Drive - A Memoir 6th Installment
Russ said, “No!”
How he could
be a better tracker than me or anyone when he’s blind? I thought.
“See, by that clump of sage on the north side of that the rock pile
over there,” I said, pointing as I spoke.
“No!” Russ
snapped a second time.
“Okay, remember
how the Old Man taught us to see things against the horizon? You know
how a different shape that doesn't belong to the line of sight breaks
the ordinary edge of the bushes, rocks or hill side against the sky?
Well, that round–ish bump doesn't belong to that sage brush. That’s
the antelope’s ear; that’s him!”
“Well,
whoopee–doo, I guess I believe you – now its time for us to get
our butts home and face the music,” Russ retorted as he waggled his
butt at me.
Russ and I had a
symbiotic relationship because we were the only two boys our age for
miles and therefore we only had each other. Oddly we truly liked each
other, but we were brothers and the stereotype of brothers is
squabbling. I am glad to say we got along perfectly, strange but
true.
The walk home was
about two miles following the east ditch to the dirt road that lead
over the sand hill south of the farm house. Russ led out and I
trailed behind watching the heels of his work boots flick up sand.
Edith and Vernon,
our parents, had met and married in Idaho Falls, Idaho, when Edith
was seventeen and Vernon was twenty–six. Growing up, I had often
wondered why we never said, “Mom or Dad” when we talked to our
parents. Linda, my older sister and first child in our family, had
told us it was Edith's rule for her children to not say mom, mother,
mum or anything else, and we were to pay the proper respect and
address her as Edith and our father as Vernon. Edith believed it made
sense to call Russell and me by our names and not child or son
because there was more than one of us. Therefore, in this stream of
logic, we should call our mom and pop by their first names also. Well
okay. But, I think it was a way to quell emotion, to keep everything
calm and logical. No whining children around here!
When they
met, Vern was a triple “A” baseball pitcher on the local farm
team and had received an offer to move to the big leagues. At the
same time, he also had an opportunity to buy a farm in Hamer. Of
course, I had always wished he had become a famous baseball pitcher
making tons of money instead of a lousy dirt farmer working us kids
to death like we were ‘hired hands.’ However, Vern had told us
that, even the big leagues didn't pay much money. He was a knuckle
ball pitcher, and he wouldn’t be able to throw long before he
ruined his arm. So, sadly, he
500 More Words Tomorrow
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