MAPLE CREEK MEMORIES VI

LET IT RAIN


Teen aged boys are ignorant at times. They sometimes won't say what they need to say and, at other times, say exactly what they should not say. And other times they are completely unaware that what they are saying may be overheard by those they wish not to overhear them. Does that sound a little muddled? Then I've succeeded in my purpose. For this was one of those times when the heart may have been in the right place but so was the boy and the one he was referring to, while neither knew the other was there. Having thoroughly confused you, here is the story--


There was a woman in our community who was a hard worker. Lord, was she ever a hard worker. She had to be. Her husband did no public work. Instead he farmed river bottom land. His crops, when not destroyed by the recurrent floods, ended up going into the bellies of his mules. He did plow a few times during the spring for other farmers in the area but that was as close as he ever came to actually working for wages. And there were few of those plowing jobs to be had. He would plow up a small truck garden on the hill behind their house and the rest of the family worked it for daily food and canning purposes. His kids picked berries during the summer for canning, also, and did a lot of hunting. But pickings were pretty slim around their house, and couldn't supply all they needed for the other crop he raised--kids.

There were seven kids, not counting the one who died and with the older folks that made nine mouths to feed, clothe and provide shelter and warmth for. They did keep a cow and some pigs and they fished the river any time they could. No wonder that she worked anywhere and everywhere she could. It meant the difference between survival and starvation.

Most people in the community were down on the old man but were so proud of her for making it work for the family. When she was not already working somewhere or at home doing her work there, she was constantly on the road seeking a job from someone. I worked with her for four years at a summer camp and there was not a harder worker that could be found. She was a cook and I was general handyman. Unfortunately, her kids, all except her daughter, were pretty much as worthless as the old man. The one exception among the boys was the middle one, and he was reliable and steady as a rock as a worker. The family's name was Moore.

One hot steamy day our gang had started down the road to the ballfield a couple miles beyond the little general store in the community. On the way we met another friend, a fellow teenager, who joined up with us just as we came out of the hollow onto the hard road. We were about halfway from the hollow to the store when the heavens let loose and we were drenched by the time we ran onto the store porch. We were all talking about how hard it was raining and our friend James yelled out, "Let it rain, let it pour. Nobody's out but old Miz Moore."

He said. And she was. Looking him in the face.