Sweet-natured, Chapter 2
Mindful of the list of chores, the boy decided not to worry about the snake until after lunch. He poured feed into the troughs for the chickens and pigs and mucked out the stable good enough for almost done. He chased the cows out of the barn and headed them towards pasture, noting the rosettes of bull thistle overtaking the field of crabgrass and other vegetation. The thistles had to be hand-pulled, the loosened dirt sifted for seeds. They would be a high priority on daddy's future lists.
He thought about the lists, especially the order in which the chores were supposed to be followed. Sometimes it didn't make sense. Sometimes doing them in his daddy's order made the chores stretch out over the course of a day. Some of the chores were too complicated to get done at once, making the rest of the list flop over to the next day. He could never finish the chores. He would never finish the chores.
The boy strode ahead of the cows. There was nothing he could do about the lists. He decided to get back on the hunt. Ahead of him was a modest rise where he could get a full view of his daddy's property. The horizon, broken into equal parts of blue sky on top and frost-burnt fields below, was the ends of the earth to him, the panoramic illusion broken only by a stand of trees behind the house. He could ride Bobits beyond the horizon towards the mountains he couldn't see but knew were there. The snow would just now be falling at the highest peaks. He could set out at night with the lunchpail tied to his saddle, and be back by morning. He could come back just before the next snow, or the one after. If he
buried the hognose in the mountains, or on a river bank, or deep in
a canyon, it could be that thing he needed to tend to, when it was time to leave.
He noticed that the cows were not following him, content to munch around the thistles, or not knowing any better. He whistled at them, yelped, clapped his hands, but not a one looked up. He walked back down and into the small herd, smacking the ones close to him on their haunches, urging them up the rise.
A shock of instant clarity stopped him in his tracks. The cows streamed past, perhaps finally realizing that the forage was more bountiful and less spiny on the other side of the hill. The sound of the frosted crabgrass crunching under their hooves made him look down at his feet. His boots were soaked more than an inch above the sole, letting a chill seep in.
The lists. They were purposely inefficient. His daddy intended for him to make mistakes, to have to do things over again, to take more time every day. Daddy took him out of school last February, claiming hardship on the ranch because some of the cows were calving early. They had to attend to the newborns and their mothers, separating them from the herd, rubbing the calves down every night, keeping their pens clean. By the time they'd been stabilized, the rest of the hiefers were ready to give birth. Now he was being home-schooled. If he went back in September, where would he be, back in third grade? He figured he'd never see the inside of a classroom again.
The boy watched the cows move beyond his sight. He worried a thistle with the toe of his boot, testing the soil for arability. Crouching down, carefully avoiding the spiny leaves, he pinched the rosette at its base, then yanked it up and out. The soil turned over easily as he raked the broken ground with his fingers.
He left the cows on their own and headed home.
So many questions sprung up in his head. What could he use as a landmark? When would Daddy begin tilling the open field for pasture? Could be as soon as the spring. The thistles might prompt him to get it done, but it might also put him off for a year. How long would it take for the lunch pail to settle, to lose its identifiability, to crumble into the earth? Probably a hundred years. Certainly not within the next 4 months.
He shrugged his shoulders and picked up his pace, began to run. His stomach was grumbling. The solution of what to do with the snake would come when it came.
end, chapter 2