WE GATHER TOGETHER by Edward L. Woodyard

We Gather Together Chapter One

It was chillier than usual for the end of November as the orange beacon of an early-morning sun proclaimed its arrival to a clear cerulean sky. Its low light threw a steely shadow against a grove of lofty spruces and stoic oaks and then outlined the roof and gables of a white clapboard farmhouse onto brittle leaves scattered over a wide front lawn. The shadow crept across a rural, two-lane blacktop and up a sloping meadow of unharvested hay where the new day announced itself to a lone linden tree which had steadfastly stood sentry on that same hillcrest for three hundred years.

Inside the farmhouse, Sam McCulloch had dropped his horn-rimmed eyeglasses on the floor of the den. They had slid off his nose while he tried to figure out a timing mechanism on his new digital camera, now perched on a tripod in the middle of the room. Picking up his glasses off the rug wasn't as easy as it used to be. Nothing was. He was glad that the glasses hadn't broken and he was able to see again. Not that it helped much. He still couldn't figure out how to program the timer. He missed his Nikon F and rolls of Kodachrome.

Sam was getting the camera ready to take the annual family portrait. It was already Monday and Thanksgiving was four days away – when everyone would be there, except one.

Sam adjusted his glasses to focus on the small computer screen at the back of the camera. He was hesitant to touch anything for fear of making a mistake. His youngest son had told him not to be afraid of technology, but this new complicated camera still terrified him.

He allowed himself to be distracted by sounds of the fallen leaves outside swirling in a sudden wind. The first frost of the season had been a week before and Sam figured that the following one might be within the next day or two. The weather for most of the upcoming week was supposed to be sunny and clear. But weather could be fickle, like human nature. As Sam reminded people, there was only one kind of person who predicted local weather: a fool. He also thought the same could be said for those who thought they understood human behavior and emotion.

Sam brushed aside a white lace curtain panel over a window of the den and peered past a porch railing to a flagstone front walkway and an asphalt driveway beyond. At the end of the driveway across Pleasanton Road was the hillside meadow on top of which presided the linden tree which was now getting the full attention of a chilly morning sun and brisk breezes. Sam was glad he'd had the opportunity to purchase the acreage years ago so that it would remain a sledding hill for the town's children in winter – while, in summer, little would interfere with the enjoyment of divergent sunsets from the front porch.

Sam's attention drifted back to his front yard. He thought to himself that once the gusts subsided, he would rake the yard again so people could walk into the house without traipsing inside any uninvited autumn foliage. Maybe he'd make a pile of leaves, tossing aside any potentially harmful twigs or branches, so that his grandchildren could jump and play in it, just as he had done as a kid. If the weather forecast held, the leaves would be still be dry, making them perfect for rolling around. He could hear the laughter and giggling now as his grandchildren tossed beech, oak and maple leaves on each other. He had done the same thing with his brother when they were little boys, just before their father would haul the leaves to the curb in a large burlap sheet and light them on fire. While he missed the smell of burning leaves in autumn, he understood the need for environmental regulations even though they denied him sensory childhood memories.

Sam took off his glasses to stare again at his front yard. He buttoned his sweater and pulled up its collar before he opened the front door, then the storm door. The top hinge of the storm door creaked. He still hadn't oiled it. All he had to do was go to a workbench in the shed off the garage, maneuver around recently stacked wicker porch furniture and grab an oil can. No hurry, he supposed. He knew it would get done when he got around to it.

Sam had other things to consider. He stepped down onto the porch and thought about Thanksgiving morning. He imagined his large family getting out of their cars in the driveway and then each of them coming up the front walkway onto the porch stairs. Car doors would slam, rear trunks would open and the people he loved most in the world would be there. Drew and Cara would be first with their two little girls; Drew would struggle with a playpen and a diaper bag while Cara held one girl in her arms and the fingers of another would be clasped around her other thumb. They would be followed by Annie and maybe Jack; Annie would be lugging two canvas boat bags, one with food and the other with distractions for the kids, while Jack would probably try to keep their son and daughter from running straight into the pile of leaves. Finally coming up the walk would be Ben who'd be carrying a tie and blazer, as well as a twelve-pack of the latest craft beer he'd discovered in Manhattan.

All of them would march past Sam, with hugs and kisses, as well as lots of smiles and laughter. He would watch them tromp onto the porch, wipe their feet on the bristle welcome mat, hold open the storm door, and then enter over the threshold, yelling "Hi, Grammy! Hi, Mom! Happy Thanksgiving!"

Then Sam would follow them all into the house as he watched his beloved Julia embrace and greet her family. There was nothing that gave her more happiness than these people on this day. It was why he would wait until after the holidays to mention that his cancer might no longer be in remission.

Before Sam shut the front door, he would turn back to look at the walkway once more. He hoped that the last one he imagined would really be there: Scott.