Chapter 2 "The Lonely Farmer"

Chapter 2

“The Lonely Farmer”

 

 

“Forgive me for this may be a longer story than you initially wanted to hear,” Gabe stated as he lit another cigarette.  “But it’s the truth.  And part of the truth is the journey to find it, right?” 

            “Yeah, yeah… I want to hear this,” Toby encouraged. So Gabe told Toby about the greatest love in his life.  Maybe it could provide the direction Toby desperately sought in his own life.

 

“…       I grew up in a cabin located in a stretch of forests in eastern Iowa, about twenty miles outside of my hometown, Holy Cross.  The majority of my kin were located about half an hour away on the outskirts of Glen Haven, Wisconsin.  I grew up by the mighty Mississippi River.  It was a typical small, Iowa town with a population barely surpassing three hundred people, all close knit and tight.  They were families, living and farming in the area across two or three generations.  Tough people, they battled nature’s fury and wrath:  draughts, storms, floods�"and the unpredictable river.  But what you fight for makes your home much more precious.  And my home was precious. Well, at least it was to me.

            I was tiny, probably two or three, when my mother and father moved to the farm from Chicago.  They bought it at an auction during the farm crisis in the 1980’s. Farm land in Iowa was cheap�"too cheap. My parents secured over eighty acres of land next to the river.  The farmer said it was poor farm land due to the unpredictable nature of the river.  My parents had no intention to perform mass production on the land, but they did intend to farm. Just not in the conventional and traditional way, native to the other farmer’s in the area…”

 

Gabe nodded to the rolled cigarette, nestled tightly between Toby’s thumb and forefinger.  He gave Toby a tip of his eyebrow and a subtle wink.

 

“…       My mother and father kept to themselves as they raised me.  I only knew a handful of people.  The first was my uncle, Jackson MacGregor, my dad’s youngest brother.  He lived in Glen Haven with his wife and three kids.  He rarely came across the river to see us, maybe once a month at best.  But when he came, he always brought me candy or a book.  My mother would allow me to have the books.  Candy led to dental visits. A visit to the dentist meant a trip into town.  She avoided the town and its people as much as she avoided the dentist. 

My uncle Jack knew so much. He would sneak me some bubble gum or a candy bar behind her back.  I remember when my mother caught him sneaking me a treat.  She screamed, “Jack, for the love of…. you’re going to pay for his cavities.” 

Uncle Jack would snicker and look to my dad for moral support, but my dad only catered to my mother.  Dad would tell me in his warm and logical voice, “Gabe, the secret to winning any argument is to know the other person is always right.  You either have to be more right, or just accept their opinion as truth.” His explanation kind of made arguing pointless.

            Mother and dad loved each other very much.  They kept to themselves on the farm.  We never had guests and never had visitors, outside of my uncle and the occasional hunter or school officer. Hunters would wander on the property to ask permission to hunt on our land.  My dad discouraged it.  He said there was nothing of any interest on the property.  He usually recommended a better hunting spot. If they insisted, my father would welcome the hunters on his land, as long as they promised not to litter or disturb the environment.  Most of the time, the hunters would leave to find better hunting grounds.  Those that stayed were conscious of my dad’s request to keep the land clean. Maybe once or twice, there were those who littered or left a messy site. Dad cleaned it well after they left the grounds.  My dad was right. The land was not a good hunting ground.

            My mother and father built a cabin in the woods.  It was small log cabin with a stone foundation.  It was comfortable with two bedrooms and a giant common room�"my mother called it a hearth room.  It had a bathroom with modern plumbing, but my mother preferred to bathe in the hearth room in a cask barrel that my dad built next to the massive fireplace�"a fireplace so huge, three people could stand within it comfortably. 

The hearth room had a wood burning oven and stove.  It also contained a refrigerated system powered by a paddle wheel outside of the cabin on the nearby creek bed.  It kept the food cold enough.  The paddle house contained the cool room or, what we called a root cellar, to store the preserves and canned goods for the winter.  Outside of the cabin was a barn, painted blue.  Mom didn’t care for the color red. She preferred blue, so my dad washed it in a blue tint. 

My father use to teach engineering in Chicago.  My mother taught botany at the university.  They were professors for a number of years. After I was born, my father got tied up in some sordid, academic politics.  Mom and dad decided to leave the university�"it was my father’s decision and mom supported him every step of the way. My father always told me I was the reason he left though.  He said the farm was a great way to spend good, old fashion, quality time with his son.   

He used his knowledge about engineering to sustain the farm.  He built a wind turbine to power a generator next to the cabin.  The turbine provided minimal electricity, just enough to operate the old stereo and a radio if needed. He rigged a hot water tank on the roof of the cabin to store water and heat it with solar panels. 

He loved the wind.  He was fascinated by it.  He asked me, “Gabe, where does the wind come from?  Where does sunlight go after it touches your face? Do you think I can capture it?  Do you think I can harness its power?”  I watched and learned as he built the turbines and installed the solar panels.  He taught me how to repair them in the event I would one day need to. 

My mother taught me everything else.  She taught me how to farm.  She taught me each plant, vegetable, fruit, spice, leaf, tree, flower, and all the others.  She taught me when a tomato was ripe and when to pick an ear of corn.  She taught me how to plant morning glories and sunflowers.  She educated me on why we should plant, when we should plant, and how to tend to each seed in the garden. Each plant served a purpose.  Each one was orchestrated with intent, specific to the ingredients and spices she needed. Medicinal or sustaining, each seed had a place in the garden and in her kitchen.

She taught me to prepare and cook all the foods raised on the farm.  She taught with the diligence of a master chef, passionate about the rustic and comforting nature of food originating from the seed I planted early in the spring.  Food, for her, was a work of art, like a humble painting.  Wanting and knowing how to cook are not the same.  One can’t proceed without the other.  You have to want to cook.  If you want it… then you can learn it and know it.  “Remember that Gabe, if you want it… learn it… know it.” She explained how cooking was more important than farming. If you know how to can food, you can stretch one season of crops into a year or more. 

She raised flowers.  I often wondered why she raised flowers.  It didn’t seem too pragmatic outside of the aroma or medicinal value.  She said it was necessary to have pretty things to look at.  I eventually learned she was right�"she was always right.

I was a typical boy, full of spice and mischief. My parents would spank me occasionally�"more like a soft pat on my behind. Mostly they made me sit alone in my chair whenever I was naughty. Like the time I put live snakes in their bed.  Man, whenever my mom saw a slimy and wriggling snake she would scream bloody murder�"like a mad woman.  Naturally, she put me in her concept of “time out,” a small white chair next to the massive fireplace.  She would explain to me how she wasn’t really mad at me. She simply told me she loved me very, very, very much in a sarcastic yet honest tone. 

Mother used to read to me and sing me lullabies.  Songs I still remember to this day.  Her favorite song was “Amazing Grace.”  She was a huge fan of church hymns.  She knew the song by heart.  Except mom would change the words to Amazing Gabe at any opportunity. We would sing it as we washed dishes and cooked.  She would hum it while she planted and weeded.  I distinctly recall her soft and fragile singing voice … it was magical.  It helped me sleep.  It made me feel secure.  It was better than the old quilts she made from scrap fabric.  I could wrap myself in her songs.  They inspired me to a better man.  They inspired me to be a better human being…” 

 

Gabe began to sing in front of Toby.  Toby was surprised by Gabe’s voice, usually attractive men didn’t have a good singing voice.  The melodic and soothing tenor voice made Toby envious.  He could have sat all night listening to Gabe sing, while he smoked the remainder of the cigarette.  He completed a couple lines of the hymn, and then plunged back into the story.

“My mother made me believe I was amazing.  All of us are amazing.  She made me want to believe in something greater and more powerful than the farm, the cabin, or the river… even the planet.”  Gabe smiled, looking at the emerging stars in the early evening sky.

 

“…       I grew restless and bored with farm life, like any young and growing male.  I was physically disturbed�"I was developing the body of a man quickly.  It was my 13^th birthday when my mom broke down.  She allowed me to have a companion, something faithful and true. Thank goodness for Uncle Jack. 

He showed up one day just after my birthday, with a small dog.  It was a puppy�"a runt.  It was tiny and frail, not a day over two months.  It was helpless.  Uncle Jack told my mother it was the smallest of an eight pup litter. The owner, a farmer with a big turf of land way up north, was going to kill it, toss it to the river like a discarded toddler. 

My mother refused to listen to Uncle Jack talk any further about the river and drowning the animal.  She accepted the puppy and gave it to me.  She told me it was my soul to keep. She knew I was growing into a man.  She knew I needed another presence in my life, somebody more than just her and dad.  She thought I needed to tame the animal, just as I had to tame my own animal.

I remember she looked at me with her hopeful and concerned brown eyes.  She looked at me right before she took the young puppy from Uncle Jack.  She was making bread on the kitchen table. She didn’t bother to wash her hands.  She wiped them on her red and white striped apron.  Then she grabbed the silver puppy from Uncle Jack.  She coddled it in the fold of her apron and told me to fetch her some milk from the cool room.  She tucked a cloth napkin into the milk and then poked it into the young pup’s mouth.  It lapped at it and then opened his eyes.  They were light blue, white moreover. He had eyes as pale blue as a diamond.  Against his silver fur, he was positively striking�"the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.  My mom was hooked by his innocent eyes. She said she’d call the pup Joshua, for he had the eyes of an angel.  Somehow the name suited him. 

Joshua was like a younger brother to me as we both matured on the confines of the farm. The silver malamute would run and play with me across the pasture and into the fields.  We bound through the forest on paw and foot, always together.  He protected me as I explored every crook and bend in the rocky creeks and ledges.  Our land stretched from one farm on the west to the banks of the Mississippi on the east.  Joshua and I explored every inch of that land over the next eight years.  We were companions… blood brothers. 

Joshua and I matured at the same rate.  By the time I was seventeen, I was six foot two and weighed just shy of two hundred pounds.  Joshua was just as big when he was 4.  He could lay his paws on my shoulders and look me eye-to-eye.  After we butchered a pig, Joshua packed on the weight with the scraps.  I bet he was close to two hundred pounds by then.  My mom wanted him neutered, but it was the first time my dad disagreed, standing with his principles. He actually fought with my mother.  He won the argument, partly because he never argued.  Joshua remained a righteous male spirit.

Joshua went everywhere I did, except when my parents took the rusty, battered jeep into town.  We didn’t go to town often, just once a month for an errand. We’d collect our mail from the post office, and paid a trip to the grocery store for what little we didn’t grow on the farm. My mom routinely took me to see the dentist, especially after I chipped my front tooth playing Kick the Can with her and dad.  She also occasionally visited the priest, Father Patrick. We were welcomed in Holy Cross. They were kind to us, always polite, always smiling, but nosey.  Mother never ventured to North Buena Vista, it was too close to the farm.  She didn’t want people to talk�"she despised gossip and rumors. 

The people in Holy Cross kept track of me.  They wanted to know how tall I was getting or if I played football.  They wanted to know how my learning was progressing.  They wanted to know what crops my parents planted and which vegetables faired better on our land.  They wanted to know what faith I was baptized under. My mom avoided their insecurities with her own pleasant demeanor, never volunteering and never advising.  She was a priestess of re-direction. 

One day, a school officer came to the farm.  He wanted to inspect my mother’s credentials as a home school agent.  She showed him her PhD in botany and her minor in chemistry. I didn’t hear the entire conversation, but she was down right upset at the officer.  She yelled at him and threw a coffee cup to the floor.  It scared me.  I hid in my bedroom, up the ladder in the loft connected to the rafters of the hearth room.  The school officer went to find father in the garden.  Mom ran after him, still yelling. She caught him easily, because he probably didn’t run too much in his life. 

Both mom and dad kicked him off the property.  When he ran away from the farm, it was so fast.  I wondered what he saw in the garden.  I wondered what disturbed him so much.  Maybe it was the way Joshua looked at him as he was leaving.  Or maybe it was the upset discussion he had with my father in the field, next to the sunflowers.

It was about three weeks later, a dark and stormy evening in early May�"May 3^rd.  We just completed spring planting and we prayed for rain.  It had been unusually dry in April despite our prayers and wishful thinking.  But on that night�"May 3rd, the rain came hard and fell strong. 

It was late in the evening, when all of them arrived on the farm.  Their red lights whirled around on their cars. I was sleeping when my mother woke me.  She tucked a bag of seeds underneath my mattress.  She explained to me there were other bags in the cool room, behind the canned green beans.  She told me to stay quiet and keep still.  She told me they both were leaving for a short period of time. They would return just as soon as they could.  She wasn’t sure how long they would be gone.  Uncle Jack would be by tomorrow or the next day to see after me. She seemed desperate. The look on her face frightened me worse than any nightmare.  She crinkled her eyebrows and rubbed my brown hair.  She swept a small spot on my forehead and kissed it delicately and peacefully.  She held her lips to me long and hard, not wanting to let the moment slip away.  When she did let go, I noticed her eyes were red and wet.  She smiled harshly, as if she was forcing her smile. 

“Believe Gabe, always believe…”  She climbed down the ladder to the hearth room and joined my father.  He looked concerned, but no more concerned than he looked about the lack of rain lately.  He started the old stereo. It was The Platters. It made my mom feel relaxed.  I watched my parents walk outside the cabin arm in arm, followed by Joshua.  In the doorway, my mother told Joshua to stay on the porch and take care of me.  She trusted Joshua, perhaps more than she trusted me.

Mere minutes passed before I heard the first gun shot.  It was short and snappy, like a BB gun, not a real rifle.  Then I heard the second shot just a few seconds later.  My world was shattered at that very moment. I was too intimidated to know the truth. I stayed in bed, because if I got up, and walked outside, or if I looked through the window, then it would become real.  I didn’t want it to be real, but it was inevitable. 

After I heard the group of men talking and screaming at each other, I knew they weren’t going to leave. My world had become undone. The cold realty was beckoning me�"yelling at me outside the window. I put on my beige overalls and white long sleeved t-shirt.  I put on my brown work boots and laced them up tight.  I climbed down the ladder, saying a prayer for my parents at each rung in the ladder like a rosary. 

When I opened the cabin door, I saw a group of men gathered around a marked truck.  They wore the same brown pants and shirts.  One waved a gun at me and told me to get down on the ground.  I fell to the earth and buried my head on the dirt path that lead up to the cabin’s porch.  I felt the cold and wet mud against my face.  The rain washed away my nervous tears.

I could see one man talking to another man.  The talking man hovered over him, pointing and screaming.  He was mad.  The other man just sat on the fender of his truck.  His head was in his hands.  He was crying like a baby.  The angry man pointed at a second marked car just down the lane from the truck.  I followed the angry man’s finger.  It pointed at the bodies of my parents.  The rain pelted their limp bodies flung in the mud.  My mother was closer to the porch than my father.  His hands rested next to the front tire of the car. 

I heard a footstep next to my head. I thought one of the angry men was standing next to me.  I closed my eyes.  I felt a firm weight lie next to me, sprawled in the mud.  It was Joshua. 

Finally, a van showed up.  It took the broken bodies of my parents away.  It was the last time I saw my mother and father, laying face first in the mud, outside of the cabin on a cold and rainy night.  May 3^rd...”

 

Gabe was emotional as he relayed the event.  He was heartbroken and displaced.  It was the only way he could recount the incident.  He was almost crippled by mourning the death of his parents.  He looked away briefly from Toby and wiped his eyes. He wasn’t capable of forgiveness�"not yet.  Toby looked down, granting Gabe a moment to collect his reserve.

Gabe choked back his swelling wrath and continued…

 

“…       A man eventually came over, a calmer man in brown pants and a shirt.  He rubbed his hands on me and told me to stand.  He then asked what I knew of the farm.  Maybe it was the shock of seeing my parents hauled away like slaughtered animals.  Maybe it was the mouthful of mud and grit between my teeth.  Maybe I was afraid they would take Joshua next. I said nothing. I remained silent. 

It was the next day when my Uncle Jack came to see me on the farm. A young lady stayed with me through the night.  She was pretty, blond hair and dark blue eyes.  She was young, maybe as old as I am now.  Her name was Kate Manning.  She explained to me the shootings were an accident.  A young man named Walter Timothy Polk killed both of my parents.  She explained he had his gun drawn prematurely with the safety disengaged.  She explained he thought he saw a big black bear in the woods surrounding the cabin. It made him nervous. When he saw Joshua walking with my mother, the dog’s eyes spooked him and the gun misfired.  The bullet killed my mother instantly.  It hit her in the forehead, just above her left eye.

According to Miss Kate, when my father saw her body hit the ground, he fell to his knees.  He wasn’t restrained.  He slammed his fists in the mud and then charged at Walter Timothy Polk.  The young man, not much older than I, fired his gun at my father and shot him in the right lung, next to his heart. 

Uncle Jack and Miss Kate talked for a long time.  I sat next to the fireplace, in my “time out.”  Joshua kept me company and never left my side.  Not to eat.  Not to drink. Not to relieve himself.  Joshua kept still and rested his head on my brown boots.  By the time Uncle Jack and Miss Kate finished their long conversation, I was tired.  I wanted to wash the mud off of me and sleep… sleep for the rest of my life.

We buried my parents in the flower garden under a really large pin oak tree.  It was a small service. My Uncle Jack attended with his wife, Susan, their little boy Miller and the twin girls, Sarah and Samantha, who were just a year younger than me.  Father Patrick presided.  He loved my mother dearly.  Joshua stood by my side during the entire service. 

The months to follow seemed to pass quickly.  I was told to live with Uncle Jack at his home in Glen Haven. It was a little house on the outskirts of town with a nice field for crops.  I found myself fleeing in all sorts of directions.  I wanted to run from everything, including my uncle and aunt… and especially my cousins.  They were crowding me. 

So I ran away.  I ran back to the only thing that could give me the sort of strength I needed to mourn for my parents.  I returned to the farm.  Uncle Jack knew me.  He knew I couldn’t leave the farm, the cabin, the river, and the garden.  It was in my blood.

By my third try�"Uncle Jack conceded.  He let me stay on the farm.  He came across me in the field.  The garden needed tending and the weeds were all but taking over the crops.  I was weeding the carrots when Uncle Jack approached me quietly. He stood next to me for a minute or two before I noticed his worn jeans and red t-shirt. He told me he spent the past hour watching me work in the garden. 

All the time he spent watching me, he kept thinking, “Gabe, I don’t need a law or a school to tell me when I see a man.  I know a man when I see one.  And I see a man before me… now.”  He stared deep and hard at me when he said it.  He lowered his farmer’s cap and I could see his brown eyes behind his black hair.  He was slightly weeping. I suppose he was still mourning for the loss of his brother.  He told me he would check back in a week or so.  I watched him drive his truck down the long straight gravel path leading away from the cabin.  It finally struck me. I was on the farm, alone.  But I had Joshua…”

 

Gabe sipped the last of his water.  His mouth was still dry. Toby saw the empty glass and offered to get him more. 

“I suppose you don’t have anything stronger do you?” Gabe asked, deploying his dimples and chipped tooth smile. 

“It’s a frat house… most of us are underage.  Of course we do!”  Toby smiled. He jumped up from the lawn and took his empty glass back into the frat house.  It gave Gabe time to contemplate. Why was he compelled to tell Toby his story?  Why did he feel the need to tell the whole story and not just answer Toby’s question about his calling? 

Gabe relaxed a bit and eased his posture in the wooden lawn chair.  He thought why not.  Why not tell Toby everything.  At least someone else would know his story about what happened on the farm during that glorious and miraculous summer. Maybe that’s why the dog appeared to him today.

Toby returned to the veranda with a couple of cheap beers. The beer was cold and it felt good against Gabe’s hands. 

“Sorry, but we’re struggling college students. Our beer collection is pretty… well, weak.”

“This is perfect,” Gabe popped the tab on the can and guzzled the watery beer.  “Everyone else gone in there?” He referred to the other professors in the dining room.

“Naw, some of them are still chilling.  They probably don’t have anything better to do on a Friday night.” Toby remarked, swilling the beer in his mouth.  He was obviously too young to know good beer.

“So do you want me to continue?”  Gabe asked without bothering to look at Toby and his expression.

“Yeah, yeah… it’s interesting.”

“Not too boring or depressing, huh?” Gabe swilled another gulp of beer, half emptying the can.

“Well it’s sad, but I understand.”

Gabe nodded.  “The journey is only the beginning. It’s important for you to understand my journey.  Because a calling is not a special event, it’s the composite of your life and memories.  You have to understand every moment critical to the journey.  How each of those moments shapes your perspective.”

“Kind of like… to thy own self be true.” Toby did understand.  And so Gabe began to recount his life on the farm after his parents were killed.

 

“           The first year alone on the farm went fairly smooth, despite the constant heartache and sadness.  I remembered everything my parents taught me.  I remembered how to fix the turbine when a freak storm mangled the blades.  I remembered how to can the beets and cure the ham after I butchered one of the pigs.  I even remembered how to dry the roses.  I remembered everything, because that was all I had left of my parents… how to live alone and secluded on a farm.  I lost track of time.  It seemed to stand still, except for the familiar change of seasons.  Funny, how meaningless even time becomes without people around to constantly remind you.

I didn’t venture into town much after my parents died.  I kept to myself… and to Joshua.  What once was a wonderful excursion to the lazy main street in the center of Holy Cross, soon became a distraction.  I began to purposely avoid town, just like my mother avoided it.  But I did leave the farm from time to time.  I would visit my Uncle Jack a couple of times each season.  And once a month, I would drive into Holy Cross and see Ms.Trixie at the post office.  I could never work the key to my post office box, but Ms. Trixie always helped me.  She smiled every time she saw me, she felt sorry for me.

Uncle Jack used to visit every week, but eventually he came less often.  Eventually he came by the farm for an hour or so every other month.  He would bring me supplies, whatever I needed or wanted.  I had everything I wanted on the farm, so my needs were little… clothes, books, pen, and paper.  I read tremendously.  I studied religion, all of them. I wanted to know why my parents died�"why good people had to die.  I thought the Bible and all the other books could explain it to me.

Uncle Jack would order whatever books I requested.  I read more and more.  Joshua kept me company during the long summer evenings and winter months as I read.  He patiently waited.  I would discuss with him each concept in the many, many books I read. He just curled himself into a ball and slept during our conversations.

Uncle Jack offered to buy me a cell phone and a computer, but I talked him out of it.  The turbine didn’t produce enough electricity to power a cell phone charger or a computer.  At least that was the excuse I offered and he reluctantly accepted.  I think he was worried about me and my loneliness�"my isolation.  Regardless of his concern, I was perfectly content to remain alone on the farm with Joshua.

As far as clothes, Uncle Jack brought me new jeans, shirts, boxers, boots and shoes every Christmas holiday.  The twins, Sarah and Samantha, enjoyed doing my clothes shopping for me.  They found me the latest styles, most I didn’t wear�"it wasn’t like their taste in clothes was suitable for farming. But I thanked them sincerely for their gifts.  I never did master sewing, like my mother.  My hands were too big for a tiny needle and slight thread. The truth is… I found clothing to be a hassle.  Always washing and cleaning.  I preferred to wear very little clothing during the majority of summer and spring. I found it enriching to be close to the soil and feel so free.  I was a free animal, like Joshua, and taming the animal by dressing it in cloth somehow seemed inappropriate and unnecessary.  

Uncle Jack told me I had enough money to go to college if I wanted.  Between the lawyers and insurance companies, the wrongful death suit of my parents provided me with enough money for college and then some. I considered college, but a significant part of me didn’t want to leave.  I couldn’t take Joshua from the farm. I felt compelled to stay and avoid the distractions associated with people.  I was content to learn from my books.  I only needed Joshua to keep me company.

Uncle Jack, one year in November, brought me several suggestive books, more picture books I guess. The books were filled with pictures of young, beautiful women.  He told me “Gabe, you need something more than just books on religion and philosophy.  You’re a man.  You have certain needs.” 

He thought the books would help me during the cold winter evenings�"alone on an Iowa farm.  He thought it would help with my desire and bring me away from the confines of the cabin.  The truth was my desire abandoned me when my parents died.  I didn’t need the company of women. I didn’t feel passion. I couldn’t, I was stone cold.  I was a virgin and all too content with my loneliness.  I burned the suggestive books in the fireplace.  I had my stereo and my records, Vivaldi, Bach, Hank Williams, and of course The Platters.  I had my imagination for what little blood raged inside of me.  If Joshua could be alone and content, well, so could I.

More importantly I had the seeds my mother hid under my mattress.  I planted them the first summer.  The men who killed my parents destroyed and ravaged the gardens we planted.  I had to replant the entire crop that year.  I didn’t really mind. The exercise kept me preoccupied.  I was grateful for the work to keep me busy and active. 

Planting was healing.  I released my aggression by chopping at the soil and breaking ground.  I found my compassion by sewing the fragile and innocent seeds. I renewed my faith by watching the plants grow and bear their fruits and flowers.  Tending to the garden slowly restored me, but not fully�"it couldn’t bring my parents back to me. 

My first crop was bountiful.  The seeds my mother gave me were exceptional.  Well balanced between yield and pollination.  It was a cultivar she personally engineered and propagated for years.  She developed a fairly potent and tenacious strain.  I harvested the crops each season, always planting enough for myself and considerably extra. Uncle Jack purchased any residual crops I didn’t need.  He would sell the crops at various farmers markets or to friends and colleagues.  He sold the extra just like he did for my mother and father.  He kept the money from selling the crops, but offered to buy me whatever I needed or wanted.  I really didn’t need anything except to stay on the farm and continue to plant my crops and tend to my animals.

I found the other seeds my mother told me about behind the canned green beans in the cold room.  She cultivated a wide variety of species.  I didn’t realize how adept she was at breeding and engineering various plants, some exotic, most medicinal.  I also found her stash of cash underneath the floorboards in the cold room.  I didn’t know mom and dad kept a lock box under the cold room, until I dropped a jar of canned tomatoes.  The red pulpy fluid ran under the floor. As I cleaned up the mess, I saw a silver shimmer under the old and worn boards. One floor board was loose�"it came up easily. 

The foot chest was old. It was dusty, but I could tell if I cleaned it well, it could appear almost new.  Inside the box were photographs of me as an infant, pictures of my dad and mom in a foreign place in front of vast fields with tall and lush plants.  They looked younger and refreshed in the picture. They were probably my age at the time. Also in the lock box was a great amount of cash, tens of thousands of dollars.  I put the box back under the floorboard.  I thought it best not to tell Uncle Jack.  He could manage my other money, but the cash from my parents I needed to keep for myself.

I didn’t see Walter Timothy Polk until after I was nineteen.  I came across him in Holy Cross.  He was talking to Ms. Trixie when I opened the doors to the post office.  He looked uncomfortable when I walked into the tiny brick building.  Suddenly, Ms. Trixie lost her smile. They both tried to look away, but they couldn’t help but stare. I kept darting my eyes in their direction.  They stopped their conversation. They just stood in silence, staring at each other. Maybe they were hoping I would leave quickly.

I took my time, slowly inserting the key into the lock, twisting it one way then the other.  I opened the drawer and retrieved my mail from the strong box.  I looked over each letter carefully. My eyes kept straying to the two of them at the counter.  I could overhear Ms. Trixie whisper to Walter Timothy Polk, “Go on now. Talk to him.  He’s here, and it’s been a long time.”  Her voice pleaded.

Walter Timothy Polk approached me.  His feet shuffled, his eyes kept looking down.  I could feel how hard it was for him to walk across the linoleum floor.  He must have been carrying a heavy load. 

“Gabe, I just want to tell you, face-to-face, like a man, that I’m sorry.” Although he said the words, he struggled with looking me in the eye.  He kept his eyes focused on my chest in an apologetic fashion.  “I made a mistake.  I was wrong.  And I’m very sorry for what happened to your parents.”

I cleared my throat, it was tight and constricted.  I looked outside the picture window to the big oak tree in front of the post office.  The wind was blowing slightly.  “You know my dad said only a man can admit to his mistakes.  Only a man can admit when he’s wrong.  Only a man can see the frailty of humanity and appreciate the simplicity of life.”  My throat closed.  I choked on my words.  They were more difficult to say than I imagined. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” asked Walter Timothy Polk.

“I can’t forgive you just yet, but I’m working on that.” I closed the door to my post box.  I looked at Ms. Trixie. She stared at me with the same look my mother had when she worried, like when I was ten and started chopping wood by myself.  

“If there’s anything I can do Gabe, to make it right�"please let me know.”

“Just do me a favor�"lead a good life… like my parents did.” I left the post office and tipped my hat to Ms. Trixie.  She said goodbye in a sad way with a slight quiver in her voice.  I climbed into my jeep and sped back to the farm.  Truthfully, I didn’t know what else to say to Walker Timothy Polk, the young man who shot both of my parents. I wanted to absolve him from his guilt, but I wasn’t ready to let my parents go. I thought of all the things I wanted to say on the way home to the farm.  But it didn’t matter, I was reminded of the fact I was still alone�"except for Joshua. 

Joshua took care of me in the couple of years following my parents’ death. I talked to him more than I talked to anyone.  He talked to me too, not in a conventional manner�"but he talked with his expressive eyes, his prodding nose, and how he waved his front paw in the air.  The simple acts from my loyal dog told me everything I needed to know.  I sang to Joshua.  I prayed with Joshua.  I read with Joshua. We worked and we played side by side.  He followed me everywhere on the farm until just after I turned twenty.

It was a cool and crisp September day, no longer summer, but not quite fall.  The air was beginning to turn.  The plants were becoming deprived of light and started to change their leaves to rich and vibrant hues. Joshua seemed restless and distracted all week.  It started while we were walking across the branch, down by the river.  Joshua caught some strange scent in the air.  I couldn’t smell it, but he could.  He stood still, poised and alert, smelling the cool air.  He must have stood there for more than twenty minutes with his black nose sniffing the distant aroma.  I called to him. He ignored me.  I approached him and touched his soft, silver coat.  His eyes flashed at me.  The blue diamond eyes seemed darker in color than usual�"like the soft hue of a sapphire.  I asked him to come with me, and he reluctantly followed. We headed back to the cabin.  In the morning, Joshua was gone.

The days that followed Joshua’s departure were devastating to me.  It was lonely without Joshua, terribly lonely.  Every fifteen minutes, I would stop whatever I was doing and call for him.  No sign�"just the emptiness of the farm.  I walked the property looking for him, afraid he got tangled up with a wolf, coyote, or a cougar.  I took my rifle with me on the walks just in case.  I never did see Joshua as I surveyed the property. He was gone.

            As the days progressed, I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t eat. Every little sound in the woods or on the farm, made me nervous and fidgety.  I was flustered, probably by the lack of proper food and sleep.  At one point I was beside myself.  I debated about calling Uncle Jack to tell him I was ready to leave the farm.  I was depressed, sickened, and scared.

            It was about a week later, I was in the garden, next to the sunflowers. I was harvesting the seeds and buds when I heard a distant bark across the meadow, by the edge of the woods. I saw a brown and silver dog, Joshua’s size, bounding toward me.  I should have been afraid, but I recognized the gate and the bark.  I bent to my knees, thankful to God and thankful to Joshua.  I welcomed him with a giant hug and didn’t let him go. His fur was matted and dingy.  He was covered with mud and smelled like the river.  He was thin, not that anyone else would have noticed. He was excited to see me. He must have licked my face raw.  I didn’t mind the stench of the river or the mud mats clumped in his fur.  I just wanted to hold him and never let him go�"ever. 

I gave him a bath to get the fishy smell of the river from his coat.  As I was bathing him, I noticed something odd… a long strand of red hair.  It was a human hair, wavy and fine.  It was caught up in one of the mats plastered against his silver fur.  I fed Joshua that night a royal dinner, pork chops and potatoes with gravy made from bacon drippings. I think we both ate like it was our first meal.

I finally slept that night.  It was a peaceful sleep. Joshua curled next to my bed.  Ever since my parents died, I slept in their big brass bed on the main floor, because I could still smell them in the white cotton linen and pillows.  Eventually their scent dwindled away. The bed became mine. 

Life continued on the farm.  My reading and studying of philosophy helped me to confront my grief over losing both parents.  Joshua was content and never strayed from the farm.  I built my muscles up considerably during the course of the summer and fall that year.  Chopping wood and baling the wild prairie grass made my muscles ripped and bulky. 

By the time the trees dropped their leaves, I was ready for the approach of winter.  I was ready to relax and read the numerous books Uncle Jack brought me for the cold and bitter season.  Usually I dreaded the mundane winter, where everything on the farm sleeps.  It was normally a depressing period. But this year, I was ready for a bit of relaxation and contemplation.   

After the first of the year, Joshua appeared nervous�"well, as nervous as a dog could be.  He would lie on the floor next to the kitchen table and close his eyes.  He appeared to be reflecting on something, distracted by his own thoughts and not as responsive to me as he was during the summer and fall.  But the winter months passed evenly and were uneventful.  Reading and studying kept me busy.  Soon spring was just around the corner and the promise of yet another season was upon me.   

It was March 11^th.  I can remember the events of the day so vividly.  We woke up early. I made breakfast�"eggs and bacon.  I wanted to make biscuits, but decided I would make a large batch in the afternoon.  So we ate fairly light. I did my morning stretch after cleaning up from breakfast.  I thought about staying in the cabin that morning to finish reading Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time.  I was almost finished with it, but decided it could wait until the afternoon.  I was anxious.  I needed to get outside and work my muscles.  I decided it was time to walk the land and check for any signs of life with the approach of spring. 

I loaded my rifle. Normally it wasn’t required, but something told me to bring it just in case.  I packed a trash bag for debris and a thermos of coffee�"rich and bitter.  Joshua was lethargic.  He was reluctant to move and more reluctant to leave the cabin.  But he followed me just as he always did.

As we left the cabin, the morning was still and damp.  A small layer of fog was frozen to the barren trees and shrubs.  The fog crystallized as frost and ice against the limbs and brush.  It was picturesque, but stone silent.  The temperature was cool, near freezing.  The almanac suggested a chance for ice showers and with the grey skies, it was feasible.  I rested the rifle with the safety engaged on one shoulder.  The brown canvas jacket lining provided ample cushion for the rifle barrel.   

Joshua and I started our patrol to the western boundary and proceeded east.  We would follow the northern boundary first to the river, and then circle around and walk the southern boundary from east to west, forming a loop. Joshua kept to my side the entire time.  Normally he would have strayed from me, nothing more than a couple of yards.  But on this trip he stayed close to me.  Not even the flushing of pheasants made him turn from me.  I debated about shooting the pheasants, but decided not to�"out of season.  I didn’t feel like cleaning the birds anyway.  They could wait.  At least I knew where they were nesting. 

The air was getting misty and heavy by the time we made it to the river.  My nose ran from the moisture and the cool temperatures. We didn’t find any litter during the first pass, which was nice.  We walked slowly against the river line. The ice shelf was breaking and cracking along the Mississippi.  I decided to cut across the property and move west early in the walk.  The March mist penetrated my jeans and jacket.  The flannel shirt provided little warmth. I was cold.

We had just climbed the crest over a steep ledge when Joshua saw it.  He stopped in his tracks.  I walked maybe two steps before I noticed he was no longer by my side.  I turned to look at him. He stood perfectly still with his ears pointed upward.  His eyes turned toward me.  The blue diamond eyes appeared alert.  He turned his head away from me and toward the north.  I asked him what he saw.  I followed his eyes.

I gasped slightly when I saw the giant black bear.  It was maybe ten yards away from us, forging on a deer carcass. It was well over seven feet long and probably six hundred pounds or more.  I suspect it was under nourished from the winter hibernation, when it most likely weighed 900 pounds in the fall.  I could see its pink mouth rip into the hide of the deer. One paw stood on the deer’s head with its extended claws.  The other paw balanced itself against the icy ground.  It continued to gnaw on the big buck without hesitation or reserve.  It ripped it apart without mercy. Suddenly, I remembered Miss Kate, when she explained to me how Walter Timothy Polk thought he saw a black bear roaming the farm the night my parents were killed.  And now, almost four years later, I was confronted by a giant black bear.

The rifle suddenly felt heavy.  I slowly pulled it off my shoulder.  I disengaged the safety, just in case.  I took a step backwards with the rifle poised in both hands.  Joshua watched me while keeping tabs on the bear.  It was ignoring us… this was a good thing.  I took another step back without managing to make a noise and exciting the bear.  I was parallel with Joshua.  I had to decide what to do and fast.  We could turn and run, but the bear could out run us. Maybe the bear wouldn’t leave the deer remains too far behind.  I thought it best to slowly move in the opposite direction, remaining as quiet as possible�"hopeful we wouldn’t attract the bear’s attention.

I took another step to turn when my foot caught against a fallen branch.  I was watching the bear too closely and not watching my step.  I tripped on the branch.  The gun fired and flew out of my arms. I crashed to the ground.  I hit my chest hard against the frigid trunk of a fallen tree.  I thought I heard my ribs crack a bit.  A nauseating pain ran through my chest and my arms.  I saw the rifle about five feet away.  Joshua looked at me.  His eyes appeared panicked and anxious.  I could hear his thoughts, prodding me to get back on my feet. 

The bear was shocked by the blast from the rifle.  It roared, extending its long jaws to proudly display its magnificent fangs.  It was deafening.  The second bellow was even more ferocious.  It started to charge, defending its food and territory.  Its skin and hide flung in the air as it leapt toward us.  It bared its fangs and continued to roar like a freight train.  I twisted about to grab the rifle.  The pain in my chest was overwhelming and slowed me down.  I winced as I touched the butt of the rifle.  Joshua stood his ground between the bear and me.  He stood pawing the dirt, waiting for me to stand and wield the rifle to ward off the bear. 

By the time I got the rifle in my hands, the bear was a little less than ten feet away.  I aimed the rifle at the bear and then I noticed the safety was jammed.  It was too late.

Joshua didn’t hesitate to intercede. He held tight to his defensive posture.  When the bear showed no signs of slowing, Joshua leapt into the air.  He grabbed the bear by its neck.  The bear stood on its back legs. Joshua hung hard and fast, latched to the loose skin around its massive neck.  The bear swiped at Joshua with its razor-like claws. It ripped through Joshua’s silver coat.  The two animals brawled for several more precious seconds, giving me time to unlock the safety on the rifle and c**k it.  By the time I fired a second shot, Joshua was already on the ground, lifeless�"battered and bleeding. 

The bear conceded and turned away.  I loaded the rifle quickly and aligned it in my sight. I almost pulled the trigger, but I couldn’t. Something prevented me from firing, whether it was guilt or fear�"I couldn’t shoot the bear.  I fired a couple more shots in the air to ensure the wild animal continued on its course.  I screamed. It fled the area, leaving the deer carcass behind. 

I turned toward Joshua and raced toward my fallen companion.  When I came upon him, I fell to my knees and instantly started to cry.  He was gone.  His eyes were closed and his chest was flat.  Blood coated the area.  His chest cavity was ripped apart.  Chunks of muscle and tissue were missing.  The gaping wounds started on his neck but followed along his chest and the arch in his abdomen.  The damage was too severe.  He didn’t have a chance. 

I couldn’t leave Joshua there.  I had to bring him back to the farm.  I knew the bear was more than likely to return for the deer carcass.  I shuddered when I considered the possibility it would turn its appetite on Joshua’s remains.  My ribs were aching, almost debilitating, but I mustered through the pain to lift Joshua’s body over my right shoulder. Frankly, I don’t know how I managed to haul him back to the farm. 

As soon as I saw the blue washed barn, I felt a bit of relief.  Every step was pure agony, between the aching ribs and the realization I was now alone on the farm.  I was at the raspberry grove when I collapsed. Joshua’s limp body hit the ground with a thud.  I felt my chest muscles tear and shred.  I grabbed my side and gasped for a breath.  I left Joshua lying on the icy and damp ground. I struggled to get close to the cabin.  By the time I crawled up the steps leading to the door, I was coughing blood.

I crept into the cabin on my hands and knees.  The fire was still glowing in the fireplace. I fell in front of it, almost passing out completely.  I struggled to retain my consciousness.  I knew I had to keep myself awake if I was going to live, but the fight in me was spent.  I was tired, so tired.  I choked up more blood. I rolled on to my back�"a dangerous position.

I cursed God. Why! Why did he abandon me?  Why did he take my parents?  Why did he steal away Joshua?  Why did God take everything precious, everything I adored, away from me?  I didn’t want to live anymore if I were to be alone on the farm or in the world.  I coughed again and felt my ribs shift unnaturally.  I opened my jacket and my shirt.  I ran my hands across my chest and side.  I could feel a knot just above the left side of my abdomen.  I felt my lower ribs float against my skin.  The pain was excruciating.

I struggled with wanting to live.  I debated about whether I could possibly drive myself into town.  I didn’t think I would make it.  I thought I would pass out from the pain and veer my jeep into a ditch or a field.  I thought if I just closed my eyes, I could sleep.  Maybe in the morning, everything would be better.  Maybe I wouldn’t make it through the night.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to live anyway.  I was alone�"utterly alone and it was terrifying to me�"it was more terrifying than dying. 

I closed my eyes.  I could hear the wind and the ice begin to drive on the outside of the cabin.  Ice pellets struck the roof.  The noise lulled me into it.  The wind was strong and relentless.  I never felt so close to the wind.  I was part of it, one with nature, and one with the driving wind.  I drifted off and began to dream.  I dreamed about dancing in the cabin.  I was a young boy, with one foot on my father’s foot and one foot on my mother’s.  They waltzed me around the cabin, holding my hands to balance me.  Joshua danced too, circling my parents while wagging his tail.  The dream was short, but wonderfully sweet…”

 

Gabe looked at Toby.  “I really didn’t think I was going to make it through the night.”  Toby leaned forward from his sitting position on the grassy lawn.  He propped his knees up.  Then he leaned his elbows against them.  “The journey to that point in time was painful.  The death of my parents and Joshua humbled me as a man.”

Gabe coughed suddenly. He felt his throat slightly constrict.  He felt a clutching within his lungs, like a small child was sitting on his chest.  It passed shortly. “But the journey to that windy and icy night on March 11^th was only the beginning.  It was all necessary�"despite my suffering and humiliation�"it was very necessary. I know that now. To my own self I was true.”

“So what happened to you?” Toby asked with bold and curious eyes.  He was becoming enthralled by Gabe’s story.  How did this all lead back to God and a calling to the priesthood.  How did this begin the one great love of Gabe’s life?

“The angel.  That was the night the angel appeared to me in his true form.”

 

Reviews

[B MacGregor]

This is a completed book. Would love to, look forward to, begging to--throw more chapters up if someone is interested--hint, hint, hint.....