Savannah

Ward Allen missed his first duck.

- He missed?

- Oh. Yes, sir.

Ward Allen missed his first duck.

Aw, come on, Christmas.

Uncle John told me

the story himself.

Tell me another story, Christmas.

The one where Ward nearly

killed that Russian.

Come on, Little Jack.

I told you that story

now a hundred times.

I said wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

Wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

Oh, look at those

babies dressed in red

God's gonna trouble the water

Oh, they must have been

the babies Moses led

God's gonna trouble the water

Wade in the water

Wade in water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

Oh, Jesus met the woman,

met her at the well

God's gonna trouble the water

He said, "Look out lady,

you're headin' for hell"

God's gonna trouble the water

I said wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

I said God's gonna

trouble the water

I said God's gonna trouble

The water

You got to help me

out here, Christmas.

Used to be people out

here who knew you.

Must still be some of them around.

All right, Little Jack.

You want to hear the story

about how Ward Allen

beat up them Russians.

No.

I've heard that story

a hundred times.

Half a mustache...

Christmas, they sold the land.

You don't get up out of that chair,

it's gonna be sitting in a pile

of debris with you still in it.

That's where I'm gonna find you.

You understand?

Well, Little Jack, Ward Allen fell

to sleep in the barber chair,

but not before he

laid down the law.

He say don't lay a finger...

upon that mustache.

Would have killed him, too,

'cept three Russians jump him.

Ambassador told Ward,

"You ever come back to Russia,

I'll march you down

to the Tsar myself."

In shackles.

All right.

You got some perishables

you better eat first.

Babs' peas and collard greens.

You don't need be going to all

that trouble, Little Jack.

What'd you finally write about?

Oh, just some stories

Christmas used to tell.

You know, Jack, the girls

and I have been talking.

We don't see...

That's a great idea.

Why don't you girls start

your own little club?

You gotta spread joy

Up to the maximum

Bring gloom

Down to the minimum

Have faith

Or pandemonium's

Liable to walk up on the scene

You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate

the positive

Eliminate the negative

And latch on to the affirmative

Don't mess with

Mister In-Between

No, don't mess with

Mister In-Between

Dad, can I have the camera?

Did I ever tell you the story

about how Ward Allen

almost killed a man

for cutting off his mustache?

No, sir.

No?

Ward Allen's mustache,

that was his pride and joy.

His father had sent him to Russia

for shooting a man in a duel...

But not before he

laid down the law.

He say don't lay a finger

upon his mustache.

Would have killed him, too,

'cept three Russians jump him.

Christmas Moultrie knew Ward Allen

better than any other

person that ever lived,

and although one to the manor born

and the other born to slavery,

they were kindred spirits.

As a child, I hunted

with Christmas.

After a long day on the river,

Christmas would sit in his

rocker before the fireplace,

gazing up at the picture of Ward,

and tell us stories.

As we grew up, those stories

became the stuff of legend.

And though none of us

were related to him,

there wasn't a man among us

who didn't wish he had a

bit of Ward Allen in him.

Damn.

I told you to keep your gloves on.

I can't work my hands in 'em.

Christmas, that sentiment has

no sense about it or in it.

Mr. Ward, my hands are

too cold to pull them on,

and the gloves are

too cold to help.

Piss on your hands, then.

Why don't you piss your own?

My hands are neither

cold nor cut, sir,

allowing that, I can spare

myself the indignity.

Oh, yes, sir.

You spare yourself the

dignity all the time.

In-dignity. In...

Uh-huh, that, too.

Get in the boat before you talk

all the birds right on out of here.

This dog here got more

manners upon four legs

than most Savannah people

walking around upon two.

Generations of us have hunted

on the river and fields

of our county...

something passed between

father and son.

If history is our religion,

then hunting is one

of its sacraments.

Ward Allen once wrote it down,

"The river belonged

to us, and we to it."

And we to it,

like a cathedral no hands

of man could ever build.

This is as close as

a sinner like me

will ever come to the face of God.

What became tradition

for my generation

had once been a way of life,

and for the very best

hunters, it was a livelihood,

supplying the markets of

Savannah with fresh fowl.

Of the men that plied that trade,

Ward and Christmas

were the very best.

One of these mornings, Christmas,

you're gonna shoot your

share of these birds.

Well, if I only shot

a few of these duck,

I'd be happy just to carry my own,

let you handle the rest.

See how I can tell?

All the ones with that

surprised look in their eyes,

yeah, they're the ones you shot.

They can't really believe

it finally happened.

I don't see no surprised look

in the duck eye, Mr. Ward.

Well, see, you don't see,

so you're making my point.

I do see that a bunch of them

look like they dead

from laughing, though,

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