Spring's Gentle Promise

by Janette Oke

  Now the postmaster took up the tale of woe. “Sure too bad. Sure too bad,” he repeated as he shook his head much as Mr. Smith had done. “Me, I can’t even keep up with the comin’ an’ goin’ anymore. Move in—move out. Jest like that. One after the other—”

  “Where—where did Avery—?”

  “Oh, he didn’t move. Least not away from the area. He jest moved on home again with his folks. Same mailbox as always.” The most important thing to the postmaster seemed to be keeping his mailboxes straight. I started to move away.

  “Don’tcha want your mail?” he called after me, and I turned back. There was one letter addressed to Mrs. Joshua Jones and a few advertising pieces. I threw the flyers in the wastebasket as I walked past it, and stuck the letter for Mary in my pocket.

  I couldn’t get Avery and Lilli out of my mind as I headed the team for home. Most of all I dreaded telling the news to Mary. But I knew she had to be told.

  I broke it to her as gently as I could and held her while she wept. Then we bundled up, left William in Grandpa and Uncle Charlie’s care, and drove over to Avery’s folks.

  Just as I had been told in town, we heard directly from Avery that he had lost his farm. He was pretty down about it, but Lilli was keeping her chin up.

  “We’ll try again—later,” she said confidently, “when the crops are growing again and the rains are back.”

  In the meantime she was sharing a house with five other people and her child would soon be number six.

  “How are you?” Mary whispered to her.

  “Fine. Fine,” she insisted. “Just anxious to get it all over with. Only three more weeks now. That’s not so long.”

  But the house was already crowded. Avery and Lilli had a very small bedroom off the kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder where they would squeeze in a small crib.

  Times were tough. Really tough. But at least they had a roof over their heads.

  In all the turmoil I had forgotten to give Mary her letter. I found it that night as I undressed for bed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I forgot to give you this. I picked it up at the post office today.”

  I didn’t add that I was more than a mite curious about the letter.

  Mary tore the envelope open quickly and withdrew one formal looking page. She scanned it, then went back to read it more slowly. She looked pleased with the contents. I was relieved. I was afraid it might be more bad news.

  “It’s from the school-board chairman,” she told me. “I wrote inquiring about boarding the teacher.”

  I was surprised. Mary had said nothing about it.

  “He’s happy to have him stay here,” Mary continued. “The place where he’s been boarding hasn’t worked out well.”

  I knew that the present schoolteacher was a middle-aged, single man. He had been the butt of many community jokes, a rather strange, eccentric fellow.

  I looked at Mary again.

  “Are you sure you want to take him on?” I asked her.

  “Can’t you see?” said Mary. “This is a direct answer to my prayers. I asked God what I might do to ease our situation, and He brought this to my mind. So I wrote the letter and left it with God—and He has worked it out so that Mr. Butler is willing to stay here.”

  “But—” I began, but Mary wasn’t finished.

  “The money will help buy groceries for all of us, and I might even be able to help with the loan payment.”

  “But the work,” I protested. “You have more than enough now, and with the new baby—”

  Mary waved that argument aside too. “Grandpa helps in the kitchen and Uncle Charlie keeps William entertained. Mr. Butler will be gone most of the day and will be leavin’ every weekend. Won’t be much extra work at all.”

  She had it all figured. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “You’re really somethin’,” I said to Mary, gathering her into my arms. She just smiled and let the letter flutter to the floor.

  Much to my dismay, Mr. Butler arrived with a spirited horse and a buggy. There had been no warning that I would be expected to stable a horse and provide feed. I couldn’t even feed my own horses properly.

  But even before I could raise the question Mr. Butler explained, “I’ve arranged for Lady Jane to be housed”—

  “housed,” he said—“at the school barn. Todd Smith will be her groom.”

  I nodded, relieved. A “groom,” no less.

  “I needed the buggy to bring my things,” he went on.

  His “things” consisted of several trunks and suitcases and a couple of carpet bags. I wondered how he would fit it all in the small bedroom off the kitchen and still leave himself walking room. I never did find out, for I never entered the room after Mr. Butler took possession, and he always kept his door tightly closed.

  Even Mary didn’t go in that room. Mr. Butler preferred to do his own “keeping.” Once a week Mary laid out fresh linens and towels and Mr. Butler replaced them with the soiled ones. It was a good arrangement for Mary.

  He was a strange-looking little man, all right. A large nose dominated his small face, and his chin was almost nonexistent. Eyes, dark and piercing, hid behind thick, heavy-rimmed glasses. He was bald. At least I’m pretty sure he was, but he had this trick of combing his hair from deep down on the side and bringing it across the top to join the other side so you didn’t really see the baldness. When he stepped out into the wind, he was very careful to pull his hat down securely until it almost included his ears. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had nightmares about it suddenly blowing off, his hair flying straight up in the air, waving to all those who watched as his bald spot was exposed to the world.

  He didn’t have much to say to us grown-ups, but he took to William right away. With his love for children, I guess he made a good school teacher. Anyway, the time he spent in the kitchen with the rest of the family was whiled away with William and picture books. He would pull a chair near the warmth of the kitchen stove, lift William on his knee and spread out a book before them. They spent hours together, his quiet voice explaining to William the wonders of the Wall of China, the mysteries of the planet Mars, the secrets of the ancient Egyptians or the flight patterns of tiny hummingbirds. I’d look across at Mary and suppress a chuckle, or at Grandpa or Uncle Charlie with a wink. William might be a sharp little fella, but what could a child of two possibly understand of all that?

  Still, William went right back for more—every time he had the opportunity. And he sat there on that teacher’s knee and drank in every word, his eyes wide with wonder, his chubby finger pointing at the pictures, his baby voice trying to repeat some of the difficult words.

  When Mary would announce that it was William’s bedtime, the teacher always looked rather disappointed, but he lifted William carefully down, closed his book and retired to his room.

  We made it through another winter and I began to scan the skies looking for rain clouds. Though clouds did form from time to time, they just didn’t seem to have much moisture in them. But I scraped together enough money to buy a bit of seed grain and planted a couple of my fields.

  The birth of William had interrupted the harvest. Now the arrival of our second child brought me in from the planting to ride off for Doc.

  Everything went fine, and before I could scarcely draw a breath, our second son joined the family. As soon as I had breathed a prayer of thankfulness that Mary and the baby were both fine, the reality of another doctor’s bill took some of the pleasure from the occasion.

  “I’ll just add it to your account, Josh,” Doc said quietly as I went with him later to get his buggy. We were getting ourselves quite a sizable account with Doc.

  Our new boy was another beautiful baby. Plump and healthy with lusty lungs. William studied him in awe. Not until the new baby finally closed his eyes and his loud little mouth and went to sleep could we get William close enough to actually reach out a hand and touch him on the cheek. From then on he seemed quite pleased with his baby
brother.

  We named him Daniel Charles after Grandpa and Uncle Charlie, and the two men beamed as we announced the name.

  We found a neighbor girl to take over the kitchen duties until Mary was able to be up and about, and somehow we managed. Baby Daniel settled into the family unit just fine, and I finished my bit of planting and went back to the woodlot again.

  More of my fields drifted away as spring gave way to summer. I could only hope that some of the soil from many miles away might stop at my land. If the wind didn’t work out some kind of exchange, I feared there would soon be no more topsoil to farm.

  Poor Mary struggled with her garden. It was hard, discouraging work. Not much grew and the grasshoppers relished the bit that was there.

  School ended and the teacher moved out. Mr. Butler promised before he left that he would be back again in the fall, a relief to all of us. We had learned to rely on that little bit of income.

  William missed him. He kept asking for “Mr. Buttle and ’is books.” Mary tried to explain, but of course the time frame of “months” is difficult for a child to understand.

  One midsummer afternoon I went for a long walk across my dreary-looking fields. The stalks were stunted and scarce. I plucked a head of grain here and there, chaffing it between my hands. There was nothing much there. I could feel the burden on my shoulders heavier with each step. There was nothing to harvest—again.

  I crouched down in the field and dug at the ground with a stick, flipping back dry, dusty soil. Down, down I dug looking for moisture that was not there. Nothing. Why hadn’t the rains come? What had happened to our world? Seed time and harvest.Seed time and harvest kept running through my head. God had promised it. Had He failed to deliver on His promise?

  For a moment I was swept with anger. I was tempted to shake my fist at the heavens. What had I done to deserve this? What had Mary done? We had tried to be faithful. We—But I stopped myself. I knew it had nothing to do with that. Then the many years of trusting, of leaning on my Lord drained the anger from me.

  “I need you, God,” I whispered. “More than ever, I need you.”

  It was with heavy steps that I returned to the farmyard. I couldn’t shake from me the feeling of impending doom. I had fought for about as long as I could fight. I didn’t have much strength left.

  After supper was over and the dishes returned to the cupboard, everyone settled in around the kitchen as usual. I tried to busy myself with figures and plans, but my mind wouldn’t concentrate. I finally laid it all aside and climbed the stairs to the room where my two sons slept.

  What a picture they made. William clutched the teddy bear that Sarah had made for his Christmas gift the year before. His dark lashes fell across unblemished cheeks and the thick brown hair lay damp across his forehead.

  Baby Daniel slept in almost the same pose as his older brother—arms atop his blankets, his head held slightly to the side. But there was no teddy bear. Danny clutched only the hem of the blanket Mary had made. Now and then he pursed his little lips and took a few sucks as though he was dreaming of nursing.

  I stood there looking at them both and the insides of me went cold and empty. They’re countin’ on me. They’re countin’ on their pa, and I’m goin’ to let them down. Both of them. Both of them—and Mary. And Grandpa and Uncle Charlie . . .

  I’d never experienced such pain. Deep, dark, knifing pain that brought no tears of relief.

  I turned from my two sons and pulled the curtain back from the window so I could look out over the land I had loved and worked for so many years. There was no escaping it. We were facing the end.

  I didn’t even know Mary was there until she slipped her arms about my waist and laid her head against my upper back. A shudder went all through me.

  She stood there for several minutes, just holding me, and then she spoke. Her voice was strong and even, though her words came to me in a soft whisper. “What is it, Josh? What’s the matter?”

  I had to get it out. Had to put it into words.

  “We’re gonna lose the farm,” I said frankly, a cold harshness to my words.

  Mary said nothing, but I felt her arms tighten around me.

  William stirred in his sleep and his hand pulled the teddy more closely against him.

  “It’s the payments, isn’t it? If you hadn’t bought Pa’s farm—”

  Of course it was the payments. I stirred from one foot to the other in my impatience.

  “I just made the wrong move—the wrong decision. I thought it was right—at the time—”

  “No, Josh,” Mary hastened to interrupt, “it wasn’t wrong. Not the decision to buy. It was a wise thing to do. The timin’ was just wrong, that’s all. And no one—no one could have foreseen the future. Could have known how things would go. No rain—”

  Grandpa had said the same thing, and in my head I knew they were right. But my heart? I had prayed. Had asked God about the purchase.

  “Sell it, Josh,” continued Mary. “Sell it.”

  “Can’t sell it,” I said, my voice now baring the impatience that my shifting feet had shown. “There’s no one to buy.”

  “Then let it go. Just let it go. I know you sorta bought it for me—and our sons. But we’d be better—There will be other farms over the years. Maybe even Pa’s again. We can buy later for the boys.”

  “I—I can’t let it go,” I protested hoarsely.

  “Did you promise Pa? He’d understand, Josh. He’d not hold you to it.”

  “No, I didn’t promise your pa. He didn’t ask for a promise.”

  “Then let it go. Let the bank have it.”

  I turned then and took Mary by the shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. There was no light on in the room, but the moon spilled through the window making her face light with a silvery glow. I could even see the faint scar across her forehead.

  “You don’t understand,” I stated, with a great effort to keep my voice even. “If they take your pa’s farm, they take this one too.”

  I felt Mary’s body tremble.

  “I signed them this, Mary. I signed it over to the bank when I took the loan. If I don’t pay—”

  But I’d said enough. Mary understood. She pressed herself into my arms and began to weep softly.

  Maybe her crying helped us both. At least it brought some tenderness, some compassion back into the coldness of my heart. I stood holding her, caressing her, letting her cry.

  It didn’t last long and then Mary straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  “We’ve come too far to give up now,” she said. “There has to be a way.” I shrugged helplessly. Mary wiped her nose and went right on. “We still have stock to sell. The teacher will be back. I don’t need all of his money for groceries. You can take out more cord wood, we’ll—”

  “Mary, we—”

  “We’ll make it,” she repeated. “God has seen us through this far—He won’t let us down now.”

  For a moment I found myself wondering just what God had done on our behalf. The rains still had not come. We hadn’t had a crop in three years. But Mary soon reminded me.

  “Folks all about have been losing their farms, but we still have ours. We been meetin’ those payments year by year— somehow. We are all still here, all healthy. We’ve always had food on the table an’ shoes on our feet. He’s seen us through all of this, an’ He’ll keep right on providin’.”

  I felt a wave of shame rush through me. God had been doing far more for my family than I’d been thanking Him for.

  “We’ll make that next payment,” said Mary again, her chin set firmly. She looked around the room. At me. At our two sons as they slept. “There’s too much ridin’ on it not to make it,” she murmured in a half whisper; then I heard her simple, fervent prayer, “Help us, Lord, please help us.”

  We did make the payment. It was always a miracle to me. But we had to drain ourselves down to practically nothing to do it. We sold off almost all my good stock. I would have gladly sold the t
ractor and the Ford, but there were no buyers. What hurt the deepest was watching Chester go. We kept only the work horses because we simply could not get along without them. Chester brought a good price, even with the economy like it was. >I could do nothing else but sell him. Mary cried, and I think I died a bit when the man came and led him away.

  With all of that, I was still short for the bank payment. And then a letter came in the mail from Pa Turley. When Mary opened it, money fell to the kitchen table.

  “This ain’t much,” he wrote, “but I hope that it helps in some way.”

  “Did you—?”

  “No,” Mary shook her head. “Really. I didn’t say—”

  The letter went on.

  “Hear what a tough time everyone is having so I thought I’d send each of my girls a bit.”

  Mary laughed and cried at the same time. We added the bills to our little pile. It just met the bank payment.

  CHAPTER 24

  Striving to Make It

  THERE WAS NOTHING MORE we owned that we could sell as far as I could see. We’d already spent all of Grandpa and Uncle Charlie’s meager savings. The woodlot on the Turleys’ farm was quickly being depleted. With so few vegetables and fruits canned or stored in the cellar, Mary’s task of putting food before her family was very difficult and certainly would take a much larger portion of the teacher’s board money. In fact, I didn’t think she’d be able to make it stretch to do even that.

  We had our backs against the wall, that was for sure. I began to make some inquiries in town about some kind of employment. As I feared, I could find nothing.

  Then our whole community was shaken with a tragedy. We nearly lost Doc. Guess there wouldn’t have been anyone in the whole neighborhood whose loss would have affected us more—unless it would have been my uncle Nat. Both men had been leaned on a lot during our hard times and looked up to a good deal during the better times we had experienced.

  It was a heart attack. Doc was rushed off by motor car to the small hospital in Riverside. Mrs. Doc went right along with him and stayed by his bed to wait out the illness.