Spring's Gentle Promise (22 page)

I was heading for my room to do some more figuring when Grandpa’s voice stopped me.

I turned to look at him. He and Uncle Charlie were at the kitchen table. There was no coffee to drink, but maybe it was hard to break an old habit. Anyway, they still pulled up their chairs each evening and sat there—chatting, even playing an occasional game of checkers. But often they just sat, waiting for the time to go to bed.

Mary had already gone up to tuck William in for the night, and I knew it wouldn’t be long until she would be waiting for our devotional time together.

“Got a minute?”

I nodded.

“Charlie and I think it’s time we talk.”

I didn’t have any idea what was coming but I felt my stomach began to tighten.

“You got another payment to make,” Grandpa said as I pulled out a chair and lowered myself onto it. It was a statement— not a question.

I nodded again.

There was silence for a minute. Uncle Charlie sucked in air, much as he used to suck in coffee.

“You got it figured?” went on Grandpa.

I lowered my head for a moment and then brought it up to face the two men. “No-o,” I admitted. “No—not yet.”

“In thet case,” said Grandpa, shoving a lidded tin toward me, “we want ya to have this.”

I looked from Grandpa to Uncle Charlie.

“If we’d ’a knowed what straights you was in, we’d ’a given it long ago. Feel bad we’ve been lettin’ ya sweat it out alone,”

said Uncle Charlie, an unusually long speech for him.

“It’s the Turley farm,” I admitted. “It probably was a mistake to take on more land, especially with the drought.”

“I figured it a smart move,” Grandpa hurried to say. “One ya couldn’t pass up, really. Just a shame thet we been prayin’ fer rain ever since. But thet’ll change. Just need time, thet’s all. Just time.”

I appreciated Grandpa’s vote of confidence and Uncle Charlie’s nod of agreement. Then Grandpa pushed the can farther toward me and this time I reached out for it.

I pulled it to me and pried off the lid.

I stared in disbelief. It was full of bills.

“It ain’t much,” Grandpa was saying, “but it might help some.”

I knew then what I was looking at. It was the total life’s savings of Grandpa and Uncle Charlie. I pushed the can back toward them, fighting hard to swallow.

“I can’t—I can’t take that,” I finally was able to say.

“What’ll ya do then?” asked Grandpa without hesitation.

“I—I—” I swallowed. “I still have some stock. I can sell—”

“We been thinkin’ on thet,” said Grandpa. “It don’t seem like a good move. I mean—ya sell it all off an’ then where are ya? Soon as the rains start up agin, ya got no herd to build on.”

I knew he was right. I’d thought that all through myself and come to the same conclusion.

“We don’t know when the rains—” I began, but Grandpa cut in.

“They’ll come,” he said simply. “Always do.”

But when
, I wanted to cry out.
When? After it’s too late—
after we’ve lost everything?

I didn’t say it. Instead, I looked first at Grandpa and then at Uncle Charlie.

“It might not be enough,” Grandpa was saying. “We don’t know how big those payments be. But take it. Make it do fer ya what ya can.”

“But you’ve worked all your life to save this money,” I persisted. “I can’t just take it and—”

Uncle Charlie waved an arthritic hand as though to brush aside all my arguments. “Josh,” he said, “you’ve been boardin’ an’ beddin’ us fer several years now. Ain’t either of us worth a lick a salt. But ya ain’t hinted at thet. Neither has Mary. Now, iffen the farm goes—then what, Josh? This is our home too, an’ I reckon as how we’d be hard put adjustin’ to ’nother one.”

“ ’Zactly,” agreed Grandpa.

“But—” I tried again.

“No ‘buts,’ Josh. Just take it on in an’ make thet there payment, iffen it’ll do thet, an’ get thet monkey off all our backs.”

I had no further arguments. I thanked the two men before me as sincerely as I could and tucked the tin under my arm. I had no idea how much money was in the can. It wouldn’t be much, I knew. Grandpa and Uncle Charlie had never had the opportunity to stash away large sums. But maybe—just maybe it would be enough to keep us afloat. Maybe—just maybe—it would help us make it to another spring.

C
HAPTER
23
Sustained Effort

T
HERE WAS ENOUGH IN the tin can to make the loan payment—with some left over to help us through the winter. I went to town the next morning with the money tied securely in my coat pocket.

I was getting to hate trips to town and avoided them whenever possible. It seemed whenever I went there was news of another foreclosure and another area farmer forced off his land.

It wasn’t as hard for those who had been there for years and were well established. Some had no payments due at the bank and could manage to sort of slide by even though money was tight. But for those who had just invested in land or stock or new machinery, the matter was quite different. It was almost impossible to stay afloat, given the economics of the times along with the drought.

It saddened me. I guess it also frightened me. The thought kept nagging at me that my turn might be next.

I didn’t know what I’d ever do if I lost the farm. It wasn’t just the fact that I loved it—had always loved it. I figured I had about as much of that farm soil running through my veins as I had red blood. I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere but on that farm.

Grandpa had settled the farm. He and Uncle Charlie had sweated and toiled and built it to what it had become. It belonged to us. To all of us. It belonged to my son some time down the road.

Farming was all I knew. I was not trained for anything else. I had no other home, no other possession, no other profession. If I lost the farm I would lose far more than a piece of property. I would lose my livelihood, my heritage, my family home, my very sense of personhood. I wouldn’t fit any other place. I knew that without going through the experience.

And knowing all of that, and knowing also that Grandpa and Uncle Charlie shared my feelings, I took the gift of money they had given me and tried to buy the family a little more time. And I prayed that they were right. That the rains were soon due back again.

I felt better after I had made the payment. I didn’t miss the surprised look on the banker’s face when I drew out the small roll of bills, but he asked no questions and I volunteered no information. I was handed my receipt of payment and left the building.

I stopped long enough to buy a few groceries, among the parcels a pound of coffee for Grandpa and Uncle Charlie and some cheese for Mary. She had made several remarks over the last few days about how good cheese would taste. Then I bought a sack of grain to feed her chickens. It would do us all well if we could keep the hens laying.

I was about to head for home when I remembered to pick up the mail. There rarely was anything of importance, but I checked it out anyway. Later I wished I hadn’t even gone to the post office.

Mr. Hiram Smith was ahead of me at the wicket. “Howdy, Josh,” he hailed me and I returned his greeting.

“Another rough summer,” he commented sociably and I agreed that it was.

“Hear more farmers are having a hard time.”

I nodded to that too.

“Did you have any crop at all?” he asked.

“Not much,” I admitted. “I turned the cows on it. Wasn’t worth the time of trying to harvest it.”

It was his turn to nod. “Too bad,” he pondered. “Sure too bad. Farms’re up for sale all over the place.” He didn’t even wait for a response from me. “Trouble is,” he went on, “no buyers. Why, ya can’t even give one away. Nobody’s got money to buy. That’s how it is. Too bad.”

It was all the truth—but it was all old news by now. I was about to ask for my mail and move on.

“Ya hear ’bout Avery?” asked Mr. Smith.

I hadn’t, and I stopped mid-stride. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about Avery if it was going to be bad news—and from Mr. Smith’s expression, it looked as if it would be. But Avery was my brother-in-law. If there was something wrong, I had to know.

“Lost his farm,” said Mr. Smith, rather callously to my thinking. “Just gettin’ started, too. An’ him newly married an’ all. Too bad.” He shook his head one more time and moved toward the door, shuffling through advertising flyers as he did so.

I went all sick inside.

It was Mary that I thought of first. I knew how deeply the news would trouble her.
Poor Mary. And poor Lilli—and her
expecting their first child too,
I mourned.

Now the postmaster took up the tale of woe. “Sure too bad. Sure too bad,” he repeated as he shook his head much as Mr. Smith had done. “Me, I can’t even keep up with the comin’ an’ goin’ anymore. Move in—move out. Jest like that. One after the other—”

“Where—where did Avery—?”

“Oh, he didn’t move. Least not away from the area. He jest moved on home again with his folks. Same mailbox as always.” The most important thing to the postmaster seemed to be keeping his mailboxes straight. I started to move away.

“Don’tcha want your mail?” he called after me, and I turned back. There was one letter addressed to Mrs. Joshua Jones and a few advertising pieces. I threw the flyers in the wastebasket as I walked past it, and stuck the letter for Mary in my pocket.

I couldn’t get Avery and Lilli out of my mind as I headed the team for home. Most of all I dreaded telling the news to Mary. But I knew she had to be told.

I broke it to her as gently as I could and held her while she wept. Then we bundled up, left William in Grandpa and Uncle Charlie’s care, and drove over to Avery’s folks.

Just as I had been told in town, we heard directly from Avery that he had lost his farm. He was pretty down about it, but Lilli was keeping her chin up.

“We’ll try again—later,” she said confidently, “when the crops are growing again and the rains are back.”

In the meantime she was sharing a house with five other people and her child would soon be number six.

“How are you?” Mary whispered to her.

“Fine. Fine,” she insisted. “Just anxious to get it all over with. Only three more weeks now. That’s not so long.”

But the house was already crowded. Avery and Lilli had a very small bedroom off the kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder where they would squeeze in a small crib.

Times were tough. Really tough. But at least they had a roof over their heads.

In all the turmoil I had forgotten to give Mary her letter. I found it that night as I undressed for bed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I forgot to give you this. I picked it up at the post office today.”

I didn’t add that I was more than a mite curious about the letter.

Mary tore the envelope open quickly and withdrew one formal looking page. She scanned it, then went back to read it more slowly. She looked pleased with the contents. I was relieved. I was afraid it might be more bad news.

“It’s from the school-board chairman,” she told me. “I wrote inquiring about boarding the teacher.”

I was surprised. Mary had said nothing about it.

“He’s happy to have him stay here,” Mary continued. “The place where he’s been boarding hasn’t worked out well.”

I knew that the present schoolteacher was a middle-aged, single man. He had been the butt of many community jokes, a rather strange, eccentric fellow.

I looked at Mary again.

“Are you sure you want to take him on?” I asked her.

“Can’t you see?” said Mary. “This is a direct answer to my prayers. I asked God what I might do to ease our situation, and He brought this to my mind. So I wrote the letter and left it with God—and He has worked it out so that Mr. Butler is willing to stay here.”

“But—” I began, but Mary wasn’t finished.

“The money will help buy groceries for all of us, and I might even be able to help with the loan payment.”

“But the work,” I protested. “You have more than enough now, and with the new baby—”

Mary waved that argument aside too. “Grandpa helps in the kitchen and Uncle Charlie keeps William entertained. Mr. Butler will be gone most of the day and will be leavin’ every weekend. Won’t be much extra work at all.”

She had it all figured. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You’re really somethin’,” I said to Mary, gathering her into my arms. She just smiled and let the letter flutter to the floor.

Much to my dismay, Mr. Butler arrived with a spirited horse and a buggy. There had been no warning that I would be expected to stable a horse and provide feed. I couldn’t even feed my own horses properly.

But even before I could raise the question Mr. Butler explained, “I’ve arranged for Lady Jane to be housed”—

“housed,” he said—“at the school barn. Todd Smith will be her groom.”

I nodded, relieved.
A “groom,” no less
.

“I needed the buggy to bring my things,” he went on.

His “things” consisted of several trunks and suitcases and a couple of carpet bags. I wondered how he would fit it all in the small bedroom off the kitchen and still leave himself walking room. I never did find out, for I never entered the room after Mr. Butler took possession, and he always kept his door tightly closed.

Even Mary didn’t go in that room. Mr. Butler preferred to do his own “keeping.” Once a week Mary laid out fresh linens and towels and Mr. Butler replaced them with the soiled ones. It was a good arrangement for Mary.

He was a strange-looking little man, all right. A large nose dominated his small face, and his chin was almost nonexistent. Eyes, dark and piercing, hid behind thick, heavy-rimmed glasses. He was bald. At least I’m pretty sure he was, but he had this trick of combing his hair from deep down on the side and bringing it across the top to join the other side so you didn’t really see the baldness. When he stepped out into the wind, he was very careful to pull his hat down securely until it almost included his ears. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had nightmares about it suddenly blowing off, his hair flying straight up in the air, waving to all those who watched as his bald spot was exposed to the world.