“My Grand-Daddy was a gambling man,” my friend said to me yesterday as we were packing her fresh eggs into boxes. We had been talking about drunks. The weekend kind who had a drink and went to sleep. My friend does not drink. But it was a natural jump to gambling.
“He had gambled all he had that one day so he bet his hat.” She says.
I laugh.. I love her old family stories.
“… bet his hat.” I say. “Mercy!”
“They kilt him for that hat. He lost the hand but he would not give up the hat. Would’nt hand it over. Would’nt do it. So they kilt him.”
“They shot him?” I say. Laughter swallowed in horror.
“I reckon so.” She says.
We both sit quiet trying to make sense of such an action in our heads. Shooting a black man for his hat. Our laughter still…
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