LITMIR.BIZ

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be on the shelves next to her stove, along with the wild blackberries and blueberries we had picked earlier in the year. These were used to make cobblers and pies during the winter months, but before summer was over there would also be jars of apples, peaches, pears, fig preserves, and all kinds of jellies and jams.

      It was fun washing those glass jars. There were pints, quarts, and half-gallons. I was furnished with two foot-tubs of water, one hot and soapy, the other clean and clear. I used a small mop attached to a piece of wire to scrub the inside of the jars, plunged them into the clear water to rinse them, then turned them upside down on the table to drain.

      I was finished long before my brothers. I decided to see if I could help Ned. Shucking and shelling corn was a better job than pulling weeds in the hot garden. He had finished removing the tough shucks from the ears of dried corn and was sitting on a bench just inside the open door of the corn crib, bending over the corn-shelling machine. This wonderful contraption was a wooden box with an iron cone attached to the inside. Inside the cone were metal teeth which ripped the dry kernels from the cob while you pushed the ear of corn down into the cone and turned the crank on the outside of the box. My father had traded a cypress skiff boat for it. He was a carpenter by trade, and a good one; except there was nothing to build around where we lived. But sometimes a cypress log would show up at the sawmill. When this happened he would keep the lumber from it to build his fishing boats, which he would always trade for something we needed.

      I pushed the ears of corn down into the cone while Ned turned the crank until he decided he had enough. I held a sack open while he scooped the grains out of the box and deposited them into the sack. When I stepped out of the corn crib to the ground below something long and black slithered between my bare feet. Horrified, I yelled, “Snake!”

      I grabbed a garden hoe that was leaning against the corn crib and began frantically chopping at the snake.

      “Stop!” Ned yelled. “Don’t kill it!”

      But I kept chasing the snake until it circled back under the corn crib to safety. I could feel the tiny hairs on my arms standing up and see the chill bumps surrounding them. Ned took the hoe from my hand and said, “That was just a rat snake. You know we don’t kill them because they keep the rats out of the corn.”

      “I don’t care what kind it was. If I see it again, I’ll kill it,” I said. My voice and hands still shook.

      “Well, you shouldn’t, ’cause it won’t hurt you,” Ned said as he slung the sack of corn over his shoulder, on his way to the mill. Halfway up the road he turned and yelled, “Throw those shucks over the fence for the milk cow.”

      “I ain’t going back in that crib,” I yelled back.

      “Then tell Fred to do it,” he yelled again, turned and rounded the curve.

      I got another scare from Fred who had sneaked up behind me and yelled, “Snake!”

      I jumped, but realized what he was doing and said, “I ain’t scared of no snake.”

      “Hey,” he said, “tell you what—I’ll feed the shucks to the milk cow if you’ll help me finish in the garden.”

      “Gonna take more than that.”

      “What else you want?”

      “I want my marbles back.”

      “I’ll give you half of them.”

      A few days ago he had won all twelve of my marbles, plus my “shooter.” To play marbles we would draw a circle in the dirt, drop an equal amount of marbles into the circle, then we would kneel outside the circle and take turns shooting. To shoot you placed your shooter on the crook of your forefinger and flipped it with your thumb. Before the game, to see who shot first, we would lag our shooters at a line drawn in the dirt. The object of the game was to knock your opponent’s marbles outside the circle. Any you knocked out then belonged to you, and you got to keep shooting as long as you kept knocking marbles out. Fred was real good at shooting marbles. He had a big rough bump on his right thumbnail from shooting so much.

      “Plus my shooter,” I demanded.

      “All right, your shooter, too.”

      “Okay, but I ain’t working around them okra plants.”

      Okra leaves made you sting and itch. I like to eat okra, but I didn’t like weeding around the plants or cutting the pods off them.

      Fred and I were both brown as berries from going half-naked all summer. Our blond hair had bleached almost white causing people to call us “cotton tops.” So, today, while we toiled in the garden, the hot summer sun didn’t even make us blink.

      About noontime our mother came into the garden, inspected our work, approved it, and told us we could do as we pleased for a while. After washing up on the front porch we sat down to our dinner of butter beans, hot cornbread, and a glass of sweet milk. Before we got up from the table our mother reminded us that today was “egg day.”

      We gathered eggs daily from the chicken house which was inside a fence to keep the chickens in and the foxes out—though Old Bill, our black and tan coonhound, usually kept foxes and other varmints away.

      On Mondays, we usually had a surplus of about three dozen eggs which we took to Miss Lena’s store and sold them to her for ten cents a dozen. She would then sell them for fifteen cents a dozen.

      “I’ll go,” I immediately volunteered. There were no protests from Fred, which made me happy, because I had a plan.

      “Can I wait and take them later today? I’m too tired to go right now.”

      “That’ll be fine. Just don’t forget.”

      I followed Fred out to the wood pile where he had been making a toy log truck. He had nailed together strips of scrap lumber from the sawmill to form the body. For the cab, he had nailed on an empty Prince Albert tobacco can after cutting a strip into it and lifting it up to make it look like a seat. Behind the cab, across the body, he had attached two bolsters with nails partially driven into the tip of each one. The nails would keep the toy logs from rolling off the truck. Today, he was going to attach the wheels.

      I held a small round hickory tree trunk firmly across the chopping block while he used our father’s handsaw to cut four wheels. I held the truck sideways while he nailed the wheels to the axles and worked them back and forth until they turned. Finally, he set the truck on the ground, tied a string around the front axle, and we headed toward the woods with our log truck tumbling along behind us.

      We cut ourselves a toy logging road into a stand of small pines where we began to cut the first load of logs for the truck. When we began loading them on the truck I said, “We need a toy mule to drag the logs up to the truck for us.”

      Fred looked at me incredulously and said, “A mule is a living and breathing thing. I never heard of such. How the heck you gonna make a toy mule?”

      We whiled away the hours without a care until I heard our mother calling me.

      “I guess it’s time to take the eggs. What you gonna do?” I asked Fred.

      “I’m gonna look for some straight sticks to make arrows with. Stop by the sawmill and find some thin strips of wood and I’ll make us both a bow tomorrow.”

      Before going into the house, I went to the special place where I hid my money. Our house sat on tall round wood blocks at each of the four corners, high enough off the ground that I could almost walk under it. I quickly scooted underneath and found the half-pint fruit jar which I kept tucked away on the top edge of the block near the rain barrel. While I was extracting four nickels I heard a thumping sound. Looking up, I saw Old Bill lying sleepily in the dry dirt. His wagging tail sent up puffs of dust as it thumped against the ground. I knew Old Bill would keep my secret. I saw him yawn and heard him whining as I crawled from beneath the house.

      The eggs were in a basket on the kitchen table. I looked at the big clock, saw that it was about twenty minutes before five o’clock, and thought, good, I have just enough time

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