Free Long_Way_Home by Catt Ford Page A

who’d tied the rope in the sycamore and swung into the water the first time, shouting with glee. And where he led, we all followed. He invented a complicated game of tag that had us all jumping off rocks and clambering up the tree in an attempt to escape from whoever was “it”.

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    The Long Way Home / Catt Ford

    He was loud, funny, and a star, even back then. And yet I was the one he chose to pal around with - quiet, introverted, and shy.
    Jake was the flint that struck sparks from my steel.
    The fishing hole lay between our farms on state land, part of a right-of-way for the power company. The other boys had to come further to join us but Jake was so much fun to hang out with that they did.
    Some days, though, it was just us. Those days were magical for me. As if there was something unspoken that was understood just between the two of us.
    Watching Jake was my greatest pleasure. I always wore my jockeys when I went in, but he swam in the buff. I used to love floating in the water and watching him climb the tree to get to the rope. The memory was so vivid to me, as if I was reliving a hot summer day and we were together again.
    A snowflake hit me in the eye and shook me out of my reminiscences. The sky was still grey and the water was frozen hard. Like my heart. I laughed at the triteness of my passing sentiment and stood. Gazing over the fields in the direction of his family’s farm, I saw no lights in the dusk.
    Just grey fields blending into grey sky as if the grey went on forever.
    It was pretty dark when I got back to the house. I unlocked the door and dropped my bag inside.

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    The Long Way Home / Catt Ford

    “Holy fuck.”
    If possible, it was even colder in the house than it was outside. The furnace must have gone out. I flicked the switch and breathed a sigh of relief when the lights came on. Trying to light the furnace by flashlight would have been a bitch.
    Grumbling to myself, I found the matches in the kitchen. They were where they always were. Mom likes things in their proper places and I guess she had no reason to switch things around after I moved out. I went downstairs, knelt in front of the furnace and opened the door to check the pilot light. It was off.
    I lit a match, touching it to the jet while I held the knob in place, waiting for the thermocouple to warm up enough to keep it lit. The concrete floor was hard and cold, and my knees were starting to complain when I turned the knob to the on position.
    The pilot promptly went out.
    I went through the whole procedure two more times before I gave up in disgust. Most likely I would see myself replacing the thermocouple before I left but if I knew Wally down at the hardware store, he was closed up already. If only I hadn’t taken that walk down to the pond. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and I hoped Wally would open the store at least until noon. I wondered if psychic powers usually ran to thermocouples.

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    The Long Way Home / Catt Ford

    I got to my feet and dusted off my pants. My mother had been busy at harvest time, as usual. The plank shelves against the wall were lined with jars of canned tomatoes and spiced peaches, ruby and amber pools of warmth in the frigid grey basement. At least I could be sure there was plenty to eat; the freezer was probably fully stocked as well.
    My most immediate problem was warmth. If I chose to stay here tonight, I’d need to get a fire going. I went up the stairs and realized I was going to have haul in wood from the screened-in porch and it was going to be wet.
    Putting that off for the moment, I carried my bag upstairs. I hadn’t brought much by way of clothing because I wasn’t planning to stay long, but I thought I remembered leaving a heavy, fisherman’s-knit sweater in the bureau. I was probably going to need it until I fixed the furnace.
    When I turned on the light, I stood motionless in surprise. My mother had been busy in my room. It was unchanged except for the gallery of photographs she’d hung on