by TG Wolff
“So one day them two must’ve come by and I reckon they’d finally mentioned a price that’s higher than he’d ever dreamed of after all, and so he didn’t have nothin’ to do but just sell it.
“So then, just like that feller with the punkins, he’s got a whole lot of somethin’ he don’t need and can’t figure what in hell to do with all of it. Which ain’t much of a fix with punkins because you can just leave ’em set and the rot’ll take care of ’em. But you cain’t do that with money, can you? Particularly if you mayt be a mite of a penny pincher, kindly. Because it won’t set out in a field and get soft while nobody’s watchin’. Because money attracts attention and folks won’t let it set around long enough to rot like. You see? So he’s in a fix, now. He done got shed of all that land he didn’t know what to do with, but now he’s got a load of money he knows even less what to do with than he done the land.”
“So he builds him a big old box to keep it in.” Burlton tipped up his glass, letting the last of the sourysweet buttermilk drip into his mouth.
“I reckon,” said Hogeye.
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