Muffy Wilson: http://muffywilson.blogspot.com
Linda Hamonou: http://crazypuce.blogspot.jp/
Jake Malden: http://jakemalden.blogspot.com
Jorja Lovett: http://jorja-lovett.blogspot.co.uk/
Don Abdul: http://don-abdul.blogspot.co.uk
Jack remembered that day vividly. He hadn’t feared the continuous lightning flashes, the loud booming thunder, or the rising water of the ensuing flash flood. He feared only the expression on his mother’s face when they found his father, his body singed like he had been in a fire. His eyes were bug-eyed, frozen with the undeniable pain. His mother’s face had always had peace and serenity radiating from her face until that moment. She screamed an epitaph of rage at the heavens above, a condition that forced Jack to grasp hold of her leg through her rain-soaked dress. Momentarily, the widow came back to her consciousness, picked up her son, squeezed him tightly, and cried uncontrollably. Even as a child, Jack understood the gravity of his father’s life, knowing he would never talk to or hold him again; he was gone.
The year Jack turned eighteen, no rain fell for six months. Crops withered and died, leaving the farm with fields of brown stubble. The cows became thin and lethargic; all but Milky White failed to give any more milk, until one morning she also had gone dry. No matter how hard Lorene and Jack tried to coax her, there was no milk to sell.
“What are we to do?” the poor widow wept. “We’ll have no milk to sell for food today.” She cried and cried and cried.
“Mother, Mother, please don’t cry. I will go to town and find work,” Jack pleaded, trying to ease her woes.
“No one will hire you, Jack. You’ve tried before. They always call you the wimp,” the poor widow said. “Take Pearly White to the market. We must sell her. The other cows aren’t fit to sell. She is the best milking cow around. With the money, we’ll buy food and start a shop. You're eighteen now and your talent with words will convince someone to buy Milky White for a good price.”