I'm back!
After a week in which I was scrambling to replace a dead computer, and all of the files that first appeared lost forever, I am--this dismal, foggy, mid-winter morning--seated at the keyboard of my brand new computer and happily pecking away!
Although I did lose the most recent draft of my novel manuscript, there was little missing from the last one I managed to recover--just a few words and sentences that had once been "reorganized" and will now need to be tweaked anew (and who knows, maybe that's a good thing!)
My photos and music have all been re-installed. I'm still searching for my latest revision of a paper I wrote last year on the social construction of the environment in 19th century literature (I'm planning to submit it for publication), but if I have to rework it, all I've lost are changes in the citation style from APA to MLA. It's my least favorite thing to do, but it's not difficult.
As a way of sharing my joy and relief, I'd like to offer another short section of my novel draft. I'm currently working on the first 27 pages of the manuscript to send off to the annual Pacific Northwest Writers' Association literary contest, so what I'm posting below is the last few pages of that section.
I hope you'll enjoy it!
Chapter Four
The farmhouse looked pretty much as I
remembered it—double hung windows and white clapboard siding. A widow’s walk
circling the roofline. Maybe a bit more rundown—I couldn’t help but wonder if
it was my imagination or was the front porch actually listing a bit? But
really, what could you expect from a house built probably 150 years ago?
Climbing the front steps, I turned and
surveyed the scene around me. All hints of the earlier thunderstorm were
gone—there was truly not a cloud in the searing sky. Just as I remembered them,
the fields surrounding the house and barn rippled with the verdant leaves of
waist-high corn plants. I could almost hear cattle mooing in the barn, my
Grampy and Uncle shouting at them to “git.”
I’m not sure how long I stood there,
sodden with memory, before I heard a call from the end of the driveway. I
looked up to see a red truck, its gray-haired owner smiling and shielding his
eyes with one hand, leaning out his open window. He looked to be about the age
as my dad.
“Hello there. You wouldn’t be Dean’s
niece, would you? I heard you’d be coming sometime soon.”
“I am.” I wasn’t really sure who he was or
how he knew who I was, but he seemed
friendly enough. “I’m here for the summer. Getting the place ready to sell, I
think.”
“Now that’s too bad. Platts have owned
this place for a long time, ever since…” His voice dropped off and he seemed
deep in thought. “But I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Alex… Alex Hikler. I live
just up the road—next farm over.”
Walking toward the truck, I held out my
hand.
“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Liz Benton.”
We spoke a few minutes, as he told me a
bit about himself and the neighbors around us, and shared a few stories about
my dad and uncle. I mentioned my tentative plans for the summer.
“That’s right, you’re a writer. Your uncle
was pretty proud of you, you know?” Squinting at me from under his hand, he
asked, “Are you going to write about someone from Iowa this time?”
I told him I was considering a story about
the Amish, but didn’t have anything definite yet.
“We’ve got a lot of Amish around here.
Good woodworkers. A couple of Amish boys helped me rebuild one of my barns last
summer. I’ll tell you some stories about them one of these days, if you’re
interested…”
I said I couldn’t wait to hear all about
them, and told him to drop by anytime. He promised to look in on me in a few
days, “just to see if you need anything,” offering me his phone number, “just
in case.” Thanking him for his thoughtfulness, I waved as he drove off down the
road. I stood a moment, just a bit overwhelmed by how warm and welcoming
everyone had been so far. Alex had known my family since childhood, and was
enthusiastic about sharing what he knew of our history, as well as helping me
settle in any way he could.
I don’t think any of my neighbors at home
would do that.
In that moment, I decided I liked Iowa. A
lot.
Walking back up to the porch, I fished the
key from my pocket and pressed it into the lock, my heart beating wildly with
anticipation. I couldn’t wait to get inside the house and get started on my
great adventure.
I’m not sure what I expected when I opened
the door, but what faced me were spare furnishings, bare floors and white
walls. Yes, the layout of the front room was pretty much as I remembered it,
but all of my Great-Gramma’s homely touches— the gleaming wood of the dining
table and sideboard, the Victorian-style sofa and chairs, and her prized mantle
clock—had been replaced by a few pieces of what looked like standard rental
furniture. I knew it was silly to expect it to look as it had when I was eight,
but I couldn’t help feeling just a bit disappointed not to walk into the room I
remembered.
Setting aside my disillusionment for the
moment, I began to take stock of the house. Aside from the sparse furnishings
the property manager said he’d left for me, the fragrance of still-curing paint
filled the air—mingled with the citrusy smell of wood polish, and just a hint
of bleach. Wood floors, though worn in spots, gleamed in the sunlight pouring
through the windows. It was nearly as warm inside as outside, so I opened a few
windows to let in some fresh air. With a ceiling fan in the living room, I
figured it shouldn’t be too hard to get some air circulating.
I meandered the downstairs rooms, running
my hand along door frames and the fireplace mantle before entering the kitchen.
(Had it always been this small?) It
looked just as I remembered it, though, right down to the dip in the ceiling
where it met the upper cabinets. In spite of the popcorn texture applied in the
years since, its waviness was still visible. Grampy assured me such slopes in
the ceiling were typical of old houses, particularly after being fitted with
new fixtures. When my five-year-old self
feared the ceiling might tumble down, he’d told me, “Old houses were mostly
built by hand, my little Lizzie. By hand and by love. New ones are made with
power tools.” He’d smiled then, and told me not to worry. “The new ones might
be straighter, but the love in this old house is too strong to let it fall.”
I hadn't really understood his words, but
I knew he meant I’d be safe there. His love would always protect me.
I can’t believe how much I still
miss him.
Walking toward the window over the sink to
distract myself from the tears that threatened once again, I looked out across
the drive to the acres of corn beyond. Before I was born, that field had belonged
to my great-grandparents. I struggled to remember my family history, the year
when the Platt family had come Manchester, but I drew a blank. I knew that
information lay buried somewhere in a family genealogy chart—now in the care of
my much-more-orderly sister—but for the moment, I had no way of knowing. As a
child I believed this farm had always been ours. But I wanted to know the real
story behind it.
Turning away, I made a quick tour through
the rest of the house. A long narrow room stretched behind the front room. It
looked like it might have once been two rooms, but I had no real memory of that
part of the house, aside from the big fireplace at one end. It didn’t appear to have been added on; maybe
it had been used as an office, or storage? Walking back through the living
room, I climbed the sharply-curved stairs to the second floor. I remembered playing
dolls with Charlie right here on the landing, hauling out the huge wooden doll
house Great-gramma kept for our visits.
Straight ahead was the door to the attic.
I’d never been up there as a child, but I had a feeling if any of the
furnishings I remembered still existed, that was where I’d find them.
The bedrooms looked just as I
remembered—albeit much smaller. The largest one boasted a view across the
neighboring cornfields, with a second window overlooking a large barn behind
the house. In the smallest room, where Charlie and I had slept, I discovered a
bird’s nest outside on the windowsill, entangled with the trumpet vine growing
up the side of the house. I stood for a few moments, watching as a mother bird
hopped into the nest carrying an insect in her beak, obviously on her way to
feed her babies. The window itself looked original to the house—single-paned,
wood-framed, with the sill low to the floor—and I listened hard, thinking I
could hear the chirps of the baby birds inside.
Laughing a bit at my imaginings, I
realized that I still had groceries in the car and I was ravenous. Aside from
the iced mocha I’d grabbed in Waterloo, I hadn't eaten anything since
breakfast, and I was more than ready for some dinner. I trekked out to the car
to fetch in the groceries, and deposited the bags on the counter. To my great
relief, I discovered the refrigerator was in sparkling condition, and the rest
of the appliances seemed functional, as well.
There were brand-new sheets and towels folded
on the bed upstairs, cookware, flatware, and dishes in the kitchen—and
hallelujah, even a dishwasher. If the water heater worked, I’d be a happy
camper.
I made a mental note to send flowers to the
property manager.
***
Later that evening before settling in for
the night, I sat down with pen and paper once again—and wrote of my day
June 21st - I
can hardly believe it, but I’m actually here—sitting in the kitchen of Uncle
Dean’s farm. This whole trip to Iowa happened so fast I never
even had time to think about it. That’s probably for the best, though. If I’d
taken the time to think, I probably wouldn’t be here now--and I’m so glad I am.
I
had a long talk with Jack today—on the side of the freeway in the middle of a
thunderstorm (I don’t think I’ll mention that to the girls, though. Daisy and
Alice worry about me enough as it is. They
don’t need to wonder if Mom is losing her mind). He assured me a new
story is out there waiting for me—I just need to hold on until I find it.
Sitting here in this house after so many years, I can almost believe it's true. It feels so close I can almost touch it—maybe even right here within
these four walls.
***
Too early the next morning, coffee mug in
hand, I opened the door in the laundry room and stepped outside. The day had
awakened fresh and clear, a breeze whispering through the corn even as it
ruffled my hair. Tucking curls behind my ears to keep them out of my eyes, I
looked up to admire the shimmering leaves of the surrounding stand of oaks.
Watching as they seemed to shiver from a draft, I couldn’t help but wonder how
long they’d stood here. Had they been here when Gramma Zizzie came? A British
war bride, she’d followed Grampy home to Iowa, six
months pregnant with my dad when she’d arrived on the farm to meet her new in-laws
for the very first time. On the mantle at home, I have a black and white photo
of her—young and smiling—sitting with Grampy under a tree. The tiny baby that
was once my dad lay swaddled and sleeping in her arms, her blissful face
dappled with the sunlight peering through the leaves. Was it one of these trees
that shaded her that day?
There was something so steady and strong
about trees. No matter what Nature throws at them—wind, storms, even the annual
loss of their life-sustaining leaves—they stand in their places, year after
year. Offering a silent testimony of strength and continuity in spite of trials.
There must be a lesson for me in there somewhere...
Moving
on, I rounded the corner of the house, coming across an old pump, its red paint
worn in spots, handle slightly rusted, bounded by a low fence. A mist of memory
began to bubble the surface of my thoughts. It felt like just yesterday…
Two
little girls, barely more than a year apart—the younger one, blonde; the older
a brunette—arguing over who would get to ride the tractor when Daddy and Uncle
Dean returned from the feed store.
“It’s
my turn! You got a ride yesterday.” Charlie glowers at me, arms crossed tightly
across her chest. “You always get to ride. It’s not fair…”
“Lizzie!
Charlie! Can you come here, please? I need your help. It’s very important.”
Grandma Zizzie’s voice cuts through the middle of our argument, just as I am
about to deny Charlie’s claim.
“Coming,
Zizzie!” We hurry back toward the house, and I lean over and hiss in Charlie’s
ear, her wheat-color hair tickling my nose.
“It
is too, fair. No one got a ride yesterday—and it is my turn!”
Normally,
this would be where Charlie bursts into tears, wailing “Nooo, it’s not fair!”
But Zizzie intervenes quickly, handing us a bucket, and assuring us “those poor
thirsty cows by the barn have been waiting all day for a drink.”
Though
we immediately run for the pump, Charlie and I are still squabbling over who
will work the handle and who will hold the bucket. Eventually, though, we
decide that we can set the bucket under the faucet so both of us can pump.
Our
mother watches from the doorway, shielding her eyes in the bright afternoon
sun. Calling out as we make our way toward the barn, she warns, “Be careful,
girls! If you don’t slow down, you’re going to spill it all before you get
there.”
I
can still see her smiling as we picked our way ever so carefully over the
gravel path and out toward the barn.
With
the sloshing bucket held tightly between us, we are quickly surrounded by black
and white cows, crowding the trough as we heft the bucket to pour out the
water. I giggle with Charlie as we gingerly touch the cows’ wet noses,
wrinkling our own over their “earthy” smell.
“Pee-yew! You stink,” Charlie
shrieks, all the while patting the nearest cow firmly on the head…
My heart squeezed a bit with the
recollection. In that moment, I realized that Zizzie had simply invented a
chore to pacify two bickering little girls. The house had long had running
water and I was pretty sure there had been a spigot down by the barn. We hadn't needed to go to all that work to bring water to the cattle—the few buckets we
hauled couldn't have made much difference anyway—but it gave us something to
do, making us feel a valuable part of life on the farm. It had been such fun to
work the pump and watch the cows drink that we spent nearly every afternoon
hauling buckets of water down that same path. At the end of our visit, when we
were piling into the car to begin the long drive back home, I remembered
Charlie crying, wondering who would take care of the “poor thirsty cows” when
we were gone.
I continued my exploration down by the
barn, but there were no longer any cows. Most likely, there hadn't been
any since my uncle died. Heaving open the big sliding door, I could see a few
hay bales piled inside and stacks of lumber leaning against the wall near the
back, as if someone had paused mid-project, meaning to return to it later.
Standing in the doorway, I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of the
barn—stale air mixed with the fragrance of hay...
Of home?
…
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