Maybe she would be so embarrassed after all that she wouldn’t be angry, just unable to cope—like someone had taken something precious from her, something very private.
Then if he tried to explain, what would he say? “I thought you were beautiful?”
No, if he said that she might think he was a pervert, a no-good-for-nothin’ peeping-Tom. It was Lucian making all the fun, but he couldn’t tell her that.
Better to say, “Mary Jane I want to apologize and hope you never think I was acting interested out there at the springs. I’m not that kind of boy.”
If he said that she might think that he thought she wasn’t attractive, gorgeous, beautiful. Then she would be offended anyway.
He turned his back to the door to try one more line—“Mary Jane, I …”
“Hello, Norman Parker,” Mary Jane called from the door as it opened. “I thought I heard someone out here on the porch. Won’t you come in?”
“Sure. I mean, yes,” he stammered in return.
“For me?” She smiled, noticing the bouquet.
“Yes. Yes indeed.” He smiled, holding them out to her.
She raised the wildflowers to her face and inhaled. “Thank you, Norman,” she said, offering a coy glance upward into his frozen admiring gaze.
“I picked them from the garden. My mother is crazy about flowers. She can’t walk much—polio, see—but she gets a lot of joy from flowers, so we tend to them with her, and, well she’s comin’ to her new home next week, so I prettied up the garden a bit.”
He stumbled on his words, self-conscious now because of his rambling utterances—his heart was skipping to a dance he didn’t know existed—until now. “The flowers at the depot needed tendin’ and I want them just right when our mama arrives …”
“How sweet,” she cut him off, noticing his awkwardness, shyness. “The poor dear must struggle with polio. I surely would like to help her some. At least I’ll have one month to know her before leavin’ to help my own family in California … Grandpa, Mr. Norman Parker is here to have supper,” she called into the parlor.
“That train-engine boy?” he called back.
“Uh, yes, sir. Sure am. And a real good engineer to boot,” Norman chirped, happy to know the friendly old man would be there to help him feel more at ease.
“You can hang that hat on the coatrack if you like.” Mary Jane smiled. “I’ll go put these in some fresh water while you and Grandpa get to know each other.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Mary Jane.” His heart stumbled to a jazz drummer’s beat.
She winked.
“Howdy-do boy?” the eighty-year-old called in an unusually loud tone of voice.
“Grandpa doesn’t hear too well. You’ll have to forgive his loud talk,” Mary Jane whispered as she returned with the wildflowers arranged in a vase.
“Oh. Well, I hadn’t really noticed. Trains are so loud, you know. Everybody just kind of talks loud at my home,” he countered. “I’m good. Real fine, Mr. Harrison,” he said directly to the old man busily rocking in his parlor chair.
“Well you are the best specimen of a man this poor country girl has laid eyes on in some time. I told her that her train would come in one of these old days. Hee, hee,” he laughed loudly slapping at his knees.
“Grandpa!” Mary Jane scolded with eyes focused tightly on him.
“Well, sir. If a boy were to have an interest I haven’t seen a finer flower in this whole state. I guess the right boy might be real lucky,” he offered bravely, unusually smooth. More like something Lucian might say, he thought to himself. “So how are you feeling today?” Norman asked, hoping to change the direction of the conversation to something more general.
“A bit ornery, I guess. Have a seat. Don’t jus’ stand there lookin’ lost.” He motioned with a wave of his hand to the small time-worn cushioned sofa.
Self-conscious, Norman positioned his left arm on the white doily on the armrest and leaned into the afghan draped over the back of the earth-tone love seat.
“Grandpa, I’ll be fixin’ supper. Please try to behave yourself,” Mary Jane urged with a pleading voice.
He smiled and looked out the window trimmed with lace curtains. “Been here the better part of fifty years. Before that steam engine of yours arrived. Before most steam engines were ever built. New territory, Oklahoma was then. Yes sirrey.”
“That is real interesting, sir.” Norman intimated interest with one eye on him and one on the back of Mary Jane just feet away in the cozy country kitchen.
“Yes sirrey,” he continued. “Long before you were a sparkle in your pa’s eyes I suppose.”
“My father wasn’t even a sparkle fifty years ago, sir. He’s all of forty-six years old. Mother is forty-five. She’s gotten polio,” he added, trying to make something of this conversation.
“Humph,” he snorted. “Can’t figure how a man can come here to take over a town at such a tender age.”
“Me, sir?”
“No. Not you, boy. Your pa! He’s got to be a hard workin’ man, that one,” he offered. “Most men work themselves into a grave hopin’ to pay off a small piece of land, and he’s in his prime buyin’ a shortline railroad. Now figure, I says to myself, he must have some powerful good connections.”
“He’s a real hard worker, sir. Started railroading at age fifteen. Married Mother at eighteen and her father, my granddad, wasn’t too keen on him. He was an original Westerner. The original stockholder in a start-up bank in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Owned businesses and such. Wrote her out of his will when she married Pa. Then he up and rewrites her back in a few years ago, without tellin’ no one. So she has this piece of money from the bank stock that was good cause Granddad made it through the bad years, made good loans—a shrewd man he was.”
“So that’s how your pa got this shortline and our old piece of land by the springs?” the aged man asked directly.
“Yes, sir. He is real aware of his good fortune. But now we got to make it pay off. We got to find some side jobs, and such.”
“Well a boxcar of good luck and some Sunday prayin’ would do ya good. Nothin’ good has come out of this town for on to seven years now. Not since the crash of 1929 and then the drought. We’re lucky we held on this long. I guess you might as well have the land as the next carpetbagger,” he grumbled.
“Grandpa!” Mary Jane scolded. “It doesn’t do any good talking like that. It’s not Norman Parker’s fault, his pa’s neither. You know the county took it back for taxes owed. I won’t hear another word!”
Norman looked puzzled. He wasn’t expecting such complications. He was wishing to add some defense but changed course. “Smells real fine, Mary Jane. What is it you’re cooking up?”
“Special chicken recipe with dumplins. My mama made it each Sunday after church. I didn’t see you today at service in Redemption.”
“No, ma‘am, Mary Jane. I was wantin’ to go. We almost regularly do. We had to put all our effort into the engine overhaul. Seems we got us our first haulin’ job starting tomorrow. We’re goin’ all the way to Albuquerque and bringing Mother back. She’s been there waitin’ for near a month now visitin’ Grandma and such.”
“Poor excuse for breakin’ the sabbath,” she countered.
“Well yes, maybe so. I mean the ox was in the mire, see. And, well, the good Lord understands that. But you can count on seein’ me there every week that ox gets unstuck.” He smiled.
“Well put, boy.” Old man Harrison laughed heartily. “Seems as a lot of that ox miring is due to how high the dung gets at times—don’t it, boy?” He smiled.
Norman blushed a deep shade of red.
Mary Jane gave the old farmer a stern look. Her slender facial lines which followed to a delicate pointed chin tightened as she locked her jaw, pursed her lips. “Supper is on. Both of you wash up and sit yourselves over at the table, please.”
“Oh that young woman can give the look,” the old man chuckled. “Just like her grandma,” he said, thoro
ughly enjoying the moment. “Now that’s what I call fixins to satisfy a grown man’s appetite,” Grandpa called out loudly so Mary Jane could hear in the kitchen as he took his chair. “You do us the honor of sayin’ grace?” He nodded to Norman.
“Please …” Mary Jane said, coming in from the kitchen shaking her head in displeasure toward her grandfather.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be happy to.” Norman watched them bow their heads and followed, cupping his hands together on the table:
“Oh God our redeemer; we give thee, the Almighty, honor and thankfulness this day for this food and all we have. God bless the hands that provided and prepared it. May we always remember your grace and goodness to us. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“That was beautiful, Norman.” Mary Jane approved with a wink.
“My pleasure.” He smiled. I’ve won her over, he mused excitedly.
CHAPTER 6
“Times are harder than many a man can remember—boy,” the old farmer everyone in Warm Springs knew as “Harry” said as he patted his abdomen appreciatively. “Very fine dumplins, granddaughter.” He smiled with satisfaction. “Don’t know what I’ll do without her.” He sighed as he moved from the table to a small desk where he retrieved his smoking pipe.
“Grandpa won’t go with me and the rest of the family to California,” Mary Jane replied simply. “We held out five years longer than anyone else that got up and went. But he’s stubborn. Won’t budge.”
The old man nodded, winked at the young man and sat back down at the dining table. “Cal-ee-forn-aye-ehh,” he grumbled accentuating the West Coast state’s name, making his displeasure known. “Runnin’ off scared. Darn near the whole state of Oklahoma,” he groused.
Norman sat silently. Maybe the old man was right. He wished Mary Jane wouldn’t go. Wished she were as stubborn as Grandpa Harrison too. He’d like to see Lucian go, but not Mary Jane.
“Yes sirrey, hard times these years have been,” the old man added with a sigh.
“Yes sir,” Norman finally offered. “Seems Mary Jane is needed here,” he added hopefully.
“I’ve lived in this boring one-horse town most of my life. Now that we have lost everything, there is no reason not to go. California might be hard work—I’ve been there most of the past two years since the folks up and left—but it isn’t this boring. Not even the country towns of Fresno, Bakersfield, and Modesto are this boring. Least ways they got movie theaters and dancing.”
“I don’t think it’s so boring,” Norman countered. “What with some land and some travel on the rail line. You could ride with us from time to time,” he eagerly offered.
“Wouldn’t be right. Mother and Father needin’ me to work and all. Besides, California seems so thrillin’ now that I can go out on dates. I was too young before. Why don’t you come out there?” Mary Jane suggested.
“I can’t leave my pa. He’s so excited. And with Mama in a wheelchair and all. Guess it wouldn’t be right.”
“Good for you, boy. Now that is the proper Oklahoman attitude.” Grandpa Harrison pointed. “This here is a real man,” he added, shaking his finger toward Norman.
Norman sat up with pride, took in a deep chest-filled breath at the old farmer’s comments.
Harry suddenly countered with a remark that shook Norman. “Then again, you’ve never lost land, home, everything you ever worked for, have ya boy?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I have lived long enough to know all things turn around eventually. But I never thought I’d see whole farms, towns, just dry up and move West like they’ve done. Might as well go off to search for the dream somewhere else. California is far enough away from the pain.”
“Mighty hard for folks too, I’m sure,” Norman added.
“Humph,” the old man groused. “You know why we still got this house and can eat so good even in bad times?”
“No, sir.”
Mary Jane now began to clear the table.
“I wouldn’t let my children, Missy’s parents—that’s the name I give this youngin’—convince me to sell this old three-room shack and move out to the farmland. If I’d sold when they wanted me to, we’d have lost everything. At least I still got a roof over my head. Paid for and no taxes owed. More than I can say for most folks.”
“A mighty good decision, sir,” Norman responded approvingly. “Pa has never owned a home, never purchased anything until this old depot came up with the small cottage attached. Just rented until now. Saved all he could. Promised my mother her own place someday. A place out of the city. We’re mighty grateful to God for it.”
“Funny how it goes. One man’s loss is another’s gain. God blessed ya. Humph. Mighty strange how one gets hurt for another to get blessed. But you’re a strong boy.”
“Grandpa, don’t be so sarcastic,” Mary Jane interrupted.
“It’s true,” he countered.
“I didn’t literally mean …” Norman stammered, seeking a way out.
“No, it isn’t true. It’s just life. You can’t blame God for bad luck. But it’s foolish to not give Him glory for good fortune. We all need to be grateful for what we got,” Mary Jane expounded.
Norman’s head went back and forth during the exchange, wondering what he should say. He had already fallen for the strikingly beautiful girl Grandpa Harry called by the family nickname of “Missy.” He fell deeper in love with every word now.
“We are grateful, sir, and mighty sorry for them folks who suffered. All we can do now is better the situation. I hope to help all those I can. By the way, ‘Missy’ is a real pretty name.”
“Well, I prefer Mary Jane but Grandpa is an allowance I make. And you’re right, Norman. We all can do what we can and that will have to be enough.”
“Well, we got more than most, I suppose,” Grandpa Harry countered. “But it’s because I used this old noggin’, the clickityclank of the wheels turning up here,” the old-timer said, tapping at his skull with his index finger. “Come with me, Norman.” He gestured, pushing his chair back from the table.
“Pudding is almost done. Don’t be too long,” Mary Jane said with a disapproving shake of her head toward her grandfather.
“Thank you for the wonderful meal, Mary Jane,” Norman answered with a smile as he followed Harry out the back of the Main Street homestead.
“See that shed over yonder?” Harry pointed as he reached into his overalls pocket and pulled out a key.
Norman nodded.
“Follow me.”
Norman followed the spry but aged man down some wood stairs to a root cellar under the shed. “Wow, it’s got to be ten degrees cooler down here,” he said.
“Twenty degrees on good days,” the old-timer pronounced proudly. “Lookie here,” he said, opening a hatch that led down another flight of stairs to a small chamber lined with boards and mortared bricks against an earthen wall. Both men stooped under the floorboards of the first level that became the underground level’s ceiling.
Harry struck a match to a lantern hanging on a hook suspended from one of the overhead beams. “Watch out for black widdas,” he warned. “This is enough for one family for an entire year. I never needed money as long as I had a roof over my head and a good supply of foodstuffs,” he proudly stated.
“This is incredible. Grain, corn, beans, potatoes, beets …”
“This, my boy,” he pointed out with a wave of his hand in a circular fashion, “is real wealth. Security, yes sirrey. Peace of mind.” He winked. “If you fancy that young lady up there you’ll remember what I am tryin’ to tell ya.” He grabbed a handful of dried corn from one of the barrels then blew out the light. “Now follow me,” he said as he turned to go back up the stairs and out into the sunlight.
“Feels good, the cool moist earth on a hot summer day, don’t it, young man?”
“Yes, sir. Surely does.”
“Well, come on now. We are going to get some free meat for tomorrow’s supper.”
Norman was beginning to feel
kindly toward the old man and grinned at his boyishness. “So where we goin’?”
“You’ll see,” Harry answered as he swung open a creaky picket fence gate, waist high, and whitewashed recently. They exited out the backyard that opened to a dirt road bordering a field and a grove of trees. “The quail love it out here. Pheasant too,” he said in lowered voice.
“You going to throw corn at ’em or such?” Norman laughed.
“Don’t be so impertinent, young man. Follow me an’ hush.”
Norman followed, reminding himself that Mary Jane and dessert yet awaited him.
Harry began by dropping one corn seed after another across a small clearing until he reached an old stovepipe some five feet long. He then threw some corn in the pipe and beckoned to Norman to hide himself in the bush at the front of the pipe and he would put some seed out the back.
“Here is a board to cover the pipe opening. Once that bird is in, you slap it shut. See that square wire cage at the end? I’ll be there to shut the door once the greedy bird is happy and feedin’ on the corn inside.”
“Gottcha,” Norman grinned.
“See there?” Harry smiled. “Now hush. Here they come out of the bushes. They can’t resist. Even though it’s a trap. Dinner for them today is supper for us tomorrow. Shhh,” he put his finger to his lips.
Norman smirked at the joy this brought the old man. He enjoyed it too. All the years growing up alongside railroad tracks was in the big cities. This country trickery was fun.
The small flock of quail approached the seed which had been generously spread out before them on the ground. One eagerly fought off the rest and greedily found himself pecking at the seeds inside the rusty stovepipe tube.
“That’s right, come on now my fine feathered friend,” Harry coaxed. The quail, followed by two more, scrambled for the seeds and came out the stovepipe into the chicken-wire box Harry had set up. He slammed the metal trap shut, sliding the door down with the pine branch he held in his hand. “Fine lookin’ birds, wouldn’t ya say, Norman?”
“Mighty fine,” Norman laughed. “I can’t wait to try this out on a bunch of them quail hanging around the depot. Suppose it works on pheasant too?”
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