The Day of the Dead
A Storyby Skip Horack
An attorney from over in Hattiesburg had dropped off the pointers the day before, paying up front for a month’s worth of schooling, and this morning was Wayne’s first chance to work with the two dogs in the ten-acre field behind the house. Wayne’s training ground. Over the summer he’d planted the big field with strips and patches and blends of soybean and lespedeza, clover and ragweed. That was before his grandson moved in, and Wayne doubted he had many break-back, no-help summers left in him. Fifty-eight is fifty-eight.