[stylist] a different take on archaeology

[Barbara HAMMEL]

Hi, Bill, now theat you cexplained a bit about the poem, I do get the first part. I sort of did before you explained it but the other two parts, no. LOL! I also needed to read it. JAWS just isn't a moster poetry reader and many of the words are not ones I use every day so reading definitely helped. I do love henceward!
Barbara

Sent from my iPhone

> On May 1, 2014, at 3:13 PM, "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com> wrote:
> 
> I plan on reading all the written stuff posted lately, Chris, Bill,
> Jackie, but I may need to wait for the weekend. Looking forward to it
> though, smile.
> 
> Bridgit
> 
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris
> Kuell
> Sent: Thursday, May 01, 2014 12:18 PM
> To: Writer's Division Mailing List
> Subject: [stylist] a different take on archaeology
> 
> 
> 
> A couple days ago, Bill posted an interesting poem in which he used 
> archaeology to indicate the passage of time and the wearing down of
> things. 
> It made me think of a story I wrote a while back, in which I used 
> archaeology both literally, and also to mean 'the preservation of'. It
> was 
> originally published in the anthology "Mountain Voices: Illuminating the
> 
> Character of West Virginia" and I'll paste it below, for anyone who is 
> interested in reading. It's on the longish side, at 5600 words.
> 
> 
> Down Home Archaeology
> 
> By Chris Kuell
> 
> 
> "Daddy, Daddy!" called the little sandy haired boy in a Sponge Bob T
> shirt. 
> The boy's parents stood chatting with the real estate agent. "C'mere,
> Dad! C'mere!" The insistent boy grabbed his father's hand and 
> pulled.
> "Excuse me for a second, I'll be right back." Turning to his son, Dean 
> Henderson said, "What is so important you have to interrupt me like
> that?" "C'mere Daddy. You gotta see this. It's so cool." The boy pulled
> Dean along. Frustrated by the slow progress, Tyler let go and 
> sprinted to a corner of the backyard. He squatted near a small pile of
> sun 
> dried boards in a thick bramble of grass. Dean approached, expecting to
> be 
> shown a snakeskin or maybe a bird's nest. As he got closer, Dean saw his
> son 
> peering over the rim of an abandoned well. Panic catapulted him into
> action. "Tyler!" he yelled, racing towards the boy with a speed and
> purpose he hadn't 
> mustered since high school. Tyler's eyes opened wide as his father
> scooped 
> him up and clutched the small body tightly to his chest. Silent tears 
> glistened on Dean's face. His nostrils filled with a raw, earthy stench.
> A 
> smooth, glassy coldness filled his mouth. He shut his eyes and dropped
> to 
> his knees, holding the boy close.
> * * * * *
> It was early summer, 1972, and six year old Dean Henderson sat unbuckled
> 
> next to his father, Len, in the family station wagon. The father son
> team 
> was headed to Grandpa's house in Fairmont. On the radio, Joe Nuxhall 
> announced the Big Red Machine's starting line up as they took the field 
> against the Mets on this sunny afternoon. Dean was excited, and a little
> 
> nervous. His Mom had gone to her ten year high school reunion, which his
> Dad 
> had no interest in attending. Instead, the boys of the family were going
> to 
> Grandpa's for the first time in almost four years. Dad was going to
> leave 
> Dean at Grandpa's while he visited some of his old friends. Len
> Henderson 
> told his wife that they were going fishing, but Dean noticed Daddy had 
> brought a lot more beer and Fritos than fishing gear.
> The ride was long and boring. His Dad didn't talk much; he was too
> focused 
> on the ballgame and driving to pay Dean any mind. Tom Seaver had pitched
> a 
> no hitter through six innings for the Mets, and Len was disgusted. Dean 
> occupied his time counting cars, looking through his collection of rocks
> and 
> imagining the fun he would have at Grandpa's farm. Daddy had told him
> that 
> arrowheads galore could be found at the farm, and Dean was anxious to
> start 
> looking.
> They arrived at Grandpa's late in the afternoon. The Henderson place was
> a 
> typical farmhouse built in the early twentieth century. A basic cube
> shape 
> of white-washed clapboards covered by a simple, low-pitched roof, and a 
> chimney perpetually leaning  at a precarious angle.    Dean's
> grandfather 
> had added plumbing in the forties, but, other than that, only
> superficial 
> modifications had been made. Dean's Grandpa, John Henderson, met them at
> the 
> door of the old place. He wore thinning, sky-blue overalls with a dark 
> rectangle in the chest where a label used to be.
> Len and John Henderson shook hands, then Dean went to hug his Grandpa
> but 
> the old man didn't even bend over. He just stared at Dean in a cool way,
> as 
> if he was a stray dog that might crap on his lawn. Uncertain how to
> proceed, 
> Dean just hugged the old man's thighs and said a friendly hello. They
> sat in the front room, the television off, strained chitchat 
> intermittently flowing between the two adults. Dean kicked his sneakered
> 
> feet up and down, as if he were on his backyard swing. He tossed an 
> embroidered pillow up into the air and practiced catching. Grandpa
> scowled 
> at the child.
> Dean looked over to his Dad during one pause and asked, "Daddy, can I go
> 
> look around?"
> Grandpa said, "Don't you go gettin' into trouble. You hear me boy?"
> Dean's father put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you just
> 
> hunt around out back, see what you can find. Don't get into any of
> Grandpa's 
> equipment, though, you hear?"
> "Yes sir," Dean answered, already making his way to the door. Dean was
> busy digging at the edge of a cornfield with a favorite rock he 
> called Digger when his father came to say goodbye.
> "What you doing, Deano?"
> Dean smiled up at his idol. "I'm finding you some worms for fishing."
> The 
> boy put a hand in one pocket and pulled out a fist full of dirt and 
> wriggling earthworms. Dean's father looked surprised then chuckled and 
> accepted the gift.
> "Now listen, kid. I'm going to meet up with Mr. Wills and some of the
> other 
> guys. You're going to stay here with Grandpa, and I'll be back late 
> tonight." Dean stared intently at his Dad. This was it, he knew. He had
> to 
> be brave for his Daddy.
> "Now, you mind your Grandpa. He can be a crotchety old man, but if you
> just 
> do as you're told and stay outta trouble, everything will be fine." They
> 
> hugged, and Dean watched as his father returned to the station wagon and
> 
> drove away down the dirt road.
> A few minutes later, he heard the shuffle of his grandfather's boots 
> approaching.
> "Hey Grandpa," he said, "Wanna help me dig for arrowheads?"
> "We ain't got time for such foolishness, boy. Come with me over to the
> side 
> of the house. There's a pile of wood needs stacking."
> Eager to help and hopefully get on the old man's good side, Dean ran
> ahead 
> to size up the job. When he rounded the corner of the farmhouse, Dean
> saw 
> what appeared to be a mountain of logs. There were four cords of roughly
> cut 
> wood, dumped by a truck in a mound three times his height. Behind him,
> his Grandpa ordered, "G'won, boy. Grab a handful. See them two 
> trees over yonder? Make a line of wood from one to the other." Dean
> struggled to wrestle a log out of the pile, grunting as he carried it 
> over to the trees. His grandfather watched him, taking five or six
> pieces 
> himself each trip.
> "Boy, is you only going to take one piece at a time? You're going to be
> out 
> here all night at that rate."
> "Grandpa," Dean said, "I'm just a kid."
> "What are you, a little Momma's boy?" the old man snorted. "Come here
> and 
> let me pile you up."
> He had the boy stick out his arms, and then put three pieces in them.
> The 
> edge of the top piece dug into Dean's chest and he let out an, "Owwww!"
> His Grandpa ridiculed him as they stacked more wood. "You better toughen
> up, 
> little boy. I can tell your Daddy's been too easy on you. You're soft,
> just 
> like him. You want your Momma wiping your ass the rest of your life?
> Cripe's 
> sake."
> Dean's face reddened. He wished his Mom and Dad were here to tell
> Grandpa to 
> shut up. Clenching his teeth tightly, he continued with the mundane
> chore of 
> getting wood piled into his arms, walking it over to the growing stack, 
> dropping it on the ground and placing it in the right direction. After a
> half hour or so, Dean worked up the courage to ask, "Hey Grandpa, I'm 
> hungry. Can we have a snack?"
> The old man glared at him with disgust, dropping a sharp piece of wood
> onto 
> the reddening flesh of the child's arms. "Dinner's at five o'clock.
> You'll 
> work 'till then."
> Dean was smart enough not to push it. He pouted and continued stacking
> the 
> endless pile of wood until his Grandpa glanced at the sun and said, "I'm
> 
> gunna go fix supper. You keep stacking until I call you in. Hear me?"
> Dean was mad, so he didn't answer the old man, just dropped his pile and
> 
> placed a knotty piece in its spot. A flash of pain shot through his head
> as 
> a calloused hand twisted his ear.
> "Answer me when I'm talking to you, boy" the old man said.
> Dean dropped the log, crying out in surprise and pain. "Momma's boy,"
> the 
> old man spat as he went around to the front of the house.
> Dean rubbed his sore ear and cried quietly. Why was Grandpa being so
> mean? 
> What kind of vacation was this? He sat, refusing to pick up another
> stick of 
> wood until Grandpa called him in for dinner.
> 
> Dean was a good natured kid, and his anger dissipated with time. He was 
> looking forward to supper as he entered the house, letting the screen
> door 
> slam behind him.
> "Easy on the door boy," his grandpa hollered from the kitchen. Dean
> ignored the grumpy old man and made his way to the bathroom to wash up. 
> When he came out into the kitchen, his Grandpa still looked crabby. In
> fact, 
> the old man's eyes were reddened slits of irritation. He held a spatula
> in 
> one hand, a tumbler of whiskey in the other. Pointing the spatula at
> Dean, 
> he said, "Boy, what the hell is wrong with you? You better git them
> shoes 
> off and leave 'em by the front door. Jesus, look at the dirt your
> highness 
> has drug in the house."
> Dean glanced around, but didn't notice any more dirt on the floor than
> when 
> he came in. Remembering his father's words, he slipped off his Keds and 
> carried them to the mat at the door. Upon returning, Dean took one of
> the 
> chairs at the small kitchen table. His Grandfather carried over two
> plates 
> and put one in front of him. On one part of the plate was a disgusting
> pile 
> of fried liver and onions. Next to that was a spoonful of slimy lima
> beans. 
> Then there was a wrinkly brown thing that Dean mistakenly thought was a
> mud 
> ball. It was actually a shriveled baked potato that John Henderson had 
> cooked for himself but not eaten several days ago. In painful silence,
> the 
> old man started eating his dinner. Dean sat quietly, head bowed, a dour 
> sadness across his face.
> "What's a matter boy? Thought you was hungry." The old man said between 
> bites.
> Eyes still down, Dean said, I don't like this."
> "You ain't even tried it."
> Dean glanced at his plate. The lima beans looked like they were
> somebody's 
> guts, and the liver was somebody's guts. He wasn't going to eat any mud
> ball 
> either. He bit his lower lip and sat pouting.
> "Suit yourself boy. That's all you're getting. You can eat it now, or
> eat it 
> for breakfast, don't matter to me none."
> Grandpa drained his whiskey and poured himself another. The two sat in 
> silence except for the sounds of the old man's chewing. Dean thought
> about 
> his parents and how they usually let him eat a peanut butter sandwich if
> he 
> didn't like what they had.
> "Do you know when my Daddy's coming back?"
> "I don't reckon for a while. He's off getting drunk with Bobby Wills and
> 
> that car stealing Caudell boy."
> Grandpa took another bite of supper and said," C'mon and eat some of
> that 
> liver. It ain't gunna kill ya."
> Dean sat sulking. He wished his Dad would come back and fix him some
> real 
> food. Was he really getting drunk with a car stealer?
> Grandpa spoke again through a mouth half full of food. "If you ain't
> going 
> to eat, git the broom and sweep up the dirt you tracked in here." Dean
> got up and found the broom and dustpan in a closet and tried his best 
> to sweep up around the door in the front room. His Mom and Dad had never
> 
> made him sweep before, so he did his best to mimic what he thought they
> did. 
> After picking up a small pile of dust, he chucked it out the screen
> door. He 
> glanced around the room and saw the pillow he had been tossing earlier
> on 
> the floor instead of on the couch where it belonged. He kicked the
> pillow up 
> onto the couch. It plopped hard into the fat middle of the center
> cushion. 
> It felt good to kick the old man's pillow, so Dean fetched it and
> replaced 
> it on the floor. Dean imagined he was a football kicker, trying for a
> long 
> field goal. He ran up to the pillow, kicked low and hard, the shouting
> crowd 
> behind, cheering him on. The pillow soared straight and true, smacking
> hard 
> into the top part of the couch.
> The next kick was from even further back. This time, the pillow cleared
> the 
> back of the couch, hitting the big picture window with a soft thud. A
> second 
> of panic shot through the boy, but then he realized the pillow was soft
> and 
> wouldn't break anything. He repeated his kicks a few more times, honing
> his 
> technique. Joe Nuxhall's voice played in his brain, as announcer for the
> 
> amazing boy kicker.
> "It's incredible, folks," Joe announced to the crowd. "The youngest 
> professional kicker in football history!"
>  Preparing for his next attempt, Dean had a great idea. To one side of
> the 
> couch was a tall brass floor lamp. Dean relocated it behind the couch, a
> 
> little left of center. Then he balanced the broom to the right behind
> the 
> couch, effectively making goal posts. Now it was getting challenging.
> Like a 
> real pro football kicker, Young Dean Henderson would attempt to kick the
> 
> pillow all the way across the room between the goal posts. The fans in
> his 
> mind were going nuts. "Deano! Deano!" they chanted, using his Daddy's
> pet 
> nickname for him.
> Dean was ready. He called out the signals in his mind, there's the snap,
> and 
> the ball is down, three steps and kick. . . . The pillow caught the left
> 
> instep of Dean's socked foot. Instead of flying straight and splitting
> the 
> goal posts, it hooked left. Dean watched as the pillow drifted towards
> the 
> brass lamp, then smacked it head on. The lamp toppled backwards, a fist 
> sized knob on the top hitting into the window before spinning and
> falling 
> with a crash to the floor.
> For just a second, but plenty of time for his young brain to compute,
> Dean 
> thought it was going to be okay. The lamp had fallen, but the window
> hadn't 
> broken. It was going to be okay; he wouldn't get into trouble. Then, he 
> heard a tiny, cracking sound, like someone breaking a pencil. Before
> him, 
> through that magnificent piece of glass which offered a view of the
> front 
> yard, Grandma's old flower beds, and the plush hill farms beyond, came a
> 
> fine line. Then, a snapping sound, and another line magically appeared 
> before his eyes. More crackling, more lines. They shot out like bolts of
> 
> lightening now, crackling and hissing, completely covering that pristine
> 
> glass with a spider web of fine capillaries. Then, in a final blow to
> the 
> fragment of hope the small boy still held in his heart, the glass obeyed
> the 
> pull of gravity. Thousands of diamond like shards fell to the floor.
> Dean barely heard, and certainly didn't comprehend, the three or four
> heavy 
> footsteps before something solid and angry walloped him in the back of
> the 
> head. The forty eight pound youngster toppled forward, smashing his
> shoulder 
> into the couch and crumpling to the floor.
> "God dammit, boy!" growled the voice.
> Stars spun in Dean's head. Tears streamed and he found his voice for
> crying. 
> A strong farmer's hand clamped down on him and hoisted him into the air.
> 
> Whack! Whack! Whack! The old man spanked him fiercely with his open
> hand. 
> The wails of the child hit a frenzied pitch.
> "I knew you was gunna be nothing but trouble. Well, I'll sure learn ya
> how 
> to behave."
> Dean bawled with the pain, sadness and humiliation. Grandpa dropped him
> to 
> the floor, where upon impact, he bit clean through his bottom lip. The
> old 
> man laced up his boots, teeth clenched, face crimson with fury. John 
> Henderson stood, looked out his broken picture window, then hoisted the 
> limp, cowering body over his shoulder like a sack of seeds. He banged
> the 
> screen door open and stormed out back to his tractor. The jouncing dug a
> 
> bony shoulder into Dean's belly, adding to his overall suffering. The
> old 
> man dropped Dean with a thud into a wood trailer, then jumped into the
> seat 
> of his John Deere. Firing up the tractor, he drove off into the fields.
> Dean continued sobbing, balled up in a protective fetal position. He
> sucked 
> on the blood from his ripped lower lip and drank in the coppery sorrow.
> His 
> Mom and Dad swatted his bottom now and then when he was fresh, or did 
> something dangerous, but they had never come close to the fury John 
> Henderson had just unleashed.
> Five minutes later, the old man whipped the tractor sharply to the right
> and 
> shut off the engine. Dean's crying had subsided to a rhythmic
> whimpering, so 
> he heard Grandpa jump down off the tractor and grunt as he moved
> something. "Boy," he growled, "Git over here." Reluctantly, Dean hoisted
> himself to a sitting position to see what Grandpa 
> wanted. The old man stood next to a big rectangular hole in the ground.
> All 
> the grass at the edges of the hole was dead, brown and flattened. Next
> to 
> the hole on the ground was an old barn door. A spongy fungus grew on one
> 
> edge of the door, as if it had been there a long time.
> "I'm gunna count to three and you better have your ass over here." Dean
> tried to stifle his crying and get up out of the trailer. A dull ache 
> hammered throughout his head; his lip throbbed with every heartbeat.
> Needles 
> of hurt shot through his thighs as he climbed over the railing of the 
> trailer.
> Refusing to look at his grandfather, Dean approached, head down and
> sullen. 
> His eyes were puffy and wet, but he didn't allow new tears to flow. "You
> see this?" Grandpa asked him, finger pointing into the abyss.
> Remembering the painful ear twist, a miniscule "yes" escaped the boy. He
> 
> stepped towards the edge of the hole. It was quite big, maybe twice as
> large 
> as a refrigerator. Layers of dark, rich dirt cascaded downwards towards
> the 
> bottom.
> "Git in, boy," the old man barked.
> Dean glanced up at him. Was he serious? Why did he want him to go down 
> there? If he thought of inquiring, he didn't have a chance. The old
> man's 
> leather boot kicked, propelling him forward. He pitched head first into
> the 
> pit, flipping over and landing on his back some eight feet below.
> Although 
> the ground was moist, the impact still knocked the breath out of him.
> Panic 
> seized Dean as he gasped for air. The old man stuck his face over the
> edge. 
> The eyes that stared down were perfectly calm.
> "The Japs had ways of making prisoners behave. This one's easy, be 
> grateful." The old man dragged the large barn door over the top of the 
> hole, closing it off from the outside world. With that, darkness grew
> over 
> the top of the hole like the moon eclipsing the sun.
> At the bottom of the vault, Dean urgently sucked in the damp, musty air,
> but 
> there just wasn't enough. His heart raced while the darkness weighed
> down 
> upon him. In this tomb, terror gripped like the talons of a large bird. 
> Animal sounds gurgled from deep inside him, sounds which served to
> frighten 
> him more. A clammy sweat sheathed his small body as images of killer 
> spiders, poisonous snakes and boy eating trilobites tormented him. It
> took a few minutes to quiet his fears to a reasonable whimpering. The 
> cool dampness of the dirt penetrated his thoughts and helped to break
> the 
> grip of the talons.
> He took a few deep breaths, and between sobs he tried to yell. "Grandpa,
> let 
> me out."
> He listened, but heard only his pulse beating in his neck and the sounds
> of 
> sorrow coming from inside his chest.
> "Grandpa!" he said, louder this time. "I'm scared. Please let me out!"
> There 
> was no response.
> "I'm sorry I broke your window. I'm really sorry. Please open up." A
> cloak of panic overtook Dean and he started crying again. Hard, racking 
> sobs convulsed through his small body. Sitting on the damp dirt, he
> pulled 
> his knees to his chest and put his head down on his arms. Blubbery snot 
> dripped down his legs, but he didn't care. His six year old body
> trembled 
> like that of a palsied old man.
> "Please," he pleaded to the darkness.
> Time passed, as did the outburst. When Dean had collected himself, he
> tried 
> to contact the outside world again.
> "Grandpa, are you out there?"
> He heard nothing. Had Grandpa left? Dean thought he would have heard the
> 
> tractor. Was he all alone? Out here in the field? An icy shudder
> trickled 
> down his spine.
> "Help!" he screamed. "Help! Help!" He shouted until his throat felt like
> it 
> had been scoured with steel wool, then he collapsed to the ground for 
> another sobbing binge. It was hopeless. John Henderson owned nearly
> fifty 
> acres of land. The closest neighbor was almost a mile away. Sorrow kept 
> bleeding out of the boy; he bit his lower lip and reopened the wound.
> The 
> blood trickled down his chin like wax down a candle.
> At that moment, Dean Henderson was fairly certain he would never get
> out. After the next bawling wave passed, Dean was able to clear some of
> the self 
> pity out of his head and consider possible modes of escape. He stood,
> rubbed 
> some of the soreness out of his legs and jumped towards the top of the
> hole, 
> but it was far out of reach. He tried to climb, but the hard packed mud
> gave 
> no holds. Each attempt only ended in his sliding a few inches back down
> to 
> the bottom. In the darkness, Dean felt his way around searching for 
> something, anything to grab and pull himself upwards. Trembling fingers 
> found nothing but dirt and clay. One end of the prison was lower than
> the 
> other, and about a half inch of muddy water soaked his socked feet.
> Further 
> depressed, he moved back to the dry section and sat, silent tears
> rolling 
> one by one down his cheeks. There was no way a little kid could get out
> of 
> here. In his child's mind, Dean wished he had a rope or something to
> help 
> him escape, but he had nothing except Digger and a few other rocks.
>  He stood, took the rocks out of his pocket and threw them at the old
> door 
> with a scream, "Let me out!"
> The rocks plinked into the door uselessly and fell back to the ground.
> One 
> hit Dean on the head, further infuriating him and bringing on another
> deluge 
> of sadness. Dean sat, curled into a ball, feeling as though he must be
> the 
> sorriest kid in the world. Silent lips worded the name, Momma, over and 
> over.
> At some point later in the night, Dean felt around on the ground until
> he 
> located the familiar curve of Digger. Dean clutched the rock tightly, 
> rubbing one side with a dirty thumb. He needed to hold something of
> comfort 
> in this murky cell. Mindlessly, he used the rock to churn up the dirt
> near 
> where he was sitting. The task occupied his otherwise miserable mind, so
> he 
> began to carve linear trenches in the bottom of the pit. About four rows
> in, 
> he hit something solid, and he dug around it. Expecting a rock, Dean
> felt 
> the object with interest. His fingertips encountered something smooth
> and 
> possibly metallic. Whatever it was, he now had a purpose, and the
> excavation 
> continued. The mystery item was deeper than he expected, so he had to
> use 
> his fingers as well as his rock tool to extricate the find. After about
> ten 
> minutes, he pulled out an object a little smaller than his hand. Dirt
> chunks fell away from various surfaces and he ran his fingers over the 
> treasure. He felt the head, gun and legs of a miniature soldier. It was 
> metal and the limbs wouldn't move, unlike those of the plastic GI Joe he
> had 
> back home. Dean took the soldier, which he named Joe, over to the small
> pool 
> of water and washed him off. He dried and polished him with his shirt,
> proud 
> of his fine work.
> He returned to his spot and resumed digging, Joe acting as job
> supervisor. 
> In the next hour the team unearthed three rocks, a marble and a skeleton
> 
> key. Each item was washed and cleaned with care. Dean convinced himself
> that 
> the key would open up that door, if he could only get to it.
> He took comfort in his treasures, but the hour was late and he grew
> tired of 
> digging. Hunger cramped his empty belly, and on an impulse he popped the
> 
> glass marble into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue and sucking
> it 
> to placate the pangs. Momma would kill him for putting a marble in his 
> mouth, but he didn't care. He hadn't eaten anything since lunch, and
> Momma 
> was far away. It reminded him of a gumball, or a big jawbreaker, and
> that 
> seemed to ease the discomfort a bit. As the time passed, his sore body
> grew 
> too heavy to hold up and he slumped over onto the dirt. The spit covered
> 
> marble slid harmlessly out of his mouth, and he was swept away into a
> thick, 
> dreamless sleep.
> 
> Dean awoke a few hours later as the first rays of morning beamed into
> the 
> top of his prison. Mercifully, his sleep had been solid, and he hadn't 
> noticed Grandpa removing the heavy door.
> "C'mon, boy. Let's go."
> The old man stooped and reached low into the pit. Dean stood up slowly,
> like 
> a drunk after a night in the tank sleeping it off. He stared up at his 
> grandfather, reluctant to touch that hand. Would he pick him up, just to
> 
> drop him down into the hole again? He decided it was worth the risk. The
> old 
> man hoisted him out of the hole with ease, carried him over and sat him
> on 
> the tractor. He then took a minute and replaced the barn door. He picked
> 
> Dean up and put him down on his lap as he started the tractor. Pulling
> it 
> around, heading for home, he said, "I hope you learned your lesson." A 
> second later, he asked, "Wanna steer the tractor?"
> At any other time, Dean would have wet his pants at the possibility of 
> driving Grandpa's big green tractor. Dean loved cars, trucks and
> machinery. 
> Instead of taking the wheel, though, he just shook his head and
> scratched 
> with dirty fingers at the dried blood on his chin.
> The two traveled wordlessly back to the farmhouse, where Dean noticed 
> Grandpa had covered the broken window with a thick, blue piece of
> tarpaulin. 
> There was no sign of Daddy's car.
> 
> Inside, Grandpa gave him a large glass of orange juice. "Where's my
> Daddy?" he asked the old man. "Ain't back yet. He'll be home shortly."
> Grandpa drew a hot bath and laid out some clean clothes. Dean's Mom or
> Dad 
> usually stayed with him while he was in the tub, talking or singing
> songs to 
> make bath time fun. Grandpa left him alone, saying only that he should
> be 
> sure to scrub his face good, that right now he looked like a has been 
> prizefighter.
> Making his way back towards the front room, Dean was overpowered by the 
> smell of bacon and hot biscuits.
> "I'm making us a nice down home West Virginia breakfast. Is that okay
> with 
> you?" Grandpa looked inquisitively at the boy.
> Dean was starving, so he nodded in assent.
> "Won't be done for a few minutes. Why don't you go watch a little TV
> until I 
> call you."
> Grandpa was noticeably different. He hadn't yelled, pinched his ear, or
> done 
> anything mean this morning. The boy was puzzled, but pleased, so he did
> as 
> he was told.
>  A short while later he was stuffing his face with vigor. The salt on
> his 
> eggs stung his lip, but it barely slowed him down. Food never tasted so 
> good.
> After breakfast, Grandpa asked Dean to follow him into his bedroom. Dean
> 
> stood there while Grandpa poked around in a closet. He came back and set
> a 
> toaster sized wooden box in front of the boy. He bent down and opened
> it. "Take a look at this," he said, all smiles and tenderness. Inside
> the box 
> were perhaps fifty arrowheads. "These are ones I've found over the years
> 
> during spring plowing. Winter always brings 'em up."
> Dean was awestruck. He looked at the old man, who told him, "Go ahead,
> you 
> can have one."
> Dean rifled through the collection. Some of the arrowheads were chipped
> or 
> broken, but most were intact. He found a large one, a blueish brown
> color, 
> still sharp and pointy.
> "Can I have this one, Grandpa?"
> "Sure, it's yours," Grandpa said. "Now, are we friends?" The old man
> stuck 
> out a leathery hand. Dean hesitated, then shook it. Grandpa put his box
> of 
> treasures back and told him to go play outside until his Daddy arrived.
> Dean and his tin soldier Joe were scouting for Indians when the Country 
> Squire came rolling up the driveway. He ran over and jumped into the
> arms of 
> his Dad.
> "Daddy, where were you?"
> Len Henderson groaned and hugged him tightly. "I'm sorry, Deano. We
> played 
> cards late and I was really tired, so I just slept at Mr. Will's place."
> Len held him out and looked him over. "Hey Champ, what happened to your
> lip?" Dean's face took on a somber 
> expression, shame and anger not deeply buried.
> "Grandpa knocked me on the floor, and I bit my lip. He was mean Daddy, I
> don't 
> like it here."
> Len Henderson stared mutely at the boy for a minute, noticing for the
> first 
> time the tin soldier in his hand. His eyes didn't move from the soldier
> as 
> he lowered his son to the ground.
> "I'm going inside to talk to Grandpa and fetch your stuff. You stay out
> here 
> in the car and find us a good station on the radio. OK?" Dean got into
> the 
> driver seat and his father closed the car door.
> "I'll be back shortly, you stay here."
> Dean put Joe away in his pocket, then turned the radio on and fiddled
> with 
> the dial. Mostly all he could find was static. He was beginning to catch
> a 
> Gospel station when he heard shouting coming from the house. He turned
> the 
> volume down, but the sounds were muffled and difficult to make out. A
> large 
> crashing sound made Dean jump. It was followed by the sound of metal 
> falling, like someone had dropped a tray full of silverware. Dean
> quickly 
> turned the volume back up and resumed tuning the radio when he saw his 
> father coming to the car, Dean's small suitcase in hand. He moved over
> to 
> his side as his Dad slid in behind the wheel.
>  Len Henderson's complexion was a mottled red, and he was breathing
> harder 
> than normal. His hair was mussed, and a trickle of blood spilled out of
> his 
> lower lip. Dean felt concerned, but something told him it wasn't the
> time to 
> talk. His father had that look that he sometimes did right before he
> yelled 
> at Dean or Mommy, so he pulled out Joe and his new arrowhead and played
> for 
> a while.
> An awkward silence loomed in the car as they weaved their way to the 
> highway. Once traveling at seventy up the Interstate, Dean put down his 
> things to look at his Dad. His skin was its normal color now, and his
> Dad 
> looked like himself, except for the stubble and the split lip. "Daddy,
> are you all right?" Len turned and smiled at his son. "I'm fine, Champ.
> Don't you worry. I'm 
> sorry things didn't go well at Grandpa's. You okay?"
> Dean watched his father for a second, wondering what answer his Dad was 
> looking to hear.
> "I'm okay, Daddy, glad we're going home. And now we got matching lips!"
> They 
> laughed, and Dean's father ruffled his fingers through the boy's crew
> cut. A few miles further down the road, Dean was fingering the tip of
> the large 
> arrowhead as he thought about his night in the hole. He never wanted to 
> visit Grandpa ever again. He rolled his window down and tossed the
> arrowhead 
> out onto the highway, glad to be rid of it. Let it be run over and
> crushed, 
> along with the memories of that mean old man.
> * * * * *
> "Daddy, you're hurting me," Little Tyler Henderson croaked, his father's
> 
> arms like a boa constrictor around his small chest.
> Unconscious of his grip, Dean careened back to the moment and loosened
> his 
> clutch on Tyler. The drumbeat of his pulse still throbbed in his temple
> as 
> he tried to shake the fright of the exhumed memory. So fresh in his mind
> 
> right now, it could have happened this very morning. Yet, Dean couldn't 
> recall ever thinking of that horrible trip since it happened. Like the
> tin 
> soldier and the marble, the memory had been buried a long time ago.
> "Dean, are you all right?" Tasha Henderson put a hand on her husband's 
> shoulder. Dean looked pale, his eyes bloodshot and wet.
> "Dean?" she repeated.
> He stood, with Tyler still held snugly in his arms. He snuffled, and
> wiped 
> his eyes with a shirt sleeve.
> "Yeah, I'm OK. I just had this horrible image . . . scared the hell out
> of 
> me I guess."
> "We can make sure the owners do something to protect that well," the
> real 
> estate agent said.
> "Be sure to do that," Dean told her. Then he grabbed his wife's hand and
> 
> said, "C'mon honey. I don't think this place is for us."
> 
> 
> 
> 
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