by Kit Duncan
"Now then," Silas was rocking his chair idly. "What else you need to know right now? What else just can't possibly wait to catch up with you?"
"Catch up with me?"
"Like we was telling you last night, Newbie. Another little while and you'll start recollecting all this from your previous lives and eternities. Things nearly always catch up with you eventually. I don't know why some of you newbies just got to have all the answers right now."
"I guess some of us just aren't too patient," I said. He jerked his head toward me, saw that I was teasing him, and relaxed again.
"Well," he tugged on the right side of his mustache, but all the pulling in the world couldn't help him find a suitable response. He finally humphed a low growl, but he had a sparkle in his eyes, and a faint hint of smile.
"So how long do I have to stay?" I asked.
"Have to stay?" he nearly shouted at me. "You mean in eternity?"
I nodded.
"What's the rush? Don't you want to stick around, take in Heaven's next Open House, look about a bit?"
"I suppose so," I said, without much commitment. "I mean, sure, it's interesting. Sure. I was just wondering how long a person is required to stay here before they reincarnate. I mean, is there a regulation or something about it?"
Silas snorted. "There ain't that many rules up here. In the Basement, oh, absolutely. Enough laws to make you choke. Probably why there's so many attorneys living there," he giggled at his own joke, but I didn't giggle back. He cleared his throat and continued, "But here and in Heaven? No, there's really not that many restrictions. Most people just kind of manage themselves, take responsibility for their own selves. A society made up of decent citizens don't need a bunch of rules to keep 'em in line."
"So a person could just, what, jump into the pond anytime they wanted?" I asked.
"Well," Silas said, "like I say, there's no law against it, if that's what you want to do. You just walk right down there, jump in, and next thing you know you're being born all over again. You not leaving us so soon, are you?" He cocked his head to the side.
"No, not right away," I grinned. "That would give you too much pleasure!"
"Oh," he acted wounded, but I could tell he was amused. "Mind your manners, Newbie!" Silas stood up. "Let's walk."
We headed away from the house and before long we were behind the locust trees. Silas' gait was not slow, but meandering. He scanned the purple flowers all about him as we walked, and every now and then he'd stop and tenderly rub a petal between his fingers. After a while, we came to a dirt road, and across the road was a field, rows and rows, as far as I could see, of plowed furrows.
"Lucy and Ray Chomski will be planting their potatoes in the next week or so. Some of us are going over to help them."
Silas turned to the left and we walked along the road until we came to an intersection with another dirt road. The bluebonnets and the potato farm ended, and on the other side of the new dirt road, next to the potato rows, was a green field with thin grass-like stalks swaying gently in the breeze. "First season's wheat," Silas said. He nodded to the field in front of us and added, "Rhubarb's going in there. I hate rhubarb." And he made a sour face, and turned left.
When we could see the locusts in the far distance, Silas turned again and walked in their direction, not toward them, but not away from them, either. He continued scanning and touching his bluebonnets. Suddenly, he stopped, stood up straight, inhaled deeply, and said, "Well, that about does it for the day!" And he walked so briskly back toward the house I had to scurry to keep up with him.
He poked his head through the front door, called out, "Sallie, we're home!" and then he plopped himself into the rocking chair on the porch.
"Dinner's ready in a few minutes!" Sallie yelled back.
"You're done for the day?" I asked as I sat down next to Silas.
"Yep!"
"But you didn't do anything."
"Why, I worked my field!" Silas exclaimed. "What in the world did you think I was doing out there?"
"Looked to me like you were just walking around," I said, taken aback once again by this old man.
"No," he corrected, and his voice was already gentling up again. He scratched his head, not because his scalp itched but because he was exasperated. "Let me see if I can explain this to you, Newbie. Some plants, you got to toil hard with them to make 'em do anything. Other plants don't need much toiling, but you got to give them lots of attention. A little petting, a lot of affection. That's what some plants thrive on.
"You don't prune a bluebonnet, Newbie. You just adore it. The trick is in knowing which plants need pruning, and which ones just need to be adored. Just like with people."
"And I can tell you this," he added after a minute. "Sometimes it's a heck of a lot easier to prune than it is to adore!"
"So," I asked a little slowly, "you either love a plant or you don't?"
"No!" Silas scolded me. "I didn't say 'love,' now did I? Did you hear me say 'love?'"
I shook my head no. "But you did say 'adore.' Isn't that the same thing?"
"No!"
Silas jerked his head away from me and folded his arms resolutely over his chest. His jaw was a stone, clamped like a chunk of granite. He pursed his lips, and he frowned so hard his white eyebrows nearly touched one another. I sat quietly, not knowing what to do. I figured since I didn't know what to do maybe it was better to do nothing.
Silas relaxed again after a short time, looked at me, uncrossed his arms, and tapped his fingers rapidly on the arm of the rocker.
"Okay," his voice was steady, but I could tell he was having to work to restrain himself. "Adore, now that's like a feeling, see. It's like a sense of warmth and tenderness, and it ain't always natural. Sometimes you gotta work to conjure it up, you gotta practice it a long, long time before you get a good grasp on it. Sometimes it comes real easy, sometimes it don't. You understand that much?"
"Okay," I said.
"Now, love, well, that's a whole 'nother batch of worms, or can of worms, something like that," Silas sounded a little flustered, but he kept speaking. "Love ain't nothing about feeling. Love is about doing. Love is about giving a plant, or a person, what they need, not what they want. You adore something or someone, you give 'em what they want. You love something or someone, you give 'em what they need."
"So," I summarized slowly. "Both adoring and pruning are about love?"
Silas jerked forward and shouted loudly, "No!" Immediately, he clapped both hands over his mouth, crouched down into his rocker, scrunched his head between his shoulders, and looked with wide saucer eyes toward the screen door. When he was certain Sallie had not heard his outburst, his muscles loosened up just a little, and, in a near whisper, he said. "No, not if a person only wants to be adored or pruned, but don't need it. Love is all about giving what is needed, what is in the other's best interest."
"But you're saying we can actually select our feelings?" I asked.
"Why, of course!" he growled. "Oh, in extreme circumstances, someone shoves a pistol in your face or a dagger near your throat, yeah, I reckon you're likely going to feel some fear. But you don't have to hang onto any feeling, you know. And you can train yourself, if you got any sense at all, to nurture certain feelings, and to, well, not nurture others. See?"
"Kind of," I whispered back.
"Good!" he snapped. "'Cause I'm tired of talking of it!" He crossed his arms again, closed his eyes, and started rocking very fast.
CHAPTER TWELVE
