Actually it is a very comforting sound. Secretly deep down in my soul, I quietly hoped the tiller will become possessed and run over all of the peas. But, I dare not laugh too loud and give Daddy the impression weeds were not being hoed. It is surely time to quit. My hopes are rising as I see Mom come from the house.
Surely lunch is ready.
Soon squelched are hopes, as minutes seeming like hours pass as Mom begins again to hoe. Oh how I hate peas with weeds. There is a God and nice will be my middle name if we can call it a day without peas and weeds. I wonder if she read my thoughts. Without a second word, we all wipe the sweat from our faces on the bottom of our tee shirts and run to the refuge forgetting all about our hatred of peas.