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Bob Curtis; River Drifter
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I git drunk, an' then Christine she prays fer me. But I'm doin' better; I don't run atter women no more. Chirstine useter say thet my speerit was strong, but thet my flesh was moughty weak. I guess she knowed, fer somethin' 'bout thet was writ in th' Book.
"I ain't never been no church man; ain't been a time in twenty y'ars; but I'd be a purty thang sittin' up in a church b'arfooted an' in a pair of overalls. I guess th' Lord'll take keer o' thet, too."
I interrupted his religious theme, asking, "What kind of work have you done in your life?"
"Jes' sawmillin', cotton millin' an' fishing," he replied. "Yuh see, I ain't got no eddication. Christine, she said she war goin' to' l'arn me t' write an' read, but we'uns never got aroun' t' hit. Thet was a long time ago--'fore th' kids come along. I don't guess I could'a l'arned anyways. I'm sorter thick-skulled."
We were pulling into the bank now, and there was time for but one more question. I asked, "Bob, how do you like the way Mr. Roosevelt is running the country."
He pulled hard with his paddle, saying, "I don't monkey in his business. I'm too damned busy lookin' atter me an' mine."
We walked up the trail toward the pine-board shanty. Christine's frail body was framed in the doorway, her cotton dress whipped hard against her body by the wind that had risen.
Washington Copy 9/23/38 S.B.J. & L.H.
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