By Neal Wooten
My maternal grandmother, Lela Jackson, whom we all called “Granny,” was quite the character. Most of us who grew up on the mountain back in that time probably had at least one older relative who was as country as country can be. Granny was ours. She cussed like a sailor, swore by a hundred home remedies, and always told it like she saw it.
I could fill a book with stories about this woman, like the time I came home to visit and noticed her 1963 Impala had a new paint job. This was surprising since Granny, even had she not been on a meager government allowance, was very thrifty. It became clearer as I neared the car and noticed the drips on the grass and could see the brush strokes. Yes, she had painted it herself.
I always made sure to visit her when I came home, mainly because I sincerely enjoyed her company. On one such visit I asked if she was still having problems with the bull that lived in the large pasture across the dirt road. It had been jumping the fence and partaking of her garden offerings. Granny shook her head. “Not a problem anymore.”
Needless to say that answer activated my curiosity, and quite frankly, scared the crap out of me. I asked her to explain, so she continued. “He got in my garden again so I took my shotgun and fired into the air.” She rocked in her chair and smiled as she relived the moment. “It worked. He jumped his butt right back over that fence.”
I knew Granny’s shotgun well. She had it since before I was born. It was an old timey double-barrel 12-guage with rabbit ears, which are the two hammers you pull back to make it ready to shoot. The thought of her actually firing this thing, which probably weighed more than she did, wasn’t a pretty picture, but I was glad she only scared the bull.
Later when I got to Mom’s house, I learned that Granny’s story was only mostly true. She failed to mention that the air she shot into was the air between her and the bull, striking the fella on the rear haunches. No wonder he jumped back over the fence so quickly. Sadly the owner had to have him put down.
We were all thankful that the farmer declined to press charges. I think he understood that Granny was just an old country woman who didn’t realize she had even done anything wrong. Maybe he was just trying to be a good Christian neighbor practicing forgiveness. Or maybe it was because he knew she still had the shotgun.
