The week old snow crunched underfoot and his steps resounded through the quiet forest. It was really cold out. The faded, Nehi soda thermometer tacked to the garden shed had read fifteen degrees. Last year, in '69, it had been below zero around this time. He had spent most of January backed up to the big, freestanding furnace in the old converted post office where they lived. A huge building that now housed three apartments, offered cheap rent, and was the best they could do for this small Iowa town.
        He was grateful there was no wind to steal away the warmth that had built up inside his old coat. As long as he kept moving, he would stay warm. Trudging along, lost in thought, the little twenty gauge double barrel soon grew heavy in his hands. Shifting the stock up underneath his right armpit, he supported the barrel in the crook of his elbow. He hadn't given much thought as to why he had brought it. He only pretended to be hunting. Anyone passing would just figure he was out for pheasant, rabbit, or quail. However, it was all for show. No one around there would think it was weird for there to be hunters about, even with a snowstorm coming. Yet, to be out for just a walk in the woods right now, might seem a little nuts. He wasn't going to blame anyone for thinking that way though, because sometimes, he felt like he was.
        Did fourteen-year-old boys go crazy? Could a mother drive her kids insane?
        That's what had pushed him out this day. She could have picked a warmer time to have her crying fit, but no, it had to be a day he was off from school. She knew this way he would have to be witness to her tears. He didn't look forward to the weekend like most of his classmates. It was supposed to be the part of the week set aside for family, just not his. So, he had no place to escape to, except the woods.

        The week old snow crunched underfoot and his steps resounded through the quiet forest. It was really cold out. The faded, Nehi soda thermometer tacked to the garden shed had read fifteen degrees. Last year, in '69, it had been below zero around this time. He had spent most of January backed up to the big, freestanding furnace in the old converted post office where they lived. A huge building that now housed three apartments, offered cheap rent, and was the best they could do for this small Iowa town.
        He was grateful there was no wind to steal away the warmth that had built up inside his old coat. As long as he kept moving, he would stay warm. Trudging along, lost in thought, the little twenty gauge double barrel soon grew heavy in his hands. Shifting the stock up underneath his right armpit, he supported the barrel in the crook of his elbow. He hadn't given much thought as to why he had brought it. He only pretended to be hunting. Anyone passing would just figure he was out for pheasant, rabbit, or quail. However, it was all for show. No one around there would think it was weird for there to be hunters about, even with a snowstorm coming. Yet, to be out for just a walk in the woods right now, might seem a little nuts. He wasn't going to blame anyone for thinking that way though, because sometimes, he felt like he was.
        Did fourteen-year-old boys go crazy? Could a mother drive her kids insane?
        That's what had pushed him out this day. She could have picked a warmer time to have her crying fit, but no, it had to be a day he was off from school. She knew this way he would have to be witness to her tears. He didn't look forward to the weekend like most of his classmates. It was supposed to be the part of the week set aside for family, just not his. So, he had no place to escape to, except the woods.
        He longed for the summer months when he could get away to his favorite fishing spot above the roller dam. He loved the river and all that went with it. The boats, the fishing, and the occasional dip on the hotter days at the end of July. There was no limit to how long he could hang out there in the warm weather. He could grab up his rod and tackle box, then just disappear out the back door without a word. He would get excited thinking about the first cast of the day. That gold colored fishhook, flashing through the air, and the whine of the reel, as the line played out. The heavy lead sinker would carry it into the boils at the base of the dam where only the biggest fish were strong enough to fight the wild water. Three or four kernels of sweet corn were enough to hide that deadly barb, luring any greedy, unsuspecting carp to its doom.
        They were always looking for whatever tasty morsel the rushing water could stir up. He supposed that they didn't know that canned corn wasn't commonly found at the bottom of rivers, and the pursuit of it could mean their end. However, he didn't want to judge them too harshly, he too liked corn, especially when it was on the cob and covered in butter. It made him smile to think he had something in common with the fish. Except for being a bunch of bottom feeders, they weren't such a bad lot.
        When hooked, they fought hard, and the reward of the coming battle gave him the will to be patient. Sometimes, even until dusk, when the Nighthawks would show up, the white spots on their long slender wings, flashing in the cool evening air. Plunging down toward the water for some elusive mosquito, they would swerve back up at the last second, croaking loudly, "Ba-ent! Ba-ent!" It was as if they were joyful over having been able to pull out of that lightning fast dive just before hitting the water. He felt so carefree at those times, and more so, when he didn't have the sensation of the sharp winter cold numbing his cheeks.
        Now here he was again, driven out of the warmth by the woman who had at one time been a goddess to him. Someone he could turn to in times of scraped knees or nightmares. The person who had made his bed, cooked his meals, and had laid out his clothes in the morning before school. She had been his protector, storyteller, and one time pal, who he could tell his deepest secrets to. Now, he felt like he was on his own, alone in the world, and the one person he thought he could always rely on, now lost to something he couldn't understand. It was like there were no friendly faces anymore, and everyone seemed a stranger. At fourteen years of age, not only the weather had seemed to turn cold.
        As he worked his way through a thicket of small saplings, he recalled the moment he had returned home from his part time job at the local lawnmower shop. He had shown up early, and finding the place already open, quickly went to work prepping an order of new snow blowers to be sold. When he finished, and wasn't needed anymore, Old Ernie had sent him away.
        "I'm not gonna pay someone to sit around and read magazines all day, yah might as well go on home, sonny."
        He didn't want to; home was the last place he wanted to be. Yet, he knew the old man didn't want some longhaired kid hanging around when his buddies showed up to 'shoot the bull.' So, he left them to their fish tales, and returned up the block to the old gray building. Walking in the front door, he thought to finish the last chapter of The Martian Chronicles. The book had excited. He could hardly wait to dive back into his fantasy of being with the first pioneers to settle the red planet.
        He had to pass through his mother's bedroom to get to his own, and he didn't see her in there at first, sitting on the edge of her bed, weeping. It was when she blew her nose, startling him, that she caught his eye. He said, "Hallo?" more as a concerned question than a greeting. She suddenly stood up, and in the process of covering her eyes, knocked her glasses off onto the floor. The piece of white adhesive tape on the bridge, flashed as they bounced, testimony that it had not been the first time.
        She didn't even bother to pick them up, but instead, stomped around the bed to the curtain-less window. Then turning her back to him, started to cry even harder. It was when she started ringing her hands, that he decided he'd had enough. Something inside of him just snapped, and that's exactly how it felt. Just like a wishbone on Thanksgiving Day.
        He remembered how the anger rushed in like a hot liquid, filling him up from his feet to his head. Then trying to outdo her with his own version of stomping, he went to the closet. Pulling out the little shotgun, he also grabbed a box of shells. Dumping them into a vacant pocket, he threw the container on the table without care as he hurried toward the back door.
        This needed to stop. He needed to do or say something that would make her stop. He felt she didn't understand that she was driving him out of his mind. He paused midstride and gave her the meanest look he could muster. Then he did something he had never ever done before in his life; he yelled at her.
        "Just so yah know, I've had enough of yer crap!"
        She just stood there as if she had lost her hearing, and that only made him madder. He jerked the door open, and stepping through, slammed it as hard as he could. It jarred a portrait of them together that was hanging on the wall and he heard it crash to the floor. She had screamed at him through the window, beating on the glass as he hurried away down the backstairs.