Prelude to the "Biscuit Blues"... the other side of the story.

I posted a short story the other day entitled "Buttermilk Biscuit Blues", about Sylvia, one of my manuscript's minor character's "disagreement" with her husband Fred. That story was born out of me thinking about her thoughts and feelings about the disagreement. Her husband expressed his feelings about the whole situation in the manuscript.

A few people wanted to see that excerpt, Fred's recollection of what happened. Don't worry, it's very short. (You know how long-winded I can be, LOL.).In this excerpt, Fred has been deceased for a few years, and my male protagonist, Samuel, is reminiscing about his convo with Fred concerning the matter.

Again, it is short and to the point. But I am thinking of writing a more detailed account of what Fred was thinking about that morning when he came in drunk as a skunk, And the events that went down before he came in the house talking trash...


At the end of this post, I have pictures of my grandparents, and I talk about the inspiration behind the Biscuit Blues story.

So here ya go... enjoy.




One of my fondest memories of Fred Ellison is the look on his face when I pulled an ice cold six pack of Heineken from a large brown paper bag and sat it on the hood of his Cadillac one hot summer day a few years ago. He’d been in the backyard working on the car’s interior, and since it was damn near one hundred degrees, I thought I’d bring over some beer.

I remember using the shiny gold bottle opener on my crowded key chain to pop the top on one beer for him and another for myself. When I tried to give him a beer, he held his hand up, as if in an act of surrender. He removed a worn handkerchief from the back pocket of his overalls and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Samuel, I haven’t had a drink since ‘81”.

“Oh, you never told me you didn’t drink, Fred,” I replied. I replaced the bottle cap back on the lip of the bottle sideways. It didn’t matter if the cap fit awkwardly. I was going to drink that bottle as soon as I finished my own.

He looked towards the house then back at me. “Hell no, I don’t drink. I’m an angry drunk. Use ta come in the house in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn talking much shit!”

I took a long draw from my bottle, downing half of it in one long swig. “One beer won’t hurt, Fred.”

“I repeat,” he belted, “I don’t drink.” He walked over to a big red tool box sitting a few feet away from us on the grass and rifled around in it until he found what he’d been looking for, a large screwdriver.

He walked back towards me, shaking the screw driver hard. “Let me tell you a story. I came in one morning back in ’81 from a juke joint over in East Atlanta, good and drunk as a skunk, and Sylvia was in the kitchen rolling out some dough for some of those good ol’ buttermilk biscuits I like. Well I got mad because I was hungry, and them biscuits weren’t ready. Didn’t even appreciate that the woman had got up to cook my breakfast, you see. Well, I ran up on her, shoved her a couple of times, and told her that the next time, she betta have my breakfast ready and on the table when I get in, or she was gonna get it.”

I leaned against the car, guzzling the beer and trying not to laugh. I couldn’t imagine him speaking to Ms. Sylvia in that manner, especially after he always behaved like a love sick puppy in her presence.

“Yeah, yeah, I know you don’t believe me. But you can ask her when we go in for dinner.”

“Yeah, okay.” There was no way on earth I was gonna ask Ms. Sylvia something that off the wall.

“Well anyway,” Fred continued, “the next thing I know, she twirled around and wacked me upside the head with that rolling pen, man. POW! Right upside the head.”

“No way!” I yelled. “Not sweet Ms. Sylvia.”

“Sweet my ass!” he yelled back.

He swung the screwdriver hard, causing me to jump back just in case it slipped from his hands. “Samuel, you woulda thought she was swinging for the game ending home run in the World Series! She hit me so hard. I saw so many stars, I thought it was the damn fourth of July or something. Everything went white. I even passed out.”

I laughed even though I was trying my best not to. He just shook his head and winced at the memory.

“I woke up with biscuit dough and flour stuck to the side of my swole up head. I’d even pissed my pants. I stumbled into the bathroom and took a long hot shower, and when I stepped out she was standing right there with that damn rolling pin in her hand. She had me all helmed up in the bathroom corner. Told me I better think twice before ever threatening her again because next time would be much worse.”

I placed my now empty bottle of beer in the empty slot of the holder and retrieved another. It had to be the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. Ms. Sylvia was much to calm to get all rowdy like that.

“Took that knot on my head some two weeks to go down. Ain’t had a drink since then, and I don’t plan on it now. From now on, it’s water, Kool-aid, and sweet tea for me.”

I laughed at him all afternoon, even at dinner.

Funny. Right now, I think back on that conversation we had so long ago, and it’s not very funny anymore...

Alright, that's enough. Can't go any further than that, because it would not make much sense to ya if you aren't a member of my elite critique team, LOL...

But the whole Sylvia and Fred story was born out of talks with my Grandmother about being married to my grandfather.

I don't have many pictures of my grandfather. He died in 2002. Here is a picture of my grandfather and my brother Milk and Cookies circa 2000. This picture was taken at the cemetary just after my great-grandmother's funeral.

My grandparents were married for 54 years. I always thought that when people stayed together for that long, things had to have been perfect. But after talking with my grandmother, I learned that life was FAR from perfect. She endured a lot of craziness. Granddaddy had outside affairs, outside children... all kinds of issues, and she just stuck with him through it all. She told me a few interesting stories, and I must say she got PISSED one time when talking about some of that stuff.

That scared me, ya'll. My grandmother NEVER gets upset, at least not around me. Here's a pic of her with Milk and Cookies. Does she look like she gets pissed about anything?

No!

I'd never seen my grandmother angry until she talked with me about such memories.

I remember my grandfather coming into the house while we were talking one day. He asked me what we were talking about. I told him that we were talking about him and his trifling ass side of the family. His eyes got big and he immediately left the room.

Now, one of my most memorable moments of my grandfather was back in the late 90's. He and I were standing outside the house one day, leaning against his van, just shooting the breeze. He pointed across the street and said that he wished he'd had enough sense back in the day to buy up all of that land because it was so cheap back then. He told me he didn't buy it because he was too busy - out in the streets running women, clubbing and gambling. He went on to tell me that "That lady in there, in that house [my grandmother]" stuck it out with him and put up with a lot of mess. He shed a few tears as he expressed to me that he wished he could have done more for her.

I didn't know what to say to my Grandfather that day. I told him that it was alright. He had always been a good granddaddy to me. At least he'd changed.

It shocked me, to say the least. I mean, what do you say in the midst of such heartfelt confessions?

Hmm... All I could think is that I hope he made peace with himself over it all.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed the "Blues" stories.

Watch out... I may explore that storyline a little more.