Winter Is Not Forever (12 page)
He stopped and his eyes followed mine to the sky. “There’s too much to learn in one afternoon,” he told me. “You come on back—as often as you like—and we’ll pick it up from here.”
I was glad he understood my need to be on the road and for the invitation to come to see him again.
“Tell ya what,” he continued as we walked toward Chester. “You draw up a plan of yer fields. Mark what’s been growing in each for the last seven, eight years, and then come see me agin. We’ll see what ya should be plantin’ come spring.”
I could only stammer my thanks. I hadn’t expected that kind of help.
“It’s important to get good seed, too,” the man continued. “Some farmers try to skimp on the cost of seed. But that costs ’em more than it saves ’em. Just like it is with livestock. The Bible says, ‘Ya reap what ya sow.’ Now I know that wasn’t talkin’
’bout the grain and the stock as much as it was what ya sow in life, but the same holds true.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but it made sense. It was a totally different approach to farming than I had been used to, but I promised myself that I would learn all I could about it. I thanked the man for his kindness and mounted Chester.
“Now that,” he said appreciatively, running a hand over Chester’s thick neck, “is good breedin’. Where’d ya get a horse like this, son?”
I explained that Chester had been a gift and reached down to rub his neck myself.
“First-rate horse!” the man exclaimed, making me beam with his praise.
On the way home I let Chester do a bit of running, though pacing him so that he wouldn’t get too heated. But, like the man had said, Chester’s good breeding showed. He could run a lot without getting winded or sweated up.
I had so much to think about that my head was swimming. Good seed, good blood lines, crop rotation—those were things that spelled out productive farming. And if a man was going to farm—even if it was just until God called him into his real life’s work—then he ought to try to do a good job of it. I determined that I would find out all I could about doing the job right. Maybe the next time we had a bad winter we wouldn’t need to suffer such serious setbacks.
A
S MY INTEREST IN FARMING
techniques increased, I found some farm magazines with articles about crop rotation and pored over them. I sent away to the Department of Agriculture for free information that was mentioned in one of the magazines. I also asked them for information about building up the herd with proper blood lines. Soon pamphlets and sheets of information were coming back through the mail. I hadn’t realized that there was so much to farming—or that the government had information available to help farmers. There were even agricultural courses that a fella could take at home. I had always thought that a man became a farmer because he had been born and raised on the farm and his pa needed help.
“You been gettin’ an awful pile of mail lately,” Grandpa remarked, glancing at the three brown envelopes and a magazine on the kitchen table.
“There’s a lot more to this farming than I ever knew from just growing up on one,” I commented. “You and Uncle Charlie made it seem so easy—”
“Oh, we did the best we knew how, and it worked pretty good most of the time,” Grandpa interrupted, “but it looks to me like yer findin’ some real important things ’bout farmin’ in those magazines and booklets of yers. Charlie an’ I’ve been readin’ some of them, too,” he said to my questioning look. “We’re real glad yer learnin’ some new ways to do things.” From the shine in his eyes, I knew he meant it.
All through the chill of spring I worked with the stock, trying to keep them comfortably warm so their energy could be reserved for putting fat on their bodies. I still couldn’t feed them the way I would have liked, but I made a warm mash for them on the cooler days, and kept the animals in the barns all I could. It meant more barn cleaning, but if the stock benefited, then it would be worth it.
On the sunnier days I let them out to pasture. The snowdrifts were slowly melting down and the horses led the way for the cattle, pawing back the snow in order to get to the left-over grasses from last fall. They even began to discover some fresh new blades of grass and that increased their desire to forage. The cows followed along behind, eating from the open spots the horses had left.
Every day I watched the sky, the snow patches, the weather, mentally measuring the feed I had left with the number of animals.
At night I read the magazines and information booklets, and I began to see what Mr. Thomas had been trying to tell me—there was a
system
to good farming.
I drew out a map of the fields, and Grandpa and Uncle Charlie and I went over them one by one. It was hard to remember every field back for seven or eight years. Sometimes Grandpa and Uncle Charlie disagreed about the crop that had been planted in a particular field and then they would have to sort through their thinking, trying to figure out which one was right. I decided then and there that an accurate account of each field would be kept year by year, along with the yield and any other information I might come up with.
Daily I checked my feed rations; I was still anxious that we wouldn’t make it to the end of May. Finally we held a consultation and decided to sell off two more young heifers. They looked small-boned, and we wanted to build up our herd with larger animals.
Instead of going to see Mr. Thomas alone, I suggested to Grandpa and Uncle Charlie that they come with me. I wanted them to hear firsthand what the man had to say, and to catch some of the excitement that he generated.
Thus on a mild day that held a promise of spring, we hitched the team to the wagon. The road was rutted and messy with dirty puddles of half-melted snow. The ground had not yet yielded up its frost, but still it was hard pulling for the team, and we didn’t travel very fast. I drove and Uncle Charlie and Grandpa just sat there and soaked in the warmth of the sun. It had been a long time since they had been able to feel the sunshine.
It was just as I had hoped that it would be. We were welcomed with a handshake that made my hand tingle. I thought of Uncle Charlie and his arthritis and almost said something, but Mr. Thomas must have noticed the crippled hands, for he took my uncle’s hand very carefully and didn’t squeeze at all.
This farmer’s enthusiasm was contagious. He talked about the importance of good seed, of planting in weed-free fields, of rotating the crops so that the soil wouldn’t become depleted, and of fertilizing properly each year.
With the livestock kept in so much of the winter, at least we wouldn’t be short of fertilizer. But I winced as I thought of the unpleasant task of scattering it over the fields.
With the help of Mr. Thomas, we analyzed our field situation and determined what crops should be planted where and which field should go fallow. The next step was to find a source of good seed grain. We were in the favored position of being able to afford a bit of good seed. Before we left, Mr. Thomas promised to come out and take a look at our livestock. He would help us sort out the best that we had and then figure out how to start developing better stock.
My head was whirling by the time we put down our coffee cups and headed home. We had so much to think about and so much to get done—even before planting time.
All the way home I was planning the days ahead. Even if spring was slow in coming, I still didn’t think we’d be ready for it. There was so much to do to prepare the ground for the coming crop year.
Because I knew I would be more than busy once we could drive the wagon out to the fields, I decided to call on Mrs. Foggelson before I got too rushed. I was sorry to hear she would be leaving us. I guess I was even a little sorry to hear that he would be going. I wished with all my heart that he could realize that there was a God—a God who was in charge of the universe. How could someone with such a brilliant mind be so wrong about something so important?
With the move, I wouldn’t be seeing Camellia again. I had hoped the day would come when both she and her mother would become believers. Mr. Foggelson, I knew, would be hard to convince after so many years of resisting the truth.
When I got to the Foggelsons’, the snowbanks had almost disappeared off their front lawn. Little shoots of spring plants pointed up through the final snow covering the flower beds. I knew that Mrs. Foggelson dearly loved her flowers, and I wondered who would be caring for them after she had moved away.
In answer to my knock, Mrs. Foggelson came hesitantly to the door. When she saw me, her face lit up, and she flung the door open with a welcoming smile.
“Josh! So good to see you,” she said, sounding glad that I had come. I sat twisting my cap in my hands in her parlor while she rushed to the kitchen for tea. Once we were settled with our cups, Mrs. Foggelson chatted about spring, about her garden, about the hard winter, and finally about Camellia.
“Did you know that Camellia quit studying Interior Design?” she asked. I had to admit that I did.
“Did you know that she is working as a telephone operator?”
I nodded again.
“I am so glad,” went on Mrs. Foggelson. “I was so worried about her in New York. She got in with the wrong choice of friends almost immediately, and I was so worried.”
I hadn’t known about that.
“Does she like her work?” I asked.
“Not really. But it is good clean work with good people. That’s the most important thing. Camellia might be smart, and she might be independent, but she has had no experience dealing with people. Especially the kind of people who would lead her into—into wrong living.”
I hardly knew what to say. I just nodded my head in understanding, trying to balance the light flakes of pastry that didn’t want to stay on my fork.
“I’m glad she’s no longer in New York.” Mrs. Foggelson sighed with relief.
I nodded again, then ventured, “But you must be sorry that she won’t be close by when you move.”
Her eyes dropped and she was silent for a few minutes.When she looked up again, her voice was very soft and low.
“I won’t be moving,” she said.
“There’s been a change of plans?” I asked hopefully. She just shook her head.
“But—but I was told that Mr. Foggelson got a teaching position in a small college—somewhere near New York City.”
She let her eyes look evenly into mine. “Yes,” she said, “he did.” Silence.
“Well,” I prompted, “then he has changed his mind after all.”
“Oh no. He’ll be going as planned.”
“But—” I felt that we were talking in riddles. I stopped and waited for her to enlighten me.
“Mr. Foggelson will be going as he has planned,” she said carefully, “but I will remain here.”
I must have looked as shocked as I felt. I lowered my fork, scattering the last of my flaky pastry onto the white damask cloth. My face flushed hot with embarrassment.
Mrs. Foggelson reached over to pour me some more tea. I didn’t have a voice to refuse it, even though I didn’t think that I could drink another drop.
“Did you notice that the early tulips are already showing some?” Mrs. Foggelson asked, as though flowers were all we had been discussing since I had come in.
I nodded and cleared my throat again.
“I do so hope that we have a nice spring,” said Mrs. Foggelson. “We can’t have an early one—it’s already too late for that, but I do hope it’s a nice one. I am so tired of the dreary winter.”
My eyes drifted to a picture of Camellia on the corner table. Mrs. Foggelson had lots of pictures of Camellia. Or were they Mr. Foggelson’s? I looked about the room, my mind busy with embarrassing thoughts. Who would get the pictures? Who would get the brocade sofa? Who the silver tea service or the china cups?
What did folks do when they separated company, anyway? How did they ever go about portioning out a house? A home? I knew absolutely nothing about such things. But surely some rough days lay ahead for the Foggelsons.
Then another thought quickly came to my mind. With Mrs. Foggelson staying, maybe—“Does Camellia plan to stay on in the little town where she is, or—or might she come back home again?”
