Last October the Redhead and I moved to the country.
Our homestead is a half-day’s hike on the double-time from Horseshoe Bend, a little spot on the Tallapoosa River where Andrew Jackson defeated the Creek Indian Nation and acquired twenty-three million acres in the process. Done a mere two years after he “caught the bloody British in the town of New Orleans.”
Old Sharp Knife went on to be the seventh President of the United States. The remaining Creeks went to Florida. I suppose neither felt they had been punished enough.
No wars on our plot. Just an occasional skirmish between English and Irish. Settled with words. No muskets to date, but one never knows.
The nearest town is Jacksons Gap. I know, there should be an apostrophe, but there isn’t. Public schools in Alabama wasn’t to dadgum gud back in dem days. Theys a hole lot better now.
The population in my zip code is listed at 808, but I have my doubts. We have no traffic light, no store. We have a church, small city hall and a volunteer fire department. None do much business.
My nearest neighbors are just up the road a quarter-mile or so. Both in their eighties, so we never call the High sheriff about the noise.
I sit on the porch at night in true darkness. See the stars for the first time in years.
I hear the call of a Whip-poor-will. Ol’ Hank thought they were lonesome and had lost the will to live. Mine always gets an answer from somewhere down the hollow, so I reckon he’s okay.
Sometimes late at night I think I hear the war cries of the Creek off in the distance.
Probably just lonesome coyotes.