The Twice Stole Shotgun Shells

In the spring of 1837 Nathaniel Hawthorne published Twice Told Tales, a short story collection in two volumes. They were from previously published periodicals. Unlike Hawthorne’s tales, mine is pristine; it has never been published; it has rarely been told. It’s a true account of twice stole shells.

There used to be a fellow in Bill Arp who had a reputation for having sticky fingers. “I’ll use the fictitious name of Floyd in referring to him.” He would steal when the right opportunity presented itself.

Floyd bought his gas, groceries, and necessities, such as BC headache powders, at Mr. Bart Dukes store. He sometimes took his meals at the store. He would dine on sardines, potted meat, or Vienna sausages and soda crackers. An R.C. Cola “belly washer” was his drink of choice.

One day a friend of mine, whom I’ll call Jack, was in the back of the store and saw Floyd come in. He sauntered over to the counter where the sardines, potted meat, and Vienna sausages were shelved. Across the aisle, against the wall was a shelf where Mr. Bart stocked shot gun shells and 22 rifle bullets. Floyd looked around, thought no one was looking, and slid a box of 16 gauge shot gun shells under his floppy denim jacket. He paid for his snack and left with the shells still nestled under his coat.

This theft occurred at a time when there had been a death in the community. In those days it was customary for the undertaker to prepare the body and return it home. Friends and family would sit up around the clock until the funeral. Ladies would bring loads of food and the wake would usually turn into a time of eating, fellowship, and tale telling.

Some of the folks seemed glad, in a sad way, when there was a death. It was like an all day singing with “dinner on the grounds.” People got a chance to eat the best vittles prepared by the best cooks in the county.

Though it never seemed respectful to me that they had a good time at these “settin’ups,” as most people called them. Funny stores, jokes, yarns of all descriptions, and teasing were common fare at these events. Floyd never missed a “settin’ up.” Floyd lived alone so the “settin’ up” food was a monumental improvement over his own fare, and it afforded him an opportunity to socialize.

One night during the wake Jack went to take a turn “settin’ up.” Among the eight or ten vehicles there he spotted Floyd’s rusty old truck. He decided to search the truck to see if the stolen shotgun shells might be in it. He slid his hand under the seat on the driver’s side and felt the box of shells. He put them in his car and went in the house.

The next day Jack went to Mr. Bart’s store with the box of shells secreted under his coat. He strolled around to the shell shelf and placed them back in their place. The shells were stolen, re-solen, returned and Mr. Bart never knew they had been on vacation.

A man who worked with Floyd later told about him coming to work one morning later in the week and complaining about someone stealing a box of shotgun shells right out of his truck. He said Floyd gave the thief a real good cussin’ and went on for a while about how bad the world’s getting.

by Neal Beard, a retired pastor living in Douglasville, Georgia. He writes history / humor about the rural northwest Georgia community where he grew up in the 40s and 50s.

Help With The Garden

An old Italian man lived alone in New Jersey. He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was very hard.

His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:

Dear Vincent,

I am feeling pretty sad because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over.

I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa

A few days later he received a letter from his son.

Dear Papa,

Don’t dig up that garden. That’s where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie

At 4 a.m. the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son.

Dear Papa,

Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances. Love you, Vinnie

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