Beatrice walked across the backyard toward the gate leading to their pasture. The stock of the rifle bounced against her side.
She had learned that whenever something seemed out of place, it was best not to take chances. The movement in the brush along the fencerow wasn’t normal. It warranted being checked on — with a backup plan, hence, the rifle.
The field had turned golden brown. The three sporadically placed Eastern Red Cedar trees in the fencerow were the only ones keeping their color. She passed what remained of the vegetable garden and reached the gate that opened to the field.
Across the farm, several acres away, Henry looked up at the sky. He always dreaded the shorter days and colder weather. It had been another year of barely enough harvest to keep his family alive through the winter, which caused him to dread it even more.
There wouldn’t be any extra to sell. Henry only hoped to keep the family alive and that, next year, the Depression would end.
He mended the fence with what he had. There wasn’t enough money to buy more wire. They didn’t have the extra goods to trade for more, either. He and his sons had cut down trees to build simple split rail fences where the breaches were.
Even though the weather had cooled down, he had worked up a sweat. He wiped his brow with his hand and wiped his hand on his bibbed overalls.
They had patches on the knees, thighs, and beside the pockets. A few more holes were forming that needed patches soon.
He kicked at the dusty ground with his boots and asked God why times had to be so hard and the living so meager. There was no response.
He picked up the axe and swung it downward with a resounding crack.
to be continued,
– Caleb
caneymountainblog.com 