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Mr. Cowgill shrank. His dry mouth worked wordlessly, and there was fear in his eyes, naked fear. He didn't mind what his boys did to the town, but now he saw his business going down the drain, so to speak.

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"Mrs. Dowdel, Mrs. Dowdel, compose your soul in patience", Mr. Cowgill said. "And put up that shotgun. It don't look ladylike".

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She waved that away. "I just said that for your protection. He'll be scared of you now. He'd believe anything. He's only in fourth grade."

"Grandma, he's at least sixteen."

"That's right. And still in fourth grade."

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Seconds passed. Then once more, Grandma's house erupted in sound and light. Blue lightning flashed in the kitchen, and for a split second you could see every calendar on the wall in there. Then an almighty explosion like a crack of doom. She'd rolled a cherry bomb across the floor, and it went off right under the eight feet of the Cowgill brothers, the three big bruisers and Ernie.

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"Line up according to age," he called out, snapping the long leather strop above his head. Then he whaled the tar out of every one of them. They squealed like stuck hogs while Mr. Cowgill lamented from the milk wagon. He took each by the arm in turn and gave them all what for. You could tell when he got Ernie because a wavering voice cried out, "I'm dead."

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Then there was the quietest sound you ever heard. Somewhere between a rustle and a whisper. It brought me around, and I saw Grandma sit forward ad cock her head. I blinked to make sure was awake, and the whole world seemed to listen. Not a leaf trembled outside.

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Though she didn't gloat, she looked satisfied. It certainly fleshed out her reputation and gave people new reason to leave her in peace. The story of Shotgun Cheatham's last night above ground kept The Coffee Pot Cafe fully engaged for the rest of our visit that summer. It was a story that grew in the telling in one of those little towns where there's always time to ponder all the different kinds of truth

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Grandma stood there savoring the silence. Then she turned toward the kitchen with the twelve-gauge loose in her hand. "Time you kids was in bed" she said as she trudged past us.

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'Now I'm older than Grandma was then, quite a bit older. But as the time gets past me, I seem to remember more and more about those hot summer days and nights, and the last house in town, where Grandma lived. And Grandma. Are all my memories true? Every word, and growing truer with the years.

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Her tongue's attached in the middle and flaps at both ends.Pg 7
Then she drew up a chair next to the reporter. He flinched because he had it on good authority that she'd just been let out of an insane asylum.Pg 12-13

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"Was that Effie again? Never trust an ugly woman. She's got a grudge against the world," said Grandma, who was no oil painting herself. She fetched up a sigh. "I'll tell you how shotgun got his name. He wasn't about ten years old, and we wanted to go out and shoot quail with bunch of older boys.He couldn't hit a barn wall from the inside, and had a sty in one eye.They were out there in a pasture without a quail in sight, but Shotgun got all excited with the big boys. He squeezed off a round and killed a cow. Down she went. If he'd been aiming at her, she'd have died of old age eventually. The boys took the gun off him, not knowing who he'd plug next. That's how he got the name, and it stuck to him like flypaper. Any girl in town could have outshot him, and that includes me. " Grandma jerked a thumb at herself.Pg 7

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You could barely see a stump out by the road.  It was the post that held the mailbox.  But the mail box was gone-- in several directions.  We heard a piece of metal slide down the shingles of the roof, bounce off the gutter, and fall through the snowball bushes.  Pg. 19

Seconds passed.  Then once more, Grandma's house erupted in sound and light.   Blue lightening flashed in the kitchen, and for a split second you cold see every calendar on the wall in there.  Then an almighty explosion like the crack of doom.  Pg. 28

The cherry bomb had scared them witless, except for Ernie who was already witless.  Pg. 29

"Mrs. Dowdel," he said in a broken voice, "What do you want?"
"Justice," grandma said.
Pg. 34

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"The Coffee Pot is where people went to loaf, talk tall, and swap gossip."
Page 5

Presently she said, "I'll tell you what that reporter's after.  He wants to get the horselaugh on us because he thinks we're nothin' but a bunch of hayseeds and no-'count country people.   We are, but what business is it of his?"  :)  Pg. 6

"Never trust and ugly woman, she has a grudge against the world."  Pg. 7

"he squeezed off a round and killed a cow. Down she went.  If he'd been aiming at her she would have died of old age."  Pg. 7

"It was a story that grew in the telling in one of those little towns where there's always time to ponder all the different kinds of truth." pg. 16