Brother Jim

He fried his catfish whole, smother-fried his dove, and whatever he did with squirrel was heaven on a fork.

When I first met him, it was early morning. He picked me up in his old truck, and we zipped off to Brewton, Alabama. The truck smelled like the backside of a filthy goat.

He botched my name. He called me either Shane, Sheen, or Seen. The Irish spelling didn’t register in his brain. He finally settled on calling me, Jeezus, because of my beard.

I called him Brother Jim.

His religion was food. He believed in slaving at the stove, and he wouldn’t fix his own plate until everyone had too much on theirs.

“You’re looking puny,” he’d say. “Getcha some more.”

And then I’d go back for seconds, thirds, and dessert.

He fried his catfish whole, smother-fried his dove, and whatever he did with squirrel was heaven on a fork. He barbecued like a fool, made his burgers too thick, and his creamed corn gave my life purpose.

He took me fishing, I caught several bream. He’d squeeze their bladders, making them squirt urine on my face.

He told jokes, long ones. He full-mooned me whenever he saw me riding up the driveway.

If you knew him, you’d know he had his share of problems. He made mistakes. Still, I don’t know many folks who held that against him—though I’m sure they’re out there.

There’s always someone waiting to tell you how horrible your truck smells.

I remember the Christmas he pulled me aside and said. “Boy, I wanna pay for your college. How much you need?” His eyes, serious as an aneurysm.

I didn’t know what to say. I’d been paying for school since eighteen. I was like a lot of fatherless boys, I took classes and worked full-time.

All I could answer was, “Why?”

“Because, dammit, you married my daughter, and that makes you my blood-son.”

Then he hugged me and told me to think about it. I did. In fact, I still do. Because he’s the second man to ever call me son.

He didn’t pay for my school—I wouldn’t let him. Because the sad the truth was, we weren’t blood-kin. I didn’t deserve half of what he gave. Coolers of shrimp; five-gallon buckets of tomatoes; birthday suppers; and hundred-dollar bills tucked in my pocket when nobody was looking.

I deserved what everyone else had—a father-in-law who couldn’t stand me, who thought I was naive. What I got was Jim Martin.

His old truck still smells like hell. And I should know.

After he died, I bought it.


  1. Celeste Conner - July 20, 2016 1:28 am

    My friend “shared” you with me. I don’t know whether to raise my hands in praise or toss my keyboard that I didn’t say what you said. I’ll get back to you when I’ve caught up. I’ve got reading to do.

    “I zipped through the sky like someone shot me from a potato gun.”

    “He went home and vomited himself to sleep. ”

    Cotton-pickin’ genius.

  2. Vaunda Noerenberg - September 3, 2016 11:40 pm

    Well said! my new friend!

  3. Phillip D. Odom - November 17, 2016 8:12 pm

    Jim was as his older brother, Hayes, like no other. It must of been the spring water, they were raised on. They were both storyline, in all they did.

  4. Linda Lyberg - March 5, 2017 2:51 pm

    When I read your stories, I am either laughing so hard I cry, or crying so hard I start to smile. Either way, it’s all good. Keeps me grounded and focused on what’s important – THANK YOU Sean.

  5. Sandra Marrar - March 5, 2017 3:06 pm

    He sounds like he was an awesome man. How lucky for you!

  6. Sheila Granger - March 5, 2017 3:13 pm

    Thank you

  7. Joseph Mullan - March 5, 2017 3:15 pm

    Thank you ..enjoyed this one ..

  8. Jack - March 5, 2017 4:15 pm

    Enjoyed that, brings back lots of memories.

  9. Rooster Campbell - March 5, 2017 4:21 pm

    Mr. Detrich, found you on Facebook a while back, liked your page, and have enjoyed everything I’ve read so far. This day and age, it seems that a man who both thinks and cares is a rare find. Thanks for sharing.
    By the way, I was born and raised in Geneva, Alabama, currently residing in south Walton on 30A. You speak of places and people I can understand. Been there. Thanks again.

  10. June Roby White - March 5, 2017 4:49 pm

    Thanks for the memories of an old T. R. Miller High School friend, and hello to Mary !

  11. Angie Phillips - March 5, 2017 5:53 pm

    Thank you . Just thank you .
    Angie Phillips
    Clover Bend , Arkansas

  12. Sam Seetin - March 7, 2017 11:48 pm

    Marcus Aurelius wrote in his book ” Mediations ” what doesn’t transmit light creates its own darkness.” Sean, what you write lights up your readers.

  13. June RouLaine Phillips - March 9, 2017 5:41 am

    You make my day better. Thank you.

  14. Bill Ambrose - April 21, 2017 10:05 pm

    In the true Spirit of Robert Ruark’s “The Old Man and The Boy”, well done!

  15. Bill Ambrose - April 21, 2017 10:21 pm

    Excellent, in the true Spirit of Robert Ruark’s “The Old Man and The Boy” Good Job!


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