“Now take this here Trayvion business,” said Uncle Bud. He stopped and took a sip, just like he always done before delivering his wisdom. Uncle Bud worn’t axtually my uncle. In fact, he worn’t no blood kin at all. He had once been married to Mama’s cousin. She had run off with a fellow named Irvin who made the cars in Deetroit. Which told you a lot, Mama said, because she always hated the cold. But since he was kin-in-law, Mama felt obligated to invite Uncle Bud to supper once in awhile.
Uncle Bud had been to Raleigh a couple of times for making the corn. He said he didn’t make it no more, but he always had some. Pretty good quality, too. He had the Mason jar under his chair. And another one of lower-grade stuff in the corner of the porch to slap on the moskeeta bites you got sitting out after supper. It did a good job. Killed the itch right away.
“I been to Flarida once,” he went on, after another sip, “when I was working on the railroad. It ain’t no kind of place at all.” Another sip. “Ain’t nothing but sand, snakes, and Yankees. You can have my share for a can of warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and keep the change.”
“Now take this here Trayvion business. The...