Edition of TenAbigail Walthausen
Paul liked to brag to neighbors about his plantings, in particular the fire-retardant trees — the scrub oaks and the cherries. But what these trees never ended up retarding was the dust that came up the side of the hill in the fire season whether fires burned or not. Ash smoke or dust, those dry months coated every leaf and weed.
He liked to brag to neighbors about the height of his corn, and Margaret wondered whether those same neighbors ever hoped for a bag of cobs to bring home and boil. But height or no height, Paul’s corn never fruited well, the kernels stayed puckered without their summer sugars.
He bragged about the way the animals loved him and the furniture he built them in return. The birdfeeder was charming — it hung on an arm that could retra
