Gracie swept the floor of the barn and the chickens clucked an angry protest. “You be gone, there, back to your seed.” She never liked the chickens, but had to have them on the farm? The goats actually served a purpose she liked. They kept the grass cut out front, otherwise she’d have to pay Old Man Lacey to come cut the lawn. How could she afford that? Goats ate their weight in gold.
Ever since Lucy’d gone off to Jamestown to work for the Balls, she’d fallen behind on her morning chores. Even when the grandsons done come in spring to plant the fields and in fall to harvest the crops, the barn kept getting cluttered, the picket fence kept falling down, the buggy wheel kept falling off. Then there was the tree that fell down in the front yard last year – no money to have it taken away – and the broken leg on the dining room table – no money for a new table.
Gracie gave up on the barn. It was late afternoon, anyways. Time for the rocking chair on the porch, a glass of iced tea, and Honey. No matter what, she had her yellow Labrador. Would be nice, watching the sunset after this day, but looked like a storm was coming – and what was that noise out front? Sounded like a dying cow.
Nope, she peeked out the barn, a car with a man and a woman in it – back tires spinning around to no end. What were they doing way out here, two miles from the main road, visiting an old negro woman on a farm?
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