Spirit Pouch by Stanford Vaterlaus

Mom makes butter and skims the cream.  That’s when her cooking gets really great.”
    I open the front door and William carries the pail into the kitchen.
    “Thank you, boys,” Elizabeth smiles.  She hands each of us a small white cloth bundle tied with string.  “You boys better scoot, or Mr. Roworth will hire someone else.”  She kisses William on the cheek.
    “Oh, Mom,” he complains.  “Jared is here.”
    Elizabeth leans over and William kisses her quickly.  “Jared,” she says.
    “Yes, ma’am?”
    Elizabeth leans over and kisses me on the forehead.  “Work hard, you boys.  And be safe.”
    “Okay, Mom,” William says as he steps out the door.
    “And come right home.  You have evening chores, remember.”
    “I thought we would look at some boots for Jared.  Then we will come right home.”
    “All right, but not a minute more.”
    “Bye, Mom.”
    “Thank you, ma’am,” I say, and follow William out the door before I got kissed again or something.
    “You are lucky to have such nice parents,” I say after we have walked a short distance through knee high grass and turned eastward onto what looks like an off-road Jeep trail.  The wheel ruts are filled with a soft dusty powder which transforms into cold, sticky mud at every dip.  My feet do not mind the powdery cushion, though regularly a sharp stone or protruding stick will jab the tender soles of my already sore feet.
    “What do you mean?” William asks.  “Aren’t your parents nice?”
    “Sure they are, … I think.”
    William glances at me.
    “What I mean is that my mom is nice.  I mean, she’s like the best.  But I don’t really know my dad.  He died when I was seven.  So, you are lucky to have both parents.  And besides that, they’re nice.”
    “I guess you are right,” William says.  “I just never thought about it like that.”
    I stop and rub my foot where a razor-sharp rock has tried to impale me.
    “Your feet are sore, huh?” William asks with compassion.
    “Yeah.  They are getting worn out fast.  Even the soft dirt is rough on my toes.”
    “William looks down the trail the way we have come, and I follow his gaze into the distance.  “See that wagon?” He says.
    I nod, pulling my wet sock up tightly onto my foot.
    “That’s old man Taylor’s wagon,” William explains.  “He won’t stop for children, but he will stop for that man walking just up ahead.  We can jump on with him.  Can you walk fast enough to catch up with that man?”
    “I can make it if you can,” I say, trying to sound confident.  I am not sure my feet will make it, though.  They are pretty sore.  But if hurrying a little now will save some walking later, then I am all for it.
    “Let’s go then,” William says with a smile.
    We catch up to the man ahead of us just as old man Taylor’s wagon reaches us, but to do so we had to walk at a pace that was nearly a trot.
    When Mr. Taylor stops his wagon, William and the man with whom we are walking, jump onto the back and sit down.  It is now my turn, but not being trained in the art of wagon hopping, I stumble and drop my lunch bundle onto the ground, where it rolls over twice and stops.
    With what I think is a sophisticated swoop, I snatch up my lunch and move toward the wagon, but old man Taylor has already started his horse and wagon moving down the road.
    “William!” I call.  I catch his eye and toss him my lunch, a quick, clean shot straight toward his chest.  Yes, basketball practice after mutual actually pays off.  I leap forward and lunge half way onto the back of the wagon before it reaches full speed.  William and another gentleman passenger pull me on board.
    “Thanks,” I say, rolling over and sitting next to William.  I reach down and rub my sore feet.  The wagon rolls through a rut and bounces over a protruding rock.  “So, how far is it to the pavement?” I ask as we bounce again.
    “Pavement?”
    “You know, the main road.  When do we get