Montana’s Rising Son

1 comment
A Story, For Fun, humor, writing

.

I’m not sure if it’s the smell of breakfast, or the pig beating that’s taking place, or the old lady hollering in the kitchen that woke me. Either way, I pull on yesterday’s dirty t-shirt and socks and climb out my window, boots in hand.

.

On mornings like this, when she’s already tenderizing lunch’s cut of pork with the backside of a twenty-pound cast iron skillet, I skip breakfast and yank a pair of damp jeans off the line. The pants will dry soon enough in Montana’s August sun.

.

I lick the spittle from the corners of my mouth as I creep toward the barn. I cannot ignore the hunger gnawing at my guts so I pause underneath the kitchen window. “Pssst. Grandpa, hey grandpa,” I whisper from my hiding place. “Bring me some biscuits and a coffee.”

.

Above me, the crank window lurches open and I look up with hopeful expectation of a little something to eat.

.

“You want biscuits, boy?” Grandma Jones says as she hangs out the window.

.

Uh-oh. I duck my head and hold real still in the bushes, hoping she doesn’t see me. My soggy pants are riding something fierce but I don’t dare move to adjust the misplaced seam.

.

Thunk!

.

“Whoa,” I yelp. A biscuit smacks the top of my head and barely touches the ground before one of the scraggly farm dogs rushes in and gobbles it up, giving away my hiding place. The little stealer-heeler licks my hand.

.

“Git outta here! Go. Go on and git,” I say just as something wet slips down the side of my neck.

.

“Oops, I almost forgot, here’s you some coffee too,” she says as she shakes the remaining grounds outta the percolator basket.

.

Dillon, grandpa’s farmhand, pulls into the drive and idles his pick-up, “Heya big britches, whatcha do to get Grandma Jones so riled this early in the morning? Do you reckon it has anything at all to do with that motorcycle someone parked sideways in her rose garden in the middle of the night?”

.

Grandma cranked shut the window and I wiped coffee crud off my neck.

.

“You gonna help bale hay or what? Daylight’s burning. Time’s a wasting. And your grandpa’s already waitin’ at the gate. Let’s go!”

.

And with that, I jump into the back of the rig and start another day on the farm. Dillon cranks the radio as “Man of Constant Sorrow” comes on.

 

.

.

Advertisements

One thought on “Montana’s Rising Son”

  1. You know what? I think it’s possible that I’ve met these people. I love to listen to your stories, you take me right there and I always want more!

If you have somethin' to say, I reckon this is where you should do it. (If you're a newbie hereabouts, your first comment will be held for approval - cuts down on spam.) Thank ye for chatting!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s