would often bear twelve instead of ten. Two extra. That’s dollars, boy. Dollars you can pay off this farm with, Good solid Yankee dollars that you can bank.”
All this talk of hogs and dollars and meat and banks was rolling around inside my head with no direction. It didn’t quite sound Christian to me, but then I suppose that everyone in the world didn’t all live strict by the Book of Shaker.
“But we’re Plain People, sir. It may not be right to want for so much.”
“Nonsense, boy. Bess and I are fearing Christians, same as you.”
“But you aren’t a Shaker. Are you?”
“No. I’m a Baptist! Wash feet and hard shell Baptist. Born one, and I hope to die one. But not yet. I’m a Baptist, and so’s Bess.”
I almost busted out laughing. There they were, the three people who probably loved me more thananyone in the whole world (besides Papa, Mama, and Aunt Carrie)—Mr. and Mrs. Tanner, and Aunt Matty. And all of them were good shouting Baptists. It just goes to show how wrong I could feel about some things.
And how foolish.
Chapter
14
The apple crop was bad.
The weather had turned colder, and we were lucky to get a few Baldwins and Jonathans barreled for wintering in the cellar. Papa had been right. The crop was lean. The apples that we did harvest were not large, and many had worm holes. The one tree that had died was our greening tree, one that produced smaller apples that were green and very tart. Pie apples. But this winter they’d be no pies.
Twice, Papa had seen a buck and several doe upon the ridge. But each time he got the shotgun and slug-shells ready, the deer were gone. Jacob Henry’s father got a buck. So did Ira Long. One of the men who farmed for Ben Tanner got a doe. But Papa didn’t have a deer rifle; only a shotgun with ball loads. He had to get close for a shot.
He still-hunted early almost every morning, hopingto get a buck deer before it was time to go to work. No luck. Once he even sat for four hours in a cold rain, waiting. He coughed after that; a deep rattling cough that made him hang on to things. But the worst thing was when his lungs got so bad he stopped sleeping with Mama. He slept in the barn. It was warmer there, with Daisy and Solomon both inclosed in a cozy area.
The first snow came. It wasn’t very heavy; and when the next day’s sun broke through, it all melted away. But more would follow.
Pinky did not have a litter of pigs. She was bred and she was barren. And she ate too much to keep as a pet. Samson had mounted her twice, and there was no litter. Nothing. And little estrus. She never really come to full heat, not even once.
It all ended one early morning on a dark December day. It was Saturday and there was no school. After chores, Papa and I came in for breakfast. I tried to down a big bowl of hot steaming oatmeal, but it tasted like soap. And the fresh warm milk from Daisy’s pail was flat. I couldn’t swallow it. Papa just sat at the kitchen table, fingering a pipe that he couldn’t smoke and looking at a breakfast he couldn’t eat. He finally got up from the table to look through the window. Outside, the dark of the moonwas just softening into firstlight. When he turned round to me, his face was sober.
“Rob, let’s get it done.”
I didn’t ask what. I just knew. And so did Mama and Aunt Carrie, because as Papa and I were getting our coats on to go outside, they both came over and pretended to help bundle me up.
There had been a light inch of snow the night before. Just enough to cover the ground the way Mama would flour her cake board. I followed Papa out to where we kept the tools, and I stood there watching as he sharpened the knives on the wheel. The sticking knife was short and blunt, with a curved blade. The edge he put to it was extra sharp. He pulled on some heavy rubber boots in the barn, and tied a sheath of leather around his middle, for an apron. We were ready.
Toting some of the tools and a spine saw, I followed him out of
All this talk of hogs and dollars and meat and banks was rolling around inside my head with no direction. It didn’t quite sound Christian to me, but then I suppose that everyone in the world didn’t all live strict by the Book of Shaker.
“But we’re Plain People, sir. It may not be right to want for so much.”
“Nonsense, boy. Bess and I are fearing Christians, same as you.”
“But you aren’t a Shaker. Are you?”
“No. I’m a Baptist! Wash feet and hard shell Baptist. Born one, and I hope to die one. But not yet. I’m a Baptist, and so’s Bess.”
I almost busted out laughing. There they were, the three people who probably loved me more thananyone in the whole world (besides Papa, Mama, and Aunt Carrie)—Mr. and Mrs. Tanner, and Aunt Matty. And all of them were good shouting Baptists. It just goes to show how wrong I could feel about some things.
And how foolish.
Chapter
14
The apple crop was bad.
The weather had turned colder, and we were lucky to get a few Baldwins and Jonathans barreled for wintering in the cellar. Papa had been right. The crop was lean. The apples that we did harvest were not large, and many had worm holes. The one tree that had died was our greening tree, one that produced smaller apples that were green and very tart. Pie apples. But this winter they’d be no pies.
Twice, Papa had seen a buck and several doe upon the ridge. But each time he got the shotgun and slug-shells ready, the deer were gone. Jacob Henry’s father got a buck. So did Ira Long. One of the men who farmed for Ben Tanner got a doe. But Papa didn’t have a deer rifle; only a shotgun with ball loads. He had to get close for a shot.
He still-hunted early almost every morning, hopingto get a buck deer before it was time to go to work. No luck. Once he even sat for four hours in a cold rain, waiting. He coughed after that; a deep rattling cough that made him hang on to things. But the worst thing was when his lungs got so bad he stopped sleeping with Mama. He slept in the barn. It was warmer there, with Daisy and Solomon both inclosed in a cozy area.
The first snow came. It wasn’t very heavy; and when the next day’s sun broke through, it all melted away. But more would follow.
Pinky did not have a litter of pigs. She was bred and she was barren. And she ate too much to keep as a pet. Samson had mounted her twice, and there was no litter. Nothing. And little estrus. She never really come to full heat, not even once.
It all ended one early morning on a dark December day. It was Saturday and there was no school. After chores, Papa and I came in for breakfast. I tried to down a big bowl of hot steaming oatmeal, but it tasted like soap. And the fresh warm milk from Daisy’s pail was flat. I couldn’t swallow it. Papa just sat at the kitchen table, fingering a pipe that he couldn’t smoke and looking at a breakfast he couldn’t eat. He finally got up from the table to look through the window. Outside, the dark of the moonwas just softening into firstlight. When he turned round to me, his face was sober.
“Rob, let’s get it done.”
I didn’t ask what. I just knew. And so did Mama and Aunt Carrie, because as Papa and I were getting our coats on to go outside, they both came over and pretended to help bundle me up.
There had been a light inch of snow the night before. Just enough to cover the ground the way Mama would flour her cake board. I followed Papa out to where we kept the tools, and I stood there watching as he sharpened the knives on the wheel. The sticking knife was short and blunt, with a curved blade. The edge he put to it was extra sharp. He pulled on some heavy rubber boots in the barn, and tied a sheath of leather around his middle, for an apron. We were ready.
Toting some of the tools and a spine saw, I followed him out of
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