Free Sightings by B.J. Hollars Page A

who was busy pretending to polish his gun.
    Helpless, I picked up an axe alongside boys like Dennis – boys who had things at stake – and at the sound of the whistle, I chopped as fast as I could, the blade sinking into the soft spot of the log. I split that wood over and over again, and even after the event concluded, I just kept hacking, turning it to pulp.
    â€œHey man,” Dennis said, keeping his distance as the chips continued to fly. “Hey, we have to go tie knots.”
    I threw down my axe, watching as the other boys lined up, anxious to try out their cow hitch or their double figure eight.
    â€œDennis,” I said, wiping my brow and starting toward them, “you think you could teach me a noose?”

    After I lost the Pioneer Games (Honorable Mention), and after Dennis took second, Dad came up to both of us, placed a hand on each of our shoulders, and said we’d given it all we had.
    â€œAnd where’d you learn to tie an oysterman stopper knot anyway?” he asked me.
    I refused to look at him.
    â€œOh, come on,” he said. “It’s a growing experience! You forgive your old man, right?”
    â€œSorry, Floyd.”
    For the rest of that day, the bleachers were crowded with people equally as obsessed as my father. Often, when there was no performance or lecture, the audience was invited to participate in tutorials on soap-making, candle-making, even leather work. People purchased cups of rabbit stew from Mom, ate venison jerky, drank cups of fresh pressed cider while the apple skins rotted in thin circles on the grass. Cans of Budweiser were stashed in a cooler behind the wagons, though spectators were asked to drink their beers by the cars so as not to “compromise the integrity of the atmosphere.”
    For much of the afternoon, I ground teeth and cracked knuckles in the back of the Conestoga wagon. I watched men and women in sunglasses and button-up shirts peruse the grounds, ask the reenactors all about the kind of weight a wagon could hold, from what type of wood the axles were carved, the true importance of the yoke. Dad appeared to have the answers to everything and more, oftentimes positioning himself in the center of the circle while he employed his vast tire manufacturing knowledge to tackle any subject.
    â€œThe thing about yokes,” he said, pressing a firm hand to an elderly man’s shoulder, “is that there are two kinds: the bow yoke and the head yoke.” Ron Carter stood behind him, nodding. “Most people don’t know that, and it’s unfortunate because . . .”
    I turned away, watched Sam and my mother dipping candles into alternating bins of hot wax and cold water.
    â€œHey there, Max,” Mom said, smiling at me. “Twenty-four hours and we can all go home.”
    â€œDid you know he signed me up?” I asked. Her smile wilted. She didn’t answer, didn’t say anything. Instead, she peeled wax from her hands, her fingerprints sticking. Sam re-dipped her candle once more.
    â€œTa-da” she called, handing me the gift. “For my brother, the honorable mention.”

    As night loomed the crowd settled back into the bleachers, preparing to watch us perform a short play on the hardships of pioneer life. This took much convincing. We kids were supposed to look sad and hungry and tired, and we’d been instructed to fan ourselves with our hands to show the heat we had to endure “day in and day out,” as Stu Callahan, our director, explained. “Think you kids can handle that?”
    I’d chopped wood, I’d tied knots. Yes, I could handle that.
    Dad’s part required him to blather on and on about the possibility of starvation, how the hunting just wasn’t as good as in years past, how provisions were running low and food was beginning to spoil. It was the largest part and just the part he wanted. Mom’s job was to knit and appear unobtrusive, which was just what