Moccasin Bluffs

The weather forecast was for dust and more dust in the hot, grit-filled summer of 1932. Memories of a lighter, happier life were nothing but a dream, a pleasant escape to get through the days of back–breaking labor and expanding food shortages – stretching everything just a bit farther – even though it had been stretched just the day before.

Laurel McIntosh was walking up the red dirt path from the mailbox gazing at the drought-devastated trees on Moccasin Bluffs. The Bluffs shaded much of their farm during the hottest weather and had been a play haven during her childhood, until Pa warned her to avoid the area.

The Bluffs had a network of caves and being near the railroad tracks they had become a shelter to bums and hoboes. It seemed the whole country was on the move during those poverty-ravaged years. Many of these wanderers were jobless men, others were walking shattered dreamers, and still others were small-time opportunists.

As Laurel scanned the view, repeated flashes of light winked down from the occupied Bluffs. Laurel felt safe since Pa and taught her to shoot when she was 12 and she never left the house without a loaded shotgun. The flashes worried her because she was alone at the farm. Pa and her brother, Tripp, had gone to town overnight to trade or sell some of their tack and the first new peaches.

Trying to shake off the worry, Laurel thought about some yard goods for a new dress as she sighed, glancing at her faded pink one. But there was no time for daydreaming. She had to finish in the garden, milk the cow, take a bath and fix supper for herself. She slapped on the worn, sky-blue straw hat, shoved her feet into Tripp’s old newspaper-stuffed work boots, picked up a bucket, basket, hoe and the shotgun and headed for her chores.

The garden was at the back of the property close to spring-fed, Polecat Creek. Laurel walked up and down the rows gathering tomatoes, okra, green beans, cucumbers, pulling the last of the beets and the onions. But looking at her harvest she knew there wasn’t as much as yesterday. Upon closer inspection, she saw footprints, not hers, in the garden. Again! It chilled her but it also made her mad when folks didn’t ask polite-like for things. ‘Everyone shared these days. That’s just what you did!’

With a final examination of the plants, but staying alert, she headed to the creek for water. Laurel picked up everything from the garden after she finished watering. Walking to the barn she looked again towards Moccasin Bluffs but didn’t see another flash or any of the fiery glow that meant a dust storm threatened.

PetCow stood at the barn gate mooing, as if Laurel didn’t know it was milking time. Talking softly she moved towards the gentle cow, took her halter and led her into the dark, cool barn. Pa had made certain to have a cross breeze there so the cows would be content. All she knew was, ‘It kept Laurel content too,’ smiling to herself.

And what a smile! Laurel had full lips and healthy teeth in a bit of a larger mouth. But when that girl smiled her dimples winked, green eyes danced and blonde hair glistened! She had been told she was pretty, but it never mattered until Tom told her; Tom who, with his Ma, family and other Okies, had left over a year ago for California; Tom who was to send for her. O! How she missed his piercing blue eyes, handsome face, easy laugh and strong, safe arms!

Memories of him made her heart flutter, nipples pucker and everything between her thighs went “all twitchy”. Some times she had touched herself “down there”, but had seldom explored those delirious feelings. The drive for more loomed larger every day, even when she wasn’t thinking about Tom! If things had turned out they would have already been married. But such thoughts only led to more restless tension.

After she finished milking, taking care to strain and put the milk in the springhouse, she let PetCow back out to pasture.

Now it was Laurel’s turn. This would be the day to satisfy her unfulfilled needs!

Laurel headed back to the creek eagerly anticipating the cool water. She walked to an oilcloth covered box stashed under the sumac shrubs and put everything down next to it except her shotgun. Opening the box, she removed homemade soap, a threadbare towel, a fresh dress, underclothing and socks.

Since the sun hadn’t set, the sheltered rock she liked to sit on was warm. Her slender arms reached to remove the straw hat. After plucking her braids apart and finger combing her hair, Laurel shook her head. Daylight caught the glittering, tan and gold strands of the heavy mass that fell to her curving hips and spilled in curls around her face.

Intently observing the scene was a thickly bearded man, crouching low and hidden by willows and bulrushes about 30 yards up the creek. Every day he quietly watched her doing her chores, wearing that drop-of-sky-blue hat on her head and clumping around in those boots. So he had learned her routine.

Work boots would be kicked off, socks stripped and a foot massage would start. She would next reach for the buttons of the faded dress but she would have to stand to peel the fabric away from her sweating body. Wearing only a worn slip, camisole and knickers, the gold-toned skin of her legs and thighs would be visible.

Then, each day, his body would shake as the frayed slip skimmed away revealing her full, high bosom and dark nipples shadowed by the camisole that vibrated with each movement of her breasts.

Laurel was hot, sweaty and dirt-caked; she dove directly into the cool spring water. She slipped out of her camisole and knickers, washed her hair, and lathered her body. Then, surprising the man, in languid movements she arched and began to float on her back, her body on full display.

The girl’s hair haloed and billowed causing her body to glow in the dark pool. Her lip-red nipples stood up like the petals of a rare water lily. The sun showed shreds of immodest light along her body’s length as her green eyes closed in surrender. Dreamily, her palms drifted above her shoulders, dipped slightly to irritate her nipples, then smoothed the water along her belly.

His breathing stilled, the bewitched man’s own hands mirrored her movements. His fingers stretched spasmodically to glide down around her – to feel the slippery chill of her hips – to warm himself in her depths.

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