DOWN BELOW
By Ramon Collins
Mud caused Henry's feet to slip and he leaned back to catch his balance. "Shortcuts are sometimes the long way 'round," he muttered.
How many times have I heard my dad and grandpa say that?
With a storm on its way, the fastest way to the village was straight down the slope; no time for trail switchbacks. A telephone call from the Valley Nursing Home left Henry little choice; "Martha took a turn for the worse and is calling for you.”
His grandpa started the stone fence that squatted down the hill and his dad and old man Jensen finished it. They passed away, at almost the same time, four years ago and Henry inherited the fence maintenance. When spring rivulets rushed down the hill, causing stones to move and fall, Martha would put a scarf on her head, pull on gardening gloves to help Henry repair the wall. She would give each stone a name as she grunted it into his hands.
A tympani solo of thunder rolled overhead as Henry sat on the wall to catch his breath.
”Sometimes walking downhill is harder'n walking up -- different set of muscles, dad would say.”
He looked at the rocks and leaned forward -- each stone still had its name:
”There's the ghost rock, old hag and the fat frog.”
The sky darkened and big raindrops began to splat, splat on the wall. As he brushed his sleeve back to look at his watch and hair stood up on his arm. Henry knew what it meant.
He didn't see the lightning bolt.
- - -
BIO: Collins lives on the NE edge of the Mojave desert. He's had stories published and online.
By Ramon Collins
Mud caused Henry's feet to slip and he leaned back to catch his balance. "Shortcuts are sometimes the long way 'round," he muttered.
How many times have I heard my dad and grandpa say that?
With a storm on its way, the fastest way to the village was straight down the slope; no time for trail switchbacks. A telephone call from the Valley Nursing Home left Henry little choice; "Martha took a turn for the worse and is calling for you.”
His grandpa started the stone fence that squatted down the hill and his dad and old man Jensen finished it. They passed away, at almost the same time, four years ago and Henry inherited the fence maintenance. When spring rivulets rushed down the hill, causing stones to move and fall, Martha would put a scarf on her head, pull on gardening gloves to help Henry repair the wall. She would give each stone a name as she grunted it into his hands.
A tympani solo of thunder rolled overhead as Henry sat on the wall to catch his breath.
”Sometimes walking downhill is harder'n walking up -- different set of muscles, dad would say.”
He looked at the rocks and leaned forward -- each stone still had its name:
”There's the ghost rock, old hag and the fat frog.”
The sky darkened and big raindrops began to splat, splat on the wall. As he brushed his sleeve back to look at his watch and hair stood up on his arm. Henry knew what it meant.
He didn't see the lightning bolt.
- - -
BIO: Collins lives on the NE edge of the Mojave desert. He's had stories published and online.
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
