A burning, August sun scorched the long stretches of the St. Lawrence River Valley. For two weeks it had blazed down from a cloudless sky, evaporating the last remaining moisture from the soil. Ronnie came out of the house and crossed the barnyard, his bare feet stirring dust clouds that hung behind him and marked his path. The powder-dry dust felt as soft as talcum against the soles of his feet.
Ronnie made his way toward the orchard. Here it was cooler, for the earth was wet from days of irrigation.
Ronnie spied his father’s blue overalls and white T shirt among the peach trees to the right. “Pa?” he called.
“Yes, Ronnie?” Mr. Rorth was reeling out a section of rubber hose, a feeder line to connect to the main metal pipe that ran to the brook.
“I got a call from Mr. Mercer just a while ago. You know him—he’s the president of the historical society in town. He wants Bill and me to come to a meeting tonight. He says the Seaway people will have a big official there to discuss the village.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Dad, will you drive us in?” Ronnie asked.
“Tonight?” Mr. Rorth thought it over. “I think so. In fact, I’d kind of like to sit in on that meeting myself. Maybe Gramps would like to go, too.”
“The heat’s got him bad,” Ronnie reminded his father.
“Yes, I know. But when it comes to the village, Gramps would go from here to Timbuktu in the hottest weather.”