It snowed that morning, laying a thick heavy blanket on the still-colorful leaves before the sun roused from its slumber. Across the street in Vicar's field, yellowed grasses and wild grains peeked their heads from the layers of flakes to glance at the whitened world around them. The streets were devoid of blemishes, marked only by their outline of sturdy mailboxes and the shiny red flags.

The brush dipped deep in white and smeared across the autumn day, erasing the trees, the leaves, the houses, the fields, and the round face of a little boy pressed against the wide front window. Once again, the canvas was blank. The artist dipped his brush in green.

He is the master of the world confined to the fifteen square foot blank space before him, but even he cannot deny that Spring is coming.

Summers is the worst. Now, trust me on this, I'm no teacher's pet. I like school as much as the next kid, but I prefer the school months to the summer ones. I live way off the beaten path as ma calls it. My bus ride into school takes over an hour, though I've never timed the trip. I'm sure you can see where I'm leading. Nobody's parent wants to drag their kid an hour out of town down a dirt road that's made of more potholes than gravel. And neither ma, nor dad are going to drive us. It means me and my brothers are alone for two months.

Alone, however, doesn't just imply boredom. I'm sure my brothers and I could entertain ourselves alright. But dad has other ideas. It's the job of us kids to keep up after the chickens and drag the goat back to the homestead after he gets out for the third time this week. We've got weeding, watering, pruning, and harvesting to do. The tractor quit two years ago, so even in the spring, when we used to be free, we were up early and up late trying to plant all the produce.

Ma couldn't even help this year because of the new baby. She was off her feet for weeks. Dad was more upset than I thought it was alright for him to be. Ma's absence meant extra work for all of us. Dad even dragged Kit, who used to be the baby, out to the farm this year. He's only four or five, but Dad said his father forced him out in the fields when he was even younger. Dad is always telling us how lazy we are compared to him as a child. Grandma would be ashamed, or whatever family member he tries to condemn us with that day.

The verbal lashings are better than the real ones. They don't come often, but when the day has been real hot, and dad's got a cold brown bottle in his hand, one little slip up of the tongue or even a slip of the feet could land us in trouble with dad. There may not be many trees around, but he'll find a switch, that's for sure. It stings bad.

I wish I could say we get days off, but even Sundays, when we don't have to get up too early, are miserable. We all pack into the truck. Us kids are too many to fit in the cab now. Will and Mickey have to sit in the back of the truck on the way to church and pretend that the sun-drenched metal truck bed isn't burning their skin off when they sit.

We're always late to church. Dad chews everyone out when we get home. Sabbath is supposed to be a day of rest, I think. But dad drives us out to collect the eggs, milk the goat, pluck the pesky yellow worms off of the zucchini, and water the thirsty plants. The last day of school has me counting down to the end of August. When I heard they were drawing out the school year last year, I got excited. Dad was real mad, and even more upset that I was grinning while he shouted. He switched me real bad that day.

Today was Tuesday, I think. Missing church always messes with my memory. Ma and the baby have the flu so we're not allowed to bother her. It was all okay for dad, though. He woke us up with the sun and drove us to the yard without breakfast. Without ma, we can't feed ourselves more than bread with whatever jam is on the shelf. She won't let us touch the stove. The gas is broken so the flames shoot real high. She gets burned all the time and won't let us near it.

I knew the day was gonna be a bad one when dad flicked Kit hard for whining about breakfast. The sun was hotter than normal. My skin has already been burned to a crisp. Dad says the sunscreen will kill us faster than the sun, so he won't let us use it.

After a few hours in the sun even Mickey, who idolized dad and did whatever he asked with reverence, was begging for a break.

We chugged water and made a couple mayo sandwiches. Now, I don't like mayo sandwiches one bit, but after a morning of hard work in the hot sun with no water, I could've eaten ten of them. Kit barely had three bites of his sandwich when dad was ushering us back out into the field.

One of the ties on my braid snapped and dad wouldn't let me go in the house for another one. He said he had half a mind to cut off my pigtails and be done with it. So, I tied the ends of both together with the one I had left. If I have one thing I like about myself, it is my hair. It was as blonde as ma's and real long too. I wore all my brother's old hand-me-downs. Without my braids, I'd look just like a boy. Dad couldn't cut my hair. I knew he'd forget about it if I dropped the topic altogether.

Dinner was nothing but sandwiches too. We had one bowl of chili left, but dad said that was for ma. But at least this time we got to put some tuna on our sandwiches. I was downright starving.

Bedtime followed shortly after. Now, most kids hate bedtime. I don't hate the sleeping part. I hate sharing the bed with Kit. He still acts like he's not even potty trained much and wets the bed at least once a week. Now, I suppose I don't get too mad, except when waking up in the middle of night. Laundry is my job, so it gets me out of the sun a day or two a week. Anyways, I guess I just like going to bed because it makes me one day closer to the start of fall and the end of summer.