Read Online The Fence My Father Built by Linda S. Clare - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda S. Clare
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you were still dancing, holding out your arms like angel's wings.
You are an angel—my angel. You smiled, and it reminded me of morning in the desert, when the sun breathes the world alive again. For a moment I thought about not taking you back when the visit was over.
If you stayed, you could learn the flute, the beads, and our dying Native language. You’d make sure no one disturbs the sacred things near the creek. When I’m gone, you could take my place under the cottonwood tree.
Keeping you sounds good, but life is too complicated for that. Even the state says you should be with your mother, although your hair is slick and straight as our ancestors. Only the freckles across your nose set you apart. I’ve wondered a million times which path you’ll take, Native or white. Like the gnarled Manzanita that grows in this desert, there are many directions you could go.
6
A ll my life I’ve been a seeker: seeker of truth, seeker of my past, many times seeker of my car keys. I knew I’d have to find the truth about Joseph Pond and untangle this mess over a silly creek. I needed to discover whether Murkee was a good place to raise kids. Chaz, I was sure about. The final papers would come through any time now. Most of all I craved the peace of country life.
I also was aware that breathing country air wasn’t going to pay the bills. I would need to apply soon to the unified school district, a tiny district twenty miles away that included three small towns. Library services were probably a luxury, but I could teach history if I had to. If no teaching posts were open, then I would sweep floors, wait tables, or whatever it took to keep us going.
If—no, when —I found work, I’d look into finding an apartment. Sharing a bed with a surly teen while my son bunked with a sewing machine wasn’t going to work out for long. Much as I appreciated Lutie's hospitality, I wasn’t sure I could stand her constant scripture-quoting or Tiny's noisy pigs. Back at the little café, Dove mentioned Mrs. Johnson's duplexes.That would be a place to start. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson needed a caretaker, a fix-it person. I didn’t have the first idea of fixing leaky pipes, but I could learn. A duplex in town would at least be a little quieter. I’d get on it—soon.
I was slowing down gradually to the pace around me, a pace that meant going to town only when necessary, doing whatever came next instead of sitting around in staff meetings writing five-year goals. Here I was on a Saturday morning, babysitting a wounded pig, daydreaming out loud.
After Jim's accident, he could no longer sleep out with the rest of the animals. At least that's what Tru and Tiny told Lutie, although she fussed about converting the space next to the newly repaired TV into a pigpen. Still, she furnished the patient with a ratty blanket and even looked the other way when Tru slipped him table scraps. As I was discovering, her crusty demeanor was a shell for a deep reverence of life, a concern that softened her.
Jim improved every day, and soon he began to wander the house freely. He’d bump into things with the Elizabethan collar and then back up with this surprised look. He couldn’t figure out what was different, poor thing, just as he obviously wasn’t sure why he could no longer snort and squeal. I sympathized with him. The changes in my life were just as baffling, and I, too, couldn’t decide exactly what was different.
“You know, Jim, they need a library in Murkee,” I said, straightening his bed while he watched a video on the TV that Tiny had so graciously repaired. “The school has about ten books, and they’re all old encyclopedias. No wonder the kids all turn out to be ranch hands and truck drivers.”
In fourth grade Loren H. had called me names in the school library, and I’d punched him so hard he knocked the globe off a shelf and split it in two. Mrs. Davis, the librarian, sent me into the hall, and I decided to have my own library
You are an angel—my angel. You smiled, and it reminded me of morning in the desert, when the sun breathes the world alive again. For a moment I thought about not taking you back when the visit was over.
If you stayed, you could learn the flute, the beads, and our dying Native language. You’d make sure no one disturbs the sacred things near the creek. When I’m gone, you could take my place under the cottonwood tree.
Keeping you sounds good, but life is too complicated for that. Even the state says you should be with your mother, although your hair is slick and straight as our ancestors. Only the freckles across your nose set you apart. I’ve wondered a million times which path you’ll take, Native or white. Like the gnarled Manzanita that grows in this desert, there are many directions you could go.
6
A ll my life I’ve been a seeker: seeker of truth, seeker of my past, many times seeker of my car keys. I knew I’d have to find the truth about Joseph Pond and untangle this mess over a silly creek. I needed to discover whether Murkee was a good place to raise kids. Chaz, I was sure about. The final papers would come through any time now. Most of all I craved the peace of country life.
I also was aware that breathing country air wasn’t going to pay the bills. I would need to apply soon to the unified school district, a tiny district twenty miles away that included three small towns. Library services were probably a luxury, but I could teach history if I had to. If no teaching posts were open, then I would sweep floors, wait tables, or whatever it took to keep us going.
If—no, when —I found work, I’d look into finding an apartment. Sharing a bed with a surly teen while my son bunked with a sewing machine wasn’t going to work out for long. Much as I appreciated Lutie's hospitality, I wasn’t sure I could stand her constant scripture-quoting or Tiny's noisy pigs. Back at the little café, Dove mentioned Mrs. Johnson's duplexes.That would be a place to start. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson needed a caretaker, a fix-it person. I didn’t have the first idea of fixing leaky pipes, but I could learn. A duplex in town would at least be a little quieter. I’d get on it—soon.
I was slowing down gradually to the pace around me, a pace that meant going to town only when necessary, doing whatever came next instead of sitting around in staff meetings writing five-year goals. Here I was on a Saturday morning, babysitting a wounded pig, daydreaming out loud.
After Jim's accident, he could no longer sleep out with the rest of the animals. At least that's what Tru and Tiny told Lutie, although she fussed about converting the space next to the newly repaired TV into a pigpen. Still, she furnished the patient with a ratty blanket and even looked the other way when Tru slipped him table scraps. As I was discovering, her crusty demeanor was a shell for a deep reverence of life, a concern that softened her.
Jim improved every day, and soon he began to wander the house freely. He’d bump into things with the Elizabethan collar and then back up with this surprised look. He couldn’t figure out what was different, poor thing, just as he obviously wasn’t sure why he could no longer snort and squeal. I sympathized with him. The changes in my life were just as baffling, and I, too, couldn’t decide exactly what was different.
“You know, Jim, they need a library in Murkee,” I said, straightening his bed while he watched a video on the TV that Tiny had so graciously repaired. “The school has about ten books, and they’re all old encyclopedias. No wonder the kids all turn out to be ranch hands and truck drivers.”
In fourth grade Loren H. had called me names in the school library, and I’d punched him so hard he knocked the globe off a shelf and split it in two. Mrs. Davis, the librarian, sent me into the hall, and I decided to have my own library
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