georgia 2:2
I couldn't read it, said Jack in his defense. We realized at breakfast the next day, fifty miles north at a campground that Jack had bought buttermilk instead of two-percent. We'd already poured it on our granola, taken big sour bites. At first I thought the milk had gone bad, then looking at the carton, I saw Jack's mistake. I could tell he was worried, thinking about the mother and son at the store. She'd been fat and mean. If that kid had bought buttermilk by mistake, he might've gotten a caning. I was looking for Jack's mother, taking him to her, but our luck had been as sour as this meal. I wondered if he'd rather have the big black woman than no mother at all. Probably not, and I wondered if his own mother would be better. Probably some. Jack was spooning his soggy oats around his bowl, not eating, not looking at me. I took a bite, not so bad. Jill was eating a little, too. Oh well, I said, we better teach you to read.
move on... 
other roads...
Back Up...
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