On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren Read Free Book Online Page B

study her two pygmy goats and miniature donkey as I pass their pasture. As I make my way down farther, the Andersons’ dogs run out to greet me—Amigo, a blue heeler, and Kiva, an Australian shepherd. I stop my bicycle and give them both a dog cookie, then begin to pedal again. The dogs try to herd me by running circles around my bicycle. Julie Anderson, mowing the little lawn around her house, looks up and waves. She whistles at her dogs, and they leave their unsuccessful attempt at herding to run back home. At least ten kids play outside the Hulls’ house. Sasha, as usual, is in her garden, where I reckon she spends all her time trying to grow enough food to feed all those kids. From under her wide straw gardening hat, Sasha calls out hello, and I return her greeting. I do love riding past my neighbors. The bicycle takes me at just the right speed, slow enough to take a good look at things, but fast enough to get me there. I can stop and say hello to neighbors with less formality than if I had driven up in a car, or I can just wave and ride on by. I miss this ritual in the winter when the snow covers the road.
    A rattler suns itself in the road. I take my gun out of my holster, pull back the hammer, aim, and press the trigger. The recoil makes my bike swerve dramatically, but I don’t crash. I get closer to the snake, now dead, and stop. I walk to the side of the road without getting off my bike, pick up a stick, go back to the snake, and poke it. It doesn’t move, so I pick it up and put it in the flower basket on my handlebars so I can skin it later.
    I continue on until I reach the edge of town, then pass a row of houses, the feed store, and the general store, and arrive at last at my destination, the post office. I park my cruiser, walk inside, and unlock my box. I survey its contents: a letter from an old friend who moved to Kansas, a catalog full of stupid gadgets and useless junk I don’t need, a subscription renewal notice for Beatrice from Prevention magazine, and a yellow USPS card that lets me know I have a package too large to fit in my box. I present the card to Andrew Mabey, the post-master, such a nice boy.
    “Why, hello, Mrs. Huffman, I hear we’re supposed to get more rain today,” he tells me.
    “Couldn’t come at a better time,” I reply. My smile thanks him for the good news.
    Andrew walks into the back and finds my package. It’s my long-awaited box of Fort Laramie strawberry plants—two hundred of them. “My strawberries,” I tell Andrew.
    “Well, now I know where to be at the end of August!” he teases me. Secretly, though, I know he does hope I bring him another strawberry pie like last year.
    “I’d better hurry home and get as many of these in the soil as I can before the rain,” I explain. I say good-bye, walk outside to my bike, take two bungee cords from under the dead snake in my basket, and strap the box of strawberry plants to the rack over my back tire. I take the dead snake from my basket and carefully tuck it under the bungee cords to make room in my flower basket for my other mail. Then I pedal with more vigor on my way home, past my friendly neighbors, to beat the rain.

Anna on Being Territorial
(May 27)
    I wear a black tank top while I paint today, even though I’ve become self-conscious of my arms. Hot flashes. I woke up last night drenched in sweat. I got out of bed, found some clean, dry sheets and took them outside to the reclining lawn chair, where I spent the rest of the night.
    Instead of my favorite jasmine tea, I drink some worthless herbal menopause tea and sit by the window in the breakfast nook, painting a black and white raisin with a bright orange, red, and yellow flame around it. I’m going to call it Crone with Hot Flash .
    Phil comes into the kitchen and begins to look through the cupboards. He takes all the small appliances out, neatly folds each one’s cord, takes a twisty-tie from the plastic bag and foil drawer, and wraps each folded cord. I