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Southern Discomfort

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Barbaria1

Rebel Leader
Staff member
After a hiatus of Moore than a year, Windar and I have collaborated on a new story. It’s called “Southern Discomfort” and is set in a small college town in eastern Tennessee during the mid-1960s.

Here it is. Enjoy!

And as always, comments, banter, limericks and illustrations are welcome on the thread.



SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

1

Kilmartin, Tennessee, 1:14 pm, Friday September 17, 1965

IMG_6410.jpeg


The day she stepped off that silver Greyhound bus the town was sweltering, engulfed as it was in the hot humid aftermath of Hurricane Betsy.

Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she waited patiently as the bus driver retrieved her two pieces of luggage and set them down before her. After which she took it upon herself to thank him with a small tip. He nodded curtly, pocketed the coins and muttered something unintelligible as he returned to the driver’s seat, closed the bus door and pulled away.

Pivoting, she faced the small bus shelter, taking in the weathered overhead sign that read: Kilmartin Tennessee, pop. 4,327.

For better or worse, she’d arrived.

Seated on a nearby bench, was a young man. Dressed in faded bell-bottom jeans, a black tee that seemed a size too small for his large torso and muscled arms, and sporting a mop of long curly blond hair, he appeared to be studying her closely … giving her the “once over” that she had long since grown accustomed to getting from men.

His gaze lingered over her toned and tanned legs, which were bared from her sandal-clad feet to mid-thigh. Then on to her paisley-print “A-line” mini-skirt and navy blue polyester wide-collared shirt, before coming to rest on her face … the most appealing features of which were an invitingly full mouth, doe-like brown eyes set above a light band of freckles bridging a slightly upturned nose. She wore her red-highlighted brown hair long, reaching down her back nearly to her waist.

He stood up abruptly, extinguished a half-smoked cigarette beneath the toe of his boot, sauntered lazily over to her, extended his hand and drawled, “You that new Yankee teacher for up yonder at the Academy?”

She turned her head to look off in the direction to which he was pointing … down a nearly deserted Main Street and on to a cluster of red brick, classically porticoed buildings perched high on a slope overlooking the town … before replying, “why yes, that’s right, I’ve come to take up a position there teaching American history.”

“Alright then, Ah was sent down heah to pick ya up. They been expecting ya. Name’s Billy-Bob McDougall.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Barbara … Barbara Moore.”

“That’s my pickup over yonder, let me help ya with that.” He offered, brushing past her to lay a hand on her bags.

“Thank you. And thanks for coming down here to pick me up.”

“It’s nothin’”

“I appreciate it all the same. Now tell me, Billy-Bob, is it always this hot here? I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Nah, up ‘round heah in western Great Smokies country, it’s usually right pleasant this time a year. It’s the hurricane last week that’s made it so hot and sticky. Don’t ya worry yer self none. It won’t last long.”

“Well, that’s a relief. So, Billy-Bob … you work for the Academy too?”

“Jest odds and ends when they asks,” he replied as he carelessly tossed her luggage onto the rust-encrusted back decking of his pickup truck. “Get yerself ‘round to the other side and hop in now and we’ll be off.”

She did as instructed, and in the process caught him eyeing her legs again as she seated herself. Tugging self-consciously at her short skirt, she decided as a means of distraction to engage him further about her soon to be place of employment.

“So, from what I’ve been able to gather in the process of applying for my teaching position at the Academy, the place has quite a storied history.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. Started out as one of them military academies. Trained some of the old Confederacy’s best regimental officers, so it’s said. But over the years things kindawent downhill, so a few years back it reinvented itself as a co-ed college fer stuck-up rich kids … kept the name “Academy” though.”

“So, I gathered. The Dean who hired me following my phone interview said as much. His name is Windar. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, ahh do,” he replied as he downshifted two gears to negotiate the long steep climb up the Allee leading to the Academy’s main building. “Not from these parts … one of them New Yorkers … a Yankee like yerself.”

“Hold on there! I’m from Minnesota. Not exactly anything like New York,” she chided him gently.

“To folks ‘round here, yer all Yankees,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I suppose that’s so … and the students? From around here or elsewhere?”

“Not many from up North where yer from. Some from ‘round these parts, though it costs a pretty penny to be a student heah, a penny some folks ‘round heah jest don’t have. So a lot of ‘em have money and come from heah and thar ‘round the South, and from big places like Knoxville, Charlotte, Charleston, Savannah and Atlanta.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So Barbara … why are you taking a job heah rather than some place up North.”

“History is a tough job market, Billy-Bob. One takes what one can get.”

“Not planning to stick around any longer than ya has to then?”

“Well, we’ll see …”

“Suspect that’s so … well, heah we are … Old Main. You’ll find the administrative offices upstairs on the second and third floors. Where does ya want yer bags?”

IMG_6412.jpeg

“I think I’ve been assigned a room in one of the dormitories until I’m able to make better arrangements. Perhaps you could find out where that is and leave my bags there?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks so much Billy-Bob!” She called as she slid from her seat to the pavement and backed away from the truck.

“Good luck with the Dean,” he called as he gunned the engine and winked slyly.

“What does that mean?”

He shot her a crooked smile and drove off.


TBC
 
After a hiatus of Moore than a year, Windar and I have collaborated on a new story. It’s called “Southern Discomfort” and is set in a small college town in eastern Tennessee during the mid-1960s.

Here it is. Enjoy!

And as always, comments, banter, limericks and illustrations are welcome on the thread.



SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

1

Kilmartin, Tennessee, 1:14 pm, Friday September 17, 1965

View attachment 1549917


The day she stepped off that silver Greyhound bus the town was sweltering, engulfed as it was in the hot humid aftermath of Hurricane Betsy.

Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she waited patiently as the bus driver retrieved her two pieces of luggage and set them down before her. After which she took it upon herself to thank him with a small tip. He nodded curtly, pocketed the coins and muttered something unintelligible as he returned to the driver’s seat, closed the bus door and pulled away.

Pivoting, she faced the small bus shelter, taking in the weathered overhead sign that read: Kilmartin Tennessee, pop. 4,327.

For better or worse, she’d arrived.

Seated on a nearby bench, was a young man. Dressed in faded bell-bottom jeans, a black tee that seemed a size too small for his large torso and muscled arms, and sporting a mop of long curly blond hair, he appeared to be studying her closely … giving her the “once over” that she had long since grown accustomed to getting from men.

His gaze lingered over her toned and tanned legs, which were bared from her sandal-clad feet to mid-thigh. Then on to her paisley-print “A-line” mini-skirt and navy blue polyester wide-collared shirt, before coming to rest on her face … the most appealing features of which were an invitingly full mouth, doe-like brown eyes set above a light band of freckles bridging a slightly upturned nose. She wore her red-highlighted brown hair long, reaching down her back nearly to her waist.

He stood up abruptly, extinguished a half-smoked cigarette beneath the toe of his boot, sauntered lazily over to her, extended his hand and drawled, “You that new Yankee teacher for up yonder at the Academy?”

She turned her head to look off in the direction to which he was pointing … down a nearly deserted Main Street and on to a cluster of red brick, classically porticoed buildings perched high on a slope overlooking the town … before replying, “why yes, that’s right, I’ve come to take up a position there teaching American history.”

“Alright then, Ah was sent down heah to pick ya up. They been expecting ya. Name’s Billy-Bob McDougall.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Barbara … Barbara Moore.”

“That’s my pickup over yonder, let me help ya with that.” He offered, brushing past her to lay a hand on her bags.

“Thank you. And thanks for coming down here to pick me up.”

“It’s nothin’”

“I appreciate it all the same. Now tell me, Billy-Bob, is it always this hot here? I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Nah, up ‘round heah in western Great Smokies country, it’s usually right pleasant this time a year. It’s the hurricane last week that’s made it so hot and sticky. Don’t ya worry yer self none. It won’t last long.”

“Well, that’s a relief. So, Billy-Bob … you work for the Academy too?”

“Jest odds and ends when they asks,” he replied as he carelessly tossed her luggage onto the rust-encrusted back decking of his pickup truck. “Get yerself ‘round to the other side and hop in now and we’ll be off.”

She did as instructed, and in the process caught him eyeing her legs again as she seated herself. Tugging self-consciously at her short skirt, she decided as a means of distraction to engage him further about her soon to be place of employment.

“So, from what I’ve been able to gather in the process of applying for my teaching position at the Academy, the place has quite a storied history.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. Started out as one of them military academies. Trained some of the old Confederacy’s best regimental officers, so it’s said. But over the years things kindawent downhill, so a few years back it reinvented itself as a co-ed college fer stuck-up rich kids … kept the name “Academy” though.”

“So, I gathered. The Dean who hired me following my phone interview said as much. His name is Windar. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, ahh do,” he replied as he downshifted two gears to negotiate the long steep climb up the Allee leading to the Academy’s main building. “Not from these parts … one of them New Yorkers … a Yankee like yerself.”

“Hold on there! I’m from Minnesota. Not exactly anything like New York,” she chided him gently.

“To folks ‘round here, yer all Yankees,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I suppose that’s so … and the students? From around here or elsewhere?”

“Not many from up North where yer from. Some from ‘round these parts, though it costs a pretty penny to be a student heah, a penny some folks ‘round heah jest don’t have. So a lot of ‘em have money and come from heah and thar ‘round the South, and from big places like Knoxville, Charlotte, Charleston, Savannah and Atlanta.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So Barbara … why are you taking a job heah rather than some place up North.”

“History is a tough job market, Billy-Bob. One takes what one can get.”

“Not planning to stick around any longer than ya has to then?”

“Well, we’ll see …”

“Suspect that’s so … well, heah we are … Old Main. You’ll find the administrative offices upstairs on the second and third floors. Where do ya want yer bags?”

View attachment 1549918

“I think I’ve been assigned a room in one of the dormitories until I’m able to make better arrangements. Perhaps you could find out where that is and leave my bags there?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks so much Billy-Bob!” She called as she slid from her seat to the pavement and backed away from the truck.

“Good luck with the Dean,” he called as he gunned the engine and winked slyly.

“What does that mean?”

He shot her a crooked smile and drove off.


TBC
As accomplished as ever, curiosity is nicely aroused as to what will follow for the newbie.
 
A very nice beginning, which makes one curious about the sequel.
 
Fashionably dressed in her sixties best
Newly arrived from the Upper Midwest
She accepts a proffered ride
And looks with eyes so wide
At the Academy perched on a crest

They’re she’ll fight, do or die
Prejudice be gone she’ll cry
But will she prevail
In this CF tale

Or will events go terribly awry
 
Last edited:
@twonines warning I really ought to heed
She thought, feeling rather weak kneed
Deans wield so much power
Should I be defiant or cower

Or just follow wherever my instincts may lead
Barb! You are hijacking your own thread with limericks? :confused: :D:cool:;)

His gaze lingered over her toned and tanned legs, which were bared from her sandal-clad feet to mid-thigh. Then on to her paisley-print “A-line” mini-skirt and navy blue polyester wide-collared shirt, before coming to rest on her face … the most appealing features of which were an invitingly full mouth, doe-like brown eyes set above a light band of freckles bridging a slightly upturned nose. She wore her red-highlighted brown hair long, reaching down her back nearly to her waist.
Trying ot imagine! I would like to see that for real! :rolleyes:


“Good luck with the Dean,” he called as he gunned the engine and winked slyly.
An innocent phrase? Or a worrying statement? :eek:

Good start!:thumbsup:
 
2.

James Windar leaned back in his chair, the slightly sweaty back of his crisply starched white shirt sticking a bit to the soft leather embossed with Academy’s seal. He picked up the pipe that was lying in the ash tray on his desk, struck a match and touched it to tobacco in the bowl and drew in deeply. The tobacco was flavored with Jack Daniels, a local product, unlike himself.

He stared out the window at the great lawn of the campus, which was shaded by tall oak trees. Up north, certainly at Pitcher College in Upstate New York where he’d begun his academic career, the trees would be showing early signs of color by this point in September, but here they were as green as they’d been in June.

He watched the two groundskeepers, Black men in blue overalls with white T shirts underneath, as they mowed the lush grass. He could almost feel their sweat from here. He had found the sultry air unpleasant enough just walking from his car to the Administration Building.

Not that his life here was totally unpleasant, but Kilmartin, Tennessee was hardly the place he had imagined himself ending up when he had mustered out of the Navy after the war and started at City College on the GI Bill, before transferring to Columbia for his graduate work and taking the job at Pitcher.

He done pretty well there until…well, he’d known he was taking a risk sleeping with the nineteen year old daughter of the college President, especially since she had been engaged at the time to the son of an extremely wealthy industrialist in Rochester. ‘Had it been worth it?’ he asked himself for the four thousand three hundred and twenty third time.

‘Yes it had,’ he told himself, as he almost always did, smiling at the memory of her luscious body and the way she squealed when he had brought her to climax. Perhaps doing it in her bedroom in her parent’s house had been foolish, but it had been mostly her idea. She was one of those who got a charge out of taking risks.

When the proverbial excrement hit the fan, he had had to take what he could get and the Academy had been it. But, he had put in his time, published a bit in his field, and the brass letterhead on the door did say “Dean of Arts and Sciences”. That was something, he supposed.

His reveries were interrupted by the crackle of the intercom and the low drawl of his secretary, Agnes Martin.

“Dr. Barbara Moore is here to see you, Dean Windar.”

‘Barbara Moore?’ he thought for a moment, then remembered- the new History faculty member down from Wisconsin, or was it Minnesota. Yes, Minnesota, he was almost certain.

“Show her in, please, Agnes,” he replied. Moments later the door opened. He stood and came around his desk to greet her. He couldn’t help a quick look up and down, starting at her very attractive legs-the miniskirt was a fashion trend of which he heartily approved- moving up to her waist and then to her breasts, which appeared to be just the size he liked, neither too large nor too small, before quickly raising his eyes to meet her gaze as she approached.

“Welcome to the Academy and to Kilmartin, Dr. Moore,” he announced heartily as he shook her hand. “Please have a seat,” he added, gesturing at one of two the small armchairs that faced the front of his desk. He tried not to stare too obviously as the miniskirt slid even further up her legs as she sat.

“Would you like anything? Coffee, tea, perhaps some water? It’s a hot one out there isn’t it, especially for someone from the frozen north, I should think.”

“It certainly is, Dean Windar,” she replied. “Some water would be very nice.”

He went to the door. “Mrs. Martin, would you be kind enough to bring us two glasses of water?” he said. He took them from the secretary, handed one to Barbara and sat back behind his desk.

“I trust you had a not unpleasant trip down,” he began.

“It was long. I had to change buses in Chicago and almost missed the connection, but I’m here,” she replied.

“And we are very glad to have you here,” he said smiling broadly. “Billy-Bob was there to meet your bus, I presume.”

“Ah, yes, he was,” she replied, sounding a bit dubious.

“He’s a local, probably not what you’re used to, but a decent enough sort I suppose. He’s foreman of our grounds crew.” He gestured out the window to the two of Billy-Bob’s crew who were finishing up mowing the grass.

“Well, thank you for sending someone to get me, sir. I didn’t see any taxis there meeting the bus.”

“That’s because there aren’t any in Kilmartin,” the Dean replied. “This isn’t New York or even Minneapolis.”

“I noticed,” she said.

“I read your thesis,” he said. To be truthful he had only skimmed it, but its take on things was pretty clear. “Reconstruction: A Lost Opportunity,” he announced gravely. “Truer words were never spoken.”

“Yes, indeed,” Barb replied, perking up noticeably at this favorable citation of her academic work. “Imagine how things would be here in Kilmartin and all over the South if the Klan and others hadn’t intimidated people out of exercising their rights.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” James said.

“But now, with the Civil Rights movement, SNCC, Dr. King and all that’s happened in the last few years it’s like the whole country is getting a second chance. That doesn’t happen very often in history.”

Dean Windar nodded. “No, it doesn’t.”

“How has the Academy been adapting to all of these changes?” she asked.

He paused for a moment, searching for the best way to respond. “This place, both the college and the town are a bit of a backwater. This isn’t Atlanta or even Nashville. I think change will come here, but it will take time. My hope is that people like us,”-he gave her a knowing wink to make clear how different they were from the locals-“Working together, can help that process along.”

She smiled, a kindred spirit to his, he felt certain. “I certainly intend to challenge my students to have a hard look at their history and at current events and what they can do to move their part of the world into the 20th Century.”

“That’s just what I was hoping to hear from you, Dr. Moore,” he said. He paused for effect. “A word of caution, though. There are those here at the Academy and more significantly in the surrounding environs that are perfectly happy with how things have been for ages and don’t see any need for changes.”

She looked a bit disappointed. Nevertheless, he continued. “I think it’s inevitable. Even Kilmartin, Tennessee can’t keep the wider world out forever. I just want to caution you to take things slow. Moving things forward a little bit at a time is the way to get results. Getting too far out on limb, though, is to court trouble. I’m sure you get where I am coming from, Dr. Moore.”

“I do,” she replied, nodding, though he got the distinct sense that he hadn’t closed the sale.

“I understand that you will be staying in the women’s dormitory while you look for more permanent accommodations, is that correct?”

“It is, Dean Windar,” she replied.

“Well, then perhaps a quick tour of the campus on your way there would be in order,” he said. He went to slip on the tweed jacket with the leather patches on the elbows that was hung on a hook next to his desk, but thought the better of it. It was very hot after all.
 
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