bills out of my pocket and held them out where they could see them.
The man smiled. “You won’t pay for a meal in my house,” he said. “You just clean up at the pump in the yard, and I’ll carve up a few more spuds.”
So we washed at the pump, dried ourselves off with a piece of burlap that was hanging on the pump handle, and went on in. It was a nice place—homey, I guess you’d call it. Neat and tidy and done up nice. There were a couple of cloth samplers on the wall with mottoes embroidered into them—“God Bless This House,” stuff like that. In the kitchen window there was a jelly jar full of wildflowers. While the potatoes were frying, and sending up just the most handsome smell, Betty Ann took us out to the parlor. In a cornerthere was a little whatnot cabinet with curios on it—a couple of Indian arrowheads, a bird’s nest with speckled eggs in it, a piece of crystal that made rainbow colors when you held it up to the light, and some curled-up seashells. There was a horsehair sofa that seemed better suited for display than sitting on, and across the room a little pump organ with a music book on it opened to “The Letter That Never Came.”
“Can you play that organ, Betty Ann?” Billy said.
“Some. Ma was teaching me before...before. She could play real good. She used to play for the church choir before she married Pa.”
Where was Betty Ann’s ma? Was she upstairs sick in bed? What was wrong with her? I was curious, but I knew better than to say anything.
But naturally Billy didn’t. “What’s the matter—”
I leaped in. “Those potatoes smell powerful good to me. I could eat a bushel of them.”
Luckily, just at that minute, Betty Ann’s pa called us into the kitchen. We sat down at the old wooden kitchen table, scrubbed so bare it was almost white. Whatever was wrong with Mrs. Singletary, she wasn’t eating with us, for there were just four plates on the table. I nudged Billy. “Eat nice,” I whispered. “Not like you’re shoveling coal into a furnace.” Back at the Home, Deacon’s sister was always on us about our table manners, the main result being that the boys wouldn’t be caught dead eating nice unless she was staring right at them. I wasn’t any better than the rest,but now I wished I’d paid more attention to how you were supposed to hold your fork and how to cut your meat.
But good manners or not, considering how hungry we were, it’d be hard to go slow on those potatoes and pork. I was just about to dig in when Mr. Singletary said, “Boys, in this house we always thank the Lord for putting another meal in front of us.”
It didn’t seem to me the Lord had put those fried potatoes in front of us; we’d worked blame hard in that hay field for them. Still, I dropped my fork, put my hands together, bent my head down, and closed my eyes so I couldn’t see those potatoes and that slab of pork in front of me.
“Dear Lord, we heartily thank Thee for what we are about to receive of Thy bounty,” Mr. Singletary began. He carried on for a while like that. I couldn’t see those potatoes, but with my head bent over like that my nose was only about a foot away from them, and I could smell them, hot and sweet. Then, next door to me, I heard a kind of rustle. I slid one eye open and took a quick look. Betty Ann and her pa had their heads down, praying. Billy had his head down and his eyes closed, too, but his jaw was moving.
Finally Mr. Singletary decided we’d suffered enough and said, “Amen.” We dug in. I stuck to my manners, but there was no hope of Billy doing it. Whenever he figured Betty Ann and her pa weren’t noticing, he snatched at the food with his fingers.
Betty Ann’s pa spent the time asking us a whole lot of questions, and that slowed us down some. And he started right off with the one I always hated. “That’s your real name? Possum?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your last name?”
Here it came again. “That’s it. Possum’s my whole
The man smiled. “You won’t pay for a meal in my house,” he said. “You just clean up at the pump in the yard, and I’ll carve up a few more spuds.”
So we washed at the pump, dried ourselves off with a piece of burlap that was hanging on the pump handle, and went on in. It was a nice place—homey, I guess you’d call it. Neat and tidy and done up nice. There were a couple of cloth samplers on the wall with mottoes embroidered into them—“God Bless This House,” stuff like that. In the kitchen window there was a jelly jar full of wildflowers. While the potatoes were frying, and sending up just the most handsome smell, Betty Ann took us out to the parlor. In a cornerthere was a little whatnot cabinet with curios on it—a couple of Indian arrowheads, a bird’s nest with speckled eggs in it, a piece of crystal that made rainbow colors when you held it up to the light, and some curled-up seashells. There was a horsehair sofa that seemed better suited for display than sitting on, and across the room a little pump organ with a music book on it opened to “The Letter That Never Came.”
“Can you play that organ, Betty Ann?” Billy said.
“Some. Ma was teaching me before...before. She could play real good. She used to play for the church choir before she married Pa.”
Where was Betty Ann’s ma? Was she upstairs sick in bed? What was wrong with her? I was curious, but I knew better than to say anything.
But naturally Billy didn’t. “What’s the matter—”
I leaped in. “Those potatoes smell powerful good to me. I could eat a bushel of them.”
Luckily, just at that minute, Betty Ann’s pa called us into the kitchen. We sat down at the old wooden kitchen table, scrubbed so bare it was almost white. Whatever was wrong with Mrs. Singletary, she wasn’t eating with us, for there were just four plates on the table. I nudged Billy. “Eat nice,” I whispered. “Not like you’re shoveling coal into a furnace.” Back at the Home, Deacon’s sister was always on us about our table manners, the main result being that the boys wouldn’t be caught dead eating nice unless she was staring right at them. I wasn’t any better than the rest,but now I wished I’d paid more attention to how you were supposed to hold your fork and how to cut your meat.
But good manners or not, considering how hungry we were, it’d be hard to go slow on those potatoes and pork. I was just about to dig in when Mr. Singletary said, “Boys, in this house we always thank the Lord for putting another meal in front of us.”
It didn’t seem to me the Lord had put those fried potatoes in front of us; we’d worked blame hard in that hay field for them. Still, I dropped my fork, put my hands together, bent my head down, and closed my eyes so I couldn’t see those potatoes and that slab of pork in front of me.
“Dear Lord, we heartily thank Thee for what we are about to receive of Thy bounty,” Mr. Singletary began. He carried on for a while like that. I couldn’t see those potatoes, but with my head bent over like that my nose was only about a foot away from them, and I could smell them, hot and sweet. Then, next door to me, I heard a kind of rustle. I slid one eye open and took a quick look. Betty Ann and her pa had their heads down, praying. Billy had his head down and his eyes closed, too, but his jaw was moving.
Finally Mr. Singletary decided we’d suffered enough and said, “Amen.” We dug in. I stuck to my manners, but there was no hope of Billy doing it. Whenever he figured Betty Ann and her pa weren’t noticing, he snatched at the food with his fingers.
Betty Ann’s pa spent the time asking us a whole lot of questions, and that slowed us down some. And he started right off with the one I always hated. “That’s your real name? Possum?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your last name?”
Here it came again. “That’s it. Possum’s my whole
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