_
The rest of that week was a tremendous transitional phase for the whole family. The drastic changes in the house certainly served notice that Matthew Winston was very serious about this venture. He was spending thousands of dollars without blinking an eye.
Annie soon discovered that when talking about the house, the operative word was “someday”. The most obvious needs were attended to but only enough to get by. Certainly, there were a lot of electrical done with modern fixtures installed throughout the house. But there still weren’t enough outlets anywhere. Some of the plumbing was updated but Annie’s bathroom and the one in the master bedroom were hardly touched. They were spending more time and effort in the bathroom being built in Matthew’s office. Even he did not appreciate having to use the outhouse. It also had a shower, which theoretically meant most of the mud would not get past the back door.
The plan was to install another bathroom in the basement but that could wait. And so could the painting, flooring, and new windows and doors. “Someday” the exterior of the house would be aluminum sided and the roof would be replaced. “Someday” the back porch would be restored and the beautiful fireplace in the dining room would be made functional. Right now, they’d take care of the necessities and get started with the farming. Everybody knew their father ached to begin.
There were other more subtle changes, too – like learning that “dinner”, the main meal of the day, was at noon. “Supper” was the evening meal. There was accepting the fact that those long, leisurely showers they used to take in the morning just to wake up were a thing of the past. Showers had to be taken at night to wash off the day’s sweat and mud and to sooth aching muscles. Their lives, which had once been so relaxed were now driven by the words “Hurry! Hurry!” Weather forecasts were no longer ignored. Rain was their enemy and warm days were relished. The sun dictated their days with relentless regularity.
A nice distraction occurred when the freight truck arrived, loaded with things from the brownstone. Dozens of prized possessions came, as dictated by the long lists phoned back East, sometimes daily. Since most of the staff had left for other jobs, the faithful servants who remained lovingly packed crates of books, sporting paraphernalia, and cherished keepsakes. Nanny told Annie she enjoyed doing it because it gave her something to do, but Annie wondered what the nursery looked liked without Mother’s favorite chair and the mantle stripped of her clock. Annie was overjoyed to touch these things again and was comforted by their presence. She vowed never to request anything from Miss Daley’s kitchen. How she would laugh if she could how well the pigs and chickens ate because of Annie’s disastrous adventures in cooking. It was a daily struggle, but she was determined to do better.
Annie found that her favorite time of the day was the second shift breakfast. As the boys left for school, Matthew, Mack, Andrew, and of course, Sonny, came to the kitchen for some hot coffee and a quiet breakfast. The talk across the table always centered around the plans for the day and work assignments. Annie could not remember her mother and father ever talking about his work. She really liked being a part of those round table sessions in her kitchen and appreciated having some idea where the men were going to be during the day.
Sonny never had much to say. But when he did speak, it was always a definitive statement. Mack could be depended upon to be sarcastic and argumentative. And Andrew, although a willing participant, paled at the mention of anything requiring the use of tools or heavy equipment.
Annie found excuses to go down the road to visit Ginny nearly every day. She yearned for female companionship and she wanted to soak up as much of the lady’s knowledge as possible. Most of what Ginny knew she called “just plain common sense”. For instance, she taught Annie a foolproof way of making thick, country gravy. Just put milk and flour in an old mustard or peanut butter jar, put the lid on it, and shake it until all the lumps were gone. Pour that mixture into the skillet with the meat drippings and water. It was perfect every time.
Ginny also taught Annie some simple housekeeping rules. “You cannot get a floor clean with a stick mop,” she said, “especially the corners. You gotta get down on your hands and knees if you want to do it right.”
“It’s all such hard work.” Annie said. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?“
Ginny just smiled and didn’t answer for a few moments. “Annie, I always figured God put us on this earth to work. Why else would a person bother to get out of bed in the morning? The Bible says, ‘Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.’ That means that a person who thinks he’s bigger or more important than God, will never be happy or satisfied. A person just has to do the best he can – the days and years take care of themselves.”
Annie had a lot of difficulty accepting that explanation. “Weren’t people put on this earth to try to make a difference?”
“Yes,” Ginny said. “God put man here to think and plan and take care of things. But that’s still plain old work.”
Annie thought about that conversation many times. She struggled to try to understand because she was sure Ginny’s words could have some special meaning for her. Were these simple phrases the answer to so many of her questions? Someday they would sit and talk further with Ginny but there was no time for that now. There was just too much work.
_ _ _ _
The three high school students of the family adapted to their new circumstance with varying degree of difficulty. One of the common problems they encountered was snap judgments and prejudice from their classmates. Their reputation as big city Easterners with money preceded them everywhere.
Luke was bidding his time until graduation. He enrolled in English IV, Civics, Latin, and Advanced Art. None of the classes really matched the curriculum of his school back East, but no one seemed to care. He had felt very uneasy going to art class that first day. The class, supposedly composed of the more advanced art students, was finishing the quarter projects which were oil paintings. As he looked at the easels around the room, he could see that there were varying degrees of progress. No one seemed to be taking it very seriously.
He was aware that he had some artistic ability. Normally, he enjoyed painting but he hadn’t done anything since his mother died. He thought of her as he stood in front of his easel, feeling as empty as the canvas before him.
He decided the best thing to do was just do the work and keep to himself. There were already murmurings about “that New York hot dog”. He finished the project the fourth day. He painted the view of the valley from the rocky place in the backyard.
Toward the end of the class period someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to find Margaret McDuffy, a rather short, plump girl with thick, dark glasses. Luke recognized her from Latin class and the bus route. She was biting her lip and wringing her hands.
“Don’t mind them,” she said as though she knew what he was thinking. “They all hate it when someone cares about art. This class is a joke.” She gazed at his painting and gasped. “My painting has been done since yesterday but it’s not nearly as good as yours. Wow!”
He walked over to her easel. Her painting appeared to be a bird, probably a seagull, soaring through the clouds. Technically it was decent but he thought the lines were pretty severe. He told her he liked it and she smiled in gratitude of his politeness. “It’s Jonathon. You know – Jonathon Livingston Seagull. Have you read it? It’s wonderful, isn’t it? So spiritual, almost Biblical.” Her face took on an enraptured glow that made Luke smile.
Then her face changed as though she just had a brilliant idea. “Say, I’m on this dumb art committee for the spring prom. Cheryl Swanson is supposed to be the chairperson but she hasn’t done anything yet. She’s the pretty one with all the guys hangin’ around over there. We can use their art period to work on it, but believe me, no one wants to.” She was looking at him quizzically now. “So I was thinking, you’re done with your big project.... so maybe you could help me. There’s nothing else to do, and I could really use the help.”
She lost him right after Jonathon Livingston Seagull. “What?” he stammered.
“Prom – you know, that ancient mating ritual, the biggest dance of the year. We’re strictly low budget around here. It’s in the gym. I’m sure that’s nothing like what you’re used to.” Luke was trying to listen, but actually he was wondering how long she could talk without taking a breath.
“Everybody gets dressed up but mostly everyone just stands around because the music isn’t very good and the food is awful. Anyway, this year’s theme is ‘Romance in Venice’. Pretty corny, huh? The planning committee wants a big mural on the back wall of the gym. What do you think of this?” She pushed her glasses back on her nose and then carefully unfolded a magazine picture of a Venetian courtyard. Luke wondered if she had any idea how ambitious an undertaking this would be. Once again, she read his mind perfectly. “You don’t think I can do it, do ya’.”
“Well, certainly not alone. What does the rest of your committee think?”
“Oh, they don’t care. If I go ahead and start it, they’ll sort of help out enough to get the credit,” she said, a touch of bitterness in her voice. Apparently she had experienced this sort of thing before. Just then the bell rang. “Anyway, you think about it and let me know tomorrow.”
The next day, she came hurrying up to him at the beginning of class. She had drawn the picture on a large piece of poster board and sectioned it off into smaller grids. Her plan was to make the mural in smaller pieces and then assemble it on the wall. It was a good plan and he said he’d help.
“Oh, good!” she cried. “It’ll be beautiful, especially if you help.”
He smiled at her enthusiasm for something which was by her own account, “dumb”.
_ _ _ _
John was likewise thrust quickly into the mainstream of school activities, under the watchful eye of the guidance counselor, Coach Evans, who just happened to be his physical education teacher. When John reported to the locker room that first day, Coach Evans was waiting with a smelly T-shirt and pair of shorts he had fished out of the lost and found box. “Move along, ladies,” he said. “Get dressed. We’re going out to the track today.” There was a loud chorus of boo’s which only served to deepen the scowl planted across Coach's face. “If you’re lookin’ for extra laps, keep it up!”
One of the boys who was dressing nearby came up to John. “Don’t mind him,” he said. “He’s like that all the time ‘cause he has to push some lazy butts around here. He’s a good coach.”
“Oh, yeah? You been on his teams?”
“Yep, I lettered in football and wrestling this year. I just moved here last summer so I made some enemies when Coach put me in at quarterback last fall. The other kid was a senior, so him and some of his buddies didn’t like that – especially since we didn’t win much. Wasn’t my fault. Right now we’re the laughing stock of the whole conference. By the way, my name is Kenny Beyers.” He smiles and extended his hand.
“I’m John Winston,” Johnny replied, somewhat hesitantly considering some of the responses he had gotten around school so far. “He said ... er, Coach Evans, I mean, said that he’s looking for a running back. I never played on a real football team before except a little at school and with my family. I’m quick, or at least I think I am. Maybe he’d give me a chance to make the team.”
“Hell,” Kenny said, grinning, “he’ll take anyone who knows how to hold a football. And listen, track is starting this week. If you make the team, you don’t have to do this stupid phys ed thing any more.” They dressed and ran out to the track.
It was chilly and there was a lot of complaining. True to his word, Coach ordered extra laps. Randy and John pulled away from the rest, jogging along at a comfortable pace. Then there was a whistle, calling everyone to assemble at the home stretch of the track. Mr. Evans wanted to clock everyone doing some 100-yard dashes. He handed some fat kid the clipboard and told him to keep track.
“Winston! Beyers!” the coach yelled . “Up to the line.“
They came up to the starting blocks and glanced at each, the friendly conversation replaced by their innate competitive juices. The whistle blew and they were off. They both pressed hard but finished dead even. They leaned over, their hands on their knees and gasping for air when the coach walked up, looking at his stop watch.
“Coach Stevenson starts track practice after school next week. I’ll tell him to expect you. And I want you boys to get out there and bust your butts, you hear me? If nothin’ else, it’ll keep ya’ in shape for next fall.” He walked away, not waiting for any kind of response.
“Well, congratulations!” Kenny said, still breathless. “You just made the team.”
_ _ _ _
When Thomas received his schedule, he said, “Are you serious?” He glared at the Mrs. Chambers, the school secretary, who had worked out his schedule. “The first period is band. Who said anything about me being in any band?”
“Well,” she said, “Mr. Evans had mentioned to me that you are interested in music and can play several instruments. We assumed you would want to participate in music here at our school. Mr. Moore, the music teacher, would love to have you in his band, I’m sure. Why don’t you try it? You can always quit later if it doesn’t work out.”
A band, Thomas thought. That’s ridiculous. But he also knew that if he didn’t at least try Annie would probably yell at him. He decided he would go for a couple days, find out how really terrible it was, and then he could go to Annie armed with some facts.
Tuesday morning he went to the music room where the other musicians were getting out their instruments. Girls mostly, he thought.
Mr. Moore came forward and introduced himself. “Mrs. Chambers said you play several instruments,” he said, looking somewhat puzzled. “Did you bring anything with you?”
Thomas laughed, saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Moore, but I don’t think you’d have much use for the instruments I play. They’re string mostly, classical violin and guitar.”
Mr. Moore apparently caught the insinuation. “Yes, you’re probably right. So why did you bother coming at all?”
Thomas started to say something like, I’m here because I have to, but the man’s sharp glare cut him off. “I also play the drums,” he said with thinly veiled sarcasm. He was directed to the back of the room where the rest of the drum corps was sitting up. Mr. Moore quickly introduced him to the other four drummers and went back to the podium.
The assembled group was called to order. As per usual, the rehearsal was started with several warm-up scales. Not even tuning the instruments, Thomas thought disdainfully, as he softly beat out a four-count as directed.
He was somewhat shocked when this small school director, who stood like a statue listening to every note, was able to call musicians out by name and tell them individually whether they were flat or sharp. The entire process was completed quickly so that they were able to open their folders and get down to work. One of the other drummers whispered to Thomas that they had three weeks to get ready for state contest.
Thomas hated to admit it, but they weren’t too bad. Of course, the music selections and arrangements were a lot different than the orchestra pieces he was used to because of the absence of the string sections. Here, the woodwinds played those parts – usually a little flat, he thought. At one point he must have been daydreaming because Mr. Moore suddenly began waving his baton frantically for the music to stop. “Drummers, would you please pay attention up here and let me sit the beat,” he called out, obviously irritated.
They finished the first two pieces quickly. “OK, people, let’s get to it,” Mr. Moore sighed, throwing back his slender shoulders as though to brace himself. Thomas noticed a hint of nervous tension throughout the group. The dreaded music was set out before him on the stand. Thomas was astonished to see it was a classical piece, The 1812 Overture. He was invited to step up to the kettledrums. It was a fairly demanding part, even by his standards.
The band limped through the whole piece and then worked on several problem areas, especially the difficult racing parts for which the piece is famous. They were starting to make a little progress when the period was over and everyone rushed to put everything away. Mr. Moore reminded his students that they should come down to the band room during their free periods to practice. He’d be there to help, he said. Then he made his way to the drummers.
“Jimmy,” he said, “you worked really hard to learn that snare solo. As far as I’m concerned, the part is still yours.”
“Ah, nah,” answered Jimmy. “I’ll never be able to play it that well. I think Thomas should take it over.” Thomas was shocked, first by the conductor’s attitude and then by this boy, Jim. He seemed very shy and unassuming. It seemed obvious to Thomas that for the good of the whole band, he should play the part and wondered why it wasn’t equally obvious to the director.
As the first week ground on, Thomas decided he understood his conductor less and less. The man certainly had a talent for music but never seemed particularly impressed with Thomas’ abilities, or at least he never showed it. Thomas found this man, the band, and for that matter, the whole school, to be totally infuriating. Jimmy Matthers was no exception. Try as he might, Thomas was not able to brush him off. Jim followed him around like a puppy dog. No matter how rude or abrasive Thomas was to him, Jim never seemed to get the hint. Thomas found the entire situation exasperating.
_ _ _ _
The second Sunday, Matthew decided to play hooky from Mass again. There was something he absolutely had to do. He had been standing on the edge, looking down at his valley long enough. It was a beautiful, crisp spring morning and today he wanted to explore it at long last. So after breakfast, he took off down the dirt, rutted road, feeling a little like Tom Sawyer sneaking away from Sunday school.
The road descended steeply along the rocky bluff wall, a narrow and shadowy trail through the trees and brush. It was obvious that the road was undisturbed by man or machine for quite a long time as the road was barely passable, even by foot. Well, he thought, these squirrels and rabbits had better prepare themselves because soon there would soon be a steady stream of machines invading their sanctuary. His chest swelled and shoulders straightened at the thought of it. It was the backbreaking, hard work that he yearned for the most.
He picked his way through the ruts and weeds until he rounded the last curve and emerged from the timber into an expansive open field that stretched out for as far as he could see. The land was as level and golden as the road had been steep and dark. Matthew blinked his eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden glare of sunlight. He walked out onto his land. It was littered with debris left there by four years of receding floodwaters. He squatted down and picked up a handful of dirt. More mud than anything else, he pressed it in his fist.
This was his – come flood, drought, war, or disaster, no one could ever take it away from him. He walked, and then ran, to the middle of the field. He began to turn slowly and felt a sensation of pride and fulfillment that he had never experienced before. “This is mine!” he announced at loud. “This is mine!” He stood motionless, suspended in time, sensing only the wind, the light and the earth beneath his feet.
Then he walked to the river, crossing through the border of brush and timber that separated it from his land. He stood at the water’s edge, struck by its awesome power and size. He stared at its black, churning waters, swelled with the spring glut.
“You old river, we’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” Matthew murmured, feeling compelled to make his peace with it. “You just keep moving along and mind your own business, and I’ll do the same.” He found a dry, rocky place and sat down. This was his temple on this bright, beautiful Sunday morning. And his prayer was to his God – the God of this great river, these brilliant skies, and good earth. All things were as they should be. And for this, he was truly thankful.
Chapter 16
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