Once Upon a Summer (11 page)

All the rest of the afternoon we played. Pace by pace we stepped back until we were so far away that we could hardly see the circle—then we’d go back to start over.

I moved backward and forward more often than the others. It was hard to believe that I had actually managed to beat Gramps in my first two games. Beginner’s luck—I guess.

Hiram was in a sweat. It stood out in little drops on his forehead, and it wasn’t due to the pleasant fall day.

Lou had long ago taken her leave. I had spotted her heading toward the crik with a book in her hand. Uncle Charlie and Grandpa paced back and forth on the back porch, scowlin’ and upset, but the game went on.

Gramps and Hiram hung together pace by pace. Occasionally Gramps consulted his pocket watch, rattlin’ its chain rather unnecessarily as he did so; then he’d shake his head to indicate that time still wasn’t up and we’d go at it again.

Frankly, I was getting rather tired of the game, but Hiram didn’t seem to be. Gramps was one pace behind him and Hiram seemed determined to keep it that way.

Gramps looked at his watch again.

“One minute to go. This will be our last throw.”

Hiram chewed his lip. They were now both standing together at their record distance. If they both made it, it could end up a tie. Of course I was pullin’ for Gramps. I was so far behind that I didn’t even count anymore.

Hiram almost looked in pain as he lined up for his last toss. I thought that he was never goin’ to let go of that knife, but he finally did; the blade flashed as it arced through the air. It hit the ground with a soft sound; it had cleared the stones—it quivered as it held upright. Hiram looked like he would whoop, but he didn’t. He whipped out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

It was Gramps’ turn now. He took his time and aimed carefully. A calmness still showed in his face. I would have loved to put a toe to Hiram’s knife. I was hopin’ for at least a tie—that would take the sting out of the situation.

Hiram was almost jumpin’ out of his shoes; I was afraid that his agitation would disturb Gramps’ concentration. I sent him a scowl but he didn’t even notice.

Gramps’ knife finally left his hand and made a clean, quick flight toward the circle. It seemed that the whole of me went flyin’ with that knife. No one stirred—or even breathed. I waited for the soft sound of the blade slippin’ into the dirt, but instead there was a sharp “clink” and a clatter. Gramps’ knife had hit the largest rock.

Hiram whooped—I wanted to kick him. Poor Gramps— after playin’ so hard and so long. But Gramps was a much better loser than I was on his behalf. He turned to Hiram with a good-natured smile.

“Great game for a novice,” he said, extending his hand.

I didn’t know what “novice” meant, but I sure did know the meanin’ I’d put to it.

Hiram was still so excited that he could hardly even shake Gramps’ hand proper-like. I wondered how a supposed grown man could get so riled up about winnin’ a simple little game— even if it did take all afternoon to play.

“Congratulations,” I heard Gramps sayin’. “You sure are one terrific ring-knife player.”

Hiram was still bouncin’ around and shaking Gramps’ hand vigorously.

“How much did I win?” he blurted out.

“Win?” Gramps looked dumbfounded—I knew I was.

Uncle Charlie and Grandpa, who had come on over, looked a little surprised too.

“Yeah . . .” Hiram’s glee began to fade from his face. “Don’t ya—”

“I never played a game for money in my life.” Gramps looked offended. “That’s gambling. If a game can’t be played for the sheer joy of the playing, then leave it alone, I always say.”

“But you gave Josh—”

“I gave Josh a couple of dimes to buy fishhooks the next time he goes to town. He and I plan to do some fishing before he has to go back to school.”

Hiram had added an embarrassed look to his one of disappointment. He cleared his throat and cleaned his knife with his eyes turned from everyone.

Lou, who had returned, luckily chose that moment to announce that coffee was ready, so we all trooped into the house.

Her timin’ couldn’t have been better. The air was a mite heavy, though I still couldn’t rightly understand the situation fully.

Hiram left as soon as he had swallowed the last of his cake and washed it down with coffee. He thanked Uncle Charlie rather weakly for the invitation, but he kept his eyes away from Lou’s, even as he mumbled his thanks for the dinner. He also avoided Gramps. It was rather comical watchin’ him scuttle around hardly knowin’ which way to look.

Uncle Charlie went with Hiram to get his team and the big bays fairly thundered out of our yard. Uncle Charlie returned. Lou was busy clearin’ the table; no one jumped up to protest her activity and suggest that she rest herself.

Gramps grinned at me sort of silly and gave a quick wink.

He turned to Uncle Charlie. He shook his head slowly as though he was really at a loss to understand it all.

“Your friend seemed like such a nice young man, Charles. I just can hardly believe that he would be a gambler. It’s a shame, a downright shame!”

I had to run outside before I busted out laughin’.

C
HAPTER
12
Fall Days

U
NCLE CHARLIE WAS GOING
to town for some binder twine, and Gramps decided that he’d ride along with him. I ached to go too, but I had too many chores that needed finishing. I still had those two dimes that Gramps had given me, and I could hardly wait to check over the fishhooks at Kirk’s. I offered them back to Gramps, thinkin’ that he might like to buy the hooks himself, but he said that I knew more about such things.

I worked with rather draggin’ feet. It seemed strange and lonesome somehow without Gramps there to sort of spur me on.

After dinner I had some free time, so I got out my fishin’ tackle and cleaned up my hooks. I nearly stuck myself with one of them; Auntie Lou got all excited and said that I’d better put them away. My handlin’ fishhooks always made her nervous.

I went out to split wood. I had made quite a stack before I finally heard the wagon comin’. I slammed the axe head into the choppin’ block and sauntered into the kitchen.

“They’re comin’.”

“Are they?”

“Yep.”

There was a pause. Auntie Lou was havin’ a few rare minutes with one of those mail-order catalogues. She kept right on lookin’.

“Coffee ready?”

She looked up, her fine eyebrows archin’.

“You wantin’ coffee?”

“Not me—Gramps and Uncle Charlie. Jest thought that they might kinda like a cup—or juice or somethin’.”

Lou smiled and laid aside the fascinating pages.

“So you’re hungry, are ya, Josh?”

It wasn’t what I meant, but I didn’t care that Lou took me wrong. By the time the men came in from the barn, Lou had cut some molasses cake, and the coffee was about ready to boil.

At my place was a tall glass of milk.

Gramps passed close to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. I sorta felt like pressin’ myself against him and wag-gin’ my tail.

“How’d chores go?”

“Fine. I got done in pretty good time. Even cleaned up my fishhooks.”

“I was going to take a look at the hooks in the general store just to see what they carried, but I didn’t get around to it.”

I wondered what Gramps had been doin’ with all of his time in town that he didn’t even find time to look at fishhooks.

Uncle Charlie entered.

“Saw a little notice posted in the general store that might interest you, Josh.”

I looked at Uncle Charlie, wonderin’ what a notice in Kirk’s store would have to do with me. I didn’t need to wonder long.

“Says big an’ bold-like, ‘School starts Monday.’ “ Uncle Charlie lifted one finger as though pointin’ out each one of the big black-lettered words.

My face must have dropped, because Uncle Charlie laughed, and Gramps seemed to look about as disappointed as I felt.

“So soon?” he questioned Uncle Charlie.

Uncle Charlie nodded.

“Harvest is early this year and most folks are gittin’ near done. Saw Mr. T. Smith in town. He says a few hours today will finish him. Made arrangements myself for the threshing crew to come in on Thursday. Jest the little bits of greenfeed that Dan is workin’ on today and all our cuttin’ will be done. The other fields are stooked and dryin’ real fast. They’ll all be ready for sure come Thursday.”

“Well, I best be gittin’.”

He got up from the table and then seemed to remember something. He pulled a small brown bag from a shirt pocket and handed it to Auntie Lou. When Uncle Charlie went to town he always came home with a few gums, licorice sticks, or peppermint drops. He winked at Auntie Lou.

“Ya might even share one or two with Josh, iffen he behaves himself.”

He flipped his hat onto his head and was gone.

“Next Monday . . .” Gramps repeated. “That means we have to do our fishing this week, Joshua. Think we can manage it?”

I was now doubly glad for the nice pile of firewood that I had stacked outside.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll count on tomorrow. I’ll git out there right now and add to that woodpile before I have to start sloppin’ the pigs.”

As I hurried out I thought on how Uncle Charlie had brought some good news and some bad news. Wasn’t hard to decide which side of the board the word about school startin’ would fit. The good news was concernin’ the threshin’ crew. Threshin’ was one of my favorite events of the year.

It usually started early in the morning. Always as I rushed about the early mornin’ chores, I found myself listenin’ for the chug-chug of the big threshin’ rig coming up the road. Before long it would be devourin’ bundles and spittin’ out golden grain from one spout and blowin’ high a stream of straw from another.

The first few hours were spent in settin’ up the threshin’ machine. After it was positioned and seemed in readiness, the giant steam tractor was started. The long flappin’ belt began to whirl, and it in turn activated all manner of movin’ things on the threshin’ machine. At first all of the gears were in slow motion, grindin’ and howlin’ as they seemed to protest at bein’ put to work again. The man who owned the machine never sat still for a minute. He ran back and forth, around and around, checkin’ here and checkin’ there. After he had looked and listened to his heart’s content, he left the big machine idlin’ and came to the house for breakfast.

I sat at breakfast strainin’ to be the first to hear the jangle of harness and the clankin’ of steel-rimmed wheels as they ground their way over the hard-packed road.

There would be at least five or six teams in all. Sometimes they stopped at the house, while other times they went right on down to the field.

When the teams arrived, the machine operator would swallow the last of his coffee and make his way back to his rig; there he’d circle and listen and open little side doors, look in and poke a bit.

Finally when the sun had been up long enough to dry the grain bundles, the lead team moved out. A couple of extra men rode along, and they would fork on the bundles as the team moved slowly down the field, stoppin’ and startin’ at the command of their owner who worked along beside the wagon, pitchin’ bundles with the other two fellas.

They wouldn’t bring in a full rack, this first load jest bein’ for testin’; as soon as they had enough to test they returned to the threshin’ machine. That’s when things really came to life. The levers were pulled, throwin’ the big machines into full motion. The steam engine roared and trembled, shootin’ out gray-black smoke. The gears clashed and banged on the threshin’ machine as it picked up its pace. It seemed to rock and stomp like an angry dragon. I often marveled that it didn’t rock itself right on down the field. Guess the owner thought the same, because he always packed rocks up tight against the steel wheels.

At the nod of the machine operator, the team moved in close to the machine, and the bundle pitchers went into motion, too, tossin’ the bundles onto the belts that carried them up and fed them into the belly of the big machine.

That was where the miracle took place. Instead of comin’ out as they had gone in, or even chopped and mutilated, the grain spout soon began to let streams of clean grain pour into the box of the wagon that sat carefully teamed in beneath it. A small cloud puffed from the spout that blew away the straw; the cloud grew and grew, becoming shimmering gold and silver flashes as the sun hit the flying particles.

I always stood in awe. It never ceased to amaze me, this sudden and well-ordered change.

If the threshed sample was satisfactory—the men decided this by lookin’, handlin’, and even chewin’ the grain—the waitin’ teams were given the signal and away they went, down the field, eager to be on with the job.

There were other things that I liked about threshin’ time, too—like seein’ the grain grow deeper and deeper in the wagon box. It was then transported to the grain bin where it was shoveled off with rhythmic swings of scrunch—whoosh, scrunch— whoosh. It smelled good, too, though sometimes the dust made you sneeze. Then there was the fun of chasin’ mice that came skitterin’ out from the grain shocks.

I loved the food too. Harvest time always meant a well-loaded table, for harvesters worked hard and needed hearty meals. We always got help for Auntie Lou at harvest time. It was jest too much for one woman to handle all the work of feedin’ the harvest crew alone.

As I chopped wood, I looked forward to Thursday. I could hardly wait for the sound of the teams movin’ in.

Gramps and I did manage to sneak in that fishin’ trip on Wednesday. My only sorrow was that I hadn’t been able to get into town to pick out some new hooks. Still, my old favorites seemed to have done okay in the past, so I trusted that they would again work well.

Gramps carried his pole and the lunch pail, while I handled my pole, a can of worms and dirt, and an old coat for Gramps to sit on. We decided to try a different hole this time—one a little further upstream. There was a swell log there, made perfect for sittin’—with the help of a little padding—and a couple of sturdy trees right behind it for anyone who preferred to lean against them to rest his back.