'WIDE MEADOWS': AUCTION SALE! (A CONTINUING SERIES)

Editor's note: This is an excerpt of a chapter from Jean Bell Mosley's book "Wide Meadows" that was first published in 1960.

Britts' bull was a brindled, curly, thick-necked tormentor, who roamed the pasture on the neighboring farm, bellowing profanely, hoisting his pedigreed tail arrogantly, and pawing the ground viciously when anyone came within range of his dark, evil, thick-lashed eyes. And twice a day on our way to and from school, Lou and I came within range of those ever-watchful, all-seeing eyes. Even when we took off our red sweaters and stuffed them under our dresses and tiptoed along the path that ran beside the pasture, he'd see us. Clear across the field he'd come, his stub-ugly old horns growing longer and longer with every inch of ground he covered, and we'd cling in trembling desperation to one another, knowing that this time the fence couldn't hold such fury.

About three weeks straight of this bovine torture was all we could take and we'd resume our secret detour to school -- across Simms Mountain and down the Cedar Bluffs, scuffing our shoes on the boulders and tearing our dresses and stockings on the sawbriers and being inevitably a half hour tardy both ways. Then Mom would catch on and she'd go with us several mornings again to show us there was nothing to be afraid of. She'd throw sticks and rocks at the bull to get him really infuriated, and we'd grudgingly admit that the fence truly was bull-proof and stuff our fear down into some subconscious region.

But the dreams were worse than the reality. Each night the bull skimmed over the fence as if it were only a cobweb and chased us, his breath hot on our heels, to some never-reached, ever-elusive point of safety for half the night, or until we fell out of bed. Then we'd have to go through the wearisome, wakening process of groveling our way out of the paralyzing remnants of panic, with only the dismal thought that tomorrow we'd have to pass the fearsome old monster again.

No wonder we were beside ourselves with joy when we saw the notice on the telephone pole that Britts were having a sale. We read every word:

AUCTION SALE

One coal-and-wood range, kitchen table and chairs, brass bedstead, 8-day clock, 5 gal. cedar churn, gramophone records, straw ticks, and other household items too numerous to mention. Plows, harrows, cultivators. Singletrees, horse collars, corn grinders. Chickens, calves, pigs, and

A REGISTERED JERSEY BULL

This latter, neatly centered in capital letters, lent prestige to all that went before and would be a powerful drawing card. We talked about it effusively, our words tumbling out with the ragged enunciation of the emotionally relieved. Of course, we hated to see our good friends move. But they were just going into town and we could see them on Saturdays, while there were possibilities that the bull would be taken clear out of the country. Maybe as far as St. Louis anyway, or even to Chicago! We happily envisioned his hideless rump hanging in the rooms at National Stockyards.

Lou and I went through our possession carefully to see what we might have to sell. It was anyone's privilege to bring whatever he had to a neighborhood sale and enjoy the service of the hired auctioneer. It made for bigger crowds, stiffer bidding and higher morale.

We wanted some cash money to send off for the perfume advertised on the back of the magazine that would "open the secrets of love" for us. Though our physical growth had been stunted by the bull we were emotionally normal. We decided to part with the doll bed and cradle that we had long ago put aside. Mom was taking the old incubator, and Grandma had an extra rag rug she had knit during the winter.

Valley folks usually took a basket dinner, or if a big crowd was expected out from town, the Ladies Aid served lunch. A big crowd was expected at Britts on account of the registered bull.

On the morning of the sale, Lou and I were on our way as soon as sun pepped over Gillman's Hill. Mom and Grandma coming later, after they had fixed their quota of sandwiches.

McDowells, Ritters, Claytons and Staceys, all in spring wagons piled high with "auction loot," passed us on the way, offering to let us rude, but we preferred to walk. The day was mild and good-smelling. There would be others walking whom we might join along the way, and the pleasure of the day would be enhanced by prolonged anticipation.

We saw old Granny Weaver coming down Gold Mine Hollow and waited for her to catch up with us. She had one of her quilts carefully wrapped in newspapers.

"Which one you taking, Granny?" Lou asked. Granny's quilts were known far and wide and were the needlework pride of the valley, next to Grandma's Passage-of-Time quilts.

"The Sunset on Stono," she replied firmly, as if the decision had been long and arduous.

"Oh, Granny! That's your prettiest one," I objected. We knew the quilt well, as did everyone for miles around. It was an original Granny had designed. There were the pine trees done in shaded greens, looking for sure like they did when the sun was low in the west she had others she was saving against taxes and groceries -- the Wedding Ring, Drunkard's Path, Flower Garden, Doves in the Window -- but none as pretty as the Sunset on Stono.

"Well, I thought it would bring me more money than the others, and I'm after that brass bedstead. Did you know it used to belong to me?"

We shook our heads negatively.

"Simm told me before he died never to let go of it. Said I'd always see my way clear if I kept the brass bedstead. He was funny about things like that toward the last. Out of his head most of the time." Granny was talking more to herself now than to us, but we walked along quietly, respecting the dignity of her age and listening to her tell about old Grandpa Weaver, who was dead long before we came to the valley.