Blessings of Mossy Creek

by Debra Dixon

  Carrying the tea to the fields seemed to take the cobwebs from my brain and free the tension from my neck. As I walked across acres of terraced land covered in green vines and fat orange pumpkins, I felt proud. Surely this crop would be our salvation. As my mother used to say, “It’s not over ’til it’s over.”

  Isaac, his jacket thrown aside and flannel shirt open, carefully stacked harvested pumpkins inside a large wooden crate layered with hay. He’d forklift the crate along with several others onto our creaking flatbed truck, then drive the load down to the farmer’s market in Bigelow.

  Oh, how I loved to watch him work with his shirt open or off, then come up behind him to slide my hands over that tanned muscled chest and feel his heart beat faster at my touch. That welcoming smile on his face always made my own heart beat faster. But this time he made no effort to smile or even look up. Hugging the hurt to myself, I handed him his thermos, deliberately touching his hands with the tips of my fingers.

  “Thanks,” he said, and backed away.

  How desperately I needed his comfort and he, mine, but my energies were wasted against his granite stand. I tried to ignore my need, had to ignore it for now if we were going to save our farm.

  Isaac took a swallow, then wiped the dampness from his mouth as if nothing had changed between us. “What are we having for lunch?”

  “Roast beef sandwiches,” I mumbled.

  “Again?” He wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “If I’m going to work out here all day, the least you could do is cook.”

  This wasn’t the Isaac I’d married. “Eat it or do without,” I said. We were supposed to be in this together, but he didn’t seem to see it that way. My life was hard, too. My sewing money paid for groceries and the electric bill.

  Struggling against discouragement, against the realization that there was no safety from life, I turned away and headed back to the house, stopping by the mailbox. There was a handful of junk mail and one very serious-looking letter from the Bank of Bigelow. Trembling, I opened it and read, “Payments on your line of credit are four months past-due. Please remit immediately.”

  Fighting my way through the fear that Isaac might be right about us losing the farm, I knew I couldn’t handle this alone. I thought of my Aunt Emma. Maybe she’d help.

  * * * *

  Impatiently, I waited for my aunt to pick up her phone. The answering machine came on. After telling my quandary to a cold digital recording device, I hung up. There was nothing to do now but get back to sewing. Wasting time wouldn’t help matters.

  The fine, heavy fabric felt soft to the touch. It was even the perfect color for Isaac’s and my bedroom, a swirl of sage-green shades that would make our bed look like a soft spring field. Swee Purla had designed the custom bedding and matching drapes for her client, Sue Ora Salter Bigelow, a longtime Creekite, who I considered a friend. Sue Ora’s husband, John, was president of the Bank of Bigelow. Sue Ora could buy whatever she fancied. I wondered if she’d insisted that Swee Purla assign me this sewing job to help me out.

  Not wanting to get maudlin, I put down my sewing, changed from jeans into slacks and a sweater, and pulled my blond hair up in a twist. I couldn’t wait for Aunt Emma to call me back. Maybe if I explained the situation to one of John Bigelow’s loan officers, the bank would give us an extension.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” I told myself.

  Even though it was only a thirty-minute drive, the trip to Bigelow had never seemed so long. Now that cataract surgery had restored his eyesight, Ed Brady crept down South Bigelow Road in front of me, his rusted green pick-up rattling, blocking my passing on the numerous curves. Gripping the wheel of my dusty sedan, I thought about tapping his bumper so he’d go faster than forty.

  The subdivisions and strip shopping centers of Bigelow finally came into view. I headed downtown to the bank. Isaac had given up, but I couldn’t.

  A receptionist ushered me to an office off the main lobby. The office door opened. A plump little guy smoothed his tie and grinned at me. “Nancy. Come on in.”

  “Mickey, hi,” I acknowledged. Mickey Trent and I had been classmates at Bigelow County High.

  “What can I do for you, Nancy?”

  “I’m here about the past-due notice on my line of credit.” I tried to look composed, but my fingers felt damp and my heart thumped hard against my rib cage.

  “And?” He shifted some papers in an open folder, then studied the screen of his computer monitor.

  “Isaac and I have a great pumpkin crop — the best in years, but it’s going to be late.”

  He eyed me as if he were thinking about something, making some decision. I hoped it was in our favor. I went on quickly, “We can catch up on the back payments if you’ll give us another three weeks.”

  Mickey’s expression fell. “I’m sorry, but your credit rating is so bad that I can’t give you and Isaac any extension.”

  “What?” I rose and leaned against his desk. “Mickey, we used the farm as collateral on that loan. If you foreclose, we’ll lose everything.”

  “I’m sorry, Nancy. I really am.”

  His answer floored me. “You mean to tell me a family who has banked with this institution for several generations can’t get a three-week extension? Are you telling me John Bigelow would allow his family’s bank to take a farm away from his own wife’s neighbors?”

  Mickey looked miserable. “I really am sorry.”

  “I want to speak to John Bigelow.”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t here this week. Nancy, there are a lot of pressures in modern banking. This is still a privately held financial institution owned entirely by the Bigelow family, and John tries to cut his customers some slack. But he has to compete with national banking conglomerates. If you want me to see if I can get a message to him —”

  “Just tell him he’ll get his money from me, one way or another. Good day.”

  Isaac was still working in the fields when I got back to the farm. I paced the kitchen, trying to think. I heard a car pull into our yard. It was probably Swee Purla coming to pick up Sue Ora’s order.

  But when I ran to the front door, Aunt Emma stood there, every bottled-blond hair in place, her nails light pink, her embroidered turquoise sweatsuit immaculate. Emma grabbed my hands reassuringly as I led her to the kitchen. “Nancy, I’ve found in my long years that life seems to have a rhythm. Sometimes it goes our way. Others it doesn’t.”

  Remembering Isaac’s words from this morning, I added dully, “Like a house of straw.”

  “Well, yes, but there are other factors.”

  She didn’t say what other factors. I supposed she’d tell me later.

  “I have to fix lunch,” I said. I sliced a roast into thick slabs, put mustard and mayonnaise onto some bread, then lettuce and onion and sliced tomatoes. Emma watched in silence. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed noon. Isaac walked in. “Hi, Emma.” His welcome sounded flat.

  “Could I ask the blessing?” Emma asked. Isaac nodded. I was surprised. He hadn’t wanted to say it lately. Afterward, as we sat at the kitchen table, she carried on a conversation, told about other family members, little incidents that brought a laugh, but nothing about the message I’d left on her answering machine.

  Isaac finished and pushed back his chair. “Where’s the mail?”

  I hesitated, not wanting to handle his reaction when he saw the bank’s letter, not with Aunt Emma here. “It’s in the basket on the hall table.”

  In less than a minute the backdoor slammed and his pickup roared off. I feared what he’d do. I bent my head to the kitchen table and sobbed. Aunt Emma patted my hand. “Honey, I waited until Isaac left to ask you just how bad things are. I guess they’re worse than I thought.”

  “Aunt Emma, this time the bank means business.”

  “I know you’re desperate, but I can’t help financially right now.”

  I felt my heart sink. Aunt Emma had been our last hope. “Thank you, anyway, for coming.”
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  “I have a story to tell you and I want you to listen.”

  “A story?” What in the world could a story do to save us?

  “If you get something from it, fine. If you don’t, there’s nothing lost.”

  I settled back to listen.

  “Years ago, when I was a young married woman, your uncle Sam and I found ourselves getting close to the day when we’d have to pay our rent. I’d canned and dried and preserved until I almost couldn’t stay on my feet. My hair was limp and dishes were everywhere, but I prided myself on helping Sam. I’d see that we didn’t starve even if we had nothing else. We had a little shoe store downstairs from our apartment, but people weren’t buying much. Sam became more and more despondent and let the store look disheveled.

  “Then one day, this fancy lady came by in her big car with her driver and asked to see ‘the lady of the shop,’ which was me, of course. I wondered why a woman like her would want to see me. I didn’t run the shop. I didn’t make the living. But I invited her upstairs and served her lemonade.

  “The woman looked around at our living room. I was embarrassed at the dust on the furniture, at the rug needing the sweeper. Her perfume wafted over the room. My dear, I was embarrassed, to say the least, but I didn’t let on. ‘I have a story to tell you,’ she said. I listened, wondering what she could possibly tell me that would make a difference in mine and Sam’s situation. This is what she said.

  “‘Years ago, when my husband and I were starting out, life was hard, and somehow I sensed that whether or not we made it might be up to me. When things looked down, I’d spruce up the house extra-special, hunt flowers out of the yard, put them all over the house, ask people to visit, and make what food we had look great on the plate. We’d have good fun, good conversation, good music, and my husband’s spirits seemed to rise. His renewed spirit seemed to rub off on those around him and his business prospered. Looking at your little shop, my dear, I’m suggesting that you take the same approach.’

  “The stranger thanked me for the lemonade, went downstairs, bought a dozen pairs of shoes from Sam, then went on her way.”

  I sat there staring at my aunt. Even though the story must have worked for Aunt Emma, I couldn’t see how it could help Isaac and me. Besides, I didn’t have time to try it. I thanked Aunt Emma and she left. I cried some more. Then I cleaned up the kitchen, cut some autumn mums out of a bed outside, and set them in a vase on the kitchen table.

  Isaac pulled up in the yard a short time later. He looked downcast when he walked in. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been to the bank?”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  He stopped, glanced at the mums dully, then back at me. “Flowers?”

  “Positive thinking.”

  He sighed and walked out.

  Thoughts of losing this place sapped my energy, too, but I couldn’t give up. I went back to sewing. That night we ate dinner in silence. The about-to-be loss was killing us. We went to bed lying beside each other, but miles apart in every way that counted.

  When Isaac came in from the field the next evening, the kitchen was shining. A tempting meal sat on the table amidst the fresh mums and candles. I had on make-up and perfume. “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion. Just you and me.”

  Saying nothing, he continued to glance around as if he couldn’t believe the change, his gaze stopping on the candles gleaming and flickering, reflecting off the stemware. “I’ll wash up,” he said.

  He seemed to take an unusually long time. I felt uneasy. Isaac came back, having showered and shaved. I served our favorite meal, straight out of the Southern soul-food memories of our childhood: pork chops, rice and gravy, turnip greens, and corn bread.

  “Dessert?” I asked when he’d finished, not wanting to ruin the mood.

  “You had time for dessert, too?”

  “Yes, apple cobbler. I have a bushel of Sweet Hope apples from over at the Bailey orchards.”

  “Bring it on,” he said. He cleaned his dessert dish. “Want to sit on the porch?” he added at last. “It’s a beautiful night.”

  “It’s a little cool, isn’t it?”

  “Not if we wrap up in your mother’s quilt.”

  “Sure.”

  We sat in the old swing, both of us barely pushing it, looking out at the quarter moon and a scattering of stars above the mountains, taking in the stillness. I thought of past Daniels couples who’d sat in this same swing and had gone through their ups and downs on starry nights like this. I took a chance and leaned against him. He put an arm around me.

  “So, what do you think, Isaac? About our chances?”

  “We’ll just keep on keeping on ’til the bank puts us out.”

  I smiled. Together we could survive anywhere.

  In the bedroom, I put on a plum-colored teddy with spaghetti straps. I pulled back the covers and uncovered the fresh sheets. Isaac took one look at me and lit the candle I’d placed on the dresser.

  A few days later, John Bigelow came by from the bank. I saw his car through the window as he opened the door. When that door closed, I trembled. Each step the man made was one closer to the end of this family farm. This was it, the day he’d tell us it was time to foreclose on the loan.

  Though my fingers curled and uncurled in fists at the thought of what he’d come to tell me, I met him in the yard with a smile. “Hi, John. I’m glad you came to deliver the bad news yourself. Isaac and I appreciate it.”

  He winced. “Nancy, I’ll come right to the point. As head of the bank, I’ve had to take into consideration the fact that you’ve been late on other loans.”

  I thought, here it comes, the final notice. “Look, John, I know it’s not like the old days when the Bank of Bigelow did business on a handshake and let local farmers trade a load of vegetables for a mortgage payment. I understand.”

  He frowned. “No, you don’t. I want the banking business to be like the old days. If I can’t take a chance on good people like you and Isaac, then I don’t deserve to be part of a community where people care about each other.” He paused. “Besides,” he said wryly, “if I don’t give you a break, my wife will publish my picture in the Gazette with a headline that says, Local Publisher Estranged from Evil Bigelow Husband Again.”

  After a stunned moment, I burst out laughing. Then I hugged him and ran to the pumpkin field to tell Isaac.

  * * * *

  “Aunt Emma.”

  “Are you calling me to tell me good news?”

  “It worked.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d been expecting Isaac to make all the changes, but it finally dawned on me that the only person I could change was myself. I had to act as if everything was going to be all right. That’s what you were trying to tell me. That’s what faith is all about, and being thankful for our blessings in the meantime.”

  “But what about your finances?”

  “You won’t believe this, but John Bigelow himself came out and talked to us.” I told her the rest of the story.

  “I’m so proud, my dear. I only ask one thing. That you pass my story on to others when you see the need.”

  “I promise.”

  After the phone call, I prepared a picnic lunch. I had plans for that hunk of a husband of mine. We still had other hurdles: gathering the pumpkins and getting them sold on time and one other issue, which I hadn’t revealed. Isaac could handle the first, but the last . . .?

  With the lunch and a quilt in the trunk of my car, I drove out to the fields. Isaac was busy repairing the tractor. I opened the car door. “Get in,” I said.

  He grinned. “I have work to do.”

  “It can wait, and it will.”

  He got in. I drove to a special place by a tiny creek at the edge of the woods. Autumn leaves drifted down on us. When I spread the quilt Isaac arched a brow.

  “It’s the middle of the day.”

  “Humor me.”

  He looked suspicious. “You’re not softening me up for bad
news, are you?” I flopped down on the quilt. He stretched out beside me, took my face between his hands, and eased his lips temptingly close to mine. Smiling he said, “Now tell me, or do I have to try other ways to get you to talk?”

  I pressed my hands against his chest and looked up into his eyes. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  He was silent for a long moment, then tears filled his eyes. He took my hand in his rough one and kissed it.

  “So it’s all right?” I asked softly.

  “After the way I’ve acted lately, I’m just glad you still want to have a baby with me.” He pulled me close. Very gently, he touched his lips to mine. “Thank you.”

  I grinned and silently gave thanks, too, for all our blessings.

  Mossy Creek Gazette

  Volume IV, No. 3 • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  The Bell Ringer

  Birds & Babies

  by Katie Bell

  Tweedle Dee, Chief Royden’s parakeet, will make a special guest appearance this week on “Cooking with Bubba Rice” on WMOS Cable. We’ve been assured that Tweedle Dee is not on the menu.

  Hannah Longstreet announces the Mossy Creek Literary Society will host Casey Blackshear, who’ll read stories at the weekly children’s hour. I’m sworn to secrecy, but you heard it here, first: Casey and her husband, Dr. Hank Blackshear, DVM, have some very exciting news to announce.

  Chapter 13

  In Mossy Creek, a family is where the love is, no matter where the family starts.

  Lucky Girl

  Chapter 13

  When I was growing up with my doctor father, I never expected to be the wife of a country veterinarian. I was training for the Olympics as a softball player. But that didn’t happen.