Featuring Yooper Woodswoman Nettie Bramble! Nettie Bramble lives with her ma in Upper Michigan in a cabin that's slightly off the grid. She claims to 'subsist' off the land and prefers to do so without the benefit of hunting or fishing licenses. Nettie is bound to have a clash or two with the local woods cop, CO Will Ketchum, and the chronically cranky Judge Nightshade. Most places that Nettie goes, her 'citified' nephews, Wanton and Wiley, tag along to muddle up her plans. Nettie will meet up with Church Lady Bea Righteous, as well as Tami and Evi Maki (thrice-removed cousins) in an erratic road rally with a cash prize that brings out the worst in everyone. No spoiler alert for the surprise ending in this collection of short stories featuring a strong dose of the Yooper way. 'Terri Martin writes fast-paced little tales peppered with humorous disasters following one after another... If you live in the U.P., you'll have heard plenty of fish tales and hunting sagas from your outdoor friends. Some of them may be whoppers, but none as big as the ones Nettie Bramble tells.'-- Jon C. Stott, author ofYooper Ale Trails 'Roadkill Justice has to be among the funniest books I have ever read. Our heroine's ongoing battle with the law, the clever use of malapropisms and the caricature of a now-gone culture had me laughing several times on every page.'-- Bob Rich, author ofHit and Run 'Roadkill Justice's' unlikely heroine, Nettie Bramble, is rough-edged but 'big-hearted, with 'sisu' to spare. Author Terri Martin does a fantastic job of capturing the spirit and the spunk of the Northwoods character in a plot that sweeps her reader along, like a fast-running trout stream, on a delightful ride filled with twists, turns, laughter and the occasional explosion.'-- Nancy Besonen, author ofOff the Hook
Hook, Line& Stinker
Me and Ma live off the land. That and her government check. My name’s Nettle Bramble, but folks call me Nettie for short and it just burns my kindling that a body’s gotta have a license to put food on the table. I call it substance living. My snooty sister, MarshMarigold, says it’s more like sub-standard living. Just because her husband, Tag Alder, has his own septic pumping business—he calls it Tag’s Honey Wagon—and makes a bundle out of sucking up folks’ you-know-what, doesn’t mean that using what God puts there for the taking isn’t a fair way to live. I’d much rather be in the woods or on a lake somewhere than to be driving that smelly ol’ truck around and charging folks to tear up their lawn and stink up the neighborhood.
Me and Ma have an outhouse and when the pit gets full, we fill in the hole and dig us a new one then move the outhouse over it. Not my favorite thing to do, mind you, but it smells a whole lot better’n that truck of Tag’s. He’s had a lot of complaints from the neighbors about parking the Honey Wagon in his driveway, so he’s been putting the thing in the gravel pit a ways from me and Ma’s cabin. Tag pays Ma with a few bottles of hooch for the deal.
What croaks my goat is that I gotta get a license to catch a fish or take down a critter for supper. Might as well go to a fancy restaurant and have someone else do the catching and cleaning for what a license costs. Well, maybe I mean what a license would cost if I bothered to get one, which I don’t. Not that I don’t
