Spring's Gentle Promise (20 page)

“Boy, I’d like to, Josh. Been wantin’ to get some of yer stock fer a long time. But right now ain’t a good time. Crop too poor. No feed. No money. Maybe next year after we git ’nother crop in the bins.”

But next year wouldn’t help my dilemma. I needed cash
now
.

By the end of the day I was about spent. It wasn’t just that the ride had been tiring. It was the whole emotional drain of the process. And I’d been unsuccessful. I would need to resort to shipping the stock, and I knew the price I got for slaughter animals would not be nearly as good as that paid for breeding stock.

I hated to go home and face Mary. I was afraid she would read in my eyes the fear I felt inside.

I tried to shake off my foreboding. We’d make it. It would just be tough for a while and then the crops would get us on our feet again. All we had to do was make that bank payment and ease our way through the year until the crop was up again. We could make it. It would be good for us to have to cut back a bit. Make us even more appreciative of the good harvest—the bountiful times.

Before I went into the house I sat down on a milk stool and pulled out my paper and pencil again. It would take more critters than I had first counted on to make the payment. It was really going to cut into the herd to meet that bank commitment. And I’d have to go see the banker the first thing in the morning and ask for a few days’ extension. There was no way I could get my payment in the mail in time for the original deadline. I hoisted myself off the stool and tucked away my figurings.

Mary gave me a smile when I entered the kitchen, but she didn’t ask about my day. I was glad. I didn’t have an answer quite ready yet.

It wasn’t until we were retiring that night that the subject was discussed. Mary waited until William had been changed and fed and tucked in for the night. After we had finished our regular devotions together, I stretched out full length beneath the fresh-smelling sheets and was about to shut my eyes, hoping for early sleep and maybe postponement of a difficult discussion. But Mary slipped her hand into mine.

“How’d it go, Josh?” she asked me.

I hesitated for just a moment and then answered honestly, “Not good.”

She was silent, giving me a chance to go on.

“Oh, everywhere I went folks were anxious enough to buy.

They just don’t have any feed either. I should’ve thought of that. Whole country was dry this year.”

“Any way to get the stock to where folks
do
have feed?” asked Mary, and I wondered why I hadn’t thought of that. I lay there thinking about it now—but came up empty.

“I wouldn’t know how,” I admitted. “From the reports in the paper and on the radio, the dryness has covered a large area. I have no idea where folks might have more feed than critters.” I sighed deeply and Mary’s hand tightened on mine. “Besides,” I went on, “I would have no way of making contacts or of getting the animals beyond the county.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Mary.

“Ship. Market them. There’s another market day on Thursday. I’ll get ’em in for that.”

I had to round up a crew of neighbor boys to help me drive my stock to town. It seemed that every farmer in the whole area was like-minded. When I arrived with my cattle, the holding pens were already filled to near bursting. I knew without thinking on it that I needed to knock a few more dollars off the price I would get for the animals. It always happened that way when the market was flooded. I wished I’d brought along a few more yearlings.

The bank manager was decent enough. He admitted that it had been a tough year—that all the area farmers were having a hard time. He said the same thing that I had been saying to myself—over and over. Things would all straighten out next year when the crop was taken in.

There was nothing for me to do then but to wait for that stock payment to arrive in the mail. I thought of it constantly. Prayed that it would be enough. But it wasn’t. Not quite. I took it to the banker and promised to sell a couple more cattle. He nodded solemnly and applied to the loan what I had brought.

Mary knew I was troubled. She left me alone for several days, and then I guess she decided we needed to talk about it.

“How bad is it, Josh?” she asked and I knew that she wanted, and deserved, an honest answer.

“Pretty bad,” I admitted. “But it’ll be all right. I made the loan payment. I was sorry to sell as much stock as it turned out I needed to, that’s all. It was good stock. Too good for slaughtering. It should have been used to help other farmers build their herds. But it couldn’t be helped. Everybody’s having a tough time. No feed. Prices down. It just couldn’t be helped. We get these cycles from time to time—and then things bounce back. We’ll be all right with another crop.”

“Anything I can do?”

I could have said, “Economize. Watch each dollar. Skimp all you can.” But I didn’t need to say those things. I knew Mary would do that without me asking.

“We’ll make it,” I said instead.

We lay in silence, each with our own thoughts.

“We have the egg money,” Mary offered.

I drew her up against my side. I knew she’d stretch that egg money for all it was worth.

C
HAPTER
21
Planting Again

W
INTER DRAGGED BY ON reluctant feet. I guess I was just too anxious for spring to come so that I could get to the planting again. I was weary of trying to make each dollar stretch and of seeing Mary skimp and save. She never complained though. Nor did anyone else in the household.

The little snow that did fall was soon blown into small, dirty piles mixed with top soil from the parched fields. I’m sure if we’d had seven feet of snow that winter, none of the neighborhood farmers would have complained.

Our William gained weight steadily and became more interesting—more of a “real person”—with each day. He was our bit of sunshine over a bleak winter, and the hours of playing with him and hearing his squeals and giggles more than brightened our lives.

The whole household doted on him, but thankfully he didn’t seem to get spoiled. He contentedly lay in his cradle and talked to himself as he tried to catch his chubby toes or the items that Mary dangled over his head.

At last the days began to warm into some kind of spring. I finally decided I could start work on the land. I didn’t need to wait for the snow to melt—there was none. I didn’t need to wait for the fields to dry either. The stubble was dry as tinder. I didn’t use the tractor. There was simply no money for fuel, so I hitched up the farm horses and began to farm the way the land had been farmed for many years before me.

I’d forgotten how much slower going it was with horses. Often my eyes would wander to the shed where the tractor sat silent. The row of shiny, unused farm machinery I had bought over the past few years to pull behind it seemed to mournfully becken me. I longed to return it all to use. There was no use moaning. This spring it was not meant to be. As I planted I told myself that things would be better next spring.

I came in from the field each day dusty, tired and sometimes a bit out of sorts. The ground I turned with the plow was powdery or chunky hard; and as my eyes watched the clouds, I saw no sign of spring rains.

Mary tried to keep everyone’s spirits up with talk of how well the chickens were laying and how perfect the new calves were and what a good litter the last sow had given us. I knew I should be thankful. I really was thankful, but in the back of my mind was the nagging doubt that all those things might not be enough.

I’d hoped for a rain before I actually did the spring planting, but when all of the land had been tilled and still dry as a bone, I decided to plant anyway. If I got the grain in the ground and the rains quickly followed, I’d be even further ahead. Yes, I decided, that was a good plan.

So I planted the seed—every last kernel I had. Placed it right there in the dry ground with the faith that every farmer must have each spring—the faith that at the proper time, within the structure that God has ordained for seed time and harvest, the rain would come, the seed would germinate and a harvest would result.

The grain lay for a week before a cloud even appeared in the sky. It didn’t develop into much, but we did get a light sprinkle. I knew it had scarcely dampened the ground. Still, it brought hope. The whole town was buzzing with talk of it when I drove in to pick up groceries and the mail. Everyone was hopeful that there would be more clouds coming with spring rains in the normal fashion, and I came home in much better spirits. I guess all the jovial bantering and lighter chatter had helped.

Mary smiled as I placed the few staples on her kitchen table.

“Did we get a letter?” she asked hopefully. I was usually excited when we received one of our rather rare letters. I shook my head but grinned at Mary in my new-found cheer.

Grandpa wandered over to the table and listlessly turned over the two small sales pamphlets. He missed his daily paper— as we all did. The paper was just one of the things we needed to forego during our belt-tightening time.

“Farmers are pretty excited about the shower,” I reported to Mary but including Grandpa and Uncle Charlie also.

“Say that it’s most certain to stir up some more storms,” I went on.

Grandpa nodded. “Gotta be rain up there somewhere,” he agreed.

Uncle Charlie used his two canes to lift himself from his chair by the window and join the rest of us at the table.

“They reportin’ how much they got?”

This was common talk when farmer met farmer. “Had three quarters of an inch over our way, but Fred says thet he got a full inch.” Or, “That heavy shower dumped two an’ a half inches at my place.” Always the rains were measured, the amount that fell of utmost importance.

I shook my head. “No one seemed to get more’n we did— didn’t measure much. But it’s a good sign.”

Grandpa and Uncle Charlie both nodded, relief in their eyes. Mary said nothing, but she went to the cupboard and got out the coffee. She put the pot on to brew, and the aroma of it was soon wafting out deliciously around us.

We all settled in around the table with pleased looks on our faces. It was the first time in months that we’d shared afternoon coffee. There hadn’t even been before-bed coffee for Grandpa and Uncle Charlie anymore. It was another of the things we had learned to do without. Coffee—weak coffee—was reserved for breakfast, and each of us was allowed only one cup a day. Mary never touched it. She said that her nursing baby was better off without it, though Doc had said a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt young William. I figured Mary was just going without to save more for the rest of us.

It wasn’t hard for me to go without—and I often did. Said I didn’t feel like a cup, or it wouldn’t sit quite right on my stomach, or something, and shared the cup with Grandpa and Uncle Charlie. Not a sacrifice for me. I could drink it or leave it. But Grandpa and Uncle Charlie were another matter. Especially that before-bed cup. They had done it all their lives as far back as I could remember.

So the coffee aroma that drifted to us was a celebration of sorts. And we all knew it. I guess that made it even more special.

Mary went even further. She sliced some bread and spread some of her carefully hoarded strawberry jam over it—thinly, I might point out. She set this on the table to go with the coffee.

Boy, what a feast! More than the coffee and jam was the promise. We’d had one rain—only a shower, really—but a rain. It meant that we’d probably be getting more, that things would soon be back to normal again. And what a relief that would be to us all.

But it didn’t happen that way. A few more clouds rolled up, and we all hoped and prayed that they would bring us moisture. But the wind blew them right on by without so much as a sprinkle. Even the pasture land was beginning to look like barren ground. I knew I had too many cows feeding on it and that I should sell off a few more. But I just kept putting it off and putting it off, hoping and praying that rain would soon have things green again.

At last I remembered the good advice I’d received from Mr. Thomas, the farmer who years before had kindly showed me the proper way to farm. “A few good, healthy cattle are better than a bunch of skinny, sickly ones,” he’d said, and I finally gave in and made arrangements to get half a dozen of them to town.

I didn’t spend the money I got for them but tucked it away. Besides, it wasn’t all that much anyway and wouldn’t have made much difference in how we were living. The price of cattle had dropped something awful.

The hot, thirsty summer was a repeat of the previous one. As I walked about the farm trying to keep the barns and fences in order, my feet kicked up little puffs of dirt and sent them sifting up to stick to my overalls or drift away on the wind that was constantly blowing.

I’d never seen so much wind. The continual howling nearly got Mary down. She complained about few things—but the wind was one of them. I saw her unconsciously shudder when a gust rattled the windows or whipped grit against the panes.

All summer long she fought to save her garden. With our finances as they were, it was even more important that she have produce to can or store in the nearby root cellar. Day by day she carried water by the pail and dumped it on her plants, coaxing them, imploring them to bring her fruit.

Grandpa helped all he could, huffing and puffing under the heat of the sun and against the strength of the wind. Uncle Charlie was past the stage of being able to carry buckets, so he stationed himself beside William’s cradle and watched over the sleeping baby in Mary’s absence.

The garden did produce—but all of us knew that it wouldn’t really be enough to see us through another winter with any kind of ease.

Toward the end of summer another calamity struck. The well that had served us faithfully for as many years as the farm had stood went dry. Grandpa himself had dug it and it had never failed before. I guess we’d always assumed that our water supply was unlimited. But now, no matter how hard I pumped, there was only a small trickle, and then we had to wait a few hours until we could produce a trickle again.