Fields of Dreams

By Truman Godwin

Farmer Drury Bell faces bankruptcy because of a series of crop failures and bad weather. As he struggles to save his farm, his physical and mental capabilities are tested to the limit by plotters and opportunists out to destroy him. But his worst problem is caused by a drifter who plays up to his beautiful wife while Dru works desperately to save his land, help a policeman friend in a serial murder investigation, and deal with the mystery of a woman's body found buried in his back yard. Not even Dru could predict the twists and turns of the ending. This book is based on a true story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mathis B Rogers
• Release date: Aug 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311132017

Truman Godwin

Truman D. GodwinAUGUST 17, 1931– DECEMBER 4, 2020Truman was born in Vernon, Texas in 1931. After graduating from Lubbock High School in 1948, he attended Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas where he majored in Electrical Engineering and Economics. He also studied British Literature and Business Law at the University of Texas. Truman was a Korean War veteran, and he was in the Telecommunications business for 52 years before retiring. He leaves behind his wife, Nancy, six children, and ten grandchildren. His favorite diversion was golf.His published works include: The Heritage of Luke, 666, and The End of the Row; a book of short stories, The Treasure of Chama Valley; a book of poetry, Beyond the Hedgerows; other miscellaneous magazine publications.He received the rights back to some of his books, and re-released them on his own and published them in Kindle and eBook editions also. Some of them he changed the names and covers.Find all of his books listed below.

Book preview

Prologue

My name is Drury Bell, but most people call me Dru. With the help of my wife, Frieda, I till the land that's been in our family for four generations. My 800 acres have seen mules and wooden plows, horses and steel cultivators, and spiked-wheel tractors. The land and its owners have known flood and drought, wind and calm, bounty and dearth.

Because of good farming practices and crop rotation, the land is still fertile. We’ve grown maize and wheat and soybeans. We've experimented with sunflowers, but the preferred crop—and the most rewarding—is cotton. Its fuzzy fiber fills our lives and dominates our thinking. Our yearly challenge is to grow a good crop in spite of weeds, insects, and the problems of adverse weather.

Farming is a huge job for me and a small blip in the big picture of human endeavor. I think about many things as I sit in the cab of my big John Deere tractor, while I manipulate it in various ways to plant, maintain, and reap the crops that support us. Sometimes I listen to my radio. Most of the time I do my work in silence, preferring instead to be attentive and to fill the idle minutes with reflection. It is a practice that lets me enjoy the great blue skies, the panoramic view, and the nuances of nature peculiar to the West Texas area. In this way, I endure the monotony of row after row of tedious, grinding work.

Life is repetition. Night follows day, and seasons come and go with predictable regularity. So we have sameness in the recurrent cycles of life and unity in the spirit of survival, but there is diversity in the struggle. It is that diversity which inspires hope, and which often directs our lives to roads we otherwise would not have taken.

I know now that the good life we lived was an illusion. Like summer mirages created by natural forces, a false kind of happiness shimmered in our minds to produce flawed feelings of security. I believe we would have lived forever in that illusion, but he came along, and we are left with a new version of ourselves that has been wrenched from our souls.

1

Tuesday, March 2, 1982

Frieda said, Dru, Honey, it’s too windy to be in the field today. Why don't you come with me to Plainview? I have some shopping to do.

It'll probably blow again tomorrow, I said. And the next day, and the next. I'll never get my work done if I wait for perfect weather.

She looked at me with her big, brown eyes and started to say something, but didn't. I was glad she turned and went to the kitchen before another argument started.

She had gotten difficult to live with. I think it was because the kids were grown and gone, and housework had become boring to her. I know she got lonely at times, and she may have felt the stress of growing older. At forty-four, she was still pretty. Her five-six body was exceptionally well-shaped, and men often complimented her with looks that were appreciative of her beauty.

I was amazed that her rich, blond hair contained only a few gray hairs, and they were not visible without close scrutiny. Considering all things, she was a lovely woman who looked much younger than her age, a fact that struck envy in other women.

She should have been thankful for what we had and happy with our accomplishments. Instead, she was troubled. She did not recognize the turmoil bubbling in her soul, or understand that her tremendous energy was turning inward to attack her contentment.

During our short courtship and the early days of our marriage, she stood out above all the other girls I knew. She had a glow about her, a shining eagerness for love and affection that lit up my world and filled my heart. I could see an immediate change in her when I came into her presence, no matter where. The natural sparkle of her eyes increased. Her calm, deliberate motions became jerky, uncoordinated movements, and she couldn’t remain still for long. She exuded a sharp current that reached out and surrounded me. Her attraction was so compelling that I could not resist its power. I was constantly drawn by her loveliness and charisma.

We had been married for twenty-five years, and she rarely showed eagerness anymore. Her glow was gone. In its place she had acquired a boring drabness. She flinched at my touch and turned away my affection—not always openly, but often with stoic behavior and subtle excuses. God, how I missed the exciting sparkle of her eyes, the warm feeling of her attraction, and her personal mystique.

I followed her to the kitchen. As she noisily stacked dishes, she said, You’re going to the field, then?

After I go to Abernathy and see Russell. We need more money.

I thought we were financially okay this year.

I got the tractor fixed. Remember? That cost more than seven thousand. I figured it up again last night, and we can’t make it with what we have left.

She frowned, and I knew she was about to express her disdain. Her unhappiness and her disposition to argue were recently acquired attitudes with characteristics similar to heat waves radiating from a dark surface: they were barely visible, but they shimmered in waves that crawled across the surface of her face.

She squinched her eyes, drew her mouth into a thin line, and said, Is there no end? We’ve farmed this place for more than twenty years, and almost every year it’s the same: can’t make a crop without the bank and countless other creditors. In the meantime, we’re growing old and poor. Are we going to have to borrow to pay for our funerals when we die?

When she finished speaking, she dropped her arms limply to her sides in a final gesture of the futility she felt.

I don’t know, I said. Many farmers are being forced to quit. Some are going bankrupt. You know the reasons why. Increased costs, low prices, bad weather, unfavorable legislation, and so on. Sure, it’s harder now than when we started, but I’m not ready to give up. Are you?

Pretty close.

She grabbed her purse, snatched her coat from its hanger on the wall, and marched through the door without saying more.

Frieda’s negative words gave me a sour mood, one that affected my determination to confront Russell Taylor. I planned to argue my case aggressively and ask for an additional thirty thousand dollars to be added to our present loan. I mentally reviewed all of his possible reasons for refusal, and I was ready to respond to them forcefully. Yet, because of Frieda’s displeasure, a what’s the use syndrome forced its way into my thinking.

Therefore, an hour later, when I walked into the Farmers and Merchants State Bank, my initial confidence was effectively gone. I thumped across the marble floor in my work boots and caught the attention of Daisy, his secretary.

Daisy looked up and smiled. Good morning, Dru. How are you today?

Fine, I lied. Is Russell here yet?

Yes, but he’s with a customer. Have a seat, and I’ll let you know when he’s available.

Thanks. I’ll do that.

Daisy was about forty, single, never been married, and was as ugly as an angry pit bull.

Russell also had never been married. He was recognized in the community for his womanizing ways. He couldn’t hire younger and prettier ladies, because it was his manner to treat women as men’s toys and to discourage any thoughts aimed at their independence and free thought.

Because of her ugliness, Daisy was blessed with an immunity to Russell’s advances, or so it seemed to those who kept track of such things. Yet, she had a friendly, charming manner that made her the perfect choice for the position she held.

I picked up a Readers Digest on a nearby table and sat down. I was in no mood to read about farming, the economy, politics, sports, or people’s problems, so I flipped through the pages looking for all the jokes I could find. I read them page-by-page, and I was just finishing Humor in Uniform when Russell’s office door opened and a man carrying a briefcase came out. The man looked my way, nodded, and walked to the front door. Probably a salesman, I thought.

When I entered Russell’s office, he was punching a number into his telephone.

Sit down, he said. This call won’t take a minute.

Seconds after I sat down, he frowned, hung up the phone, and said, Busy signal. I’ll call later.

He was a short man, about five-seven, I’d say. He was big-boned and about twenty pounds overweight. Long flaxen hair, combed straight back, capped the fine, almost delicate features of his face. His carefully trimmed eyebrows, finely chiseled nose, and dimpled chin gave him a genteel look, which I was sure he practiced to maintain. I was reminded of a cat’s studious eyes when I looked into his hazel eyes. The overall impact of his visage was one that inspired respect and urged caution.

He looked at me through expensive, gold-rimmed glasses, shifted in his leather chair, and said, Good to see you again, Dru. What can I do for you today?

Same old problem, I said. I need money.

Oh? Why didn’t you see Everett? He’s a good loan officer. I’m sure he can take care of you.

I talked to him several weeks ago. He refused my request. As the owner of the bank, I believe you have the authority to override his decision.

I see. Well, you’re in luck. I have a dental appointment in forty-five minutes, so I can give you half-an-hour.

He punched an intercom button, and when Daisy answered, he said, Bring me Dru’s file.

Yes sir, she said.

He released the button and leaned back in his leather chair. There was a slight frown on his face, and he studied me while he twiddled with his maroon tie. A gold tie clasp crossed the middle of the tie. Below the clasp, a ruby swung in rhythm with his twiddling fingers. It was mounted in a circle of gold and attached to the ends of the clasp by fine gold chains. The swinging ruby and his staring hazel eyes reminded me of a hypnotist about to put someone to sleep. I felt intimidated by this ritual. His silence, his stare, and his provocative nature made me want to leave, but Daisy spared me that embarrassment. She came in toting a bulging folder.

She laid the file on his desk and said, I updated it last week, so it’s current. Let me know if you need anything else.

Thanks, he said.

When Daisy left, he leaned forward and opened the file.

Give me a minute or two to go through this and see where we are, he said.

Sure. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask me, I said, in an attempt to inject some levity into his authoritative manner.

He ignored me and spent the next five minutes studying the file. Occasionally, he stopped reading, frowned slightly, and clicked his tongue. When he finished with a page, he invariably shook his head before he laid it down and went to the next. I interpreted those actions as a bad omen.

When he finished, he slapped the folder shut, and looked up. I felt naked in the presence of the inscrutable, momentary glance that shot from his bespectacled eyes. It was accompanied by a quirky frown, which he probably invented and maintained for customers like me. I’m sure its purpose was to arouse feelings of guilt and inferiority in the hearts and minds of those unfortunate enough to be broke.

He opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted. I’ll save your time and concede that I have no collateral left on which to borrow. I know you’re aware that because of the long drought, we’ve extended our loan three times in the last five years. You also know that we’ve paid the required interest, but we’ve had to add more to the principal in order to keep operating. Our loan has grown to a point you call ‘saturation,’ which means we’ve borrowed all we can on the land and equipment we own. Our only hope is to find something else for collateral, or for you to increase the loan percentage of our present collateral.

He said, You’ve summed it up nicely. It makes things easier for us when a customer understands his situation. You’ve also hit upon the most logical solution. But there is a problem with it. You’re maxed out, or saturated, as you said. We try to be flexible. We don’t like to see anyone go broke, but it happens. The bank can go broke, too, if we get careless and deviate from our guidelines. I’m sure you’ll understand that there’s nothing we can do for you under your present circumstances. Your next payment is due in about four months. If you pay us something then, we can visit again and talk about it.

That’ll be too late, I said. I’ve been your customer for years. Likewise, my father before me. Doesn’t that count?

Of course. But we’re governed by laws and industry standards, and we violate them at the risk of becoming insolvent.

Russell leaned over and laid his arms on his desk. His business-like stare became tempered with a gentleness that was not a customary part of his demeanor. He said, Dru, we treasure your business. The fact that we’ve allowed you to incur a debt of more than $300,000 proves it.

I know. I’ve always been able to depend on you, and I thank you for backing me. But I need you now more than ever. Can you at least lend me ten thousand on my signature? I might be able to make do with that much.

I’m sorry Dru, but the answer is no. Every bank has its own policy for making signature loans. Years ago we quit making them to anyone for more than $500, regardless of an applicant’s circumstances. That wouldn’t help you much, would it?

Of course not.

His relentlessness added to my frustration. I felt like a cornered rat, whose position of impotence produces anger and a fighting spirit. Yet, I was constrained by common sense. I knew that a hostile and undignified outburst would not serve my purpose. I returned his stare and chose my words carefully.

Then at least do this for me, I said. I know you need to leave for your appointment, but promise me that when you return you’ll look at it again. You only spent a few minutes on it, and a more careful examination might uncover an error, or reveal some new information that would make a difference. Will you do that for me?

Yes, I think I can find some time for that, he said.

You’ll let me know, then?

I’ll have Daisy give you a call.

I thanked him and left. I nodded to Daisy as I passed, clomped back across the marble floor, circled the big oak-and-glass table containing deposit slips and ball point pens that wouldn’t write, and walked out of the double glass doors into the wind and blowing sand.

I hurried to my red Dodge pickup, got in, and started the engine. After backing out of my angled parking space, I headed north on Avenue D. When I reached the Abernathy Post Office, I decided to stop and see Thelbert Owens. He was the Deputy Sheriff, and a friend of mine. I turned and went to his office on Avenue E.

When I walked in, he was on the phone. He pointed to the wooden chair in front of his desk and motioned for me to sit. As I waited, I wondered about Pinky, his seven-year-old daughter. We had a love affair going. She called me Peepaw, and she liked to sit on my lap and search my pockets for candy or gum, which I always just happened to have. Her real name was Ruth, but my pet name for her was Pinky. That’s because she always asked me to tell her the story of Pinky the bull.

Pinky was a Hereford bull my Dad owned back when we raised cattle on the farm. We had twenty acres on which we kept him and some cows. The acreage was surrounded by an electric fence. One day the bull decided he wanted out, and he tried to escape by going under the wire. Somehow he got about halfway under, but no further; the effects of the electric current held him there. When I went out to replenish the feeder, I found him on the ground wedged under the electric wire. His tongue was hanging out, the whites of his eyes had turned hot pink, and his bellow had been reduced to a low, sorrowful moan. I used a wooden hoe handle to lift the wire, then I nudged him on the nose with my boot until he squirmed backwards and clear of the wire. He just laid there for a few minutes, and I became worried that he had injured himself and was unable get up. Finally, he rose up on shaky hind legs. He held that stance for about a minute, then he struggled to get his front legs to function. When he reached an all-four stance, he wobbled away from the fence for twenty or thirty feet, then he turned to stare at it with his big, pink eyes.

After that experience, I started calling him Pinky, and I observed that he never again got closer to the electric wire than fifteen or twenty feet. Occasionally, he would stand and stare at it for a long time, and I would have given a few dollars to know what he was thinking during those moments.

Ruth, whom I now called Pinky, had a precocious, if not gruesome, sense of humor. She never tired of hearing the story, and every time I told it, she giggled.

Thelbert ended his call. He was thirty-seven, six feet tall, and weighed about 180 pounds. His good physique, his clear, blue eyes and blond hair, created a dilemma for his wife, Brandi. She loved her husband, but she had to subdue the jealousy that arose when other women responded to his handsomeness.

Sorry to keep you waiting, Thelbert said. He swiveled around to face me, and I noticed a bruise on his left cheek.

Hey, what happened to you? I said.

I arrested a drunk last night, and he got lucky with a wild swing. I should’ve been more careful. So, how’s Frieda?

Okay, I guess. She’s on a shopping trip in Plainview.

Want some coffee?

He headed for a pot sitting on a hotplate in the corner.

No, thanks. I just decided to stop and see if you, Brandi, and the kids want to have lunch with us next Sunday.

He poured a cup of coffee for himself and said, Sure. You know we couldn’t pass up a free meal.

Fine. We’ll be expecting you.

I stood up and headed for the door.

Hey, he said. What’s the big hurry?

I’ve wasted the morning at the bank. Now I have to get some work done. Sorry I can’t stay, but we can catch up on our visiting later. Hug Pinky for me.

Okay. Thanks for stopping. We’ll see you Sunday.

I drove back the way I came and turned onto Avenue D at the Post Office. When I saw Olivia Monahan, I realized I should have gone the other way. Olivia was Too-Short Monahan’s mom. She was a Crossing Guard for the school, and she had the job of blocking the intersection on Avenue D in front of the City Hall for school children to cross. She did this in the morning before school, at noon, and when school was over in the afternoon.

Too-Short helped her. He was twenty years old with the mentality of a ten-year-old. People used to say he was two bricks short of a full load. Over time, the saying was refined until it was reduced to Too-short. People began using that epithet instead of his real name, which was Marty.

I approached the intersection slowly and came to a full stop outside of the marked pedestrian crossing lane. Mama Monahan stood in the middle of the street in her orange vest. The words CROSSING GUARD were stenciled in black letters on strips of white webbing attached to the front and back of the vest. A red STOP sign, attached to the wooden handle she grasped in her gloved hands, was raised above her head and aimed at drivers in both directions. As she watched vehicles and made sure they stopped, Too-Short stood on the curb in his orange vest. When children came down the sidewalk to the curb, he held them back until there were several, then he proudly escorted them to the other side. Back and forth he went, serious in his job and authoritative in his commands to the children to follow me. They followed obediently, and it was like watching a mother hen and her chicks. He had a sense of importance and responsibility in what he was doing, and the children liked and trusted him. I sometimes wondered if I was the only person who had thoughts about what would happen to Too-Short if Mama Monahan died or became disabled.

The sidewalks cleared. Mama Monahan and Too-Short retreated to the curb, and traffic started to move again. Patches of dirt, kicked up by surface winds, swirled across the pavement. I shifted the Dodge into drive and moved past the intersection. The wind was letting up some, so I wanted to get to work and take advantage of the calm. I stopped by the Jack-O-Lantern café and ordered a hamburger, Coke, and chips to go. I ate while driving to the field where I had left my GEM parked. GEM—an acronym for Gas Eating Monster— was my 1979 model 8640 John Deere tractor.

When I arrived, I parked the Dodge, got out, and locked it. Then I climbed into my GEM. It wouldn’t start on the first try, or the second. It had been hard to start since they worked on it. I waited a few minutes and tried again. This time it started. When it warmed up, I put it in gear and drove to my starting point. I steered left to choose the rows I wanted to plow and something popped. I stopped, throttled down, and listened for a few minutes. I didn’t hear it again, nor did I detect any problems after a quick visual check. I aimed the GEM down the center line I had to follow, dropped the chisel plows into position, and started out. My initial movement came with a jerk as the plows caught, dug in, and began their work.

After I completed each run from one end of the field to the other, I moved west a few feet to plow new ground. This westward movement, eight rows at a time, gradually took me closer to my house. An hour later, my position was near enough for me to have a vague view of the house and its surroundings. I looked that way and noticed someone standing in the yard. Someone else came out of the house and walked over to meet that person. It was probably Frieda who came out of the house. I knew she had returned from her shopping trip because I could see the outline of her car parked under the carport.

I wanted a better look, so I stopped at the end of the row and took out my binoculars. When I got them focused, I could see Frieda talking to a man. I couldn’t identify him, so I was sure he was a stranger. A few feet away was a motorcycle, one of those fancy jobs with a two-wheel trailer, and I didn’t know anyone with a rig like that.

I watched as Frieda led him to an old building about 100 feet from the house. In its earlier days, the building had been used successively to house itinerant workers, to store tools and parts, and as a refuge for dogs, cats, and other animals. It had been closed up and unused for five years or longer, and I couldn’t understand why they went inside.

I was becoming alarmed. Due to our location near I-27, a busy artery that carries traffic through the Texas Panhandle from Lubbock to Amarillo, we had strangers drop by occasionally. They usually wanted directions. Sometimes they needed help with a stalled vehicle. Frieda was always polite to them, but never to the extent of showing them around the place. Both of us practiced caution in dealing with them because the Interstate carried criminals as well as good and honest people.

I stifled my uneasiness and continued my work. I wasn’t about to shame Frieda by interfering. She viewed herself as an able and trustworthy farmer’s wife, and it would have been an insult to her independent nature for me to butt in uninvited. But for the next three hours, every time I looked toward the house, the motorcycle was still there. As a result, my uneasiness and curiosity continued to grow, and I decided to quit early and learn the reason why the unknown visitor did not leave my property.

I drove my GEM back to the area where I left the Dodge, parked and locked it, and drove the Dodge home. I maneuvered around the fancy motorcycle and parked next to the carport. Apparently Frieda heard me approach, and she met me on the front porch.

I was amazed at the obvious change in her. The dull, bored look was gone. In its place was a trace of her former self. The sparkle in her eyes lit up her face, and the quick, jerky motions that characterized her eagerness had reappeared. This transformation and the unknown power that caused it puzzled me.

She overwhelmed with me a big hug around the neck and a long, passionate kiss. Then she stepped back, looked into my eyes, and said, I’ve got a surprise for you.

She took me by the hand and led me to the old building. We had to walk around the motorcycle and its trailer parked in front. When we reached the front door, she knocked and called out, It’s me! Frieda! I have my husband with me. We’re coming in. She pushed the door open without waiting for an answer, and we walked into the dimness of the old structure.

I had not been inside the place for a long time, so familiarity was not a factor in my surprise. I expected a dirty, cluttered scene. Instead, I saw a freshly cleaned room furnished with some old furniture that had been stored in the barn. I noticed an easy chair, an end table, an old floor lamp, and two cane-bottom chairs. A wooden table with a flickering candle on top stood in one corner; its dim light created an eerie atmosphere in the room. There was a small, brown throw rug between the table and the easy chair. Two cardboard boxes were stacked in the corner, and several items of unpressed male clothing were draped across the back of the easy chair.

A bearded man dressed in blue jeans and a faded plaid shirt was sitting at the table. He wore sandals without any socks, and he stared at me with dark, deep-set eyes. His black beard and pony tail effectively disguised features that might have indicated his age, so I made a rough guess that he was between thirty and thirty-five. He was sorting through paint brushes and other artist’s paraphernalia and arranging them on the table.

Frieda said, Dru, I want you to meet Clifford Curry. Clifford, this is my husband, Dru. Clifford is going to be staying with us for a while. He wants a quiet place where he can do some painting, so I’ve rented this old place to him. I’ve got some more cleaning up to do, and he has a hotplate to cook on, so you’ll have to make sure there’s a fuse in the fuse box, and I think we have a fan in the closet, and —

Slow down, I said. You’re covering too much too fast. Let’s go back to where you rented this place to him. Don’t you think we should have discussed it first?

That was the wrong thing to say. She screwed up her mouth and hung her head in a pout.

I thought you’d be proud of me, she said, in a little girl way. It was an act I hadn’t seen her do for twenty years. I was embarrassed because she’d done it in Clifford Curry’s presence.

He never acknowledged her introduction. Instead, he sat at the table and watched us brazenly. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I detected a slight sneer on his face behind the unkempt beard he wore. I cleared my throat to regain my composure.

I said, Yes—well—we can talk about that in the house.

I walked over to Clifford and offered my hand. I’m pleased to meet you, I said.

He sat in his chair for a few seconds, still and silent. The flickering candle caused alternate shades of light to dance on the wall behind him and made his body look like a ghostly silhouette. His lack of response and his arrogance irked me. I was ready to grab the seat of the pants and eject him, when he suddenly stood up and grabbed my hand. He shook it vigorously while he stared at me with dark brown eyes beneath bushy, arching eyebrows.

The hairs of his beard parted, and the white of his teeth shone through when he said, Pleased to meet you, too. It was said in a low, rattling voice that reminded me of a dog’s tentative growl. I felt the same prickly feeling along my spine that I would’ve felt if an angry dog had tried to attack me.

I nodded, backed away, and said, My wife has taken good care of you, but I don’t understand why you want to rent this old, run-down place. You can find something better in town.

I don’t need much, he said. It’s quiet here. A long way from the noises of civilization. Just what I want.

Having stated his argument, he sat back down at the table and resumed his silence. His eyes never left us, and he exhibited an indefinable manner that sent chills up my spine. A deep feeling of uneasiness spread through me as I tried to identify and understand the power he used to get Frieda’s cooperation. I decided I had to get out of that room, away from his presence, or I was going do something I would later regret.

Okay, I said. I’ll get electricity out here tomorrow. My wife and I will discuss it tonight and decide where to go from here.

He nodded slightly and said nothing. His stoic stare and limited response had pushed my patience to a point where I was about to lose my temper.

I turned to Frieda while I still had a shaky control of myself. She now had a smirk on her pretty face, which I tried to ignore. I took her by the arm and led her out. At the door, she called back to him, We’ll finish cleaning tomorrow so you’ll have another room. Goodnight! Her words were more for my benefit than for his. It was her woman’s way of telling me that she had won, without really telling me.

When we got inside the house, we called a truce until after supper. Then we started up again. I learned that she had rented the place for fifty dollars a month.

Chicken feed! I yelled, but she countered with the argument that it would buy a few groceries, and that we could use all we could get, especially since I failed to get an extension on our bank loan. It was impossible to convince her that the few extra dollars wouldn’t make a hill-of-beans difference in the long run, and that we had enough problems without taking on a renter with unknown credentials and a dubious character.

She maintained her position despite the logic I used. We talked until bedtime, and by then she was unshakable in her idea that renting the old building was her project and her responsibility. She stated very clearly that there was nothing I could do or say that would stop her from contributing to our economic need, no matter how insignificant I thought it was. Despite my apprehension, I agreed to the arrangement with an oral stipulation that it would be her job, not mine. To her credit, she understood that because the planting season had arrived, my time was severely limited.

It was a relief to get the matter settled. As I lay in bed listening to her steady breathing, I rationalized that the experience might be good for her, but I didn’t accept that idea completely. The last thought I had before I went to sleep was what a sorry day it had been.

2

Beauty in one’s life is something to be cherished. I was fortunate enough to be able to see and experience the beauty that was around me in the normal course of daily life. I never thirsted for it, or had a sense of deprivation for a lack of it. I saw it in the sunrise each morning; I felt it in the rich, brown earth that sifted through my fingers. I heard it in the distant call of a meadowlark, and I smelled it in the scents of wild flowers that were wafted across the land by gentle breezes. I was thankful for the uplifting effects of the beauty I was privileged to experience. Beauty was everywhere for all to enjoy. Those who failed to see it because their vision was blurred by life’s problems surely lived in drab, miserable worlds.

I think Jack Huntington was one of those who never saw the beauty in his life. He was seventy two years old, chewed tobacco, drank beer, and cursed like a sailor. His shiny, bald head sat atop an energetic five-foot, ten-inch body. His feistiness and greed were legend, and the intimidation that was ever-present in the boring scrutiny of his steel-blue eyes made people avoid him if they could.

Jack owned six and three-fourths sections of land, a total of 4,320 acres. The sections were not contiguous; they were spread out in six one-section blocks and one block of three-fourths of a section, all within 20 miles of each other. According to Jack, that diversity, while inconvenient, was the only way to beat the weather and maximize the chances of making a crop each year.

The block containing three-fourths of a section was next to my land. In fact, my one-fourth and his three-fourths was once a full section owned by a man named Farnsworth. When Farnsworth died, he left a quarter of a section to each of his four children, three daughters and a son. The day after the old man died, Jack Huntington offered to buy the land from the four heirs. When all of the legal requirements concerning the will were completed, the three daughters accepted the offer and sold their land to Jack, but the son, Quimby, refused. However, Jack somehow persuaded Quimby to lease the property to him.

The lease arrangement was in place for ten years, and Jack farmed the land with the assumption that if Quimby ever decided to sell his share, it would be to him. He hedged that assumption by regularly urging Quimby to sell, but Quimby maintained his stubborn refusal. Nevertheless, he kept the lease arrangement in force with Jack until 1956. I was in the Army and stationed in