Once Upon a Summer

by Janette Oke

I didn’t mean to help the situation any. I jest blurted out what I felt. “I’m starvin’.”

  Somehow those two words seemed to break the spell. Everyone laughed, even Auntie Lou, and though she still hurried around with her last-minute preparations, she seemed more her old self.

  Uncle Charlie brought in the preacher, who washed his hands after his ride. Uncle Charlie followed suit and then we were finally able to sit down at the table. The preacher was asked to pray; and my mouth wouldn’t let me concentrate on what he was sayin’; it was waterin’ so.

  It didn’t seem like the grown-ups were in nearly the hurry to get started that I was. They exchanged comments and fiddled around until I felt like suggestin’ that it would be quite fittin’ for someone to start the chicken.

  There were squares of white cloth beside each plate, and I was hard put to know where to get rid of the thing so that I could properly get at my fork. The others took theirs and laid them on their laps, so I got mine out of the way by doin’ that, too.

  Finally the food started coming around. It was worth waitin’ for, I’ll tell you that. Don’t suppose anybody enjoyed it anymore than me.

  The preacher ate heartily, but I got the funny feelin’ that he might not even be aware of what he was eatin’. Every time I looked at him he was stealin’ little looks at Auntie Lou. He managed to carry on an intelligent conversation with the men-folk, includin’ Lou frequently, but I wondered jest how much of his mind was really on what he was sayin’.

  It was a slow, leisurely meal, filled with pleasant talk and laughter. When everyone was so full that there was no possibility of holdin’ another bite of pie or sip of coffee, Grandpa told me to get his Bible. The story was halfways interesting this time—about some Gideon who sent a whole army runnin’ with their tails between their legs, and he only had 300 men to do it with.

  Auntie Lou set right to work on the dishes. Uncle Charlie got up slowly and picked up a towel. That preacher got a look in his eye that seemed to say that he would have gladly taken Uncle Charlie’s place if he had thought that it would have been proper. Instead, he accepted Grandpa’s challenge to a game of checkers.

  The checker game and the dishes were finished about the same time. Auntie Lou removed her apron, gave Uncle Charlie his customary peck on the cheek, and they joined us. The evenin’ went pleasantly enough.

  It was nearin’ my bedtime when Auntie Lou put the coffeepot on again. She had some cookies to go with the coffee.

  I watched the clock hands move slowly around. It was my

  bedtime all right; but when Auntie Lou summoned everyone to the table, I noticed that she had a place set for me with a glass of milk; Grandpa jest moved me on over to the table with a nod of his head.

  After we had enjoyed the refreshments and the conversation, the preacher said that he really had to be going. Uncle Charlie offered to get his horse, but he said not to bother—he knew where his Big Jim was. He thanked Grandpa for the fine evenin’, spoke to Uncle Charlie, Gramps, and I in turn (even tickled Pixie’s ear and bid her a good-night), then turned to Auntie Lou.

  He took her hand and thanked her for the invitation, said that she was a most gracious hostess and a wonderful cook. Auntie Lou didn’t say much—out loud. Somehow I got the impression that the two of them said a lot more to one another than what was spoken. I couldn’t see Lou’s face, but I did see the preacher’s, and his eyes were sayin’ far more than his lips.

  He released Auntie Lou’s hand and left. I waited for her to turn around. It took her a few minutes, but when she did her eyes were still shiny and her cheeks slightly flushed. She had a look on her face that I’d never seen there before as she busied herself clearin’ away the lunch dishes.

  I saw Grandpa and Uncle Charlie exchange worried frowns.

  “Leave my cup, Louie,” said Grandpa. He hardly ever called her Louie. “I think I’ll have another cup of coffee.”

  “Mine too,” said Uncle Charlie.

  “Me, I’m off to bed.” Gramps covered a yawn. “All your good cooking makes me as sleepy as a well-fed cat. Great meal, little Lou.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and moved toward his

  bedroom.

  I stirred. Should have known better, but my arm was gettin’ stiff from holding Pixie. As soon as I moved, Grandpa caught it.

  “Bedtime, Boy.”

  I nodded and got up; carryin’ Pixie with me I went up to bed.

  It wasn’t long until I heard Auntie Lou pass my door. She was hummin’ softly. Normally I loved to hear her happy, but something about this bothered me. I tried to find a comfortable way to lay, but nothing felt right. Pixie finally gave up on me and crawled away to the foot of the bed where she could rest in peace.

  It was then that I heard the voices from the kitchen. Worried voices—I could tell by the sound. I crept out of bed and down the stairs as far as I dared, avoidin’ the squeaky third step. I sat down against the wall and listened.

  “—see it as well as I do,” Grandpa was sayin’.

  There was the noise of Uncle Charlie sucking in air before he took a gulp of his scaldin’ coffee, then his chair landed on all four legs.

  “ ’Course I see it.”

  “I’ve never seen Lou take to a man like thet afore.”

  “We knew it was bound to happen.”

  “Sure we knew it would happen; thet’s why we been tryin’ so hard to steer her in the right direction.”

  “Too late for any steerin’ from us now.”

  “Not too late!” Grandpa sounded about ready to pound the table for emphasis. “It can’t be too late,” he went on a bit quieter. “This fella’s jest a kid, even if he is a preacher, an’ he has nothin’—nothin’. Did ya see his suit?”

  “I see’d.”

  “All pressed an’ clean, sure, but so thin ya could walk through it—the best he’s got, too.”

  “Ya don’t judge a man by his clothes—even I know thet.”

  “Thet ain’t the point! Point is, he can’t afford a better suit. My guess is he don’t have enough change in his pocket at any one time to make a jingle. And iffen ya start with nothin’, you sure ain’t gonna add much to it on a preacher’s salary. The man doesn’t even have him a rig to drive—jest a saddle-horse. You wanna see Lou dressed in worn-out clothes, a hang-in’ on, a-straddle a horse?”

  “Now hold on,” said Uncle Charlie, and the chair legs hit the floor again. “How’d my wants get into this? You know how I feel ’bout Lou. You know what I’d like to see her have. I jest don’t see how you can put a stop to this here thing that’s a-brewin’, that’s all.”

  “I’ll have a talk with her.”

  “A talk?”

  “Yeah, I’ll have a talk.”

  Uncle Charlie drew in air again and swallowed some coffee.

  The chair protested as he tilted back on two legs again.

  “Jest like that, a talk, and the girl will plumb ferget thet she ever saw the fella.”

  Grandpa paused. “No,” he finally answered, “no, it won’t be quite that simple; but Lou’s a good, sensible girl. She’ll respect my wishes. Iffen I ask her not to—not to—“ he cleared his throat—“not to return the compliment of his favor, she’ll abide by it.”

  “Shore she will. It may nigh break her heart, but she will.”

  Grandpa got up and moved to the coffeepot on the stove.

  A third cup? He really was upset.

  “Aw c’mon, Charlie. Lou isn’t thet far gone. Sure she seems to fancy the young preacher; an’ truth is he appears a right fine boy, but Lou has never been one to chase after fellas and—”

  “That’s jest the point!”

  “Ya don’t believe in this business of love at first sight, do ya?”

  “ ’Course not. But iffen I don’t miss my guess, there’s gonna be some more sightin’ bein’ done; and she’s a gonna look again and again, and then . . . Lou’s never encouraged anyone before, but thet look in her eyes tonight—iffen thet weren’t encouragement
, then I’ve never seen it.”

  There was a pause.

  “And ya think she’d hurt?” Grandpa said.

  “Sure she’d hurt!”

  “Then what do we do?”

  The room was silent for an uncomfortable long spell.

  “We weigh it. Is the hurt too much to ask her to pay fer her own good?”

  Grandpa sloshed some more coffee into both empty cups.

  “Maybe not,” he mused, “maybe not.”

  “Lou might reckon thet love was more important than fancy things,” cautioned Uncle Charlie.

  “It’s hard to pay the grocer with love,” growled Grandpa.

  “Yeah!” Uncle Charlie heaved a sigh. “But the funny thing is, love has a habit of makin’ do even when the pickin’s are short.”

  “Well I don’t want thet for Lou! ‘Makin’ do’ ain’t enough fer a girl like her.”

  “Yeah!”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  Uncle Charlie’s chair came down on all four legs again, and I knew that they considered the matter closed. I hugged close to the wall and headed back for my bed.

  I had heard all Grandpa’s arguments to Uncle Charlie. Not once had he mentioned the information passed on to him by Deacon Brown. I knew that Grandpa truly did want to be fair to the parson, but I also knew that it was nigh impossible for him to completely forget what he had heard. He loved Lou and he didn’t want to take any chances.

  I wanted to keep Lou, too. I hoped that Grandpa’s talk would work. At the same time, I felt afraid. Somehow it looked like Auntie Lou would be hurt. I didn’t want that. More than anything in the world I wanted her happy.

  Suddenly I wished that I was on speakin’ terms with God so that I could pour the whole, miserable mess out to Him. I almost envied Willie Corbin. I turned my thoughts around with a firm hand. God probably wouldn’t care anyway. He had never cared about my problems before. I pulled the sleepin’ Pixie into my arms, buried my face against her and cried myself to sleep.

  Of course I could, even now, call Grandpa to my room and relate the entire conversation that I had had with the preacher, but if I did that, then maybe he wouldn’t bother havin’ that talk with Auntie Lou after all. I felt all torn up inside. It didn’t seem fair to the preacher for me to remain silent, and yet maybe my silence was all that it would take to keep Auntie Lou. Somewhere down the road, I promised myself, after everything was settled, I’d for sure tell Grandpa jest what I had learned firsthand about the preacher. Surely it wouldn’t really hurt him none if I jest kept quiet for a time.

  CHAPTER 24

  Prairie Fire

  GRANDPA MUST HAVE HAD his “little talk” with Lou. I don’t know what was said. Lou was attempting to be her own sweet self, but I could feel a tension or strain there. Her cheeriness now seemed put on or unnatural, and at times I saw a real wistful look on her face, like she was yearnin’ for something that she couldn’t have.

  The next Sunday at church she smiled as she shook the pastor’s hand, but when he attempted to detain her for a minute, she hurried on. He looked puzzled but was hardly in a position to run after her.

  We headed into another week. Our weather still did not change.

  It had been a strange fall. Everyone would look back on it and remember it for its dryness. All through the late summer and fall, we had noticed the lack of moisture. Even the farmers who were normally noted for their lateness at harvest had plenty of time to get their crops in and get all of their fall work done. Mr. Wilkes’ threshin’ machine had sat idle for many weeks and there were still no late rainstorms.

  Now it was time for snow—in fact, it was past due. The birds had long since migrated, the animals were wearin’ their heavier coats. Nights were frosty and cold, coverin’ all but the swiftly movin’ water with ice. Ponds were great for ice-skatin’ and slidin’, but already we kids were tired of that sport and were wishin’ that the snow would come so that we could sled and snowball instead.

  The farmers all talked about the dryness. At first it had been jest to make conversation, then it was downright concern.

  The stubble fields were tinder dry, and the heaped-up dead leaves from the trees rattled like old dry bones as the winds shifted their directions. Livestock had to be watered daily, the natural waterin’ holes havin’ frozen over and the liquid from the snow not bein’ there to slacken their thirst. People worried about the wild animals and their need for water.

  It was strange—even the feelin’ in the air got to be different somehow. And then it happened.

  It was still afternoon, crisp but with no wind and not a cloud in the sky. We had jest been dismissed from school when Avery Garrett let out a whoop.

  “Look—there in the west—clouds!”

  A general holler went up.

  “Snow’s comin’!”

  “We can sleigh ride!”

  “An’ snowball!”

  “Yippee!”

  The teacher heard the commotion and appeared behind us.

  “Those aren’t clouds, boys. That’s smoke!”

  “Smoke?”

  We looked again; it was smoke. I could also see that it was somewhere off in the direction of our farm. Without waitin’ for another word from anyone, I lit off for home.

  As I got nearer I could see that the smoke was not comin’ from the farm but beyond it. That relaxed me some but still I ran on. Before I even got halfway across our pasture, I could see things stirrin’ in our yard. Teams and riders were millin’ around and more were arrivin’. People ran back and forth between the pump and the wagons. Other wagons carryin’ anything that would hold water were at the creek bridge down the road.

  I thought that I’d never hold out to reach the yard, but I guess I got my second wind.

  You could smell the smoke in the air now, and it appeared from the clouds that were billowin’ to the sky that the stubble fire was headed directly for our place.

  I stumbled into our yard, pantin’ for breath, jest in time to hear Grandpa addressin’ the gathered neighbor men.

  “I thank ya for all comin’ and offerin’ to help me save the farm, but it jest won’t work.”

  He was interrupted by protests, but he held up his hand for silence.

  “Iffen we fight to save my buildin’s, it will take every man and every team to win. While we’re battlin’ to save what we have here, the flanks of the fire will get away from us, go on to other farms and then the town. We can’t ’llow that. You know it and I know it. We’ve got to let my farm go and concentrate on saving others—particularly the town.”

  It was grim business, but the men knew that what Grandpa said was true.

  “I’ll take a man or two,” continued Grandpa, “and Charlie and me will load what we can here and try to drive the stock over across the crik before the fire gets here.”

  I looked around. The house with Auntie Lou’s white curtains showin’ at the windows, the barn that housed Bossie, the pigs in the pen, my favorite cottonwood tree, the trail to the crik—everything, everything that I knew and loved would soon be gone.

  “Ya best be movin’ out, men,” my Grandpa said. “We don’t have much time.”

  The men, murmurin’ and shakin’ their heads, turned to their teams.

  I felt sick. My knees gave out and I felt myself goin’ down.

  I managed to slide onto a wood block to make it look like I’d sorta sat down intentional like. I put my head in my hands but jerked it up again when I heard someone shout, “Wait!” Guess all heads jerked up at that one word.

  It was the preacher. His horse stood there in a lather, heavin’ from the run. The preacher was in his preacher-visitin’ clothes so everyone knew that he had been makin’ a call on someone when he spotted the fire.

  “Aren’t you going to try to save the farm?”

  “Nope,” one of the men answered flatly. “Daniel says we need to save the town instead.”

  “I think there’s a way to save both.”

  The men looke
d at the preacher kind of dumb-like.

  “Mr. Jones is right, but maybe there’s a way that we can save the farm, too. We’ll move toward the fire about three-quarters of a mile, where the creek cuts in the closest to the road. Since most of the fire is between the creek and the road, the flames will cover a narrower area.

  “When we get there you men with the plows will make a vee between the creek and roads, pointing east, and the fire will feed itself into the vee. That way the strength of the fire will decrease as it moves east, and it won’t take as many men to hold each line.

  “Mr. T. Smith, you take three men and watch for fires on the south side of the road. Mr. Corbin, you take two men and follow the creek to catch any small fires from jumpers. Those on plows make that vee as fast as your teams can move. All the rest of us will be on hand with water barrels and wet gunny sacks. We’ll work both sides of the vee and lick that thing before it gets this far.”

  In the same hurried voice the parson raised his hand and said, “Let us pray.” All the men bowed their heads nervously.

  “Dear Lord, you know our need and how much we depend upon your help. We’re not going to give you orders about what to do, God. We are just going to thank you for being there when we need you. In the name of Jesus, your Son. Amen.”

  The men had looked doubtful when the preacher had first started talkin’, but by the time he had finished his prayer, their faces showed new assurance and they were ready to go. Teams began to leave our yard—some of them on a reckless run. Uncle Charlie jest barely made it to the gate ahead of them and threw it wide open to give them free access through our field. There was a fence between our field and the Turley pasture, but I knew that the first man there would simply snip the wires so that the plows could pass through.

  Our yard was soon boilin’ with activity. Men ran for more barrels, pails, water, gunny sacks, shovels, hoes—anything that would aid in fightin’ the fire.

  Grandpa’s partin’ shout had been, “Keep an eye on thet fire, Josh, an’ iffen it gets by us, you all git.” Uncle Charlie had left our team hitched to the rig and tied to the rail fence for jest that purpose.

  The dust finally cleared and Auntie Lou and I were standin’ alone, shakin’. She was holdin’ Pixie as though that little dog were her last connection with a sane world. Gramps came to stand with us.