Facing Down Demons

Ray City History

Peace or not, Lewis and his comrades brought back ghosts of war when Armistice Day, November 11th, on the 11th hour, at the 11th minute, 1918, proclaimed the Great War, the War to End All Wars, had ended. 

But, each major battle slaughtered hundreds of thousands young men, while survivors hoisted rucksacks, a rifles, and wool blankets and made their way back to home.

By 1918, 38 million people had been killed and wounded in WW1, making it the deadliest conflicts in world history thus far.  While men coming home safe and sound, their injuries were carried in their hearts and minds for their entire lives.

In his own rucksack Lewis also lugged war with its battles, screams, blood, and pain. Home. Home. I will find peace there.

But today, today Lewis walked away, to do another battle.

Marie had watched Lewis disappear in dark woods, rifle in hand, rucksack over his shoulder, and prayed that he would release some of pain that chased him.  Let him find peace here.  Peace here.  

Marie turned from trees, now dripping golden leaves and red.   

Up on Harper's Hill, Lewis set up a camp with supplies Marie had placed lovingly in the rucksack.  He climbed the highest tree, gazing out upon farmland, recalling trenches dug in farmland just like this.

Climbing down, then dropping onto damp grass, Lewis groaned.  He had been younger back then, joints didn't hurt then. 

He took off his boots, now drying with mud and forest debris. His boots in France had been lathered with blood at the end of each day. Hard crusted mud and blood over stiff boots crackled and fell off as each remaining infantryman scrubbed and then oiled leather.

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"You dog-faced men! You gotta keep these cleaned and ready: rifle and boots.  Y'all will be face down, if'n you don't have these." Each night, while men huddled in freezing water in their own trenches, General Pershing's sergeants yelled this, knowing they would all go over, leaping out of trenches with terrible roars.

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Trenches would be there, stretching out across open land, beyond the horizon, if I could see through smoke. 

Sweeping his hand across the rich farmland stretching out to the Big River,  Lewis recalled how the barbed wire would roll out mile after mile, covered with bits of clothing, how the helmets had been left where bodies had fallen. 

Screams stopped only when there were enough helmets, enough sacrifices.

If Lewis closed his eyes, he would see fragments of bodies scattered over French farm land.  Cows once grazed here, wheat grew in that field over there.  Someday, it'll all be plowed under and replanted.

Over there and there, that's where Max died and Tom lost a leg...behind his eyes, he envisioned their bodies yet. Max's laughter still echoed in his mind, and Tom writing to Katie, promising to be home soon. Bitter tears burned his eyes, but not like that mustard gas.  That got me, too.  Lungs.  

Trenches between battles

Be home soon.  Soldiers down the line wrote those same words, day after day. Lewis had no such expectations. There was no magic in the world or God's hand that could save any of them .

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Clutching his unloaded rifle in hands, with straps wound around his shoulder and elbow, Lewis dozed and awoke, dozed and awoke. Safe.  I will be safe. Up here on Harper's Hill.

Before children awoke with sleepy eyes, Marie had already baked two apple pies, peeled potatoes and kept them in a pot of cold water in the cellar. She had dusted the parlor, changed the sheets on their wedding bed, and only then she holler up the stairs. 

Wake up!  Time to get up!

A pot of hot oatmeal steamed on the oven, cream and butter was on the table, with sticky honey in a pint jar. All waited for sleepy girls.

"We have a lot of work today.  Your daddy'll be home tonight." I hope. Lord, please Lord, bring him home, leave his devils behind on Harper's Hill.

Minerva caught Marie’s eyes, and knew this meant that Mama and Minerva had chores to do while Rosie and Irma blew away dandelion fairies.

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Today was Chicken Day.  A God-awful day was chicken day.

Bubbling hot water bubbled in a wash tub over outside on their fire pit, ready to do its job.  Rosie and Irma locked Henry in the tool shed. “Make sure you lock it tight.  That dog would tear these apart.” 

Rosie and Irma squealed, chasing chickens around pen until they were out of breath and chickens worn, slowly picking at invisible corn.

Marie chose three plump hens, those whose eggs had become fewer and fewer, and handed two over to Minerva. “Hold these tight, yes, upside down.”

Tom Zsolt

With that, laying one chicken on a weathered stump used for just this, Marie brought a sharpened hatchet down on the first one, throwing it aside. Thwack! Thwack! 

It raced around, headless and bleeding; while, on the blood streaked grass, its eyes still blinked, its beak opening and shutting soundlessly.

Minerva, with eyes large and wide open, wordlessly handed the next chicken victim to Mama. Minerva had never been so close, been a witness to carnage.

Rosie and Irma watched from their apple tree, mouths in an O, big gasps with each chop. 

Marie grabbed now still hens and hung them by the clawed feet on the clothes line, tying the feet onto a bent wire.  “Pick these heads up, girls.  Help your sister!”  The heads were tossed to hogs, their snouts raised, smelling blood in the air.  Blood meant food, good or bad.  Just food.

Now all girls and Marie sat around an empty tub in the center, wondering What are we ‘sposed to do?  What?

Marie dipped each hen, now still and blood drained, into boiling water.  Once, twice, three times.  She tugged on a wing pinion, and when it could almost pull out, Marie gave Minerva a chicken.  Then one for herself, then one for Rosie and Irma.

“Pull the feathers out like this.  Put them in that empty tub, so we can use them to fill pillows.  Keep plucking them out, out and out, until they are all gone.” 

Marie grasped and then tugged feathers out by handfuls.  Pulling and tugging, Marie demonstrated to her girls what to do with dead chickens, headless chickens.

Minerva comprehended, copied Marie. Grab, pull, grab, twist, pull, that’s all you gotta do. Irma and Rosie gagged, grabbed feathers, and then gagged some more. 

Wisconsin History

When gagging headed toward puking, Marie sent them to collect firewood.  

Three naked chickens later, Marie carried carcasses into a clean kitchen, slapping them down into a deep sink.  

She held her breath, chopping off the "parson's nose" and wondering how anyone, anyone at all could eat this fatty tail glob.  

Processing chickens meant pulling out guts, gizzards, livers, hearts and washing the cavities out with salt water.  

It meant dismembering legs, wings, breasts, and all, then rinsing them in water. 

It meant rinsing until the water was clear of blood.

Scraping and scooping the offal into her dish pan, Marie carried it to the hogs. Blood, favorite food. 

Minerva, Rosie, and Irma eased into the kitchen, staring at Marie’s back in wonder. Who is this lady? 

“Go out back and scrub yourselves hard.  Clean nightgowns, put them on. Supper ‘l be ready soon.”

Marie floured and salted each piece, then carefully put them in an iron skillet, sizzling with hot lard.  Piece by piece.  Mashed potatoes somehow appeared, and sweet peas, too. Marie moved in a blur.

Her clean babies, wet hair still dripping, chewed and swallowed one chicken ravenously.  Legs, wishbone, and breast meat, all fried crisp and steaming hot, the result chicken-slaughter, weren't connected to all that went before. 

Visions of silent chickens running until hearts ran dry was now just a memory of afternoon work.

Then her babies were in bed, worn out emotionally and physically.  Marie kept frying two chickens, mashing more potatoes, and then creaming sweet peas.  Two apple pies sat on a clean kitchen table with tea towels draped over them.

Placing supper in a warm black iron stove, Marie inspected her clean kitchen before stepping out onto the kitchen porch. Only then, did Marie poured buckets of cold water, drenching her. Marie washed down, scraping and sudsing off smells of chicken and sweat.

Other buckets were pumped and full, waiting for Lewis, waiting to baptize him, waiting to heal a tired body.

Finally Marie eased her tired body down into her mother’s old rocker and waited.  A full moon hung by an invisible string right over her house.  A string, I can see it. Moonlight slanted over her house, over the trees, over her.

Trees leading to steep climbs and rises rustled and Lewis broke through.  Shoulders slumping, dirt smearing his face and clothes, Lewis struggled out into streaming moonlight. Tear tracks were erased by love beaming from a worn-out face.

 Lewis! Home! 

She did not race into his arms.  Instead Marie poured buckets and buckets of cold water down over him, rinsing him clean of mud and leaves.  Marie stripped him bare and took more buckets with soap, scrubbed him from matted hair to blistered feet. 

She gently dried him, dried him like he was a baby, whispering,"You're home now.  You're safe here."over and over. 

Marie pulled on clean clothes, combed his hair, and then enfolded him with a woman’s arms.  Lewis wrapped her with his own arms, sobbing into her hair.

Chicken, potatoes, all of her labors of love disappeared silently, completely. Then they crept into their bed, naked body to naked body.

I’ll clean the kitchen tomorrow.  It isn’t going anywhere.  But, Lewis is home.  He never left me, he came home.  To me.  Lewis came home…

World War 1 ended with signing of Armistice agreement on November 11, at 11:11 a.m., 1918.  It was a peace agreement, which did not insist or demand  the surrender of Germany.  Twenty years later, rise of Nazism with Hitler at the head began.  

This year honors the 100th year since the end of WW1.

Spoken and Unspoken

Buddy with Amy Peck, Grandmother Laura Peck (with her Bible) and Theodorus Peck.  My father Buddy hated this photo, hated the popular sailor suit for boys.

October 1932 was just three months after Pa died.  Buddy could count the days, almost hours, since his pa had died and now was buried in a plot not three miles from Grandma Laura’s house.

That would be 5,236 strides, which Bud counted each day as he ran and walked to his pa’s grave site. His whole world had become a gray green and the sky always dull gray. There was little laughter, his face almost was frozen in sorrow.

But today, Ma was canning for Grandma, putting away some beans and tomatoes.  We should have done this earlier. But... Theodorus had died in early July and gardens wasted away, but for a few plants. Back in the garden house, produce had been picked and cleaned.

So, Ma scrubbed the table and quart jars; Ma chopped beans, canned tomatoes with Helen by her side.  Grousing and muttering under her breath, Helen anticipated a slap at any moment, knowing Ma’s patience was mighty slim. 

Words flowed freely in Helen’s mind, however. She had developed a colorful collection of metaphors after Pa died, from cousins and neighbors for whom she cleaned house and did laundry to earn some coins for Ma.  With her sharp intellect, Helen allowed the glorious language cavort silently. She found a perverted form of happiness with this delightful language.

One of the biggest thoughts she had that day was Where the hell is Buddy? She smiled. 

He left me here in deep shit (Oh, it felt so good to think that word!) and, God damn it, he better haul his ass (another satisfying word) up here. Instead, Helen asked Ma casually, “Where is Buddy, Ma?  Isn’t he ‘sposed to help out today?”

Ma wiped her forehead with her soggy stained apron and sighed.  “Oh, I ‘spect he is still helping your grandma move furniture and reach up to high shelves.  Her bones are so crippled and she sure can’t take a chance to climb up to reach her china.” 

Amy also squeezed back the painful thoughts of the immense load placed on her by Theodorus’ death. Tears rolled quietly.  

Why oh why did you leave me, Dorus?  How could you have left me?  I don’t know what I am doing, how to do it!  Your ma is no help at all, not one bit.  I believe I have a fourth child and her name is Laura. Dear Lord, grant me Your wisdom…Amy prayed quietly wanting some sort of an answer, but expecting none.

Theodorus Peck in Michigan, photo taken by new bride, Amy Nichols Peck.

Helen sighed and smashed steaming tomatoes a bit more forcefully than was needed.  Take that, you red steaming pile of crap!

Amy Nichols Peck, bride

She hammered them once more.  Hell if I .... “Hmmmm” were the only sound spoken, but a flow of profanity streamed freely through her brain,  all focused on Buddy, none of them kind, none of them speak-able in front of Ma.

While Amy prayed and Helen did not, Buddy was moving rugs and chairs in Grandma Laura’s house. Willingly or unwillingly never had mattered.  

Do this, Buddy.  Move it over here.  Climb up and get that vase.  Dust and wash it. Climb up again. A mind-numbing day, and Buddy was locked into a rhythm dictated by Ma and Grandma.

 “Move that chair here, Buddy." 

I just moved it over there, old woman! Gee whiz! Can't you make up your shriveled brain?  

"Oh, my goodness!  Won’t you just look at all that dust!  Buddy, take that rug outside and beat it, won’t you, be a dear.”  Then Grandma Laura retired out to the porch and fanned herself.

Buddy remembered that rug, remembered it well.  He and Pa played on that rug and read books on that rug. That rug was where Pa in his coffin rested the night before his funeral.  

Buddy struggled with that heavy wool floor rug, grabbing it over both hands, and dragged it outside where a sheen of drab green enveloped Buddy.

With a deep groan, Buddy heaved it over the clothes line. Wire clothes line gave its own groan, and sagged until the edge of the rug brushed autumn grass. 

The first swat was ineffectual and Buddy swung again.  Why the hell am I doing this? Buddy was stunned that he thought that word, but it was somehow comforting. Damn! 

A second swat permitted some dust to fly.  Buddy looked at the floral design on the rug. Pa, we liked that rose.  You traced your finger here, there.  Pa, why did you stop doing that? Why did you stop?

Another swat gave dust a chance to break free from rose-bound flowers. Pa, if you were here, you could help me. You would help me. I'm not strong enough, Pa.  I can't do this by myself. I can't do hard work, what you did, all alone.

Pa, I'm only nine years old. 

Swat swat swat, and Buddy paused to let his arms rest. 

"Pa, I hate you!" Buddy hit rose rug with all the strength he could summon. 

"I hate you!" Buddy kicked it ferociously.  It swung on the wire, back and forth, each time Buddy struck it.   

"You left me, you left Ma, you left everybody! I hate you!" Buddy sobbed uncontrollably and leaned over, resting hands on knees.

He kicked the rug beater out toward the outhouse.  I could throw this damn contraption into the hole.  I could say it was an accident. Knowing Ma the way he did, Buddy knew she would make him climb down into all the crap steeping in the dark.

Buddy began swinging erratically, with each cloud of dust he sobbed and wiped his nose.  I miss you so much, Pa.   

You coulda gone to see a doctor sooner and he woulda healed you. I know something coulda saved you! 

Why didn't you go?

"Why didn't you go to a doctor, Pa?" Buddy asked, quietly.  

He dropped Ma's rug dust-covered beater, himself dropping to dried grass, breathing raggedly.  He whispered, "I don't hate you, Pa.  I love you and you died.  If I could run over there where you lay in your box, in that dirt, and climb down there with you, I would. I would!" 

Rising to his feet, Buddy continued his job, his face now beet colored with each swing, and then muddy with sweat. Whatever he thought or said was eaten up by sheer exhaustion.

Laura Borrowman Peck , a young nubile woman, before marriage to Lewis B. Peck

That was when he heard, “Oh, Buddy!  You need to rest for a while.”

What?  Rest? Did that old woman actually say that?

Grandma Laura grasped his sweaty hand.  “Why don't you head to the cellar and bring us some cool cider?”

No need to ask twice, Buddy flew down to the dark chilly cellar and decanted a quart jar from the barrel, and replaced the plug. Grandma Laura sipped from the jar, appreciating tangy cider, then passed it to Buddy.  Between them, the jar was emptied in a short space of time.

Grandma Laura hiccupped, “Oh, my.  Please excuse me!” She patted her mouth with an embroidered hanky.  

“Why don’t we have more, Buddy?  It is a hot day, and you have been working so hard. This time, though, fill that large pitcher on the sideboard. I will find us some nice glasses, that will be more civilized. Then you can relax.  You are such an exemplary worker, and could use more liquid.”

Buddy made his way down the cellar steps, a bit wobbly, but he managed to fill and then carry heavy pitcher to the porch. 

Between the two of them, Grandma and Buddy emptied her antique pitcher, and leaned back in a relaxed state where all seemed glorious. 

“Buddy, let’s sing some songs!” Buddy nodded carefully, as his vision blurred when his head moved.  “Something cheerful, I think.  Hmm.”  

My Grandmother Amy Peck, with Gr-Grandmother Laura Peck. As always, Laura carried her Bible where ever she went.  Being president of the local temperance unit, Laura would grab any drunkard and recite Bible verses to him.  They would often cross the street to avoid her.

Then she cut loose with a well-known drinking song, then moving on to songs with jaw-dropping words.

Buddy stared at her in awe and newly found respect.  

Buddy felt a sudden, urgent need to leave and talk to his ma.  He called to her, as he staggered back to the garden house.  Amy emerged, and with a single sniff, discerned that a large amount of liquor had been drunk. 

She grabbed Buddy, yelling, “BUDDYWHATHAVEYOUBEENDOING?”  She wailed on Buddy, until Buddy threw up on her feet.

About that time, Amy could hear Grandma Laura’s reedy voice singing, Roll out the barrel.  Amy dropped Buddy and raced to Laura’s front porch where she was ripping into the second stanza. 

Helen gazed down at Buddy with his vomit covered face. “Dammit, you are one stinkin' bastard, you know that, dontcha.”

They both giggled and Helen sank down beside him.  Although Helen was blurred in Buddy's vision, Buddy slurred, "This is the best I've felt in a long time."

Buddy gazed up at a clear sky, and for a short bit of time, the sky was blue, grass green.  A bit wiggly, but his world felt good.

I had to search for swear words since I don't swear or know many words.  The lists of words is long, most of them referring to body parts and sex.  The list of words from the 1930s were not too different. No offense is intended here.

Dad told me this story long ago.  His sorrow was palpable still after seventy years. This event was probably the first time he allowed himself to actually mourn.

Along Green Fields

Dad and my little brother Bill who was about 5 here. Dad always tilted his cap like that, just a little to the side. I guess he
liked the way it looked.

From one July to the next, life can change or it can be changed for you. Forget about running and hiding, climbing over golden bales of straw. I blame it on the bra.

Summers in the Midwest are hot, heavy, and humid--humid enough to coat skin with a fine invisible mist, and then cling, soaking. Wind was still, not a single whistle. Sweat ran down backs--rivers of sweat. By 10 in the morning we all were roasted, toasted, and dowsed in sweat.

Canning marathon started up just about that time. The kitchen's linoleum floor was slippery with sweat and splatters of vegetable carnage. Air was so saturated with steam that it could not absorb one more drop. It hung like clouds at the ceiling beneath which we labored canning tomatoes, canning beans, canning corn. Misery, thy name is canning.

When my father, Louis “Bud” Peck said, “Come on, Sis.  Let’s head out for a drive.”  I all but flew into the truck. He backed out the driveway and then we were on our way.

 

Did I want to leave the kitchen with canning jars lined up like little soldiers? You betcha. 

Driving up roads, rolling down windows, feeling a breeze wafting through the truck would be just fine. This drive would hold more visual stimulation than running a vacuum.

Sometime within a mile or two I realized just where and what we were going.  

Dad was driving about 20 mph, looking side to side at fields of corn and beans, his fields or anybody else’s fields. Inwardly, I groaned. A field check. I should have known. This is a field check drive, at a speed I could do on a bicycle.

“Well, I tell you what, Sis…” always meant a story was about to flow out in his stop-and-go style, raised eyebrows, and big pauses.  

Big pauses were the essence of Dad's storytelling, that with minute facial expressions. He was subtle in his words with just a dab of expression. Raising an eyebrow spoke volumes. Clearing his throat could mean just about anything; it depended on how long and how deep. A sigh brought weight into his story. He was brilliant.  

I leaned back against red vinyl torn seat, resting my eyes and waiting. There was no need for me to look out at cornfields, as I already knew what they looked like.

“Well, now.  Peck men from way back always found a way to stick money in their pockets. They done good. Got a bit puffy with themselves." Dad sneezed mightily. No essence there, but his sneezes were loud and violent. I always jumped when he sneezed.

“My grandpa, they called him “LB”, Louis Benjamin, come back from being Union 100st Illinois Regiment soldier in Civil War.  His own pa had bought up businesses and farm land, ‘cause some men didn’t come marchin’ home from places like….”

There was one long pause and he turned his head to check out Smithy’s field.  “He planted too early.  Look at those dried tassels…skinny cobs. Won’t get much there…”

"Wellll, LB just about owned the whole dang town.  Bank, grocers, dry goods…ole man strutted in a white suit, with a black bow-tie, lived in a big house." Dad sniffed, raised an eyebrow.

"LB got just about everything when his ole pa died. LB married good, a young woman with a big family, smart people. Annnnnd. That’s when my pa was born.”
 

 Ma Amy Peck and Grandma Laura Peck sitting.  Ol' LB Peck standing 

Dad slowed down, stopped, at Burns’ bean field, and nodded. “Good crop, there.”  He sniffed, then cleared his throat. But, his eyes were teary and silence grew.

Dad had gone to a place he had kept dark for over nearly 40 years: Pa. His father had died when Dad wasn't yet ten and weight of responsibility fell like a heavy brick on his boy shoulders. 

Buddy, you are the man of our family, his ma told him as funeral plans were being made. We'll depend on you. That is what he was told and then reminded, frequently.

He seldom told stories about that time. Pain and loss always gripped and tied him up in tight knots. When Dad released a bit of memory, it was like opening a locked door.

The invoice for the shiny black car; I found it in the folder Grandma Peck had made then.  Now it is nearly 80 some years ago.  It was just waiting for someone to find it.

A heavy sigh.  “My pa made money, and LB died.  Left a heck of a lot of money and land to his three boys.  But"…eye brow raising and pushing his hat back. 

"Pa had tooooo much pride.  Went out and bought himself a new Chevy, $675 dollars, plus some more. Don't know how much more."

"Mighty big money then. Big money even now. But Pa was feeling like puffing out his chest a bit, showing what he and LB had done."

My dad stopped and opened a rusty truck door and walked through tall grass.  This was his field, his corn, and his concern.  Dad had long legs, was a big boned farmer, and his stride was almost three of my own.  He disappeared into the corn. 

 Emerging from itchy green stalks, he had that smile of his, not quite a smile but more of a lifted corner of his mouth. Corn was just fine, ears full, silk cascading down. More silk, more kernels, more kernels, better crop. 

Driver's license

"…where’d I leave off…anyway Pa drove home with that shiny new car and Ma flew out the door at him, like a hen with claws ready to dig in and peck to death .  Words, man oh man, she clawed him up one side and down the other. I hid behind the porch railing, listening."

Dad cleared up a bit of phlegm, spit out the side of truck. Birds flew off. Speed did not pick up, not one little bit. He wiped his face with a red kerchief and blew his nose. He was sweating. I was sweating. Teenagers sweat more than any other person on the planet, or at least in the Midwest.

"Well, my pa, he withered under her pepper. Smaller he got, louder Ma yelled." An almost smirk shaped his face. An amused smirk was not far behind.
 
"WHAT did you THINK you were doing?!!" and "YOU are TAKING that back right this minute! WHAT will farmers LOOK at this and THINK?? Well, I'll TELL you what they will think, what'll they say..."

Chuckling: a rare addition to his stories.

"I will TELL you what... they will SAY: Oh those Pecks...they live in castles on a hill...then we borrow money from them...That Dorus Peck, nose up in the air, black car shining at us...well, those PECKS!...

Your ma, oh your ma, she will SKIN YOU ALIVE! Drag you to church and SLAM you down at that altar. YOU will NOT escape what she'll say!..."

Pa said, "Buddy, let's go for a ride."

"Well, now, that sounded just fine.  Jumped onto the shiny black leather seats, fine white stitching, and we took off.  Ma watched us leave, and I tell you, steam was still comin’ off top of her head.”

"Pa and me drove over to Pittsfield and stopped at the courthouse. He opened that shiny black door, and smiled. This'll be good. Wait 'til those men see this. He stepped out the car, and Pa stretched like he just needed to take a rest for just a minute, like he'd been driving for a hundred miles. I peered over the steering wheel, watching as a whole bunch of his friends hurried, surrounded his car.”

This your car, Peck?...When’d you get it?...Man oh man, it’s a mighty fine…” Pa brushed his hand along shiny black metal, walked around it, pointing out features...shiny everything...pride beamed off him like a new dime. Yep, it's my car. Just got it...Chevy place a couple a' blocks over there...Yep, good deal... Pa leaned in, ducked his head, and whispered a price...yep, we bounced numbers back and forth, but my number won...yep..."

 "Then we headed to a whole bunch of places.  Places I never seen, heard of or been to.  Every single town, Pa did the same…” Dad stopped the truck, and his remembrance, climbed out to check his field of beans.

Damn! My brain was boiling in its own juices, under hot summer fire. How much longer can this last? Doesn't a truck need gas?

My shorts were riding up my butt, with the back of my thighs were sweat-glued to vinyl. Glued, cemented, pasted, stuck, adhered to, whatever. When we eventually would arrive home and doors opened, I knew I would peel my legs from vinyl, like a band aide ripping off a hairy leg.

Oh, please. Can't you drive any faster? Step on the pedal just a little more?

"…Let’s see…We drove to Winchester, Griggsville, Florence, Hamburg…everywhere Pa knew someone.  I was asleep when the sun was setting, and Ma came busting out the door and cut into him again.”

"About two years later, or was it three?  Anyways, the whole world fell apart. Pa lost everything. Never seen a grown man with tears running down his face. He and Ma sat so close together on the sofa they looked like one person, side by side, with her hand on his shoulder. We'll be fine, just fine. This will be over soon enough, and life will be like normal." 

"Pa's head hung low, then he leaned over, wrapped long fingers over his face. Now, Sis. Pa was a tall man but didn't have much muscle to him. It didn't take him long to fall. Pa folded up like a lawn chair, crumbling down on his fancy rug. He and Ma started praying, whispering together."

"Every single family in town and farms lost everything. Bank went bust, stores shut down, and all farm loans dried up.  Pa couldn’t bring himself to call their loans, take their farms. Ol' LB would have, but Pa forgave them all their debts.”

And then, Dad slowed down, turned down a dusty road, road of perpetual pot holes and stray big rocks.  “Pa lost his car. Ma and Pa drove it up to Springfield, turned it back over to Chevy, and took the train home.”

Oh, dear Lord! Not the Bluff Road! Not that!

"Ma, she was still mad.  It was one silent ride back home.  Before Pa died…” Dad’s voice got husky. “Before Pa died, all he had was a farm, the one Ol' LB gave 'im. Pa worked on his farm, just like all farmers. See that, Ol' Dorus Peck? In coveralls? Where's your black car, Peck?"

"He was never strong...wasn't a farmer, didn't have much farming sense.  Ma always said it was being sick with a quiet disease, that black car,a mighty big pride, being a plain farmer. When he knew he'd never wear a white suit with a black bow tie...that was just too much."

"Maybe it was.  Just know his heart broke that day.”

Dad turned around, after one more field check. The beans were looking good, and he had his half-smile. That was his happy face.

Finally, oh blessed finally, we turned into our driveway.  

Dad strode off, head down, hands in his pockets.  I heard Mom calling me.  “Susie, come peel the potatoes.  Oh, go pick some green onions…” and a list of other chores.

With great hesitancy, I climbed out. Rip, rip. I twisted around for a view of my butt and vinyl. Vinyl glistened with sweat droplets in a horse-shoe indent in the seat. Shorts were soaked, like I'd wet my pants. Thighs were bright red, like tomatoes which waited for me in the kitchen  

My brothers would have a field day about this one. Sweat has its way of finding opportunities to torture, as did my brothers.

But, the trip was worth peeking into Dad's life, no matter how hot, how sweaty. I watched Dad disappear into our old red barn.  I knew he’d be there a while.