(Stories for Children)
“Hold that steady, partner. Don’t want me to lop a finger off do ya? I need you to concentrate. Pay attention to what you’re doin’, son.”
Charlie knitted his brow and stared at the board as though he was scolding it with his glare. He leaned on it hard to anchor it down.
He wanted Uncle Bob to understand just how seriously he was taking his instructions. There was no one in the world that he admired as much as Uncle Bob, and he so wanted to please him.
The power saw screeched on with a twang and then a roar. Uncle Bob carefully guided the board through the blade to make a perfect cut along a faint line he had sketched across it earlier with his pencil. The saw clunked to an instant stop when Uncle Bob cut the power. It’s blade rang out a final, soulful tone that lingered in the air for several moments.
Charlie savored every sound and smell, and every minute that rolled by when he was with his Uncle Bob.
Dogs baying throughout the night in the dark East Texas woods meant that some poor critter was running for its life. When a small red fox zigged and zagged through the thicket at top speed, its heart pounding, its small chest about to explode, the onslaught seemed a tad unbalanced, a bit unfair. At least, Samuel thought so. Sam consoled himself with the fact that the fox’s cleverness and agility would serve it well.
Though its prospects were bleak, it at least had a slim chance of outsmarting Papa Jim’s pack of hunting dogs. Raccoons were rarely as lucky, but this night’s hunt was for neither foxes nor raccoons. It was for wolves.
This post was submitted by Mike Strong.
Southern Fried Chicken
I never told Bayno when Mama was going to make fried chicken. If I didn’t say anything, then all the cracklings in the pan would be mine. When the chicken was brown and crisp, I would take the spatula and press it against the bottom of the skillet and scrape the cracklings out of the grease, and when they were cool enough, I’d pour them into my mouth.
That summer was different from other summers even though the garden was the same. All its blooming and growing meant a good harvest along with back breaking work. Sometimes I’d stand in the middle of a row with both hands pressed into my back, my hands making a V and I would bend backwards and listen to all the bones popping and feel the muscles stretch so much they hurt. But with the sun beating down, I’d set my jaw and finish the row no matter if I was weeding, hoeing, or picking.
This post was submitted by Julie Eger.