Gleaners

Scott, Kelsey, Luke, and Kerry grudgingly made their way through the corn stubble in the field east of their grandpa’s peach trees. They were fanned out behind Richard and were watching the ground as they walked. Each person carried a bucket containing varying amounts of corn. Scott stopped and bent down to pick up an ear. He pulled the husk from the ear before dropping it into his bucket.

“What is it that we’re doing again?” Kelsey inquired from Scott’s left.

“Gleaning,” Scott replied with a sigh.

“Why?” Kelsey inquired further. “It’s not like Dad can’t give him some corn if that’s what he wants.”

“Well who would use the corn that’s left in the field then?” Richard interjected with a smile.

The kids didn’t answer. Richard, having lived through The Great Depression, had a different perspective on life than the children. His coveralls were decorated with patches, he wore socks that he had purchased over twenty years earlier, he spooned dressing off his grandchildren’s salads when they over applied, and he gleaned the fields for corn. That’s just the way things were. He never wasted anything and he never let anything go to waste. (I realize that the last sentence seems repetitive but wasting implies active waste while letting something go to waste is more passive. Wasting is throwing away a pair of coveralls instead of patching a hole. Letting something go to waste is not gleaning corn in an already harvested field. Also, gleaning is the act of collecting the grain that was left behind by the people who harvested the field. See Ruth chapter two for another example of this practice.)

“Why do you need this corn anyways, Grandpa?” Luke asked.

“Well, I’m going to feed it to the pigs,” Richard replied with a shrug.

Every autumn, Richard went to the livestock auction in search of pigs. He always bid on the runts because they were the cheapest pigs available. He’s buy three or four of them, sometimes more and raise them through the winter until President’s Day. At that point, the pigs would be butchered to feed the Henning family. Richard would feed the pigs apples from his orchard, corn acquired through gleaning, table scraps, and milk from the farm that was not suitable for human consumption. Needless to say, by the time President’s Day rolled around, none of the pigs looked like runts.

All this meant that the Henning kids were pressed into service from time to time to contribute to the process. They didn’t relish the idea of participating in such a capacity but they accepted that this sort of thing was just par for the course. They enjoyed a lot of activities with their grandfather who was particularly accommodating to their wants and desires (within bounds of reason) so they felt inclined to accommodate him from time to time. (It’s not as if they really had a choice. They were at their grandpa’s house so they did what their grandpa asked of them.) 

The children converged for a break around Richard who passed around a plastic mug full of water. Once the children enjoyed a drink, they emptied their buckets into a burlap sack. Scott sat on a bucket and absentmindedly flicked kernels off and ear of corn and into his bucket. 

He looked around at the field in which they worked. It was uncharacteristically flat for the family farm. The Henning farm was primarily nestled in the valley of two large hills. Richard and Mary lived on top of the eastern hill where there were a couple of flatter fields that bordered the houses on Baird Road. Scott glanced longingly at the peach trees to his right. Peach season was over so Scott’s days of grabbing a peach or three off the tree for his own enjoyment were over until the next year. No more peaches to eat, just corn to glean. He looked behind him at the woods towards the back of the family property. The trees were ablaze with color. Red, orange, and yellow had pushed the green from the trees over the last few weeks creating the color pallet of fall. The tan fields of yet-to-be-harvested corn looked bland against the colorful backdrop. The seasons were changing. Every day, night crept over the farm just a little earlier and morning came just a little later. The warmth of the summer faded into the coolness of autumn. Hoodies and jackets came out of storage and hayrides and bonfires became the activities of choice. The orange pumpkins in Richards garden became more prominent as their vines withered and died. It was hard to imagine that summer was in full swing a few short weeks ago and winter was just around the corner. It was hard for the children to let go of summer, but the season change offered its own special brand of exhilaration. With the passing of each season came the dawn of the next. It was amazing to see the seasonal transitions display the glory of God.

Fall is a good thing, Scott nodded to himself. Even if it means that we have to glean corn.

Walnut War

Scott hid behind the large back wheel of the Cockshutt forty. He palmed a green ball in his right hand as he surveyed the pile at his feet. He had sent his younger brother, Luke, to lure his older brother, Caleb, to the driveway just past the shop. Scott intended to initiate a walnut battle with his older brother and this time, he would have the upper hand.

 Just across the driveway from him was a huge walnut tree. Every year, that walnut tree dropped dozens if not hundreds of walnuts that didn’t get used for much other than ammunition. Walnuts drop from the tree as green balls that are just a little smaller than a tennis ball. The green outer layer eventually turns black and falls away from the hard shell of the walnut underneath. The shell could then be cracked allowing the meat of the nut to be removed for consumption. Most of the walnuts from that particular tree were never collected and cracked because no one had the time or the interest to take on such a project. Therefore, they were utilized as yet another outlet for the sibling rivalry that perpetually existed between the three brothers.

As Scott crouched in his place, awaiting his quarry, he relished the opportunity to get the upper hand for a change. As the second son in the family, he always seemed to be a day late and a dollar short. His older brother was stronger and smarter than Scott and usually came out on top in most rivalrous conflicts. 

Not today, Scott thought to himself. Today I’m going to come out on top.

No sooner had that thought played through his head than a green walnut landed with a thud on the gravel beside him. Scott stared at the walnut with wide eyes hoping against hope that it had simply dropped from the tree. The second and third walnuts hit the rusty rim of the tractor dashing his hopes.

“Doggonit!” Scott exclaimed as he scooped up an armful of ammo and made a break for a better position. “That little twerp betrayed me!”

As he turned in retreat he cast a glance over his shoulders and found his suspicions to be true. Caleb was making his way up the steep path beside the forty-foot silo, throwing walnuts as he climbed. Luke was stumbling behind his oldest brother with a burlap sack providing Caleb with the ammunition. Scott returned fire from the other side of the tractor as he shifted his position towards the sugar camp. He had set up several weapons caches at various sheltering points within range of Caleb’s probable approach. However, he had not expected Caleb to come from below. And he had not expected the older boy to have help.

The smell of walnuts and sweat stung his nostrils as he returned fire during his controlled retreat. A couple of walnuts found their marks leaving brownish yellow stains on the clothing of his opponents. Scott dove into the grassy area between the sugar camp and the trees, just east of the driveway and rolled head-over-heels until he slid to a stop right next to a pile of green and brown grenades. Against his better judgement, he stood and took aim. He let three projectiles fly in rapid succession before taking two center-mast. He dropped to the ground, feeling his chest instinctively. He pulled his hand away and looked at the stains on his fingers.

“This isn’t the end of me!” Scott cried with determination. “You ain’t seen the last of me yet!”

He scooped up two walnuts (possibly the vary two that had hit him) and sent them sailing. Both projectiles found their mark. Caleb and Luke cried out in mock anguish before returning fire. Walnuts passed each other in the air on the way to separate battle lines. Ammunition caches depleted as arms grew tired. The frequency and density of the walnut volleys decreased as the opposing forces worked to conserve energy and missiles. Finally, after a battle of the ages, all three boys dropped to the ground panting as their arms trembled and their lungs longed for oxygen.

After a few moments, Caleb called out to his brother across the driveway.

“What do you say we call that a tie?”

“I will only accept your terms of surrender if you send them to me with the traitor!” Scott replied.

“I find those terms to be unacceptable for two reasons,” Caleb replied with the poise of a seasoned walnut warrior. “First of all, I’m not surrendering. I’m proposing a truce.  Second, I will not sacrifice my comrade to satisfy your desire for retribution. We have all sustained substantial wounds. This fact alone is retribution enough.”

Scott was silent for a few minutes while he considered Caleb’s explanation.

“Fine,” he responded in a subdued tone. “Drop all of your ammunition and I’ll come out empty handed. I think it’s about dinnertime anyways.”

The thud of several walnuts hitting the gravel drive acted as a period on the truce between the two lines of conflict. Scott stood up and looked across the ammunition strewn battlefield at his opponents. Caleb and Luke raised their hands with their empty palms facing Scott. Scott followed suit. Scott walked towards his brothers in apprehension, fully expecting some sort of surprise attack. There wasn’t one. He stood before his brothers who extended their hands. Scott shook their hands in turn cementing the terms of the truce. The all turned towards the house laughing and joking as they walked.

They walked in through the back porch and hung their jackets on the hooks before walking into the kitchen. Christa was just setting the table. She looked up at the boys as they walked by and sniffed. 

“I see you boys have been messing around with the walnuts again, huh?” she mentioned with her eyebrows raised.

The boys knew that there was no hiding the distinctive walnut husk smell on their clothing and their hands so they just stood there and shrugged. There wasn’t a hard-fast rule against walnut wars but it was one of those things that could easily be seen as a bad idea. Pretty much any activity that involved throwing any projectile full force at each other was a bad idea in the eyes of their mother.

“Go wash your hands for dinner, and change your clothes,” Christa directed with a smile. “Boys will be boys, I guess.”

Pocket Mouse

Caleb lifted a splitting axe high above his head and brought it down with considerable force into the top of a piece of cherry firewood. The piece of wood split right down the middle as the two halves landed on either side of the splitting block. Scott grabbed one half and place it back on the block and stood back just in time for Caleb to swing again. The cherry quarters separated more easily than the halves and Scott got the other half set up for his older brother.
 

Cutting and splitting firewood was a year-round endeavor but the task warranted a certain level of urgency in the autumn with winter right around the corner. The Henning farmhouse was heated with natural gas from the oil well on the property but the family found that it was prudent to prepare for the inevitable gas outages by stocking up on firewood for the wood furnace in the basement. At one point, Dale had even rigged up a homemade range boiler that would heat water with heat from the wood furnace because the regular water heater was also powered by gas.

Caleb and Scott liked splitting firewood. It gave them an opportunity to put their growing strength on display and provided a much needed outlet for the sibling rivalry that constantly simmered just below the surface. They took turns splitting making sure to point out how many strikes it took to get through a piece and pointing out why their piece was harder than the other’s because of knots or y’s. 

“Hey, Caleb,” Kelsey called from the house’s wrap-around porch. “Dad wants you to help him with something in the shop.”

“Okay,” Caleb responded. “I’m on my way.”

He shrugged his shoulders at his younger brother as he handed the red handled splitting axe to Scott. 

“I guess you’re on your own,” he smiled. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“No promises,” Scott smiled back.

Scott stacked all the wood that had been split on the growing pile on the edge off the grassy triangle where they were working. Stacking firewood in a stable stack was a real art. The ends of the stack had to be stacked in a way that would contain the rest of the pile. The layers on the ends were stacked one layer on top of the other with the orientation of the pieces shifting ninety degrees every layer. In order to do this well, the stacker had to be very particular about which pieces he chose because the pieces had to be very similar in size. Otherwise, the ends would be unstable and that would make the entire stack more likely to topple.

Once Scott cleared his workspace, he got to work splitting. Scott let his mind wander as he did his work. he rarely managed to stay completely focused on the task before him. That’s not to say that he couldn’t get his work done. Sometimes it just took a little longer and often, to the casual observer, he looked quite silly while he worked. He often talked to himself and made wild gestures as he acted out his imaginative adventures. Luckily, splitting wood didn’t leave much room for elaborate hand motions, so his mindful wanderings manifested primarily in a verbal manner.

After he had been splitting for a while, he grabbed a piece of wood to put on his splitting block and was distracted by movement he perceived out of the corner of his eye. Whatever imaginary adventure he was on was quickly back-burnered as he turned his attention to whatever had caught his eye in the crevasses of the unsplit log pile. He moved a couple pieces of wood and saw movement again, but only for a second or two. 

“I hope it’s not a snake,” he muttered to himself. “I’m going to be disappointed if I dig through this pile just to find a snake.”

Scott had been the type of kid to catch and keep critters his whole life. However, his interests had been pretty much limited to grasshoppers and crickets with the occasional salamander or newt. He had never found snakes to be of much interest. He moved a couple more pieces of wood and caught movement out of the corner of his eye one more time with just enough time to react. He shot his hand out and his fingers closed gently around the furry little body of a frightened field mouse. 

Scott, being careful not to hold the small rodent too tightly, gazed upon his most recent acquisition. The small mouse was entirely encased in the young man’s hand with the exception of its head. Its nose twitched nervously as jerked its head from side to side as if it was taking stock of the situation in which it had landed. Scott gently caressed the little creature with his forefinger as he tried to decide what to do next. 

He was quite certain that his mother would likely deny the creature entrance in the family home regardless of any terms of residency that Scott might propose. After all, it was generally understood that mice were not welcome in the house. The next option up for consideration was to keep the mouse in some kind of enclosure outside of the house, perhaps in the barn somewhere. However, if his father were to find the mouse, he would likely let it go, and that would be the best-case scenario. Scott’s father had good reason to prefer that mice not take up residence in the barn. 

Scott’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the milk pump kicking on. The milk pump, when engaged, let out a loud droning sound that landed somewhere in the middle of the scale for pitch. It could be heard from a surprising distance away and meant that the children were to report to the barn immediately for their evening chores. The sound would persist until the milking was done. So, unsure of what to do with his new-found companion, Scott place the mouse gently into his spacious jacket pocket and blocked the opening of the pocket with his hand. 

Scott pondered his predicament as he walked towards the barn and was unable to arrive at what he considered to be an acceptable conclusion. He couldn’t keep it in the house because of his mom. He couldn’t keep it in the barn because of his dad. He couldn’t just let it go because he had worked so hard to acquire the little creature, now that he had it, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting it go. That was the funny thing about the situation. The mouse had only been in his possession for a few minutes. Prior to his acquisition of the animal, Scott had not felt that he was missing anything in particular in his life. He had been completely content with his situation. However, now that the mouse was literally within his grasp, he couldn’t see his way clear to let it go despite the impracticalities of keeping it.

 By the time he had gotten to the concrete slab outside the milking parlor, he still hadn’t decided what to do. He hesitated outside the milk house door because he knew that if he went inside, his dad would immediately recognize that something was off about him. So, the young man lingered with the mouse in his pocket and his hand acting as the door to the rodent’s prison. 

At that point, the mouse decided to help Scott by making the boy’s decision more or less reflexive. When Scott had been walking, the mouse had simply lay in the corner of the pocket, unsure of what had been transpiring. Now that the boy was standing still, the mouse decided it was time to explore its options. It began to wander around the small space of its fabric prison and quickly found that there was no immediate route of escape. However, when it came to the area where Scott’s hand was blocking the opening, it apparently came to the conclusion that one of these walls was not like the other. 

He nosed around Scott’s palm (which cause the boy to smile slightly) the then settled on Scott’s index finger. The mouse opened its mouth and bite down hard on the young man’s finger. Scott gasped against the sharp pain in his finger and jerked his hand from his jacket pocket. The mouse, still having a firm grip on Scott’s finger, was propelled rather quickly from the warm yet dark confines of Scott’s jacket pocket and tumbled through the air until it landed in the soft dirt by the watering trough. It rolled a couple times through the dust and scurried quickly into the crevices of the barn’s sandstone foundation.

Scott watched the mouse disappear into one of the larger crack and then turned his attention to his finger. There was a small indent in his skin where the mouse had expressed its opinion, but no blood.

“Well, I guess that answers that question,” Scott muttered to himself. “I think I’m just going to keep that between me and the mouse.”