didn’t cook, Dad would have them scraping wood smooth?
In any case, it was a true holiday, and Dad was positively giddy with the excitement. We had actual proof, when dad splashed some moonshine into a plastic camp mug and gave it to Kirk.
“Go ahead, try it. Since it’s the 4th of July...” Dad’s grin looked like the Grinch right before he stole Christmas from the Who’s in Whoville.
Kirk took a sip, swallowed, and almost shuddered himself off the bench when the aftertaste hit. He waved his hand in front of his mouth until the fire in his throat settled.
“How about you, Bill? Want a taste?” Dad asked.
“No thanks, Dad,” I replied, having seen enough.
Dad and George laughed loudly and took sips of their own.
When the food was ready, we split into two tables. Kids at the Carroll’s modern table and adults at the homemade table. I’m pretty sure they were thinking about splinters when that decision was made. Our contribution was a big can of baked beans, which Mom declared passable, and a can of sliced peaches, which was our version of dessert that day. We didn’t have bread or hamburger buns, but those burgers tasted like the finest steak we had ever eaten, and the fresh corn was as sweet as candy to our young, cookie-starved taste buds. We ate and talked until our bellies were truly and completely full, and had taken up the space where words usually lived. Even little Jimmy was too full for any impromptu song and dance.
Dad was eyeing the peaches for another round when we heard the rumble of an engine, a gasoline engine, approaching from the north. Everyone went still and silent for a few seconds to confirm what we were hearing, and then we went for our guns. George came back from his tractor lugging a revolver as long as my arm. The engine dropped to an idle for a minute, and then roared again. It was definitely coming closer. Within another minute, we could hear the slither of grass as well. At that point, Dad lowered his rifle barrel.
“That’s our car,” he said.
“Are you sure? It’s very loud,” Mom asked.
“Pretty sure. We’ll know in a minute.”
Our old station wagon rolled right past the faint logging road on the edge of the field, scrunched to a stop, backed up and then then turned into our woods. As it approached, I could see that it was our car, but it was different. It was dirty, splashed with road grime and some kind of white powder, which Dad would never have tolerated. Even closer, the bullet holes became apparent, and there were lots of them. The car crossed the invisible boundary of our campsite, and just as we were about to run for cover, it stopped hard enough to rock on its springs a couple of times. The driver’s door burst open and a young woman with dark hair and tan skin ran at top speed across the camp. Jimmy barely had time to smile in recognition before his mother scooped him up and almost squeezed the stuffing out of her little boy.
We all stood around feeling silly with all the weapons while Juannie reunited with her child. It went on for quite some time, long enough to set our rifles back by their customary places by the trees. Juannie was talking to Jimmy in a high speed blend of English and Spanish, and it sounded like one of us talking to a cute puppy. When they finally broke for air, and she set Jimmy down, Dad asked the obvious question.
“You’re Juannie, I’m guessing. Where is Arturo?”
The young Hispanic woman looked up, and even with the tears, David could see why any man would drive into hell to find her. She was beautiful, young and curvaceous in the most appropriate way, with big dark eyes that could make a white Republican open the borders.
“Oh, he’s in the back seat. He’s been whining like a little girl for 300 miles,” Juannie said with a charming accent and an oddly carefree smile.
Dad walked over the car, and opened the door. Arturo was there all right, but he had lost at least twenty pounds. His face was pale and glossy
In any case, it was a true holiday, and Dad was positively giddy with the excitement. We had actual proof, when dad splashed some moonshine into a plastic camp mug and gave it to Kirk.
“Go ahead, try it. Since it’s the 4th of July...” Dad’s grin looked like the Grinch right before he stole Christmas from the Who’s in Whoville.
Kirk took a sip, swallowed, and almost shuddered himself off the bench when the aftertaste hit. He waved his hand in front of his mouth until the fire in his throat settled.
“How about you, Bill? Want a taste?” Dad asked.
“No thanks, Dad,” I replied, having seen enough.
Dad and George laughed loudly and took sips of their own.
When the food was ready, we split into two tables. Kids at the Carroll’s modern table and adults at the homemade table. I’m pretty sure they were thinking about splinters when that decision was made. Our contribution was a big can of baked beans, which Mom declared passable, and a can of sliced peaches, which was our version of dessert that day. We didn’t have bread or hamburger buns, but those burgers tasted like the finest steak we had ever eaten, and the fresh corn was as sweet as candy to our young, cookie-starved taste buds. We ate and talked until our bellies were truly and completely full, and had taken up the space where words usually lived. Even little Jimmy was too full for any impromptu song and dance.
Dad was eyeing the peaches for another round when we heard the rumble of an engine, a gasoline engine, approaching from the north. Everyone went still and silent for a few seconds to confirm what we were hearing, and then we went for our guns. George came back from his tractor lugging a revolver as long as my arm. The engine dropped to an idle for a minute, and then roared again. It was definitely coming closer. Within another minute, we could hear the slither of grass as well. At that point, Dad lowered his rifle barrel.
“That’s our car,” he said.
“Are you sure? It’s very loud,” Mom asked.
“Pretty sure. We’ll know in a minute.”
Our old station wagon rolled right past the faint logging road on the edge of the field, scrunched to a stop, backed up and then then turned into our woods. As it approached, I could see that it was our car, but it was different. It was dirty, splashed with road grime and some kind of white powder, which Dad would never have tolerated. Even closer, the bullet holes became apparent, and there were lots of them. The car crossed the invisible boundary of our campsite, and just as we were about to run for cover, it stopped hard enough to rock on its springs a couple of times. The driver’s door burst open and a young woman with dark hair and tan skin ran at top speed across the camp. Jimmy barely had time to smile in recognition before his mother scooped him up and almost squeezed the stuffing out of her little boy.
We all stood around feeling silly with all the weapons while Juannie reunited with her child. It went on for quite some time, long enough to set our rifles back by their customary places by the trees. Juannie was talking to Jimmy in a high speed blend of English and Spanish, and it sounded like one of us talking to a cute puppy. When they finally broke for air, and she set Jimmy down, Dad asked the obvious question.
“You’re Juannie, I’m guessing. Where is Arturo?”
The young Hispanic woman looked up, and even with the tears, David could see why any man would drive into hell to find her. She was beautiful, young and curvaceous in the most appropriate way, with big dark eyes that could make a white Republican open the borders.
“Oh, he’s in the back seat. He’s been whining like a little girl for 300 miles,” Juannie said with a charming accent and an oddly carefree smile.
Dad walked over the car, and opened the door. Arturo was there all right, but he had lost at least twenty pounds. His face was pale and glossy
Similar Books
