Grandma Ming said the reason Papa wouldn't say nothing but
Great Jehoshaphat and gully dirt was because my mama was a
preacher's daughter, and she wouldn't stand for "poor Jodie doing
no cussing."
Grandpa thought Wiley's tearing the back end of his britches
on the yard fence was all right.
"Never mind, Nannie," he was telling Mama. "It's not every
day a boy gets to see a automobile. Wonder what make it is."
I skipped on ahead so I could sit down beside the edge of the
road with Wiley and Trixie. Wiley was leaning back against a
good-sized pine sapling, dangling his feet in the gully, and
trying to hold Trixie around the neck. She twisted and turned and
swished her tail. After a bit, though, she settled down between
us and stopped panting long enough to reach over and lick Wiley
square in the face.
"Quit it, Trixie! And get quiet, I'm listening for a
automobile. Bandershanks, you hear anything?"
"No, I don't hear nothing. What's it gonna sound like?"
"Like a motor, you silly goose! Hot diggity! I hear it!" With
that, Wiley jumped across the ditch and tore off down the middle
of the road, running as fast as he could sling his fat legs and
bare feet.
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