Willow Run
“If Mom heard me, she'd have me down in the kitchen in two seconds: Just spear those pickles into the glass dish, Meggie, or Spread a little cream cheese on those chunks of celery, please.
I leaned way out the bedroom window now, looking for Grandpa: my head, neck, both arms, and belt buckle scraping the sill, my shoe tips scraping the floor.
The shoes were all scratched up from the beach. Mom would have a fit when she saw them. “Leather is rationed, Meggie. Rationed,” she'd said, almost... crying, when I had left my Sunday ones in the rain last month.
I inched out farther. In back of the houses the Atlantic Ocean crashed itself up on the sand, and seagulls screeched as they fought over dinner. In front was the gravel road. And any minute Grandpa would march down that road, bringing a salad for our going-to-Willow-Run-to-win-the-war party.
Grandpa hadn't found out about the red paint swastika.MoreLess
I leaned way out the bedroom window now, looking for Grandpa: my head, neck, both arms, and belt buckle scraping the sill, my shoe tips scraping the floor.
The shoes were all scratched up from the beach. Mom would have a fit when she saw them. “Leather is rationed, Meggie. Rationed,” she'd said, almost... crying, when I had left my Sunday ones in the rain last month.
I inched out farther. In back of the houses the Atlantic Ocean crashed itself up on the sand, and seagulls screeched as they fought over dinner. In front was the gravel road. And any minute Grandpa would march down that road, bringing a salad for our going-to-Willow-Run-to-win-the-war party.
Grandpa hadn't found out about the red paint swastika.MoreLess
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