Bittersweet Harvest by Harold William Thorpe

Author:Harold William Thorpe [Thorpe, Harold]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little Creek Press
Published: 2015-01-12T06:00:00+00:00

24

Will had laid the posts along the fence line the previous day, but he didn’t have time to set them. Today he planned to finish this work and inspect his fields on the way home, so he had brought Fanny Too to the pasture.

Will raised his maul overhead and lowered it on the post with the power of sinewy muscles that had been forged by years of physical exertion. He thought about his father, and how he could set a post with three powerful strokes of his maul. Will couldn’t do that, not unless the soil was uncommonly soft. He swung again and dust billowed into his face. He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, spit out the grit, then pulled his handkerchief and wiped his face. This was the last post, and he was glad for that. He felt like he’d been hoisting full feed sacks all day, his muscles a flaccid mass. Two more good swings and the post was solidly in place. Will dropped the maul through a rope loop that he’d rigged to the saddle and mounted Fanny Too. He’d string the wire tomorrow.

Will looked up at fluffy clouds that, with a little imagination, seemed to morph into recognizable shapes. Will gawked at one that slowly drifted into a shape that looked like a fish lazing through a huge sky-blue bowl. He wished that he had more time to enjoy God’s work, but he had to get home.

Mary had said that Marge Roberts was stopping over, but she wasn’t sure about Earl. Will didn’t know what to expect, but he tried to put it out of his mind. He inspected his fields as he rode toward home. He whispered to Fanny Too, “The Fourth of July’s almost here and the corn’s ’bout knee high. Best lookin’ corn I’ve had yet, now isn’t it?”

Fanny Too nickered her approval.

“Humid nights and a few thunder storms’ll make a bumper crop.”

Fanny Too snorted and tossed her head.

“You don’t like storms, do you old girl?” He thought about Betsy and Mazy. “Makes me a bit nervous, too.”

He rode alongside his oat field. The slender stalks’ topmasts waved their greeting when a breeze picked up and blew through the fleet.

“See, Fanny Too, they’re glad to see us.”

Even though the grain wasn’t mature yet, when he inhaled, he could smell its perfume in the air. “Filling out real nice, they are. They’ll be golden-haired beauties within a month.”

Fanny Too stretched toward the nearest clump.

“Oh, no.” Will pulled her around. “Not yet, old girl. You’ll get yours back in the barn.”

Before his final push for home he detoured west toward his soybean field. When he dropped Fanny Too’s reins and dismounted, she eyed the grass along the fence line but stood still when he called, “Whoa, old girl.”

Will knelt and dug his fingers into soil that, near the surface, was as dry as a bag of flour. When he found a pointed stick and poked deeper, the ground felt cool and slightly damp.

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