Grandpappy's Red Flannels

by Richard H. Williams

Grandpappy always put on those long handles when the leaves fell from the trees and the weather turned cold. He sure looked funny but I guess he kept warm. With gray-white hair which covered most of his head, the gray-black stubble which grew on his face, and the wiry-red fleece of the long johns which seemed like red hair growing all over the rest of his body, he looked like some sort of a cross between a bear and an old man.

I was just a young boy then, but I never will forget that night in October when we were awakened by what grandpappy thought was the cry of a wildcat. We had more than two hundred head of chicken then and he was afraid a cat was after the chickens.

Grandpappy stalked over to the fireplace and lifted his double-barreled shotgun from the wooden pegs. Following close behind him, I noticed that the flap to his red flannels was unbuttoned and hanging down, but I didn't dare call this to his attention. 

Now on our farm there were three bloodhounds. They always slept under the house. So, when we crept out the door onto the porch and down the porch steps into the backyard, the dogs woke up. The chickens, which were perched in the trees near the house began rustling a bit. Aside from that, everything seemed all right.

The air was cold and crisp and the moon was shining down through the trees. I stood near the far end of the porch, jogging lightly from foot to foot, rubbing my arms, trying to control the involuntary chattering of my teeth.

Grandpappy -- poised, ready, his trap door hanging down exposing two shiny, white cheeks -- was looking up into the trees, trying to locate a silhouette which didn't belong. As he was studying the shapes in the trees -- his left hand above his brow guarding his eyes from the brightness of the moon's light and his right hand on the trigger guard, the index finger curved about the trigger -- one of the bloodhounds stretched, moved stealthily over to behind Grandpappy, and put a cold, wet nose right where the flap was down.

Grandpappy leaped into the air and both barrels went off.

At least a dozen of the chickens were blown to kingdom come.

We spent the next morning pickin' up those parts of the chickens that had fallen back to earth.

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Copyright © 2001-2007 Richard H. Williams
All Rights Reserved

Author bio:
Richard H. Williams' work has appeared in the Journal of Modern Literature and in several other academic journals. He is a co-author of Modern Elementary Statistics. His short stories have been published in Demensions, Naked Poetry, Another Night and Day Alliance, Drinking Stories, and Writers' Choice Literary Journal. You can reach the author by email.

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