Mary's warm memories still very vivid of a Saturday afternoon
Posted Jul 29, 2010 By Mary Cook
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Tweet ThisEMC Lifestyle - Although this memory has been recalled before, nonetheless, this time of year, when I see fields ripe with grain, and golden hay waiting to be harvested, my mind goes back to another time, another place.
It's always a Saturday. Even though school is out, it seems to be the day I single out as a time in my young life when I witness a special closeness to my father. And with a clarity I often don't feel with other memories, I picture that special day and remember every detail.
Father is working in the back fields. He has taken the team with one of the few pieces of farm machinery we own. It could be the hay mower, or the plow. There is no tractor to make his load lighter, just the team of horses.
As the noon hour nears, Mother starts to prepare the lunch I will be allowed to take to the back fields. It won't be the usual lunch Father takes himself on any other day. This one will be more ample, because I will be sharing it with him. You see, it's a Saturday.
Before the gingerbread clock in the kitchen reaches the noon hour, Mother hands me the 11-quart basket, kisses the top of my head, and watches as I walk down the slope to the creek and head up the West Hill. I turn often to make sure she is still in the doorway.
I am filled with dread, knowing that soon she will be out of my sight, and Father will still be far off in the back field. I plow through the tall grass, climb the log fence put there generations ago, and finally I spot Father...looking so small off in the distance. As I get closer, the dread is replaced with a special joy, and I know that finally I am safe, Father is just a field away.
Another fence to climb. I head for the only tree in the large field, and spread the blanket I have been carrying over my arm. Father sees me, but he doesn't wave, or acknowledge I am there, he just finishes the circle and pulls the team to a halt in the shade of the tree, where he had put a pail of water and a small bag of oats earlier in the day. Father isn't a talker. He sits down with his back against the tree, and wipes his face with the wet cloth I have brought. It's covered with grit when he puts it down beside the basket. He takes off his old straw hat and fans his face, and eyes the basket.
Mother has packed thick sandwiches of roast beef, dill pickles, sliced cucumbers and green onions fresh from the garden, a thermos of hot tea, ginger cookies, and a slab of chocolate cake.
"Sure is hot," he says as he tucks into the ample lunch, and I again marvel that I have been able to carry it all the way from our house to a field in the farthest reaches of our farm. My arms ached, but now I am fine again. Father is sitting with his back against the tree and as soon as the last crumb of cake is gone, he folds his arms across his chest, and I wait for the soft snores I know are coming.
There isn't much to pack back in the basket. Just the square of cloth I put down to place the food on, and paper bags that held the lunch. The food is gone. Mother said to leave the thermos of tea. I lean back against the tree, and out of the corner of my eye I watch Father. His pipe is resting on his chest, and his old straw hat is sitting on his outstretched legs. I look at the heavy wool socks he wears winter and summer, now covered with chaff and soil. His black work boots are brown with earth. I notice all these things, and the images will stay with me for a lifetime. As if an alarm clock had been set and finally gone off, Father wakens, looks at me, ruffles my hair, and without another word, climbs onto the mower, slaps the reins on the horse's flanks, and starts another circle of the big field.
I pick up the much lighter basket and drape the blanket over my arm and head for the rail fence. I climb to the top log, and sit straddled until Father works the team around to that side of the field. As he passes, I wave goodbye. His pipe is hanging loosely in his mouth but he manages what would pass for a smile and nods in my direction. My time with Father is over. I keep looking back as I head for the West Hill. He doesn't see me, but I keep waving until he is no longer in my vision. Now I can run, because the basket is lighter, and soon I see the old log house across the creek, and yes, as if someone had phoned her to tell her I was on my way home, there is Mother waving to me in the doorway. Memories. Warm memories of another time and another place.
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