Down to Earth by Betty Culley

Author:Betty Culley [Culley, Betty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2021-08-24T00:00:00+00:00

Fusion crusts on freshly fallen meteorites vary enormously. Often smooth, crusts can also be decorated with spattered droplets, or strings and rivulets of molten material. Rounded pits and depressions resembling thumb prints in a ball of clay are found on the surfaces of many meteorites.

—Alex Bevan and John de Laeter, Meteorites: A Journey Through Space and Time

DAD SQUINTS out the window at the thermometer nailed to a porch post.

“Please take my coat, hat, and winter boots for the walk,” Dad says to Miles Morgan. “It’s twenty-eight degrees out there and the wind is blowing.”

The curator opens his briefcase again, takes out a thin silver camera, and puts it in his inside jacket pocket.

“No thank you, Mr. Bower, though I do appreciate your kind offer of winter apparel. However, I wish to go as I am”—and again the curator holds his arms out to his sides—“when I pay my respects to the stone in question. Will the young lady who fancies red be accompanying us?” the curator asks Birdie.

“Want to go to the big rock?” I translate for Birdie.

Birdie flies out of her swing in an instant, landing on the floor with both feet. She pulls on her own hat and steps into her red boots. Mom helps Birdie into her coat and lets her leave the top button open so she can feel the tie Dr. Morgan gave her.

“All gone,” Birdie tells Dr. Morgan. “Swam away.”

Mom and Dad and I look at each other.

“All gone,” Birdie sings this time. “All gone.”

“Are you coming with us, too?” I ask my parents.

“I think I’ll lie down for a bit.” Mom yawns, even though she didn’t wake up that long ago.

“I’m bringing food down to the National Guard and checking on the town well,” Dad says.

I lead the way to the meteorite again, but this time it’s just me and Miles Morgan and Birdie. She runs ahead, filling her pockets with pebbles.

“That’s my uncle Lincoln’s house.” I point to Bower Two as we pass the small cedar-shingled building. “He’s the oldest brother. And the three-story house below it is Uncle Braggy’s.”

“That is a rather tall house for this locale. Though I myself reside on the seventeenth floor.”

“SEVENTEENTH FLOOR!” I’m so surprised I stop in my tracks, trying to imagine how high into the sky seventeen floors would take me.

“That is quite commonplace in Manhattan. Building up is a practical solution for limited space. I do have a small balcony with a very fine view of Central Park, but it doesn’t compare with the natural beauty you have here.”

“Don’t tell Braggy about the seventeenth floor. He thinks he lives in the highest house.”

“My lips are sealed.” The curator holds one finger up to his mouth.

We get to the place where our house was. I can’t see the top of the chimney anymore. The only sign that our house was ever there are the bricks and roof shingles washed up next to the water. There isn’t any more wood or pieces of the house in the water.

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