by Tom Birdseye
“Hey, watch it now,” Grandpa cautions, wagging a finger at her.
“Yeah,” Dad says. “No need for personal insults.”
Vicki Higgins looks Dad right in the eye. “If the truth is insulting, then so be it,” she says. “I’m stubborn, too, but at least I admit it.”
Now she’s glaring at them both. “I reserve my stubbornness, however, for things that actually matter, and Monopoly is not one of them.”
Grandpa starts to protest, but Vicki raises her hand like a traffic cop and stops him cold. To me she says, “They’re two peas in a pod, Cassie, no doubt butting heads over the silly things in life since the day your dad was born. An argument over a game of Monopoly was just one more in a long line, the straw that broke the camel’s back, as the saying goes. They are both too mule-headed and proud to admit how stupid this all is and that they might actually be wrong.”
“But I’m right,” Grandpa says.
“No, I’m right,” Dad quips back at him.
“I am!”
“No, I am!”
And they’re off again, red-faced and arguing.
Vicki rolls her eyes so far back I think they might disappear. She throws up her hands. “See, Cassie? What did I tell you? Some things are better left alone!”
That’s when it hits me, and despite all the strong feelings, my body goes weak. Because the truth is this: It doesn’t matter what I do, or how hard I try to do it. Dad and Grandpa aren’t going to make up. There will be no perfect moment with us all sitting around a table, holding hands, laughing together, loving one another. That’s the stuff of magazine covers and TV shows, and Hollywood movies, not real life. I was a naive little fool to think I could waltz in here and fix everything. Mom couldn’t fix it. Grandma Chrissy couldn’t fix it. Vicki Higgins can’t fix it. And neither can I. My dream of a real family is completely and totally hopeless.
The end.
15. The Eye of the Storm
Tears well up in my eyes. Wiping furiously at them with the back of my hand, I turn away from the battling voices and stumble to the window.
I press my nose against the glass and look out over the hospital parking lot, across the highway, past Grandpa’s farm, beyond the rolling landscape into the far distance. What I want more than anything right now is to be as far from all of this Kentucky craziness as I can get.
Home, that’s where I belong. Oregon, way out west, two thousand miles and counting past the horizon and that line of dark clouds—
Whoa! Hold the phone! That’s a major-looking storm. Even from this far away, I can see the gray smear of heavy rain.
I shudder, imagining how hard that downpour must be pounding everything in its path just like the day Mom died. Give it enough time, and it will be right on top of the farm and—
“Oh, no!” I shout. “Grandma’s wheat!”
I whirl and sprint from the hospital room and around the corner to the elevator. I punch the DOWN button, then punch it again and again. C’mon! Grandpa said a big storm like that could knock wheat flat, soak it moldy, leave it in ruins. I’ve got to do … something. Now!
The elevator dings, and the door opens. I rush in and reach for the first-floor button. A hand beats me to it.
An old man’s weathered, wrinkled hand.
I look up to see it belongs to Grandpa Ruben.
“You’re going to need some help bringing that wheat in,” he says as he hobbles in beside me.
Vicki Higgins is at one of Grandpa’s elbows, lending support. TJ is at the other. The elevator starts to close.
“Hold!”
Another hand pops in and stops the door. It parts, and Dad hustles in with Quinton in tow.
Grandpa nods at Dad, pats Quinton on the head. “You ready to do some farming, kiddo?”
Quinton grins. “Yeah!”
“But Grandpa,” I say, “what about your hip? Can you leave the hospital, just like that?”
He waves me off. “Don’t worry, honey. The doctor said I need to work it a bit to promote the healing. I’m just following her orders.”
Dad is shaking his head. “That’s not what she meant, and you know it. If you’re going to sneak out like this, you have to agree to just supervise the harvest, not actually work. And then you come straight back to the hospital as soon as we’re done.”
“Not straight back,” Grandpa says. “You know we’ve got to—”
“Straight back,” Dad insists.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Vicki Higgins does another eye roll. “Oh, Lordy,” she says, “here we go again.” To drown out the arguing she starts singing a Beach Boys tune, “Surf City.”
“Mo-om!” TJ says, “does it always have to be classic rock?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Quinton grins up at me. “Did you know that a pound of feathers is heavier than a pound of lead?”
For one clutch moment I consider jumping back out into the hall and running for it. I’m surrounded by loonies!
But the elevator door has already closed and—ready or not—we’re all in this together, out of the gate, racing the coming storm.
16. A River of Mud
Dad drives the John Deere tractor like he was born on it, pulling Grandpa’s old 12A combine smoothly around the first pass at the little wheat field.
TJ and I sit on a narrow metal bench on the combine, watching as a six-foot-wide swath of wheat stalks falls into the combine’s mouth. Jiggle and thump, clamor and clang, what a noise! The 12A cuts and threshes, sends dust flying, and spits straw out the back.
But also there is grain, a golden shower of it, pouring into the hopper.
Grandma Chrissy’s wheat.
“When I say go, you pull that lever,” TJ yells over the bedlam.
“I know, you told me already!” I yell back. Three times he’s told me. Heard the whole process; got it down pat.
First we have to transfer the wheat from the hopper into burlap sacks.
Then we close the sacks off with pieces of twine tied into a miller’s knot. Which I also happen to have down pat, thank you very much.
Then we stop for just long enough to load the sacks into the back of Esmerelda, which Vicki Higgins is driving alongside us, still in her high heels. Grandpa is riding shotgun, leaning out the window, giving me the thumbs-up. Quinton is in the middle, talking a mile a minute, no doubt holding forth on the speed of light or some other immensely important Mr. Know-It-All made-up fact.
After Esmerelda is loaded, those three will take the sacks to the barn. Where Grandpa has sworn cross-his-heart that he will only supervise as Vicki and Quinton dump the wheat into the seed cleaner. A rattling, twitchy, gyrating thing—not unlike Quinton when he lip-synchs along with a CD—the cleaner will shake everything out the side except for those perfect little kernels of grain.
Everywhere there is noise by the ton and billowing clouds of khaki-colored dust that’s so thick we all wear handkerchiefs over our noses and mouths. I’m dirty and getting dirtier by the minute. Streaked with sweat, too.
I feel like a farmer.
I love it.
Look at me, Mom! Look at us, Grandma Chrissy! We’re doing it. We’re working together. We’re going to make it! We won’t let you down! We’re going to get this wheat in!
If we can just beat the storm, that is. I glance up to see how close the clouds are getting. Uh-oh. They’re marching over the nearest hill like a giant wall of bad, bad news. I take a deep breath, push back my fear as best I can, and yell to everyone, “Hurry!”
No need. They’ve all seen it. Dad gives the old John Deere more gas. It roars and surges forward. The combine chews at the wheat and hurls grain into the hopper. We swing and turn back for another pass at the field. Then another. And another. Two, maybe three more to go.
The wind picks up, swirling dust
into tiny tornadoes. I can smell rain just like the day Mom died. I would jump off this combine and run if it weren’t for the voices of Mom and Grandma Chrissy in my ear.
“It’s okay, Cassie. You can do it, girl.”
Back and forth the combine cuts. Into the hopper the wheat pours. TJ and I keep pace, filling burlap sacks, then tying them off and loading them into the truck.
Now the wind whips in a frenzy, twisting the leaves on the trees, ripping some off, sending them spiraling. I cringe. The storm is almost on us, towering over the farm like a huge charcoal fist, rolling over itself to get at the wheat.
“Be brave,” Mom and Grandma Chrissy say. “Keep going.”
I swallow the panic rising in my throat, and bow my head to the work, trying with all of my might to block out the storm just as surely as it’s blocking out the sun. It’s a sprint to the finish. Harvest, Cassie! Harvest now!
One drop of rain puffs the farm lane dust.
Then five.
Then ten.
Then, as if someone ripped open the clouds, down come sheets of it, slashing on the crest of a roaring wind. In seconds the world turns to nothing but wet, the ground covered with rivers of mud.
In the safety of the barn, we all catch our breath and look at one another.
With smiles on our faces.
Which grow into grins.
Which burst into laughter.
And we slap one another on the back and share hugs and high fives, even Dad and Grandpa.
Because we made it. “By the skin of our teeth,” Grandpa says.
Grandma Chrissy’s wheat is in.
17. First Bread
Later, after the storm has passed and my heart has calmed back down, we all parade into the kitchen, following Grandpa. He’s moving slowly and needs someone at each elbow to steady him, but he’s smiling. In his arms he cradles a plastic bucket full of the new grain.
He puts it on the kitchen table, then says to all of us, “Gather round.”
We do, Quinton, TJ, Vicki, and me.
Dad, too. He’s still grumbling about getting Grandpa back to the hospital, but I can tell from his tone of voice that his protests are more for show than real.
This is just a theory, but I’m thinking that something about driving that tractor and bringing in the wheat under the storm’s gun have taken the edge off him and Grandpa. They’re both, after all, Kentucky farm boys at heart. Getting a crop in is what it’s all about, at least for now.
Dad notices me eyeing him and stops the grumbling, then joins all of us in admiring the wheat.
Grandpa scoops a double handful from the bucket. “This is how we’ll divide the entire crop,” he says and makes a pile on the table. “The biggest part will be given, as Grandma Chrissy always insisted, to Food Share for those who are in need.”
A second pile goes beside the first. “This goodly-sized portion I’ll save for planting the next crop,” Grandpa says. “And the rest …”
He lets the wheat flow through his fingers like some people would gold, making pile number three. “And the rest is for the old wheat grinder. Grandma Chrissy always said it made the best flour. Which, as you may have heard, makes the best bread.”
Turns out Grandpa wasn’t kidding when he called the grinder old. No electric motor to power the wheels, it’s hand cranked.
We all take turns at it—Quinton first, since he’s the youngest.
“Did you know,” Quinton says as he works, “that Genghis Khan invented the hot dog?”
I ignore this silliness. I’m too busy watching the kernels of wheat go into the funnel at the top of the grinder hard and brown, and come out the bottom soft and tan.
Flour.
Finally it’s my turn. I crank and crank and crank, loving the gritty sound of the wheels turning, the soothing feel, the earthy smell. Before I know it we’ve got a nice little mountain of powdered grain.
Dad pulls Grandma Chrissy’s cookbook from the cupboard and lays it on the table. It’s blue and frayed at the corners. Grandpa opens it to a marked page and turns it so I can see.
The paper is worn. Running my fingers over it, I can easily imagine Grandma Chrissy doing the same. At the top of the page I read, “First Bread.” There you have it, the most important recipe in the whole wide world.
We set to work right away, gathering the tools Grandpa says we’ll need and laying them out on the kitchen table: a big bowl front and center, a sifter, wooden spoons for mixing, a kneading board, a bread-loaf pan.
The ingredients come out next: milk, shortening, yeast, salt, baking soda, lukewarm water. And of course Grandma Chrissy’s flour.
“Now we just follow the directions,” Grandpa says. “It takes a while, what with waiting for the dough to rise then punching it down to rise again. And of course there is the baking.” He smiles. “But it’s worth it. Patience pays off. Just you wait. You’ve never had bread until you’ve had First Bread.”
He eases himself into a chair and begins reading the recipe aloud. “Number one: Scald the milk and pour into a deep bowl. Number two: Meanwhile soften the yeast.…”
Next thing you know the pace has picked up. Everybody is reading the recipe. “Sift the flour.…” “Add to yeast ….” “Stir!” We’re all hustling around the kitchen, elbowing in, laughing, getting the job done. In a blink we’ve got dough!
We slow down now, taking turns kneading the soft mix the way Grandpa showed us, folding it in, then pushing away with the heels of our hands in a sort of rocking motion. When it’s just right, we place the dough gently into the loaf pan and cover it with a soft, clean dish towel so the yeast can do its magic in private and make it rise.
Then we wait.
And wait.
And wait.
“Let’s play a game!” Quinton suggests.
Vicki nods. “Monopoly would be fun.”
It’s only after a very long moment of uncomfortable silence that she rolls her eyes and says, “Just kidding, y’all. C’mon! Can’t you take a joke? We might as well play hot potato with a stick of lit dynamite.”
Instead we play Name That Tune. And Twenty Questions. And Charades. Quinton keeps peeking under the dish towel to check on the dough. Finally he says, “It’s rising!”
Grandpa shows Quinton how to punch the dough down, which he loves, acting like he’s in a kung-fu movie. Grandpa whistles the “1812 Overture,” then demonstrates how to rub his head and pat his belly at the same time, then switch. Dad shakes his head, but I can see a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
After what seems like forever, the dough is ready for the oven. I put it in, while Vicki Higgins tells us about the time her casserole exploded in the microwave. “Blew the door open and flung cheese all over the kitchen! Lucky for me I was taking a bubble bath.”
Dad and Grandpa and Quinton and I think it’s a funny story, but TJ says, “See what I have to live with?”
Grandpa tells us about the very first time he and Grandma Chrissy planted the very first crop of wheat. “She toiled right alongside me in the field. Boy, you talk about work! She was a strong, good woman.” And how much he and Grandma Chrissy loved being farmers. “We were proud of being able to feed people. We knew we were contributing.”
As he talks, the kitchen fills with the smell of baking bread, and my mouth starts to water.
Finally the timer bell rings. Dad opens the oven door and pulls out the most beautiful loaf of bread ever.
“Here, Cassie,” Grandpa says, handing me Grandma Chrissy’s old wood-handled bread knife. “You do the honors.”
I cut a slice for everyone and quickly nab some butter from the refrigerator, plus grape jelly for Quinton.
Grandpa says, “Before we eat we must give thanks. Let’s join hands.” He reaches out to take mine. On a sudden impulse I hop a quick step back, and instead Grandpa is reaching for Dad.
Both men stop short.
“I’ll stand … uh, over there,” I say and dart around the table and slip in bes
ide Vicki. She gives me a quick wink, like Mom used to do, and I wink back, feeling pretty clever. It’s not until Quinton starts giggling that I realize I’m now going to have to hold hands with TJ.
But when Dad reaches out and takes Grandpa’s hand, I don’t care. The sacrifice is worth it. It’s all I can do to keep myself from shouting woo-hoo! Look at us, Mom, holding hands in a circle! Look at us, Grandma Chrissy, just like you would want us to be!
After Grandpa says a prayer, he smiles and holds his piece of bread up. “To Grandma Chrissy,” he says.
We raise our slices of bread and repeat, “To Grandma Chrissy!” Together we all take a big, wonderful, perfect bite ….
“Uh-oh,” Vicki mumbles through her mouthful. “Too much salt.”
“Way too much,” Grandpa agrees, a pained expression on his face. “We goofed.”
Quinton is the first one to spit his bread out. “Ack!” he says. “That’s terrible!”
“Quinton!” I scold, ready to lay into him for saying such a rude thing about Grandma Chrissy’s bread.
But taste buds don’t lie. For once in Mr. Know-It-All’s harebrained little life, he’s completely, totally right.
18. The Question of Perfection
I, of course, want to jump right in and start over. “It’ll still be First Bread,” I insist, “just a second try.”
But Quinton says he’s hungry now and has to eat, “or I’ll die!”
Grandpa lays a hand on Quinton’s shoulder. “I’m hungry, too,” he says. “Grandma Chrissy wouldn’t mind if we work on the bread later. How does pizza sound in the meantime?”
“Good idea,” Dad says, and before I can get over the shock of them actually agreeing on something, Vicki hooks my elbow and ushers us all out the door, into cars, and down the farm lane toward town.
Gathered around Grandpa’s hospital bed, we hold hands again, then toast Grandma Chrissy with slices of pepperoni and cheese pizza, and wash it down with Coke.
