Fletcher Minerva's Journey

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-0983-8800-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 216 Seiten

Being twelve years old is hard enough, but Minerva (Minnie) Attwood is becoming a teenager during the Great Depression in the panhandle of Oklahoma. In the United States, 1934 was a difficult year for most everyone in the country, especially those who lived in and around the tiny town of Sutton, OK. 'Minerva's Journey' tells the story of a young girl, her brother Marcus, and the rest of her family as they journey west to Fruita, Utah, leaving everything they know behind. Follow the Attwood family in a historical-based story about choices, perseverance, courage, grief, and, above all, love.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fletcher, Erin

Leseproben

Chapter 1—
Headed West “Looks like this might be the end of the road,” Uncle Wilf said. A cloud of steam was rising from the front-end of the truck. He removed his cap and scratched the bald spot on the crown of his head.
I looked out the windshield. It didn’t look like the end of the road to me. There were miles of road stretching out before the 1928 Ford Model A truck. Uncle Wilf bought it new for $450 when he was “flush with money,” as he put it. A look of pride mixed with sadness flashed across his face as he spoke the words. That dusty road was like an endless snake lying still in the dirt. Its head was somewhere beyond the distant western horizon, and its tail far behind us to the east; past the point where we merged onto its motionless back in Oklahoma. Uncle Wilf hopped out and retrieved the water can from the pile tied down in the back of the truck. “Everybody, stay put. This thing could go off like a geyser, and the last thing we need is someone getting burned.” Uncle Wilf told us stories about the geysers in Yellowstone. I saw a picture of one in the encyclopedia. It looked big enough to pick the whole truck up; us still in it and shoot us straight up into the air with a whoosh! Uncle Wilf had taken his new bride on their honeymoon to Yellowstone in 1923. When he came to stay with us, he told Marcus and me all about it. We were mesmerized. He talked about bubbling pots of mud; thundering waterfalls; rocks that looked like someone had splashed them with the colors of the rainbow. They saw moose, elk, wolves and bears. Most interesting of all were the geysers. Until they erupt, steam gently rises from a hole in the ground. Soon the pressure builds up and water blasts a hundred feet or more into the air. He said he and his wife even bathed in a mineral hot spring. They had to be careful and test the water-temperature first. He said the water in one pot was so scalding that when he dipped his toe in to check; it came out cooked through like a hard-boiled egg and fell right off. My eyes bulged at that. Marcus was more skeptical. “I don’t believe it.” “I can prove it,” said Uncle Wilf. Off came his shoe and sock. Low and behold, Uncle Wilf was missing the big toe on his right foot. I gasped. “Holy Cow,” Marcus said, and he let out a long whistle. “Yellowstone hot pot?” I asked. “Railway accident. Colby, Kansas.” Uncle Wilf busted out laughing and slapped his knee. Marcus and I were in stiches too. It was just what we needed. We sat and waited while Uncle Wilf tinkered with the engine; the sounds of metal clinking and clanging. The day was hot. The kind of hot that makes heat waves rise from the ground and disappear into the glare of the sun. I could hear the occasional grasshopper clicking as it jumped from its perch on a dry blade of prairie grass to another, just as parched as the one it hopped from. A breeze stirred the dust and propelled a spidery-looking web of lonely tumble weed past. It rushed by like it was late for a very important date and didn’t have time to stop for a visit. I turned to look out the rear window, but all our belongings blocked my view. It was a confirmation that looking back and wishing for the past was of no use. Oklahoma would always be home to me. I was happy there and felt safe until everything that happened, happened. It was too sad to think about it. My sorrow felt heavy and bore down on me; much like Uncle Wilf’s truck was weighed down with our few remaining earthly possessions; bound together under a canvas tarp by an old hemp rope, cinched tight to the bed of the truck. Mama sat at my side, staring dully out the window; Jussie sleeping on her. She didn’t look back. She knew there was no returning to life as it was before. With the past still nipping at our heels, our way forward was west; to Uncle Wilf’s sister-in-law’s home in Fruita, Utah. It will be new for all of us, but Mama is sure the unknown of the future will provide more peace and prospects for our family than the past. Another gust of wind blew and a wave of dirt rushed in through the open window. “This dust will be the death of us all,” Mama complained to no one in particular. Uncle Wilf heard her as he walked past the open window again and said, “There goes another bit of someone’s farm.” Just then Mama said, “Look kids, a dirt devil.” Marcus lifted his head from my shoulder where he’d been sleeping and wiped the drool from the side of his face. Squinting through sleepy eyes, he looked out the bug-splattered windshield past the crack running horizontally across the bottom third of the window. A small, dusty funnel cloud spun clumsily like a drunkard trying to walk home after a night of hard drinking. We watched until it spun itself out. “Humph, looks puny compared to what we’ve seen.” Marcus rubbed his eyes. He scanned the horizon and asked, “Where are we? The middle of nowhere?” “I’m not sure, Marcus,” Mama replied. “I gotta go.” He scooted towards the driver’s side door. “We have to sit tight until Uncle Wilf has finished working on the radiator, Marcus.” Mama reached across me and put her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t mean go, Mama, I mean GO. I have a full head of steam building up in my rear engine.” “Here.” Uncle Wilf had returned from his duties under the hood, and reached behind the driver’s side of the seat and pulled out a bare corn cob and handed it to Marcus. “Conduct your business around the back, over there.” Uncle Wilf pointed towards the barren land stretching to the east for miles beyond where the truck sat still, waiting to resume its hauling duties. “I’m not gonna do my business this close to the womenfolk,” Marcus said, as he slid off the seat onto the dusty roadside. He stomped away. “You mind your step, young man. There might be rattlers coiled up out there just waiting for a skin and bones boy like yourself to happen on them unawares.” Uncle Wilf casually called the warning over his shoulder as he returned the water can to its resting place in the truck’s bed. Marcus stopped short and examined the ground left and right. “I’d like to see one of those belly-walkers try and take a swipe at me. I’d give ‘em what for.” Marcus spoke louder than was necessary, as if he were putting all the snakes within a 20-mile radius on notice. “No one dares mess with me, man or beast,” and Marcus pridefully strode away into the prairie. Uncle Wilf was right; Marcus was skin and bones, “wiry” is what Papa called him. Marcus was right too, no one, except the foolish or ignorant, messed with him. You only crossed Marcus once, and you knew better from then on to never make that mistake again. With his hand shading his eyes, Uncle Wilf turned and scanned the horizon for a full 360 degrees. “Well, Elsie, I think this might be as good a place to stop as any. The fuel gauge on my stomach is tipping towards empty and the truck could use a rest and some attention too.” My stomach was feeling hollow as well. The cold corn fritters we ate for breakfast had long since fulfilled their duty, and we had driven right through the lunch hour, eating a few strips of beef jerky to tide us over. “Shouldn’t we press on further, Wilf?” Mama sounded anxious. “We could, but I’d like to give the engine a once-over while there’s still enough daylight to see what I’m messing with. Besides, the sun is bending itself further to the horizon and I’d like to set up camp before it tucks itself into bed.” Uncle Wilf raised his hand to shade his eyes and squinted at the sun. “Where do you suppose we are?” Mama asked. “Somewhere in the south-central part of Colorado, I would imagine. We should have passed out of New Mexico mid-morning. I know we planned on making it farther today, but we can make up the difference tomorrow.” Uncle Wilf brushed some dust off his cap and placed it back on his head. As much as Mama didn’t enjoy riding with all of us crammed into the cab of the truck—Jussie on her lap—it didn’t take much to convince her to stop and rest for rest was what she needed. Mama was tired. Tired from our journey and tired of the recent trials of her life and just like the prairie, she looked worn out; used up like the glow of abundance may never return. I should have gotten out and started helping setup camp or offered to take Jussie. Instead, I sat there waiting to be asked, feeling as bleak as the country around us. I was thinking about home. I wanted to be back there, but I also didn’t want to be back there. It was the only home I had known all my life. Same for Papa—it was the stone house his father built before the turn of the century. But every memory of home now...