by Janette Oke
"You don't understand," I stated, with a great effort to keep my voice even. "If they take your pa's farm, they take this one too."
I felt Mary's body tremble.
"I signed them this, Mary. I signed it over to the bank when I took the loan. If I don't pay-"
But I'd said enough. Mary understood. She pressed herself into my arms and began to weep softly.
Maybe her crying helped us both. At least it brought some tenderness, some compassion back into the coldness of my heart. I stood holding her, caressing her, letting her cry.
It didn't last long and then Mary straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
"We've come too far to give up now," she said. "There has to be a way" I shrugged helplessly. Mary wiped her nose and went right on. "We still have stock to sell. The teacher will be back. I don't need all of his money for groceries. You can take out more cord wood, we'll-"
"Mary, we-"
"We'll make it;" she repeated. "God has seen us through this far-He won't let us down now."
For a moment I found myself wondering just what God had done on our behalf. The rains still had not come. We hadn't had a crop in three years. But Mary soon reminded me.
"Folks all about have been losing their farms, but we still have ours. We been meetin' those payments year by year-somehow. We are all still here, all healthy. We've always had food on the table an' shoes on our feet. He's seen us through all of this, an' He'll keep right on providin
I felt a wave of shame rush through me. God had been doing far more for my family than I'd been thanking Him for.
"We'll make that next payment;' said Mary again, her chin set firmly. She looked around the room. At me. At our two sons as they slept. "There's too much ridin' on it not to make it;' she murmured in a half whisper; then I heard her simple, fervent prayer, "Help us, Lord, please help us"
We did make the payment. It was always a miracle to me. But we had to drain ourselves down to practically nothing to do it. We sold off almost all my good stock. I would have gladly sold the tractor and the Ford, but there were no buyers. What hurt the deepest was watching Chester go. We kept only the work horses because we simply could not get along without them. Chester brought a good price, even with the economy like it was. I could do nothing else but sell him. Mary cried and I think I died a bit when the man came and led him away.
With all of that, I was still short for the bank payment. And then a letter came in the mail from Pa Turley. When Mary opened it, money fell to the kitchen table.
"This ain't much;' he wrote, "but I hope that it helps in some way."
"Did you-?"
"No;' Mary shook her head. "Really. I didn't say-"
The letter went on.
"Hear what a tough time everyone is having so I thought I'd send each of my girls a bit:"
Mary laughed and cried at the same time. We added the bills to our little pile. It just met the bank payment.
CHAPTER 24
Striving to Make It
There was nothing more we owned that we could sell as far as I could see. We'd already spent all of Grandpa and Uncle Charlie's meager savings. The woodlot on the Turleys' farm was quickly being depleted. With so few vegetables and fruits canned or stored in the cellar, Mary's task of putting food before her family was very difficult and certainly would take a much larger portion of the teacher's board money. In fact, I didn't think she'd be able to make it stretch to do even that.
We had our backs against the wall, that was for sure. I began to make some inquiries in town about some kind of employment. As I feared, I could find nothing.
Then our whole community was shaken with a tragedy. We nearly lost Doc. Guess there wouldn't have been anyone in the whole neighborhood whose loss would have affected us more-unless it would have been my uncle Nat. Both men had been leaned on a lot during our hard times and looked up to a good deal during the better times we had experienced.
It was a heart attack. Doc was rushed off by motor car to the small hospital in Riverside. Mrs. Doc went right along with him and stayed by his bed to wait out the illness.
Doc had likely delivered everybody in the area, thirty-five and under. He'd sewed up cuts, taken out appendixes, nursed us through mumps and all sort of things. We'd miss him being there for us. Fact was, we didn't know how we'd ever get along without him. We all prayed daily that his life would be spared, even if his full health was not restored.
In the days following the heart attack, I kept thinking on the account I had with him. I owed Doc a considerable amount of money, and I had no way in the world to pay it. I was fearful that Mrs. Doc-we always called her that for some reason-I was afraid that she might be needing the money with the hospital bills and all, and I knew that the right thing to do was go and see her about it as soon as I had the chance, even if I didn't have the money. I could at least promise small payments just as soon as I could scrape something together.
In a few weeks' time news came that Mrs. Doc was back at the house in town, Doc having improved a good deal. I decided I'd best get on in and see her.
It was tough-but I made the call. Mrs. Doc looked a bit surprised to see me; then she welcomed me in like a long-lost son. I guess she felt that way about all the "babies" Doc had brought into the world.
After a bit of chitchat about Doc and how he was doing, I got right to the point.
"I came about my account;' I said.
She seemed a bit bewildered.
"I was afraid that you might be needin' payment with Doc in the hospital an' all;' I explained further.
She shook her head emphatically. "Oh, Doc would never leave me in need;" she stated. "He made sure that he had everything cared for in case anything should happen. He's a good man, Doc is;' and the tears started to form in her eyes.
Relieved to hear that they were not in dire straits, I told her, "I'll look after the account as soon as I'm able. Things are a bit tight right now, but I hope to get a job and then I can send some money month by month."
"There's nothing to pay, josh," she told me softly.
"But there must be. I owe him a fair bit of money-Uncle Charlie, our baby. Just haven't been able to look after it yet:"
Mrs. Doc went to a corner desk and withdrew a rather large ledger. "Come here," she said, and I went as bidden.
She leafed through the account book and I saw the names of our neighbors and friends listed there. They seemed to have fared better financially than the Joneses-I didn't spot a one of them who was owing Doc money. And then Mrs. Doc flipped another page and there was my name-Joshua Jones. Each entry was carefully made. Each sick call to our house and each of the deliveries, and the cost was clearly and carefully recorded in the column to the right. But it was the bottom of the page that made me gasp. There written beside the total was the distinct notation: "Paid in full."
1-I don't understand," I stammered. "I didn't have money. Who-who-"
"Doc did;' she said simply, the tears filling her eyes again. "The night of his attack. He must have known that something was wrong. He got up in the night. I found him here at his desk. Cancelled out every account in the ledger-every debt-Doc did"
"But-but-"
She closed the book softly and slipped it back into the desk drawer.
"He loves his people, Josh. His community. He never wanted to take-just to give. He likely would never have taken payment if he hadn't been looking out for me. I'm cared for now, and he doesn't need any more:"
I couldn't speak. All I could do was embrace the elderly woman. Then I returned to the brisk, cool air of the autumn day. I had much to think about as I trudged the street, still inquiring about work.
I heard about a government work project that was hiring. Mary hated the thought of it, for it would take me miles away from home and the family. We talked about it until way into the night and finally decided that it was the only thing we could do. With most of the stock gone, there wasn't much choring; and with no feed to speak of, the few remaining farm animals m
ostly had to forage for themselves anyway. Even Mary's chickens had been turned loose to fend for themselves. There still was a cow to milk, but Grandpa insisted that he could manage that.
With great reluctance I packed a few things in a carpet bag and prepared to take my leave. I wouldn't be needed at home for the next spring's planting. There was no seed grain in the bins-nor any hope of getting the money to buy any. I would just simply work out until our world had returned to normal again. And who knew just when that might be?
It was heart-wrenching to have me leave. Mary wept as she stuffed worn and oft-mended socks into a corner of the bag.
"They'll never get you through another winter;" she sniffed. "They're nothin' but patches now."
"Where ya goin; Papa?" William asked, but the lump in my throat was too big for me to be able to answer him. I pulled the young boy into my arms and buried my face against his hair. He thought it was some kind of a game and started messing up my hair and tugging on my ears, squealing with glee. I wondered just how long it would be before I heard the boyish voice again. The thought made my chest constrict and brought tears to my eyes.
I continued to wrestle with William until I had myself under control. It was hard enough for Mary. I was supposed to be her strength.
We did the rounds with hugs. I guess it was the hardest moment of my life. William cried when he couldn't go with me. As I looked at little Daniel sleeping peacefully in his cradle, I tried to picture how big he'd be by the time I returned. I would miss so much of his growing up.
"Don't forget to write;' reminded Mary for the third or fourth time. "I've packed the paper and envelopes in the side pocket there"
I nodded. I'd write. That would be all I'd have of home.
"Don't worry about things here;' repeated Grandpa. "We'll manage just fine."
Oh, God, I groaned inwardly, why does it have to be this way?
Mary stepped out onto the cold back veranda for one final goodbye. She clutched her sweater tightly around her and turned to me with tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Don't worry, Josh;' she whispered encouragingly in spite of the tears. "We'll manage-somehow."
I held her for a long time, trying to shield her from the cold, from the pain of parting and the heavy task of assuming all the responsibilities that I should be there to shoulder. Why? Why? I kept wondering, but the wind that whipped across the yard and tore at the weather-worn shutters had no answer.
"You'd best get in. You're freezing;' I said to Mary, and I kissed her one last time and stumbled my way down the steps to the wagon. Grandpa was waiting to drive me to town to catch the local train.
I'd never realized how far it was to town before-nor how quickly our farm faded from view as we topped hill after hill.
The work camp was filled with men like myself. Desperate men-trying hard to make it through another winter in the only way that seemed open to them. Decent men-forwarding every penny they could spare back home to wives and family.
We talked about home in the evenings, after the work of another chilling, grueling day that numbed our bodies and tortured our muscles. We lay on our hard bunks and told one another stories about our wives, our children. It was the only pleasure we had. Except for the times when we allowed ourselves to use one more of our carefully rationed pages-one more envelope-one more stamp-so we could write a letter home. We lingered over those letters, savoring every word, pouring our love and longing into each sentence.
No one ever bothered a man who was writing. A hush fell over the bunkhouse and each man took to his bunk in respect for the one who held the hallowed position at the single, crude desk. Writing home was a sacred rite. It was as close to the family as we could get.
Mail day was even more special. We each hoarded every speck of privacy as we pored over our letter. And then we did a strange thing-we went over and over every tiny item of news it held with everyone in the bunkhouse.
The work was difficult. I'd considered myself used to hard work, but this new thing-this swinging of a pick into hard-as-granite soil as we chopped to make way for a new canal across the arid, frozen prairie-was something quite new for me.
Many gave up and went home. Their backs simply could not endure the strain. It was never a problem for the job foreman when men quit. He had a long waiting list of men who yearned for a chance to put their bodies to the test and earn precious money for their families.
We had four days off for Christmas. Most of us walked the fifteen miles to town that night after putting in a full day's shift. We wanted to catch the train in the morning.
When the train pulled in to my familiar station, I stopped in town just long enough to buy a small trinket for each family member before I hoisted my bag and hurried home.
You should have heard the commotion. They hadn't known I was coming. We hugged and cried and hugged some more and everyone tried to talk at once, knowing full well that the time would pass too quickly for us to get everything said.
I couldn't believe how the boys had grown. I kept saying it to Mary over and over and she'd just smile.
We had a simple Christmas together with Lou's family. In spite of bare cupboard shelves, Lou and Mary managed to put together a tasty meal. The children didn't seem to miss the turkey and trimmings. They had fun just being together. That night Mary stayed up into the wee hours of the morning trying to darn my socks again. She patched my overalls and sewed buttons back on my coat, but there didn't seem to be much she could do about my worn-out mittens. The pick had been awfully hard on them.
"Josh," she said, "there's just no way to fix them"
I nodded. "They're fine," I assured her.
But the following morning when I joined the family at the breakfast table there was a new pair of mittens. She must have stayed up again most of the night in order to knit them. They were the same color as her chore sweater, which I noticed was no longer hanging on the peg by the door where she always kept it. I tried to swallow away the lump that grew large in my throat.
I left again right after breakfast. It was no easier than the first time. I had no idea when I'd be home again.
I guess it was my Bible and the time I was able to spend reading it and praying that got me through that long winter. Several other men in the bunkhouse turned to worn Bibles too. We talked about the things we were learning. It helped us to sorta put other things into proper perspective.
I told them about Willie one night. About how much he had loved God and how much I had loved him and how we had named our first son after him and all. They listened quietly.
"It's funny;" I admitted. "He always went by `Willie' even though his name was William. We named our boy in honor of him, and I think of Willie most every time I look at my son-and yet-yet-I've never been able to call him Willie. Never. Don't know why. Guess it still just hurts too much."
Heads nodded. I'd never been able to share that with anyone before. I guess I figured they wouldn't understand. But these men-there was a strange friendship between those of us who shared the simple, crude bunkhouse. Maybe because we were all so vulnerable. Maybe we had nothing to hide. We all knew just where the other one was coming from. None of us had reason or cause to boast. We were sorta laid bare, so to speak, before one another. And we needed one another.
I told them about Camellia too. Though I didn't bother to try to explain what Camellia had meant to me at one time. I just told them about Camellia and Willie and how she had gone out to Africa even after Willie had died there.
They were rightly impressed with Camellia.
And then I told them about the letter I'd had to write to the Mission Society, how it had been one of the hardest things I'd ever done in my life. How I'd told the Mission Society I just didn't have the money to support Camellia for the present and that just as soon as the rains came and I had another crop, I'd take up the support again.
A nice letter came back from them saying they understood and had managed to piece together Camellia's support from some other source
s; but that hadn't taken the sting out of it for me.
"It's sure tough right now;" mused a fella, Eb Penner. "Not just fer us, but fer the churches. I hear as how some missionaries have even been brought home. Jest no money."
"Hard fer the preachers, too;' continued Paul Will. "Our parson hardly gits enough to git 'em by-an' he has 'im a family of seven. Grabs any job he can to make a dollar or two, an' so do his younguns-but ain't no work fer anybody"
"I stopped goin' to church;' came from the corner bunk where Tom reclined, rubbing his hands as though he could work off some callouses. "'Tweren't no comfort there, far as I could tell. Ever' Sunday, there was just more bad news of someone losin' their place or bein' outta food or some such. We was all asked to pray. I got tired of prayin' Nothin' ever come of it anyway. Seemed I should be doin' more fer those in need than jest sayin' a prayer or two-an' I had nothin'-nothin' left to give:"
No one in the room expressed shock. We'd all fought the same thoughts, the same feelings at one time or another.
I kept on goin' anyway," admitted Eb. "I mighta felt a little helpless in the midst of my sufferin' brethren-but I'd a been downright lost without em.
"You see the collection plate?" Paul said. "Pittance. I don't know how any preacher's family can git by. Sure, a chicken here, a jug a milk there, but still I can't figure it. Tithe of nothin' is still nothin'."
The man was right of course. We'd always given our tithe. Even Mary's egg money was carefully counted and a tenth laid aside. But even at that we only dropped a few cents in on Sunday, and ofttimes there was nothing at all. We wondered, too, how Nat and Lou ever managed, but they made no complaints. God provided, Lou always said with a smile, but their clothes were threadbare and their table scantily served. It had been hard, all right, on those serving the churches.
"Well, one of these days it'll all get turned around again;' said someone on a brighter note, and the conversation went in another direction. We all had great plans about what we'd do just as soon as the dry spell was over. For many it meant starting from the bottom again. They had already lost all they had. Businesses, farms, belongings. But still, to a man, we clung to that seemingly illusionary promise of the future.