Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I won’t be able to avoid them when they’re standing proudly at Winston’s wedding like Dad of the Year and Uncle of the Century. It’s going to hit me like a baseball bat to the balls.
Speak of the devil, or even think of him, and he shall appear. A larger-than-life billboard looms tall beside the road with my Uncle Jed’s face beaming from its vinyl surface. It’s been photoshopped, his teeth bleach white, his skin tanned, his hair perfect. Next to his face is the text.
TRANSFORMING WITH THE TIMES
SPRINGDALE RANCH SUBDIVISION
* LUXURY HOMES * NEW SCHOOLS * PRIVATE TECH HUB
COMING SOON—THE NEW AND IMPROVED COLD SPRINGS
The boring lack of extraneous punctuation tells me that Francine had nothing to do with the billboard, but it’s the overall tone that furrows my brows. New and improved?
What in the hell is Uncle Jed up to now?
Luxury homes in Cold Springs? I mean, Mom and Dad’s place is definitely nothing to sneeze at, but a whole new subdivision of them seems aggressive for what’s always been a place that can’t quite decide if it’s a tiny city or a town.
And new schools? As in plural? I’m not sure there’s even a need for that. I’m not that old, and Cold Springs High wasn’t crowded back when I was there.
Most of all, what the hell is a private tech hub? Sounds like an overpriced copy machine that’ll make espresso while you wait for your shit to print out.
The billboard version of my uncle doesn’t answer. He stands silently with his arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on his face, khakis perfectly pressed and light blue shirt screaming his “rich guy pretending to be a working man” image.
“Plans, boy. I’ve got big plans.”
He told me that once, and though I never doubted that he did, I didn’t quite think he meant . . . this. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m coming back when I am. For the wedding and to find out what the hell is going on.
As I drive through downtown, I see signs in the windows of businesses and the historical homes surrounding the old-fashioned square that’s still the center of town.
MCMANSIONS = HIGHER TAXES FOR YOU AND ME!
SAY NO TO REZONING!
And the most vehement and blatant one . . .
FUCK JED FORD!
The tone of the last one is a little bit scary, especially given that it’s got a pitchfork poking a cartoon version of Uncle Jed’s crotch and devil’s horns sprouting out of his ubiquitous cowboy hat. But it’s outside the local bar and grill, which is run by a woman who has a sordid history with Uncle Jed, so maybe it’s saying more about her than him? I’d like to hope so, but a little voice in my head whispers, “I doubt it.”
I finish making my way through downtown and get into the part of Cold Springs where my family and family friends live, and the signs change to ones that are more supportive of whatever Jed is up to. Or at least supportive by default . . .
BILL FORD
COLD SPRINGS MAYOR
REZONING FOR THE FUTURE
The plain lawn signs may have my dad’s name on them, but he’s always been the “one” of the one-two punch that is Bill and Jed, no jokes about “excellent adventures” necessary. So anything supportive of one is in favor of the other. That means I’ll need to have a talk with both of them to catch up on what’s happening in Cold Springs.
I grunt in displeasure at the very thought. This is why I left. Or at least one of many reasons. I don’t want to be involved in all this “politics interlaced with business and all connected by family” bullshit. It’s shady as fuck and driven as much by greed as by progress.
But those thoughts dissolve into the breeze as I see my childhood home. It’s a large, historical house that’s been kept in meticulous condition for over a hundred and fifty years. The two-story white columns and black shutters surrounding every window look freshly painted, and the manicured green lawn is dotted with pristine flower beds pruned into submission. Dandelions are afraid to even land on that dirt.
The double-wide driveway of stamped concrete is clear of even a speck of dirt or grass, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom has it swept every morning.
I used to play on the lawn as a child. Me, Winston, and our sister, Wren, would run amok, play hide-and-seek, and create entire fantasy worlds with our “castle” as a backdrop. I didn’t realize how true that was until much later, though, when school became a study in classism, the haves and the have-nots naturally dividing into groups. Membership was declared through a hundred subtle signs, from what brand and type of shoes you wore to how worn or fashionable your jeans were.