm around his waist, and together, the three walked back to the house.

"What's gonna HAPPEN to me, Gran'mama?  What's gonna happen to ME?"

Those were the first words out of his mouth after learning of his grandfather's death.

"Are you gonna send me back to Mama and that …  that MAN that hates my guts?"  He started crying again.

For years to come, the other adult members of the family never failed to remind Sandy that, on hearing the news, his first and only concern had been for himself, and not for his grandmother – not even in her own moment of tragedy.

Charlie and his grandmother stopped, on hearing the fear in his voice.  "No, Honey, no.  I won't sent you back to them.  I'll need you more now than I've ever needed you before.  I love you … you hear that?"

"Yes, ma'am, and I love you, too, Gran'mama."

"Besides my NEEDING you now, two years ago when we went to Texas to see your mama and Tommy … and HIM … I saw, first hand, what that man's really like!  No!  I'm not gonna send you away – not ever.  I promise, Honey."

*******

Several months passed.  The healing and adapting had come along quite well, with the help of neighbors and the good church-folk.

Adjusting to his new responsibilities (since his granddaddy wasn't around to do a lot of the work around the yard and the house), Sandy found little time for himself.  What time he DID find, however, was usually spent at the trapeze during daylight, or upstairs at the train-table in the attic – both of which had lovingly been built by the man he still loved, and … he supposed … would always love.  Certain dark memories were quickly disappearing into the hidden chambers of his young subconscious mind, only to be revisited some day when and if he should ever consider writing about … about his … memories of his granddaddy.

But one winter day, after Sandy had gone upstairs to play with his trains, he eventually grew tired of that, and, seeing boxes stored in the unfinished part of the attic, he began opening them, looking for … he knew not what, but soon discovered that most of the boxes were filled with his granddaddy's old clothes – clothes that his grandmother hadn't thrown away.

And suddenly, there it was – the dark blue woolen swim trunks that had been closer to his granddaddy's nakedness than anything else that he could find.  He crushed them to his face, and inhaled deeply.  Of course they had been washed when he came home from the church camp conference, but in Sandy's fantasy, it smelled just like his granddaddy.  And his teen-age cock began to grow and expand.  It wasn't long before he jacked-off into the soft woolen fabric.

Kate had transformed Alfred's bedroom into the Den that it was supposed to have been, storing the bed-frame and mattresses in the attic.  After his FIRST private experience with the swim-trunks, Sandy talked his gran'mama into letting him move the mattress UNDER the train-table, so that he would feel closer to his granddaddy – it would sorta be like camping outside – only it would be INside!

She agreed!

Needless to say, Sandy spent many nights and many quickies and fantasy-filled sessions UNDER the table with what remained of the man he loved – through good times AND bad – the man who nearly always had kept him at arms' length, and who was now with him … in his heart … forever.   

I love ya, Granddaddy. 

That's all, folks.

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