Read Online A Quality of Light by Richard Wagamese - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Wagamese
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you think we should play at school on Monday? You know, get some practice?”
“Are you
crazy!”
he shouted, arms beginning that erratic flapping. “We don’t play at school until the tournament. That gives us six weeks to tune up. Remember, you pledged.”
“Wow. So all we do for six weeks is get ready? Every day like today?”
“Yeah. Training.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“But remember, Josh, you can’t tell anyone. Not your parents, not anyone. For a while anyway.”
“I got it. How long?”
“Till we’re good.”
“How long will that take?”
“After today? Not too long,” he said. “Not too long at all.”
O f all the farmer’s rituals, the one I love the best is the washing up. The sweat and grit of the land mixed with the flowered aroma of the soap has always induced deep pangs of hunger in me. But it’s the tactile facet of the ritual that charms me. Land and water, the stuff of life, coming together in a familiar rubbing of the hands and splashing of the face. I’ve always thought of it as the one human ceremony that joined us all, primordial to present, Bedouin to fisherman to farmer, linked forever by well-scrubbed hands and the common delight in a meal well taken. Scrubbing and rubbing the whitewash, dirt and perspiration from me that day was pure boyhood glee.
Johnny was coming out of the other bathroom off the kitchen by the time I got back downstairs. The afternoon in the sunshine had tanned him a little and he looked far healthier than the pale reed of a boy I’d first seen at his grandfather’s. He grinned and held a finger up to his lips. I nodded, and we headed into the living room to await my mother’s call to supper. Life without television leads people to a level of invention unseen in more electronically attuned homes. Cards, board games and hobbies were the television of the day back then, and although we had an Electrohome console with record player and radio, it was seldom used. My mother’s gospel records and Mozart concertos and my dad’s Floyd Cramer and Chet Atkins records were as close as we ever came to contemporary entertainment. “Cool,” Johnny said and headed over to the unit as soon as we entered the room. He fiddled with the radio dials and for the next minute or two the room was filled with snippets of sound, until he finally heard what he wanted and eased up the volume.
“Curt Gowdy here on a day that’s seen some dramatic ups and downs at Tiger Stadium. The visiting Boston Red Sox lead the Tigers by a run in the seventh, erasing a three-run deficit on the homer by Tony Conigliaro. Tony C.’s bat is in fine form this season after his sensational rookie year last year. Twenty-four balls cleared the fences for the Fenway faithful last year, and he’s on his way to eclipse that mark this campaign.”
“See, Josh, baseball’s everywhere!” Johnny chortled. “We can even watch it on the TV at my place sometimes.”
“Wow. I’ve never seen a real game before.”
“Me neither, really. We never watch it at my place.”
We settled into chairs to listen to the mellifluent voice that flowed from the radio and although we both had some trouble identifying the situations he was describing, we listened intently, eager to hear anything that might give us a hint, an edge, an advantage in this game we were discovering. When my mother entered carrying a small tray of cheese and crackers, Johnny leapt for the volume control, spun to greet my mother and smiled shyly all in one flash of motion.
“Hi!” he said, managing to sound casual.
My mother grinned and set the tray down on the coffee table. “Well, hello, John! What are you boys listening to?” she asked secretively.
“Oh, nothing really. Just stuff. Checking around, you know,” Johnny said, looking hard at me and pumping his fist against his thigh.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Just stuff. How’s supper?”
“It’s ready. We’re just waiting on your father to come in. Roast pork, beans,
“Are you
crazy!”
he shouted, arms beginning that erratic flapping. “We don’t play at school until the tournament. That gives us six weeks to tune up. Remember, you pledged.”
“Wow. So all we do for six weeks is get ready? Every day like today?”
“Yeah. Training.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“But remember, Josh, you can’t tell anyone. Not your parents, not anyone. For a while anyway.”
“I got it. How long?”
“Till we’re good.”
“How long will that take?”
“After today? Not too long,” he said. “Not too long at all.”
O f all the farmer’s rituals, the one I love the best is the washing up. The sweat and grit of the land mixed with the flowered aroma of the soap has always induced deep pangs of hunger in me. But it’s the tactile facet of the ritual that charms me. Land and water, the stuff of life, coming together in a familiar rubbing of the hands and splashing of the face. I’ve always thought of it as the one human ceremony that joined us all, primordial to present, Bedouin to fisherman to farmer, linked forever by well-scrubbed hands and the common delight in a meal well taken. Scrubbing and rubbing the whitewash, dirt and perspiration from me that day was pure boyhood glee.
Johnny was coming out of the other bathroom off the kitchen by the time I got back downstairs. The afternoon in the sunshine had tanned him a little and he looked far healthier than the pale reed of a boy I’d first seen at his grandfather’s. He grinned and held a finger up to his lips. I nodded, and we headed into the living room to await my mother’s call to supper. Life without television leads people to a level of invention unseen in more electronically attuned homes. Cards, board games and hobbies were the television of the day back then, and although we had an Electrohome console with record player and radio, it was seldom used. My mother’s gospel records and Mozart concertos and my dad’s Floyd Cramer and Chet Atkins records were as close as we ever came to contemporary entertainment. “Cool,” Johnny said and headed over to the unit as soon as we entered the room. He fiddled with the radio dials and for the next minute or two the room was filled with snippets of sound, until he finally heard what he wanted and eased up the volume.
“Curt Gowdy here on a day that’s seen some dramatic ups and downs at Tiger Stadium. The visiting Boston Red Sox lead the Tigers by a run in the seventh, erasing a three-run deficit on the homer by Tony Conigliaro. Tony C.’s bat is in fine form this season after his sensational rookie year last year. Twenty-four balls cleared the fences for the Fenway faithful last year, and he’s on his way to eclipse that mark this campaign.”
“See, Josh, baseball’s everywhere!” Johnny chortled. “We can even watch it on the TV at my place sometimes.”
“Wow. I’ve never seen a real game before.”
“Me neither, really. We never watch it at my place.”
We settled into chairs to listen to the mellifluent voice that flowed from the radio and although we both had some trouble identifying the situations he was describing, we listened intently, eager to hear anything that might give us a hint, an edge, an advantage in this game we were discovering. When my mother entered carrying a small tray of cheese and crackers, Johnny leapt for the volume control, spun to greet my mother and smiled shyly all in one flash of motion.
“Hi!” he said, managing to sound casual.
My mother grinned and set the tray down on the coffee table. “Well, hello, John! What are you boys listening to?” she asked secretively.
“Oh, nothing really. Just stuff. Checking around, you know,” Johnny said, looking hard at me and pumping his fist against his thigh.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Just stuff. How’s supper?”
“It’s ready. We’re just waiting on your father to come in. Roast pork, beans,
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