Maureen's lips quivered. "Oh, Paul, I can't help it if I can't draw good as you."
"It's not that, Maureen. The pictures are nice. Better than I could do," he admitted honestly. "But in pedigrees the stallion's name and his family always come first."
"But, Paul, remember how Misty's mother outsmarted the roundup men every Pony Penning until she birthed Misty? The Pied Piper was penned up every year, and if it hadn't been for Misty, likely The Phantom never, ever would of been captured. Remember?"
"'Course I remember! I brought her in, didn't I?" He stopped and thought a moment. "But I reckon you're right, Maureen. This pedigree is different. Misty and The Phantom should come first."
"These children got real hoss sense, Idy," Grandpa bragged. "I'm so dang proud o' them I could go around with my chest stickin' out like a penguin." He strutted across the room, trying to stamp out his worry.
Suddenly the lights flashed on and a voice blared over the radio: "... is in the grip of the worst blizzard of the winter. Twelve inches of snow have fallen in central Virginia and still more to come. At Atlantic City battering seas have undercut the famous board walk. Great sections of it have collap...." The voice was cut off between syllables as if the announcer had been strangled. Again the house went dark, except for the flame in the lantern and a rim of yellow around the stove lids.
"Supper's ready," Grandma sang out in forced cheerfulness. "Guess we can all find our mouths in the dark. These oysters," she said as she ladled the gravy over each plate, "is real plump, and the batter bread is light as a ... as a...."
"As a moth?" Paul prompted.
"Well, mebbe not that light," Grandma replied.
They all sat down in silence, listening to the sound of the wind spiralling around the house. Suddenly Grandpa pushed his chair back. "I can't eat a thing, Idy," he said. "But you all eat. I just now thought 'bout something."