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breathing easily and stroking his beard. He took his tobacco pipe from his shirt pocket, put it between his teeth, and looked off into the distance without lighting up. His eyes were as blue as an October sky wih soft little crinkles at their corners. He sat like that for a long time, saying nothing, but looking quite content. As I bounced about on my daddy's shoulders, the world rocked, looking curiously askew. I had never studied life from up there before, and it all seemed very strange. I liked the spirit of peace that slowly settled back over the household, and I liked my daddy's song. Even so, deep within myself I knew that killing that copperhead had not made me a hero. As magical as his singing was, Daddy could not make something good of what I had done. I knew I'd never kill a snake again, or anything else, as long as I lived. But there was something else notable about that day. In spite of all my troubles, there was a gentleness and warmth about that afternoon that I had not previously noticed. I did not understand the complexities of grown-up life, but I understood very well that living in that house with those particular people was a very good thing. When I went to hell, I wouldn't be part of the family anymore, I thought, and nobody would remember who I was. I hoped I would not have to leave anytime soon. Water Witch Her ceramic seahorses out back, shrimp pink Pontiac on crushed oyster shells, the water-witch met me in her eel grass parlor, a natural to sink the drill rig for Adam's ale—spring water atop Bremo Bluff. Bred a seer, she cut a peach switch, tickled Mr. Jones leaning on his truck, bit up to bore a well to Nepal if need be. A quiver and shiver on that dowsing rod, she pointed where he stood and we hit water. —Edward C. Lynskey 36 ...

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