The next mornin' when I woke up I went downstairs for breakfast. Neither of us were in the mood ta talk about the butterfly thing. I could tell that Daddy wanted ta 'splain  more, but I warn't in any mind ta listen, so we ate breakfast in awkward silence.

He did say this one thing, "Wishes, I don't need ta tell you that the woods are off limits, do I? Also, you are grounded this week."

"Okay Daddy," I said with my lip a quiverin'.

Grounded, huh? I guess that's a whole lot better than gettin' a whoopin', but in a way it was worse. If Daddy whipped me with a switch it would hurt—a whole lot—but when he finished, it would be over. Just like rippin' off a Band-aid. This punishment was gonna be harder than bein' spanked. Stayin' indoors for a week by myself warn't anythin' I wanted, especially since we were so close ta findin' the Magic Salamander.

I had a whole week to think things over. Daddy hoped that I would be so sorrowful that I wouldn't never, ever set foot in the forest again. I considered it. It is after all an awful place with danger lurkin' ever'wheres. The things we already encountered would be enough to discourage anyone with half a brain. Even still I knew that we hain't even come across the most frightenin' things of all. Could we face up to whatever made those screams, growls, and shrieks in the night? If we entered their territory would they know it? If they sensed us comin' would even daylight prevent an attack? Would our cross, holy water, rabbit's foot, and four-leaf clover guarantee us real safety?

It should've been easy to talk myself out of it. I tried. I thought if I really made myself scared I would lose interest in the Whistlin' Salamander and findin' my butterfly momma. Try as I might, I couldn't work up a good enough fright. Yes we had encountered danger, but we didn't die or even get seriously injured. Maybe we were kept safe by some magic that we couldn't see. If'n we had some mysterious outside protection then we couldn't be harmed, right? If we couldn't be harmed then it would be stupid ta abandon our quest, wouldn't it? Anyway that's the conclusion I came ta. I didn't know about what Freck was thinkin' 'cuz she was under house arrest too. I had ta wait ta find out. The clock ticks a whole bunch slower when you're all alone.

Daddy confiscated the backpacks with all our tools and protections. He also repaired the swinging board on the back fence. Ta continue our search wasn't goin' ta be easy 'cuz our every move from now on would be reported. All eyes were on us. That's for danged sure.

* * *

One of my most favorite holidays was coming up soon, the Fourth of July. Fireworks, pie eating contests, three legged races, and the city firefly catchin' contest happened only once a year. Lucky for me and Freck our groundin' would be over by then. I could hardly wait.

* * *

On the Fourth my daddy took me out ta eat breakfast. Whizzie's Diner was the place we went ta. It was really the only place in town. My daddy once told me that, "Whizzie's Diner was one of those converted old-fashioned railroad cars that sprung up like mushrooms after World War II." It was red and silver on the outside, but mostly green inside. The counter tops were light green. Dark-green vinyl covered the booth benches and stools. In the summer when I wore shorts, my legs would stick ta the seat and made a schweck sound when I stood up. We used ta eat there a lot since it was just me and my daddy.

Bob Thompson owns the diner. He played baseball in his younger days and they said he'd throw balls so fast you couldn't even see them comin'. You could only hear it whiz by. That's how he got nicknamed Whizzy. Bob stayed in the kitchen behind the big counter slingin' hash. That's what they called cookin' in a diner, slingin' hash. Gosh, I don't even know what hash is, and I'm pretty sure I never saw Mr. Thompson sling any, but he did throw things when provoked. Norm'lly he was as mild as green Jello, but suppose a customer got too rowdy, he would chuck a dinner roll at their head as quick as the old horsehide could fly. Let me tell ya, a whack by ninety-miles-per-hour bun would leave a mark. Yes, sir, a big red one. Teenagers would dare each other ta put up a fuss just ta get Whizzy riled enough ta toss a roll. I'm sure I don't have ta say it, but them that took the dare didn't brave it again.

Nellie was the diner's one and only waitress. She had puffy red, red lips and even redder fingernails. Nellie was big, really big, about as big around as the bass drum in the marching band and she laughed almost as loudly. Why you could hear Nellie when she let 'er rip--even with the windows shut--all the way down Main Street.

Whenever anyone heard Nellie whoopin' it up, they just had ta join in. It didn't matter what the joke was, it was her laugh that got you goin'. My father used to call it a giggle-jiggle. He said it was as contagious as a yawn. One person begins yawnin' and soon everybody's doing' it. When Nellie commenced a roarin' ever'one in earshot was bustin' a gut.

A few years ago in 1958, Nellie's laugh nearly brought down the whole dang county. People lookin' back on it call it The Belly Buster Parade. It started out just like any parade with simple floats sponsored by local businesses, churches, and historical groups. Town dignitaries ridin' on brand-new sparklin' convertible Cadillac cars furnished by Gator Baiter Motors, wavin' and smilin' that I'll-be-your-best-buddy-if-you-contribute-to-my-campaign smile they always get when runnin' for election.

The Queen of the parade and her attendants were on top a crepe hillside, under the branches of a paper-mâché magnolia tree, doin' that one handed back and forth wave, and smilin' like they used an extra-large tube of glue and fish hooks to hold up the corners of their mouths. I always thought that fake smilin', the ones with turned up lips and bored eyes, was kinda creepy.

There was a perky, pony-tail-flippin', high-steppin' demonstration from the Julia White's Junior Girls Dancing Team just before the Burns High School marchin' band marched 'round the corner. The band was proudly showin' off their brand-spankin'-new Forest Green and Deep Maroon trimmed uniforms with gold buttons and braids, but none more prouder than Harold Stives, the Drum Major.

Snooty Harold high-stepped by with his chin in the air and everythin' shined ta perfection, when he (oops) dropped his mace. (That's what they call the long pole with a big knob on it--a mace). Bendin' over right in front of Nellie, rrrrripp, the whole rear end of his brand-new pants split right out. He grabbed at his bottom and the pompous tall-feathered hat he was wearin' spun off his head and landed in a stinky ol' mud puddle. He scrambled for the big poofy hat and bumped right smack into Alison Jones who hadn't noticed the commotion on account of her serious concentration on her baton twirlin'. Alison fell sideways inta the girl next to her and like a row of Domino's they went down one-by-one. The whole line was soon sprawlin', white-tasseled boots and all, flat-splat in the middle of Main Street.

Big Nellie couldn't help herself; she let out an ear shatterin' bellow heard clear up into the next county. Immediately the crowd began to roar. Even the baton twirlers couldn't contain the laughter as they freed themselves from their tangle of legs, boots, and batons.

The only ones not laughin' were the very embarrassed Harold the Drum Major and sour old Mr. Foreman across the street. The story was that Mr. Foreman hadn't cracked even a glimmer of a smile in over forty years, but right then you could see the laughter beginnin' to bubble up in him. First, he started ta shake at the knees. Then it rose up through his whole body like mercury in a thermometer on a blistering' day. His belly started to jiggle. His arms and chest began a quiverin'. By the time it hit his face, his mouth split open wide as a brayin' mule.

The explosive force of forty-years of repressed laughter caused somethin' totally unexpected. He doubled over then shot back up in a whole-body-guffaw that blasted a full-set of false teeth high into the air, tumblin' and turnin' until they landed and clamped--you guessed it--right on the Drum Major's boot.

Harold shrieked like a little girl, jumped back, and fell split-pants down inta the same puddle where his hat had been. A more pitiful sight ya never did see. All the high steppin' pride was gone. He removed the false teeth from the toe of his boot with a soaked handkerchief, and placed them timidly on the curb. He was as dirty, and as wet as a black cat in a cistern. It shouldn't have been funny—but it was. It really was. It was the funniest doggone thing we ever did see. I can't remember a time when I've laughed louder or longer than I did on that day. Freck and I were laughin' so hard snot came out of our noses. Other kids were rollin' on the ground and even some of the grown-ups were sittin' on the curbs with their heads in their hands. Red faced grownups was leanin' against lamp poles or building's with their arms wrapped around their shakin' bellies. Tears were gushin' from eyes. And Nellie, poor waitress Nellie, was shakin' and shudderin' like a bass on the line gulpin' for air. I swear she just about had a heart attack. Her eyes bulged out like one of those bubbly-eyed goldfish you see at a pet store.

* * *

That night after the Burns annual picnic and pie eatin' contest was the firefly catchin' competition. Freck and I always won. We was the crowned champions of lightnin' bug catchin'. At last year's Burns annual picnic we captured so many lightnin' bugs that the Mason jar glowed brighter than a lighthouse. I swear that ships at sea could see the glow and knew to be wary of the mysterious marsh.

Butch Tieg was the worst catcher; his jar only held a couple and they looked like their batteries had run down."Nah, Nah, Butch," some of the older kids teased him. "How's the lightnin' bug catchin' goin'? Did ya' get enough to fill a thimble yet?" He was embarrassed by them and blamed us for it. That's all we needed, havin' an angry embarrassed bully after us again. Butch was the biggest meanest kid in grade school. Most Everyone hated him 'cept he was terrific at football. If'n you can do well in sports people will always cut ya a lot of slack.

If he didn't like you, you were "Dead meat." Butch would push someone down just ta see how hard they'd fall. He even had a scoring system:
One point earned for tears.
Two points if it left bruises.
Three points meant there was blood.
Four points for broken bones or missin' teeth.
Five if hospitalization was required.

I never heard of him reaching five. A four was dangerous enough, but a five would surely bring the sheriff. He didn't want the law involved because they asked too many questions. Bullies don't like to be exposed and punished for what they do, and the police could cause him a world of hurt that he didn't want—that's for certain. That's why Butch was very careful to make sure he beat up his victims when no one else was 'round. Without witnesses, it was their word against his. That's how he stayed clear of legal trouble. Butch could fake innocence, and even cry if'n he had ta.

We couldn't stand him, and avoided bein' anywhere near him when we could. He liked to grab my Grandaddy's Cincinnati Red's baseball cap off my head and throw it around with his buddies playin' keep away. Then toss it down. Stomp on it. And when I bent over to pick it up, he'd kick me real hard. I swear I still have a dent in my butt from one of those mean kicks.