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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa That Christmas, Dad shocked us when he arranged for Charlie Grover's boys to help with the farm while we visited Pennsylvania. Mom is a strong woman. She knows tears are a waste of good water. But I saw tears in Mom's eyes that day as she hugged Dad and squeezed him hard. I shouted hooray! Dad started out early the next day-well before sunrise. That's the only way Dad knows. We drove for hours before the sun came up, and we drove for hours afterwards. Mom broke out our lunch and we ate in the car while Dad kept driving. I watched for snow. The land grew brown. Then grey. The sky was the color of lead. I kept waiting for white, for the soft curves and gentle shadows of snow. But snow hadn't fallen that year. None of us knew. We pulled up to my cousins' farm and I couldn't help grumbling that we had traveled twelve hours for nothing. Tires cmnched over frozen, barren ground. I was in a sour mood. It was Christmas Eve. My cousins opened one gift each, and Charlie, the oldest, opened a .22 rifle with shells. After that, the whole gang bundled up and everyone went outside to shoot at cans my uncle lined up on the fence. It was great fun, and I was the best shot of all, plinking can after can in the moonlight. But it wasn't snow. We stayed up late and drank hot chocolate and sat by the fireplace listening to Mom and my uncle tell stories on each other about the old days. I kept walking to the window to check for a change in the weather. Right before bed, my uncle put his hand on my shoulder as I stared. "The storms have passed us all winter," he said. His voice was quiet. "Don't worry. A storm is on the way. I can feel it in my knees." I turned and looked up at his smile. "Promise?" I asked. |