My Grandaddy: The Land Protects Its Blades | Ghost Or God (Highway 80) | Betty Is Not A Vitamin — The Triad Of The Soul

I didn’t laugh. Not because I believed him—at first—but because some things you don’t laugh at, even when they sound like madness.

There was something behind the man’s eyes, something that had seen.

And more than that, there was a flicker in my own blood, a shiver, like a whisper from a place far behind my ribs that said,

He’s not wrong.

I had always known my Grandaddy was different.

He was the County Agent, after all.

He wore khaki uniforms and was called out to pastures and peach orchards, to ponds where fish floated belly-up, to fields turned brittle, to cows with bloated sides and eyes too wide. He knew the soil like some men know scripture. He knew when to speak and when to kneel down, dig a finger in the dirt, and just listen.

I once saw him diagnose a dying orchard without a single test. He walked through the trees, touched the bark, sniffed the air, squatted by a root, and said, “Too much salt in the runoff. You been burning plastic or pouring out bleach?”

The farmer turned white.

My Grandaddy said nothing else. Just looked at him, then walked back to the truck.

But this old man—this broken-toothed oracle at the gas station just off Highway 80—he didn’t talk about runoff or potassium levels.

He spoke of something deeper.

He told me of Bouncing Betty, that land mine that was meant to bounce into the air and shred the living into silence. Said she rose up in my Grandaddy’s path and then, unnaturally, fell dead before she could speak her fire.

“Betty was called to him,” the man said,

“but then she was called off. He walked past her. Not untouched, mind you. Just unclaimed.”

He said the land must’ve spoken to Betty. Or Betty and the land had made an arrangement.

That she was never meant to take him.

Not yet.

Because he was a Witch Hunter. And the land protects its blades.

“Betty was called to him,” the man said,

“but then she was called off. He walked past her. Not untouched, mind you. Just unclaimed.”

He said the land must’ve spoken to Betty. Or Betty and the land had made an arrangement.

That she was never meant to take him.

Not yet.

Because he was a Witch Hunter.

And the land protects its blades.

Highway 80, gas and dust, screen door slamming, coffee rust. Old man grinned with a broken tooth, smelled like diesel, spoke like truth. He said, boy, you know what you're carrying on. That blood ain't thin, that blood's been strong. Your granddaddy walked where I grew. Italy '44, I was there too.

Cigarette ash on a trembling hand, map of war. Wore in the folds of that man. He leaned in close like the night got thick. Said, I seen that mine jump quick.

They called it a bouncing betty. Spring-loaded hate in a metal cup.

Step on the plate, it hops waist high. Speaks its fire, tears you up. Fields were quiet, sky was wide. Mud and breath and nowhere to hide. Boot came down where earth looked plain. A click like a nail in a coffin lid. Betty woke. Betty rose 6 inches shy of killing blows. Spun in the air with a hiss and spark.

Then silence fell hard in the dark. No burst, no scream, just iron dropping from the seam. Hit the ground like it lost its nerve, like death forgot what it deserved. He said my granddaddy stood there still, dirt on his boots, hard iron will. Didn't shout, didn't run, just waited for what hadn't come.

Coming, Ghost of God. What do you call a man who walks through metal's call? Ghost of God, how do you name a body not taken when it should have been claimed? He walked away not untouched, no shrapnel in the soul, don't always show, but the ground gave back what it meant to take. Some lives death doesn't get to break.

Old man laughed, coughed it thin. Wall don't miss, wall just picks again. Sometimes it takes loud and fast, sometimes it lets a shadow pass.

He said my granddaddy never bragged, never told how the sky went red, never spoke of the rising steel or the weight of the nothing he didn't feel.

But you can see it in how he stood, measured rooms like he measured wood. Watch the edges, watch the seams, walk like a A man who'd stepped through screams.

Maybe metal jammed. Maybe spring misfired. Maybe mud clogged fate before it sparked the wire. Or maybe something bent that day in ways no soldier dares to say.

Some men dodge. Some men pray. Some men carry the war away. Ghosts of God, what does it mean to step where death has already been?

Ghosts of God, maybe both the bodies A quiet old Highway 80, broken grin and oracle.

The thrusting gasoline said, boy, that man walked out of flame. Not clean, not whole, but unclaimed.

So if he walked like land was thin, like truth might crack beneath the skin, maybe that's what survival does. Leaves a man half here and half what was.

My Granddaddy came in a red truck.
Overalls.
Red Wing boots.
Straw hat shading his ears.
Leather gloves in his back pocket.
Keys in the ignition.
Windows down.
And that slow country walk
That looked like the day
Had nowhere else to be.

He crossed the yard
Toward the wraparound porch.
A few small steps
Between the screen door
And the rest of the out there.
Back then,
The houses came with covered porches.
The porches came with rocking chairs.
And the rocking chairs came with tiny tables
Made for one purpose only:
A glass of cold lemonade.
Tiny Table.
Low to the ground.
Surface almost useless.
Maybe six inches.
Maybe eight.
Maybe only two.
Either way around,
Stay as long as you like.
Come back anytime.
Say hi to Mama and ’dem.
Tell ’em to stop by.
Anytime.

All the Flintstones
Have been made into vitamins.
Fred is a vitamin.
Wilma is a vitamin.
Barney is a vitamin.
Pebbles is a vitamin.
Dino might be a vitamin.
Hell, everybody is a vitamin.
But not Betty.
Nobody knows why.
Not even at the university
Where they do all sorts of stuff
And always seem to know stuff.
Especially stupid stuff.
Ask them about Betty?
Ain’t nobody got nothing to say.

Betty is not a vitamin.
Betty is not a vitamin.
Everybody got made sweet and chewable.
But Betty did not get in.
Betty is not a vitamin.
Betty is not a fucking vitamin.
Somebody looked down the line and said:
Eh.
Fuck Betty.
She don’t get to be a tasty vitamin.

Maybe Betty was a bad woman.
A shrew.
A shrieking wraith.
A donkey with a good reason.
A master of the Two-Tangle Dance of Death.
She walks outside
To check the mailbox.
Then walks back in
Carrying the mailbox
And no mail.
Same old story.
Same old song and dance.
But later that night
The local news comes on:
Mr. Mailman has been apprehended
Trying to shoot the moon out of the sky
With a weapon he built in his backyard
From parts at the hardware store
As directed by
The New Woman Weapon Recipe Book
He bought earlier that day
From a lady who looked tangled
And dangerous
But in a sexy kind of way.

You happen to remember her name?
Take your time.
Ah.
Say what now?
Betty?
Betty.
Watch out.
Watch out for Betty.

Betty is not a vitamin.
Betty is not a vitamin.
Everybody got made sweet and chewable.
But Betty did not get in.
Betty is not a vitamin.
Betty is not a fucking vitamin.
Somebody looked down the line and said:
Eh.
Fuck Betty.
She don’t get to be a tasty vitamin.

Oh, Betty.
Dear Betty.
Is that what happened?
Is that what turned you?
Were you scorned
From the vitamin legacy?
Did you turn yourself inside out
And become something worse
Than a mother
Who poisons her own daughter?
Did you become—

The Bouncing Betty?

The Bouncing Betty.
A land mine
Buried below sight.
Below the grass.
Below the ordinary day.
A man walks.
A boot comes down.
Click.
And right then
The truth arrives.
Betty is going to bounce.
Waist high.
Chest high.
High enough for you to see
Who is about to take your life.
She rises like a loving child.
Like a mama
Who has not seen you
In a long, long time.
Like a dog
Happy you came home.
Like a wife
Running in for an embrace.
She rises smiling.
She hangs there
Just long enough.
Your mouth falls open.
Your eyes go wide.
And you say her name:
Aw, fuck.
Betty.

Betty bounced.
Betty rose.
Betty knew the name
Nobody else knows.
Betty bounced.
Betty came.
Touched the man
With her other name.
Not Betty.
Betrayal.
Not Betty.
Betrayal.
One touch
And the man is taken.
One word
And the man is archived.

That is how Betrayal works.
It comes like an old friend
Out of nowhere.
It comes toward you
With the warmth
Of everything you trusted.
It gathers all that you loved.
All that you believed
Loved you back.
It brings them together
Into one unified line of sight.
Then it shows you
That you were naked.
That you did not know.
That you were a toy.
An amusement.
Something handled.
Something studied.
Something used.
The fire shreds the skin.
The shrapnel breaks the bone.
But the man does not die
From fire.
The man dies
From Betrayal.
The body falls later.
The man dies first.

Where does he go?
HELL’S ARkIVE.
Is he alive?
NOT ALIVE.
Is he dead?
NOT DEAD.
What is he?
KEPT.
For how long?
UNTIL.
Until what?
UNTIL OR UNTIL NOT.

Hell’s Archive
Has empty slots.
Hell’s Archive
Builds day and night.
Hell’s Archive
Keeps what Betrayal killed.
Not alive.
Not dead.
Archived.
Kept undead
Until
Or until not.
Hell’s Archive
Is not a place.

But The Archive
Has none higher.
The Archive
Is not to be trifled with.
Overwatch above him.
Air Support at will.
Unlimited means
For the work of the Highest.
The Archive
Keeps the eternal things.
For repair.
For rest.
For respair.
For retirement.
The Archive spoke:
This man
Is not to be questioned.

That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
Betty bounced
And the Land said no.
Betty fell
And the man walked home.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
Slow and easy.
Steeped in thanks.
Every step saying:
I am still here.
Every step saying:
Thank You.
Every step saying:
I know what rose beneath me.
And I know who let me pass.

Something wrote upon his soul that day.
A finger of fire.
A masterhand scribe.
Black ink
On living parchment.
The letters of The Name
Burned into his existence.
Not ordinary ink.
Not ordinary fire.
Archival quality.
The kind reserved
For eternal things.
The kind handled only
By the Master Archivist.
The kind that waits
Until The Archive sends word:
This man is not to be questioned.
Failure is not an option.
Overwatch will be with you.
Air support is standing by.
Unlimited resources.
Unlimited authority.
The Archive has none higher.

After that,
He stopped trying
To figure out why.
Why did Betty fail?
What broke?
What jammed?
What tiny spring
Refused its duty?
What piece of metal
Forgot the order?
Every question
Led back
To the same place.
God.
The Almighty Himself.
And a bunch of other things too.
Every road
Led there.
Every question
Led there.
Every step
Led there.
God.

That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
Betty bounced
And the Land said no.
Betty fell
And the man walked home.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
Slow and easy.
Steeped in praise.
Every step saying:
I was spared today.
Every step saying:
Thank You.
Every step saying:
Never is the only time
The darkness should return this way.

There were others in the county
Who carried a walk like his.
Older gentlemen.
Worn.
Greasy.
Tired.
Slow.
Men whose bodies
Had learned something
Their mouths did not explain.
Men who walked within a walk
That walked within them.
Men whose gratitude
Could be seen
Before it was spoken.
Men who passed through a place
And anything unrighteous
Knew what time it was.
Men whose bones
Eventually went down
Into the land
To keep watch
Over the frames
Of those who never faltered
In trust,
In love,
In integrity.

Be careful where you dig.
Be careful where you build.
Be careful where you speak
Slander and lies
Against the name of another.
You never know
Whose bones
May be resting
Within earshot
Of the filth
That springs freely
From your tooth and tongue.
Silence
In a strange land
Is always the better option.
Silence
Will not bring ruin
Upon you
Nor the next seven generations
Of your blood.
Enough on this matter.
What has been said
Has been said.

Betty is not a vitamin.
Betty is not a vitamin.
Fred got made sweet.
Wilma got made sweet.
Barney got made sweet.
But Betty did not get in.
Betty is not a vitamin.
Betty is not a fucking vitamin.
She was scorned
From the vitamin legacy.
So Betty became
A Bouncing Betty.
But Betty bounced
And the Land said no.
Betty fell
And my Granddaddy walked home.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
That is how my Granddaddy got his walk.
A slow country walk
With the fear of God
Tattooed upon
The skin of his soul.

Red truck.
Overalls.
Red Wing boots.
Straw hat.
Leather gloves.
Keys in the ignition.
Windows down.
A glass of cold lemonade
On a Tiny Table.
And that slow,
Casual,
Relaxed country walk
As if the day
Had nowhere else to be.
Betty is not a vitamin.
Betty is not a vitamin.
But my Granddaddy—
My Granddaddy
Walked home.
Within the walk that walked within him.
Every step a song of praise and gratitude.

Italy, ’44, boots in the clay,
Miles of wire laid down each day.
Grandaddy said, “I walked that land,
Up one side, down the other, like God’s own hand.”
Then one morning, bright and mean,
He heard that sound—click, sharp and clean.

Bouncing Betty beneath his sole,
Rose like a sermon, ready to toll.
But she didn’t speak.
She didn’t flame.
Just dropped like she forgot his name.
And he stood there, blinking slow—
Unclaimed, untouched, but marked to know.

He told it like a joke, soft and dry,
Like death just gave him a lazy eye.
Said, “I guess I tripped at the right time,”
While the war threw steel and God threw signs.

Another time, a shell came in—
He hit the dirt with a crooked grin.
Later found a mound of earth
That caught the shrapnel meant to hurt.

Fifty feet, or fifty yards,
Didn’t matter—it missed by stars.
And the way he told it, you’d almost forget
That ghosts don’t brag.
But gods don’t quit.

He was either a ghost or a god—
A dead man come back, toein’ sod.
With leather hands and a not-smile grin,
Smelled like dirt and old metal tin.

He walked like he’d already died—
And came back just to stand beside
The land that spared him, spared him why?

Maybe to watch.
Maybe to bide.

Came home after, poor as dirt,
Straightened nails and wiped his shirt.
Built a house, one brick, one beam,
With the kind of hands that don’t dare dream.

Mama got sick. He came right back,
From college halls to a cotton sack.
But something said, “No, not yet,”
And sent him back to finish his debt.

Got his degree, in farming, land—
Not books. Not glory. Just workin’ hands.
And every time he walked the field,
The ground beneath him seemed to yield.

I remember his truck, that holy smell—
Sweat, and dirt, and stories he’d never tell.
The way he’d smile without his face,
Like something else had taken place.

And when he slowed, and his mind went dim,
The land still leaned to follow him.
Alzheimer’s came, tried to erase—
But even ghosts leave their trace.

He was either a ghost or a god—
Maybe both, if you ask the sod.
He didn’t preach, he didn’t boast,
Just walked real slow, like he knew a ghost.

Like he was the ghost.
Like he heard the ground—
The creak of time, the sacred sound.
He smiled like the dead smile in dreams,
Half in shadow, full of schemes.

And when the Witch first stirred the air,
He was already standing there.
Boots on dirt, eyes gone odd—

He was either a ghost,
Or he was a god.

These are the seven corners of life!

There's three things you gotta know.
There's three ways how to do stuff good.
And there's one thing mighty to remember.

The three things you gotta know.
One, you gotta know which way's up.
Two, you gotta know what time it is.
And three, you gotta know your place.

The three ways how to do stuff good.
Slow down.
Finish what you started.
And don't go and be getting any smart ideas in the meanwhile.

Finally, one thing mighty to remember.
Remember your name.

There's three things you gotta know.
There's three ways to how do stuff good.
And there's one thing mighty to remember.

The three things you gotta know.
One, you gotta know which way's up.
Two, you gotta know what time it is.
And three, you gotta know your place.

The three ways to how do stuff good.
Slow down.
Finish what you started.
And don't go and be getting any smart ideas in the meanwhile.

Finally, one thing mighty to remember.
Remember your name.