Hell With the Lid Blown Off by Donis Casey Page A

lady’s handbag to me. “His ghillies…” Shoes with a bunch of holes punched in them! “…and bonnet.”
    A bonnet! I declare. It was a dark blue color, broad and shapeless, and had a round silver pin on one side. All I could think was that these old Scotch soldiers must have been the meanest, most vicious, most brawl-loving, sons-of-guns ever born to wear a getup like that, because they wouldn’t be able to step out the door without somebody trying to beat them up.
    But then Miz MacKenzie lifted something out of the box that looked like either a real short sword or a terrible long knife, maybe two feet long, and I revised my opinion of the outfit right quick. It had a fancy carved wooden haft with an amber stone on the end of it, and the black leather-covered scabbard was chased with silver. She drew it out to let us see the blade. I leaned forward all eager to look at it, and the other fellows did, too. I was aware that instead of leaning in, Ruth drew back. I expect that’s the difference between fellows and girls.
    â€œThis is called a dirk,” Miz MacKenzie told us. “It’s just for fancy dress, though, lads. I reckon folks stopped stabbing one another with these a hundred years ago.” She slid the blade back into its scabbard and laid the dirk on the table before she reached into the box again. “Now, this…” She held up another knife, much smaller, maybe eight inches long in all, with a bone handle and a flat leather scabbard. “This is the kind of a knife that means business.” She unsheathed it and held it point up in front of her face. “Da called this a sgian dubh , a black knife. So called because you used it whenever you were in a black situation, children. Your knife of last resort. You keep it tucked into your hose, like this.” She showed us by holding it down beside her calf.
    We fellows clamored to have a look and she let us pass it around while she refolded the uniform and carefully put all the pieces back into the chest. When it came around to me, I ran my thumb along the wicked little blade. One edge was grooved and the other was razor-sharp, like a skinning knife, and it came to a point at the end. I recognized a fine weapon when I saw one and handed it back to the old lady with regret.
    After she closed the lid, she sat looking down at the box on the table before her, lost in her memories. When she looked up again, she smiled. “This will be yours some day, Wallace. I hope you’ll cherish it as much as I do.”
    I expected Wallace to make a smart remark, but to my surprise he said the right thing for once. “It’ll be doubly dear to me, Gran, since it means so much to you.”
    Miz MacKenzie teared up for a second, but took herself in hand right quick. “I’m glad to hear it, dear. Someday I’ll impose upon you to try it on for me. You resemble my dearest Da, in size and coloring at least, and I’d love to see how it looks on you once before I die.”
    â€œThat would be an excellent idea, Wallace,” Randal seconded.
    Wallace grinned. “Perhaps that can be arranged, Grandmother, some dark night when no one is around and all the curtains are drawn.”
    Josie Cecil
    The First Christian Church had moved around quite a bit since its founding shortly after the town of Boynton, Oklahoma, came into being in 1902. For a while the congregation met on the second floor above the Bank of Oklahoma. Then when the membership grew too large for that location, the church moved to the Masonic Hall. The hall was a perfectly adequate location for several years, certainly big enough to accommodate the church’s growth. But after all, a church needs a permanent home, same as a person.
    For the past couple of years, the elders and deacons had been raising money to buy land and raise a building. But the Lord does provide, and recently the North Methodist Church had consolidated with the South