The Farm; Part 2

                Two doors open.  Gulp, gulp!  Two doors shut.  Thump-thump!  Two women, whom I’ve never met before, yet instantly knew, now stood before me.

                We all stood in silence, sizing each other up, I suppose.  My reflection in the back glass of that little red pickup gave the illusion that we were all side-by-side.  It was in that moment that the stark contrasts of our worlds merged.  In the image, I stood between them, his mother Fay on my right and sister Lisa on my left.  I saw, for a moment, what they must see: a woman out of her element.  My stylish pinstriped pantsuit, soft silk blouse, shiny, dangling jewelry and modern shag cut stood out in direct contrast to their comparative modest garden-working attire.  Never before, had I felt so utterly alone and out of my element.  I desperately clutched my only tie to Chuck, the credit card, and repeated my mantra (don’t say anything stupid, don’t say anything stupid) over and over in my head.

                My eyes focused on his mother and it was her that I addressed, though I gave his sister a nod of greeting, which she returned.  Fay hobbled a bit as she made her way towards me, her weathered skin breaking comfortably into an easy smile as she greeted me with, “Howdy!”  (Don’t say anything stupid, don’t say anything stupid…)

“Hi! I’m a ….uh…FRIEND of, uhm…Chuck’s?  He…..uh,….left his credit card in my car.  I was just, uh….gonna put it in his truck.” 

                And yes, I held the credit card up for validation.

                Hoping to somehow look less stupid, and since I was already next to Chuck’s truck, I turned and open his door and placed the card on his console (if he couldn’t find it I could always read off the numbers that were now imprinted in the palm of my hand).  I turned back, hoping they would have gone into the house so I could stop my incessant stammering.  Fat chance.  There they both stood, looking at me with mirrored expressions of an unreadable nature.  I’m sure they were wondering what kind of city-slicking dimwit that boy of theirs had drug up.  All I wanted was to get out of the situation with what little pride I had left.  Fay, apparently, hadn’t had enough yet and invited me in for a soda.  I politely declined, feigning a busy afternoon and thought I was in the clear when a rumbling from behind me caused Fay’s eyes to light up.

“Well, at least say hi to Chuck!” Fay insisted as she held up her “walking stick” (which I had just noticed was a sharpened garden hoe) signaling Chuck to stop.  The giant, orange (which I’m pretty sure at one point in time had been red) tractor gurgled and coughed as it sputtered to a stop and Chuck casually swung out of the cab onto the ground.  The dust vibrated off him as his imposing figure closed the distance between us.  I stepped out in front of Fay and Lisa, hoping to rush out a whispered explanation.  A devious twinkle gleamed in his eye as, without a word, he leaned down and kissed me.  Not a peck, mind you, but a “you are the love of my life” kiss.

I know that to many women this may have seemed like a romantic moment, however; all I could think about was that:

1.         I had introduced myself as his friend.

and

2.         His mother used a sharpened garden hoe for a walking stick.

The kiss was over before I had cleared my head.  Chuck placed his work-calloused finger under my chin, bringing my head up and eyes lined with his.  He said nothing, just looked into my eyes and smiled.  The butterflies went crazy.  After saying something to his mother, while still looking at me, he turned and strode back towards the waiting tractor.  A panicked lump formed in my throat, no words would come out and I tried to will him back with my glare.  With a pop and deep-throated gurgle, the tractor restarted and it was apparent that he was not coming back. 

I could feel Fay and Lisa watching my back.  I knew that by now my face would be thoroughly flushed and there would be no hiding the predicament.  I turned and gave a crooked smile.  Both women smiled back, theirs genuine smiles of victory.  Fay, once again, invited me in to “sit for a spell”.  This time I said, “Yes, Ma’am.”

That was six years ago.  Chuck and I are married with a baby girl of our own.  Still our world centers around that farm.  Each year my husband spends what little spare time he has trying to resuscitate the antique equipment so that he can continue the planting tradition that his father started so long ago.  Our humble farm seems mediocre nestled among the mega farmers with all their computerized gear, but its bygone ways have proven true.  Somehow, through all the years, and advances in technology, things are run pretty much the same as when Chuck’s father first stepped foot on the land and began clearing the trees by hand. 

Miss Fay still spends her days doing hair and evenings cooking up a meal that would make a five star chef envious.  She still wrestles the chickens into the coup each night and rises before all the stars are clear from the sky.  She welcomes the spring by tilling the garden and offering up her seeds saved from last year’s harvest, and spends the hot summer months on the guard for weeds and bugs.  In the early fall, before the air has even had time to cool, her kitchen is alive with vegetables and fruits of every kind.  The counters are lined with glass mason jars, and wonderful aromas make the stomach grumble as the annual canning begins.  She still attends the same church that her children were raised in, still whips up her famous fried pies to hand out if anyone needs a pick-me-up, and still says grace before every meal.

Chuck’s ways haven’t altered much either, still a reflection of his father.  That old orange tractor was finally upgraded to a not so old blue one.  While the other farmers’ use their futuristic green machines, with their built-in GPS that practically drive themselves, Chuck spends his spring tuning up ole’ blue and seeing if we can get one more season out of that old disc of ours.  The neighbors plant with relative ease, while we praise the Lord if we only have one breakdown that takes less than an hour to fix.  He spends his summers fretting over not enough water on the beans (or too much) and preparing the combine and “big truck” for the upcoming harvest.  There never seems to be enough time to actually get all things working, so I feel sorry for the thief who attempts to make away with any of our equipment.  Chuck is a natural “engineer” and often has unique ways for solving his mechanical problems that usually involve a weird combination of punching buttons and shifting gears.  For years, the “big truck” has needed an over-haul and brakes, but somehow (through God’s grace) we always seem to make it one more season. 

Before harvest begins, and the mosquitoes die off, Chuck heads into the woods to cut and haul the hickory and oak that will warm our houses during the winter.  His only respite comes on October 1, when hunting season begins.  Then he rises in the dark, deftly donning his camo and bow, and heads into the woods.  A couple of hours each Saturday morning, and a few hours in the evening, are the only breaks he takes (and even then, he’s scouting any trees that might need to be felled).  Despite the long, grueling hours and hard work, I know my husband wouldn’t have it any other way.