Country Grit: A Farmoir of Finding Purpose and Love

by Scottie Jones

  Then too, Jack would add, fortune just tended to find him.

  On a bright summer morning, a semi picked up a little too much speed to safely negotiate a corner, causing it to swing wide of its lane. The truck in the oncoming lane began blowing its horn, startling the semi’s driver and resulting in his over-correction. The semi fishtailed and its trailer slid off the road and into Jack’s yard. Half of a manufactured house lay upended directly in front of Jack, who was taking his morning cigarette with coffee. For the driver, the load was a total loss. Worse, he would have to get a crane to collect it for demolition. Jack, with an air of magnanimity, offered to clean the whole mess at no cost. He smiled, the driver smiled, they shook on it, and the deed was done.

  Jack used the farm tractor to hoist the house onto blocks. He hammered out the dents and nailed plywood over the gaping openings in the half-house. And with that, Jack had a new house. Like manna from heaven.

  Of course, a house is not a home until you move your furnishings into it. An hour later, Jack had a new home—well, almost a new home. Every transition contains a seed of unexpected change. The cat declined the new digs. Hard to say why—fewer mice or maybe just a little too domesticated for his taste, but his refusal was absolute.

  At the same time Jack was going through this break-up, a black Lab named Rosco was having a relationship disconnect of his own. Nate watched from his perch behind the counter of the Merc as a BMW pulled into the gas station across the street, let Rosco out, and pulled away. It was far too common an event. Surging with disgust for his fellow man, Nate walked across the street and caught Rosco by his collar. He tied Rosco to the bench in front of the Merc and placed a sign that read FREE TO GOOD HOME. Jack walked by and suddenly realized he had the necessary qualifications. And that’s how a black Lab came to occupy the cat’s place in Jack’s new home.

  It was a good fit. Free from the barn, Jack created an outdoor patio space with a fire pit and a grill. On summer evenings, he and Rosco would sit on willow chairs, next to the fire, waiting for their food to cook. Jack would play the fiddle while they sipped beers. Rosco’s collar was replaced with a bright bandana that matched Jack’s Mexican belt. Given that they both possessed the same disarming smiles, the effect of seeing them together could be unnerving. This was especially true when they were bunched together riding in the truck. Some said that when Jack wore his hat and dark glasses, the only way to tell them apart was to wait for one of them to speak.

  So on a mid-summer morning, the Wayfaring Brothers, plus Rosco, took hammers in hand and began constructing a house for Annie. It had been a long process of pulling permits, milling lumber, digging septic, scraping the pad, and laying the concrete foundation. Finally the boys were here and the walls were about to go up. Luther took measurements, walked the site, took more measurements, consulted the blueprints, and finally directed Jack to start cutting. Jack laid the boards out and turned on the saw. Luther turned it off. He inspected the blueprints, took more measurements, walked the site, a final measurement, then nodded to Jack. As Jack began to feed the board, Luther ordered a stop and repeated the entire process a third time.

  Jack erupted in exasperation. Luther explained he saw a way to save saw cuts but wanted to be sure. Jack replied whatever was saved in saw cuts was wasted in re-thinking. “Maybe,” Luther allowed, but he wanted to be sure. Better to just do it and fix the mistakes, Jack argued. Luther relented, “Go ahead, cut.” Jack fired up the saw. “Wait. Stop!” Luther had reconsidered. Jack cut anyway. Once committed, Luther proceeded down the path selected by the saw toward a productive day.

  As they were storing their tools, Jack thought to put a conclusion to their disagreement. “Good day. We got a lot done without too many mistakes.” He tried his smile on Luther.

  “I just like to be sure,” was the response.

  Rosco stayed out of it.

  The next day went well, but the week saw a reemergence of the conflict. It was an argument that would not go away because of the hardwired nature of each man. Luther lived behind his mother’s place, not a hundred feet from where he was born, because he liked predictability. Jack lived in a barn because he liked the freedom and spontaneity it offered. If you don’t like a room, then move the bales. They both enjoyed lives of minimalism but for very different reasons. When things were working, their differences complemented each other. Jack created the inspiration and Luther provided the regulation. But when things fell out of alignment, the synchronicity seized up like an engine with pistons firing against themselves.

  As the summer progressed, Luther took longer soaks in the tub before responding to Jack’s pounding at the door. The more pressure Luther felt, the slower he moved, and the later they showed for work. By the end of the week, it was Jack leaving early to go fishing and reset his frustration thermostat.

  Despite their conflicts, the Wayfaring Brothers maintained fundamental respect and affection for each other, causing some to note the similarity of their fussing to the bickering of an old married couple. This caused others to point out the irony that these confirmed bachelors had snared themselves in the same net they had so scrupulously avoided with women.

  It caused me to note my house wasn’t getting built. And then I remembered, this is the country. I could hire a construction company from the city, but with the commute they wouldn’t get here any earlier—and I would be charged for the travel time. At least it was Jack, not me, pounding on Luther’s door. Maybe a city construction company could knock the job out, but I think I would miss all the idiosyncrasies that came with the Wayfaring Brothers. Like Jack whistling to my turkeys and the turkeys gobbling back. And Luther crabbing about being stuck with a turkey talker for a partner. And Rosco jumping into the truck’s cab to blow the horn at quitting time. Doubt I would get that with a city construction crew.

  It was a Friday when Jack’s truck arrived without Luther. Being the last day of the week meant it was the longest soak day for Luther. My assumption was that Jack’s patience had given out and he had come to work sans Luther. Then I noticed there was no Rosco either and I felt a twinge of alarm. Then I noticed Jack and I felt more than a twinge. I had never seen him without his huckleberry smile.

  “Someone shot Rosco last night.”

  “What? Someone? Why?”

  “He was barking and they shot him and drove away.”

  “Drove away in a Dodge pick-up I bet. That’s Rodger Gates not wanting anyone, especially his wife, to know he’s been seeing Melissa Johnson.”

  “Maybe. Don’t know for sure and don’t really care about the who, what, why, whatever. There’s no cause to kill a dog on his own property.”

  “No cause and not legal. Did you call the sheriff?”

  Jack just shook his head. “Karma can take it from here. I’m going fishing. Got some dark thoughts rolling around in my head. Need to get out on a lake. Just me and a fishing pole and a lot of still water. I’ll be back Monday.” He banged the side of his door with a two-beat farewell and drove off.

  Monday he was back at work with Luther and with his smile. But there was no turkey rap or storytelling or anything but the staccato pounding of hammers and the forlorn screech of the saw. And there was no mistaking the empty spot on the grass where Rosco use to lie, waiting for the men to finish their distractions so they could attend to the priority of playtime with him.

  Into empty space, nature always sends a tentacle. A root burrowing in, pushing out earth, making way for something new. So it was no surprise when Jack’s truck veered off the highway and into the driveway of a farm with a sign FREE TO GOOD HOME. This time it was a burro, or a roll of shag carpet on legs, depending on the point of view. The owner was frustrated by the animal’s stubborn temperament. Purchased as a pack animal for hunting trips, the beast, named Hershey, had proved intractable. Now it just cost money in upkeep and created problems with the other animals. Sooner it was gone, the better.

  Jack thought the burro would make a great advertisement for selling bask
ets. He could mount his willow baskets on either side of the burro and take pictures. In his imagination, people would flock to buy them. Personally, I thought Jack was just a sucker for orphans.

  The owner told Jack he would need a horse trailer and possibly a cattle prod to load this son of Satan. Jack backed the truck up to a dirt berm, threw a halter over the burro, walked him onto the bed of the truck, and tied him down. He thanked the dumbfounded owner and drove off. Halfway home he passed one of his favorite taverns and pulled over. In a celebratory mood, Jack invited the burro to join him. After relating the story to the patrons of the bar, it was agreed the burro probably adopted an incorrigible attitude in response to being named Hershey. There was a contest to select a more appropriate name, with Paco winning. They offered Paco a beer to test whether he liked the new name. He did. And so Paco now joined Jack around the evening campfire, happily munching grass while Jack played his fiddle.

  But Paco was not Rosco. He couldn’t join the boys at work. Jack worried that Paco was lonely, so he traded a day’s pay for a lamb to serve as a companion. He also wanted the lamb as a gift for his granddaughter. It’s a country fashion to give children lambs to help develop their sense of responsibility. So, I offered Rusty, one of my bummers.

  Generally bummers are a good choice for children because they are people friendly. The down-side is that bummers are more prone to escape. Having lost their fear of humans, they are often watching how gates are being latched when the other sheep are running away. Rusty broke out the first week at Jack’s place.

  Jack spent most of the night walking the highway looking for Rusty. Besides the threat to the lamb’s life, there was a significant risk to any driver that might hit the lamb. A hundred pounds crashing through a windshield could be fatal. Nothing turned up the first night. The next day, Jack shuffled into work reporting the lamb AWOL and possibly headed home. After several more days without any sightings, it was presumed Rusty had a cougar encounter.

  On a slow Saturday afternoon, Rusty came prancing through an open door at the Merc. Several people lunged for him, which caused him to bolt down the aisles, knocking down displays, scattering cans, and breaking bottles. He circled back and leapt out the door, into the street. Cars swerved, brakes squealed, more chasing until he ran back into the Merc and completed another loop of wreckage. The whole town pretty much turned into a sheep rodeo, until Cody, the local farrier, happened by. He possessed a lariat and the skill to use it. In short order, Rusty was tied to the bench in front of the Merc. A call was placed to Jack.

  Jack described it as the walk of shame. Half the town had lined up to see what kind of wrath Iron Nate was going to unleash on Hippie Jack. What most did not know was that both men were Marine combat veterans and the Semper Fi brotherhood more than covered this slight indiscretion. There was no scolding. Nate handed Jack the rope and then helped him carry Rusty back to the truck when the lamb refused to walk. Jack drove away. Nate did ask several people if they intended to buy anything, and if not, maybe they could occupy space in their own damn homes.

  Jack took quite a drubbing from the town folk for a few weeks. A lot of whistling “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and questions like, “Do you know where your lamb is tonight?” For the locals, conditioned by lives of hard work and careful management of scant resources, the idea of getting a lamb as a companion for a useless burro seemed preposterous. The lamb escapade just seemed the perfect vehicle for shining the light of ridicule on this frivolous behavior.

  I knew differently. I knew the lamb escaped after Jack’s granddaughter failed to secure the gate. I knew Jack never disclosed this fact to anyone, including me—I learned it from his daughter. I knew the burro was a replacement for Rosco. That Jack, rather than focusing on retribution, had chosen redirection. I also knew that Jack lived a life of hard work and scant resources too, but rather than be conditioned by it, he chose to challenge it. He chose his companions precisely because they were impractical. The burro was both an act of defiance against the mundane and an embracing of mirth and folly. One look at Paco, with his big ears and oversized head mounted on a wine barrel body with stubby broomsticks for legs, would tell you that.

  So Jack bore the ribbing with his trademarked smile. When confronted with the burro as yet another misstep in a life of stumbles, Jack responded with gusto, “Some mistakes are just too much fun to only do once.”

  I think that is how I will always remember Jacky. That and his smiling, ubiquitous salutation, “Bright moments to you.” And his unflappable “We can do that” answer to problems, which always shattered whatever spasms of doubt and defeat I was experiencing at that moment. Yes, that is how I remember our Jack.

  He was found dead on a Monday morning, sitting in his willow chair. A cup of cold coffee in one hand and a burned out cigarette in the other. It was the last week of our house construction, just the finishing touches where Jack would have left his artistic signature. He was feeling satisfied with the long project and looking forward to taking time off. So it surprised me a little that he was late. I assumed there were problems with motivating Luther. My surprise transformed to alarm when Luther answered the phone saying he was still waiting for Jack. A call to Jack’s daughter sent her over to his house and the terrible discovery. We will never know the cause, but heart attack seems likely.

  On a Wednesday threatening rain, I helped dig my friend’s grave in the heavy clay soils of the Coast Range. Jack died with twenty-seven dollars to his name, but he had a wealth of friends who came together to get him buried. Some washed the body; several built the coffin while others dug the grave. Wherever people gathered, there were stories. The stories he told, the stories he lived, the stories he gave to us.

  Jack was an artist of folk. Brick might be our mayor, our community organizer, but Jack was our artist, our weaver of tales. If you needed a tool, Brick knew who had it to lend. Jack connected us through our stories. He shone a light on our stories and let them find their connections within each of us, to each of us. It wasn’t a connection to a community so much as a connection to a deeper level of ourselves—to our commonality as “folk.” It was a “folkway,” a river of lore, and he was our ferry man.

  None of us were prepared for the loss. We had all expected to share many more years with this carefree soul who saw life for its opportunities and bright moments. Such a shame to lose his presence, to lose his light, to lose our way a little bit, out here in the country.

  THE COMING OF AN END

  Luther took the loss especially hard. Jack had turned Luther from his reclusive ways and pointed him back into the community. Under Jack’s sway, Luther began to show up at social events and reengage old acquaintances. Where before he was known for his eccentricities and social aloofness, now he was recognized for his quiet intellect and sardonic wit. Jack’s passing reversed all of that. Luther was rarely seen off the family farm, and even there he stayed in the shadows.

  After several weeks of Luther’s absence on the job site, I became anxious about completion. With only a week left, it just needed this final push. I called and left messages and pestered him back onto the job. He worked in piecemeal fashion, always grumbling. The week of work stretched into a month. One day I caught him crying. The turkeys, seeing him at the house, had called to him, triggering a memory of Jack and his whistled response.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t quite realized the burden I had placed on Luther. I had slipped into thinking of Luther in that one-dimensional way of stereotypes. The grouchy hermit without a heart. Sitting with Luther on the steps, the house full of painful memories, even I could see Jack coming around the corner at any moment and then I was tearing up too. I sent Luther home. Greg, or someone, could finish the little bit that needed doing. It was the last work Luther ever did off his farm.

  A few weeks before Thanksgiving, on a frosty November night, coons got into the coop and slaughtered all the turkeys. Blood lust, I guess, because once they started killing they didn’t stop. I felt something inside
me break. All this loss, and now the turkeys. I was depending on the turkeys to get us through this year. It wasn’t killing to eat, it was reckless, empty slaughter and it just seemed cruel.

  Thanksgiving brought the rains and with it the migrating salmon. There were days when my spirit lifted, watching these magnificent fish, these harbingers of bounty. But the rain didn’t stop. Torrents of water ran off the mountain slopes as nature seemed to rage at everything in her creation. The floods lifted bridges and washed out roads. When, at last, the rain relented, we found salmon eggs spread across hay fields. I could only shake my head at the squandered loss that lay at my feet. I scooped up what eggs I could and placed them back in the stream, but it felt like an empty act against the predominant theme of destruction.

  I was beginning to feel like I was being served an eviction notice from mother nature.

  As Christmas approached, our girls returned home—or rather to the farm. This year our small Christmas felt small. It was less rustic and more just hard and cold and pinched.

  I challenged myself—there was reason to be thankful. Despite all the loss, Annie’s house was built. That overt promise of legacy and renewal. It was a beautiful little cottage with majestic views over the fields and the panorama of the mountains. Yes, it had been a bad year, but the house alone, with its promise for the future, could offset all of that. If next year was a good year … and with the cottage … and Annie coming home … it all could be resurrected. We could turn the corner and make this farm work. I couldn’t wait to show it to the girls.

  After viewing it, Annie pulled me aside, “Mom, the house is beautiful, but I didn’t ask for it. I’m applying to veterinary school. If I get in, I’ll be gone at least four years. And truthfully, even if I don’t get in, I don’t see myself living here. It’s just too isolated for a single person with a social life.”