The Noise of His ABrAcl Zach Dayhuff Photo by U.S. Department of Agriculture fiction know the Lord delivered Alfred Konopacki to me. Whether he did it for Alfred's sake or for mine alone I can't say, but I can see His plan at work since at least the summer I was fourteen. That was the summer--late summer, October almost--that my Daddy woke me up one Saturday morning and said he was taking me to work on Jim Tucker's farm. Jim Tucker had a little place out on the way to Dalhart where he raised chickens and a little bit of sorghum, and every year at the end of summer my Daddy, a longtime skilled butcher who worked on the line at Farwell Yard, helped him to slaughter the chickens he didn't want to feed through the winter. I couldn't think of a more repulsive way to spend my weekend than cutting up chickens all day, so at breakfast I asked my Mama if she'd let me stay home and help her with the dresses for Ginnie Kinsey's bridesmaids. My Mama said, "Arlene, you got fists like two grapefruits. The Lord don't want you for a seamstress." So I
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Oct 10, 2015
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