Table of Contents

Also by McCaid Paul

Foreword

1: Sweet Tea & Snap Peas

2: Grandpa’s Boots

3: Aaliyah & Clint Eastwood

4: Jesus & Bartholomew

5: The Boy with the Cowboy Hat

6: Rhett, the Little Rascal

7: Board Games & Bubblegum

8: Lights Out

9: Breakfast Brat

10: Bart, the Bully

11: Pea Pickin’ Pro

12: Memories

13: Bus Brawl

14: Cucumbers & Kumquats

15: The Talk

16: Grandma’s Garden

17: The Church Chicken

18: Theresa, the Twiddler

19: The Misplaced Pillowcase

20: Butterbeans & Ms. Jean

21: The Truth

22: Something Missing

23: Bad News

24: World’s Worst Worrier

25: Grandpa’s Promise

26: Things You Can’t Say

27: The Call

28: A Brother Like You

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Also by McCaid Paul

Dead River

Mooch & Marlow

The Forgotten Headline

Secret Trust

Buried Truths

Hidden Places

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 McCaid Paul

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Summary: Eleven-year-old Clint Boone, a worrisome farm boy who despises life’s changes, lives with his pea-shelling, sweet tea-drinking grandparents. After they take in a hyperactive seven-year-old named Rhett, Clint struggles to come of age in the shadow of his unexpected new sibling.

Cover Illustration and book formatting by © 2024 Damonza

Edited by Josh Vogt

Author Photo by Amanda Bosenberg

eBook ISBN: 979-8-218-35894-5

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7357299-8-5

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-7357299-9-2

To my grandparents, for the sweet tea and endless support,

And to Nathaniel, for mentioning the snap peas that inspired this book

Foreword

In 2022, while I was writing Sweet Tea & Snap Peas, I stumbled upon this quote by Charles and Ann Morse: A child needs a grandparent, anybody’s grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world. This quote perfectly encapsulated the message and heart of my work in progress.

Growing up, my grandparents were my superheroes. They still are. There’s a charm in their existence, in their spunk, their sense of humor, their vernacular, and their stories. Their charm has never dulled, and to this day, I have never loved them more.

Sweet Tea & Snap Peas is a tribute to grandparents and the South. It’s funny, it’s sad, it’s hopeful, it’s nostalgic. While the plot is fictional, this story is based on real people and real memories. Full of humor and heart, it’s a little tale about life’s changes, the struggles of growing older, and learning to love the people in your life while you have them.

To be honest, I wrote this story for myself; it was a way for me to cope with the loneliness of missing my grandparents while I was miles away at college. In doing so, this story brought me back to my childhood—to sitting on my grandparents’ front porch, sipping sweet tea and laughing until my ribs hurt as they told the funniest stories I’d ever heard; to Friday nights on my grandparents’ couch as the sounds of their playful bickering and pea pods snapping between their fingers lulled me to sleep; to chaotic church services, and early-morning talks with my grandpa about fighting in Vietnam. I’m only releasing this story out of hope that it might help others deal with lonesomeness, just as it helped me.

In writing this book, I realized that there’s a youthful connection, an undeniable bond, between children and older people. And it’s the older person’s ability to tell a story that draws the child in; makes them feel safe and loved beyond measure.

Like Charles and Ann Morse said: A child needs a grandparent, anybody’s grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world.

But a grandparent also needs a child. To live longer, to smile more, and to learn to love all over again.

Sweet Tea & Snap Peas is a quiet story—some might not understand it, and I’m okay with that. If anything, I hope it helps you appreciate the people in your life a little more. And I hope you find comfort in the story of Clint, Ella, Henry, Rhett, and Aunt Theresa just as I did.

1

Sweet Tea & Snap Peas

A middle school restroom is where pride goes to die.

I close my eyes and I’m there, standing in the musty-smelling boy’s restroom. I imagine gray walls scribbled over in black Sharpie, cracked mirrors, paper towels all over the floor, and missing ceiling tiles. I imagine my bully dragging me into one of the stalls, his large, fleshy hands gripping my sides and lifting me up, up, up over the toilet. I imagine the scent of urine, and the sight of the toilet bowl clogged with paper and old food—

Clint. Grandma’s voice makes my eyes jolt open, pulling me out of my daydream. I’m back—back in my grandparents’ living room with its green walls, black fireplace sitting atop a brick hearth, and shiny hardwood floor. Is everything alright? You’re mighty quiet tonight. She looks up from the bowl of shelled peas nestled on her lap, staring at me over the tops of her gold-rimmed bifocals.

Yeah, I say, sitting up on the couch that Grandma bought on sale at Ralph’s Discount Furniture Outlet.

"Yes ma’am," Grandpa says from the black leather recliner beside Grandma’s, as he picks around in the giant, metal bowl of peas resting on his lap.

Yes ma’am. I’m just tired.

It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the whole truth.

The past hour, while they’ve been watching a rerun of America’s Got Talent, I’ve been thinking about school, which starts back sooner than I’d like. I’ll be in sixth grade. I’m not ready, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be. I’ve seen enough movies to know what middle school is like. I’d rather drive fenceposts, dig ditches, or plow the fields on my grandparents’ farm from sunup to sundown than start sixth grade in a new school with so many unfamiliar faces, locker combinations, bullies, and dirty restrooms. Will I fit in? Will I even have friends? Will people still make fun of my southern accent?

A pod snaps between Grandma’s fingers, and then a pea clinks against the side of her metal bowl. Clint, watcha thinkin’ about over there?

I’m convinced grandmas have a sixth sense for knowing when something’s wrong.

I open my mouth to speak but Grandpa interrupts me. Ella, you’re missing it, he says, staring at the TV.

"Is that a…singing clown? Grandma rolls her eyes. Henry Boone, turn off that nonsense. I’ve had enough of this show."

Are you kidding? he says with a big grin. Isn’t this the best thing you’ve ever seen? Grandpa winks at me.

Where’s the girl with the puppet? says Grandma. Why can’t they bring her back? You know, the triloquist.

Ventriloquist?

Whatever, Henry. You know what I meant.

With the bowl of peas balanced on her lap, Grandma reaches for a sweaty glass of sweet iced tea sitting on the end table beside her velvet green recliner. Mmmm. That hits the spot, she says after several long gulps. Ice cubes clink inside as she sets the glass back down. Sure you don’t want some, Clint? There’s a whole pitcher in the fridge.

No ma’am, but thanks for asking.

I’m not a big tea drinker. My grandma, however, takes it to the next level. I wish I was lying when I say I’ve never seen the woman drink water before. It’s either sweet tea or nothing at all.

You know you shouldn’t be drinking that, Grandpa says, shaking his head. Doc’s not gonna be happy.

Oh, hush. What’d he tell you about those Diet Cokes you’re always drinking? We’re all gonna die of something. If sweet tea kills me, at least I’ll go out happy.

Truthfully, I’m not sure how she hasn’t developed diabetes by this point. It’s no secret her tea is sweet enough to kill fruit flies.

The television is now playing a commercial for car insurance.

What’s that? An ostrich? asks Grandma.

I shake my head. I think it’s an emu.

Grandpa scratches his scalp, the hairs on his head resembling pale-gray toothbrush bristles. You know, Ella, it looks just like your second cousin.

Shut your trap. I watch Grandma pinch a pea pod between her thumb and forefinger. She must notice me staring. Clint, she says again, are you sure you’re alright?

With a sigh, I tell her the truth: No. Not really. I’m…worried.

I can tell, she says. Watcha worryin’ over?

Middle school. I pick at a piece of fuzz on the couch. I don’t think I’m ready.

So that’s what this is about. She sighs, trailing a hand through her curly gray hair. I won’t lie to you: middle school is a big change. But trust me when I say it ain’t nothing to worry over.

Don’t listen to her, Grandpa says. She barely made it to the eighth grade.

Grandma picks up a fly swatter from the end table and playfully slaps him across the shoulder with it. I’ve had about enough of your mouth, she shouts.

Grandpa laughs until his face is the same color as Grandma’s rose lipstick. Come on, Ella. You know it’s true.

It probably sounds crazy, I say, thinking aloud, but what if I don’t have any friends? What if I have no one to talk to at lunch? What if I get lost? Or what if some guy sticks my head down the toilet?

I keep my biggest worry to myself: What if I’m mocked again for my accent? I don’t want Grandma and Grandpa to think I’m ashamed of how I talk or how I sound to other people, but deep down, I am.

It all started last school year when several of my classmates teased me because of my southern drawl. They thought I couldn’t hear them, but I could.

"Look, it’s Cowboy Clint. He’s the only person that can make Clint rhyme with plant instead of mint."

He’s a little slow…just like he talks.

Bet he eats cornbread for snack.

All he’s missing is a mullet.

Looks like Joe Dirt’s long-lost brother.

At a new school, with the same students from my fifth-grade class and new ones graduating from Mossy Bend Academy across town, I’m certain the teasing is bound to get even worse. What nicknames will they have for me this time? Huckleberry Clint? Clint Clampett? Clint the Cable Guy?

Hon, says Grandma, you’re going to worry yourself sick. Lord only knows how you don’t have an ulcer.

She’s right; I take worrying to the extreme. She’s always teasing me about it, even though she knows that I have good reason to be a worrywart.

I look above the fireplace, my gaze fixing on a picture frame resting on the mantel. My parents smile back at me—Mom with her soft, kind eyes, and wavy chestnut-colored hair. Dad, with his crooked grin, crew cut hair, and large brown