Olan L. Smith's Short Stories

Cotton's Neighbors

©2016, Olan L. Smith

It was through my brothers that I became associated with my pal Kim, because my brothers were always over at the Henry farm. They would play with Kim's brother Tony, do chores, ride horses and watch me tag along. I was always twenty or thirty feet behind them as they crossed the field to the Henry farm because my little legs couldn't keep up with them.

"Go home, Cotton!" they would say.

But, I would just slow down, drop to my knees in the wheat and just disappear. They weren't going to keep me away from Kim. I waited until they crossed the Henry's fence and then I would walk over. Usually, by the time I got to the Henry's house, the boys had disappeared into the basement. I'd walk into their attached garage and knock on the door. Thelma, Kim's mother would walk to the screened door to the garage and say, "Hi there, Cotton. You want to play with Kim."

"Yes, Mrs. Henry." I called her Mrs. Henry because you never call your elders by their Christian name unless you were asked to do so. But I always thought of her as Thelma, or Kim's mom.

"Kim!" shouted Mrs. Henry. Usually, at this moment I would turn my head, plug my ears with my fingers, because Thelma's voice was loud and high-pitched, easily discernible anywhere on their one hundred twenty acre tract of land. Nope, there's no hiding from that voice. It would reach out, grab us and make us come running to the house. "Kim! Cotton's here!" In about a minute, Kim would come bounding to the door.

"Hey, Cotton. You want to play dolls?"

"Sure."

Off we ran to the living room to play for hours, or until my brothers emerged from the basement and said, "Come on Cotton. It's time to go home."

"I have to go, Kim. I'll see you later."

Kim wasn't a member of my kingdom, because she was a country girl and lived across the way from me, but through her I learned to milk a cow's teat and Thelma gave me churning lessons, though I suspect she just needed someone to do the work. I was curious about everything. Yes, I was a town boy with a country connection. On their farm Kim and I had no boundaries and we explored every square inch, looked under every stone, swam all the ponds and waded each creek. We played our hearts out and then would collapse on the spot to rest. On one occasion, when we were coming from the barn, Kim said, "Hey Cotton, lets ride these young born calves in the pen."

I replied, "Sure! Let's do it! And we can pretend we are rodeo riders!"