. . . . and I waited, anxious for them to pass. Summer days were the longest of all, but in many ways the best. The pastures around our old white house bloomed thick with yellow bonnets like a carpet over the bright green grass. And when there was no work to be done in our tilled fields, we children galloped through the yellow bonnets, snorting and tossing our tawny manes like fine horses.
In my mind’s eye, I can still see our small, bare feet, brown from the summer sun, parting the windswept flowers, scattering grains of pollen to the breeze. We were ever without shoes in the warm months, as our old ones were worn through or outgrown by winter’s end.
When summer was at its height, the children’s fair would come to town, filling the field beside the church with autos, buggies, and bright gypsy wagons. On Saturday, my father would take five dimes from the coffee tin in Mother’s kitchen and give one to each of us children. Laughing, we clasped our money in our palms and ran along the dusty road to town.
When we reached the fair, we dashed wide-eyed into the fray. My brothers and sisters spent their money quickly, on candied apples or chances to win popguns and china dolls. I stood back, instead, and thought of how I would get the most for my pennies, for I knew they were precious. Always, I went first to the carousel, where I could ride for half of my dime. When they opened the gate, I rushed forward, looking at one fine horse and the next, white, black, and silver-gray—some wild-eyed with teeth bared, some meek and sweet with heads neatly bowed. With their jeweled harnesses trimmed in gold and silver, they were the finest things I had ever seen, ever touched. In my mind, I can see them yet. When I rode, I threw back my head and closed my eyes, feeling music, feeling wooden muscles gather and stretch beneath my legs. It was magic, and those moments have never left me.
All too soon, the horses spun to a halt, and the music quieted. I touched each satiny mane as I walked back to the gate. Then I bought a cotton candy with my other nickel, and sat on the hill above the fair, trying to make it last as long as I could. Below, I saw other children still at play. Some rode the carousel four or five times, spending more pennies than I and my brothers and sisters had between us. And I would think: Oh, how wonderful to have so much money to be able to ride the carousel four or five times! Sometimes I prayed that I would find a nickel on the ground as I walked home so that I might ride the carousel again, but I never did. Those nights, I often went to bed angry with God.
The next day as I held my father’s hand on the road to worship, I often repented my anger. Guilt was ever my shadow as I walked past the field, empty now, except for blowing bits of streamers, torn tickets, and trodden grass. In worship, I confessed my sin of greed to God, then left with my family to pass the empty field again, and again think of the carousel horses.
The sun was ever high and hot when we reached our home. No work was to be done on the Lord’s day, so we children pulled loose from our parents’ hands and ran to the pond, galloping wildly through the yellow bonnets. Those fields, the feel of the grass, the scent of pollen in the air are ever with me when summer days grow hot. And now, looking through the tunnel of these many years, I can see what in my youth I could not—that time is a limited and precious gift. I wish I had not spent my hours worrying over another nickel for the carousel, but instead running barefoot through the fields of yellow bonnets.
Closing my tear-filled eyes, I hugged the book to my chest and pictured those tawny-haired children running barefoot through fields of yellow. I knew why Grandma had chosen today to write down that story. And whether she intended to leave it for me to read or not, I knew it was for me—to tell me something she couldn’t frame into words when we sat together talking. She wanted me to see what things were precious, to know, as she knew, after eighty-nine years of life.
I watched her and Joshua as the afternoon grew soft and silent. They looked so peaceful, asleep in the bright winter sunlight, and I felt peaceful also—as if every muscle in my body were dissolving into the cool breeze and the soft sunlight. I looked at the last line of Grandma’s story again, and then I set the book on the seat just as I had found it. Later, I would tell her I had read it and how much it meant to me.
I wish I had not spent my hours worrying over another nickel for the carousel, but instead running barefoot through the fields of yellow bonnets.
There were yellow bonnets in my life—things I had set aside in my rush to establish my career and buy all of the things we thought we needed. In ten years of marriage, Ben and I had probably spent less than one year in the same room, and even less time actually talking. We were a far cry from the college lovers we had started out as. It seemed hard to imagine those days now, as if they had happened between two people I didn’t know. It was hard to picture us strolling through the city hand in hand, or curling up to watch old movies all day, or calling five times a day just to say, “I love you,” or hear the sound of the other’s voice. Now we couldn’t carry on a conversation without someone getting paged, or called, or e-mailed.
Grown-up life has a way of doing that to you—taking up a little more and a little more of your time until you’re never together, and when you are together, you’re exhausted. I guess I’d thought having a baby would change all that, but it hadn’t changed anything. Ben was still busy, I was still busy, and life was rushing by like a speeding train. Jump on board or get left behind. . . .
Chapter 3
B
EN didn’t come back until late in the evening, and when he did, he said he had driven all the way to Springfield to pick up some software for a local Internet provider, in hopes of correcting his problem with the computer. He went directly upstairs to install it and stayed there until late that night.
I didn’t bother arguing with him, or trying to coax him into eating supper or coming to bed. I left him alone, then finally went to bed. I could tell he wasn’t in the mood to talk. He wanted to be alone, which was how he always wanted to be when things went wrong at work.
By morning, he was in a better mood. He slept late, so I ate breakfast with Grandma, then put Josh in his stroller for her, because she wanted to push him to the mailbox and back while I made some phone calls. By the time I was done, they had finished their walk and were resting on the porch, Joshua nodding off in his stroller, Grandma’s head bobbing forward and a Wal-Mart ad slowly falling from her hands.
Stepping quietly onto the porch, I slipped the ad and the rest of the mail gently from her fingers and set the pile on the table beside her.
Ben was standing at the corner of the porch when I turned around. He gave me a hangdog look as he leaned against the wall, and I could tell he was ready to kiss and make up.
“Want to go for a walk?” he whispered.
I nodded, glancing at Grandma and Josh, both sound asleep in the gentle winter sunlight, just as they had been the day before. I remembered her story about the yellow bonnets and wondered where the book was now. “Not too far, in case Josh wakes up.”
Ben chuckled. “You mean Grandma might not hear him if he wakes up?”
“Not likely.” It felt good to laugh together. “Her hearing aid’s on the table.” I opened my mouth to tell him about the story she’d written, then stopped. It felt as if I’d be betraying something secret between Grandma and me.
Strolling silently across the lawn, we reached a wrought-iron bench next to one of Grandma’s rose trellises. Winter-bare vines hung thick around the trellis, testifying to the heavy stand of roses that grew there in the summer months. For as long as I could remember, Grandma’s yard had been filled with roses.
We sat on the bench, neither of us knowing quite what to say.
Finally, Ben leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his blue eyes gazing at the green winter wheat in the valley below. “I’m sorry, Kate. Yesterday was a frustrating day. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I still can’t get the computer logged on. There is too much interference on the lines out here. I can’t get a viable connection to the server.”
I swallowed a lump of disappointment. “I didn’t know there were still places where you couldn’t get Internet service.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Well, we’ve stumbled onto one, unfortunately, and there’s no cellular service out here, either. Anyway, I called James. He needs some detailing design work done on the steel for that building he’s putting up in New York.”
I grimaced. I couldn’t help it. “Is he going to pay you what you’re worth this time?” Jobs for Ben’s old friend James always ended up paying about half the normal rate.
Ben gave me a narrow sideways look. “He’s a friend, Kate.”
“He’s a friend with a half-million-dollar house, two boats, and a Mercedes. He can afford to pay you what you’re worth.” The retort was a knee-jerk response, out of my mouth before I stopped to think. I could see Ben start to stiffen, and I could feel us winding into a fight again. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “That’s just my opinion. Another hospital bill came yesterday, and things are a mess at work because of that audit, so I’m not in the best mood.”
Ben let out a long sigh, looking at the ground, digging his fingers into his dark hair. “Another hospital bill? How bad?”
“Ninety-five hundred,” I answered. “The insurance already denied the claim, but I’m going to file a complaint. Again.”
Ben just nodded, then reached over and laid his hand on my knee. I put my hand over his and we sat together in silence, listening to the faint lowing of cattle in the wheat field. I felt the tension ebbing from my muscles, the warmth of Ben’s body next to mine, and the comfort that came from knowing I wasn’t alone. It felt good to be there with him, quiet together.
Looking at the sea of waving winter wheat below, I thought again of Grandma’s story. I pictured the field blanketed with yellow bonnets, waving slightly in the gentle summer breeze, parting as tiny feet passed by. I pictured the children running, laughing, carefree . . . and that sense of peace came over me again. Even though I didn’t think God was listening, I closed my eyes and prayed. . . .
The dinner bell rang at the house, startling me from my thoughts. I glanced at my watch and realized it was practically lunchtime.
Ben stood up, seeming in a better mood. “Either Joshua’s learned how to pull the string, or Grandma’s got lunch ready.”
I stood up and followed him to the porch. Grandma was in the kitchen fixing a plate of sandwiches. “I hope roast beef is all right,” she said, seeming more cheerful than usual. I wondered if she was trying to smooth the wrinkle between Ben and me. “I’ve got some good cucumber rings and the leftover green-pea salad.” The sweet tone in her voice told me she was up to something.
The three of us sat down with Josh’s stroller parked by the table, and Grandma said grace—quickly, as if she were in a hurry to move on to other things. Ben and I started eating, and she sat eyeing us as if waiting for one of us to bring up our problems.
When no one did, she offered what, I think, was supposed to be a solution. “They will be cleaning out the produce bins at Shorty’s Grocery today. Katie, I thought you and I would go this afternoon and salvage what we can use. It’s a terrible waste, those things they throw away. One or two bad spots and they will pitch something out. I go every week and take oranges, apples, lettuce, and potatoes—all without it costing a cent. Some weeks, I even get enough to do some canning.”
I stared at her, not quite digesting what was being said.
Ben cracked a halfhearted smile. “At least we won’t starve.”
Grandma gave him an earnest look and raised a finger to make a point. “That was always the good of living on a farm. When other folks had nothing, we always ate, even if it was only potatoes and buck-flour pancakes.” I felt like a naughty child as she shook that craggy finger in our direction. “And I’ll tell you something else. We children knew not to complain or we would leave the table hungry. My father would say the Lord served up the meals and it wasn’t our business to complain about the menu.”
Grandma had the most uncanny talent for putting things in perspective. When you gave thought to how it would feel to be unable to buy
food
for your children, a few medical bills and a tightening of purse strings seemed minor problems. Neither Ben nor I complained anymore.
Grandma clapped her hands together, looking triumphant. “Oh, and Benjamin, I’ve called Brother Baker down at the church about your problem with the phones. There are several empty offices in the fellowship building, and he says you are welcome to attach your computer to the phone lines there. He says you shouldn’t have any problem on that exchange there in town. His son uses that intra-net all the time to do his college work.”
Ben and I sat staring at her with our chins hanging somewhere near the floor.
Ben recovered first and numbly said, “Thanks, Grandma. That sounds perfect.”
Grandma smiled, chirping, “Very good,” with a self-satisfied glint in her eye. “Sorry to say none of those offices are done in pink paint and ruffles, but I suppose you can make do.”
“I guess I’ll have to.” Ben chuckled, grinning sideways at me. He picked up his plate and put it on the counter, looking as though he had the wind in his sails again. “Thanks again, Grandma Rose. You’re a lifesaver. Guess I’ll go load up the computer and head to town.”
Grandma flushed as if the praise were more than she could bear. “Good-bye, Benjamin. Brother Baker will be at the church. He’ll show you to the offices.” Her gaze followed Ben as he hurried from the room and trotted up the stairs, and I saw the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.
She wiped it away as soon as she caught me watching. “Well, I suppose we should get going. They always change the produce on Saturday after lunch; then it goes to the trash bin at three. I think they’ll be putting out bags of potatoes today. I saw them getting rotten earlier in the week.”