at the Loon Cafe for an empty lard can, and they gave her one the size of a slop pail. She scrubbed it out, covered it with a scrap of maroon-and-cream-striped satin upholstery fabric, weighted it with small rocks, and arranged tall pussy willows in it for his office in the rectory.
When Father saw it, he exclaimed, “Why, that’s fit for a castle, Arlene.” He always called Mama by her first name, as if she were a little sister or a favored niece. “You must have remembered the dark red chairs in the office!”
Cinders were one of the few bad things about trains. I sat down on one of the rails, pulled off a shoe, and dumped out a cinder. Ahead about a hundred yards was a trestle over a dry gulch. It wasn’t very high, but “high enough to break your neck,” Mama told me. She didn’t know that I sometimes crossed it when she wasn’t with me. I was careful, though. I didn’t want to break my neck. Otto Monke, one of the custodians at school, broke his back when he was young. Now he was bent over and looked like he had a box in his back.
When I came to the trestle, I walked between the rails, stepping carefully from tie to tie, looking down at the scrubby gulch. Leroy Mosely from catechism class had told me he’d seen a rattlesnake down there. But he was a liar who spent his spare time scaringgirls. The only good thing about him was that he would be in the confessional longer than I was, when we had our first confession next spring.
Mama said there weren’t any poisonous snakes in south central Minnesota. Up in the North Woods there were a few timber snakes that were poisonous, she said, but she’d never seen one. If Leroy Mosely had seen a snake in the gulch, Mama explained, it was a garter snake or a gopher snake, and they weren’t poisonous.
A jackrabbit jumped up like a jack-in-the-box and shot across the gulch. It startled me and I lurched, nearly losing my balance. My heart raced. I sat down on the trestle. For several minutes I rested, but my heart went on pounding. I was afraid. Yet a jackrabbit was nothing to fear. Snakes must be making me feel this way. Thinking about snakes could make you sweaty and shaky.
At the other end of the trestle, on the embankment, was a big patch of mustard, looking like butter spread across the ground. I thought I spied wild onion not far from some box elders at the top of the embankment, maybe fifty yards down the gulch.
Rising slowly, gingerly, I stood up, not moving, like someone who has had a dizzy spell. At length I set out, but hesitantly, not as jaunty as I’d been. When I reached the far side of the railroad bridge, I turned right, toward the wildflowers. The dry earth of the embankment crumbled beneath my feet. My shoes filled with it, and my socks turned dusty gray.
I was snapping off a good bundle of mustard and at the same time working toward the wild onion, which lay between me and the stand of box elders. The white onion flowers were going to be pretty mixed into the vibrant yellow of the mustard. Mama would arrange them in the cut-glass vase that had been a wedding gift from her Aunt Essie who lived in Fargo.
I didn’t see any snakes. A gopher scurried down his hole as I came near, and several squirrels ran up the box elder trunks and began jumping from tree to tree, like children pretending to be frightened. Across the gulch, a meadowlark sang prettily.
It was warm and dusty among the scrub and flowers. I was beginning to feel itchy and drowsy. It would be pleasant to put the flowers down, sit on the ground, and scratch my legs, but the sun was falling behind the box elders and the buzz of insects was dying. I should start home if I didn’t want to be late for supper. I had come a little further than I ought.
In the shadows among the trees at the top of the embankment, the figure of a man appeared. Who could that be? A tramp, maybe. I stood frozen, staring up at him, feeling small and very short legged. Maybe it was someone who had come to arrest
When Father saw it, he exclaimed, “Why, that’s fit for a castle, Arlene.” He always called Mama by her first name, as if she were a little sister or a favored niece. “You must have remembered the dark red chairs in the office!”
Cinders were one of the few bad things about trains. I sat down on one of the rails, pulled off a shoe, and dumped out a cinder. Ahead about a hundred yards was a trestle over a dry gulch. It wasn’t very high, but “high enough to break your neck,” Mama told me. She didn’t know that I sometimes crossed it when she wasn’t with me. I was careful, though. I didn’t want to break my neck. Otto Monke, one of the custodians at school, broke his back when he was young. Now he was bent over and looked like he had a box in his back.
When I came to the trestle, I walked between the rails, stepping carefully from tie to tie, looking down at the scrubby gulch. Leroy Mosely from catechism class had told me he’d seen a rattlesnake down there. But he was a liar who spent his spare time scaringgirls. The only good thing about him was that he would be in the confessional longer than I was, when we had our first confession next spring.
Mama said there weren’t any poisonous snakes in south central Minnesota. Up in the North Woods there were a few timber snakes that were poisonous, she said, but she’d never seen one. If Leroy Mosely had seen a snake in the gulch, Mama explained, it was a garter snake or a gopher snake, and they weren’t poisonous.
A jackrabbit jumped up like a jack-in-the-box and shot across the gulch. It startled me and I lurched, nearly losing my balance. My heart raced. I sat down on the trestle. For several minutes I rested, but my heart went on pounding. I was afraid. Yet a jackrabbit was nothing to fear. Snakes must be making me feel this way. Thinking about snakes could make you sweaty and shaky.
At the other end of the trestle, on the embankment, was a big patch of mustard, looking like butter spread across the ground. I thought I spied wild onion not far from some box elders at the top of the embankment, maybe fifty yards down the gulch.
Rising slowly, gingerly, I stood up, not moving, like someone who has had a dizzy spell. At length I set out, but hesitantly, not as jaunty as I’d been. When I reached the far side of the railroad bridge, I turned right, toward the wildflowers. The dry earth of the embankment crumbled beneath my feet. My shoes filled with it, and my socks turned dusty gray.
I was snapping off a good bundle of mustard and at the same time working toward the wild onion, which lay between me and the stand of box elders. The white onion flowers were going to be pretty mixed into the vibrant yellow of the mustard. Mama would arrange them in the cut-glass vase that had been a wedding gift from her Aunt Essie who lived in Fargo.
I didn’t see any snakes. A gopher scurried down his hole as I came near, and several squirrels ran up the box elder trunks and began jumping from tree to tree, like children pretending to be frightened. Across the gulch, a meadowlark sang prettily.
It was warm and dusty among the scrub and flowers. I was beginning to feel itchy and drowsy. It would be pleasant to put the flowers down, sit on the ground, and scratch my legs, but the sun was falling behind the box elders and the buzz of insects was dying. I should start home if I didn’t want to be late for supper. I had come a little further than I ought.
In the shadows among the trees at the top of the embankment, the figure of a man appeared. Who could that be? A tramp, maybe. I stood frozen, staring up at him, feeling small and very short legged. Maybe it was someone who had come to arrest
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