Page 44 - 2016 September Voices!

Tell Me A Story

Hooves in the Grass

by Lynn Deal, CC

The following story is a work in progress, and eventually will be a chapter in a
book Lynn is writing for young adults. She requests your feedback and invites you to
help craft the final outcome. {Editor}

Striding up the hill with my water buckets ones, like Dolly.
I reach the house and set my water buckets
takes a long time. Pa’s gonna put a pump right
outside the new house, then it will only take down by the basin. Ma is stirring a pot of beans
me 5 minutes to haul water. We moved here to on our iron stove. Then she sniffs and checks
Indian Territory last fall because we are close to the cornbread in the oven. It isn’t ready, so she
a river. Course, this spring the river washed out stokes the fire with her poker. The embers turn
our first house. We rebuilt on higher ground, and bright orange. As Ma shuts the chute, she says,
now hauling water takes a good half hour every “Gustie, Pa brought a letter from town today.”
“Is it from Uncle George?” I ask. Ma nods,
morning and again, every evening. Cuts into
my horse time, cuts into my drawing time too, then carefully tears open the envelope.
Waiting a month
but that’s different. Drawing
for the mail to
doesn’t help us work the
arrive doesn’t seem
homestead like our horses
as long as waiting
do. But once we make this
for Ma to read the
place a home, I’m going
letter. It’s as if Uncle
to make money painting
George has written
horses. Kind of like selling
a book. Waiting
eggs from our chickens, but
always reminds me of
better.
churning cream into
A couple of months ago,
butter. Ma says I’m
Ma figured out a way for me
impatient. Then she
to learn how to paint. First,
adds, “You’re right on
Uncle George wants to see
schedule, given your
my drawings. I’ve drawn in
age.” If we were back
the dirt with a stick most
of my life. But now I draw on paper, so Ma in Philadelphia, where she used to teach school,
can send my drawings to Uncle George in San I’d be in her 5th grade class.
I go outside and pace between the hackberry
Francisco. Soon as he approves my drawing skills,
he’s going to send me paints and a paintbrush. tree and the house. “Gustie,” I tell myself, “you’re
The mercantile in town doesn’t sell paints and stirring up a lot of dust.” The hem of my blue
paintbrushes, but there is a post office. That’s a dress is now red, the color of the dirt. I stop
pacing and peek in on Ma. She’s still reading. I
half day’s ride from here.
Last month, Ma sent my latest sketch to Uncle draw circles in the dirt with the tip of my boot.
George. It’s the best drawing I’ve ever done. I got When Ma finally appears at the door, I dash right
Dolly’s neck and haunches just right. ‘Course over my freshly drawn circles.
“What does he say, Ma? What does he say?”
Dolly is easy to draw. She’s so docile that she
stands pert near still all day. When I was a baby, Ma replies by holding Uncle George’s letter out.
Dolly used to lay down in the front yard and let The papers flutter in the wind. I firmly grasp the
me crawl all over her. I don’t recall, but it makes letter, and Ma lets go. I flip through the letter
sense to me. I do love horses. Especially smart and find my drawing at the end. Boldly printed

44 Volume 3 Issue 3 - SEPTEMBER 2016