David Tucholski's novel, “The
Good I Stand On”, chronicles the life of twelve-year-old Ben Grogan during the
summer his entire world changes forever. Before that summer, Ben’s life consisted
of exploring the small corners of his rural Virginia town with his little
brother, Christopher, and their vulgar eccentric friend, Martin. But a single
and tragic event that takes place on an old railroad bridge will change
everything and send him down a frightening and dangerous path. Ben will face
not only self-preservation, but also the hardest challenge any child must
face—responsibility for another person. Along the way, the truth of his little
country town will finally be revealed, and his perception of that world and the
people in it will never be the same. In the end, everything he knows will be
challenged: his understanding of morality and truth and—most importantly—his
innocence. To find out more about the author, you must visit our David Tucholski page.
"David Tucholski has
written a vivid and heartfelt portrait of his beloved Virginia mountains in
"The Good I Stand On". This debut novel is filled with colorful
detail and the author's passion for the place he comes from, it is told through
the eyes of a native with clarity and warmth. David takes you on a journey home
in this story- and you'll love the trip every step of the way."- Adriana
Trigiani, author of “The Big Stone Gap” series.
Read our David
Tucholski interview
You can read more at http://www.thegoodistandon.com
-------
Excerpt from “The Good I Stand
On”:
C H A P T E R 1
That summer had started off as
a good one, but that was before it all went crashing down into the bottom of a
ravine. In the time that passed since that profoundly hopeless situation in which
I found myself that day, I had finally accepted what my fate would be. It was
that fate that I could see staring back at me in the reflection of her swelling
eyes. It glistened like moonlight in their deep blue sadness as I sat across
from her at that old, blistered, wooden table. Her hands were wrapped tightly
around her cup of hot tea, and the steam swirled upward until it was carried
away by the cool breeze from the open window behind her. The air smelled of
spring and freshness, and it pushed her light brown hair up to her cheek,
causing some to rest on the corner of her mouth. She pulled it away with her
finger and tucked it neatly behind her ear.
The setting sun cast an orange stream that flowed across the
old, gray table and up her shoulder to the side of her neck. She became a
silhouette every time she turned her face to one side to look around the old
room with those sad, wandering eyes. She scanned the walls intensely, as if in
a last desperate act, she hoped to find the answers she needed scribbled out in
some undiscovered ancient language, revealing the truth behind the horrible
events that had caused her to end up here, with me.
I looked over at the walls—they were bare and cold—and when
I looked back at her face, it was hanging toward her tea, her eyes gazing into
it. The hot liquid swirled in a spiral of colors formed by the grease of the
lemon peel that sat in the bottom of the cup. I watched its perfect motion
awhile, until it was disturbed by the sloshing tea as she raised the cup to her
lips.
There hadn’t been a word spoken between us since I sat down
at that table. The only sounds in the room had been the occasional slurp of tea
as it met her mouth or the click of my thumbnail as it pulled at the edge of
the table, where I had inadvertently discovered some loose paint. But the
silence seemed comforting to us and gave a sense that, even with all that had
happened, we could still find peace in the stillness. As she drew the tea to
her lips once more, I looked at her long, thin face with its soft features and
smoothness, and just then I thought of the last nine months, and how happy I
had been before then. How happy everyone had been before then. I thought about
that, and as I became lost in the vast blueness of those eyes, they turned up
from the spot they had been searching across the room and became fixed on me.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
The arteries in my neck swelled and thumped against my
windpipe, and I felt as if I’d choke on my own breath. I reached into my back pocket
and pulled out the tight bundle of letters and stared at the handwritten
address on one of them, scribbled and smeared. Then I inhaled through my nose
and felt the tightness in my throat dissipate and finally raised my head,
preparing to speak. But for a moment, I paused and looked back down at those
faded letters, and suddenly I remembered Christopher and the trees.
They were magnificent trees,
great oaks and maples that grew so high it seemed as though they’d never end,
when you stood at their bases and stared toward the swaying peaks as they
stroked the sky. The trees ran all the way along the south side of my parents’
property and offered row upon row of hiding places and cover from the imaginary
bullets that whizzed by our heads during afternoons of cops and robbers. They
creaked in the wind over our house, and we would lie on our backs as the
sunlight trickled down the ripe leaves and sprinkled tiny beads of warmth onto
our faces, disturbing the coolness of the shade.
“Do you think I’ll do all right in the third grade, Ben?”
asked my little brother, Christopher, one day under those trees.
“You’ll do just fine.”
Christopher was two years younger, and he was always asking
me questions like that. He looked up to me, although he’d never admit it.
“The third grade was easy,” I said. “Just wait until fifth
grade…that’s when the pressure’s really on. I’m not looking forward to it
myself, that’s for sure.”
“What kind of pressure?”
“Women.”
“You mean girls?”
“No, I mean women. They don’t call them girls after the
fourth grade. Now they’re called women. And we’re called men. And if you want
to be a real man, you gotta get some women.”
Christopher’s eyes widened, and he looked back toward the
tops of the trees quietly.
“But I’ve already got women,” I said, “so I don’t have to
worry about it.”
His head jerked back in my direction.
“You’ve got women?” he asked in awe. “How’d you get ’em?”
“Because of my gang.”
His eyes opened even wider. “You’re in a gang?”
“Of course. Everyone in fifth grade is in a gang, unless
you’re a total dweeb, of course. You have to be in a gang just to survive in
the fifth grade, and I already have mine. I’m the leader, you know.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we’re called the Skulls, and we were the toughest
gang in the fourth grade. Once we get to the fifth, we’ll rule the school. Now
all we have to do is keep the Snakes off our butts.”
“Who are the Snakes?”
“Who are the Snakes?” I asked, as though it were a
ridiculous question.“The Snakes are the meanest gang of all. And they never
leave the fifth grade. They just stay there to torment all the other gangs who
come along.”
“They sound mean.”
“They sure are,” I said. “Gee, Christopher, if I had known
you weren’t in a gang, I would have let you join ours. You could find yourself
in a jam with the Snakes roaming the playground, and you without a gang to
belong to. But it’s too late now. We already have all of our members. And
besides, you’re only in the third grade this year, so it’s not like you’d have
much muscle to offer the group anyway.”
“I would too!”
“I don’t think so.”
“I would! I would!”
“Besides, you don’t have women. You need those before you
can join our gang. We all have women.”
“I can get women!”
“Well, maybe if you get women, then I’ll ask the guys if you
can join.”
“Really?” he said as he perked up.
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
“What are big brothers for?”
I think that, deep down, Christopher sometimes knew I was
making everything up—but I don’t think he cared. He loved the stories I’d tell
as we lay under those dark green trees. He always got so excited about those
tales, but when he found out they weren’t true, he’d never say a word. After
all I was his big brother, and he didn’t want to catch me in a lie if he could
help it. It would mean I didn’t know everything, and knowing everything was an
important attribute for a big brother to have.
“Hey, Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you do with the women…you know…once you get them?”
“You lie in bed and kiss them on the lips.”
Christopher grimaced, and his hands rubbed feverishly across
his mouth as if to wipe away the imaginary dirt that had just collected there.
“How could you do that?” he squeaked.
“Easy. You just press your lips against theirs, like this.”
I pressed the palm of my hand to my mouth and made “mmm, mmm” sounds.
A look of horror came over my brother’s face as he watched
me kiss my hand. I stopped and looked at him.
“Like that! Now you try.”
“No way!”
“You’ll never be in a gang with that attitude.”
“But it’s gross!”
“Of course it’s gross! That’s what being a grown-up is all
about. It’s gross. The whole thing is gross. But that’s what grown-ups are:
gross!”
“Do Mom and Dad do that too?”
“Yep! How do you think you were born?”
“Dad says I hatched from an egg.”
“Well, you didn’t; you came from Mom after Dad kissed her.
Because that’s what men do: they kiss women, and the women have babies. Now be
a man, and try it.”
“But I don’t want to have babies!”
“You won’t, as long as you don’t use the tongue. The tongue
is where the babies come from. You just keep your mouth closed, like this.”
Once again I made the “mmm, mmm” sounds on my palm as Christopher gawked in silence.
“You see?” He stared at me for a few moments and finally lay back down to look
up again to the familiar treetops.
“I don’t think I’ll join a gang,” he said.
“Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I don’t know why I tormented him like that. Maybe it was
just what older brothers did to younger brothers. It wasn’t as though I liked
seeing him on edge about the horrors of fifth grade or any other trial of
childhood he would have to endure and wanted my advice on. I didn’t do it all the
time. Sometimes I’d tell him how it really was going to be, which of course
could be a lot more menacing than any lie I could cook up. I suppose I wanted
to sound as though the two years I had on him presented me with a great wealth
of experience, so that I could provide him with a wide range of noble
edification, as though the wisdom of a ten-year-old were much more than that of
an eight-year-old. For whatever reason, I did it, and he enjoyed it all the
same. It was our form of entertainment, living in a country town as we did.
At a glance, the town of Venice may have seemed like an
obscure, out-of-the-way place with little going on. The fact that it shared a
name with the famous, waterlogged Italian city gave it just enough charm to be
considered worthy of a brief conversation, but that was about it. Outsiders
would smirk when hearing the name and spew out what they considered to be witty
quips like, “Ride any gondolas lately?” or “Say hi to Casanova for me.” The
residents always considered this offensive, because after all there also
existed a Paris, Virginia, which, like our town, shared little in common with
its more widely known European counterpart. But there was little in the way of
jokes when Paris was mentioned, not even a “Say hi to Napoleon for me.” For
some reason, when people said they were from Paris, Virginia, it wasn’t given a
second thought, while we Venetian Virginians were forced to put up with dull
mockery and tedious puns.
But to Christopher and me, Venice was our town, even if it
wasn’t really a town at all. It was, in actuality, merely an unmarked road that
ran through the countryside, with houses perched on acres of tree-laden hills
or wide, open horse paddocks. Most people there raised horses or had land fit
to raise horses, and if they didn’t, they raised trees instead. The hills were
all guarded by long streams of white, wooden fences that rode along the peaks
and valleys of the land. The fences had to be white because of the covenant
rules. Anyone who constructed a fence that was brown, beige, or—God
forbid—black was quickly reminded of the rules and asked to comply. But it was
never a problem, since the residents of the wooded lane enjoyed being part of a
community that had rules. The rules gave a sense that one belonged to a secret
society, which spawned a widespread feeling of privilege.
To further ensure the status of Venice’s official township,
the people named old Mr. Prichard as mayor in 1982. Although there was never an
official election—or even a need for a mayor—the residents decided to present
him with the title because, in part, of the fact that he was the oldest and
longest resident of Venice. The duties that came with the office were simple,
but important. When any sort of problem popped up, it would come to Mayor
Prichard for resolution. These problems usually consisted of such decisions as
what shade of green to use in repainting the roof of the little Venice post
office, arguably one of the smallest in the country at a little over two
hundred square feet. Another might be which night to hold the raffle at the
little church where John Marshall, the fourth Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme
Court, supposedly went to school as a young boy for just one year—a fact
debated to this day.
Of course his most important duty of all was serving as
Master of Ceremonies over the annual Venice Foxhunt, the one event that brought
a small bit of fame to our obscure, out-of-the-way town.
The town limits began at a set of railroad tracks that
crossed the road in front of the little green and white country store that sat
next to the post office. The store began its life as a small train station in
the 1800s, and you could feel its age when you went inside. In the winter, the
cast-iron woodstove, which heated the place, spewed the smell of burning timber
and reminded me of my grandparents’ house in the mountains of Pennsylvania,
where we spent our Thanksgivings. Christopher and I loved that store and
thought that it, like everything in Venice, belonged to us. We would toss our bikes
on its rickety, wooden porch, stained black from a century of mildew, and run
inside to see what latest and greatest ice-cream bar sat in the waist-high
freezer at the counter. Sometimes we wouldn’t have enough change in our pockets
for ice cream and would settle instead for candy, filling our shirts and
pockets with Atomic Fireballs and sucking on them until we couldn’t stand the
sweet sting any longer.
Every afternoon Mayor Prichard would shuffle down the street
that led from his house to the little green and white store and sit on an old
rocking chair and greet his citizens as they rode by in their cars or atop
their horses. Everyone would stop and come out of their cars or get down from
their saddles for a few minutes to ask how the distinguished, old man was doing
as he sat in his white fedora and matching suit, resembling Harry S. Truman
from a 1940s newsreel. The sight of his small, squinty eyes and little, smiling
mouth as you crossed the railroad tracks and passed that little store always meant
you were home.
“How do?” he’d ask as you walked by. “Nice day we have here,
isn’t it?” It was always a nice day to him, even if the sky was gray and the
air was so thick with humidity that your skin felt like a leaky sponge.
“Sure is, Mayor,” was the standard response. “And how are
you today?”
“Terrific!”
He was always terrific, even when it looked as if he could
hardly walk over to greet you or get up from his chair due to the arthritis
that afflicted him. Terrific was the only way to be in his mind. In his view,
if you weren’t terrific every day you were alive, then what was the point in
living at all?
The Venice Foxhunt was held
once a year, in October. It was a huge event where people, dressed in their bright
red coats and little, black hats, came from all over to take part. Some even
came from other countries, mainly England, to join in the hunt. They gathered
on the lawn near the Venice post office and the MC, Mayor Prichard, would say a
few words while the riders waited patiently for the horn blowing that signified
the start of the hunt.
There was champagne passed out of one of the many fancy cars
that parked in the grass, and then Mr. Birchwood always said a toast as he
stood on the floorboard of his silver Rolls-Royce, his chest puffed up inside
his starchy white shirt. He was an Englishman who had moved to Venice when he
was in his midthirties, and had lived there for just over ten years. For most
of his time there, he had led the hunt, since he was one of its main supporters
when the animal-rights groups had attacked it. And as Mr. Birchwood stood on
that huge, silver car, he shouted to the red and black crowd how honored he was
to ride with such a great band of hunters, and his English accent thundered
over the field, and the horses whinnied and bucked, and the crowd cheered. I
always imagined myself standing on that car and the crowd cheering as I
finished each sentence, almost as if on command, and it made me wonder how it
must have felt.
After the toast, the crowd lifted their glasses and gave a
cheer, which meant the riders were ready to get on their horses and chase down
a fox. My father took me to see it several times, and it always thrilled me to
watch the riders mount their horses, with Mr. Birchwood at the front of the
group, his hand held toward the sky in anticipation for the start. Then they’d
let loose the fox, and twenty hounds would go barreling after it. The horn
would blow, and the riders were off across the huge field that led onto Mr.
Birchwood’s farm, Meadow Brook (a thousand acres of grass, fields, and trees),
and down into the woods and out of sight. After the riders disappeared, Mr.
Prichard and everyone else headed for home, but my father and I always stood
there for a moment in silence and waited for the sound of the barking hounds to
disappear into the trees.
“Well, that’s it,” said my father the first time he took me
to see it.
“Let’s go.”
“Wait…what happens to the fox?” I asked.
“They catch him and put him in a cage, and then let him go
back into the woods after everyone gets a good look at him. Anyway, there’s
nothing else to see; they’ll be in the woods for the rest of the day until they
catch the thing, or not. So let’s go home.”
I thought there would be some kind of commentary, as in the
races on TV, but there wasn’t. They just ran away after the hounds, and if you
weren’t in the race, you didn’t see what happened after that. Your day was over
after the hour you spent watching them drink champagne and feed their horses,
and then you went home to do something else.
You can read more at http://www.thegoodistandon.com
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