need all that noise in the house for?”
A mile to home, a mile to relive his touchdown over and over. Jimmy knew he’d have this moment for the rest of his life. And it made him want more.
Cutting across the Bostic and Philpott backyards, he crossed the road and finally skipped up the back steps into the kitchen. The screen door clapped closed behind him.
“Daddy-o, you here?” Jimmy draped his letterman jacket over the back of the kitchen chair and set the football in the empty fruit bowl. The house was dark save for a lone lamp shining from the living room. “Dad? Do we have any popcorn?”
Jimmy opened all the cupboards and scoured the pantry. Empty. When was the last time they’d been to the market? Rats, he kind of had his heart set on popcorn.
He collected the football to show his dad, but when he approached, his old man was fast asleep in his chair, a book open and pressed against his chest.
Jimmy gently tapped his foot. “You’ll get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that, Pop.”
“Wh-wha?” Orie Westbrook jerked upright with a snort, running his hand over his thick hair. “Hey, son.” Jimmy couldn’t gauge it really, but he considered his dad to be a handsome man, maybe even good-looking in a John Garfield kind of way. The gals in town seemed to take a second glance when he passed by and said his name all sweet like. “Heeey, Orie.” “When did you come in?”
“Just now. Coach gave me the game ball.” Jimmy spun the ball between his hands, dropping to the sofa.
Dad lowered the footrest, shaking the sleep from his head. “Congratulations.”
“What say we do something, Dad? You know, celebrate.”
“Like what?” Pop jutted his chin toward the ball. “I can build a shadow box for that if you want.”
“S-sure, that’d be great.” So his moment of glory could fit into a glass box. Dad’s kind gesture deflated Jimmy’s enthusiasm.
“Got that old wood from the trees we logged and stacked in the barn. Good solid walnut.” Pop eased up from his chair, stretching, yawning. “Any of that strawberry pie left?”
Dad wasn’t much of a cook, but he loved pie so he’d mastered the art of crust making. The summer Nana taught him, Jimmy never ate so many dry, doughy, burned, runny cherry, apple, strawberry, peach, pecan, and pumpkin pies.
He swore off pie for the rest of the year. But now? Pop’s pies beat the bakery’s.
“Dad, let’s go to the movies. Or down to the soda fountain.”
“We already saw the movie. Weren’t one I’d pay a nickel to see again. You know, in my day that’s all a picture show cost. A nickel.”
“So you’ve said.”
“And what would I do at the soda fountain?” Jimmy heard the refrigerator door open, then close. “Got to be up early in the morning. So do you, boy. We’re pulling rock from Crawford’s field. I’m going to need your help.”
“Pop, I don’t want to spend my Saturday digging limestone from Crawford’s field. I don’t know why you do either. You’ve got a good surveying job. Why do you have to work on the weekends? Don’t know what you’re collecting all the stone for anyway.”
They had their own ten acres and then some that Pop never did anything with other than to ride a tractor over all summer, cutting the grass. He’d hemmed the property line with Tennessee limestone and that was that. Otherwise, he filled their barn with the stone and lumber he collected for no apparent reason.
“Watch your tone.” Pop came through the kitchen door with a slice of pie on his plate. “You never know what good those stones will be one day.” He eyed Jimmy across the room. “I’m heading out at six. Be ready.”
“Why do I have to break my back, spend my time and sweat on your stones?”
“Because those stones are yours too. Ever think you’ll get married one day, have a family? I got six acres I’m planning to give you. The materials I’m collecting will build a nice house for your wife. Save you a boatload
A mile to home, a mile to relive his touchdown over and over. Jimmy knew he’d have this moment for the rest of his life. And it made him want more.
Cutting across the Bostic and Philpott backyards, he crossed the road and finally skipped up the back steps into the kitchen. The screen door clapped closed behind him.
“Daddy-o, you here?” Jimmy draped his letterman jacket over the back of the kitchen chair and set the football in the empty fruit bowl. The house was dark save for a lone lamp shining from the living room. “Dad? Do we have any popcorn?”
Jimmy opened all the cupboards and scoured the pantry. Empty. When was the last time they’d been to the market? Rats, he kind of had his heart set on popcorn.
He collected the football to show his dad, but when he approached, his old man was fast asleep in his chair, a book open and pressed against his chest.
Jimmy gently tapped his foot. “You’ll get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that, Pop.”
“Wh-wha?” Orie Westbrook jerked upright with a snort, running his hand over his thick hair. “Hey, son.” Jimmy couldn’t gauge it really, but he considered his dad to be a handsome man, maybe even good-looking in a John Garfield kind of way. The gals in town seemed to take a second glance when he passed by and said his name all sweet like. “Heeey, Orie.” “When did you come in?”
“Just now. Coach gave me the game ball.” Jimmy spun the ball between his hands, dropping to the sofa.
Dad lowered the footrest, shaking the sleep from his head. “Congratulations.”
“What say we do something, Dad? You know, celebrate.”
“Like what?” Pop jutted his chin toward the ball. “I can build a shadow box for that if you want.”
“S-sure, that’d be great.” So his moment of glory could fit into a glass box. Dad’s kind gesture deflated Jimmy’s enthusiasm.
“Got that old wood from the trees we logged and stacked in the barn. Good solid walnut.” Pop eased up from his chair, stretching, yawning. “Any of that strawberry pie left?”
Dad wasn’t much of a cook, but he loved pie so he’d mastered the art of crust making. The summer Nana taught him, Jimmy never ate so many dry, doughy, burned, runny cherry, apple, strawberry, peach, pecan, and pumpkin pies.
He swore off pie for the rest of the year. But now? Pop’s pies beat the bakery’s.
“Dad, let’s go to the movies. Or down to the soda fountain.”
“We already saw the movie. Weren’t one I’d pay a nickel to see again. You know, in my day that’s all a picture show cost. A nickel.”
“So you’ve said.”
“And what would I do at the soda fountain?” Jimmy heard the refrigerator door open, then close. “Got to be up early in the morning. So do you, boy. We’re pulling rock from Crawford’s field. I’m going to need your help.”
“Pop, I don’t want to spend my Saturday digging limestone from Crawford’s field. I don’t know why you do either. You’ve got a good surveying job. Why do you have to work on the weekends? Don’t know what you’re collecting all the stone for anyway.”
They had their own ten acres and then some that Pop never did anything with other than to ride a tractor over all summer, cutting the grass. He’d hemmed the property line with Tennessee limestone and that was that. Otherwise, he filled their barn with the stone and lumber he collected for no apparent reason.
“Watch your tone.” Pop came through the kitchen door with a slice of pie on his plate. “You never know what good those stones will be one day.” He eyed Jimmy across the room. “I’m heading out at six. Be ready.”
“Why do I have to break my back, spend my time and sweat on your stones?”
“Because those stones are yours too. Ever think you’ll get married one day, have a family? I got six acres I’m planning to give you. The materials I’m collecting will build a nice house for your wife. Save you a boatload
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