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For My Family

For My Family FICTION Laura Weddle raised a hand to rub snow from his dark face, lined like stone from SOGGY FLAKES OF SNOW DRIFTED lazily out of a low flat sky. They danced and twisted, gray at first in the thin winter light, then white, as they neared the hard dark earth. The man on the road looked up as the first flakes fell, shroud-like, on his thin wool jacket. He pulled the jacket closer around his shoulders and tightened the earflaps of his cap. He years in the sun. He clenched his fingers, making fists to stimulate warmth. For the tenth time since he'd left the tobacco warehouse in Lancaster, he reached around to his back pocket to feel the reassuring bulge of his billfold. Beside it he also felt the hard curved outline of his leather-holstered skinning knife, the only thing his father had left him when he died. He always carried it and kept it sharp to skin and clean the squirrels and rabbits he hunted on Sundays. The tobacco hadn't brought as much as he'd hoped, but it would pay off last year's grocery bill and leave enough to lay in a supply of flour and http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

For My Family

Weddle, Laura.
Appalachian Review , Volume 30 (1) – Jan 8, 2002
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
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Abstract

FICTION Laura Weddle raised a hand to rub snow from his dark face, lined like stone from SOGGY FLAKES OF SNOW DRIFTED lazily out of a low flat sky. They danced and twisted, gray at first in the thin winter light, then white, as they neared the hard dark earth. The man on the road looked up as the first flakes fell, shroud-like, on his thin wool jacket. He pulled the jacket closer around his shoulders and tightened the earflaps of his cap. He years in the sun. He clenched his fingers, making fists to stimulate warmth. For the tenth time since he'd left the tobacco warehouse in Lancaster, he reached around to his back pocket to feel the reassuring bulge of his billfold. Beside it he also felt the hard curved outline of his leather-holstered skinning knife, the only thing his father had left him when he died. He always carried it and kept it sharp to skin and clean the squirrels and rabbits he hunted on Sundays. The tobacco hadn't brought as much as he'd hoped, but it would pay off last year's grocery bill and leave enough to lay in a supply of flour and

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2002

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