Emmetsburg:sixty-six

There was a wagon parked in the road, hitched to a weathered brown mare. The mare looked every bit as old and wise as the owner. A simple silent language passed between them as the farmer struggled a bit into the wagon. The horse watched and waited patiently before starting up the road almost before the famer had a steady hold on the reigns. They were a poem together, each part integrally and intimately in precise sync with the other.

John followed the farmer up the road, where they turned into a small driveway. It felt like entering another world. It was a small sheltered yard. The little wood-frame house was nearly hidden beneath the branches of full trees. There was a tool shed and long chicken coop out back. A Model T and small tractor were parked together between the house and coop. Through a gap in the trees, upon a hillcrest perhaps a quarter mile away, a weathered red barn was silhouetted against the building storm.

John climbed from the truck and stretched his back with a groan. The farmer unhitched the mare and patted her hip. She sauntered over to deepening grass in the yard,dipping her head and nibbling until she found the tastiest spot.

“Hell of a place to sleep,” said the farmer coming around the front of the truck.

“That it is,” John agreed twisting and stretching the knots and ghost pains from his body..
They went inside through the back door, into the kitchen. The place was neat and had been well kept. There was a tiredness to that neatness, as if the farmer’s care was starting to fray at the edges. Early morning light charging through the windows warmed and brightened the room, giving life to the wooden floor and the oval red rug in front of the basin and counter.

John sat at a small blond wooden table. In the center, hanging neatly off one end was a pretty white lace doillie. It was inlaid with with green and red flowers. The craftwork was flawless, and reminded John of his grandmother’s work, despite a few stains discoloring the fabric here and there. Those stains were set into the weave as though they had been there for years, or had been drawn into the design from the beginning.. In the center of the table, beside a vase of fresh bright and blue wild flowers was a small oriental tea cup partly filled with salt and a teaspoon.

The farmer built a fire in the belly of the black iron stove. The umber scent of soft wood catching flame warmed the room. There was a heavy iron skillet on the stove top. The old man scooped a spoon full of thick pale white grease from a ceramic pot and pushed it around the inside of the skillet until it melted clear. From the ice box he took a couple cooked pork shops and set them on the counter. The kitchen suddenly filled with their pepper and herb smell.

A cool comfortable breeze moved through from the front of the house. It carried with it a certain emptiness, as though reminding those in the house of someone’s absence.. It carried the scent of timeless memories, and of a lifetime John could scarcely fathom. He watched the old man grind coffee beans, fascinated, as though he had known him forever.