Salt Lick Chapter 1 post 9

Uncle Gus continually checked up on them, certain they were growing dope, sewing seeds of revolt. Some of them hitchhiked into town to collect their bundles of mail, and when they needed goods and services they could not provide themselves.

After Daddy left them a pig’s head, they marched into the Sheriff’s station, to lodge an official complaint. A big cat came down from the mountain that night and had scared them all senseless. The longhairs described Daddy, described Daddy’s car. His tattoo. They filled out all the forms Uncle Gus gave to them, in triplicate. Soon as they left, he drove over in his sparkling Police cruiser, to tell Daddy, and them two laughed into the night. That was a pretty tattoo Daddy had. A winged pig soaring out of what appeared to be a slit in his arm. Pink and vibrant with a soft blue black edge outlining it. There was individuality in that pig, his, mine, Cub’s- all three of the living Graves men. Momma didn’t care for it, and she liked him to cover it. The Lord don’t like to be taunted, he gave you your skin unblemished, you shouldn’t mess it up with false Gods, she said. Leviticus 19:28.

I wrote Cousin Ellard about the communists, but he wasn’t having any of it. His letters were long excursions into myth, and parable. Spy the error of my way, boy, and reap the benefits. Him not even ten years older than me. What was wrong with all those Clancys?

Ellard sallied to great lengths explaining his new devotion, the jail library. At first I thought it was a little one sided, but I see that these here classics I been reading have opened my eyes in such a way, what I did before could not properly be called seeing. Greek this. Greek that. I was lost to his accolades. My interest piqued when he mentioned I should take the time to read the mythologies, and not so much scripture. He said the bible was full of imagery, rich and bountiful, though it lacked in plot. And, he wrote, it looked like some of its stories might have been plagiarized from the Greek myths.