The Naturalists A Historical Novel of the Hayman Family: The Naturalists Trilogy, #3

By C. G. Haberman

His great-grandfather, John Hayman, came to this gently rolling grassland filled with marshes teeming with life, in 1855.

     Now Chance Hayman, the lone heir to the Hayman acres, deals with the vanishing marshes that his parents and grandparents lovingly tended. The entire area has succumbed to the plow, earth-moving machines, irrigation, and natural disasters such as fowl cholera. Since farms such as his are not protected as federal wetlands, there is a fear that they could fall into the hands of special interests claiming they are needed to "feed the world."

     The infamous Hayman journals fuel his desire to ensure the wetland loss will cease. A long-forgotten file containing high altitude photography has come to Chance's attention via his close friend, the governor.

     Together they provide the support to preserve and restore the marshes of this unique land. A complex web of life that once offered refuge for waterfowl and shorebirds that amassed in high numbers during the spring and fall migratory seasons has nearly vanished. Can Chance convince his neighbors to bring back some of the small wetlands that form an ecosystem?

     The last volume of the Hayman family brings to the forefront the issues and how they impact him and his friends.

     The following quote starts the story: "The future belongs not to those who have the most, but to those who do the most with what they have. Eugene P. Odum."

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. G. Haberman
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386887300

Book preview

Chapter 1

ALAN CALLED AND LEFT a message that he would arrive a few minutes before 6:30. I checked to make sure at least four beers cooled in the refrigerator, fixed a tray of cheese and crackers, and mixed another gin and tonic.

Two sips into my drink, Alan’s old pickup rattling toward the house caught my attention. The dogs, sitting at the bottom of the porch steps, woofed once when they recognized the truck. Alan had stopped by the house several times since Karin died, and the dogs had learned he always offered a treat. The treat usually consisted of two bones his wife saved for them.

Alan’s wife, Sally, is the best cook in the four-county area. He often brought a dozen springerle cookies because she wanted to keep us happy between Christmas seasons. Not all people enjoy this cookie because of the unusual flavor. Today he toted a small basket as he slid out of his pickup. No doubt it’s a haul consisting of white and rye home-baked bread.

The dogs, sitting at Alan’s feet, quivered with expectation. Alan handed me the basket and turned to fetch a butcher-paper package. My black Lab woofed at him and stood.

Mind your manners, I said in a stern voice. Cal’s butt immediately hit the grass.

Alan patted each dog on the head and unwrapped the package. Their nostrils flared when the scent erupted.

You two are like your master. He looked up at me as he handed them the treat. No retort to my comment, Mr. Hayman.

I’ve come to expect your sarcasm about using all five senses to understand the marshes and prairies.

His stomach bounced when he laughed.

What’s with the suspenders?

Alan placed a hand on my shoulder and asked, "Do I detect a hint of concern in that question?

Damn right.

Don’t worry. I’m trying to lose some weight. Doctor’s orders.

I studied his face to decide if he teases. His look is sober as a seasoned poker player.

Doctor Sally. He erupted in laughter. The dogs looked up and quickly returned to their gnawing.

He pointed to the drink on the small table beside my porch chair. What’s in the glass?

Gin and tonic.

How about a shot of old Jack and a Hayman homebrew for a chaser?

At your service, Mr. Editor. I motioned him toward the porch, where his favorite rocking chair waited. I’ll slice us some of each, I lifted the white cloth that covered the loaves, and set out real butter.

He rubbed his ample stomach. Don’t tell Sally. She knows I have booze when I come to see you, but she doesn’t know about the snacks.

My lips remain sealed ... unless—

Not the old blackmail threat again.

I’ll return shortly.

He sighed and eased into the rocking chair.

I pulled a bottle of homebrew from the refrigerator, poured his shot of Jack Daniels, and placed it on the table. After opening the bottle, I tossed the cap in the trash basket, grabbed the shot glass of Jack, and headed for the porch. The telephone rang. I look at it for a second and let it go to voicemail.

Here you are, please enjoy. He tossed the shot and returned the glass before I gave him the brew. Don’t ask. I’ll have the bread sliced in a minute.

The light flashed on the answering machine. First things first, I placed the excellent smelling home-baked bread on the cutting board and cut six slices of each. On the dinner tray, I put two small plates next to the butter. The rye scent caused my mouth to water. I again ignored the flashing light and returned to the porch.

Don’t you answer your phone calls?

Not when Sally sends a treat of home-baked bread. I sipped my gin and tonic and grabbed a slice of the rye bread. A small moan slipped from between my lips. Damn.

I take that as a compliment for Sally.

So, how much weight have you lost?

About twenty pounds. He took a moment to sip the brew and follow it with a bite from the buttered white bread. I’m kinda proud of myself.

And, well, you should.

You wanna take that call?

No. If it’s important, whoever will call back.

He abruptly launched into the subject. Have you thought about how you would like to see the story of the Haymans unfold? He held up his hand. I know, I know ... there was a write-up about your family up through the early 1940s.

You anticipate well, I replied. I’ve thought about the sequence. The vanishing wetlands should grab the reader at the start.

Okay, let’s see if we can get an outline started without argument.

The word argument caused me to flinch.

Don’t overreact to my statement, Alan said. I know your passion for the marshes, but our readers will want a story that has a dazzling human side. Okay?

Okay.

He took a long drink from the sweat-covered bottle. After he placed it back on the tray, he snatched a small notepad and pen from his shirt pocket.

How about breaking the story into four parts using the years: 1946-1960, 1961-1975, 1976-1990, and 1991 to the present?

He finished jotting down my suggestion and looked up at me. He shook his head and grabbed the half-empty bottle. You’ll never make it as a writer for the paper. Think sexy, at least eye-catching, so the reader doesn’t put that page in the parakeet cage.

Okay, let’s go back to the evening we first talked about the story. You used the title The Beginning of the End. I finished my slice of rye bread and selected a white slice. If we do that, we can start with the wetland loss, the story of my parents during that span, and include the growing children. Then continue with Hope, Joy, and me before we set off on our adulthood adventures.

Before I respond, how about another shot of Jack and a bottle of brew?

That I can do, if you don’t eat all the bread in the short time I’m gone.

He gave me a disgusted look and waved me away.

This time I opted to check the earlier call.

Chance, I’d like to meet with you next week. We can dine at a small-town café outside our areas. I need to talk, and you’re a good listener. Please call back as soon as possible.

I stared at the phone after hanging up. The governor called me to meet about what? Does she want to talk about the wetlands, her marital life problems, or both?

Chapter 2

ALAN ATE ONLY ONE SLICE of the rye bread. He deserved a pat on the back for his restraint. I worried about the editor because of the extra weight he carries on his under six feet frame.

So, Mr. Editor, did you come up with any thoughts while I dutifully fetched your booze?

He tossed down the shot of Jack and replied, Dutifully? Politely would better describe a host’s efforts to please his company, don’t you think?

I grinned, held up my gin and tonic, and clinked my glass against his bottle. Right on. After a small sip, I said, Where did you grow up, and where did you do your schooling?

I grew up on a farm outside of Hays, Kansas. I received all my education at Fort Hays State. Are you familiar with Fort Hays?

I am. He looked surprised.

Why would you know the college?

Come now, look around you. I waited as he scanned the surroundings in front of him. What do you see?

"Two contented dogs—

Other than my dogs?

He looked to the southeast. I see your passion, the Hayman marsh, and the native prairie surrounding it.

I watched him sip the brew, smiled, and said, Prairie ecology is a well-known program at Fort Hays State, right.

You attended outreach classes from the college’s agriculture division?

"I did. Several of the professors graduated from colleges in Nebraska. They know about the wetlands that vanished from our counties. And you know my passion for the prairie and the marshes of south-central Nebraska.

But all I know about you is you bought The Rural County News and breathed life into the weekly paper. Where were you between college and the buy? And why did you settle here rather than Kansas?

I worked as a farm reporter right out of college, Alan responded, in northwest Kansas. My work started in Colby, then I moved to Phillipsburg, and on to Concordia. He stopped for a drink, folded his hands, and rested them on his stomach. "After moving around in northern Kansas, I returned to Hays and worked the local news, which included the college. Two major career events occurred during my stay in Hays. Firstly, I worked my way through the different types of coverage, beyond local news. The second event came when I met my dream girl from Nebraska. She came from Edgar to Fort Hays on an academic scholarship. A year later, we married.

I freelanced for the bigger papers around here but decided I wanted to be an editor. Opportunity knocked when The Rural County News editor came to me. We talked about his retirement and the need to compete with the larger papers. They’re the ones that misunderstand the rural folk, you know. He laughed at the latter statement. Of course, there are those who will not buy my paper because it grates on their nerves. But they do borrow it from their neighbor when the story mentions them. He looked around and asked, Where’s your copy?

I buy your paper? Quickly, I added, Just kidding. I stood, stretched, and scanned the peaceful marsh. I’d better start dinner.

I lit the grill and checked the baked potatoes in the oven. Alan loves a good steak and baked potato, providing it comes with an after-dinner drink.

After we finished the before-dinner drinks, I cleared away the bread dish.

Alan said, Now for the story. He gave me a wicked grin. Another brew will help my note-taking.

Chapter 3

THE DOGS STOPPED CHEWING on the bones and headed for the barn. They curled up in the south doorway where the breeze caressed them.

I can’t remember much that happened except for the times I wandered the barn and the marsh area. My parents would take us for walks. I do remember Hope and Joy had chores, leaving me to play and take naps.

Alan looked over his reading glasses. Where would you like to start?

Let’s start in 1948.

How old were you at this starting point?" Alan made his first note.

Six.

What happened that you have such a clear starting point?

When he asked, it was like a time transporter zoomed me back to August of 1948.

"Hey, Mom, where’s dad?" I asked.

He took Shirley to Hastings to attend college. We agreed she should have a degree in business. Her education will help improve the farm business.

Joy, my youngest sister, came in the back door, toting a basket of dry clothes. Chance, move your rear so I can sort these.

Please, I replied.

Please, little brother, may I use the table to sort the clothes.

Joy waited until I gathered my insect collection before she dumped the basket on the table in front of me.

Where’s Hope, I asked.

My mother replied, Cleaning up Shirley’s cabin at the south marsh.

Oh. How did Hope get down there?

Geez, you’re full of questions, Joy said.

Dad dropped her off before he took Shirley to Hastings. Lily held up her hand. He’ll pick her up on the way back.

Joy continued separating the clothes. When finished, she set up the ironing board in the small laundry area. Chance, aren’t you scheduled to work in the barn?

Shucks, you’re right. I put away the insect collection and hurried to the barn. On the John Deere calendar, with the monthly farm pictures, Dad had penciled horse stall #1 on August 31, a Tuesday. I turned the calendar to September and noticed Dad wrote cow stall on Tuesday, September 7th box. On the 10th, he had penciled in horse stall #2.

Dad had turned the horses out for the day. I had no excuse for not finishing the horse stall by five o’clock. The smell of dried hay bales in the hayloft floated throughout the barn interior, and the pleasant aroma remained while I cleaned the stall.

I grabbed the shovel and began clearing the manure piles. After taking the manure to the garden area, in a small wheelbarrow, I returned to rake out the old straw and haul it to the compost pile. The stall area began to smell clean. The packed-earth floor needed a scrub with three or four pails of water. The wind dried my brow as I pumped fresh water into the two buckets placed securely on my cart.

The entire stall cleaning project took me about three hours. Dad said if I cleaned them every two weeks, there’d be more time for my insect collecting. I propped the rake and shovel against the stall and eased over to the bench. Under the counter, a spider web swayed in the undulating air currents. As I leaned down to check the intricate design, I heard Joy calling my name.

She rushed through the side barn door; her face flushed, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She raced up to me and grabbed my arm.

C’mon, we got to go with Mom. She couldn’t get more words to come out.

What’s wrong?

It took her a moment to catch her breath. Hope got bit by a fox. Mom said to hurry because she’s worried the fox might have rabies.

A fox bit Hope. That’s kinda odd. Where did she get bit?

Joy frowned at me. On the hand.

No, I mean, where did it happen?

Stop asking questions. Mom wants us to meet her at the garage.

Mom always stayed calm when someone had an accident. She rapidly walked the path to the garage, gesturing toward the pickup.

Climb in and sit tight.

She backed the pickup out of the garage and said to hang on. I watched her shift through each gear. Her feet moved smooth and comfortable from the brake to the clutch and then the gas pedal.

Joy asked, Is Hope okay?

I think so.

My mind raced over what I learned about rabies from my dad and mom. My stomach did a flip-flop, and I belched.

You gonna be sick? Joy blurted out.

I shook my head. If I opened my mouth, I might throw up. Mom reached over and tousled my hair, and that made me feel better. I focused on the speedometer. It stayed steady at 40 as we motored toward the cabin.

We pulled up to the cabin front, where Hope sat in an old rocker on the porch. She had a washrag wrapped around her right hand and wrist.

Mom quickly stepped from the Ford pickup and raced to Hope. We followed like two ducklings trailing the mother hen.

Tell me what happened, Mom said. She pulled a chair next to Hope.

Joy and I plopped down in front of them, staring at the bloody rag.

I heard Rusty barking real funny on the east side of the cabin, Hope said. I’d just finished wiping down the table and yelled at him to stop. He didn’t. His barks got worse, and he started to growl and yip real loud. I kinda worried and ran out to check on him. He bounced back and forth by a hole under the cabin. Hope stared at the rag. When Rusty began digging at the opening, I grabbed him to make him stop. A fox jumped out to bite Rusty; it got me instead. It hurt bad, lotta blood ... A tear rolled down her cheek. I think Rusty is okay. He chased that fox back into the hole.

Where’s Rusty? Mom asked.

I think he’s out by the marsh.

Mom said to Joy and me, "Fetch a basin of water, soap, and some clean washrags and put them on the table. When you finish with that, go to the bathroom to find some bandages and the iodine bottle.

Joy and I jumped to our feet to fetch the water and washrags. We skittered into the bath area and grabbed what mom needed. My folks taught us how to take care of cuts as soon as we started to work on our own. Joy found the iodine bottle that Mom wanted.

Thank you. She unwrapped Hope’s hand and cleaned the bite punctures.

I said, Fox don’t usually attack.

Is that right? Mom looked at me with a small frown.

Joy gave me a disgusting look. Well, smarty-pants, why  say that?

Because Dad said so.

Oh, Joy said and sucked in her bottom lip.

Did you notice anything unusual about the fox? Mom asked.

Hope shook her head and watched Mom bathe the wounds.

Joy, call the telephone operator, and tell her we need to speak to our doctor in Geneva.

What can I do? I asked.

Try to spot Rusty the through the window. Watch for foxes near the lip of the marsh. Lily continued to clean and wrap the puncture wounds. If you see your father coming, let me know.

Mom, the doctor wants to talk, right now. Joy held out the earpiece.

Doctor, this is Lily Hayman— She listened for less than a minute. I’ll arrive at the clinic in twenty minutes. Thank you.

Mom grabbed several safety pins and secured the wraps around Hope’s hand and wrist. She hugged Hope and whispered, We’re gonna drive to Geneva ... see the doctor. Are you okay?

Hope nodded. Do you know what’ll happen?

No, but we need to see the doctor, so he gets all the details. Try to remember everything you can about the animal and the bite. Okay?

Okay.

Joy asked, Are we going to Geneva?

No, Lily said, you stay here until Father arrives. He should be here within an hour.

But, Mom—

No, buts, Joy, you need to stay with Chance. Father will drive you to the clinic. We can talk later about the care Hope will need.

Joy’s bottom lip formed a small pout. Okay.

Thank you. Lily grabbed her small handbag and hustled out the door. After she helped Hope into the pickup, she tooted the horn and waved at us.

We stood on the porch, watching Mom drive toward Geneva. Joy turned to me and said, What’re we gonna do?

We need to stay here until Father arrives, I replied and went inside, eyed the clock, and noted the time.

Father drove up to the cabin as the old clock chimed four o’clock. We jumped off the porch before he got out of the car.

Dad looked at our frightened faces and asked, Where’s Hope and Mom?

I blurted out, Hope got bit by a fox.

Where are they?

Joy answered, Mom talked to the doctor in Geneva. He wanted to have Hope brought to the clinic right away.

The telephone rang. Dad grabbed the earpiece from the cradle. He listened, and then into the mouthpiece said, I’ll be there as soon as possible. He glanced at the wall clock, quietly ticking in the cabin. I’m going to go back to the house and check the livestock. From what you say, there’s not much we can do by hurrying to Geneva. He stopped talking and listened. Good, I’ll let the children know on our drive back to the farmstead.

Joy and I started cleaning the table. Mom had tossed the soiled washrags in the wastebasket. We threw our wet rags in a different wastebasket near the cabin stove. Dad hugged us and told us to scrub our hands.

When we get home, we spotted Rusty sitting outside the barn. He had sandburs stuck on his legs and chest. Dad stopped us from running and hugging him. He warned us, Be careful because the fox might have bitten Rusty.

After we checked all the livestock, dad called the veterinarian. Dad put Rusty in a doghouse and closed the slotted door to keep him from running off. The small animal doctor said to keep him there until he got to the farm.

I came back to the present and looked up at Alan. Did you get most of that?

I did, but I need clarification. Did Hope undergo the rabies shots?

Yes. Luckily, the doctor said it was okay for her to stay home and come in each day.

Alan’s stomach rumbled.

I’ll put the steaks on the grill, and we can continue this discussion after dinner.

Chapter 4

ALAN DEVOURED THE LARGE T-BONE, big baked potato, and two bowls of salad. He burped loudly and heaved a sigh. You’re serving an after-dinner drink, I hope.

Not to worry. How does a Kalua on the rocks with a twist of lemon sound?

Delightful.

Will you take the scraps to the dogs?

My pleasure.

I’ll be out after I rinse the dishes and put them in the washer.

He waved over his head. The screen door slammed shut.

As I