Huff Driesen had been too drunk to drive home to his daughter’s and was sleeping on the sofa in the hotel lobby.
“I wish I had a can of white paint and a brush,” said Vera. “All she’s got for a marker is one of those iron crosses and by now it won’t have a fleck of paint on it. It’ll be nothing but rust. You have to whitewash those things regular – once a year, or they go to pot.”
Daniel did not respond. It was a way of expressing his reluctance to join wholeheartedly in her expedition. All the same, he had to be careful not to provoke one of his mother’s famous explosions of temper by an outright exhibition of defiance. He was treading a dangerously fine line, but he’d had some practice at it.
Once they had crossed the railroad tracks, only a few derelict shacks straggled on either side of the road. Here, outside town limits, by-laws did not apply and the yards held chicken runs and chicken coops, or lean-tos sheltering a cow. In front of the last house a gaunt red horse tethered to a discarded tractor tire lashed its tail to discourage flies and despairingly nuzzled ground that had been cropped black and bare of grass. A flock of small children hunkered in a patch of dirt before their door and stared as Vera and Daniel went by. The youngest, a boy of about three, suddenly yelled, “Pigshit!” in a challenging manner.
“Ignore him,” said Vera.
Then they were in open countryside, pasture and poplar bluffs. Vera pointed to a prominent rise about a mile distant. “That’s it. That’s the Protestant Cemetery.”
Despite the earliness of the hour, Daniel could sense the heat building insistently. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He was thirsty. He squinted at the rise. It seemed an awfully long hot walk there and back. Nor was it any piece of cake hauling the scythe. It was nearly as tall as he was.
“Your grandmother would have expected her grave to be kept clean and neat. She was a lady that demanded respect, and in my books the dead are owed every bit as much respect as the living. It’s not too big of a sacrifice to spend a little time tidying on a Sunday morning, is it? And God knows the last time that happened.”
Daniel fell farther behind his mother and the sound of her voice. He was dawdling, swatting the heads off Canada thistle with the scythe. The keen blade went through weeds and the tough prairie grass like a hot knife through butter. Roadside and ditches were spotted with colour. Purple clover, wild blue flax, yellow goat’s beard, white yarrow, and cow parsnip were sprinkled everywhere. Over the bright flowers bees hovered and droned and brighter butterflies flitted. The air was electric with a crackling and buzzing and thrumming of insects hidden in the undergrowth. Daniel felt as if he were moving in an atmosphere charged with static, walking on legs that the heat was draining of energy, turning water-muscled, draggy, listless.
His mother, on the other hand, seemed to be stepping out more and more briskly; the head of her hoe was bobbing and jerking smartly up and down over her shoulder. She kept up a running commentary on his snail’s pace, tossing out remarks. “It’s surprising how soft city boys get and afraid of work. Take my advice, Daniel, and leave off whacking the weeds in the ditches and save your strength for the ones up top. Anyways, weeds on the road allowances are a municipal responsibility. They’re no concern of yours.”
He adopted the wisest course, gave it up, slitted his eyes, propped the scythe on his shoulder, and shambled along in the dust a little more quickly.
They began to encounter traffic; farmers from south of town headed for church. First came Catholics bound for ten-thirty Mass; a little later, worshippers at the United Church. Both denominations were equally and impartially cursed by Vera, even though they reduced speed to avoid spraying Daniel and her with gravel and to gain themselves a look. Vera described it as “a slow-motion
“I wish I had a can of white paint and a brush,” said Vera. “All she’s got for a marker is one of those iron crosses and by now it won’t have a fleck of paint on it. It’ll be nothing but rust. You have to whitewash those things regular – once a year, or they go to pot.”
Daniel did not respond. It was a way of expressing his reluctance to join wholeheartedly in her expedition. All the same, he had to be careful not to provoke one of his mother’s famous explosions of temper by an outright exhibition of defiance. He was treading a dangerously fine line, but he’d had some practice at it.
Once they had crossed the railroad tracks, only a few derelict shacks straggled on either side of the road. Here, outside town limits, by-laws did not apply and the yards held chicken runs and chicken coops, or lean-tos sheltering a cow. In front of the last house a gaunt red horse tethered to a discarded tractor tire lashed its tail to discourage flies and despairingly nuzzled ground that had been cropped black and bare of grass. A flock of small children hunkered in a patch of dirt before their door and stared as Vera and Daniel went by. The youngest, a boy of about three, suddenly yelled, “Pigshit!” in a challenging manner.
“Ignore him,” said Vera.
Then they were in open countryside, pasture and poplar bluffs. Vera pointed to a prominent rise about a mile distant. “That’s it. That’s the Protestant Cemetery.”
Despite the earliness of the hour, Daniel could sense the heat building insistently. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He was thirsty. He squinted at the rise. It seemed an awfully long hot walk there and back. Nor was it any piece of cake hauling the scythe. It was nearly as tall as he was.
“Your grandmother would have expected her grave to be kept clean and neat. She was a lady that demanded respect, and in my books the dead are owed every bit as much respect as the living. It’s not too big of a sacrifice to spend a little time tidying on a Sunday morning, is it? And God knows the last time that happened.”
Daniel fell farther behind his mother and the sound of her voice. He was dawdling, swatting the heads off Canada thistle with the scythe. The keen blade went through weeds and the tough prairie grass like a hot knife through butter. Roadside and ditches were spotted with colour. Purple clover, wild blue flax, yellow goat’s beard, white yarrow, and cow parsnip were sprinkled everywhere. Over the bright flowers bees hovered and droned and brighter butterflies flitted. The air was electric with a crackling and buzzing and thrumming of insects hidden in the undergrowth. Daniel felt as if he were moving in an atmosphere charged with static, walking on legs that the heat was draining of energy, turning water-muscled, draggy, listless.
His mother, on the other hand, seemed to be stepping out more and more briskly; the head of her hoe was bobbing and jerking smartly up and down over her shoulder. She kept up a running commentary on his snail’s pace, tossing out remarks. “It’s surprising how soft city boys get and afraid of work. Take my advice, Daniel, and leave off whacking the weeds in the ditches and save your strength for the ones up top. Anyways, weeds on the road allowances are a municipal responsibility. They’re no concern of yours.”
He adopted the wisest course, gave it up, slitted his eyes, propped the scythe on his shoulder, and shambled along in the dust a little more quickly.
They began to encounter traffic; farmers from south of town headed for church. First came Catholics bound for ten-thirty Mass; a little later, worshippers at the United Church. Both denominations were equally and impartially cursed by Vera, even though they reduced speed to avoid spraying Daniel and her with gravel and to gain themselves a look. Vera described it as “a slow-motion
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