The gate falls shut at inopportune times, usually. There was the Thanksgiving picnic where we were running relay races, the back and forth kind. Me and Luke were on one team, and Selma Rae, Childress and my sister Martha were on the other. The start line was the bottom step of the porch and the turnaround point was the peanut patch about fifteen feet outside the gate, which was hanging open. Thanks to my procrastination we had a good race course there.
Me and Luke were winning by half a lap, Childress likes to run alongside and bark at whoever's running, and right when the gate was starting to swing shut from God knows what, Childress noticed it and leapt right over that gate with such graceful flight Luke stopped in his tracks. We all did, but what mattered most was Luke did because where he was on the course was just about at the gate. Because of Childress' fascinating levitation and awe inspiring springing up, Luke stopped just in time to not get slammed in the belly by the gate and especially its most prominent feature, the metal mailbox.
Childress' coat so shiny in the afternoon sun was sheeny with a magical light that made everything go slow motion, including the part where Luke looked down to the mailbox, inches away from his middle and laugh with relief, touching his shirt to see if it got singed from the near friction, and the moment stayed slow motion suddenly speeding fast when I saw that look on Selma Rae's face - happy then remembering her cause and yelling, "we need a reliable gate!"
But to me it's a kind of a come-see come-saw thing now - since it was a good thing I hadn't fixed it, maybe I shouldn't, except I write this from the couch because Selma Rae's saying I should know when my luck is up and just do what I'm supposed to, which is to fix the gate. Good thing Martha's going back to Sac'to soon.
MM
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