DILAPIDATED stone markers crowded the corner of the small prairie. There were around two dozen of these; a closer look at the markers revealed a name and a date, the place where an otherwise forgotten body lay below.
“And what treasures do you hold down there?” a man asked. “A gold tooth, silver buttons, possibly an antique brass buckle?” The man crouched down and rubbed the edge of a gravestone. Like great slabs of bleu cheese, the stones had been burrowed by time bringing out the blue-grey rock underneath. Bits of rock crumbled at his touch, leaving a chalky residue on his fingertips. Tilted backwards, the stone façade was severely weathered. Only the last number, year of death, could be made out: 1838. “You’re the last marker to be placed in this cemetery. I checked all the others. You’ve stood guard one hundred and fifty years.”
The man straightened up and eyed the sun through gathering clouds. It was morning. Red flannel shirt sleeves were rolled up snug against his forearms. Across his shoulder hung an antique seed spreader—the kind with a leather strap, a canvas sack, and crank that spins the fan-like mechanism that scattered the seed. The three-acre prairie was good farmland, though oddly shaped, and shared a corner with gravestones.
Bidding farewell to the markers, the man left the prairie. Wooden fence posts, with barbed-wire remains rusted around them, ran along a simple country road: Moulton New Knoxville. Down the road, he approached a mailbox. The morning paper, along with a new phonebook and bills, had been stuffed inside. He pulled the paper out, issued the 1st of April, 1988. Glancing over the news, he walked up the long gravel lane that led to a farmstead.
Near the windbreak of conifers, a rustle caught his attention. “Captain, you under there?” the man called. An Australian shepherd with dull eyes poked his head out from under a pine branch near the lane.
“Listen to this headline, Cap’n,” the man said to the dog, “Agricultural Crisis: Farm Mortgage Foreclosures Reach New High.” The man frowned. “That’s a bit on the nose for April Fool’s Day don’t you think?” he asked as he rolled the paper up and put it in his pants pocket. “Tell me news I don’t already know,” he muttered. Captain stared at him for a moment and then disappeared beneath the pines. “Alright Cap’n, I’ll catch up with you later.”
As he came into the farmyard, a young boy called to him, “Rain’s coming, Dad!” He was playing a game of catch with an older boy under the two large catalpa trees that shaded the lawn. The lawn was the center of the farm, with the house and summer kitchen on the west side, and barns on the east side. The lane circled around the lawn and branched off to the northeast. It passed the farrowing barn and ran all the way down to the woods.
The older boy asked the man, “Are we headed to the woods or not?”
“This afternoon. Your mother and I have errands to run this morning.”
“That’s what I meant,” continued the boy, “this afternoon.”
“I left a chore list on the fridge,” the man said.
He set the seed spreader on the front porch and went inside. Faux-wood paneling lined the interior walls of the entry and hallway. A small alcove to the left of the front door served as the mudroom. Beyond the alcove, a telephone was mounted on the wall. To the right was the kitchen.
“How was your walk, dear?” a woman called from the kitchen.
He entered the room, tossed the newspaper on the kitchen table, and slumped into a chair. He rubbed his face with both hands and pulled at his short, trimmed beard. “I seeded the prairie,” he said to her.
She stopped what she was doing and eyed him. “Did you decide on anything?” she asked. He appeared to have not heard and picked a callous on his palm.
“Noah?” she said.
“Hmm?”
“Did you decide whether or not to sell the Wood-Mizer?”
He sat up in the chair, folding his hands neatly on the table and said, “Do you ever wonder about what’s in those graves?”
She gave him a confused look.
“At the prairie,” Noah said. “Those sites are well over a hundred years old. Do you suppose they were like us?”
“Poor? German? Christian? Farmers? What do you mean?”
Noah sat back in his chair, sighing. “Yes, poor German Christian farmers.”
“What made you think of that?”
“I don’t know,” Noah said, waving the matter aside, “and I haven’t decided whether to part with Dad’s sawmill.”
She rubbed his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, rubbing a little harder, “won’t we?”
Noah nodded.
She added, “And you should tell Jonah if we decide to sell the Wood-Mizer.” There was a pause and more shoulder rubbing, “Right?”
“Yes, Eleanor, yes,” he said.
“I’m going to get ready. Coffee’s on the counter,” Eleanor said, leaving the room.
While Noah poured a mug of coffee, the boys came in. “What time is service tonight?” the younger son asked.
“Seven,” Noah answered, resuming his seat at the table.
“I told you Jonah! Today’s Good Friday.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Jonah went to the fridge and released a slip of paper from a magnet. After looking at it, he said, “Dad, I think it’s gonna’ rain today.”
“It’s not forecasted to rain till tonight. Just ask your grandma,” Noah said.
“But if it does, do you still want us to attach the loader and hitch the wagon?” Jonah said, pointing to the task on the slip of paper.
“Are you and Reinhardt able to do that on your own?” Noah asked.
“Of course!” Jonah said.
Noah took a long drink of coffee, then turned to look out the window which overlooked the porch. He could see the clouds gathering in the sky. Jonah stuffed the list in the pocket of his flannel and took a seat at the table. Dark blue eyes roamed the table’s surface, his young hands—already rough with signs of labor—began to fidget with the edge of the morning newspaper. The father and son sitting at the table looked like the same people: one just younger, smaller, and less hairy than the other.
“Dad, remember how I wanted to make some money?”
“Yes, a worthy endeavor.”
“What about sawing wood? I know that’s not something you would do, but I could.”
“If that’s something you wanted to do when you are older, that’s fine with me.”
Jonah scooted the newspaper around on the kitchen table. “Yeah, that’s the problem. I’m not old enough yet, but if I had a mo-ped…”
“At the moment neither of us could buy a mo-ped. You could find work at a nearby farm; you could ride your bicycle. Then you can save up for a mo-ped, or keep saving until you’re sixteen and buy a car. That’s what I would do. And the Wood-Mizer may not—”
“Noah, have you seen my umbrella?” His wife called from another room.
“It’s not going to rain today, Ella.”
She came into the kitchen. “Thanks, dear, but that doesn’t help me find it. I don’t feel completely comfortable with the idea of a mo-ped, Jonah.” She went to the counter and prepped a coffee to go. “Did you already get a cup?”
“Yeah,” Noah said. “No worries, Ella. Jonah can save up for a car.” He gave a confirming nod to Jonah.
“Really?” She looked to Jonah, a smile and sigh escaped her. “Two more years. Why are you boys growing up so fast?” She came to Jonah and gave him a squeeze around his shoulders from where he sat in the chair.
“Less than two years, Mom,” Jonah corrected.
She just smiled. “Noah, are we all set?”
“Minus an umbrella, we’re good to go,” he said, standing up to leave. “Jonah,” he turned his attention back to his son, “if it starts raining, don’t worry about the loader and wagon.”
“I think it’s gonna’ rain,” Jonah said.
Really enjoyed this! Great initial establishment of character and place. I’m glad you’ve decided to break longer chapters into parts. It will certainly incentivize me to stay current on your work!