Hard to Chew pt.1

For ten or fourteen years we never realized our small mountain outpost was something
more than a niche in the nape of the Ozarks-- a fistful of families, each with a mule
named for an uncle.

When the ambit of winter came sudden and amaranthine, we forced our teeth around our lips and bit to feel the warmth of blood in our beards. Oh, but our buckram bones could not remember the days we had foregone and what we could salvage was never ample enough to fend for our brothers, our daughters our housecats, our toes or our faces.

The ground was too rocky and frozen for our spades or shovels, the air as thick as ice and just as ugly. If you want to forget the taste in your mouth, the whiskey is always warm.