Emmetsburg: Sixty-five

Pale-green. Two hours out of Emmetsburg John curled himself tightly on the seat, and pulled the shirt over his shoulders. It wasn’t a good sleep, by any stretch. He had to turn into the seat against the heavy scent of oil and engine grease. He was outrunning that storm just building from clear blue sky most of the evening. When he pulled aside it was still behind him, but coming up steadily.

Just around dawn when he was awakened by an insistent tapping at the window. His eyes opened grudgingly to the face of an old farmer. The fellow had a long narrow face dominated by a red round nose and full gray eyelashes like long wispy reeds of grass. Furled, they cut dangerously deep lines in his broad forehead. Not in an alarming way, but with a wistful sort of scolding of a patient grandparent. Behind him an old gray mare was hitched to a small covered carriage.

“Down on your luck?” said the old timer through the window.

John sat up and pinched his nose, pulling sleep from his eyes. It took a moment to answer. Not that the fellow seemed in all that much of a hurry. John rolled down the window and replied before his eyes could fully focus.

“Headed home.”

“Ain’t in some kind of trouble?”

“Not with the law or the lord,” said John.

The old farmer almost smiled and looked up the road. It seemed to rise into the dark blue storm clouds to the east. The storm had passed to the north a bit, marching steadily southward in proportion.

“Leaves only money and family.” The man smiled warmly. “Reckon I’ll take my chances with the Lord.”

“Expect I should be getting off your land.”

The farmer shrugged. “Weren’t harming anything. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just trying to be neighborly.”

“Much obliged.”

“Where’s home, if you don’t mind me asking?’

“Emmetsburg.”

The farmer nodded thoughtfully. His mouth twisted as he mulled a thought. “Big doings up there today.”

“You don’t say,” John yawned, stretching the sleep from his arms and fingers.

“Army moved in overnight. Hoover’s finest.” The man’s sarcasm was drier than a desert. “Heard through the grapevine some fellas might be up to some sort of insurrection of sorts. Show these federals a thing or two about messing with good hard working Iowa folks.”

“Sure hope your wrong about that.”

“Suppose we'll see. Welcome to come up to the house for some breakfast.”

“Could use a bite,” said John with a slight nod. “Don’t want to intrude.”

“Can’t speak to the quality. The wife was the real cook in the house. Since she passed I’m just pretending.”