Mama would
start putting all the Sunday good things on the dinner table, and
Papa would leave the wide gate open so the company folks could
drive their wagons and buggies into the well lot, where a long
time ago Grandpa Thad had wedged hitching rings deep into the
trunks of the black walnut trees. And before the company men
could unharness their teams, Papa would have his feed trough
filled with fodder and corn.
But the first Sunday after Christmas, I knew Papa wouldn't
tell Mama a thing about inviting dogs to come eat dinner. Our
wagon was the last one leaving the church grounds, and nobody was
going home with us, not even Mierd and Wiley. Jenny Goode had
begged Mama to let Mierd go to her house to eat dinner and spend
the evening, and Mama had said she could. Wiley had gone home
with the Hansen boys, and Wallace Goode went there too.
Papa climbed into the wagon, gave Belle and Puddin' Foot a
light slap with the reins, and told them about how slow cold
molasses moves in wintertime. As usual, they paid no attention.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233