A Year Down Yonder

by Richard Peck

“Them Burdicks isn’t worth the powder and shot to blow them up. They’re like a pack of hound dogs. They’ll chase livestock, suck eggs, and lick the skillet. And steal? They’d steal a hot stove and come back for the smoke.”

Mrs. Effie Wilcox was first in line. She was either Grandma’s best friend or her worst enemy, depending on the day. And she was an unusual-looking lady. Cross-eyed, and her teeth came forth to meet you.

You never saw a more surprised woman in your life. “Cold?” she said. “It doesn’t get cold anymore. The climate’s changed. When I was a girl, we had to walk in our sleep to keep from freezing to death.”

Underneath, she was wearing Grandpa’s rubber chest-waders that were like rubber bib overalls. They strained across her bosom and pulled at the shoulder straps. She was all in black rubber almost up to her chins.

I moved on to biology, falling into the rhythm of Grandma’s snore. A Seth Thomas steeple clock stood on a high shelf. When it struck ten, Grandma jerked awake. She looked around the room astonished. It was her belief that she never slept, not even in bed.

Grandma considered my choice. The toothpick hovered. “That them?” she said at last. “Whoooeee, two dollars and seventy-five cents.” Her eyes filled her spectacles. “I remember when you could shoe a whole family and the horse for that money.”

“She says it feels like it hit the floor.” Mrs. Weidenbach gave me a cold shoulder because I was sticking like Grandma’s glue. “But as you know, I never gossip.”

I didn’t know what to make of that. Maxine Patch had a figure you noticed, but not the face to go with it. And she was thirty-six, so I probably thought that was way too old to be thinking about romance.

And though I couldn’t believe my eyes—and heaven knows, Royce couldn’t believe his—the snake was all that Maxine wore.

When I offered to give Grandma a hand, she snapped my head off. “Go on up to the house and study for them exams,” she barked.