He lifts the index finger of his left hand from the steering wheel and nods his head at about the same time he completes the one-finger wave directed at the old man in faded overalls driving a light blue tractor in the other lane. The tractor's owner, Mr. Arnold, ran the farm two miles up the road, and would often ride down once in a while to check on his farm for him. Reciprocating with his own wave and nod, Mr. Arnold lifts a gnarled finger off the tractor's wide plastic steering wheel for a few seconds.
Still watching the old man on the tractor, he pulls into the gravel drive of the ancient farmhouse slamming on the brakes of his green Ford Explorer just coming to a stop in front of a wide oak tree. Through the grimy windshield splattered with bugs and other debris, he stares at the rusty orange wire hoop nailed about ten feet up into the massive trunk. He and his brother, Reggie, had used the hoop to play basketball with uncles and cousins every Thanksgiving. Now, his brother lived in Seattle and their parents in Arizona. He'd also lost touch with the cousins who last time he checked still lived in eastern North Carolina near New Bern -- not far from the Atlantic Ocean. Because he was the only relative living in western North Carolina, that put him closest to the farm making him executor of the estate and responsible for hiring someone to grow and maintain the crops.
During the two-hour drive just below the Blue Ridge mountains from Hickory through Charlotte and Monroe to Union County, he'd tried to remember all the different crops his Grandparents had grown on the twenty-three acres of land they had owned for eighty some years. He'd only been able to think of Milo -- a feed grain for cows and other livestock--, peanuts, and sugar cane. He knew his Grandma had always kept about a third of an acre behind the little white wooden house for growing her family's own corn, tomatoes, beans, carrots, potatoes and beets. Her little garden had helped to keep eight hungry mouths fed during the years of hard times and for years after that. They raised no livestock, but still made a good living putting the four boys to work in the fields and the two girls to work in the kitchen. His Mom was the oldest child, and had been the only one to leave the farm and go to College in nearby Charlotte where she'd met his and Reggie's Father. After she graduated, they'd moved to Hickory where he and Reggie had been born and raised. As far as he knew once his Grandparents passed away, no relative except for him had set foot on the farm in over fifteen years.
"Hey, there Justin. How ya doin'? Been almost eight months since we seen you in these parts -- it was last Christmas, wasn't it? So, what 'cha been up to?"
Justin smiles at the short skinny man as he steps out of the SUV smoothing his khakis with one hand and his light green polo shirt with the other. "Hey, there Mr. Arnold. How've you been? Thanks for checking on the place for me. I really appreciate it. Things have been hectic at work lately so I didn't get down here to Union county as soon as I thought I would."
"So you're still working as an Accountant, I guess?"
"Yep, afraid so. It keeps me busy. Out of trouble."
"I thought that's why that wife of yours left ya. Too busy."
"Well, that was one reason. Seems she found a younger and richer fella, too."
"You ain't that old Justin -- what are ya about thirty?"
"More like forty, but sometimes I feel thirty again."
"Me, too," Mr. Arnold says swinging his head back with a loud cackle.
Watching the bald man howl with laughter, Justin looks around at the overgrown bushes and two feet high grass and weeds surrounding the front porch along with broken limbs dangling from several pine and two magnolia trees. Affecting Mr. Arnold's slow soft drawl, Justin says, "I'll probably wish I was thirty again when I start trying to clean up this yard by myself."
"Yeah, I bet so. But you're a strong fit young man. Bet you can handle it. Or you could hire you some help up in Monroe -- maybe get yourself a realty office to handle the rental of your grandparent's old place 'stead of you making the long drive down here all the time. Then you wouldn't have to fool with the upkeep and all – 'specially yard work."
Running a hand through his thick black hair, Justin grins again saying, "Yeah, I could do that. But then I wouldn't get to see you and Mrs. Arnold. You know how I love her homemade cooking, especially her sweet potato pie."
Smiling a toothy grin, Mr. Arnold answers with, "Then you come on up tonight for supper. I'll let the missus know you're comin'. She'll be tickled -- looks like you could use some meat on those bones anyway."
"Yeah, you're probably right. I spend a lot of time in the Gym."
"Just get you a hoe out son and hit those fields out there -- you won't need to go to a Gym for nothin'."
"I bet you're right."
"You go on inside Justin and clear the cobwebs off and stuff. Have a look 'round the house. I've only been a checkin' on the outside and the fields for ya. Then come on up to our place about six o'clock. That give you enough time?"
Glancing down at his silver Swiss Army watch, Justin answers, "Yeah, that should give me a couple of hours or so. You sure you don't mind having me over on a Saturday night?"
"Yeah, son. We never have any thing much going on in August, 'specially on the weekends -- even church is only once a week in the summers."
"Okay. Thanks, Mr. Arnold. See you then."
Justin watches until Mr. Arnold and the tractor are almost out of sight before retrieving his beat-up leather briefcase and duffel bag from the back seat lugging them up onto the porch. With the decaying boards creaking underneath his feet, he sets the bags down onto a rusty iron bench and fishes the key from his pants pocket. Fumbling with the lock, it takes four tries before he finally manages to open the door.
Pushing it open with his hips, he grabs his bags and steps inside the living room. As he takes a few steps forward, more boards creak as the smell of cinnamon and pine bark fills his nostrils. He sets his bags down on the black leather couch dominating the tiny room along with a TV, a wood stove, two recliners, a large picture mirror hanging on the wall and two bookshelves. Flipping on the chandelier light hanging from the ceiling, he walks through the living room into the dining room stopping in the kitchen. Then he takes the hallway on the other side of the house walking past the two bedrooms and the parlor before entering the living room again. Glancing around the stuffy room he walks over to the front door closing and locking it.
Reaching over one of the blue recliners, he unlocks and opens a window. Then he turns on the TV with the remote flipping past ten or fifteen channels to make sure the satellite dish is working.
Finally he leaves the TV on ESPN and he picks up the phone listening for a dial tone. Replacing the black receiver into its cradle, he bends down and starts picking up piles of The Charlotte Chronicle from the floor mumbling, "Boy, the last renters sure were in a hurry to get out of here. Must've been about time for school to start back in Florida or Alabama or wherever they were from."
With a stack of newspapers up to his chin, he stumbles into the dining room through the swinging door into the kitchen throwing the mass into a ten-gallon trashcan by the refrigerator. Then he grabs the refrigerator handle and pulls open the door.
For a few seconds, he stares inside the empty space. Sighing again, he mumbles, "Glad I didn't expect them to leave me anything to eat" as he moves back through the dining room into the living room.
Returning to the remaining pile of newspapers in the living room, he sighs again as a surge of wind comes through the window sending the papers flying into corners and cracks all along the dark wood floor. Bending over with a loud groan, he starts picking up stray paper pages. In a few minutes, he has all the offensive newsprint stacked into a new pile except for a few stray pieces lodged behind the wood stove.
Lying down on the floor, he reaches a hand behind the black iron mass pulling and tugging at the pieces until he feels them give way. Spreading his fingers as wide as he can, he grabs a wad of paper pulling it out from between the stove and the back wall. Dropping the sooty mess onto the floor, he starts to add it to the mound when he notices a torn corner of yellowing white stationary mixed in with the newspapers. Sorting through the soot-covered pages, he flips through each one finding nothing except newsprint.
Pushing the newspapers aside, he drops to his belly gazing for several minutes into the four-inch space under the iron stove. Crawling towards it, he shoves his right hand out until his fingers touch the indented paneling along the back wall of the house.
Pressing hard into the wall he pushes along the wood with his fingers until he finds a loose board. Prying it out with his index finger and thumb, he drops the four by eight square inch of wood on the floor and holds his breath as he plunges his hand into the gaping hole. A few seconds later, he pulls out a small stack of white stationary envelopes and letters neatly bound by the fragments of a red silk ribbon still tied in a decaying bow.
Untying the bundle, he plops on the floor against the couch placing the letters in front of him. Staring at the letters for several minutes, he finally chooses an envelope holding it up in the dim light and looking at it for several more minutes. There was no address or name on the outside of the envelope. He figures he has the inner envelope that would normally go inside the mailing envelope like with his own wedding invitations.
He takes a deep breath swallowing several times as he stares at the 4 x 6 yellowing white envelope. Finally he closes his eyes, as he allows his thick fingers to pull out the letter.
September 17
Dear Emma Mae,
Been meaning to write to you for some time now. My Father and I made it back home probably a week after we stopped by your store and farm. We made the usual rounds picking up hogs, chickens, and a cow over at McGilly's Ranch not too far from your farm. Then we went on into town and picked up grain, powdered milk, coffee and some groceries. My Mother stopped at Zirk's and bought my brother, Gus, and me new overalls, jeans, and flannel shirts. She picked out two new sundresses for herself. One is a yellow one like the color you like to wear so much, and the other is orange. She tried on white and brown sandals to go with her new dresses deciding on the brown ones since she says they will go with more things, and will not get as dirty as white ones. She said there are several social functions and Ladies Auxiliaries coming up at the church, and the brown sandals will do just fine.
I guess you will have things coming up at your church, too. I liked it when our churches met at Chancel's creek and had the picnic and barbecue this past summer. You looked so pretty in your yellow flowery dress. You have beautiful blue eyes, and I love your long brown hair. That really was some good barbecue that day. Maybe our churches will have another picnic in the summer.
Until then my Father will keep my brother and I busy running the farm and making the muscadine wine. My Father says your farm grows the best muscadine grapes in all of Union county. The muscadines from your farm make a very sweet wine since he draws the must right from the vats and lets them sit in some barrels in the barn usually when we take our trips. He says it helps to have muscadines because they are pretty sweet so we do not have to add any sugar. That is good because it costs a lot to buy sugar right now.
My Father only makes a few bottles of muscadine wine at a time, and sells them in town. Maybe I could bring you a bottle some time. I know that you are not allowed to drink wine, but you might like to taste it once. Father let me taste it twice and each time it was sweet and a little bitter. My brother tasted it once. Sometimes he sneaks some out and gives it to his friends. I believe I like the grapes better plain, but Father makes us save them for the wine just like your Dad makes you save the grapes you pick off the vines for selling in your family store.
My Father is hoping he can use the money he makes from the muscadine wine to hire a full-time man soon since Gus and me have school till two o'clock every day. Since his accident from plowing, Father can only watch us work from the back porch. It is hard for him to walk, and he says he should have bought a tractor instead of a car.
Gus and I do not seem to get much done with just the plow and one mule between us, but this year I think we have planted enough Milo to get a good return at the town market. It is difficult to get enough good crop from just two acres.
Did your Dad ever take you and your sisters to the town market? I know he thinks it is difficult for him to only have two girls and no boys. At least he does not make you plow in the fields! Of course, it must be hard work for you to keep up your family's vegetable garden and the grapevines. Do you still do all your work before school in the morning when it is cooler?
At school, we have been studying arithmetic and spelling on Monday's, Tuesday's and Wednesday's. On Thursday's we read Poetry or the Bible. On Friday's we learn useful stuff about how to plow, raise crops and cattle, and sometimes we get to play games outside in the field. The parents may try to stop Mrs. Lane from letting us play since they say we boys get our clothes so dirty they have to do extra washing for the week.
What do you learn at your school? Maybe you could write and tell me sometime. I know your church, schoolwork, and helping out at the store keeps you busy, especially since your Mama passed on. I know she is in a better place, and I hope you do, too.
I guess my letter to you has gone on long enough. My hand aches, and I have lead marks on my clean white shirt. My Mama will be upset if she sees that my shirt is dirty before Church, but I wanted to write this letter to you and give it to Mr. Jones, the Postman, if he is there today so that you might get this before our next trip up to your store. I bought this stationary at Zirk's. Gus made fun of it and said it looked like something that a girl would use, but I thought it would be something you might like with the brilliant white paper and tiny yellow flowers in the corners. Buying this stationary used up nearly all my allowance for the past four month's, but it was worth it. Now, I am saving up to buy a model airplane and maybe a nice little surprise for you.
Please write to me soon. I would like to get a letter from you.
Your friend,
Cory
Justin closes the letter with a groan refolding the yellowing paper into its original square shape and stuffing it back into the envelope. Closing his eyes, he lays back on the couch listening to the commentators on ESPN.
After a few seconds, he checks his watch. He gets up and rushes to the bathroom staring in the mirror a few minutes until he decides his eyes look more green than blue. Then he runs his hands over his chin picking at a few stray hairs he missed in his morning shave.
Pushing stray strands of black hair behind his ears, he rushes back to the living room grabbing his car keys from the sofa. He quickly closes and locks the window. Then he runs out the front door hurriedly pressing the lock button on the doorknob.
Slamming the door, he jumps off the front porch landing with a thud on the hard dry ground that hadn't seen rain for several days. Staring at bits of uneven green and brown grass, Justin takes a few steps in front of the house away from his car. Passing a white plow buried about three feet in the ground, he stops walking to stand in front of a thicket of brown vines and decaying wood trellises. Pulling on one of the thick course grapevines, he jerks it with his hands until a few brown leaves crumble onto his shoes.