From TC 9:2 – “In the Footsteps of Robert Running Bear”

Jimmy, my cousin, is lanky for a twelve-year-old, but not awkward. Once he clobbered a baseball so hard it sailed clear over the fence in the park. He always says, You’re a scrawny runt for ten. I’ve never hit a home run or come close. Our mothers like to dump us off at Grandpa’s farm on weekends ’cause it’s a convenient way to get rid of us. Whenever Aunt Betty sees me, she squeezes my cheek to put a dimple in it. Then Grandpa hangs onto both of them ’til I look like a bloodhound. I don’t like being called cute or being squeezed and poked, but I guess that’s the way relatives are.
Today Grandpa is riding the tractor to break up and turn over soil. Worms and bugs are everywhere. A swarm of seagulls has flown in from the coast and follows the tractor wherever it goes. The birds squawk and dive down to pick up the quivering insects in their beaks. A red pickup turns off the road and kicks up a stream of dust as it heads toward the barn. Grandpa stops the chugging tractor and climbs off. He says, “That must be Robert Running Bear.”
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