General Fiction posted December 3, 2011 |
Just another Sunday afternoon
A Hot Day In Belle Rose
by Realist101
The long hot days sweltered and steamed the delta, allowing the dogs to be lazy and no-count; even more so than they usually were. And like shiny, green statuettes, the pea~hens sat, stoic and still, up on the branches of the lowest limbs of the wilting scrub trees. The ladies of Belle Rose had to use extra powder under their armpits, and more lavender than usual too, while the little fans they waved in front of their chubby faces barely moved the stagnant air inside the First Church of Christ.
Harry sat at the back of the little one room building, where the odor of fresh paint hung in the sticky humidity; the result of an all day effort to get the chore completed before the preacher made his monthly visit. He sat limp with heat fatigue, just in front of where other single menfolk stood, beefy hands on the back of the pews ... all dutifully opening and shutting their mouths, attempting to look as if they were singing along with the motley congregation.
But Harry's mind was not on Jesus, he had cars to fix and time was wasting. He yawned while the mothers scolded their bored youngsters, and wondered if there shouldn't be some law against making toddlers, and youngin's with ants in their pants, go to church.
The children had been cooped up all week, trying to learn and be good students in the iron grip of the school marm, Miss Sissy Able. Miss Sissy was thin as a stick, with hoot owl eyes that could bore holes through any wayward student's soul, but the spring air was making the children drunk on its promise of freedom~~all they could think about was playing until the last light of day. Running in the moist air of evening, until they were hollered at, to come in and go to bed by the unfair parents who only wanted what was best for their offspring.
Harry Hightower glanced sideways, trying his darnedest to be inconspicuous and sly, he just wanted to soak in the vision of a slim and bubbly blonde woman who was said to be called Sylvia Smits. She was new to town, and the ladies tried hard to act as if she were just another face, but their jealousy ran rampant across the community, their welcome to Miss Smits was not as genuine as it could have been. And Harry was smitten, in his heart and in his old bluejeans too. He strained to hide the little tent that popped up like a spring mushroom in May, and embarrassed in the House Of The Lord, he tried to shrink inside himself, as his face turned red as a beet in boiling water. Being single had moments that could drive a man to distraction ... it was going to be a long, hot afternoon.
The people left the church, all smiles and how-do's, the ladies chit-chatted like clucking hens, whilst their menfolk stood and spoke solemnly about the crops and the price of beef and what the weather had to do with it all. Harry and a couple other younger types couldn't help but white-eye toward the newly baptized Sylvia Smits as the conversation turned to breeding and selection, bulls and cows. It was Sunday, but the farmers' work, never done, waited.
Noon heat began in earnest, running the residents to whatever shade they could find, while the blistering white hot sun rose above Belle Rose, stabbing into the eyes of the parishioners, and squeezing the sweat from every one of their pious pores.
Harry finally escaped the heat of the church. The old car his mother drove waited, hood up, it seemed to demand fixing, as if alive, and Harry likened it to the animals on the farm, all constantly needing to be fed no less than ten times a day. Mouths of all sizes, gaping like birds in nests, waiting for a worm.
Harry just wanted to get done and sit in the shade a spell. Maybe day~dream of Sylvia; maybe think of how to see if she'd go out with a fella who still lived at home and cared for his mama. He drove an old Dodge truck and wished he had something more suited for a lady. The car that his mother insisted on keeping, was too small for spooning, so he dismissed all thought of dating the lovely Miss Smits and sighed; his life was under the hood of other people's vehicles, and it was best to just stay there.
He grabbed the wrench and patted the pony on the shaggy head. It was older than the red clay dirt, but a permanent fixture around the withering farm. His mother had rescued it from the crazy man next door, a cantankerous individual, who'd threatened to shoot it one summer for invading his flower bed. Leland Emmons had made it known what he intended, and Harry's mother insisted they go fetch the misbegotten creature. Now, it made itself at home in the flowers that his mother planted religiously every spring, and always gave up on by June. He'd given up trying to keep the little equine out of things. It was just too hot. Just too much trouble.
"Harry!" His mama shrilled from the front porch. "Here's sum tea when you're reddy!"
"Yeah, Mama, be there in a sec'." He righted the offset, toad~like looking water pump, and his tool fell down through the motor, perching unceremoniously in the gnarled workings of the little four~cylinder. Just barely out of reach, it lay there, as if mocking him; daring him to try and retrieve it.
Cussing was a way of life for any mechanic, and Harry didn't hold back much, but tried to contain himself a little, it being Sunday, after all. "Damn it to hell! Damned tools, damned ol' car. Why'nt she git a better car? Lawd knows, she could." He reached and stretched, still cussing and swearing, imploring Jesus above, and heard the pony put its tea~cup sized feet up on the old piece of log he used as a stool. It snuffled and poked around; the poor thing had no idea what it was about to do ... it was anybody's shadow who happened to be out in the lot, or yard. And half blind to boot, Putty, as Harry's mother called it, began pushing around the raised hood, playfully trying to get attention.
And the last thing Harry Hightower saw as the hood of his mama's little Chrysler fell across his neck, was the pony falling back in surprise; its big film~covered eyes bugging out of its head and then the hand of God lifting him to salvation.
The long hot days sweltered and steamed the delta, allowing the dogs to be lazy and no-count; even more so than they usually were. And like shiny, green statuettes, the pea~hens sat, stoic and still, up on the branches of the lowest limbs of the wilting scrub trees. The ladies of Belle Rose had to use extra powder under their armpits, and more lavender than usual too, while the little fans they waved in front of their chubby faces barely moved the stagnant air inside the First Church of Christ.
Harry sat at the back of the little one room building, where the odor of fresh paint hung in the sticky humidity; the result of an all day effort to get the chore completed before the preacher made his monthly visit. He sat limp with heat fatigue, just in front of where other single menfolk stood, beefy hands on the back of the pews ... all dutifully opening and shutting their mouths, attempting to look as if they were singing along with the motley congregation.
But Harry's mind was not on Jesus, he had cars to fix and time was wasting. He yawned while the mothers scolded their bored youngsters, and wondered if there shouldn't be some law against making toddlers, and youngin's with ants in their pants, go to church.
The children had been cooped up all week, trying to learn and be good students in the iron grip of the school marm, Miss Sissy Able. Miss Sissy was thin as a stick, with hoot owl eyes that could bore holes through any wayward student's soul, but the spring air was making the children drunk on its promise of freedom~~all they could think about was playing until the last light of day. Running in the moist air of evening, until they were hollered at, to come in and go to bed by the unfair parents who only wanted what was best for their offspring.
Harry Hightower glanced sideways, trying his darnedest to be inconspicuous and sly, he just wanted to soak in the vision of a slim and bubbly blonde woman who was said to be called Sylvia Smits. She was new to town, and the ladies tried hard to act as if she were just another face, but their jealousy ran rampant across the community, their welcome to Miss Smits was not as genuine as it could have been. And Harry was smitten, in his heart and in his old bluejeans too. He strained to hide the little tent that popped up like a spring mushroom in May, and embarrassed in the House Of The Lord, he tried to shrink inside himself, as his face turned red as a beet in boiling water. Being single had moments that could drive a man to distraction ... it was going to be a long, hot afternoon.
The people left the church, all smiles and how-do's, the ladies chit-chatted like clucking hens, whilst their menfolk stood and spoke solemnly about the crops and the price of beef and what the weather had to do with it all. Harry and a couple other younger types couldn't help but white-eye toward the newly baptized Sylvia Smits as the conversation turned to breeding and selection, bulls and cows. It was Sunday, but the farmers' work, never done, waited.
Noon heat began in earnest, running the residents to whatever shade they could find, while the blistering white hot sun rose above Belle Rose, stabbing into the eyes of the parishioners, and squeezing the sweat from every one of their pious pores.
Harry finally escaped the heat of the church. The old car his mother drove waited, hood up, it seemed to demand fixing, as if alive, and Harry likened it to the animals on the farm, all constantly needing to be fed no less than ten times a day. Mouths of all sizes, gaping like birds in nests, waiting for a worm.
Harry just wanted to get done and sit in the shade a spell. Maybe day~dream of Sylvia; maybe think of how to see if she'd go out with a fella who still lived at home and cared for his mama. He drove an old Dodge truck and wished he had something more suited for a lady. The car that his mother insisted on keeping, was too small for spooning, so he dismissed all thought of dating the lovely Miss Smits and sighed; his life was under the hood of other people's vehicles, and it was best to just stay there.
He grabbed the wrench and patted the pony on the shaggy head. It was older than the red clay dirt, but a permanent fixture around the withering farm. His mother had rescued it from the crazy man next door, a cantankerous individual, who'd threatened to shoot it one summer for invading his flower bed. Leland Emmons had made it known what he intended, and Harry's mother insisted they go fetch the misbegotten creature. Now, it made itself at home in the flowers that his mother planted religiously every spring, and always gave up on by June. He'd given up trying to keep the little equine out of things. It was just too hot. Just too much trouble.
"Harry!" His mama shrilled from the front porch. "Here's sum tea when you're reddy!"
"Yeah, Mama, be there in a sec'." He righted the offset, toad~like looking water pump, and his tool fell down through the motor, perching unceremoniously in the gnarled workings of the little four~cylinder. Just barely out of reach, it lay there, as if mocking him; daring him to try and retrieve it.
Cussing was a way of life for any mechanic, and Harry didn't hold back much, but tried to contain himself a little, it being Sunday, after all. "Damn it to hell! Damned tools, damned ol' car. Why'nt she git a better car? Lawd knows, she could." He reached and stretched, still cussing and swearing, imploring Jesus above, and heard the pony put its tea~cup sized feet up on the old piece of log he used as a stool. It snuffled and poked around; the poor thing had no idea what it was about to do ... it was anybody's shadow who happened to be out in the lot, or yard. And half blind to boot, Putty, as Harry's mother called it, began pushing around the raised hood, playfully trying to get attention.
And the last thing Harry Hightower saw as the hood of his mama's little Chrysler fell across his neck, was the pony falling back in surprise; its big film~covered eyes bugging out of its head and then the hand of God lifting him to salvation.
Harry sat at the back of the little one room building, where the odor of fresh paint hung in the sticky humidity; the result of an all day effort to get the chore completed before the preacher made his monthly visit. He sat limp with heat fatigue, just in front of where other single menfolk stood, beefy hands on the back of the pews ... all dutifully opening and shutting their mouths, attempting to look as if they were singing along with the motley congregation.
But Harry's mind was not on Jesus, he had cars to fix and time was wasting. He yawned while the mothers scolded their bored youngsters, and wondered if there shouldn't be some law against making toddlers, and youngin's with ants in their pants, go to church.
The children had been cooped up all week, trying to learn and be good students in the iron grip of the school marm, Miss Sissy Able. Miss Sissy was thin as a stick, with hoot owl eyes that could bore holes through any wayward student's soul, but the spring air was making the children drunk on its promise of freedom~~all they could think about was playing until the last light of day. Running in the moist air of evening, until they were hollered at, to come in and go to bed by the unfair parents who only wanted what was best for their offspring.
Harry Hightower glanced sideways, trying his darnedest to be inconspicuous and sly, he just wanted to soak in the vision of a slim and bubbly blonde woman who was said to be called Sylvia Smits. She was new to town, and the ladies tried hard to act as if she were just another face, but their jealousy ran rampant across the community, their welcome to Miss Smits was not as genuine as it could have been. And Harry was smitten, in his heart and in his old bluejeans too. He strained to hide the little tent that popped up like a spring mushroom in May, and embarrassed in the House Of The Lord, he tried to shrink inside himself, as his face turned red as a beet in boiling water. Being single had moments that could drive a man to distraction ... it was going to be a long, hot afternoon.
The people left the church, all smiles and how-do's, the ladies chit-chatted like clucking hens, whilst their menfolk stood and spoke solemnly about the crops and the price of beef and what the weather had to do with it all. Harry and a couple other younger types couldn't help but white-eye toward the newly baptized Sylvia Smits as the conversation turned to breeding and selection, bulls and cows. It was Sunday, but the farmers' work, never done, waited.
Noon heat began in earnest, running the residents to whatever shade they could find, while the blistering white hot sun rose above Belle Rose, stabbing into the eyes of the parishioners, and squeezing the sweat from every one of their pious pores.
Harry finally escaped the heat of the church. The old car his mother drove waited, hood up, it seemed to demand fixing, as if alive, and Harry likened it to the animals on the farm, all constantly needing to be fed no less than ten times a day. Mouths of all sizes, gaping like birds in nests, waiting for a worm.
Harry just wanted to get done and sit in the shade a spell. Maybe day~dream of Sylvia; maybe think of how to see if she'd go out with a fella who still lived at home and cared for his mama. He drove an old Dodge truck and wished he had something more suited for a lady. The car that his mother insisted on keeping, was too small for spooning, so he dismissed all thought of dating the lovely Miss Smits and sighed; his life was under the hood of other people's vehicles, and it was best to just stay there.
He grabbed the wrench and patted the pony on the shaggy head. It was older than the red clay dirt, but a permanent fixture around the withering farm. His mother had rescued it from the crazy man next door, a cantankerous individual, who'd threatened to shoot it one summer for invading his flower bed. Leland Emmons had made it known what he intended, and Harry's mother insisted they go fetch the misbegotten creature. Now, it made itself at home in the flowers that his mother planted religiously every spring, and always gave up on by June. He'd given up trying to keep the little equine out of things. It was just too hot. Just too much trouble.
"Harry!" His mama shrilled from the front porch. "Here's sum tea when you're reddy!"
"Yeah, Mama, be there in a sec'." He righted the offset, toad~like looking water pump, and his tool fell down through the motor, perching unceremoniously in the gnarled workings of the little four~cylinder. Just barely out of reach, it lay there, as if mocking him; daring him to try and retrieve it.
Cussing was a way of life for any mechanic, and Harry didn't hold back much, but tried to contain himself a little, it being Sunday, after all. "Damn it to hell! Damned tools, damned ol' car. Why'nt she git a better car? Lawd knows, she could." He reached and stretched, still cussing and swearing, imploring Jesus above, and heard the pony put its tea~cup sized feet up on the old piece of log he used as a stool. It snuffled and poked around; the poor thing had no idea what it was about to do ... it was anybody's shadow who happened to be out in the lot, or yard. And half blind to boot, Putty, as Harry's mother called it, began pushing around the raised hood, playfully trying to get attention.
And the last thing Harry Hightower saw as the hood of his mama's little Chrysler fell across his neck, was the pony falling back in surprise; its big film~covered eyes bugging out of its head and then the hand of God lifting him to salvation.
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