Read Online A Far Piece to Canaan by Sam Halpern - Free Book Online Page A

drag our bare feet in. Fred was feeling great, and come on singing.
    Get out th’ way, ole Dan Tucker .
    Hit’s too late for t’ get your supper .
    Get out th’ way, ole Dan Tucker .
    Hit’s too late for t’ get your supper .
    Now, ole Dan Tucker was a nice ole man .
    Warshed his face in a fryin’ pan .
    Combed his head with a wagon wheel .
    And died with a toothache in his heel .
    When we got to the thicket, Fred started checking trees for handles. He wouldn’t use just any forked limb, it had to be a perfect Y and that ain’t easy to find. It took us forever to get just what he wanted and I thought I’d go buggy. Then we had to bark them. Elm bark don’t come off easy and you cut a little too deep you’re back hunting forks, so it took a couple more hours just to skin them and cut the grooves around the top. Once we had that done we cut rubber strips about a half-inch wide from the inner tube and tied them over the grooves in the handles with the Bull Durham twine. We made the loaders out of some soft rawhide. Boy, they were pretty. Fred loaded up a rock and took aim at a fence post. Bam! He hit it, leaving a dent in the split locust log. I didn’t do so hot, but managed to hit the post third time around.
    â€œBet you never been a-froggin’, have you, hun’ney?” Fred said, grinning at me.
    â€œNot with slingshots,” I said.
    Fred cocked his head. “Well, that’s just what we’re gonna do. I been watchin’ around th’ pond and hit’s got th’ best crop of bullfrogs in years. Let’s go!
    â€œYou ever eat frog legs?” Fred asked as we walked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, hun’ney, they’re good, but you got to keep a tight lid on when you fry ’em.”
    â€œHow come?” I asked, stopping to pick a nettle out of my heel.
    â€œâ€™Cause they’ll jump right outta th’ skillet’s why.”
    â€œAw.”
    â€œYeah, I ain’t a-lyin’. When your ma fixes them she better put a lid on or they’ll come right out on th’ floor.”
    It sounded like a tall story, but Fred had never lied to me. “They taste good?”
    â€œOh, little like chicken. We ain’t had a good mess of frog legs this year ’cause I didn’t have a slingshot. Pa’s been a-workin’ so hard. I’d like to bring him home a mess.”
    â€œYou can have mine today,” I said, wondering if frog legs was kosher. I felt sorry for our dads because they had been working so hard. When Alfred did find a day off, he’d have his old radio on, listening to the Cincinnati Reds. Most of the time, though, he just worked terrible hard.
    It was almost three before we got to the pond because we had to pick up rocks for ammunition and get a gunnysack. The rocks had to be perfect to suit Fred, of course. When we finally got started, Fred said he’d lead and that I could get the second frog.
    â€œKeep low,” Fred whispered, hunching down. “There’s a big one usually sets right in that little nick in th’ bank just on th’ other side of that willa.”
    We hunched down more at the edge of the tree, getting lower and lower until we were on all fours and going so slow and quiet you could hear all sorts of sounds around us. At the spot, Fred put in a load and slowly started getting up like he was afraid his backbone would pop and make noise. Finally, he was standing straight as an arrow. You couldn’t even see him breathe. Then he raised the slingshot and pulled back until the rubber got tight, then back some more.
    Yurrkkk ker-splot, splot, splot, splot and I almost jumped out of my skin as the frog shot out over the water making four or five leaps on top before he sank.
    â€œHe’s a big one,” said Fred. “Half a foot long if he’s anything. I’m gonna get him before this day’s over,” and he didn’t seem put out at all