Prairie Spy

by Linda, Alan

  Sorry meant there was the potential for a butt warming, something we dreaded not so much because it ever happened, but more because as time went on and it didn’t happen, it loomed over us larger than ever. “A good butt warming” was the devil we were afraid of, not the one that lived in the crank phone on the wall.

  Then one evening, as we were listening to the Jack Benny show on the radio, two things happened: First, the clap of a close lightning strike nearly deafened us, and two, a blue ball of fire the size of a grapefruit dropped down to the linoleum floor from the telephone and sizzled its way across to the opposite wall, shrinking as it hopped along.

  Mom looked up, but barely missed a stitch as she kept sewing yet another patch on someone’s pants. The I-told-you-so smirk on her face is mostly what I remember, as we kids scrambled away from the static display rolling across the floor.

  I don’t remember what dad did. Not much. Since I as the oldest was barely five or six, I’d guess this had been happening regularly enough to both them and the neighbors that neither one of them got too excited. Apparently, this was viewed as yet another demonstration, or proof, of how good life was. That ball of electricity was the frosting on the cake. Better living through electricity.

  But, once my brother and I turned into teenagers and discovered girls—in particular, Elaine H.--, lightning wasn’t the biggest problem. The biggest problem was Aunt Leah, who operated the switchboard in town. Well, maybe Elaine was the problem. She was a great flirt, and we were both madly in love with her, and for the first time in our lives, that phone on the wall had a reason for being there.

  Any time we heard two longs and a short, we knew it was for us. That was our ring. Any other combination, maybe it was for the Harrisons who farmed down the road, or Hendersons, a little further away, or any of the other seven or eight with whom we shared one set of telephone lines. Maybe, it might be the Hendersons calling the Harrisons, and dad might listen in to see if they were getting ready to bale hay. Anybody could listen in to anybody else, as long as they were on our line. There really weren’t any secrets. Everybody was equal in income and religion and stuff, so no one, as I remember, got too upset. Often, if someone else picked up and listened, it was one less chore to do to get the word out about the country school Christmas program, and stuff like that.

  But Aunt Leah, she was a force to reckon with. Plus, she could listen to everybody.

  We’d crank one long ring to get the operator, hoping Aunt Leah wasn’t on the switchboard. She almost always was. That was how she knew what was going on all over.

  “Yes? What do you boys want!” She’d say, as soon as she heard our voice. Ah, good grief. Aunt Leah’s on duty.

  “Would you please connect us to Bill Horstman? Please?” Oh how the manners flowed from us when we wanted to get past Aunt Leah.

  “And exactly what do you need to talk to Bill about?” Aunt Leah would demand.

  “Dad wants to know when he’s going to combine oats,” we would bluff.

  “Your dad never combines oats with Bill; he combines with Johnsons.” Like I said, she knew EVERYTHING.

  “Is your homework done?” Whoopee. We could bluff her on this one. She wasn’t that great at arithmetic.

  “Well,” we’d reply, saying something like: “Can you help us with this problem, Aunt Leah? If ten horses each have one colt every other year, then who’s the president of Guatemala?”

  And she’d connect us. For a while. Then she’d break in and say: “That’s long enough,” and cut us off.

  And you thought cell phone service had problems.

  §

  The Day After Summer

  It is the day after. Nearly everyone else has left, and I am sitting alone in the empty haymow of my dad’s dad’s once-huge red barn. I say once-huge, because it has in some mysterious way shrunk with my growth into adulthood.

  At this moment, the haymow and I are alone; it with its emptiness; I with my memories.

  The large red banner stapled to the side of the barn says, “Happy 50th Wedding Anniversary, Mom and Dad.” Above me in the high dimness of the mow, multicolored crepe-paper streamers weakly protest that it’s not quite over, this timely event that took fifty years to get here. They seem to protest that last night’s barn dance, complete with hundreds and hundreds of friends, relatives, and neighbors, and a dance band, is still in progress. That it can’t be possible that it’s over. It took so long to get here, fifty years, it should last longer. Somehow.

  Last night, with the evening’s start, couples waltzed by on the dance floor with a certain measured attitude of patience in their posture that said the evening is young. No reason to hurry. They paced their twirls carefully as they circled the floor. Around and around.

  I thought back, as I sat in the empty mow, to the summer I was seven, and I and my brother couldn’t eat Sunday dinner quickly enough to get out into the freshly filled haymow, where each tightly packed bale seemed to stuffed full of summer sun, captured by some magic, evidenced by the warm perfume it emitted. We spent hours and hours building hay bale forts and secret hiding spots. The fresh smell of the new hay was our youth’s perfume. Back then, for us, all was summer. And magic. And promise.

  Last night, people continued to arrive, drawn to the barn dance to celebrate the anniversary of a victory over our only common enemy—time. As the dance floor began to fill with dancing couples, both the music and the dancers began to chance ever so slightly in measure and note and intensity. It was hardly noticeable, but somehow, this crowd began to realize that, as the night wore on, this, as with all else, could not last forever.

  I retreated to the safety of this haymow again as a young man, seeking its comfort from the jolting notice that I still held numbly in my hands. The letter from the draft board said that my friends and neighbors had selected me to report to the nearest United States Army induction center. I spend that next hour of my life in this haymow, hoping to recapture a seven-year-old boy’s feeling of protectedness. I sat and considered my options. None contained any magic. My brother had already been drafted. Magic was in short supply, but still I lingered in that haymow, hoping some might appear.

  Last night, this haymow-turned-ballroom finally filled up with dancing couples, young and old. Was the band at midnight playing louder? Or did it just seem that way. Were the couples truly dancing with more intensity? Or did it just seem that way. Did everyone sense the rush of time, was that the reason for their feverish dancing? Or did it just seem that way. Seem that way. Seem that way.

  I remembered, as I sat alone in my haymow, coming home on leave from the Army. I remember the forced fronts of normalcy that greeted me, at home, at church, in the grocery store. I remember the forced front that I gave them back. See, I said? It’s just me.

  I remember the two black stars which my parents had placed in their front window, signifying the ultimate contribution to society: their two sons in military service. Then I remember picking my brother up at the airport, his year in Vietnam over. And I remember his eyes. They were no longer the eyes of someone I had grown up with. Here I want to emphasize that if we as humans are ever given the wish to obliterate one memory, I would without hesitation remove what my brother’s eyes told me about the end of childhood, about the end of haymows full of summer.

  I left for Vietnam three days later, full of the sudden certainty that, for my family, for me, for my friends and neighbors, the haymows of our country were no longer enough to protect us from the future.

  Last night, as the evening drew near its end, everyone danced. The children. The adults. The old. The young. An apprehension filled the air. The dancers looked around and saw one another, and saw also that something was ending. Each looked around that haymow full of balloons and confetti and crepe paper and swirling couples and old friends and relatives not seen in too long a time. Each realized then that here was the fire of an o
ld magic, relit in this old haymow on this evening, for them, only. There for them on this evening only.

  And oh how they danced, so suddenly filled with this invigorating awareness. The band played as never before. People danced as if they might never get the chance to dance again. The air was heavy with the evening’s promise that here, in this haymow full of the lingering smells of summer, time had stopped. And they were young again, and carefree.

  Then I was home from Vietnam, and I was hiding once again up in this haymow, searching for my lost summer, examining the look and smell of those freshly mowed bales of alfalfa, hoping that some magic might erase Vietnam. I and my brother got to help dad bale some more of this magical stuff. Helped put some more magic up into that mow, all of us sweating with the heat of summer, reminded that making magic is hard work.

  It is the day after. I am sitting alone in my haymow, writing this, trying at the same time to say goodbye and trying to define what exactly it is that I am saying goodbye to. The farm is nearly empty. All the visitors have left.

  I see dad coming up the stairs to find something or other. He cannot see me back in the shadows, this magic man who created a life for me and my brother, a life that time turned asunder. But I can see him, and how hard he struggles to get his breath back from his climb up the stairs, this man who has filled this haymow full of summer more than fifty times. I try to remember that to have done that should be a reason for joy. I try. But it is a sweet sadness nonetheless.

  The many red and green and blue balloons droop from the ceiling of the haymow, their posture sagging in the breathlessness of their old age. The crepe paper streamers no longer draw tight. They too are now old. The single row of straw bales against the far wall sits lonesome and empty.

  My children are in the car outside, shouting for me. They want to go home. I rise unwillingly and make my lingering way to the door, fighting once again a great wave of reluctance to leave this haymow. I have never wanted to leave this haymow.

  It is the day after summer.

  §

  When I Grow Old

  When I grow old, don’t be surprised if I start to do things differently.

  I’ll grow my hair out, and my gray mustache. I’ll tie what’s left of my hair into a ponytail that will astonish people who love me, and puzzle those who don’t. When they do look twice, and stare, I will merely reply: “Laissez faire. Let me be. Laissez faire.”

  For those ill-mannered people who stare, who don’t understand the French language, I’ll continue to master French words and sayings, partly to exasperate them, and partly because I have a knack for it. To those people who bore me, I will say: “Parlez vous Francais? N’est pa? No? Allez! Allez!’” Which means Get! And don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out.

  The boring people who don’t love me will become confused and leave. Those who love me will become too confused to leave. They will whisper to one another: “What are we to do with him?”

  No longer will I raise the toilet lid when I grow old. I’ve been doing it my whole life and I’m tired of it. When you’re old, it’s a chore to bend over and flip the thing up, so I shan’t be able to reach it anyway, should I even want to. And who cares anyway?

  I’ll have five acres upon which to live, five acres that I will till for as long as I am able, because that is how my ancestors spent their lives--clinging to coveted ground, satisfied from a life made rewarding by harvests from the ground. And when I am no longer able to plow and plant, I will find peace in the time remaining to me, because I know that the ground will continue to honor me with a home, eternally.

  I’ll have lots of old tractors, two for each acre, because old tractors--with their simplicity and sturdiness--remind me of my youth, when life was simpler, and I was sturdier. I’ll keep those tractors cleaned and polished in a heated garage with beaucoup doors in the front, and grande windows to let in the sunlight. Inside, there will be two of every tool, all spotless, one set to use, one to hang on the wall and admire.

  When I grow old, you will have to come to my house to see me, because there won’t be any telephone. Never again will I have to stop in the middle of lifting the lid, or whatever else I might be savoir fairing, to march off allegro to parlez vous with a tres dumb machine that wants to interrupt you.

  When I grow old, I’m going to spend my children’s inheritance foolishly, and live in a style to which I am not accustomed. And I’ll not save any money for a tomorrow that may or may not come, and may or may not be mine to command when it does come. Before the money is gone, I’ll buy fancy ice creams and flying lessons; gaudy old juke boxes full of flashing lights and ‘50’s ballads. I’ll have sleek red cars that are close to the ground so it is easy for an old man to fall down into them, but which my children will have to help me out of when I motor splendidly into their yard for a visit.

  I’ll spend gaily on a lifetime supply of my favorite black licorice, or old tractors at auction, or colored balloons. “C’est la vie,” I will say to those who love me and are confused, “C’est la vie.”

  And finally, when I am gone, those who come after me will say: “Remember when he came to see us in that aeroplane? Or, remember that old jukebox he was always tinkering on? Or, those old tractors? Still confused about it all, nonetheless, they will remember me.

  So remember now, and don’t be startled when all this starts to happen. Matter of fact, I’m going to practice for when I get old by not liftez-uppez la toilette liddez next time I sashez off to la commodez.

  Comprendez vous? Do you understand?

  When I grow old, and you come to visit, think before you speak.

  And look before you sit.

  Don’t be surprised.

  §

  Wood Tick

  I sat in church last Sunday and marveled as I usually do at how one’s mind tends to ramble past thoughts much more freely there. Is it the austere tones of the interior decorating? The largeness of spirit? The communion with fellow human beings?

  Maybe it is telephones that don’t jangle, and other earthly tedious demands upon one’s mortal soul. Did you ever notice that there are no bills due in the Bible? Well, maybe that one big one.

  As I sat there, my mind flowed on past daily concerns, while the pastor linked the Exodus with something that wasn’t yet clear, but had some connection with how people are alike but different.

  The words of the sermon were a river that carried my thoughts into my relaxed consciousness, one after another, each replacing the previous one. What a nice, relaxing place to focus on the next life.

  “I will bring one more plague upon Egypt and the Pharaoh…” went the words of the sermon, which momentarily caught my attention, only to shortly be replaced by the polka dots of the collar worn by the older woman sitting in the pew ahead of me. The dark of the dots against the white background was somehow mesmerizing, as each seemed to change places with the other.

  And then one of the dots moved.

  “Then go to the Pharaoh and tell him that thunder and hail…”

  Outside the window, the sun went under a cloud, but my mind jerked to a halt, as it tried to get back to the dot that had moved. I looked back at the collar. Nothing. “When the rain and hail had ceased, the Pharaoh again sinned…”

  The Pharaoh sinned again. The dot moved again. I removed and cleaned my glasses. Such a phenomenon as this could have an easy explanation. I put my glasses back on. Nope. That was no moving polka dot on her collar. It was a nice fat wood tick, and yes, it was on the move.

  “Locusts shall cover…” Yes, yes, yes, I thought to myself. The land and a couple of collars, besides.

  Let’s see, I’ve been in northern Minnesota long enough to be able to figure out what one should do in this situation. Fortunately, the tick was moving left to right, and not up, so I had a moment to select the proper solution to this dilemma.
An old story told by a favorite uncle came briefly to mind. A fellow was asked: “How did you get that black eye?”

  It turned out, much to the asker’s disbelief, that he had gotten it in church that Sunday, when the rather stout lady in front of him had risen to sing the next hymn with her dress pinched firmly in her rear, um, stoutness. “I knew she wouldn’t have liked that,” said my uncle, “so I reached forward and pulled it out, at which she blacked my eye.”

  The next week, the friend met my uncle once again. This time his other eye was black. “I don’t suppose that happened in church, did it?” asked his friend.

  “Matter of fact, it did,” replied my uncle. Once again, they had all stood, and the dress was once again entrapped. The fellow next to me reached over and pulled it loose. “I knew she didn’t like that, so I pushed it back in…”

  I tried to focus. What to do, what to do. Might I tap this extremely proper lady on the shoulder, and say…what? She was notoriously hard of hearing. I’d have to about holler. She would turn around and demand me to repeat what I had said. What would I say? What was proper? Black eyes aren’t any fun.

  Moses was smart. What would he do? Moses was parting the Red Sea while the tick was heading for breakfast. I briefly prayed. Nothing came. I tried to get the guy next to me to notice. He thought there was something wrong with my neck.

  Right then, the lady felt something, or reached back for a hair tickling her neck, and brushed that tick back toward me, toward…where? I couldn’t see it. I examined my front, my lap. It had disappeared.

  What was that crawling inside my shirt? Could it get there that quickly? Couldn’t be that quick. That must be a psychological itch. Nope. I felt that. That was a wood tick. I hate wood ticks. The sermon was only half over. Moses still had to get to the promised land. He said: “Stand firm. Do not flee…”