An Essayby Karen Peterson
When I asked Mr. Clive to take me coon hunting, he said he couldn’t promise how it would come out. I said I understood, but he didn’t think I did.
“I don’t mind,” I said. “I can walk.”
“I can walk too, but I don’t care to,” he said.
I couldn’t think how to respond. He went on, “Folks might think they like to walk but find out they don’t so much care to thrash around in the dark in all them tree branches and spiderwebs.”
I considered this aspect.
“But if you want to go, I would love to take you,” he said.