I enjoy seeing the monthly chatterboxes from The Inkpen Authoress. They seem like a lot of fun, so I thought I’d join in :) The topic is superstition, although I’m not sure if my instance is exactly superstitious. But it could be seen that way, I guess.
“Well?” Amelie tucked a coarse chestnut strand behind her ear, thinking to herself once again how unforgiving the plains weather could be to silky hair. The spare form of Lemuel Brand unfolded itself from a dying row of corn.
“Hard to say,” he slowly answered, brushing moist dirt from the knees of his overalls. “The roots are bad though,” he added, with forthright gravity.
“Of course.” Amelie threw up her hands in mock acceptance. “They would never be good. Not on my watch.” She cast a bitter glare at the stubbly earth.
“When did you plant?” Lemuel questioned, crouching down again with folded arms to inspect the failing plants.
“Oh I don’t remember,” she carelessly responded. Lemuel glanced at her, the first quick action she had seen him give. “March. Early,” she answered, biting her lower lip. He shook his curly head.
“Naw. That’s no good. The oak leaves weren’t the size of squirrel’s ears until just two week ago. You planted too early,” he pronounced, with candor. Amelie bristled.
“I don’t exactly have time to go around trying to match up oak leaves to squirrels. That’s an old wives tale anyway,” she brusquely added, sending dirt clumps flying as she tramped back to the farmhouse. Lemuel followed beside her, his long slow stride faster than her short determined steps, totally unaware of how much that fact irritated her.