Previously: Family enjoys local festival. Noah and Pastor John discuss the credit life insurance policy and job opportunities. Jonah meets Leslie Schreiber.
“ONE-TENTH,” Noah said, dumping the rain gauge. “Rain Friday,” he eyed Jonah, “rain Friday night,” he clarified. “Rain Sunday night.” He nodded with approval. “Come along, Jonah.”
The two got into the truck and drove down the lane to the woods. An earthy smell of dirt and fungus rose from the ground. Worms slimed the lane taking refuge from the recent rainfall. Their shapes were like the scattering of little bits of intestines. And the potholes next to these were miniature mortar blasts—Noah swerved to miss a large one.
“Dad, this lane could use grading.”
“Good observation, Son. It really needs fresh gravel and gravel costs money.”
They pulled up to the Quonset. “Hop out and open the bay doors, please,” Noah instructed. With doors open, Noah backed the truck up to the LT-40 Wood-Mizer. “Does the hitch need raised?” Noah called out the truck window.
“We’re hooking her up?” Jonah questioned.
“Trying to, does the hitch need raised?”
“Yes.”
“Jack her on up.”
When the sawmill had been hitched and secured, Jonah exclaimed, “We’re… we’re firing her up, Dad!?”
“Well, not exactly,” Noah bent down to take a pressure reading on the Wood-Mizer’s tires. Satisfied with the pressure, he turned his attention back towards his son, “Taking it to Indiana.”
“Big job in Indiana? You’re going to do it?”
Noah swallowed hard, “There’s a job of sorts… but, no Son, I’m selling the sawmill back to Wood-Mizer.”
“What!?” Jonah’s whole countenance went up in a flame of rage.
“I’m sorry, Son. It’s an expense we can’t keep any longer.”
“It’s Granddad’s! You’re giving up on him? I didn’t even get to mill any wood!”
“It isn’t like that at all. I thought you knew!”
“If you said we were selling her, I didn’t hear.”
“I’m sorry. We’ve had it nearly untouched for two years. That’s two years we’ve been making payments on it. If it ever was a cash cow, it’s a cash hog now.”
Jonah clambered into the LT-40’s seat and touched all the levers of the control box. “It’s still a piece of Granddad, and you’re going to let that go.” He came down from the operators chair and kicked the tires. “What else of Granddad’s are you going to get rid of?”
“Drop it, Son.”
“What, are you gonna’ get rid of Captain next?” His voice was rising.
“Jonah, you’re out of line—”
“Burn down his shop office?”
“You better watch that mouth, or I’ll straighten you out.” Noah put his hand on his belt.
Jonah clenched his jaw shut. For a moment, father and son were locked in a stand-off. Jonah backed down and muttered in a low voice, “Do you need me for anything else?”
“No, just check on the Berkshires later.”
Jonah walked to the back of the Quonset and closed himself in Granddad’s old shop office.
Noah sighed and returned to the farmyard where he picked up Eleanor. She was standing on the porch. Noah came around and opened the cab door of the truck for her.
“All set,” he called up to her where she stood.
Walking down the porch steps, she asked, “Where’s Jonah?”
Noah waved to the east. “He’s there.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s pretty upset to see the Wood-Mizer go.”
“Did you explain why?”
“Tried to.”
His arms rested on the open sill of the cab door with shoulders sagging and head swaying. “I’ll have to sit him down this evening and really explain our situation.”
“I think that would be wise.” She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. “One thing at a time.”
Reinhardt walked up with eggs in a bushel basket.
“What are you explaining this evening?” he asked. “And where are you going with Granddad’s Wood-Mizer?”
Noah looked to Eleanor. Eleanor whispered, “Don’t look at me.”
“I’ll sit you both down this evening. We’ll discuss a few farm matters. But suffice it to say, the Wood-Mizer is being sold. Now before you get upset, realize it is what your granddad would have wanted under the circumstances.”
Reinhardt nodded, and asked, “Will we get another one someday? For Jonah’s sake?”
Noah put his hand on Reinhardt’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “That’s something to pray for.” Then he looked at the basket his son was holding. “Good egg collection this morning?”
“Yeah, fifteen, I think,” Reinhardt said looking into his basket.
“Why don’t you take those over to the summer kitchen for your grandmother,” Noah said.
“And Reinhardt,” Eleanor added, “spend some time with her, will you please? We’ll be gone several hours.”
“Okay, sure thing. Where’s Jonah?”
“At the woods,” Noah said.
Eleanor gave her son a hug then got into the truck cab. “Take care, Reinhardt! Love you.”
Noah also got in and started the engine. “Love you, Son. We should be back late this afternoon.”
“Okay Dad, bye. Bye, Mom.” He waved farewell as they drove the Chevy with the sawmill down the lane.
Reinhardt stood in the farmyard taking in the dewy air. The grass was green again and soon would need to be mowed but not today. He went to the summer kitchen and knocked at the door.
“Grandma!”
“Come on in.”
Reinhardt entered the sunny summer kitchen.
“I brought you some eggs.” He set the basket down and pulled off his boots.
“Thanks, my dear.”
“What are you doing today?”
“Did you have breakfast already?’
“Yes.”
“I’ll make some lunch later; in the meantime, I was just preparing to work in the garden.”
She took up the basket of eggs and worked briefly in the kitchen. The summer kitchen had been renovated to accommodate living quarters. On the right side was a small sitting area and dominating the main space an old quilting rack was set with a quilt mid-stitch. Reinhardt looked over the in-progress cross-stitching. Against the wall of the sitting area a large glass paned hutch displayed stacks of colorful quilts of every pattern: Jacob’s ladder, basket, double T, Carolina lily, double wedding ring, and log cabin. “How many quilts did you make last year, Grandma?”
“Sixteen.”
“Is that a record?”
“Indeed, it is. I’ll probably make sixteen or more this year, Lord willing. It keeps my mind occupied and the hands busy. Alright, come along now.” She put on a sun hat and Reinhardt pulled his boots back on. Together they went around to the garden shed on the west side of the summer kitchen. They fetched hoe and trowel and began the assault on weeds that had ravaged what remained from last fall.
“It’ll be a fine season for gardening and a warm spring; though, there will be another frost or two as of yet.”
“How can you know that?” asked Reinhardt.
“You don’t get arthritis without some benefits—barometer, weather forecaster,” she winked, “and then there’s the Farmers’ Almanac.”
Reinhardt’s eyebrows rose in wonder. “And will we have some big old heirlooms and snap peas?”
“Indeed, we shall. You’ll have to be on hornworm duty though.”
“Are those the huge green ones with the spike on their butt and poop the shape of miniature grenades?”
Grandma chuckled, “Yes, those are the ones.”
“I do love smashing a plump hornworm.” Reinhardt smiled.
The morning waned and the sun rose high overhead.
“Where’s your brother?” Grandma asked. She took off her gardening gloves and dabbed her forehead with a lace handkerchief.
“I don’t know. I think Mom and Dad said something about him being at the woods.”
“It’s about lunchtime. I’ll fix you and Jonah sandwiches.”
Indoors, Grandma stacked two dogwoods: with Brandtmeyer’s acorn-finished pork, cucumbers pickled in the cellar, a local cheese from a neighboring farm, all hugged between two fresh baked slices of French bread lathered in homemade mayonnaise, mustard, and butter. These with the remains of Easter’s hardboiled eggs and two glass bottles of Frostop root beer—“These root beers were your granddad’s favorites”—and a canteen of water she placed in a wicker basket and gave to Reinhardt. “There you are, all your granddad’s favorites, but your granddad’s favorite treat this time of year was a good spring morel. When you have finished eating, go find some in the woods; put them in this basket and bring ’em back. I’ll fry them up for dinner tonight.”
“You got it Grandma, thanks, love you. See you later,” Reinhardt called as he trotted out the front door and across the farmyard. The orchard along the lane was vibrant with pink blossoms like great explosions of fireworks frozen in time. From a distance, the woods had begun to look thicker with new growth, but as he drew nearer the individual trees were only budding. Against the edge of the woods, the corrugated surface of the arched Quonset glinted brilliantly in the afternoon sun.
Reinhardt found Jonah sitting at Granddad’s old desk.
“Sandwiches, courtesy of Grandma.” Reinhardt set the load down on the desk.
Jonah opened the basket lid and inhaled the delicious scent. “What a good grandma!” He un-wrapped a sandwich and began to devour it. Reinhardt did likewise. For a few minutes they sat eating their sandwiches: Jonah at the desk and Reinhardt, with his feet up on a box, sat at the couch.
Reinhardt looked around the old office space. A spade, a post-hole shovel, a broken peavey, and the likes slumped against one corner next to the book shelf. On the opposite side the trash bin was overflowing like a spring fountain. Newspaper scraps, seed bags, feed bags, and grime carpeted the concrete floor. A small leak in the roof watered a spot on the floor and an oat seed had sprouted up from a damp patch of black rot. Cobwebs hung in every corner. Bottles lined every ledge. A stack of chicken crates prevented the door to the bay area from opening all the way. On the walls hung a few old framed photos—one of Granddad himself looking dapper and confident as he posed with his pristine LT-40 Wood-Mizer. The glass in the frame was broken; shards laid on the floor below. There also hung on the wall a faded calendar from ’86 with the April month exposed.
“For as much time as you spend out here, you should tidy up the place,” Reinhardt said.
“I have in the past, but it just gets messy again. Every season this office turns more and more into a storage shed.”
“Toss me one of the eggs, please.” Reinhardt peeled his egg, putting the shells on his sandwich wrapper. “Hey Jonah, Grandma wants us to search for morels after this.”
“Does she think they’ll already be out?”
“Yeah, she was talking about it being a mild spring for it—said how they were Granddad’s favorite treat this time of year.”
“I know.” Jonah took the last dated journal down from a long row on the shelf. “Listen to what he wrote in his last journal, ’85’s, he records where he found the sneaky mushrooms.” He flipped through some pages. “Here’s one, this isn’t the one I wanted to show you but it’s funny, this one is from late May: ‘Everyone knows April showers bring May flowers but that’s when the morel hunter heads north of the sinkhole, for that’s the morel hot spot! Fry them up at home and drink them with a Frostop!’”
“That sounds disgusting.” Reinhardt’s face contorted into mock vomiting.
“Who knows, maybe when you get older your taste buds go crazy?” Jonah was flipping through the pages again. “But here’s the one for us now: ‘When an early spring prevails, morel mushrooms unveil, search the southern slopes to where the morels elope.’ I think he had found morels on the south edge; more than once, I know I was with him at least one time,” Jonah said, closing the journal.
“I liked Granddad’s rhyme.”
“Yeah, he was always like that, just a happy Granddad.”
“What’s elope mean?”
“I think he means, ‘where they run off,’ or like, ‘where they’re hiding.’”
Reinhardt searched the wicker basket. “Well then the bottle opener has ‘eloped’ too. I don’t see one in the basket.” He set the two Frostops on the desk.
“That’s because Grandma knows Granddad has one or two in here.” Jonah pulled open the desk drawer and rummaged around. “I don’t see one in here. Is it in-between those couch cushions?”
Reinhardt pulled the cushions off the couch and a mouse came running out. They watched it scurry until it became lost in the debris.
“Jonah, this place has really gone to seed.”
“Tell me about it. Any luck in the couch?”
“No, it’s not here.”
“That’s lame, well come on. Let’s leave the root beer on the shelf and maybe we’ll find an opener later.” He placed the two bottles on the shelf along with Journal ’85. The shelf of journals was the only space in the whole office that was kempt.
“Let’s get those mushrooms,” Jonah said.
“Do you know where he means?”
“I know he means the southern border of the woods from the rhyme.”
“Okay, but anything more specific?”
“We also know they grow around decaying trees. We have a lot to go on.”
Branches were shooting supple new leaves by the thousands. These tiny leaves allowed sunlight to pour through to the woodland floor causing a luscious undergrowth to thrive. Dense patches of white clover rolled gently across the landscape mixed with multiple delicate purple flowers: clusters of the five petal Blue Phlox, Violets shaped like small butterflies, and, “Are these nettles?”
“Purple Dead Nettle? Maybe.” Jonah took a closer look at the proud little flower. “It’s Henbit.”
“So many purple flowers!” Reinhardt exclaimed. “But not a morel in sight. Here’s another one, what are these?” Reinhardt crouched down gently lifting the blooms that were otherwise angled down towards the earth.
“Jacob’s Ladder.”
“Jacob’s Ladder? That’s one of Grandma’s quilt designs. Do you think it gets its name from these?”
“I have no idea. Ask Grandma.”
Reinhardt picked a couple and put them in his front pocket. At the southern edge of the woods, the two crept among the tall golden Ragwort and, “What are these white ones?”
“Oxeye Daisies, they’re out early this year; that’s good news for us.”
“How do you know the names of everything,” Reinhardt asked.
“Granddad—we spent a lot of time in the woods. He was right here you know—at least three years ago… three years ago to this very season, looking for morels; probably wearing his wrist watch.” He dug under the tall Ragwort, flowers, and undergrowth.
“Jonah, you won’t find them under the leaves.”
“I know. I was looking for something else,” Jonah said vaguely while wiping his nose on his sleeve.
They spent an hour in quiet hunting. All was warm, pleasant and breezy—the quintessential Ohio spring day. At one point some loud buzzing bees threatened to sting Jonah, and at another point Reinhardt stumbled through a spot of tall Ragwort and yelled, “Jonah! A spider bit me. I think it was poisonous!”
“Where’s the spider; what did he look like?” Jonah asked.
“I don’t know where the little sucker went, but he was big, black, and bright yellow.”
His older brother looked at the tattered remains of the web dangling in the weed. “You’re fine, Reinhardt, look,” Jonah pointed to a spot on the web. “See that zig-zaggy design right there?” A prominent zig-zag pattern on the center part of what was left of the web was clearly visible. “That’s a Gardener Spider’s trademark or I’m not my granddad’s namesake. You’re fine.”
Reinhardt took comfort in the way Jonah spoke with such informed authority on the matter. “I suppose it is a small bite after all,” he said while looking at a red dot on his arm and added, “come to think of it, that may just be a prick from a thorn.”
“Ha,” Jonah laughed. “Oh, Reinhardt, sometimes I wonder about you.”
They continued their hunt for the mushrooms again in quiet earnest. After another hour, Reinhardt broke the silent searching. “Some grandparents!”
“What do you mean?”
“First Grandma tells me they’re ready, and then Granddad says where. What do we find? Nothing.”
“Morels are like that, near impossible to find,” Jonah said.
“Morels and Granddad alike, huh?”
“That’s the most intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
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Really enjoying this C. M. I like the slow and easy pace, and the dialogue is top notch. - Jim