By William Kloefkorn
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Additional resources for At Home on This Moveable Earth
And we did. Ever so carefully we used the family shovel to rearrange the topography of God’s good earth, a divot here, a skimming of grass there, until our creation stood solid, perhaps, as a pyramid. We looked at it and Johnny nodded, grinning. He had a substantial gap between his two large upper teeth, a gap he used just now to spit through. We gathered some more rocks, then gave our invention another try. And O the sweet, sweet sound of the rocks cascading down the slope and through the door was equaled only by the sound they made when they fell into the coffee can.
She understood, and she understood absolutely. Without words her countenance was saying, You did this only for me, Billy Kloefkorn. You must love me very much, so much that you seized my yellow lunch bucket and threw it into Mabel Cleveland’s cow lot. I am a very lucky girl to have such a man of action love her, and I love you, too. True love, of course, is a very difﬁcult thing to explain, especially to those who have not yet had the good fortune to experience it. True love, as the lyrics of a song will one day phrase it, is that feeling you feel when you’re feeling a feeling you’ve never felt before.
And though it was possible that someone else might have rescued the lunch bucket, it was not very probable. Mother, who also knew little or nothing about the chivalric romance, did not ﬁnd any of this amusing, so she had more or less ordered my father to go with me to the cow lot to supervise my retrieving the lunch bucket, and then, she said, you go with your son straight to Virginia Mae’s house where you see to it that your son returns the lunch bucket and apologizes for what he did. To a certain degree, then, my father was no less under the gun than I was.