Henry was a farmer

The snow began to fall as Henry drifted off to sleep. He was a farmer. In fact, he had been a farmer his entire life. His mother brought him into the world on the very farm he inherited when his father passed away. Henry married the daughter of the farmer whose land was adjacent to his. In forty-five years of marriage and three children, Henry and his wife doubled the size in land and productivity. Not an easy feat, indeed.

Like many farm families of the time, Henry’s wife did all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, baking bread, sewing, feeding the chickens and hogs, growing and canning vegetables, reading to the children and making sure they were presentable for school and church. Did I mention cooking? Henry did not envy or resent her lot in life, in fact, he truly appreciated her for it.

Henry had all the easy work of milking the cows, baling hay, chopping corn, repairing fences, fixing farm equipment, serving as a volunteer fireman and a member of the town board.

Their oldest child, a daughter, married with two children of her own, lived two-hundred miles away and taught high school home economics. Even with a master’s degree, she learned more growing up in mother’s tutelage, than she could ever glean from books written by experts.

The eldest son went off to California to practice farming differently from his upbringing. He grew grapes and made wine. Although Henry and his wife were temperate, they were okay with his career since, after all, didn’t Jesus turn water into wine?

The youngest boy was what one would call a challenge. He hated farm work, school, church and bacon and eggs for breakfast. The only way he would eat oatmeal was if it was baked into cookies with raisins and hickory nuts. Henry never really understood him and they argued incessantly. Oh, Henry loved him enough but hated his son’s approach to life. As soon as the boy graduated from high school he joined the U.S. Navy and served for four years. He married a girl from down South and landed a job in a tire factory. He seldom wrote and Henry and his wife would only see him and his family once or twice a year.

Henry’s life was turned upside down when, as these things happen, his wife died suddenly of undiagnosed heart disease. Henry was pleased that all of his children and grandchildren were able to be at the farm for a few days before the funeral. He was thankful that not a single cross word with his youngest occured during the time they were together. His daughter and daughter-in-law helped with all the preparations prior to his wife's burial. In shock and alone after the funeral, and his family and friends had retreated to their own lives, Henry sat at his kitchen table wondering how he would cope. Prior to his wife’s death, Henry did not take her dedication to her vocation for granted. Now he wondered who would clean the house, wash the dishes and laundry, and tend the garden? He knew he could feed the chickens and hogs as part of his daily chores. He didn’t have to milk since he had sold his milk cows and young stock a couple years past. When supper time came and went, he realized he was getting hungry. But cooking? He had no clue.

His mother had taught him how to make a peanut butter sandwich, but he never was able to make one without pulling the bread apart. He would place a gob of the brown sustenance on a slice of bread and fold the bread on itself to something resembling a sandwich. If only he could find the peanut butter now in his time of need.

A basket of eggs caught Heny’s eye when he searched the refrigerator for the peanut butter. I should be able to fry a couple of eggs, he thought. He remembered watching his wife place some butter in a small fry pan. When the butter melted she would crack the eggs into the pan until the whites were solid and the yokes were a golden yellow, easy peasy. The butter melted and he cracked the first egg into the pan, but the yoke broke. The second egg follow suit. He would have scrambled eggs instead of sunny side up.

After he ate his eggs with a fresh glass of milk he left the dishes in the sink to wash them later that evening. As he settled into his recliner next to the picture window, he noticed that it was beginning to snow. The first snowfall of the year would likely melt before long. It was the light kind of snow blowing at a forty-five-degree angle. Still, it was sticking to the dried maple leaves that Henry promised his wife to rake before the first snowfall.

The snow reminded him of past times in the snow. He recalled the walks down the country road with his wife’s mittened hand in his. He remembered the children making snow angels in the yard and helping them build the snowmen. He saved an old broken-down straw hat to place on a snowman’s head. Then there was the blizzard of 55’ when they had to tie a rope from the back door of the house to the barn door so Henry wouldn’t get lost in the storm when he went out to do his chores.

When the wind died and the snowflakes became larger. The brown leaves on the ground were nearly covered. The gently falling snow, the large, overstuffed recliner and the warmth of the room made his eyes grow heavy. I’ll take a short snooze before tackling the dishes, he thought as he closed his eyes.

When he woke up, the snow had stopped, and the room felt cold. When he looked away from the window his bride of forty-five years past was standing before him with outstretched arms. He took her mittened hand and they left together never to return to the farm again.