“Well, there’s always someone going in,” he said, “and you could ride in with them.”
That evening the silence of our supper was interrupted when I asked my father this question: “Papa, how far is it to Kentucky?”
I may as well have exploded a bomb. For an instant there was complete silence, and then my oldest sister giggled.
The two little ones stared at me. With a half-hearted laugh, my father said, “Well, now, I don’t know, but it’s a pretty good ways.
What do you want to know for? Thinking of taking a trip to Kentucky?” “No,” I said. “I just wondered.”
My youngest sister giggled and asked, “Can I go with you?” I glared at her.
Mama broke into the conversation, “I declare, what kind of a question is that?
How far is it to Kentucky? I don’t know what’s gotten into that mind of yours lately.
You go around like you were lost, and you’re losing weight. You’re as skinny as a rail, and look at that hair.
Just last Sunday they had a haircutting over at Tom Rolland’s place, but you couldn’t go.
You had to go prowling around the river and the woods.
I told Mama that I’d get a haircut next time they had a cutting.
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