Post by mgmayhem on May 5, 2018 0:40:08 GMT -5
“Slippery as his chemical concoctions.” Pa grunted and shook his newspaper, as if the actual words would slide off.
“Who?” He’d caught my twelve-year-old interest.
“This here Charles Hatfield fella claims he’s a cloud milker, Eli.” He raised one eyebrow at me. “Plans to hornswoggle City Council’s 1915 budget out of $10,000 by takin’ credit for rain when it comes.” Pa shook his head at the blank faces on my brother, Tommy, and me. “Man’s got a reputation for pesterin’ the clouds, boys. That kind of tinkerin’ can get out of hand.”
Tommy snickered. Pa disappeared behind his newspaper. And I got to ponderin’ about a man who dared the heavens.
Two days later, as Tommy and I walked home over Cottonwood Creek Bridge, Pa’s friend, Mr. Kirkwood, pulled his city truck beside us. “Hiya, boys,” he hollered.
Tommy, who’d mastered only a fraction of the manners suited for someone of his fifteen years, pointed to the tents and supplies in the flatbed. “What are the coffins for?”
“Ask him!” Mr. Kirkwood chuckled and pointed to his passengers.
The middle fellow tipped his fedora as theatrically as possible, considerin’ the confines of the passenger seat. “Charles Hatfield,” he said. “And my brother, Joel.” His eyes twinkled like blue frost crystals. “Those boxes hold my secrets to acceleratin’ the moisture—I’m gonna make it rain, boys. Better get your umbrellas ready.”
As I reached through the open window and clutched a handshake with the man who pestered clouds, a disturbin’ sense of dread squeezed my gut.
“Who?” He’d caught my twelve-year-old interest.
“This here Charles Hatfield fella claims he’s a cloud milker, Eli.” He raised one eyebrow at me. “Plans to hornswoggle City Council’s 1915 budget out of $10,000 by takin’ credit for rain when it comes.” Pa shook his head at the blank faces on my brother, Tommy, and me. “Man’s got a reputation for pesterin’ the clouds, boys. That kind of tinkerin’ can get out of hand.”
Tommy snickered. Pa disappeared behind his newspaper. And I got to ponderin’ about a man who dared the heavens.
Two days later, as Tommy and I walked home over Cottonwood Creek Bridge, Pa’s friend, Mr. Kirkwood, pulled his city truck beside us. “Hiya, boys,” he hollered.
Tommy, who’d mastered only a fraction of the manners suited for someone of his fifteen years, pointed to the tents and supplies in the flatbed. “What are the coffins for?”
“Ask him!” Mr. Kirkwood chuckled and pointed to his passengers.
The middle fellow tipped his fedora as theatrically as possible, considerin’ the confines of the passenger seat. “Charles Hatfield,” he said. “And my brother, Joel.” His eyes twinkled like blue frost crystals. “Those boxes hold my secrets to acceleratin’ the moisture—I’m gonna make it rain, boys. Better get your umbrellas ready.”
As I reached through the open window and clutched a handshake with the man who pestered clouds, a disturbin’ sense of dread squeezed my gut.
