The Education of Little Tree

It begun at the Jericho mine, Jericho City, Tennessee,

in the year 19 and 35,

the day after Ma died.

She'd lasted only a year after Pa was killed in the army.

And that's how I come to live with Granma and Granpa

when I was eight years old.

One time Granma told me

that when you come on something good,

the first thing to do

is share it with whosoever you can find.

That way, the good spreads out

where no telling how far it'll go,

which is right.

So I'm telling the story of them days,

and how Granma and Granpa got me away from Aunt Martha

and taken me to live in their mountains,

where they'd raised my pa before me

and which I know now was the secret part of the world.

Oh no, you stop right where you stand!

I said no!

You ain't goin' off with no backwoods white Injun

so long as I got a breath left in me.

Sally was my sister and she give him to us!

Put a hand to it, Henry, for Jesus' sake!

No.

You can't just waltz in here, Wales,

and carry him off to some godforsaken--

Martha, leave him be.

It ain't right!

It ain't right by a damn!

Wales, he's wearing out.

Yep.

You okay, son?

Take the light.

Little Tree.

Come now. You ain't waking him his first morning, are you?

Just giving him the option, is all.

Little Tree, you awake enough to hear me?

We're heading up to the corn patch now.

Figured you might like to come on and help us.

Wales.

It's up to you.

Come on, now.

Well, now.

Go on, get off of him now.

Oh, they's just heartened to see someone new, is all.

They see plenty of Granma and me.

That's Blue Boy.

GRANMA (laughs): Oh, my.

These the only shoes you got, Little Tree?

I bet you can't feel a thing through them soles, can you?

Well, we'll take care of that.

To learn anything, you got to feel the ground under you.

All right.

You gonna stay?

She's coming alive.

Aw, don't feel sad, Little Tree.

It's the way.

Falcon caught the slow bird,

so the slow bird won't have no babies that are slow.

He helps the bird out. You see?

It's a lesson, Little Tree. Animals know that.

You just look around.

It's only the white man takes more than his share.

He claim whatever he can,

no matter how much it is.

He'll run his flag up saying, "This here stands for my right to more."

then there'll be a war over it

and men will die,

like your daddy.

Well now, you're saying to yourself, "Hold on, there."

I thought Granpa was a white man hisself."

and it's the truth.

I was born white,

no doubt about it.

But when I met your Granma.

Oh, how young she was,

and mm-mm-mm, how she could dance.

Oh, Wales.

And then we was married,

and I begun to see the world through Cherokee eyes

till I come at last to understand the way.

And so will you, Little Tree,

and you'll learn you can't change the rules of the way,

even if you are white, and that's that.

My ma was white.

As was mine,

as fine a woman as ever lived.

As was mine.

She was. She pleased your daddy too.

He told us.

Dictionary,

seeing as how Little Tree can't get to the settlement every day for school--

Which is a crying shame,

nothing we can do about it--

I plan to teach him myself,

alls I know, anyhow.

Let's look at the first word here.

Can you make out what it says?

"Ar--"

"Arr--"

"Aardvark."

"Aardvark."

"Aardvark."

"Ard" what? "Aardvark:

Large, burrowing African mammal

that feeds on ants and termites.

That's his first word? Mm-hmm.

Tell me, when is the occasion gonna arise

for him to employ this word?

Can't never tell.

Yeah?

That's right, Little Tree.

You go on down to the settlement,

you never can tell what's gonna come up in the conversation.

You know, like, "Oh yeah,

Little Tree's downcast, all right.

Seems he went and lost his aardvark."

"Now that's funny," says Mr. Jenkins.

"Old Miss Perkins over at the library,

she been having trouble with her aardvark too!

Had to go all the way up to Knoxville,

up to hospital,

have her whole dang aardvark removed!

She's resting comfortable now, but mm-mm-mm,

them aardvarks!"

You can't never tell.

Yup.

* And we'll all Go together *

You'll stay!

* To pluck wild Mountain thyme *

* All around The blooming heather *

* And we'll all Go together *

* To pluck wild Mountain thyme *

* All around The blooming heather *

How old you gonna be on your next birthday, Little Tree?

Um, nine, come March 22.

That's what I thought.

Then it is time you started on a trade.

That's her.

What does she do?

Why, she makes whiskey.

Ain't you ever seen a still afore?

Oh...

This here's my trade-- Whiskey-making.

Been handed down on the Scot side of my family

for 200 years.

Now I'm gonna hand it down to you.

Of course, when you get older

you might want to switch trades.

But leastways you'll have something to fall back on

in times when you're pressed otherwise to make a living,

times like these here-- Hard times.

Now this you call the beer.

And what we're gonna do today is we're gonna turn the beer into whiskey.

Mm-hmm. Okay,

pour away.

Now this here is pure corn.

Yep.

Some fellers--

And this is the reason

whiskey-making gets such a bad name--

Some fellers use potash or even lye

to make the mash quick.

They'll put it through sheet iron, or truck radiators

that got all kinds of poisons that can kill you.

Now these fellas oughta be hung, in my opinion.

Then there's the other side, thems that say

whiskey oughta be aged.

Yeah, well, I tried that once.

I set back some fresh-made for a whole goddamn week.

By the by, Little Tree,

there's a word you won't be finding

in your Granma's dictionary,

so you probably shouldn't be trying it out on her, okay?

Okay. Okay.

Now where was I?

"Set some fresh-made back a whole goddamn week!"

A week, yeah.

Didn't taste a damn lick different from all the other whiskey I ever made.

I think I'm gonna have to raise the flame on this a little bit.

See, you want to boil it but you don't want to scorch it.

What I could use is just one more armload of good dry wood.

I'll get it, Granpa!

You be Little Tree?

Well, let's see what you brung.

Little Tree, this here's Willow John.

He has the magic.

What do you reckon?

Ain't you gonna taste it?

Well now, this here's what you call your single.

Damn near 200 proof.

We only get a couple of gallons of this.

Then you add water to it, start all over again,

and that's how you get your sellin' whiskey. See?

Still, a man ought to know what his single tastes like,

seeing as how it's the backbone of the whiskey and all.

Hey?

Agh!

That's out of the early corn.