Spring's Gentle Promise

by Janette Oke

  “Good,” I replied around a mouthful of fresh bread.

  “Tractor workin’ right?”

  I nodded, my mouth too full to venture an answer.

  Uncle Charlie took a long draft of his coffee. “Thet there noise must nigh burst yer eardrums,” he ventured. “Think I’d rather drive me a team.”

  I grinned. Uncle Charlie had a bit of a hard time adjusting to farm machinery that didn’t require four-footed horsepower.

  I swallowed sufficiently to make a decent reply. “It’s noisier but faster, and one needn’t stop for restin’ or feedin’ either.”

  Uncle Charlie chuckled a bit. “I had my eye on the field, Josh,” he reminded me, “and seems to me I saw ya stop different times today to feed thet critter’s iron belly.”

  I laughed along with Uncle Charlie. He’d made his point.

  “I think I’d like to drive a tractor,” put in Matilda, and I chuckled again at the picture that little bit of a woman would make up there on the seat of the big tractor.

  Matilda must have misread my laughter, for her chin went up stubbornly. “I could, you know,” she argued. “Bet I could. All you have to do is to put your foot on that—that thing, and move that lever now and then and turn the wheel where you want it to go.”

  Even Grandpa was chuckling now.

  Matilda looked to Mary. “We could—couldn’t we, Mary?” she challenged.

  Mary fidgeted slightly. “I—I don’t really know, but I—I think I’d just as soon leave the tractor to Josh.”

  Her eyes met mine for an instance. I noticed the slight color flush her cheeks before she lowered her head. For some silly reason I couldn’t have explained, I felt that I had just been given a compliment. Mary often affected me that way—with just a look or a word she could make me feel like a man—a man in charge and capable. I felt my own cheeks warm slightly.

  “Someday—” began Matilda, and I looked at her, waiting for her to go on. I was hoping to be able to tease her good-naturedly just a bit; but she would not meet my eyes, and she let the rest of her comment go unsaid.

  Supper finished up with Mary’s bread pudding, one of my favorite desserts. There was thick whipped cream for the topping, and I was sure this was how some of the jersey’s cream had been used.

  After enjoying a man-sized portion, I reluctantly pushed back from the table and got slowly to my feet. Uncle Charlie moved at the same time, and I knew he was getting set to give Mary a hand with the dishes.

  “I can help tonight, Uncle Charlie,” Matilda spoke up.

  Now there was nothing new about Matilda calling him Uncle Charlie. Both she and Mary called him such, just like they did when talking to my grandfather. It seemed to please everyone all around. Guess we felt more like family than employer and employee and boarder. What had caught my attention was Matilda’s offer. Not that Matilda didn’t often help Mary with her household chores, but lately Matilda had been too busy to do anything but correct papers and prepare lessons.

  “What happened to the classroom work?” I asked her.

  “All done. Finally! And believe me, I feel like celebrating.”

  Matilda swirled around, her long, full skirt flowing out around her. In one hand she held the sugar bowl and in the other the cream pitcher.

  Uncle Charlie looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Seems like ya oughta find a better way to celebrate than with the cream and sugar,” he teased.

  “Well, Josh is always too busy to celebrate,” Matilda teased back, pretending to pout. And she looked deliberately at me and exaggeratedly fluttered her long, dark eyelashes.

  Laughter filled the kitchen. Matilda was always bringing laughter with her lighthearted teasing, but for some reason this time her teasing did not have me laughing. It gave me a funny feeling way down deep inside, and I moved for the peg where my farm jacket hung beside the door.

  “Where ya goin’?” asked Uncle Charlie, and when I turned to look at him I caught his wink directed at Matilda. “Gonna feed thet there tractor agin?”

  “I’ve got chores,” I answered as evenly as I could.

  “The chores be all done, Boy,” cut in Grandpa.

  I stood, my outreached hand dumbly dangling the jacket, my eyes moving from face to face in the kitchen. They all seemed to be in a jovial mood, and I wasn’t quite sure if they were serious or funnin’ me. It was to Mary that I looked for the final answer. She just nodded her head in agreement.

  “All of them?” I had to ask.

  “All of ’em,” said Grandpa.

  For a moment I wanted to protest. It was my farm. I could do my own chores. But then I quickly realized how foolish that was—and how tired I was—and my hand relinquished my coat to the peg again. I turned and smiled at the household of people.

  “Thanks,” I said simply and gave my shoulders a slight shrug. “Thanks to whoever did them.”

  “We all pitched in,” replied Grandpa. “Little here, a little there and had ’em done in no time.”

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  “So you see,” teased Matilda, fluttering her eyelashes again, “you will have time to help celebrate.”

  I was ready for the challenge now. “Okay,” I answered, “checkers—right after dishes.” And I reached for a tea towel and stepped up beside Mary. “I’ll dry—you put things away,” I dared order Matilda.

  “Checkers?” Matilda commented. “Not exactly a corn roast or a pie social—but I guess it’ll have to do,” and to the accompaniment of chuckles from the two older men, she moved quickly to put away the dishes as I dried them.

  When the last plate was on the shelf, Matilda and I turned to the checkerboard, and Mary picked up some handwork that always seemed to appear when she had what she called a “free moment.” Grandpa and Uncle Charlie spent a little more time poring over newspapers. I wasn’t sure if we had received a new one or if they were just rereading an old one, but I didn’t ask. Beside us on the bureau squawked the raspy radio. I enjoyed the soft music but paid little attention to the commentary that interrupted it at intervals.

  It wasn’t too hard for me to beat Matilda at checkers. She had a keen mind and could have offered some real serious competition if she hadn’t been so impatient. As it was, she played more for the fun than for the challenge, and for three games in a row I turned out the victor.

  At the end of the third game I stood and stretched.

  “Is that enough ‘celebratin’ for one evening?” I teased Matilda.

  “It’ll do,” she answered with a flip of her head that made her pinned-up curls bounce. “But next time I’ll insist on lawn croquet.”

  Matilda was an expert at lawn croquet. In fact, whenever there was a matchup, I always hoped Matilda would be my partner. Now I just smiled and tried to stifle a yawn.

  Mary laid aside her handwork. “Would you like something to eat or drink before bedtime, Josh?” she asked me and started to leave her chair for the cupboard.

  “No, thanks. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll just go on up to bed.” As soon as I said the words, I realized the day had been equally long for Mary. “You must be tired, too,” I said, studying her face. “You’ve been up ’most as long as I have.”

  Mary brushed the remark aside and went to put on a pot of coffee for Grandpa and Uncle Charlie.

  There was the rustle of paper as Grandpa put down what he was reading and took off his glasses.

  “I’m plannin’ to go on into town tomorrow, Josh,” he said, folding up his glasses and placing them on the bureau beside the sputtering radio. “Anything you be needin’?”

  I tried to think but my head was a bit foggy. I finally shook it. “If I think of anything I’ll leave a note on the table,” I promised. “Can’t think of anything now.”

  “You got a list, Mary?” went on Grandpa. “Or would ya rather come on along and do yer own choosin’?”

  I stood long enough to watch Mary slowly shake her head. “It takes too much time to ride on in and back,” she sa
id. “I’ll just send a list.”

  I took three steps toward the stairway and then turned. “I’ve been thinkin’,” I said, half teasingly but with a hint of seriousness, “maybe when we get in this year’s crop, we oughta get us one of those motor cars. We could be in town and back before ya know it.”

  I don’t know just what I expected, but I sure did get a reaction. Grandpa raised his shaggy eyebrows and studied me to see if I was serious. Uncle Charlie stopped rubbing his gnarly fingers and stared open-mouthed. And Mary stopped right in her tracks, one hand reaching out to set the coffeepot on the kitchen stove. But Matilda’s response was vocal. “Yes!” she exclaimed, just like that, and she clapped her hands and ran to me. “Oh, yes, Josh!” she said again, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. “Get one, Josh. Get one.” And she reached out impulsively and gave me a quick hug that almost knocked me off balance.

  “Whoa-a,” I said, disengaging myself from her arms. “I said ‘maybe’—after the crop is off. I’m just plantin’ it, remember? We’ve got a long time to wait.”

  Matilda stepped back, her eyes still shining. She clapped her hands again, not the least bit daunted. “Now, that’s what I call really celebrating, Josh,” she enthused, her hands clasped together in front of her.

  I let my eyes travel back over the room. Mary had finally set down the coffeepot. Uncle Charlie had closed his mouth and was chewing on a corner of his mustache, and Grandpa’s eyebrows were back where they belonged.

  I shrugged my shoulders carelessly. “It’s just something to be thinkin’ on,” I repeated lamely and headed for the stairs and my bed.

  CHAPTER 3

  Visitors

  THE SPRING PLANTING WENT steadily forward. The tractor chugged on with only minor adjustments and repairs. The family continued to help with evening chores and work about the farmyard. Only one rain slowed me down and then it was just a few days—enough for me to sort of catch my breath and do a few little extras that always seem to need doing around a farm.

  Matilda never gave me a moment’s peace about the motor car. I began to wish I hadn’t mentioned it. Still, her enthusiastic arguments in favor of the vehicle may have gone a long way toward influencing Grandpa and Uncle Charlie. At any rate, I never did hear much opposition to the idea, and everybody seemed to be holding their breath—waiting to see what the harvest would bring.

  About the same time I finished the planting, the school doors closed for another year and Matilda left for her home again.

  “Oh, Josh,” she enthused on before departing, “I can hardly wait for fall—and the car. It’ll be such fun, Josh!” She emitted a strange little sound like a combination sigh and groan.

  “I haven’t promised,” I reminded her. “Just said I’d be thinkin’ on it.”

  “I know. I know. And it will be such fun!” Apparently Matilda didn’t want to hear of the possibility of not getting a car, so I let the matter drop.

  As usual, Matilda and Mary’s goodbye was rather emotional. They had grown to be like sisters in their affection and missed each other during the summer months.

  “Oh, I’ll be lonely without her,” Mary half-whispered after Matilda was gone, and she slyly wiped her cheek with her handkerchief.

  “Summer will pass quickly,” I tried to console her.

  “The house is always so—so quiet when she’s gone,” she responded.

  It is quiet without Matilda’s bubbly enthusiasm, I mentally agreed.

  “You’ll be busy with the garden,” I reminded Mary.

  She nodded; then after a moment of silence she said wistfully, “Maybe Lou will let Sarah Jane come visit for a while. She is ’most as chattery as Matilda.”

  I smiled at the thought. Sarah Jane was getting to be quite a little lady. And it was true that she was “chattery.”

  “Maybe,” I responded, “for a few days. Lou counts on Sarah for running errands and entertaining her two little brothers.”

  Mary thoughtfully spoke as though to herself. “Lou does need her more than I do. It was selfish of me to—”

  But I interrupted. “It wasn’t selfish. Grandpa and Uncle Charlie—and me—we all look forward to her coming.”

  “Maybe we could have Jon come to the farm, too,” Mary brightened. “That would leave Lou with just the baby.”

  I wasn’t sure Mary wanted to take on the lively Jon plus all of the household and garden chores of farm life. I was about to say so, but she placed a hand on my arm, seeming to know just what I was thinking.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad,” she argued. “Sarah would help with Jon, and there is lots for a boy to do on the farm, and the garden isn’t ready for pickin’ or cannin’ yet, and he’s usually not too rascally.” She looked a bit doubtful about her last statement. “Besides,” she hurried on, “it sure would make the house more—more—”

  I looked at the small hand resting on my arm. It was hard for me to argue against Mary, but I did wonder if she was thinking straight to figure that Jon wouldn’t take much time or trouble.

  “It would help the summer pass more quickly,” she finished lamely.

  “Why don’t you try it for a few days—to start with? Make sure you aren’t gettin’ in over your head,” I advised.

  Mary smiled, and I knew she was pleased with my qualified consent.

  It wasn’t that Jon was a bad boy, and it certainly wasn’t that I didn’t love my young nephew, but he was one of the busiest and most curious children I had ever known. His poking and prodding into things invariably got him into some kind of trouble.

  “Keep him away from the tractor,” I added quite firmly, remembering the time Jon had poured dirt in the gas tank.

  Mary just nodded. “I’ll check with Lou next time I’m in town,” she promised. I couldn’t help but think that a break from Sarah and Jon might be a welcome change for my Aunt Lou.

  True to her word, Mary made arrangements with Lou. And before the week was out, Sarah and Jon had joined us at the farm. Sarah busied herself with copying the activities of Mary. She helped bake bread, churn butter and wash clothes. She even spent time in the garden pulling weeds—along with a few carrots and turnips—and washed dishes, very slowly, doing more playing in the soapy water than scrubbing the plates and cups. But Sarah seemed to fit very nicely into the farm life, and we all enjoyed her chatter and sunny disposition.

  Grandpa and Uncle Charlie tried their best to keep young Jon entertained. They whittled him whistles and slingshots, fashioned him fish poles and found him a barn kitten. But, still, Jon seemed to be continually slipping out from under supervision, off finding entertainment of his own making.

  In the few days he was with us he got into more scrapes and mischief—not out of naughtiness but “just tryin’ to he’p.” He dumped all the hens’ water and filled their drinking dishes with hay—he said they looked hungry. He tied the farm dog to a tree with so many knots that it took Grandpa most of an afternoon to get him released again—he said he was afraid “Fritz might get runned over by the tractor.” He shot a rock through the front room window with the slingshot he was not to play with around the house—he said that it “went off” when he wasn’t ready. He picked a whole pail of tiny apples that were just beginning to form nicely on the apple trees—he wanted to help Mary with an apple pie. He visited the hen house and threw a couple dozen eggs at the old sow who fed in the nearby pen—he wanted to teach her a trick, “like Pixie,” of snatching food from the air.

  And, as far as I was concerned, the worst stunt of all was helping himself to a bottle of India ink from Matilda’s supply desk and sneaking up on unsuspecting Chester, climbing the corral fence and pouring it all over the horse’s back. He wanted to “surprise Unc’a Josh” with a pretty, spotted horse like one he had seen in a picture book.

  We had a family council that night. I was ready to send Jon on home, but Mary argued that he really wasn’t naughty and needed a chance to learn about the farm. Grandpa sided with her. How could the boy learn what he could
and couldn’t do if he wasn’t given the chance to do a little exploring? So Jon stayed on, but we gave the four-year-old more rules and tried to watch him even closer.

  I was busy repairing the back pasture fence when Jon joined me one afternoon.

  “Hi, Unc’a Josh,” he greeted me warmly. I looked at the bright eyes and mop of brown hair.

  “Hi, fella,” I responded a bit cautiously. “Does Mary know you’re here?”

  Jon did not answer my question but held a little red pail as high as his short arm could hoist it.

  “Brought ya a drink,” he announced. “Are ya thirsty?”

  The summer sun was hot, and I was thirsty. I stopped to wipe the sweat from my brow and reached for the pail the boy held out to me.

  “Auntie Mary said ya would be thirsty,” Jon continued. Lou had her children refer to Mary as “auntie” as a term of respect.

  My eyes shifted to the nearby farmhouse. I was close enough that I didn’t need to be waited on—I could walk to the house or the well for a drink. Still, maybe Mary thought a bit of a stroll and an “errand” would do the small boy good. I sat down on the grass and pulled Jon onto my knee, one hand supporting the pail.

  “Where’s Mary?” I asked him, looking at the dirt streaks on his hands and face.

  “Busy doin’ some’pin,” he answered.

  “So you brought me a drink?”

  He nodded.

  “That was mighty nice,” I complimented Jon. “Thank you.”

  I lifted the pail to my lips. The water was not as cool as usually comes from our deep well, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how long Jon had been on his journey. At least it was wet. I took another long drink.

  “So what have you been doing today?” I asked Jon.

  He thought about that for a few moments before answering.

  “I he’ped Grandpa hoe the garden,” he said brightly and then added more soberly, “but he said, ‘Thet’s enough, Jonathan,’ and sent me back to Auntie Mary.”

  I tousled his hair. “And why did he do that?” I questioned. “Did you mix up weeds and vegetables?”