Read Online Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Pittman
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her and take her far, far away. Instead she took a tumble, and her tiny body started to roll uncontrollably down the hill. The windmill temporarily cut off my sight line, but then she reappeared, still rolling and rolling. The forces of motion diminished as she reached the bottom of the hill, and her body flopped to a stop. She lay flat against the ground, looking upward. She wasn’t moving.
A short intake of breath caused me to freeze in my tracks. Then I came to my senses and ran to see if she needed help. The windmill loomed before me, and then I was beside it and the giant sails churned and I was struck by how unreal this entire scene seemed. Again I was reminded of a children’s story, and I wondered if maybe I were some kind of prince, coming to the rescue of a fair maiden. By the time I reached the little girl, she was already using her elbows to prop herself up, and I noticed that her curious gaze fell directly on me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi back. Are you okay?”
She scrunched up her nose at me. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Because you fell?”
She let out a small giggle. “No, I didn’t. I was just playing a game. The hill is very good for rolling. But it makes me dizzy, so I have to wait for the world to stop spinning before I get up. Once, I didn’t wait and I fell back down, that time for real.”
“I see,” I said, grinning. She was a cute kid, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and a clear bright smile that gave the sun a run for its shine. She wore a pair of dungarees and a pink shirt, and there was a matching pink ribbon in her hair. Without much experience around kids, it was hard to tell her age, but I guessed it was around seven or eight. “Well,” I continued, “as long as you’re all right, I guess I should be moving on.”
“Okay,” she replied.
I gave her one last look before walking back through the silky green grass. A second later, she was right by my side, matching me step for step. I looked down at her and she looked up at me.
“You seem nice,” she suddenly told me.
“Well, I am nice,” I said, thrown off by this little girl’s openness. It occurred to me that I shouldn’t linger and I shouldn’t encourage her, because, honestly, I was a stranger and she was an innocent little girl and this was the nineties, and people were suspicious.
“Where are your parents?” I asked.
“My mom’s up at the house. Making lunch. I get impatient waiting for her to cook it. Impatient, that’s Momma’s word. So sometimes I go for a quick run to the windmill and back. It’s fun.” She cocked her head with curiosity. “My name’s Janey.”
“Janey?”
“My mom, she likes names that end with a y. I’ve heard her say it’s her way of keeping me young, but I’m not going to be young forever. Someday I’ll be Jane. That’s my real name.”
Janey was a real charmer. “I like Janey, too. It suits you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Brian.”
“Briany,” she said, and then giggled. “That sounds yucky.”
“Yes, it does.”
We had reached the windmill and I stopped, figuring this was probably a good place to break off our entertaining conversation. I had to get back to the car and my journey and she had to get back to lunch. Standing in the noonday sun, though, surrounded by the luscious greenery of the valley and the leafy trees and this wondrous windmill, I felt overcome with emotion. I stole another look up at the windmill. It was a simple wooden structure about forty feet tall, with a door that led inside and a series of windows on a second floor, which was surrounded by a catwalk. Atop the structure was a cap, which housed the spinning mechanism. Up close it was even more magnificent and words escaped me as I stood transfixed.
“You like the windmill?” Janey asked.
“It’s . . . pretty amazing. Is it yours?”
She nodded her head proudly. “Sometimes I come down to play here. My mom does, too. The windmill is my mom’s . . .
A short intake of breath caused me to freeze in my tracks. Then I came to my senses and ran to see if she needed help. The windmill loomed before me, and then I was beside it and the giant sails churned and I was struck by how unreal this entire scene seemed. Again I was reminded of a children’s story, and I wondered if maybe I were some kind of prince, coming to the rescue of a fair maiden. By the time I reached the little girl, she was already using her elbows to prop herself up, and I noticed that her curious gaze fell directly on me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi back. Are you okay?”
She scrunched up her nose at me. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Because you fell?”
She let out a small giggle. “No, I didn’t. I was just playing a game. The hill is very good for rolling. But it makes me dizzy, so I have to wait for the world to stop spinning before I get up. Once, I didn’t wait and I fell back down, that time for real.”
“I see,” I said, grinning. She was a cute kid, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and a clear bright smile that gave the sun a run for its shine. She wore a pair of dungarees and a pink shirt, and there was a matching pink ribbon in her hair. Without much experience around kids, it was hard to tell her age, but I guessed it was around seven or eight. “Well,” I continued, “as long as you’re all right, I guess I should be moving on.”
“Okay,” she replied.
I gave her one last look before walking back through the silky green grass. A second later, she was right by my side, matching me step for step. I looked down at her and she looked up at me.
“You seem nice,” she suddenly told me.
“Well, I am nice,” I said, thrown off by this little girl’s openness. It occurred to me that I shouldn’t linger and I shouldn’t encourage her, because, honestly, I was a stranger and she was an innocent little girl and this was the nineties, and people were suspicious.
“Where are your parents?” I asked.
“My mom’s up at the house. Making lunch. I get impatient waiting for her to cook it. Impatient, that’s Momma’s word. So sometimes I go for a quick run to the windmill and back. It’s fun.” She cocked her head with curiosity. “My name’s Janey.”
“Janey?”
“My mom, she likes names that end with a y. I’ve heard her say it’s her way of keeping me young, but I’m not going to be young forever. Someday I’ll be Jane. That’s my real name.”
Janey was a real charmer. “I like Janey, too. It suits you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Brian.”
“Briany,” she said, and then giggled. “That sounds yucky.”
“Yes, it does.”
We had reached the windmill and I stopped, figuring this was probably a good place to break off our entertaining conversation. I had to get back to the car and my journey and she had to get back to lunch. Standing in the noonday sun, though, surrounded by the luscious greenery of the valley and the leafy trees and this wondrous windmill, I felt overcome with emotion. I stole another look up at the windmill. It was a simple wooden structure about forty feet tall, with a door that led inside and a series of windows on a second floor, which was surrounded by a catwalk. Atop the structure was a cap, which housed the spinning mechanism. Up close it was even more magnificent and words escaped me as I stood transfixed.
“You like the windmill?” Janey asked.
“It’s . . . pretty amazing. Is it yours?”
She nodded her head proudly. “Sometimes I come down to play here. My mom does, too. The windmill is my mom’s . . .
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