Miracle in a Dry Season Read Online Free PDF

sometimes when she put a meal on the table, she realized that she had lost a chunk of time. She knew she’d been in the kitchen preparing food, but she could no more recount her movements than she could fly. Serving dinner was like waking up from a deep and restful sleep. And Perla worried that she neglected Sadie at those times.

4

    A T CHURCH THAT S UNDAY it soon became obvious that Delilah had succeeded in stirring up interest in a barn dance. Within a week or so farmers would have their spring planting done, and barns were mostly empty with the past winter’s hay having been fed out by now. After some lively discussion, it was decided that George Brower’s barn would be the best spot. His barn had a large open room with the cowshed on the upper side where the hill behind offered some protection. Well into his fifties and never married, George kept the barn neater than his house. His being the banjo player clinched the deal, although there had been some muttering that George kept his place a little too “dry” for some of the men who liked a nip now and again.
    They set the next Saturday as the date. The way the ladies buzzed around the churchyard after the service sent most of the men scurrying to bring cars around in hopes of getting Sunday dinner sooner rather than later. Even so, quite a few meals were late that day.
    Casewell made arrangements with George and Steve tohold practice that week so they’d be up to snuff for the dance. Robert caught wind and said he’d join them with his harmonica but not to count on him to play the whole time.
    “Got to dance with my wife and that pretty niece of mine,” he said with a wink.
    The week flew by for Casewell. He wouldn’t admit it, but he got lost in his music, and nothing satisfied his soul so much as sharing the sweet sounds he could draw from his mandolin with anyone inclined to listen. He not only played with the other members of their impromptu band that week, but also found himself pulling out his mandolin each evening and thinking over all the music he wanted to play on Saturday.
    When Casewell rehearsed with the rest of the group, they mostly played lively dance tunes, but left to his own devices Casewell tended toward sweet, sorrowful music. He played “The Long Black Veil” almost every evening that week. Something about that song resonated deep in his soul. Sad, sinful song that it was, about a woman committing adultery with her husband’s best friend, she deserved to walk those hills crying. Even so, Casewell’s heart went out to the adulteress. He couldn’t explain it and didn’t care to try; he just lived in the music while he played.
    By Saturday evening, the community was in an uproar. Women baked all day or fussed over what they would wear. The men hurried through farmwork or chores—more often at the behest of the women in their lives than of their own accord. By six that evening George’s barn glowed from manger to hayloft. The main floor was clear for dancing, with plywood laid over some bales at the far end of the room to make a stage for the musicians. Two long trestle tables were set up to the side and filled with hams, biscuits, loaf bread, sliced beef, deviledeggs, pickles, cakes, pies, and cookies. Icy pitchers filled with sweet tea, lemonade, and punch sat at one end. Some of the men would almost certainly have a little something stronger in the trunks of their cars, but it was early yet, and the only thing anyone was drunk on was anticipation.
    Casewell, George, and Steve had the crowd flat-footing across the floor in no time. Most folks had grown up doing the traditional Appalachian dance that was a cross between Irish step and tap dancing. The cacophony created by all those feet tapping and shuffling in time to mountain tunes made a music of its own, and an hour passed before Casewell knew it. Steve called a break for refreshments with a waggle of his eyebrows, which meant he had a little something stashed out back to perk him