On the Divinity of Second Chances (15 page)

The woman with him says, “We read one article that encouraged us to tell you guys we were insulating with agricultural cellulose.”

I smile, unsure how to respond. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s hard for the bank to evaluate something like this because the loan is based on resale value. If no houses like the one you’re building have sold in the area in the last year, the bank may shy from it.” I feel for them. These people deserve a chance. But that’s not how the system works. It comes down to numbers and statistics, nothing else. “You should hear from us in six to ten working days.”

“Well, if the bank doesn’t come through, it’ll just take us a little longer, that’s all,” says the man, and they stand up and leave.

“Good luck with everything,” I call after them, truly meaning it.

After they go, I flip through the articles. One of the articles has information about straw bale building, and another, cob, which looks like a mix of mud, straw, and a little concrete. Dirt? Who would want to live in a dirt house? I examine the pictures. The dirt houses actually look nice—sort of like adobe. Well, hm . . . adobe is also dirt. As I glance through all the pictures, a world of possibilities opens up to me, and I imagine building a nice house like these without going into debt.

I go home and read everything I can on the Internet about straw bale and cob construction. I look at picture after picture. Some look not so different from conventional houses, and some are wildly artistic. Most are something in between. A lot of the houses seem curvy and soft. They seem kind of feminine in that way, and inviting, like a grandmother opening her arms and saying, “Come on home, child. Come on home.”

I read a little about the people who built these houses. Even though they come from many different walks of life, they share a common vision, a simplicity in life that resonates with me.

Imagine, having a house you own free and clear. Imagine having a house no one can take from you. I realize I might have just found my escape route.

I order a couple books on each of the construction techniques and turn off my computer.

Pearl on Beatrice and Saving the Farm
(June 23)

Beatrice and I had actually gone to school together; she was four years my junior, though. I don’t believe we ever conversed until Henry died.

Beatrice was a CPA who worked with Leanne, one of the first female lawyers in South Dakota. Together, they started a consulting business called Bought the Farm to help widows straighten out bookkeeping, tax, or legal problems that would otherwise cause women to lose their homes. It needs to be said that Beatrice was a true visionary.

Our farm was the worst bookkeeping case she had ever seen. She told me straight up I’d need to get a job—a good job—a job traditionally done by men so that it might actually pay a living wage, and then I’d have to come home at night and farm. Selling this crop wouldn’t solve my problems alone, but if I didn’t sell it, I’d surely lose the farm.

Then she asked me how I’d feel about taking in a boarder.

I was reluctant and told her I supposed it depended on who it was. She explained that both she and her younger brother had been living on their family farm since their parents retired and moved to a small house in town, but recently her brother had found a woman to marry. Beatrice was looking to move out so her brother and his soon-to-be wife could have a normal life on the farm together. She offered me $150 a month. I gratefully accepted.

I was almost unaware I was sharing my house since I was rarely home, but when I was aware of Beatrice’s presence, I was infinitely thankful. It was about that time that I went to work as sheriff ’s deputy, and harvest was approaching. Beatrice kept my garden alive, and she made soups out of what was in season and left them on the stove for me. Each bowl of soup felt like a miracle to me. Yes, I was so exhausted and so hungry all the time that someone else making a bowl of soup for me was taken as a sign from God to carry on.

I brought in that corn crop by myself under the light of the moon and on my days off. Still needing money, I planted a winter crop, semolina. I didn’t have the machinery to bring in the semolina, so I had to contract out that harvest. Still, I made a profit. It was little more than marginal, but every little bit helped. I sold the giant corn combine at the auction for less than what it was worth, but enough to pay off the balance on it plus a little to start my spring crop.

I consulted with Phil before starting my spring crop, knowing a good choice could help me save the farm, whereas a bad choice could cost me the farm. Phil approved of sunflowers, though he also liked wheat. I intended to plant half of each and play it safe, but I don’t know. I just had a strong feeling about sunflowers, so I gambled everything on them. It was a good thing I did. Wheat plummeted that summer and sunflowers skyrocketed. I made $400,000 off that crop, enough to keep the bank off my back for the year, and just a little short of what I needed to pay off the mortgage. For the first time in a long time, I knew I was going to be okay.

Beatrice made Miss Fern and me a chocolate cake that night. It was utterly indulgent. Miss Fern brought a bottle of champagne. We ate and drank and tapped and drank and tapped and drank and tapped and drank. And we laughed.

Phil on Lesson Four
(June 24)

“Good morning, Phil.” Al sips his scotch.

I immediately assemble my chanter.

“In no time at all, you will be piping in the annual Trailing of the Sheep Parade with Junior and me. Of course, this involves buying a pair of shoes for this purpose and this purpose only. The parade officials have placed us behind the sheep because our placement in front of them inhibited their willingness to go forward two years ago. So we follow the sheep now. Heads up, Phil—once you step in sheep urine and feces, there is no restoring your shoes to their original odor. It is one distinct and tenacious aroma. One just keeps his parade shoes in the garage for the remainder of the year, unless he is living in the garage, in which case, one must find a home for them outside where rodents will not nest in them. Now last year, the parade officials, in their infinite wisdom, not only placed us behind the sheep, but behind the horses as well. It would seem the parade officials that year were not the sharpest tools in the shed. We began to blow, and a large black Morgan by the name of Dusty Joe began to look for weak spots in the crowd. He found one. Two people were hospitalized. Playing the pipes is a heavy cross to bear sometimes, Phil. And now, let us commence to play the greatest song ever written.”

The fruits of my diligent practice impress Al. “Phil, I have never allowed a student to spend less than six months on the chanter alone, but I do believe that next week, you will be ready to play the goose. Exceptional, Phil.”

Play the goose? It is so sweet to taste success again. I cannot wait to feel the bag under my arm. I will not rest until all the drones are uncorked and the sound of the pipes reverberates through my every cell.

Before I start up the ridge today, I take out my minitablet, turn back the page where I log Anna’s menopausal behaviors, and make a new chart. Two weeks ago, I took three hours and forty minutes for the hike up and back; last week, three hours and twenty minutes. I draw a neat bar graph, using the envelope from my bank statement to help me make straight lines with my mechanical pencil. Today, my goal is three hours and ten minutes or less.

I wish I could think of a way to quantify my success with the bagpipes so I could graph my progress. Evidence of progress is needed now more than ever.

Jade on Mud
(June 26)

The rain calls out to me. Come play, it says.

It is my last life, and though I know I’ll enjoy the next dimension, the one where everyone is enlightened—I mean, can you imagine living with only enlightened souls?—I still feel a severing in my heart for all the things I love about Earth. I want to see it all and smell it all, well, no, actually only the pleasant smells, and I want to eat lots and lots of candy. Most of all, I want to feel it all one last time. This is why I haven’t worn shoes for ten years. Sure, I wear flip-flops when I go into grocery stores, but that hardly counts. It’s my last life to feel the Earth under my feet, and I intend to feel it.

When I walk with my bare feet on the Earth, I imagine gripping Mother Earth like a baby gorilla clings to its mother, or sometimes I imagine massaging Mother Earth like Asian masseuses who walk on people’s backs.

My feet have become tough, almost hooflike. The soles of my feet, now thick, are much like the soles of other people’s boots. Dirt is embedded in the cracks and doesn’t come out no matter how long I scrub with a brush. This grosses out a lot of people, but I don’t care. I have no time to waste.

I love silt and mud, sand and powdery snow. Slush is nice, too. Yes, I like slush a lot, but mud puddles are my favorite.

Aretha and I take off on foot out Rock Creek Road where the gravel ends and the dirt begins. It’s our regular rainy day starting spot. We run and run through the silty clay-mud and splash through as many puddles as we can find. I wear next to nothing because I love rain, too. I want to feel the little air currents with their varying temperatures, and how the land holds pockets of cold air in lower places. I run and run as fast as I can with long, high strides. I run fast, but Aretha runs faster, so fast her own flesh seems to ripple behind her.

I feel the wind in my leg hair and thank God I’m enlightened enough to know beauty is a feeling, and not an appearance. Ah, yes, sometimes beauty is the wind blowing through your leg hair.

This afternoon, as I often do after a good mud run, I just lie down in the mud and merge with the beautiful Earth. For all its problems, its tragedies, its cruelty, and its suffering, Earth is still such a beautiful place. Aretha lies next to me and I think, Life doesn’t get better than this. Good muddy planet and a good dog. What more could a woman want?

Olive on Anxiety Attacks
(June 30)

Today’s the day, the big move. Before work, I pack the very last of my belongings into my car. I stand in the doorway and look one last time into the place where Matt and I lived. It looks just as it did when we moved in. We were so full of hope and excitement then. We really thought we would stay together forever. I’m a totally different person now—so little hope. I shut the door and lock it behind me. That chapter is closed. My heart aches.

I get in my car with my bag of toiletries, two days’ worth of laundry, and a slice of leftover pizza. As I approach the bank, I hit a wall of dread. Still, I take my pizza as I get out of my car, and walk across the parking lot and up the sidewalk.

As I reach for the handle of the bank’s front door, I stop. I hesitate. I reach again and hold the handle for a moment. My heart races. Is this pregnancy hormones or a panic attack? Can anyone tell me what a panic attack feels like? I pull the door open a little. The way it rotates on the hinge reminds me of a letter on
Wheel of Fortune
. . . a letter beginning to spell out an answer I don’t like in my life. What would happen if Vanna just stopped turning the letters? What would happen if she just sat there and refused to do her job? Would the answer to the puzzle still reveal itself? I look at the bench next to the door and consider just sitting there all day instead of going inside. If I don’t go in, I can’t go home; Dad would never understand this.

What would happen if Vanna just walked right off
Wheel of Fortune
and onto
Jeopardy?
True, not really much for her to do on
Jeopardy
. Is
The Price Is Right
still on? What if Vanna just dropped out of the world of game shows altogether? What if she wanted to work outdoors for a while? What if she at least wanted a window? What if she wanted to trade in her gowns for overalls?

When the thought of overalls crosses my mind, I know. For the first time, I have a vision of my future that I like. My heart still races, and my breathing is still shallow and laborious, but I know. Just knowing is huge.

I slowly start walking back to my car, looking back several times at the building with almost no windows and all those pictures of children on the desks inside. I look at the building’s institutional lines . . . structured, functional, confining brick.

James walks toward me from his car on his way to the glass entrance. I wonder what his puzzle begins to spell out every time he opens that door. “You’re going the wrong way, Olive!” he jokes.

“Um . . . I forgot something,” I stammer. Yeah, Chief, I forgot my life. I’m just going to go get it.

I get in my car and just start driving. I listen to the Indigo Girls because their strong voices strengthen me. I sing along.

The sound of my own strong voice makes me hopeful that somewhere in me is a well of strength yet untapped, but available when I need it. I definitely need it.

The road to South Dakota used to seem so long when I was a teenager. Down out of this valley, through the old lava fields, around the Palisades, over Teton Pass, through the endless dry mountain landscape of Wyoming, past some badlands and into the Black Hills, which, though dry, always seemed so lush after hours in Wyoming. Yes, this trip used to seem like forever, but this time it’s too short.

How am I ever going to tell my parents I’m having a baby? God, this is going to break their hearts. My stomach sinks. This isn’t the life they wanted for me. I can’t even imagine how disappointed in me Dad is going to be. I try to imagine holding my baby, holding my baby I love so much, and facing my parents’ scorn. Will the baby pick up on their conflicted feelings? Will the baby pick up on my shame? Probably. Maybe it would be better if they never had to know. My baby and I could just live in our mud house and grow our own food without anyone judging us. Yeah, that’s not very realistic. I wonder if my stress is harming my baby. Probably. Will telling my parents about the baby just create more stress, or will not telling them, but worrying about the day when I’ll have to, actually create the most stress? It just kills me that I’m going to bring this innocent little person into the world, into our family, and my parents aren’t going to be happy to meet her. I can picture myself having just survived labor and childbirth, holding my precious child, feeling scared but proud, maybe even momentarily hopeful, and then my parents walk into the room. I see my situation through their eyes and I wilt. I want to disappear.