Read Online Hippomobile! by Jeff Tapia - Free Book Online Page B

up to. 3 We just told them, “Go ask Grandpa Homer. He’ll tell ya.”
    We pushed and took a right at the corner where the old Stop sign was laying flat on its face and left the square behind us and pushed our way down Water Street. That was the street with the giant water tower on it that was the tallest structure in town. The name WYMORE was printed on it in thick black letters, but on account of all the sun and the wind and the grit, the name was all faded out and looked more like WYMORE . 4
    By the time we got to the next corner, our arms were already aching, and we were still only at Baker Street. We know Baker Street good as the man in the moon because that’s where we used to live at back when we were little kids. Our old house has done seen its better days, though. The front porch is sagging like a belly after a good Sunday meal, and the steps leading up to it are all rotted out like teeth. The front door is so wobbly, it could be blown in by the first wolf that comes around, and the windows are all busted out like black eyes. Most of the paint’s chipped off, too, and up on the roof there’s a hole where the chimney must’ve been.
    â€œKinda good to be livin’ at the Any, ain’t it?”
    â€œSure is, Jimmy James.”
    We each picked up our side of the wheelbarrow and marched onward. According to Grandpa Milton’s directions, we still had several blocks to go, and we ain’t exaggerating when we say that somehow the blocks were getting longer and longer the farther we walked on them, like they was stretching like taffy. So we tried swapping wheelbarrow sides, and we tried walking backwards, and we even traded off wearing the straw hat, but the wheelbarrow got heavier no matter what we did. By the time we reached the fork in the road we were scouting for, both of us had blisters on our hands the size of baked beans.
    But we didn’t stop, and soon the blacktop ran out and we hit dirt gravel. Grandpa Milton told us to keep a lookout for a rusty mailbox on our left. Said we couldn’t miss it on account of that the red flag would be sticking up. And true to his word, we spotted the mailbox from far off and were happier than clams.
    But soon as we got there and put down the wheelbarrow, we blew on our hands and looked around and saw what we were up against. Short of that mailbox, there wasn’t anything out there except for weeds, weeds, and more weeds. There wasn’t even no sign as to where exactly Gottfried’s house could’ve stood at. There wasn’t a gate, and there wasn’t a porch, and there wasn’t a hole in the roof on account of that there wasn’t no roof. It was just like Grandpa Milton said. Nothing but wind and bluestem.
    â€œNow what are we gonna do?”
    â€œI was gonna ask you the same thing.”
    We pulled the shovel out of the wheelbarrow, and we took the bucket and walked our way through the weeds. We were hoping we’d still maybe find a portion of Gottfried’s house in there, like maybe a step or a patch of floor or even a nightstand without a bed next to it. But the only thing in them weeds was all the hoppers we were scaring up. And they jumped on our shoulders, and they clung to our shirts, and a few of them got comfy up in our hair.
    We finally stopped looking and just picked what we thought was a good spot to start digging at. But it didn’t take us long to determine that the dirt was harder than a day-old dinner roll. The shovel busted clean off soon as it broke ground, and we were left standing there holding the handle. So we got down on our knees, but by the time we managed to dig out our first real dirt clod, we were as wore out as a welcome mat.
    â€œJimmy James?”
    â€œYeah, Stella?”
    â€œThis ain’t no use.”
    â€œNope. It sure ain’t.”

 
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    WE WERE AS EXHAUSTED as a tailpipe that night and couldn’t hardly wait any longer for dot