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Weekly Contest #8
We sat on the curb, Jamie and me, that evening in July of 1953. We had just run our sticks up and down along Mrs. Donovan’s newly painted fence. It was so bright white it nearly glowed in the evening shade. She hired old man Buck Davin to paint it. He was the only negro in the town, but he was a good worker, especially for the money he charged. At least, that’s what my dad always said. Mrs. Donovan’s dog, that nasty toothed Sparky, ran along side on the inside of the fence, yapping his fool head off the whole time. His nose wrinkles up and y...
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