Atticus Farmer
The three children looked up at their grandpa, who was telling a story from his favorite chair by the fire. “When I was a little boy …” The children waited for the rest of the sentence, but it didn’t come. It wasn’t the first time that Atticus Farmer had nodded off like that; after all, he was 99 years old. “There he goes again,” whispered Little Larry. “I wonder what he’s thinking about.” “Maybe he’s thinking about the farm where he grew up,” said Timid Timmy. Still waiting, the children’s legs were getting numb after sitting cross-legged on the floor for so long. Atticus suddenly opened his eyes, and he spoke to the space above the children’s heads: “When I was a little boy during the Great Depression, our farm produced more crops than anyone could afford to buy. Prices fell, factories closed, and our workers were laid off. We couldn’t pay off our bank loan, and we lost the farm in foreclosure.” The three children stared at their grandpa. Although they had no idea what his words meant, they knew that he was remembering a very hard time. Darling Donna told her mother that their grandpa wasn’t making any sense. |
“Oh, I’ve heard these stories before,” her mother explained. “On days when my dad’s mind is clear and calm, these old memories come up. When he closes his eyes, he always goes back to the farm. Even though it was a hard time, it was his happy place—before everything turned bad, of course.” As the other two children watched their grandpa snooze, Little Larry whispered, “I wonder what it was like to live on that farm.” “Grandpa had five brothers and four sisters,” Timid Timmy told him, “and they all lived in a two-room house.” “Wow!” Darling Donna added. “We sure have it good now. Don’t we, Momma?” “Yes, we do indeed.” Atticus barely heard these conversations because he was tending oats, sorghum, alfalfa, and corn, and his back ached from bending. He smelled the bread—made with flour, yeast, salt, and water—that his mother had just baked in their humble fireplace, and he heard the goats bleat in the distance. The call of “Dinner!” brought him out of his reverie. Atticus opened his eyes and slowly stood up. His usual seat at the head of the table was waiting for him, and he shuffled toward it. Everyone else was seated. With a confused look on his wrinkled face, he shouted, “Who the hell ARE you people?” The three children and their mother exchanged uncomfortable glances and looked at their plates. After a few silent moments, Atticus sat down, clumsily picked up his soup spoon, and loudly slurped. From Carpet Creatures: Tales from the Deep Pile To join the Carpet Creatures project, please visit our TAE Gallery website. |
