Jeff's Alfalfa Field

A magical gypsy changes a farmer's life.

Old man Pickard banged the farmhouse door until Jeff yelled from the hayloft.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Pickard?"

"Get your butt down here, Jeff. I haven't got all day."

Jeff emerged from the barn a moment later, brushing his overalls off.

"What is it, Mr. Pickard?"

"Understand something, Rockford. My offer is off the table as of nine o'clock this evening."

"I already told you my farm isn't for sale, Mr. Pickard."

"Now, just a minute, you're $3000 in debt to me on the alfalfa seed, Rockford."

"I think the seed will pay for itself once I establish a crop."

"Fat chance of that. We're in a drought, and you've got no water shares. My advice is you get out of debt while you still have the chance."

"I'll take my chances it'll rain, Mr Pickard."

"You do that, Jeff." Pickard moved a step closer. "There's talk you've got yourself a share in one of those European brides. What's the matter, Jeff? Aren't local women good enough for you? Peg Martin over on Road 7 needs a man. She's a fine little mare. Why not hitch your wagon to that?"

"Is it hard to understand I've fallen in love, Mr. Pickard?"

"Well, you know what they say, Jeff."

"I'm not sure I do."

"Turn em upside down, and they all look the same."

The smile disappeared from Jeff's face, and Pickard laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks.

***

That afternoon, Jeff waited at a DIA baggage kiosk, searching the flight display for United flight 754, nonstop from Munich to Denver. It had landed but hadn't yet arrived at the gate. He readied the sign he'd written his lady's name on, Cassandra, and his mind drifted to their first online conversations. They'd started cautiously, but now Jeff wondered if it wasn't all a dream, this lovely creature from an imaginary land. Hungary. He'd never ventured beyond the Colorado borders, and wasn't a cultured man, but his heart was true and his hopes alive. 

Cassandra's simplicity and goodness had given him hope. She'd know the strife of political upheaval and social rejection due to her gypsy heritage. 

He'd suffered a cruel loss to cancer, a young wife. And always, the legacy farm that would not produce. Could this be a second chance? Could a child be possible? They both yearned for fulfillment and an opportunity to start their lives anew. They were yet to meet, yet his heart was full.

***

Travelers arrived at the kiosk and crowded the island. He searched their faces but found no one resembling the picture he'd studied so carefully. 

Elevators chimed, whooshed, and whisked travelers to the upper levels. Soon, just a single suitcase remained, winding slow laps around the baggage carousel. Jeff's covered his face with his hands. 

"Please let this be real and good," he murmured.

And then he saw her, coming down the concourse with a large straw handbag. 

The pictures she'd sent had done her no justice: oceanic blue eyes, raven hair, a bow-shaped mouth, and a dazzling smile. She wore a floral macramé blouse with a full-length muslin skirt and an ankle bracelet with tiny bells. 

The closer she drew, the more otherworldly her appearance became... and then she was at his side, taking his arm and filling his ears with sweet laughter.

On the drive to the farm, she intercepted his glances, meeting each one with a steady gaze and smile.

***

The following morning, Jeff woke with a start. He lay on his bed with closed eyes. Was she real? He slipped out of bed, pulled on his work clothes, then went quietly to the kitchen. 

The guest bedroom door was ajar. 

He approached, thinking to knock softly, but stayed his hand. 

What if she's a dream and I'm still alone? 

He found his courage and rapped lightly.

"Come in, Mr. Jeff; I am awake."

He peered in. 

Her smile was jewelry.

She lay nestled in the guest bed.

"I didn't want to disturb you," Jeff said. He glanced around the room, which seemed strangely aglow.

"Oh, but I am glad for your presence, Mr. Jeff. Promise to let me cook breakfast. I have seen you have many eggs."

She tumbled out of bed. Jeff stepped boyishly aside as Cassandra swept past him, coloring the air with the fragrance of her hair.

Jeff went to a window and looked over the dusty farmyard as Cassandra cooked, a pole barn, the corral, a sprawl of old farm machinery, and the tool sheds.

The roof joists need immediate attention. Where's that money coming from? The alfalfa needs to take off like never before. What are my chances for that? I need rain. These last three years have been hell.

Cassandra called him from his reverie, and he went to the table, noticing she'd put their settings next to each other on the table. She quickly joined him, leaning her head on his shoulder, saying,"You are a good man, Mr. Jeff."

He felt he would cry.

After breakfast, He went outside and looked down the driveway, its two hundred yards dividing his two modest fields and then intersecting County Road 3.

A pickup truck barreled along the unpaved stretch, kicking up clouds of dust that drifted slowly across the fields and settled in the morning's dead calm. Red-tailed hawks circled high above the parched irrigation ditches. A gust of wind blew in from the snowcapped Rockies, spinning the barn's weathervane to the east, and a thundercloud tumbled in and spat out an electric-blue bolt, rending the sky with a terrific crack. 

The cloud passed, casting the farmhouse in shadow, pelting the thick dust with raindrops as it floated quickly into the distance.

Come back, cloud!

He watched it disappear. Then, listening to the shrinking rumble, he saw something he'd never seen. The storm cloud began moving against the wind back toward his farm. 

Jeff removed his hat and scratched his head.

These things have scientific explanations. 

Oh God, don't let this be a twister!

The cloud continued moving toward Jeff's property, positioning itself over the alfalfa field and letting loose with a downpour. 

Jeff glanced toward the farmhouse and saw Cassandra watching from a window. She waved at him and smiled. He waved back, soaking up the rain in wonderment, running for the farmhouse, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"It's rain, Cassandra, a regular downpour. I don't know how, but..."

"It's very good, this rain?"

"Heck yeah," Jeff said.

"This is very good in Hungary as well. You like it?"

"I do, Cassandra, only we can't count on luck around here."

"Maybe there is not so much wrong with your luck."

"Well, that'd be every kind of wonderful. To think it would rain every day, just enough to get the crop up and keep it going."

"Maybe you cross your fingers a little bit." With that, Cassandra went outside and spoke to the raincloud in a foreign tongue. The rain tapered off, and the cloud headed due east.

***

Meanwhile, old man Pickard woke with a snort. The aroma of sausages and scrambled eggs pulled him towards the dining area, where a stack of pancakes awaited.

He pulled his suspenders over his pear-shaped torso, sat at the kitchen table, and drained a glass of orange juice.

"Rosalinda," he bellowed, "bring coffee and the paper and then go."

The woman bit her bottom lip, then peeked around the pantry door. For seventeen years, I've worked here. And my name is Juanita. 

"Yes, sir," she said, bringing a coffee pot and the paper.

Pickard let go with a giant belch. Juanita exited the pantry and continued out the front door, leaving the house keys and a resignation note on the kitchen counter.

Pickard poured syrup over his food and wolfed it down. After another enormous belch, he caressed his belly. People had compared his appearance to Jack Dempsey as a young man, but he'd ballooned to over three hundred pounds. 

Going to his porch, Pickard bellowed for his foreman.

"Hola, Señor Pickard," said Manuel, coming around the side of the house.

"Round your crew up, Manuel; we have eight hundred acres to cut."

"Si, Mr. Pickard."

"And get rid of that new boy. I don't need him."

"Ricardo? He is a hard worker, Señor Pickard."

"You heard me!" roared Pickard. "I own ninety percent of the arable land in this county; I'll have you know!"

As Manuel returned to his truck, he mumbled, The man with the spooky eyes.

***

Jeff watched admiringly as Cassandra put lunch together for his workday.

"There's no reason to trouble yourself with all that," he said.

"You are a strong man, Mr. Jeff. This keeps your strength."

"Well, I'm clearing Pickard's irrigation ditch today. Call me if there's something I can bring you from Pickard's Quick Stop."

"This is Pickard's ditch and also Pickard's Stop?"

"It's Pickard's Reservoir, too," added Jeff.

"And you will have water from Pickard's ditch?"

"I'll earn half a day's water. It doesn't amount to much, I'm afraid."

Cassandra went about the kitchen, preparing the rest of Jeff's lunch, pausing here and there to smile.

"There is a drink they served on the plane. This is green can, very sweet. I'm saying 'Spite,' but it is incorrect. Perhaps 

Spite is a common drink at Pickard's Quick Stop?"

"Sprite," corrected Jeff with a boyish laugh. "If you had a feather and I had Pickard's money, we'd both be tickled."

***

Jeff parked his truck on the side of Reservoir Road, then pushed through high cattails until he'd reached the headgate, an open-top concrete box sticking just out of the ground. He cleared it of tumbleweeds, checked the action on the slide, then started up the weed-covered embankment to the top of the earthen dam.

The man-made lake, a thousand yards in circumference, had reached its maximum depth, catching the irrigation runoff from a network of farms along the Bear Creek Basin. A makeshift dock extended twenty feet over the water and hovered just inches above the surface. Small fish swam near the riprap shores.

He stepped onto the dock slats, feeling the structure sway, hesitating to devise an action plan should the dock cave in before starting forward to test the main valve. The valve wheel turned with average resistance--good to go. The dock wobbled as he crept back to the bank.

Grabbing a pitchfork and a flat-nose shovel from the truck, he started down the ditch, clearing debris and caked mud along the way.

The sun blazed overhead. Grasshoppers crisscrossed the ditch, landing on the stands of Kochia weed, edging both sides. A bull snake hissed. Jeff stumbled backward, tripping over his boots and landing on his elbows. He leaped to his feet, raising the shovel. "Get out of here, Yah!" The snake held its ground. She was the size of Jeff's arm and angry with her eyes locked on him.

"Yah! Get the hell out of here!"

Jeff backed up, and the snake slipped into the Kochia. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and continued down the ditch. "Not poisonous," he mumbled. "But rattlesnakes are bad news." He eyed the three-foot Kochia suspiciously.

Seven hours later, he reached a watershed that channeled water away from his property and into Pickard's lagoon. He trudged back to the reservoir, opened the headgate, then lingered momentarily, watching the flow rush toward the first four culverts.

Heading home, he steered his truck down Highway 56, stopping to purchase the soft drink that Cassandra wanted. He drove over a rise and almost lost his grip on the steering wheel. Pulling over and climbing out of his truck, he stared in disbelief at the alfalfa crop that covered his fields in purple blooms just two days after he'd planted it. But it's not possible! He jumped in the truck and drove like a madman. Bursting through the door, he sat the soft drink down, swept Cassandra into his arms, spun her in a circle, and then carefully set her down.

"There is much alfalfa. You are pleased, Mr. Jeff?"

"I don't understand it, but I'm very pleased."

Cassandra took Jeff by the hand and led him to the living room. She put a slow waltz record on the turntable and said,

"Then you will be pleased to dance with me and love me, for soon there is much more."

"Yes," Jeff said. And they glided across the floor.

***

The following morning, Jeff discovered three hundred large square bales of alfalfa stacked neatly in the south corner of his property and the fields again blooming.

An hour later, old man Pickard drove onto Jeff's property with Manuel and Zora from the Agricultural Board, following behind in an old pickup.

Pickard walked straight up to Jeff.

"I don't know what you're up to, Rockford, but cow manure came down my ditch yesterday and ruined my lagoon."

Manuel stood behind Pickard, nodding at Jeff with an approving smile.

"I don't see how that could've happened. Mr. Pickard, I cleared the ditch and started your water as instructed. It was a clear flow."

"We'll just see about that," Pickard complained, suddenly noticing the stacked alfalfa in Jeff's fields. "What the hell is that? Those are stolen bales--my bales," he grabbed Manuel. "Right?"

"No, Señor Pickard, I counted your bales this morning. But a strange cloud is raining on them, and they will become moldy."

Old man Pickard looked at Zora and threw up his hands, but Zora only shrugged.

Cassandra came out of the farmhouse and took Jeff's arm. She looked at Pickard and said, "Perhaps there is something wrong with your luck, Mr. Pickard."

"This isn't over, Rockford, not by a long shot," Pickard yelled.

Jeff said, "You know what they say about moldy bales, don't you, Pickard?"

"What do they say, Mr. Jeff?" Cassandra asked, squeezing Jeff's arm affectionately.

Jeff raised his chin to Pickard and said, "Turn them upside down, and they all look the same."

End