Frog Soup

Ahh, the sweet smell of Magnolia, how it brings me back to my child hood every spring. One spring in particular comes to mind. It was a long time ago when I was ten years old. It was a good year for the most part. Seems like yesterday. I remember skipp’n school on hot spring days, not that we were get’n much of an education anyway, so it didn’t matter none if we missed a day here or there. Some kids had to stay home permanent to help out their mama tend to their younger siblins while their daddy went out to work all day and night, some daddy’s were too plain lazy to work, there wasn’t time to be a child for some. Come to think of it child-hood was an unaffordable luxury. I was an only child; I was lucky, I think. Never knew what it was like to have a sister or brother, hell I never knew what it was like to have a daddy. He died when I was six months old, actually he was killed. Mama told me how he died on that dismal day in March plow’n the hard earth, prepare’n it for corn seed. The eighteen hundred-pound mare was put’n such a strain on the old worn leather harness that Daddy had to keep stopp’n to adjust it. He must have been have’n a hard time with the hitch cause he stepped between the horse’s hind legs and the plow. Mama said he knew better than do’in someth’n absent minded like that… except on that day. Daddy was face’n the back side of the mare when someth’n obviously spooked her. She knocked Daddy face down in the dirt drag’n the plow right over him. The heavy blades of the plow cut my Daddy just about in half. There he was all alone laying dy’n in the white sun; the earth suck’n up his blood like it was well water. Mama looked out the window where she was wash’n dishes when she saw the horse trot’n back to the barn tow’n the plow on its side. She said she had a bad feel’n right in the pit of her stomach all that day but she never gave it a thought, that is till she saw the horse. It wasn’t til then she realized it was her intuition speek’n to her. Someplace down deep inside her she felt that gnaw squeez’n her belly, it was a warn’n. Before she went to the field look’n for Daddy, Mama rang the iron bell hang’n out side the house. Mr. Purdy who lived nearly a quarter mile up the road come run’n up to Mama first. I think he sensed an importance about the call cause he was one who kept to himself, sheltered in his well kept cabin mind’n his own business .He had no need to speak to anyone since he had noth’n he wanted to share with anyone in particular. Tall and narrow in stature; good look’n as I was told. His hair was all silver; looked a little out of place for him since he had a fairly young look’n face. Mama said his gardens were kept neat and healthy. Every once in a while he’d carry a fresh picked honey dew melon and a cantaloupe or two over to our house. Mama once told me that she would find a honey dew melon left by the door. She knew Mr. Purdy left them for her. Look’n back I believe he had a special spot in his heart for Mama. He let her know yet he respected her and my daddy. He never did act on his emotions, even after Daddy died. Mr. Purdy’s face was redder than a summer tomato, tiny beads of sweat roll’n down his face his chest heave’n when he saw Grace, Daddy’s horse, chomp’n her bit, white froth hang’n from her black lips. He could see the horse was stressed. Even the old horse knew someth’n wasn’t right. Then he saw the plow blades. He saw the traces of blood and the shreds of clothes cling’n to caked dirt. Mr. Purdy unhitched Grace from the plow gripped the collar around her neck; pulled himself onto her back and dug his heels into her sides. Mama said she never saw Grace run so hard.