“After Mama died and spring came again, and then summer, Papa became do-less. He hadn’t the energies to tend our gardens and they all began to run to weed and seed, the greens bolting like horses let out of an open stable door. He hardly ate anything that wasn’t put in front of him, and even then he seemed to forget it, his spoon left sitting in the porridge or his fork sticking up in the greens. Cousin Nancy tackled the house garden early morning before opening the post office and again mid-mor...ning when she closed the post office to take a mighty long lunch. And when I’d get back from school, I helped best I could. But I was only seven, and then eight and now nine, and though I was strong enough and willing, there was just so much I could do, that and no more. Papa had never let anyone work in his gardens before. He was, everyone said, the spit of the old man, meaning Scottish grandpap. In fact, he was the only Morton cousin around who didn’t go off hunting. They’d be out for hours, days even, coming home with deer and rabbits and partridge and coon, so many they had to be hauled back on sledges.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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