Seasons of the Heart: Omnibus

by Janette Oke

  "'Zactly," agreed Grandpa.

  "But-" I tried again.

  "No `buts, Josh. Just take it on in an' make thet there payment, iffen it'll do thet, an' get thet monkey off all our backs."

  I had no further arguments. I thanked the two men before me as sincerely as I could and tucked the tin under my arm. I had no idea how much money was in the can. It wouldn't be much, I knew. Grandpa and Uncle Charlie had never had the opportunity to stash away large sums. But maybe-just maybe it would be enough to keep us afloat. Maybe-just maybe-it would help us make it to another spring.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sustained Effort

  There was enough in the tin can to make the loan payment-with some left over to help us through the winter. I went to town the next morning with the money tied securely in my coat pocket.

  I was getting to hate trips to town and avoided them whenever possible. It seemed whenever I went there was news of another foreclosure and another area farmer forced off his land.

  It wasn't as hard for those who had been there for years and were well established. Some had no payments due at the bank and could manage to sort of slide by even though money was tight. But for those who had just invested in land or stock or new machinery, the matter was quite different. It was almost impossible to stay afloat, given the economics of the times along with the drought.

  It saddened me. I guess it also frightened me. The thought kept nagging at me that my turn might be next.

  I didn't know what I'd ever do if I lost the farm. It wasn't just the fact that I loved it-had always loved it. I figured I had about as much of that farm soil running through my veins as I had red blood. I couldn't imagine myself anywhere but on that farm.

  Grandpa had settled the farm. He and Uncle Charlie had sweated and toiled and built it to what it had become. It belonged to us. To all of us. It belonged to my son some time down the road.

  Farming was all I knew. I was not trained for anything else. I had no other home, no other possession, no other profession. If I lost the farm I would lose far more than a piece of property. I would lose my livelihood, my heritage, my family home, my very sense of personhood. I wouldn't fit any other place. I knew that without going through the experience.

  And knowing all of that, and knowing also that Grandpa and Uncle Charlie shared my feelings, I took the gift of money they had given me and tried to buy the family a little more time. And I prayed that they were right. That the rains were soon due back again.

  I felt better after I had made the payment. I didn't miss the surprised look on the banker's face when I drew out the small roll of bills, but he asked no questions and I volunteered no information. I was handed my receipt of payment and left the building.

  I stopped long enough to buy a few groceries, among the parcels a pound of coffee for Grandpa and Uncle Charlie and some cheese for Mary. She had made several remarks over the last few days about how good cheese would taste. Then I bought a sack of grain to feed her chickens. It would do us all well if we could keep the hens laying.

  I was about to head for home when I remembered to pick up the mail. There rarely was anything of importance, but I checked it out anyway. Later I wished I hadn't even gone to the post office.

  Mr. Hiram Smith was ahead of me at the wicket. "Howdy, Josh;" he hailed me and I returned his greeting.

  `Another rough summer;' he commented sociably and I agreed that it was.

  "Hear more farmers are having a hard time:"

  I nodded to that too.

  "Did you have any crop at all?" he asked.

  "Not much," I admitted. "I turned the cows on it. Wasn't worth the time of trying to harvest it:'

  It was his turn to nod. "Too bad," he pondered. "Sure too bad. Farms're up for sale all over the place" He didn't even wait for a response from me. "Trouble is," he went on, "no buyers. Why, ya can't even give one away. Nobody's got money to buy. That's how it is. Too bad:"

  It was all the truth-but it was all old news by now. I was about to ask for my mail and move on.

  "Ya hear 'bout Avery?" asked Mr. Smith.

  I hadn't, and I stopped mid-stride. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear about Avery if it was going to be bad news-and from Mr. Smith's expression, it looked as if it would be. But Avery was my brother-in-law. If there was something wrong, I had to know.

  "Lost his farm;' said Mr. Smith, rather callously to my thinking. "Just gettin' started, too. An' him newly married an' all. Too bad" He shook his head one more time and moved toward the door, shuffling through advertising flyers as he did so.

  I went all sick inside.

  It was Mary that I thought of first. I knew how deeply the news would trouble her. Poor Mary. And poor Lilli-and her expecting their first child, too, I mourned.

  Now the postmaster took up the tale of woe. "Sure too bad. Sure too bad;' he repeated as he shook his head much as Mr. Smith had done. "Me, I can't even keep up with the comin' an' goin' anymore. Move in-move out. Jest like that. One after the other-"

  "Where-where did Avery-?"

  "Oh, he didn't move. Least not away from the area. He jest moved on home again with his folks. Same mailbox as always:" The most important thing to the postmaster seemed to be keeping his mailboxes straight. I started to move away.

  "Don'tcha want your mail?" he called after me, and I turned back. There was one letter addressed to Mrs. Joshua Jones and a few advertising pieces. I threw the flyers in the wastebasket as I walked past it, and stuck the letter for Mary in my pocket.

  I couldn't get Avery and Lilli out of my mind as I headed the team for home. Most of all I dreaded telling the news to Mary. But I knew she had to be told.

  I broke it to her as gently as I could and held her while she wept. Then we bundled up, left William in Grandpa and Uncle Charlie's care, and drove over to Avery's folks.

  Just as I had been told in town, we heard directly from Avery that he had lost his farm. He was pretty down about it, but Lilli was keeping her chin up.

  "We'll try again-later," she said confidently, "when the crops are growing again and the rains are back"

  In the meantime she was sharing a house with five other people and her child would soon be number six.

  "How are you?" Mary whispered to her.

  "Fine. Fine," she insisted. "Just anxious to get it all over with. Only three more weeks now. That's not so long:"

  But the house was already crowded. Avery and Lilli had a very small bedroom off the kitchen. I couldn't help but wonder where they would squeeze in a small crib.

  Times were tough. Really tough. But at least they had a roof over their heads.

  In all the turmoil I had forgotten to give Mary her letter. I found it that night as I undressed for bed.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," I apologized. "I forgot to give you this. I picked it up at the post office today."

  I didn't add that I was more than a mite curious about the letter.

  Mary tore the envelope open quickly and withdrew one formal looking page. She scanned it, then went back to read it more slowly. She looked pleased with the contents. I was relieved. I was afraid it might be more bad news.

  "It's from the school-board chairman," she told me. "I wrote inquiring about boarding the teacher."

  I was surprised. Mary had said nothing about it.

  "He's happy to have him stay here," Mary continued. "The place where he's been boarding hasn't worked out well:"

  I knew that the present schoolteacher was a middle-aged, single man. He had been the butt of many community jokes, a rather strange, eccentric fellow.

  I looked at Mary again.

  "Are you sure you want to take him on?" I asked her.

  "Can't you see?" said Mary. "This is a direct answer to my prayers. I asked God what I might do to ease our situation, and He brought this to my mind. So I wrote the letter and left it with God-and He has worked it out so that Mr. Butler is willing to stay here:"

  "But-" I began, but Mary wasn't finished.

  "The money will
help buy groceries for all of us, and I might even be able to help with the loan payment"

  "But the work;' I protested. "You have more than enough now, and with the new baby-"

  Mary waved that argument aside too. "Grandpa helps in the kitchen and Uncle Charlie keeps William entertained. Mr. Butler will be gone most of the day and will be leavin' every weekend. Won't be much extra work at all"

  She had it all figured. I couldn't help but chuckle.

  "You're really somethin;" I said to Mary, gathering her into my arms. She just smiled and let the letter flutter to the floor.

  Much to my dismay, Mr. Butler arrived with a spirited horse and a buggy. There had been no warning that I would be expected to stable a horse and provide feed. I couldn't even feed my own horses properly.

  But even before I could raise the question Mr. Butler explained, "I've arranged for Lady Jane to be housed"-"housed," he said-"at the school barn. Todd Smith will be her groom."

  I nodded, relieved. A `groom," no less.

  "I needed the buggy to bring my things;' he went on.

  His "things" consisted of several trunks and suitcases and a couple of carpet bags. I wondered how he would fit it all in the small bedroom off the kitchen and still leave himself walking room. I never did find out, for I never entered the room after Mr. Butler took possession, and he always kept his door tightly closed.

  Even Mary didn't go in that room. Mr. Butler preferred to do his own "keeping." Once a week Mary laid out fresh linens and towels and Mr. Butler replaced them with the soiled ones. It was a good arrangement for Mary.

  He was a strange-looking little man, all right. A large nose dominated his small face, and his chin was almost nonexistent. Eyes, dark and piercing, hid behind thick, heavy-rimmed glasses. He was bald. At least I'm pretty sure he was, but he had this trick of combing his hair from deep down on the side and bringing it across the top to join the other side so you didn't really see the baldness. When he stepped out into the wind, he was very careful to pull his hat down securely until it almost included his ears. I couldn't help but wonder if he had nightmares about it suddenly blowing off, his hair flying straight up in the air, waving to all those who watched as his bald spot was exposed to the world.

  He didn't have much to say to us grown-ups, but he took to William right away. With his love for children, I guess he made a good school teacher. Anyway, the time he spent in the kitchen with the rest of the family was whiled away with William and picture books. He would pull a chair near the warmth of the kitchen stove, lift William on his knee and spread out a book before them. They spent hours together, his quiet voice explaining to William the wonders of the Wall of China, the mysteries of the planet Mars, the secrets of the ancient Egyptians or the flight patterns of tiny hummingbirds. I'd look across at Mary and suppress a chuckle, or at Grandpa or Uncle Charlie with a wink. William might be a sharp little fella, but what could a child of two possibly understand of all that?

  Still, William went right back for more-every time he had the opportunity. And he sat there on that teacher's knee and drank in every word, his eyes wide with wonder, his chubby finger pointing at the pictures, his baby voice trying to repeat some of the difficult words.

  When Mary would announce that it was William's bedtime, the teacher always looked rather disappointed, but he lifted William carefully down, closed his book and retired to his room.

  We made it through another winter and I began to scan the skies looking for rain clouds. Though clouds did form from time to time, they just didn't seem to have much moisture in them. But I scraped together enough money to buy a bit of seed grain and planted a couple of my fields.

  The birth of William had interrupted the harvest. Now the arrival of our second child brought me in from the planting to ride off for Doc.

  Everything went fine, and before I could scarcely draw a breath, our second son joined the family. As soon as I had breathed a prayer of thankfulness that Mary and the baby were both fine, the reality of another doctor's bill took some of the pleasure from the occasion.

  "I'll just add it to your account, josh," Doc said quietly as I went with him later to get his buggy. We were getting ourselves quite a sizable account with Doc.

  Our new boy was another beautiful baby. Plump and healthy with lusty lungs. William studied him in awe. Not until the new baby finally closed his eyes and his loud little mouth and went to sleep could we get William close enough to actually reach out a hand and touch him on the cheek. From then on he seemed quite pleased with his baby brother.

  We named him Daniel Charles after Grandpa and Uncle Charlie, and the two men beamed as we announced the name.

  We found a neighbor girl to take over the kitchen duties until Mary was able to be up and about, and somehow we managed. Baby Daniel settled into the family unit just fine, and I finished my bit of planting and went back to the woodlot again.

  More of my fields drifted away as spring gave way to summer. I could only hope that some of the soil from many miles away might stop at my land. If the wind didn't work out some kind of exchange, I feared there would soon be no more topsoil to farm.

  Poor Mary struggled with her garden. It was hard, discouraging work. Not much grew and the grasshoppers relished the bit that was there.

  School ended and the teacher moved out. Mr. Butler promised before he left that he would be back again in the fall, a relief to all of us. We had learned to rely on that little bit of income.

  William missed him. He kept asking for "Mr. Buttle and'is books." Mary tried to explain, but of course the time frame of "months" is difficult for a child to understand.

  One midsummer afternoon I went for a long walk across my drearylooking fields. The stalks were stunted and scarce. I plucked a head of grain here and there, chaffing it between my hands. There was nothing much there. I could feel the burden on my shoulders heavier with each step. There was nothing to harvest-again.

  I crouched down in the field and dug at the ground with a stick, flipping back dry, dusty soil. Down, down I dug looking for moisture that was not there. Nothing. Why hadn't the rains come? What had happened to our world? Seed time and harvest. Seed time and harvest kept running through my head. God had promised it. Had He failed to deliver on His promise?

  For a moment I was swept with anger. I was tempted to shake my fist at the heavens. What had I done to deserve this? What had Mary done? We had tried to be faithful. We-But I stopped myself. I knew it had nothing to do with that. Then the many years of trusting, of leaning on my Lord drained the anger from me.

  "I need you, God;' I whispered. "More than ever, I need you:"

  It was with heavy steps that I returned to the farmyard. I couldn't shake from me the feeling of impending doom. I had fought for about as long as I could fight. I didn't have much strength left.

  After supper was over and the dishes returned to the cupboard, everyone settled in around the kitchen as usual. I tried to busy myself with figures and plans, but my mind wouldn't concentrate. I finally laid it all aside and climbed the stairs to the room where my two sons slept.

  What a picture they made. William clutched the teddy bear that Sarah had made for his Christmas gift the year before. His dark lashes fell across unblemished cheeks and the thick brown hair lay damp across his forehead.

  Baby Daniel slept in almost the same pose as his older brother-arms atop his blankets, his head held slightly to the side. But there was no teddy bear. Danny clutched only the hem of the blanket Mary had made. Now and then he pursed his little lips and took a few sucks as though he was dreaming of nursing.

  I stood there looking at them both and the insides of me went cold and empty. They're countin' on me. They're countin' on their pa and I'm goin' to let them down. Both of them. Both of them-and Mary. And Grandpa and Uncle Charlie ...

  I'd never experienced such pain. Deep, dark, knifing pain that brought no tears of relief.

  I turned from my two sons and pulled the curtain back from the window so I could look
out over the land I had loved and worked for so many years. There was no escaping it. We were facing the end.

  I didn't even know Mary was there until she slipped her arms about my waist and laid her head against my upper back. A shudder went all through me.

  She stood there for several minutes, just holding me, and then she spoke. Her voice was strong and even, though her words came to me in a soft whisper. "What is it, Josh? What's the matter?"

  I had to get it out. Had to put it into words.

  "We're gonna lose the farm," I said frankly, a cold harshness to my words.

  Mary said nothing but I felt her arms tighten around me.

  William stirred in his sleep and his hand pulled the teddy more closely against him.

  "It's the payments, isn't it? If you hadn't bought Pa's farm-"

  Of course it was the payments. I stirred from one foot to the other in my impatience.

  "I just made the wrong move-the wrong decision. I thought it was right-at the time-"

  "No, Josh;' Mary hastened to interrupt, "it wasn't wrong. Not the decision to buy. It was a wise thing to do. The timin' was just wrong, that's all. And no one-no one could have foreseen the future. Could have known how things would go. No rain-"

  Grandpa had said the same thing, and in my head I knew they were right. But my heart? I had prayed. Had asked God about the purchase.

  "Sell it, Josh;' continued Mary. "Sell it"

  "Can't sell it;" I said, my voice now baring the impatience that my shifting feet had shown. "There's no one to buy."

  "Then let it go. Just let it go. I know you sorta bought it for me-and our sons. But we'd be better-There will be other farms over the years. Maybe even Pa's again. We can buy later for the boys:"

  "I-I can't let it go," I protested hoarsely.

  "Did you promise Pa? He'd understand, Josh. He'd not hold you to it:"

  "No, I didn't promise your pa. He didn't ask for a promise"

  "Then let it go. Let the bank have it."

  I turned then and took Mary by the shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. There was no light on in the room, but the moon spilled through the window making her face light with a silvery glow. I could even see the faint scar across her forehead.