Author notes - While not technically a novel, there are two preceding stories to this one. The first, called Rabbit, introduces you to my friend Virgil Gates. I met Virgil in 1955 when I was six years old and he was 92. I knew Virgil for the next 4 years, primarily in the summer where I stayed at my grandparent's house in West Central Georgia. The second story is called Virge and the Watermelon Caper and will further describe our relationship. Simply put, he was the greatest friend I've ever had. He was responsble for my nickname, Rabbit. He once told my grandmother, "He sit there all still and quiet, but dem ol ears and eyes be movin all the time. Ain't nobody gone get one by de Rabbit."



I hollered out to my grandma, "I got the eggs in and pulled bugs off the tomatoes. Is there anything else you want me to do?" The no response that I got was quite welcome. That meant I could visit with my old pal, Virge. As a 9 year old boy in West Central, Georgia in the late 1950's, it didn't seem strange to me at all that my best friend would be a 95 year old black man.

Virge lived in a cabin on the family property. My grandparents let him live there for free, and he would help out with light chores, chopping wood, and my favorite, working the mules. The cabin was of rough hewn pine, and had never seen an ounce of paint. It was weathered gray in coloration. The four room cabin had two bedrooms, a kitchen with sitting area and a living room. It had wide planked floors throughout. The cabin was surrounded by large pecan trees, so was always shady in the summer. Virge lived there full time, and his niece, Ms Carrie, was usually there. He called her "Sugar Butts". She did have an unusual build, defined by a rather large derriere.

As I came to the cabin, I noticed that Virge was placing brush in a pile up front. "Hey, Virge, whatcha' doin?"

"Hey yourself, Rabbit. I'm just cleaning up a bit. I'm goin to move these old sticks and sweep up all dem leaves. You come to help ol Virge?"

"Sure - I'll help." I stayed with my grandparents each summer. I almost always helped Virge do some work, or the two of us would go fishing, or swimming in the creek. Sometimes we would just sit on his front porch and talk. It was a glorious time.

I picked up a branch and started moving to the burn pile, when all of a sudden, all hell broke loose. In the process of moving that branch, I had upset a large yellow jacket nest. They were swarmed all around me. About five had already stung me on my arm. I near scared Virge to death, because I was doing a little dance and yelling, "Damn, damn, damn!" Virge came running over. He was swatting at me with a towel he had pulled off a line. Lifting me at the waist, he scooted me out of the area. Setting me down, he was still beating the yellow jackets away with his towel.

"Are you alright?" Virge had also been stung in the process of getting me away from the swarm, but still was preoccupied on checking on me.

"Yeah, I reckon, but my arm really hurts."

"Let me look at it." Virge pulled the sleeve back. The long sleeve cotton shirt didn't eliminate the stings, but did keep them manageable. "Rabbit, dem jackets popped you pretty good. You got five or six whelps on your arm. I know it hurts, cuz some got me too. Yo brother John would probably be crying and hollering. How come you ain't?"

"They stung you too, and you ain't crying. Plus, when I was a little boy, I decided that it didn't make much sense to cry about things that hurt you on the outside. It just don't do no good."

Virge looked at me a little puzzled and asked, "You mean you don't never cry?"

"No, I mean that I just don't cry about things that hurt me on the outside. Those jackets stung me, but crying won't make the hurt go away. Do you remember when you helped me bury my dog Skippy a couple of weeks ago?"

Virge looked at me and replied, "Yeah, I do. That was a sad thing. Skippy was a good ol dog."

"Well, I cried when that happened, because it hurt me on the inside. Come to think of it, you cried too, so burying Skippy must have hurt you on the inside too.?"

"Naw, Rabbit, I wasn't crying. When I was shoveling, some of dat ol red dirt blowed in my eyes... I do know some things that will make your arm feel better though. The first thing is we got to put on some chewing tobacco." Virge put a wad of tobacco in a tin can and poured some well water on it. He then mashed it all up with the handle end of a hammer. He was talking to me all the time, how this is what his daddy did for him. When he had mashed it up real good, he spread it over my arm and wrapped a rag around it. Maybe it was the constant banter, or it could be a miracle cure; all I know is that the pain went away.

"De other thing that'll help is we gonna kill those jackets."

"How we gonna do that?"

With a smile, Virge responded, "We find the holes in the ground, and we cover up the escape hole with one of dem barrel tops. Then we pour us some gasoline down the other hole. We cover that hole up with the other barrel top. The jackets breath all dat stuff and they die. Dis works all da time."

Virge is pretty good on stuff like this, and it sounded like a plan. We went to my grandfather's barn and got the gas can. After locating the escape hole, Virge put the barrel top over it and told me to stand on it. He then went over to the other hole, quickly poured gas down it and covered it with the other barrel top and stood on it.

The plan was well under way when my brother John walked over. I love my brother to death now. When I was nine and he was eleven, I didn't love him too much. In fact, he was a bully and a royal pain in the ass. He approached, took a look and asked, "What ya'll doing?"

Virge brought him up to speed and explained our plan. John listened, and looking at Virge, exclaimed, "That ain't how you kill yellow jackets. We need to dump the rest of the gas can in that hole. Then we need to dump a can of kerosene over there where Rabbit is standing. The two will create their own little chemical reaction, and kill all the yellow jackets."

Virgil rolled his eyes, and looked at John with irritation. "Mr. John, I don't know about no chemical reaction, but I'm 95 years old and done killed lots of yellow jackets. I'm telling ya, we don't have to do more'n we've already done."

John, never short on cocky, started pouring the rest of the gas down the hole. He then walked over to the barn and got the kerosene, which he proceeded to pour down the hole I had been standing on. It should have been a hint. Already, it was obvious that the yellow jackets were most likely defeated, because there wasn't much activity out of either hole. He then covered the hole back up and told me to stand on the barrel top. He walked over to the hole near Virge, took a match out of his pocket, lit it and threw it in the hole. He then put the barrel top back on the hole and stood on it. Yelling at me, "Rabbit, take your barrel top off the hole."

I did, and nothing happened right away. All of a sudden, the ground swelled up a little and there was a sound, like, WHANK. There was an explosion and my brother, standing on the barrel top, was actually lifted off the ground about an inch. That explosion sort of telegraphed right through that barrel top and through his tennis shoes. He jumped off the top and started yelling, "Ow, Ow, Ow", lifting one foot and then the other, hopping around like crazy. He looked like a herky-jerky dancer. Once we decided he wasn't seriously hurt, Virge and I started laughing. With Virge, it was so bad he actually lay on the ground and rolled. John ran away. I knew for certain that I had beating coming. I didn't care;  it was worth it.

With tears in my eyes, I looked over at Virge and said, "Hey Virge, I cry when I laugh hard too."

Catching his breath, Virge snickered, "Yeah, Rabbit, me too!"