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Prospectors

Prospectors Jerry Richardson Appalachian Heritage, Volume 25, Number 2, Spring 1997, pp. 28-31 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1997.0041 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436079/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:29 GMT from JHU Libraries FICTION Prospectors___________________________ Jerry Richardson The old man was sitting on his corner of the couch playing solitaire and listening to the Atlanta Braves. His hands were drawn from arthritis but he was still able to peel the cards from the deck and shuffle after a fashion. It was mid-summer, the windows were open, and the humming sounds of the early afternoon moved through the room. The only other sounds were those of sandwich-making from the kitchen as my brother Robert put the finishing touches on his third potted meat and tomato sandwich. I had driven in from my home in Maryland the previous evening and Robert and I sat up after Mom and Dad had gone to bed, eating and talking. "Mom and Dad look pretty good." I said. "Mom's doing real good," Robert said, "but sometimes I worry about Dad." "Is he sick?" "No, but I'm worried about him mentally. He doesn't tell jokes or anything. He http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Prospectors

Richardson, Jerry.
Appalachian Review , Volume 25 (2) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Jerry Richardson Appalachian Heritage, Volume 25, Number 2, Spring 1997, pp. 28-31 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1997.0041 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436079/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:29 GMT from JHU Libraries FICTION Prospectors___________________________ Jerry Richardson The old man was sitting on his corner of the couch playing solitaire and listening to the Atlanta Braves. His hands were drawn from arthritis but he was still able to peel the cards from the deck and shuffle after a fashion. It was mid-summer, the windows were open, and the humming sounds of the early afternoon moved through the room. The only other sounds were those of sandwich-making from the kitchen as my brother Robert put the finishing touches on his third potted meat and tomato sandwich. I had driven in from my home in Maryland the previous evening and Robert and I sat up after Mom and Dad had gone to bed, eating and talking. "Mom and Dad look pretty good." I said. "Mom's doing real good," Robert said, "but sometimes I worry about Dad." "Is he sick?" "No, but I'm worried about him mentally. He doesn't tell jokes or anything. He

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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