Whispers in the Wind

by C. E. Lemieux, Jr.

  The sun searing down at the earth from above had drawn the moisture out of the ground, and from the green shafts of wheat bunched together in the fields of the surrounding countryside. Changing color as they dried, they stood erect with golden heads of grain, their little whiskers curling off the ends. Rolling as waves on an ocean of bronze in the breeze, they whispered a peaceful chant, their sound echoing across the prairie.

  If you’ve never heard the sound of the golden wheat swaying gently on the breeze, you’re surely missing something. Such a peaceful, lonely sound; add the soft, warm kiss of a sun beam against your cheek and you’ll want to close your eyes and drift off into a lazy slumber. When the sun’s heat grows intense on the Oklahoma plains however, the place to be is under a thick old cottonwood, listening to the clatter of the leaves above, watching wheat sway in the wind, and the clouds floating across the sky, casting their shadows as they move slowly along.

  It was harvest time, and trucks loaded with grain were lined up for blocks waiting to dump their precious treasure. The year had been long and stressful for the farmers; they prayed and wondered if they would even have a harvest. There were so many things that could go wrong: not enough moisture, too much moisture, hail stones instead of rain drops, and pests to eat away the green before it had a chance to turn golden brown. And yet the crops were bountiful.

  It was the summer before our sixth grade year, and my daddy, a minister by trade, was helping Brother Clifford with his field harvest during the week. He drove the truckloads of grain to the elevator in Beaver City. He had agreed, however reluctantly, to drop my cousin, Mandy, Henry, J.B., and me off down at the river on his way to the elevator. Allowing us to fish in the pools, and wade in the sandy stream of the river for a couple of hours unsupervised was a personal challenge, especially for a minister. If it hadn’t been for the temperature, his trust in the Newburn boys, and his faith in my innocence, I’m sure he never would have agreed.

  In the heat of late June, the water of the Beaver River could hardly be considered cold or refreshing. However, it was wet and soon we were as well. With the help of an Oklahoma breeze, we had cooled considerably. It didn’t take us long to abandon our plans for fishing all together. With so little rain, the pools had begun to dry up. The water in them had become dark green and stagnant. The prospect of finding fish in them was poor at best.

  Instead we focused on the trickling stream. Had we been there a few months earlier during the spring rains, we would have been observing a different river. The Beaver River was known to fill up suddenly from runoff upstream. It didn’t have the normal deep cut banks. When it filled up, it spread wide. However, after the hot days of June took their toll, its stream varied in width from ten feet down to three or four.

  While Mandy and J.B. dug in the sand, Henry and I began to explore, looking for treasures carried down by the current, and deposited along the river’s edge. Other than some old wood that probably came off a bridge upstream, and a few pieces of tin, there wasn’t much to find. The best treasures were nature’s treasures. We found cattails, bobcat tracks, and a frog or two. We chased minnows as they darted around in the shallow water, and caught tadpoles that had just sprouted their legs. Before long we found we had settled down to immerse our feet in the running water, digging our toes into the cooler sand below.

  I guess I got the discussion started by asking suddenly, “So, I know you still like Sally Thompson, have you ever kissed her?”

  Though our relationship had returned to normal in most ways, I think he was hesitant to trust me on the subject of Sally Thompson. After all, I had blown his little secret before.

  “Well, if I had, what makes you think it would be any of your business?”

  “It’s not my business I just asked. I guess I was curious. Besides, I thought we were best friends.”

  He sat there in the sand quietly. He seemed to be staring deep into the stream, but I knew, behind those blue eyes, he was thinking. I must have touched on a subject that had been on his mind for a while. I could tell there was something he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

  Around us the bees buzzed through the air, going from one sunflower to another. Mandy and J.B. were far enough away downstream their words were muffled by the sounds of nature. The trees were full of birds involved in their own musical conversations. Occasionally, the cicadas and the grasshoppers threw in their two cents worth. Meanwhile, the stream itself filled the gaps with a rhythmic sound.

  “Okay, I’ll answer your question, but you can’t laugh or tease me about it. And this time you better not tell anyone. You got it?”

  I nodded.

  “I haven’t ever even tried to kiss her. I guess I was kind of scared.” He didn’t look up when he spoke, so I knew he was serious.

  “You? I can’t believe you would be scared of anything? Why would you be scared to kiss Sally?”

  “I haven’t ever kissed anyone. What if I do it wrong? What if I’m no good at it?”

  “You haven’t ever kissed anyone at all,” I asked in amazement. Not that I was any kind of expert. I had never kissed a boy myself. It was simply that I never expected to hear Henry say he was scared to kiss a girl. I honestly didn’t think he was scared of anything.

  “Well, of course I’ve kissed my momma, and some aunts on the cheek, but we both know that don’t count. What if I do it wrong and she makes fun of me, or tells all of the other girls I don’t know how to kiss? Then I’d be the joke of the class. I wish there was an easier way to learn about stuff like that, but I guess there isn’t.”

  He sat there looking down into the stream, then all of a sudden he looked like he had been jabbed in the ribs, the idea hit him so fast.

  “Abby, can you tell me how to do it?”

  Well, now I was in a pickle. Did I admit I had never kissed anyone either or did I pretend I had, only to have difficulty explaining how it was done? I decided honesty was my best course.

  “Henry, I haven’t ever kissed anyone either.”

  He looked up with a quizzical look, and avoided the opportunity to chide me in return.

  “Then, how do I learn? How does anyone learn?”

  “I guess you just have to try it.”

  “No way I’m gonna try it on Sally Thompson for the first time. You know as pretty as she is, she’s bound to have kissed someone before. And then if I don’t do it right, she’ll tell everyone.”

  “Well, first of all, if she does tell everyone, that means she isn’t very nice. And just because she’s pretty doesn’t mean she’s kissed anyone.” I paused. “But, I guess if you want to, we can try it. That way if we don’t do so good, no one will know.”

  “You mean you want to practice kissing?” He was totally astonished.

  To tell the truth, I was kind of astonished with what I had said a moment earlier. I began questioning whether or not it was such a good idea.

  “Well, not if you don’t want to. I just thought…”

  “No, I wouldn’t mind, I don’t guess. As long as you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t tell, if you don’t tell. We can practice with each other, and then we won’t have to worry about anyone laughing at us or making fun of us.”

  So, it was decided right there. We began our practice sessions that day at the river. Mandy and J.B. were downstream a little ways and because of a bend in the river, they couldn’t see us. It was a little awkward at first. We kept bumping noses, but eventually we got to where we were quite comfortable with each other. We determined it would take a lot of practicing to get really good at it, so we would have to practice every chance we got. Henry decided we didn’t have to worry because it was all practice, and it didn’t really mean we were girlfriend and boyfriend.

  “It’s not the same as the older kids that get caught necking. We’re only friends,” he offered. I decided what he didn’t know right then wouldn’t hurt him.

  We practiced until we saw Mandy and J.B. coming to find us. My da
ddy was there to pick us up.

  “Well, did you catch any fish,” he asked with a grin.

  “No, Daddy, not a bite,” I said as I climbed up into the cab of the truck. The seats and dashboard were coated in dust and wheat chaff.

  “Well, what did you do then?”

  “Mandy and J.B. played in the sand. Henry and me went exploring.”

  I found a few grains of wheat in the seat and began to chew on them.

  “Henry and I,” he corrected. “Any big discoveries?”

  I threw a quick glance at Henry.

  “A few, but nothing special.”

  We stared out the windows at the harvest going on all around the area. In nearly every direction we could see a combine or a wheat truck at work. Both stirred the dust into the air, while little pieces of the chaff floated along with the breeze. The dust, combined with sweat from the heat, caused my skin to itch.

  Not much else was said on the trip back into town. I think Daddy attributed it to our being tired. I don’t know about Henry, but my mind was back down at the river.

  Henry and I practiced whenever we could that summer. Sometimes we would go out to the edge of town, and walk along the railroad tracks until we were sure no one could see. Then we would sit there on the side of the tracks and kiss. We figured the more we practiced, the better we would be when we needed it. Of course, it was starting to mean a little more to me than it was to Henry. His mind was on Sally Thompson, but mine was forming ideas that would last for a long, long time.