![]() ![]() loved to remind him-as though his genitalia didn't-and tears didn't speak well for one who would, one day, become a man. After all, he was a boy, Chester Peace Sr. Something about the melody soothed his somber soul and allowed him to cry without fear of his father's reprisal. As a child, he lay in bed listening to the thunderous polyrhythms they drummed into the rusted tin rooftop. That year, the stubborn rains prolonged the daily sojourn Gus and the boys took to the river and back-locals called it the Jordan-carrying five-gallon buckets of water for both their own and the sprouts' survival. Usually the rains came between March and April, freeing him to hunt or fish the latter part of spring while cabbage, collard, and tomato sprouts strengthened in the moistened earth. It was May 17, 1940, and Gus's wilted crops made him wonder if, somehow, he had angered Mother Nature. They should have come by now, he noted, glancing at the battered Motley Funeral Home calendar hanging from a nail on the wall. ![]() ![]() Gus stood beside the living room window, waiting for the annual spring rains. ![]()
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