(upbeat music) Hi.

My name is Jessica Saum and I am so excited to be reading with you today.

Today we are reading The Itch book by Crescent Dragonwagon and illustrated by Joseph Mahler.

Was it the very first day of summer (not some calendar date, but the real out of school, 92 degrees and not even 10:00 yet summer) or only still the last day of spring?

No matter.

You tell me, for I don't know but I know this much: It was hot.

My it was hot, hot, hot.

In the Ozark Mountains, heat rising from the ground, shimmering off the trees.

Sky whitened with sun and somehow the itch begun that day, began Beast and boy and girl.

Woman, man.

Itching, scratching everywhere in that little tiny town.

Itchings, scratchings to beat the band all around, and on everyone.

Jeff woke in his bed (already the air was so still the white curtain hanging there over the open window was not moving even a bit) And as he woke, Jeff heard a sound, his hound, a rattling redbone scrape, scrape, scrape paw's claws on floor back of ear rolling, rubbing front and rear against the floor.

Hear!

It's Reddog scratch scratch scratching, black toenails catching or trying to catch an itch behind an ear.

Was it catching that itch?

Maybe yes.

Maybe no.

But natch, Jeff had to scratch himself too, behind his neck.

Heck, it could have been a chigger bite, right?

Maybe.

Meanwhile, downstairs, up early to beat the heat.

But there was no retreat.

Even that early with the sky bleached muslin white, Mama was putting up strawberries.

Yup, strawberry jam, strawberry jelly.

Well, she (without seeing or hearing the scratching boy and the scratching hound, not yet down and barely awake upstairs) felt it too, on her sweat dripped cheek.

She rinsed off the sugar, reached, scratched that itch.

Sweet, when the nails find that itching spot.

But is it enough?

No, never.

Oh, so hot, hot, hot in the red stained kitchen where the jelly's cooking.

And mama thought later the creek.

Soon as I get the berries done swimming hole down by the bluff as Jeff a bed at seven.

Scratching looking at Reddog thought to creek Papa drives to Handymart where he's a clerk.

Got to scratch that itch on the way to work.

Clean shirt, clean jeans outside the window, leaves and bushes heated dusty green.

Papa nodding to farmers in pickup trucks.

Oh, he knows everyone.

Second cup of coffee at the drugstore.

Morning, Miss Hardy.

Going to be a hot one.

Howdy, Joelda.

The long time no see.

Glad to be out of school, Joe Paul?

Your dad got you hauling hay yet?

And everyone knows Papa.

He's always got a nice word to speak, but his knee crease itches bad and it's summer and he's not immune.

He thinks creek and soon.

And did you see the brown eyed, big eyed, sweet cream Jersey cow, over to Berryville?

Do you think maybe she escaped the need to itch somehow?

No, sir.

No, ma'am.

Sure as I am standing here, she had an itch on her back.

Bad and no way to scratch it.

But against that nice rough cedar post.

Watch her rub.

Watch her twist her neck.

That bark is good for a cow to scratch on when a hoof or tail won't do, when it's too hot to even moooo.

Thank goodness for posts, thinks Jersey cow Betty.

I'll go down to the creek by and by when I'm ready.

And Blaze, the horse on the other bank whose pasture also fronts the creek.

He gives thanks.

He got an itch so bad his tail won't do it.

A tail switch for a scratch?

Not a match for this itch.

Summer deep, summer hot.

Blaze's got a post himself but dreams awake Blue water, cool water, sweet water creek even the flies are itch bugged Watch them rub their wings together scratching.

Joelda Calder lifts her hat, scratches her head Imagine that, Joe Paul his elbow Papa checks his watch, sells Fred Hollings a ratchet.

Miss Hardy blots her face with a handkerchief.

Even she's got to scratch it.

Fever pitch!

It's hot, we itch, the days too long!

Something's wrong but nothing that a good creek dip wouldn't fix.

No one said a word.

It wasn't planned.

But beast and boy and girl, woman, man.

As the day grew long and the evening slow, folks packed up hampers and just happened to go cold fried chicken any old thing not so hot.

The whippoorwill didn't sing.

Whippoorwill Whippoorwill come if you won't, come if you will.

Through the pasture and down the hill.

Potato salad, T-shirt, shorts moos and neighs and laughs and snorts Pickup trucks and trailer hitches got to solve those problem itches.

Drawn like a magnet to that clear water.

You want to go?

Reckon we oughter.

thrown in ice cold delicious eeeek solve the itch.

Night picnic at King Creek.

(upbeat music)