Midwestern Thaw

The sun shone dimly through threatening clouds. Frigid winds drove white drifts across fallow fields. Here and there, brown patches poked at winter's cold blanket, reaching for the thaw of spring.

A forgotten dog, gaunt and mangy, plodded along the road, happy to be away from the whip. There had been no food for days; he was hungry. Nose down, he trotted along, lifting his head now and then to sniff the air. A familiar scent shot a shudder of tension down his spine, prompting a growl. Man! He sniffed again, derisively. Death and sorrow loomed around him, but not the kind he was running from. Hunger drove him forward. Finding the scent trail, he followed.

The farmhouse had been beautiful in its day. Now the front porch sagged, tall weeds shuttered the filthy windows, and frozen seedlings glimmered in broken-down gutters. Bricks and mortar strained against each other, the screen door groaned and clattered, the wind howled, unrelenting.

The dog worked his way up the lane. There had been better days here when children would have run to meet him. Some would have fetched water and food for the newcomer. Today there was nothing but wind and cold. The dog smelled the man again, lost in sorrow, cold with loneliness.

If this house could tell stories; if the walls could speak, they would tell of generations of farm folk. Many children grew into adults here. Days of laughter, moments of grandeur, firsts of all kinds had passed through decades. Crayon decorations and muddy boots had been her pleasure. Warm mops and decorated hallways had brought her joy. When the misses died, everything changed. The house languished, suffering in disrepair and desolation. Its lone inhabitant trudged her halls alone. The love that had sustained each of them was gone forever.

The farm work had been put aside in grief. The buildings became careworn. Shingles curled, loose bricks fell, soffit hung unrepaired, nothing could arouse his desire. The home they cherished together was dying. Might he die of loneliness and despair too? Another gust whistled through the attic, like ragged breath in the last moments of life. Was his last breath coming too?

The despondent farmer shuffled past the front door. Lovingly he touched the banister leading upstairs but would not go further. He had not been in those rooms since – he waved the thought away; he could not bear to think of it. He shuffled to his chair, eyeing the fireplace. What if he started a fire? The flue hadn't been swept. Maybe that was the way to end his sorrow. He hung his head. No, he would not destroy the house she had cherished. The blame was his to carry. Taking his place, he drifted off, thinking of her.

He dreamt of beauty and laughter, friendship and fun. They had been made for one another. In childhood, they became steadfast friends growing up just down the road from one another. They spent all their spare time together; fishing, picnics, riding, no pleasure was beneath her. When there was work: school, chores, harvest, they would be found together still. No activity had been mundane with her by his side. He had shown her how to bate a hook; she had taught him how to milk a cow. Summers endless, winters warm, they grew together and finally made their promise. A lovely bride, she had been his everything. Keeping the legacy of her family farm was their mission, passing it on, their dream. Hard work kept them busy, love kept them warm, and children came to carry them forward. The accident ended their happily ever after abruptly.

He woke with a start! The vestiges of his dream lingering. The phone was ringing; he ignored it, wiping away tears. The machine whirred. He was in no mood for talking; he listened. A familiar voice broke the silence.

"Hi pop! It's Penny." He lifted his head, a smile starting. Always happy, always faithful no matter how busy. Never cross or moody, just like her momma. "I'll be home on Saturday." The voice continued. "I'll drop by, okay? No need to call me; I know you'll be there." She giggled nervously as her voice trailed off. "Daddy? I hope you're okay. You still have the five of us, and we love you." Her doubt betrayed, she recovered. "Okay, I'll see you soon." The message ended with a click. She was worried. His smile faded; he scolded himself for not answering.

Five children, each grown and parted but still anchored here. When mother had died, the youngest moved closer. She worried about her father and the farm that she loved. He drew a ragged breath and reached for the phone finding his lighter and a pack of Marlboros instead. Lifting himself from the chair, he headed outside. Clara did not allow smoking in the house.

Standing at the back steps, he squinted; the sun struggled to meet his gaze. Everything was a struggle these days. The house needed repair, the barns groaned with emptiness, fields would soon need tending, and the equipment was gone. He had shunned tractors and farming after it happened. It was, he thought, the reason for her passing. He could not bear to mount up again. What would he do? Eventually, he would have to sell, wouldn't he? Acre by acre, he tallied the cost of his loss. He shook his fist at the sky. "Why, why did you let this happen?"

A wet nose stopped the tantrum short. The man softened. "Hey there, fella." The dog cowered. "Where on earth did you come from, scout? It's too cold to be out here long." The dog shivered, tail between its legs. The farmer continued. "You're nothin' but skin and bone!" Starting for the door, he forgot himself in the moment. "Clara won't like that!" He waved the dog in. "She loves company. Come on!" The last of the clouds gone, the sun shone, brighter.

The farmer pulled an old bowl and plate from under the sink. Filling the bowl, he ambled over to the icebox to find the beast a morsel of food. Caring for something felt good! The dog lapped the water watching the man carefully, then gobbled what had been offered. "You can sleep inside on the back porch." John reached to pet the dog. Whimpering, the dog allowed the hand. The farmer coaxed with scratches and rubs. The dog relaxed. "Tomorrow, we'll go to town and get you some proper food." He promised. Man and dog slept well that night. Winter waned; a south wind searched for purpose.

Farmer John did as he promised; Scout was treated to a ride in the truck, food, and a new collar. It was good to have a companion again. Penny was pleased to meet the newcomer; dog and farmer became content. John trimmed the weeds, cleaned the gutters and windows, and began repainting the eaves. Hope blossomed with flowers, planted in Clara's garden. John felt better than he had thought possible. When melancholy threatened, Scout did what he could to distract farmer John.

One particularly sunny day, John found Scout halfway up the forbidden steps sunning himself. About to scold the dog, a twinkle caught his eye. John wondered. Was Clara calling him upstairs? No, that was crazy. Still, he climbed the stairs and sat down next to the dog. "Scout, old boy. What do you say we see how much dust has settled up there?" Casting a glance up to the landing, a wave of hurt and longing pierced him. "Maybe mother left us a note." He rose to start up the stairs. Scout stretched.

The mutt bounded past John turning toward a familiar, almost forgotten smell. It was delicious! The scent of children, faded from years, was still here. Their toys still held the mark of them, owners long grown. Scout inspected them all as John finished the climb and turned into the bedroom he had once shared with his wife.

Standing near the bed, a soldier on guard, was Clara's desk. Here she kept the farm books and dreamed of being a famous writer. John recalled with fondness his loving bride and her determination. Frugal to a fault, she had bought the dilapidated desk at auction for a dollar. Dutifully, she restored it, placed it next to their bed, and boldly proclaimed her space. As children arrived, the room became her hideaway, off-limits to their childish rowdiness. Diligent to her work, she avoided interruption here. She had honored their marriage faithfully with love nest trimmings all around the room. When the children encroached, she sent them on their way playfully, telling them they needed wide open spaces, not dusty corners.

Hurt strained against his heart. What would he do without her? Farming had lost its appeal, all the buildings were in dire need of repair, and the equipment had been sold in anger. How would he keep his promise to pass the farm along? He had failed her. Sitting there, feeling near her, he recalled their comfortable routine.

Early each morning, he headed out for chores; she, at her desk, worked meticulously, keeping the farm books. Throughout the day, she was his faithful companion and an adoring mother. In the evening, as children slept, he would find her here waiting for him, writing and daydreaming. She would stop and come to him, slipping a page of her writing into his pocket, teasing and flirting; she never let him read the notes in her presence. Days later, he would find them tucked away in his overalls. He wished he had saved them. His heart ached for one last slip of paper.

It seemed sacrilege to sit here, in her chair. The ledgers still lay open, waiting for her to return. More than a year had come and gone. John picked up the ledger and saw the last entry made on the day of her accident. She would not return. Beneath the ledger, a small black notebook lay closed. He opened it, and a rush of her came wafting out. Scout barked. The pages were filled with her poems, notes, letters, and promises to him, memories of a brighter time, a record for him to cherish. He held it close to his chest.

Scout barked again. He sniffed at the book. Delightfully feminine yet something more, something determined and provocative. Scout wanted to meet Clara. Yelping, he wagged his tail in anticipation. Dewy brown eyes searched the farmer's weathered, careworn face for clues. Scout whimpered. The farmer hung his head. "She's gone, boy, sorry."

John flipped through page after page, recalling in awe his wife's talent. Finally, her handwriting stopped, replaced by bright white emptiness. Something spurred him on, prodding him to look further. Was it her whisper? "Keep looking." It said. He flipped through blank pages one after another, hope fading, until, at the back tucked between pages, he found a letter and one final entry, scrawled hurriedly at the top of the page:

"Farmer's Press writing contest: 'The Farm Wife' Grand prize $20,000. "

John opened the letter; something fell to the floor.

Dear Mrs. Whitfield,

We are pleased to announce that your submission of "The Farm Wife" has been selected as our grand prize winner. Please find enclosed the check, made out as requested, for your entry. We wish you congratulations and hope that you will write to us again.

Best regards….

Reaching down he found a check, made payable to him; Scout barked reverently. Her farm had almost slipped away. She had saved it; the place would endure. The check, her last gift to him, would not be wasted! There would be hard work; he was not afraid. Clara was still there, watching. He would honor his promise and pass the farm down. Her grandchildren would read the poetry and stories. Sitting here, at her desk, he knew she would be remembered forever. A warm wind whistled softly; Winter was gone; Spring was coming!