Once Upon a Summer Read online

  Hiram whooped—I wanted to kick him. Poor Gramps— after playin’ so hard and so long. But Gramps was a much better loser than I was on his behalf. He turned to Hiram with a good-natured smile.

  “Great game for a novice,” he said, extending his hand.

  I didn’t know what “novice” meant, but I sure did know the meanin’ I’d put to it.

  Hiram was still so excited that he could hardly even shake Gramps’ hand proper-like. I wondered how a supposed grown man could get so riled up about winnin’ a simple little game— even if it did take all afternoon to play.

  “Congratulations,” I heard Gramps sayin’. “You sure are one terrific ring-knife player.”

  Hiram was still bouncin’ around and shaking Gramps’ hand vigorously.

  “How much did I win?” he blurted out.

  “Win?” Gramps looked dumbfounded—I knew I was.

  Uncle Charlie and Grandpa, who had come on over, looked a little surprised too.

  “Yeah . . .” Hiram’s glee began to fade from his face. “Don’t ya—”

  “I never played a game for money in my life.” Gramps looked offended. “That’s gambling. If a game can’t be played for the sheer joy of the playing, then leave it alone, I always say.”

  “But you gave Josh—”

  “I gave Josh a couple of dimes to buy fishhooks the next time he goes to town. He and I plan to do some fishing before he has to go back to school.”

  Hiram had added an embarrassed look to his one of disappointment. He cleared his throat and cleaned his knife with his eyes turned from everyone.

  Lou, who had returned, luckily chose that moment to announce that coffee was ready, so we all trooped into the house.

  Her timin’ couldn’t have been better. The air was a mite heavy, though I still couldn’t rightly understand the situation fully.

  Hiram left as soon as he had swallowed the last of his cake and washed it down with coffee. He thanked Uncle Charlie rather weakly for the invitation, but he kept his eyes away from Lou’s, even as he mumbled his thanks for the dinner. He also avoided Gramps. It was rather comical watchin’ him scuttle around hardly knowin’ which way to look.

  Uncle Charlie went with Hiram to get his team and the big bays fairly thundered out of our yard. Uncle Charlie returned. Lou was busy clearin’ the table; no one jumped up to protest her activity and suggest that she rest herself.

  Gramps grinned at me sort of silly and gave a quick wink.

  He turned to Uncle Charlie. He shook his head slowly as though he was really at a loss to understand it all.

  “Your friend seemed like such a nice young man, Charles. I just can hardly believe that he would be a gambler. It’s a shame, a downright shame!”

  I had to run outside before I busted out laughin’.

  CHAPTER 12

  Fall Days

  UNCLE CHARLIE WAS GOING to town for some binder twine, and Gramps decided that he’d ride along with him. I ached to go too, but I had too many chores that needed finishing. I still had those two dimes that Gramps had given me, and I could hardly wait to check over the fishhooks at Kirk’s. I offered them back to Gramps, thinkin’ that he might like to buy the hooks himself, but he said that I knew more about such things.

  I worked with rather draggin’ feet. It seemed strange and lonesome somehow without Gramps there to sort of spur me on.

  After dinner I had some free time, so I got out my fishin’ tackle and cleaned up my hooks. I nearly stuck myself with one of them; Auntie Lou got all excited and said that I’d better put them away. My handlin’ fishhooks always made her nervous.

  I went out to split wood. I had made quite a stack before I finally heard the wagon comin’. I slammed the axe head into the choppin’ block and sauntered into the kitchen.

  “They’re comin’.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yep.”

  There was a pause. Auntie Lou was havin’ a few rare minutes with one of those mail-order catalogues. She kept right on lookin’.

  “Coffee ready?”

  She looked up, her fine eyebrows archin’.

  “You wantin’ coffee?”

  “Not me—Gramps and Uncle Charlie. Jest thought that they might kinda like a cup—or juice or somethin’.”

  Lou smiled and laid aside the fascinating pages.

  “So you’re hungry, are ya, Josh?”

  It wasn’t what I meant, but I didn’t care that Lou took me wrong. By the time the men came in from the barn, Lou had cut some molasses cake, and the coffee was about ready to boil.

  At my place was a tall glass of milk.

  Gramps passed close to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. I sorta felt like pressin’ myself against him and wag-gin’ my tail.

  “How’d chores go?”

  “Fine. I got done in pretty good time. Even cleaned up my fishhooks.”

  “I was going to take a look at the hooks in the general store just to see what they carried, but I didn’t get around to it.”

  I wondered what Gramps had been doin’ with all of his time in town that he didn’t even find time to look at fishhooks.

  Uncle Charlie entered.

  “Saw a little notice posted in the general store that might interest you, Josh.”

  I looked at Uncle Charlie, wonderin’ what a notice in Kirk’s store would have to do with me. I didn’t need to wonder long.

  “Says big an’ bold-like, ‘School starts Monday.’ “ Uncle Charlie lifted one finger as though pointin’ out each one of the big black-lettered words.

  My face must have dropped, because Uncle Charlie laughed, and Gramps seemed to look about as disappointed as I felt.

  “So soon?” he questioned Uncle Charlie.

  Uncle Charlie nodded.

  “Harvest is early this year and most folks are gittin’ near done. Saw Mr. T. Smith in town. He says a few hours today will finish him. Made arrangements myself for the threshing crew to come in on Thursday. Jest the little bits of greenfeed that Dan is workin’ on today and all our cuttin’ will be done. The other fields are stooked and dryin’ real fast. They’ll all be ready for sure come Thursday.”

  “Well, I best be gittin’.”

  He got up from the table and then seemed to remember something. He pulled a small brown bag from a shirt pocket and handed it to Auntie Lou. When Uncle Charlie went to town he always came home with a few gums, licorice sticks, or peppermint drops. He winked at Auntie Lou.

  “Ya might even share one or two with Josh, iffen he behaves himself.”

  He flipped his hat onto his head and was gone.

  “Next Monday . . .” Gramps repeated. “That means we have to do our fishing this week, Joshua. Think we can manage it?”

  I was now doubly glad for the nice pile of firewood that I had stacked outside.

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll count on tomorrow. I’ll git out there right now and add to that woodpile before I have to start sloppin’ the pigs.”

  As I hurried out I thought on how Uncle Charlie had brought some good news and some bad news. Wasn’t hard to decide which side of the board the word about school startin’ would fit. The good news was concernin’ the threshin’ crew. Threshin’ was one of my favorite events of the year.

  It usually started early in the morning. Always as I rushed about the early mornin’ chores, I found myself listenin’ for the chug-chug of the big threshin’ rig coming up the road. Before long it would be devourin’ bundles and spittin’ out golden grain from one spout and blowin’ high a stream of straw from another.

  The first few hours were spent in settin’ up the threshin’ machine. After it was positioned and seemed in readiness, the giant steam tractor was started. The long flappin’ belt began to whirl, and it in turn activated all manner of movin’ things on the threshin’ machine. At first all of the gears were in slow motion, grindin’ and howlin’ as they seemed to protest at bein’ put to work again. The man who owned the machine never sat still for a minute. He ran
back and forth, around and around, checkin’ here and checkin’ there. After he had looked and listened to his heart’s content, he left the big machine idlin’ and came to the house for breakfast.

  I sat at breakfast strainin’ to be the first to hear the jangle of harness and the clankin’ of steel-rimmed wheels as they ground their way over the hard-packed road.

  There would be at least five or six teams in all. Sometimes they stopped at the house, while other times they went right on down to the field.

  When the teams arrived, the machine operator would swallow the last of his coffee and make his way back to his rig; there he’d circle and listen and open little side doors, look in and poke a bit.

  Finally when the sun had been up long enough to dry the grain bundles, the lead team moved out. A couple of extra men rode along, and they would fork on the bundles as the team moved slowly down the field, stoppin’ and startin’ at the command of their owner who worked along beside the wagon, pitchin’ bundles with the other two fellas.

  They wouldn’t bring in a full rack, this first load jest bein’ for testin’; as soon as they had enough to test they returned to the threshin’ machine. That’s when things really came to life. The levers were pulled, throwin’ the big machines into full motion. The steam engine roared and trembled, shootin’ out gray-black smoke. The gears clashed and banged on the threshin’ machine as it picked up its pace. It seemed to rock and stomp like an angry dragon. I often marveled that it didn’t rock itself right on down the field. Guess the owner thought the same, because he always packed rocks up tight against the steel wheels.

  At the nod of the machine operator, the team moved in close to the machine, and the bundle pitchers went into motion, too, tossin’ the bundles onto the belts that carried them up and fed them into the belly of the big machine.

  That was where the miracle took place. Instead of comin’ out as they had gone in, or even chopped and mutilated, the grain spout soon began to let streams of clean grain pour into the box of the wagon that sat carefully teamed in beneath it. A small cloud puffed from the spout that blew away the straw; the cloud grew and grew, becoming shimmering gold and silver flashes as the sun hit the flying particles.

  I always stood in awe. It never ceased to amaze me, this sudden and well-ordered change.

  If the threshed sample was satisfactory—the men decided this by lookin’, handlin’, and even chewin’ the grain—the waitin’ teams were given the signal and away they went, down the field, eager to be on with the job.

  There were other things that I liked about threshin’ time, too—like seein’ the grain grow deeper and deeper in the wagon box. It was then transported to the grain bin where it was shoveled off with rhythmic swings of scrunch—whoosh, scrunch— whoosh. It smelled good, too, though sometimes the dust made you sneeze. Then there was the fun of chasin’ mice that came skitterin’ out from the grain shocks.

  I loved the food too. Harvest time always meant a well-loaded table, for harvesters worked hard and needed hearty meals. We always got help for Auntie Lou at harvest time. It was jest too much for one woman to handle all the work of feedin’ the harvest crew alone.

  As I chopped wood, I looked forward to Thursday. I could hardly wait for the sound of the teams movin’ in.

  Gramps and I did manage to sneak in that fishin’ trip on Wednesday. My only sorrow was that I hadn’t been able to get into town to pick out some new hooks. Still, my old favorites seemed to have done okay in the past, so I trusted that they would again work well.

  Gramps carried his pole and the lunch pail, while I handled my pole, a can of worms and dirt, and an old coat for Gramps to sit on. We decided to try a different hole this time—one a little further upstream. There was a swell log there, made perfect for sittin’—with the help of a little padding—and a couple of sturdy trees right behind it for anyone who preferred to lean against them to rest his back.

  Gramps was a quick learner. He strung his own hook and had it in the water even before I did. He jiggled it occasionally— jest enough—and we settled in to talk as we waited for a fish to strike.

  “You know, Joshua,” said Gramps with a bit of a chuckle, “I’ve been thinking that I’ve pretty well got it made.”

  I looked at him sort of puzzled.

  “Meanin’?”

  “You know,” he explained, “I think that I’ve hit the best years of a man’s life.”

  I still wasn’t followin’.

  He chuckled softly as though he really had a good laugh on the rest of the scurryin’ world.

  “Take you now,” he explained. “Sure you’ve got your delights—your fishing, your lack of adult worries; but you work hard, too.”

  I was glad that Gramps had noticed.

  “And then you’ve got your schooling, like it or not—and I hope that you do like it. But you still have to go.

  “Your Grandpa and your Uncle Charlie, they have men’s work and men’s worries. Takes most of their time and energy to just keep up with things.

  “But me now . . .” he sighed a contented sigh and leaned back smugly against the warm tree trunk. “Me—I don’t have to go to school, privilege that it is, or even chore if I don’t feel like it. No one expects me to hurry around with a pitchfork or a scoop-shovel in my hand. No one raises an eyebrow if I want to lay in a bit in the morning or crawl off to bed at a kid’s bedtime at night. I don’t have to make tough decisions—like which spring calves to sell and which to keep, or what crop to plant in which field, or whether to fix the old plow again, or buy a new one.

  No sirree, Joshua. I’ve got it made.”

  I was gettin’ the point. I’d never even considered that there were advantages to being old. Gramps clearly had found some. He grinned at me with humor dancin’ in his blue eyes.

  “Just eat and sleep and look after the old man.”

  It sounded pretty good all right, but not quite accurate for Gramps. I kept gettin’ pictures of him feeding the chickens, pumping water for the stock or toting wood. I also saw him with his shirt sleeves rolled up peeling vegetables, or drying dishes, or even sweeping up the kitchen floor.

  Maybe he was right in a way. Maybe he didn’t have to do those things; but knowin’ Gramps, I had the feelin’ that as long as he could still totter, he’d be doin’ what he could to lighten someone’s load. Guess he liked it that way. He was a great old guy, my Gramps.

  “Yes sirree,” he said again, bobbin’ his line, “best part of a man’s life. If I had Mama here it would be just perfect.”

  He started tellin’ me all about Great-grandma then—how he’d met her when he was only nineteen and decided right off that she was the girl for him. He went on, through their life spent together, rememberin’ little things that probably seemed insignificant when they happened. He didn’t talk about what had happened after she had gone, but knowin’ Great-grandma, from the tone of Gramps’ voice and the descriptions he had given, it was easy for me to feel his loss. I didn’t have to wonder how he felt—I’d lost family too.

  We fished in silence for a while and then decided that it was time for lunch. I was beginning to worry that I had chosen the wrong fishin’ hole for the day; I so much wanted to see Gramps catch another one.

  We had jest lifted cold chicken drumsticks from the pail when I sensed a commotion in the water; sure enough, Gramps had one on. He jumped up, dropped his chicken, and went whoopin’ and yellin’ down the bank. I joined him. We were shoutin’ and dancin’ and callin’ to one another. By the time we landed the fish and got back to the lunch pail, the ants were already havin’ a picnic of the dropped chicken. I tossed it, ants and all, off to the side to try to discourage the old ants-up-the-pant-leg trick.

  Gramps had jest landed one of the nicest sunnies that I’d ever seen taken from the crik, and I could hardly swallow I was so excited. I even forgot to hope that I would have equal luck; if we would have had to pack up and head for home right then and there, I would have been perfectly happy. I did catch one
before we had to leave, though it wasn’t as fine as Gramps’.

  We went home happy.

  “Glad we were able to fit this day in, Joshua,” Gramps said.

  “Me too.”

  “You’re good company, Joshua.”

  No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

  “Hope that you didn’t mind an old man sharing some memories.”

  I looked at him. “ ’Course not.”

  He put a hand on my hair and ruffled it the way that grownups have a habit of doin’.

  We walked on. Shucks! Why should I mind sharin’ Gramps’ memories? Especially since I didn’t have any of my own anyway.

  That strange twistin’ hurt squeezed somewhere in my insides again. I started to walk a little faster.

  CHAPTER 13

  Threshin’

  THURSDAY CAME. WE WERE all able to let out the breath that we’d been holdin’. There’s always the threat of bad weather movin’ in on a threshin’ operation. It delays the plans and makes big men sweat with worry over something that they have no power to do a thing about. Used to be I’d pray for days on end before threshin’, pleadin’ with the Lord to favor us with fittin’ weather. Last year a bad storm moved in on us in spite of my prayers, so this year I decided that I would jest leave the Lord on His own.

  I rose earlier than usual. I wanted my chores out of the way so that I could catch every bit of action that I possibly could.

  As I looked out on the clear autumn mornin’, I did have a stirrin’ of thankfulness, even if I did hold back the desire to express it.

  I was bringin’ Bossie in from the field when I first heard the distant chug-chuggin’. I hoped that the sound of the comin’ machine didn’t fill Bossie with the same wild excitement that it did me—or her milk wouldn’t be worth much that mornin’.

  I milked hurriedly and was jest finishing when the slow-movin’ tractor, with the big black thresher in tow, turned up our lane.

  Grandpa and Uncle Charlie went out to meet Mr. Wilkes, the man who operated the machine.

  Mr. Wilkes had been runnin’ that machine for all of the harvests that I could remember. Neither he nor the machine looked shiny-new anymore, but they did look like they belonged together. To Mr. Wilkes the machine was not only his bread and butter but his friend and companion as well. He took great pride in it. Mr. Wilkes didn’t bother to plant crops of his own anymore. In fact, he share-cropped his land with Mr. T. Smith. By farmin’ Mr. Wilkes’ fields, Mr. T. Smith was almost certain to be the first man on the list for threshin’ come fall.