"Confound this dag-blasted wheel!" Ceece kept cussing while he kicked at the little steel wheel rim he was trying to roll. Barefoot like he was, it's a good thing he missed. Of course, Ceece always had been a boy with a short fuse. Even the grownups knew better than to rile him if they wanted any peace and quiet.
It was just past midday on a hot Saturday. We were on our way over the high mountain that stands between Rail Cove and the big creek where the old mill stood. Saturday evening was the only time not used up by hillside farming or church.
We followed the top of Buck Snort Ridge on a little skid trail full of rocks and roots. Ceece's wheel kept hitting roots and rocks until finally it ran out of the road and down the mountain. I carried mine and listened to him. I thought of telling him that we were too old to be playing wheels, but didn't.
"I ought'a burn this plaguid ivy thicket down," Ceece said as he climbed back into the road.
"Ivy won't burn; it stays green all year long," I said.
"My dad's got a new bow saw. We cou--"
"Forget it," I said.
Most boys and a few girls had wheels. Using a wire as a guide, we rolled them everywhere we went. None of us had bicycles, and the trails we followed were too rough and narrow for our wooden wagons. Some of the boys a little older than me could make the wheels do about anything they wanted them to, even roll them up the side of a tree. I never was very good and would quit rolling if it wasn't for having to look after Ceece.
"Dag-nabbit!" Ceece yelled, as he hit a tree with the wire, bending it all out of shape.
The older boys done a good job of keeping their wires straight, down to the end where they bent it in the shape of a seven. Using the seven as a hook, you could guide your wheel around a curve. If you hooked the seven inside, it acted like a brake. The best ones were made from two welding rods braised end to end, but mine and Ceece's were common old coat hangers.
When we reached the steep bluff directly above the mill, we stopped. It was kind of a rule that the smaller boys carried the wheels and wires. The big boys climbed the tall, slim pine trees that cover this side of the ridge. Once they made it up near the top, the trees would bend under their weight. They'd catch hold of a limb from a tree below them, which would bend too. We called it riding the tops. I could do it fairly well, even better than most, but stayed behind with Ceece.
There were three boys Ceece's age carrying wheels and wires. Not Ceece, he got mad once and threw all the wheels and wires into a laurel thicket. Some we never did find. The older boys would have mopped up the ground with him if some men hadn't broke it up. Me being a little older than Ceece, I usually stayed behind to sort of look after him.
"When I get bigger, I won't go to the plaguid mill, I'll go to town," Ceece said. "They got a picture show thar."
"Their drinks ain't as cold," I said.
"Yeah, but they don't drip all over you, like them do at the mill. He keeps them in all that old creek water."
"Forget it."
In just a few minutes, the older boys were down at the creek. I could hear them yelling as the stragglers made it down. I felt cooler listening to the water tumble on its way down the rough creek, a hundred yards below.
It was as hot as only a piney ridge can get. Ceece was back up the trail cussing the weather. "Dang, I'm hot. Them big'uns will have all the really cold drinks drunk up by the time we get thar." He came running down the trail. He handed me his wheel and bent wire. "Hold this." Then he climbed a young pine just below us. The little tree started to bend when he was barely head high, but there was no other below it. Ceece landed flat on his back in the ivy thicket.
A little farther on we could see the mill roof. The split-board shingles were weathered pale gray; nearly all were turned up on the end like sled runners. In winter snow would blow through them, but they would not leak in a rain. What stood out most about the place were the three big chimneys. One on each end and another in the center--made of soapstone and chinked with clay. The center one had two fireplaces back-to-back. Strangers marveled at how straight they had stood over the years. There was no record of who built them. The mill house itself was made of poplar logs that had been hewed flat on all sides, yet were still two feet thick. Signs covered the end that faced down the creek, most of them plugging snuff or baking powder. Some were so faded that none of the words showed through the rust. As high as a body could reach, there was carving on just about every inch of the logs. Mostly hearts with initials inside. Everybody knew where the oldest carving was and what it said. I read it out loud every time I passed. "M. W. loves D. A., August 27, 1808."