Silent Fields

Sequel to The Farm Hand

For David

Prologue:

In the novel, The Farm Hand, Robert's desire to leave the family farm falls prey to hard times. After his father is crippled in a farm accident, Robert, the eldest son, is expected to run the farm.

With a cast of unlikely characters, the harvest succeeds and the farm is safe from the bankers for another year.

Once he's in charge, leaving is no longer an option, but Robert can see a good life with his lover, Sven, as farmers.

In the novella, Silent Fields, the difficulty communicating between fathers and sons is never more apparent. It certainly isn't anything new.

And so Robert and Robert Jr. embark on a journey of understanding, after taking a twenty-five year time out.

It could be the last thing Robert has ever done.

Being reunited with his long ago lost love, Sven, is the farthest thing from Robert's mind, but when all their cards are on the table, anything can happen, including things we'd ordinarily consider impossible, but father and son have come a long way.

Taking that last step will be magic.

This rewrite of the Redemption has been in the planning stages since I wrote that story to sooth unhappy readers.

Peace & Love,

Rick

---

Chapter 1

Is Home Still Home?

We sat on the tarmac with the engines roaring, waiting for the promised hole in the fog. When it was time, the pilot launched us down the runway and up through the breach.

It took a long time to reach Portland, Oregon and I was going home.

At first the plane’s climb seemed too steep. The superstructure responded with rattles and shivers as we began our climb through the turbulent air. Once the turn east was executed, we leveled off and the smoothness of gliding on air set my mind and stomach at ease.

The flight attendants happily hawked nuts and drinks for  passengers with cast iron stomachs.

I had no fear of flying. The same couldn't be said about going home. There hadn’t been enough time to plan a quiet entrance and quick exit. There wasn't going to be a lot to say to my father after twenty-five years.

*****

The flight into Chicago was uneventful. There was a summer thunderstorm that kept us from landing for fifteen minutes. I'd have two hours before a flight took me into Des Moines. I’d taken enough commuter flights to know it would leave late and arrive later. Having a few more minutes to circle O’Hare wasn’t important. The time I liked to fly assured a quiet terminal.

I stopped for a sandwich in the airport and blew ten bucks when I added a soda to my order. They didn’t have the nerve to charge these prices in many places, but fliers were accustomed to bad food at top flight prices.

I had supper with friends before they took me to the airport. The sandwich assured I’d not be starving once we landed in Des Moines. Once in the rental car, I'd find a restaurant on the way out of town.

One thing for sure, you didn't need to worry about getting a good meal at a fair price in Iowa. Food was the state's business and Iowa was the corn capital of the world.

I felt the clouds closing in on me even with the relatively clear morning sky. We’d flown low enough to pick corn on our final approach into Des Moines.

The only corn I’d eaten in years came from a can or a pouch. This was by careful design, but I'd returned to corn country, 'Ho, ho, ho.'

There had been a shower and the runway asphalt shined as the morning sun started to peek above the horizon as we taxied over to the terminal.

The car rental place was about a hundred feet from where I deplaned. I carried my only luggage, a small overnight bag. I hoped not to open it before I started my journey back.

I signed my name and showed them my wallet full of credit cards, deciding on American Express. I’d write it off as a business expense. It was little consolation for the expense of leaving work to fly halfway across the country, but this would be enough like work to qualify as business.

When I left the counter, my car was heading for the door as I stepped outside. The temperature was already on the rise.

The radio blared music I didn't know as the driver tested the cars brakes, making the tires chirp. A freckle-faced Iowa boy sprang from the car, smiling a warm Iowa smile. He held the door open for me, closing it firmly once I was behind the wheel. Taking a second look, he didn't look old enough to drive. He was a reminder of a dozen boys I grew up with in rural Iowa.

“Thank you, son,” I said, appreciating his enthusiasm.

“Yes, sir,” he said, delighted to be alive. “You have a safe trip.”

I handed him a five dollar bill from my good service tip pocket. It probably doubled his wages for the day. I wanted to ask him why he wasn't in school, but I didn't ask to see his driver's license either. why ruin a perfectly good mood?

“Thank you, sir!” he exclaimed, all but clicking his heels.

I rewarded promptness and people who expedited the mundane things I abhorred each day. It left an impression and no one holding a five dollar tip forgot what it took to get it. My oversized tips wouldn't suddenly persuade service workers to be polite and efficient, but it might make a few give it some thought.

From plane stairs to car seat in fifteen minutes wasn't bad. It was hopefully a harbinger of things to come. I was an optimist but not to the point of delusion.

Turning off the radio, I looked both ways before leaving the parking lot. It was a middle size sedan, an upgrade for using Amex.

I pulled over before turning onto the highway and I took off my jacket and put on my sunglasses. The sun was getting brighter as it got higher in the sky.

I opened the map of Iowa I took off the counter at the car rental place and I located the route that took me home, which was no more than two inches from the spot marked, ‘You are here.’

I sure was here.

Two right turns and I was pointed in the right direction.

The route out of Des Moines was busy but before long traffic thinned and my car was the only one east bound.

I rolled down my window to get fresh air. This section of Iowa was level and the roads were straight. In no time at all I turned off the state road and onto the county road that would take me through Nodaway.

The fields surrounded me and the corn got closer and closer to the road. This was the heart of corn country. With the window down the sweet smell of corn was pungent.

The smelled hadn't changed in all these years.

How was a smell so familiar when I hadn't smelled it in so long? The aroma of corn mingled subtly with the musky smell of rich Iowa soil.

These smell whisked me back to a time as a boy when I stood at the fence on my father's farm, watching him in the field. I cringed. I had to go back there. It was a place I couldn't wait to leave.

The sign NODAWAY told me I was closing in on home and going in the right direction. That’s when I first recognized something from when I was a boy.

I made a right turn onto the road that would carry me through the middle of town and out to my father's lane.

It was like stepping back in time. Little had changed. The full fields of corn towered above the road, blocking the view of everything beyond. Even the sun hadn’t gotten high enough to cut into the shaded road.

In no time at all the town appeared, approaching fast in the windshield. Little had changed here either. This was the town of my youth. Slowing to a crawl, I recognized what were once places I knew. It was deserted. My car was the only one on the main street of town. Most of the stores were boarded up. Some were the same as I remembered them.

There was Crosby’s Feed and Grain. It had become Crosby’s Feed & Implements and on its side of the street it covered most of a block. The glass and brick showroom was new. The grain silos that sat behind the old building were gone.

I eased across the railroad tracks and let the car creep past the buildings I knew. No one had painted in ages. As many places were boarded up as weren’t.

My journalistic reflex recalled the destitution in stories about tiny towns everywhere in the U.S.A. It was the age of multiplexes and mega-malls. Small towns were drying up and blowing away, and thus it is so in Nodaway.

Stories about small failing towns were one thing, seeing my town gave them new meaning. I felt sadness over discovering they were about home.

It furnished another reason to dislike the return home. It was a surreal glance into how things are compared to how I remembered them. The town seemed smaller, almost deserted. I was in front of the General Store & Mercantile before I realized it.

I came to town with my father all the time back then. The single gas pump, where my father pumped gas into his pickup trucks, was faded to a rusty red. There was no hose where the gas flowed. The meter inside the cracked orange glass was forever frozen at 9.99. Gas here was forever 39.9 cents for a gallon. The good old days.

The screen door hung on one hinge, moving forward a foot and then back in the soft breeze. The chairs where the men sat Saturday mornings to chat were gone. There was no one there to tell me what had happened in Nodaway. The town had failed, dried up, not yet blown away.

I passed nothing in the way of businesses on the way into town. Where did people shop? Where were the people? Maybe I had entered the Twilight Zone and Rod Serling would appear in the middle of the street in a moment to explain our situation.

I hesitated there, unable to move past the general store. I was seeing the huge jars of candy on the counter inside, my hand poised over a particular jar with the candy I wanted, waiting for my father to nod that he'd allow it.

It was the only game in Nodaway. All the farmers kept accounts there. They charged everything between growing seasons, paying the entire bill after the harvest.

Everyone was known by a single name. I was Junior when I wasn't Bobby. My father was Robert. No one called him Bob.

Now the store at the center of town had gone mute, having lost its memory and looking its age. The only thing missing was tumbleweed and gusts of wind to blow it down Main Street.

I didn't plan to stop or even slow down, but here I was, my past haunting me.

What had happened? The fields were full of corn, but I saw no houses or driveways that might go to houses I couldn't see from the road. There were no farm houses and no need for driveways that went to them.

I turned on the only street that crossed Main Street, I drove to the school I graduated from the day I left Nodaway behind.

It was no longer the largest building I knew. It was old and abandoned. Each pane of glass was broken out. The final swing, held by one rusted chain, moved back and forth, disregarding the fact that no one was left to swing.

The monkey bars, where we sat waiting for the first bell each morning, were partially collapsed and had fallen over to rest on one of its sides.

I almost passed the lane that took me to my father's house. Backing up, I didn't look both ways. There had been no sign of life since I turned off the highway.

Most of the fields along the highway had been planted and were well on the way to harvest time, but not my father’s fields. The gray soil looked spent. There was no corn. His fields stood fallow; not an ear of corn anywhere.

The sweet smell of corn filled the air anyway. For fifty miles in every direction there were cornfields full of corn.

Turning onto the lane that would carry me to the driveway that went to the house. I parked across the street without turning into it. I looked at the house where I'd been born.

It hadn't changed a bit. I wasn’t ready to face my father yet. What did we have to say to each other? I wanted to keep it brief, but I was afraid my father had other ideas. For the first time I thought about what to say.

I usually worked from a script and I knew what I was going to say. He said he wanted me to come to get my mother things. I was nine when she died. I didn't remember much about her.

Sitting there with memories surging through me, I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how sick he was. I wanted to be polite. I refused to be hostile or angry.

I'd gotten over my anger years ago.

If we got too far from my reason for coming home, I'd steer us back on track. I wanted to stay close to my easy in quick exit strategy.

I waited for the past to settle back where it came from. I was a journalist who reported on events with calm cool objectivity.

This homecoming wasn’t an event I could approach with coolness. In some ways it was disappointing that I couldn’t come home, do what I'd come to do, and leave without it becoming a sentimental journey or blame game.

I wasn’t sentimental but I never came home before either.

The last time I saw my father was at my graduation from the school that no longer existed. There were eleven of us who graduated that day. The bleachers were filled with mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters of the graduates. It was one of the events the entire town turned out for. Graduating high school was something most parents hadn't done, although mine did. It was an event.

My father did not sit for the ceremony. He stood in his overalls and the gray hat with the black hatband that shielded his eyes from the ever-present June Iowa sun.

He couldn’t sit down like other parents. As I walked across the stage, ten tables from the cafeteria covered in black crape, I saw him standing away and above everyone else as my name, Robert Sven Sorenson, was called.

I was greeted by the other graduates who’d come before me. By the time I got back to looking around, the man in the gray hat was no longer there.

Remembering my graduation for the first time since I left home didn't bode well for my easy in quick out plan.

It wasn’t a good memory. Ours was not a good relationship. My father said, the night before I graduated, 'I can't afford to hire help this year, Bobby. I'll need to get back in the fields afterward. You don't want me embarrassing you in front of your friends, but I'll be there to see you graduate. Your mama would be proud.'

I’d packed the night before graduation. My room was at the end of the hall and my father’s room was at the head of the stairs. There was a room between mine and his. We could go a week and never run across each other in the spring.

He came to my door the night before. I kept my back turned, but I knew he was there. There was a board that creaked in the hallway, no matter how delicately you stepped. He knew the board. He knew the sound. He knew I knew he was there, but he didn't speak to me.

Like at graduation and like most of my life, he wasn’t there when I was ready to face him. I hadn’t told him I was leaving, but since I was packing my suitcase, he may have figured it out by then. It was our last chance to talk and we both passed on it.

Once I reached the bus station in Des Moines the next afternoon, I went through the pockets of the suitcase in search of my ink pen. There in an envelope marked RSS were five crisp hundred dollar bills. Inside the envelope he had slipped a note written on a piece of paper torn from a notebook. It simply said, “Good Luck, son.”

Now I'd come home.

I couldn’t control my mind, and I could not go to the house with memories flashing back on me. I breathed deep, pretending I could control my hearts rapid discord.

Maybe having a heart attack wasn't such a bad idea. 'Sorry, Dad, I couldn't make it all the way home.'

I laughed at what for a second seemed like a good plan.

“Great!’ I said. “What's wrong with me? Get it over with.”

This place is going to kill me just like it killed my mother. They'd find my body in front of my father's mailbox. The mailman would stamp me, 'dead on arrival.'

My father had never done anything to make me feel useful on his farm. My mother died when I was nine and after the day of her death, when Dad and I cried together, he went back to work like every other day in his life.

I told him I didn't want to be a farmer. I blamed my father for my mother's death. I blamed his farm. I told him I hated the farm and I may have mentioned him in that tantrum. I didn't hate him but I hated he couldn't take away my pain.

I heard people say that the farm killed Mama. I was angry and I wanted to get off that place as quick as I could, and I did.

I was home.

There was little communication between my father and me, once Mama died. I blamed him and he was probably hurt that I didn't want to follow in his footsteps.

I think I wanted to be like my father once.

Grandma Sorenson came to live on the farm and take care of me. She'd moved into town after Mama married my father. So there was a woman in the house. My father left my raising to Grandma. He seemed to purposely put distance between me and his farm.

Maybe it was punishment for what I said to him. There was no chance to take it back. I was stuck with my anger then.

The farm was a living thing to my father. I watched him walk the fields, smelling the soil he held in his hand. He spent hours out there, even after the harvest was in.

He’d walk the furrows like he might find something he’d lost.

It was dirt and my father loved it.

The farm was very much like the town, in disrepair with empty silent fields. He hadn’t planted. At a time when most farmers were getting ready for the harvest, my father's machinery sat idly beside the barn. They'd been left to rust in the harsh Iowa weather. The farm had rusted.

I remember how he pampered his machinery. He kept a rag in his back pocket to wipe each machine after he let it cool before shutting it down.

This didn’t resemble my father’s farm. It was old and ready to fall down around him. Hatred for the place still seethed deep inside me. It was always this farm I hated.

The fence that started at the head of the driveway leaned partially into the empty field. Grandma and I painted the posts each spring, because my father refused to replace the eyesore. It was obvious that hadn't changed.

We could ill afford to buy fence posts. As much as he loved the farm, there were things he did that made no sense to his son. It's where our split began. He didn't try to understand me. My father had work to do.

Why would the same fence that was there when I was a boy, still be here, rotten and falling down? Why hadn't he sold the farm? Why stay and let it die with him? That wasn't love.

It no longer mattered. It was still difficult to conceive of him allowing the farm that was his pride and joy get in such a state. I could see it. Understanding was another thing. What I knew about my father said he wouldn't do this.

As if an omen of what was coming, clouds covered the sun as I eased into the driveway, stopping beside the house.

I felt more like the nine year old boy than a man returning home at his father's request. I was certain I left the past behind me, but it had been waiting here for my return.

*****

The day before I got to the TV station before three to start reading the updates on stories that were of interest to me.

I hadn’t even made it to the newsroom when Colette, the receptionist, turned my day upside down.

“Bob, there’s an important message for you,” she said, proving it by waving the pink message slip frantically at me.

“I’ve got to get my nose powdered, sweety, not to mention develop a script for the show. I'll get back to you on that.”

“Yeah, well, it sounds important and I don’t want to get yelled at later for having waited to give you the message. Besides, just think of it as my job, Bob.”

Colette could be annoying.

I expected a news tip, a breaking story, or a crank yanking my chain. What I got startled me out of my routine.

“Call father. Important!!!”

“Did you talk to him?” I asked.

“Sure did, honey. That's my job too.”

“What did he say?”

“Asked for Robert Sorenson Jr. I says, cause you ain’t here, 'he ain’t here.' He says to have you call him and he gave his name as ‘Robert Sorenson Sr.’ It’s all there. Did I mention he said it was important, Bob?”

“You did, Colette. Now get me this number,” I said, wishing there were a way to keep ignoring my father.

He'd never called before. How'd he even know where I was?

“The lighted button. It’s ringing right now,” she said, always being one step ahead of me.

I reached for the receiver and hit the button and I listened to it ringing.

“Hold for Mr. Sorenson please,” she said, looking at me. “I’ve done all I can. You'll have to do the rest, hon.”

I’d been at the station for five years and I mostly did features, news bulletins, and newscasts, when the regular anchors took vacation or were sick. It was work I enjoyed.

I frequently traveled on national stories, since being at an airport where a plane crashed a few years before. Being a newsman on location meant exclusive coverage for my station and me.

It was the break that launched my broadcast career. While covering the crash, CBS, NBC, and ABC did live coverage from the scene, before and after my live report, they identified me and my station; advertising money can't buy.

It wasn’t a high-powered journalistic post, but I had become a popular fixture and when most of the news staff came and went, I was the senior man in the newsroom.

At forty-three I was where I wanted to be. It was a medium sized television market with a local newspaper that bought the first publication rights to my human interest stories.

I looked into the message with the news man’s dedication I'd reserve for an ancient artifact that I expected to offer me a clue to its origins.

Gone was my carefree posture, replaced by a growing apprehension. I was paid to know what to say and I didn't know what to say.

“Thanks,” I said, leaning against her desk so I didn't fall down when I heard my father's voice.

“Mr. Sorenson. How may I help you,” I said, waiting for him to speak.

I wasn’t prepared for the curt reply.

“I wanted you to know I’m leaving the farm to Uncle Junior. Your mother’s things are here, in the attic. Junior won’t know what they are. You should come home as soon as is convenient, Bobby. She'd want you to have her things.”

“Dad!” I said, unable to respond intelligently.

I started it. I knew who Colette got on the phone for me.

“Sorry I bothered you at work. It couldn't be helped. I can’t bare the thought your mother’s things will…. You need to come home, son. See if there’s anything you'd like to keep of your mothers. There isn't much but she'd want you to have them.”

The voice was softer, less in charge, but easily recognizable. It sent a chill through me to hear it. Was it the nature of the call or the picture of my father I had in my head?

“You’re sick?”

“They say so.”

“Is it serious, Dad?”

“I'm old, Bobby. Everything is serious.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“I’ll be all right for a spell. If it isn’t convenient right away, you have a few weeks if you can believe the doctors. I just don’t want your mother’s things thrown away when they knock down this house. It's not much but it's yours now.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, losing my train of thought. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I fumbled when I tried to hang up the phone. Colette took my arm and the phone.

“You OK, Bob? Bad news?”

“I’ve got the transportation department on the phone. Red eye tonight into O’Hare, Chicago. Where are you going from there?”

“How'd you know O'Hare?” I asked, thinking she was psychic.

“I dialed the number. Area code? Where to from O'Hare?”

“Des Moines,” I said.

She repeated it in the phone.

“A bit of a wait between O'Hare and Des Moines? Book it?”

“Book it,” I said.

“Book it,” she said, hanging up the phone. “Two hour wait at O'Hare for a commuter flight into Des Moines.”

“Fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I'll have a rental car waiting for you in Des Moines.”

“Thanks, Colette,” I said. “I’m going to need Jan to cover for me for a few days. Better call upstairs in case they have another idea. They owe me three years of vacation. I'll draw from that.”

“You don't ever take time, Bob.”

“You take time off and you come back and find someone else doing your job. I like it here.”

“Alan needs to put his official seal on this. Better you explain it,” she said, handing me the phone with the boss on the other end.

“Alan, Bob. I’ve got to fly home. My father’s ill. I’ll need a couple of days. No, I don’t need a week. Thanks. I will.”

“Jan’s on the way. I told her to clear her schedule for the rest of the week. No telling what might come up.”

“I won’t be gone long. If I'm in Chicago tonight, I'll be home before noon. I shouldn't be more than a day or two.”

“Yep, minus the two hours you lose, you’ll be in Des Moines at first light. It's less than two hours once you leave O'Hare. It'll be quiet that time of night.”

*****

It was a brisk night in Portland. A gentle rain had moved in off the Pacific; it made everyone hurry to shorten the time they spent outdoors.

I was having dinner with friends. I'd ask one to drop me at the airport in time to catch my flight.

The restaurant was jammed.

“My friends are already seated, thank you.” I said, passing the waiting patrons.

“Hi, Bobby.” David said, noticing my approach.

"Hey, Charlie. I need a ride to the airport after dinner and drinks."

"You're leaving the City and don't have a limo poised to take you to your awaiting jet?" Fran observed. “That reminds me, I missed you on the news tonight. What's up.”

“I love you too, dear,” I said, kissing my former wife's cheek.

We’d been married two years and divorced for three. We made far better friends than we did lovers. We were both career oriented and we slowed each other down. Marriage took more time than we had. Divorcing saved our friendship.

“You don't want me to drive you, sweet pea?” Fran asked.

“I've seen you drive. No!” I said.

“Your absence on the news has something to do with your departure from Portland?” Fran asked.

“You aren’t married to him any more,” Nora said.

“My father’s… sick. It’s only for a couple of days,” I interrupted.

"I thought you never left the city except for work?" David said.

"Yeah, best laid plans of mice and only children," I said. "I'm taking a few days. It won't take long."

"So, you're finally going home? Why?" Charlie wanted to know. “I thought you and your father don't get along?”

"He called. He says he's sick. He is my father. He’s concerned about things that belonged to me. I can’t imagine it taking long. I'll get my things and get out of his way."

"He's your father, Bob. Cut the man some slack. You aren't a kid now but he's still your father. You want to make peace with him while you can. You don't and one day you'll regret it," Fran said with concern.

"Right! Right! Can the lecture. I’m going home and I'll be back in a few days. That's all I'll ever say on the matter."

The conversation turned to other subjects. I had spaghetti with marinara sauce and I drank Chianti. The garlic bread made it all better, after dipping it in the olive oil.

As my friends carried on their rapid fire conversation, I thought about my mother, picnics with the three of us in a spot Dad called the meadows. There was a pond I wasn’t allowed to go near, while my mother was alive.

My Grandma Sorenson took me on picnics beside that pond, and she told me stories of her sons cutting down trees and swimming in the pond to cool off. Grandma taught me to swim to keep me safe. Mama never cared for water.

As the conversation heated up, I remembered my father’s lonely walks in the field, before and after Mama died. I knew my father wasn't happy, but he was my father. My grandmother knew something she wouldn't tell me. She didn't try to explain why I didn't work on the farm.

All farmer's kids worked on the family farm. It's how they survived from year to year. Why didn't I? My father did it alone. Grandma told me that my father had not been a lucky man and the farm was the only thing he had that he could trust. I didn't ask her what that meant?

It was the question that was never answered and a sore on my memory that didn't heal. I was sorry my father was dying, but if his life had been so hard, maybe it was time for him to die.

The sound of his voice carried me back home in an instant.

I wouldn't stay long.

“Right, Bob,” Charlie said, bringing me back to Portland.

“What?”

Everyone laughed at my absent mind.

Before the laughter died away, I was alone in the terminal, receiving royal treatment by the airlines we used extensively for station business. I sat in the VIP lounge and drank from the silver urn filled with premium coffee.

I wouldn’t sleep on the plane. That was a good way for me to end up airsick. I’d take a room at the airport for a couple of ours, once I was at O'Hare if I needed it. I was accustomed to sleeping for two or three hours and jumping up to cover the story of the hour.

My plan was solid. There was no room to become sidetracked. I had to be back at work and that was that. Nothing personal.

'Hi, bye, got to go.'

*****

“Mr. Sorenson,” the flight attended smiled, recognizing the special envelope the woman at the counter put my ticket in before calling to have me escorted to the VIP lounge.

“We have some seats in first class,” the flight attendant revealed. “Please follow me, Mr. Sorenson. I watch you all the time, when I'm home. I'll be with you all the way to O'Hare. If you need anything, let me know.”

Chapter 2

Being Home

We'd never used the front door. That hadn't changed.. The gray soil covered the first step completely and was working it’s way up to the second step. I rolled the car even with the back porch before shutting off the engine.

Dad's pickup truck was parked behind the house next to the back porch. I'd be leaving before he would, so I was content blocking his driveway for the duration of my stay.

I wondered why Uncle Junior or Uncle Ralph hadn’t given my father a hand? They'd been born and raised here too. Junior was getting the farm. It was old and falling down, but he'd join the Sorenson land together again. Dad gave Junior the land for his dairy farm.

Junior and Kaleb came to help my father at planting time, when I was a boy and they returned again to help with the harvest. It was the same every year, but not this year. Maybe Uncle Junior wasn’t well. He was only a little younger than my father.

I walked up the three stairs onto the back porch. The old swing was in the corner leaning against the house. The chains that once held it were rusty ornaments hanging useless, one chain three feet shorter than the other.

My mother and I would swing together every night after supper before she went to clean away the dishes. It was a powerful memory held me there for a few minutes. I was able to smile.

The swing was always clean and freshly painted, even after my mother died, but it too had fallen on hard times. I never saw my father sit on the swing but he treated the swing like it was special to him.

The wind blew in gusts, carrying what was left of the soil away. The strongest smell was no longer sweet corn but rich Iowa soil blowing in the wind.

The machinery and my father’s truck collected what blew their way with no corn in the field to hold the soil in place. I didn't know why the empty field made me feel sad.

No one had been there to rescue my father after he worked his farm for fifty years to feed a hungry nation. There was no thank you, no kiss my ass. His was a wasted life.

Did he intend to die out here alone?

I never understood my father or his devotion to this land.

I didn't have any idea how long Sorensons had lived here, but with Dad dying and Junior almost as old, the Sorenson hold on this land was coming to an end.

I built a life in a different world, my world now. I was successful. The farm wasn't in my blood. It killed my mother and my grandfather, but the memories weren't as bad as I imagined they would be. Time and distance hadn't tanking the sting out of the life I lived here.

I remembered the days my mother went with me into the field to pick up loose corn during harvest. We could here the machines in the bottoms or near the meadow.

It was hot and humid at harvest. After an hour or two, depending on the heat, we'd go in for fresh lemonade, and I'd read to Mama while she fixed supper.

I liked reading to Mama. It how I learned about the world I'd report on one day. Reading to her prepared me for my profession as a news caster. We never know which things will come in handy when it comes time to earn a living.

Each time we were finishing a book, she'd bring another one from the library. I knew I'd read that book next.

If anyone saw me standing on my father's back porch smiling, they'd have thought I lost my mind. I couldn't turn off the memories.

Even when my grandmother came to live with us, when I went to the field to continue what Mama and I did, in little more than an hour, Grandma called me in to read to her while she fixed supper. She liked for me to read to her. She told me my father had once read to her while she cooked.

As I looked out beyond the still machines, I remembered how my father walked aimlessly in the fields each winter. To me he looked like a man who lost something and he was sure if he looked long enough, he'd find it.

He was a solitary man of mystery to me, especially once Mama died. He left me to pick my own path in life. It was like I wasn't expected to be like the other farmers' sons.

When I was eight and nine, I didn't understand. He was a farmer. I was a farmer's son. As far as I could tell, he was a devoted farmer, but he didn't want me to be one.

I leaned on the back porch railing, looking out at the farm, unable to curb the flood of memories. I didn’t know what I was going to say to him.

*****

"You going to stand out there until the cows come home, Bobby?"

"No, sir, just reminiscing. Thinking about the good old days,” I said, trying to mask the sarcasm.

“Mama,” I said more precisely.

"Well, come on in and sit a spell. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. I figured you'd need it. Hasn't been twenty-four hours since I first called out there. You didn't waste much time.”

“Coffee would be good.”

He held the door open for me to go into the kitchen.

“We have things to talk over. I don't want you feeling obligated to come back out here. I did feel it was only fair for you to get what you want from the house.

“There isn't much, mind you, but I left your room alone, once you left. There may be things in there and there’s the trunk in the attic where your mama kept her keepsakes. There are things I know she'd want you to have, Bobby.”

He sat at the head of the table, where he always sat. He looked thinner. He was an old man.

“Why don't you sit and drink some coffee, son? I need a cup if I want to stay up this time of day."

After all those years I didn’t have anything to say. I ran my hands through my hair and looked at the table with the chrome legs and red and white speckled Formica top. It was the same table as when I was a boy.

There were fresh coffee cup rings by his hands.

I sat on the far side of the table where my mother once sat. I felt awkward no matter where I sat.

I was home.

“Cream and sugar? Junior still brings cream twice a week. He says it’s good for me. The doctor says it's bad for me. I’ve known Junior a lot longer and I enjoy having cream in my coffee.”

“Just cream for me, Dad. Is Uncle Junior well?”

“He’s got arthritis pretty bad but nothing slows Junior down for long.”

He looked me over as he filled my cup from the huge red coffee pot I remembered from when I lived there. It could have been new. The general store once had shelves full of red coffee pots. They came in all sizes.

What do you say to your father after twenty-five years?

I forced my brain into action but the mouth I made my living with failed me. The coffee was surprisingly good and the cream set off the hearty flavor.

I remembered Dad liked his strong. I put in cream and sugar until it was closer to the color of cream. Even then my father watched me like I might not be all there. Now, I liked it strong with a dollop of cream. I appreciated good coffee.

“Coffee's good,” I said, leaning on my forearms.

“Thanks,” he said. “It's something I can taste.”

I couldn’t tell if he was sick, but he was thinner. He wasn't as tall as I remembered. I didn't fear my father as a boy. Even as a kid I didn't know what to say to him.

When I left home, I wondered if he'd come to my room the night before to ask me to stay. As was my habit, I pretended he wasn't there.

He stirred the cream into his cup while he stood next to the stove. He walked his cup to the table and sat down.

“It hasn’t changed much,“ I said.

“Your mama wouldn’t let you near coffee, as I recall,” he remembered.

“No, she wouldn’t. I was only nine when she died. Grandma always let me have coffee. Half cream and half sugar and the rest coffee.”

My father smiled.

“Me too. Pa wouldn't let me get near his coffee. Mama would pour a little in a cup, stir in sugar, and fill it with cream.”

“Yes, that's how I got my coffee in those days,” I said. “I couldn't fix it because I couldn't life that pot.”

My father laughed.

“I learned to make it from Jake. He was a hand that lived here. The man could make coffee. He died before you were born.”

“Jake's out there with Grandpa Sorenson. Mama showed me. Grandma and I use to picnic out there.”
“Your grandma kept this farm running for a lot of years. She knew how to feed a passel of hands.”

“Yeah, she did,” I said.

It was a safe topic.

"Doctor claims its bad for my blood pressure. I wouldn't have a blood pressure without my coffee."

“This stuff might kill what ails you,” I said, getting up to add a little more cream.

"I'm giving Uncle Junior the farm,” he said. “It seems right. He's been pushed up against my fence for long enough. He's worked it every year during planting and at harvest,” he said, pausing to drink coffee and watch me.

“He offered to plant this year. I wasn't able. Couldn't let him do the work for me. Kaleb is always willing to help, but I won't see any more corn on this farm. The Dairy is easier to handle and Kaleb can do it alone when Junior's down.”

“Sounds fair to me,” I agreed.

“Crosby’s been letting him graze on one of his pastures for a spell each year. Grass fed makes for sweeter milk. My land will give him other options. Not good to impose too much on people outside the family.

“Junior hasn't asked for my land and I wanted to tell you what I decided first. If you want something for what you feel like belongs to you, being my only son, Junior would be fair, Bobby. I won't say more on it. I've said how I see it.”

“It's your farm. You say Junior should have it, that's that. I have no claim to the Sorenson land, Dad.”

“Looks strange without corn. Can I get more coffee, Dad?”

“Go ahead,” he said, not looking at me.

“What do the doctors say? If you don't mind me asking?”

“No, I don't mind. They had me on those cancer treatments. They tell me coffee's bad for me. My hair fell out. I was sick all the time. I told the doctor to put that crap where the sun don't shine. Coffee doesn't do any of that to me.”

“Wouldn't they keep you alive, Dad?”

“They'd keep me alive for six months to a year. I wasn't living, Bobby. Just alive. Hell of a thing. I'd rather have my coffee and let the cards fall where they may.”

That was a conversation stopper. I agreed with him but I'd never heard it put in those terms by someone who was in his shoes. I didn't want to be kept alive just to be alive.

“This is all I know, Bobby. You didn't want this for yourself and I could appreciate that. I didn't need you to work in the fields. The farm was doing good. I could hire help. Your mama agreed. We didn't want you chained to this farm.”

“Why didn't you tell me that?” I asked, anger rising. “I thought I was to lame to be of any help to you. You made me feel useless, Daddy.”

“Your mama died. It just didn't get said is all. Like so much, Bobby, the farm took everything I had. It also kept me alive at times when I really didn't care if I lived or not.”

“Uncle Ralph?” I asked, moving beyond the sore spot.

“Your Uncle Ralph has more money than God, Bobby. He doesn’t expect to be given anything at this late date. He’s from Omaha and comes by on my birthday and at Christmas.”

“Aunt Lula and the kids?” I asked.

“They separated some years back. He takes care of her. His kids are mostly older than you.”

“Uncle Ralph may have been grumpy as hell, but he sure kept Lula pregnant a lot. How many kids did they have?”

“Seven. Four were born before you. The other three were born a couple of years apart, after you were born. When your Uncle Ralph was fifteen, he'd sneak out at night to bed the local far, girls, who'd wait for him in their barns. On his lucky nights, he was back in bed before Pa checked on us. On the unlucky nights, he'd get the strap until he cried.”

“Your Pa was a piece of work,” I said.

“Yea, as Pa's go, you got one pretty far down on the asshole's chain. I don't claim to have done right by you, but I wanted you to have a better life than me, Bobby.”

“That's ancient history, Dad,” I said without trying to sell it.

“Everyone knew Ralph would end up with a passel of kids and not all of them with his wife. After the second or third child came, Lula was confronted by Ralph's girlfriend. The girlfriend was with child. Lula packed up and left him the first of many many times.”

“Now his kids are scattered from Kansas City to Indianapolis. The point is, Ralph has more than he needs. He left this farm long before you were born. If he was interested in a share of the farm, he could of demanded it a long time ago. He doesn't need the headache.”

“It’s fair, Dad. I was never cut out for farming and it’s good Junior can use the extra land. It should stay in the family.”

“I am your father and you needed to hear these things from me. You can have what you want from the house. They'll knock it down once I'm dead. It has no value. It's old like me.”

“I talked to Uncle Ralph. He never said Aunt Lula left him. He’s quiet like you. He always sounds like I just stepped on his foot and he's waiting for an apology.”

“That's Ralph. He wasn't always that way. Lula never divorced him and they had more kids together. They live close to each other and Ralph takes care of her. He had no interest in the farm after the war.”

My father’s momentum slowed between sentences. He showed no sign of having gone around the bend. I didn’t recall exchanging so many words with him. I listened respectfully, but I did have an evening plane to catch.

How long could it take to go through a trunk and my room?

“…And you took the farm?”

“Wasn’t much taking involved. I was the oldest son. My father made it clear that the farm was my responsibility. After he'd been crippled, the corn had to get grown. I wanted Ralph to take the farm. He was the farmer among the three of us,” my father explained.

“The war ruined your Uncle Ralph. For farming anyway. Junior wanted to build a dairy. I grew the corn. I was the first born. I was no farmer. I had dreams. Now Junior can keep what he wants and sell the rest. Might fetch a handsome price. Keep him in business a while longer.”

"You don't care if they sell it? Why the hell did you stay out here all these years? It never made sense you staying out here alone,” I blurted, never wanting that discussion.

“That’s a long story and I’m sure you want to get busy. We'll save that for your next trip home,” he said, knowing as well as I did, there would be no next trip home.

“You stayed on this godforsaken place all this time, and you say, ‘It doesn't matter what they do with it?’”

I was unable to stop myself.

“If that doesn't takes the cake."

There was raw emotion just below the surface. I reminded myself it was only for a couple of hours. I wasn't getting upset with him. He was sick and old and I wasn't going to be disrespectful. I was going to do what I came to do and go.

"Son, there are probably a couple of things you don't know. I didn't understand my father. I lived my entire life with him. I cried over his grave. I knew two things about my father. He was the boss. Then he was a cripple. He never left his farm. He's buried in the meadows.

“We haven’t known each other for years. I'm sick. I'm old. I'm just making conversation. The truth is, when all is said and done, I'll be dead and it don’t mean a damn thing. We’re here, healthy, alive, doing what we do, then we're dead.”

“That's harsh,” I said.

“I did what I knew how to do at a time when it was too hard to do anything else. Doing keeps your mind off hurting. You were too young to understand at the time and I was too stupid to sit down and explain it to you before you left. There's no reason to relive it now, but if you have questions, I'll do my best to offer you what you need now, Bobby.”

My father as a philosopher was a surprise. I never thought that he was in pain after Mama died. He could have been trying to work himself to death. For whatever reason, we didn't talk and I did leave the farm. He didn't do anything to keep me there. It was like he wanted me to go.

The more I knew the less I understood. I was not a fan of confusion or mysteries that had no solution.

“I was mad at the world, after I lost your mama. I was angry with God. I was angry with myself for not making her take you into town to live. I was angry about being left alone. My life has mostly been about being alone. At first it scares the hell out of you, and then you embrace it.

“I asked your grandmother to finish raising you so you wouldn't grow up cursed with this farm. She’d raised a passel of kids. I was the one who dreamed of leaving the farm to see the world. Mama encouraged me.

“Ralph and Junior were content; not me. They both left and here I am. I'm like the rest of the old men down at the diner, I've never been far from Iowa. It's all I've ever know.

“I wanted what was best for you. Your mother knew what to do for you. She was a wonderful mother, Bobby. Your grandmother knew how to keep your mind on your school work. I wouldn't have done as well. The farm was all I knew. I never wanted you to know it. That's why I did what I did.”

I felt sick at my stomach. I didn't want to know this. I didn't want to feel sympathetic toward my father.

“I wasn’t much of a father but I wasn't going to stand in the way of your dreams like my father stood in the way of mine. I vowed not to chain you to this land.

“You’ve done pretty well, Bobby. Have a good life. Be happy, Son. Give me a little credit for not standing in your way. I wasn't as heartless as it may have seemed.”

This left me with questions that went unasked. He wanted to drop it and I hadn’t intended to let him take me there. It was my ancient past. I put it behind me. I made a good life for myself and I was happy.

Seeing my father reminded me of the void where my mother and father should have been. Only he could fill that void, but what was the point? I was a grown man now.

I had a plane to catch and a trunk to look into first.

“How are you feeling,” I said, figuring that was safe enough.

"Fine. How are you feeling?" he asked.

"OK. I'm not sick. What do the doctors say? What's the prognosis? What can they do for you? Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything before I go back?"

"What do they say? I should be dead. They’re hoping I’ll be considerate enough to die soon. It's a credibility thing and I told them I'd work on it. I've become quite agreeable, except I keep on living.”

“Is the cancer in remission?” I asked, wanting some facts.

“They just aren't sure why I haven't croaked. Prove a doctor wrong once and he stops predicting your demise. I guess I'm on my own. I planned on doing it quietly but they've left me with time. One day I went to the attic. I was looking for something. When I saw the trunk, I thought of you right off. That's when I called. What I decided was, I'm still alive because I haven't finished here. You needed to come for me to finally be finish here.”

“Where there’s life there’s hope,” I said.

"Yeah, well, I'd just as soon be on my way. I've been packed for some time. By the time I get to heaven my pants will have lost their crease. What will the Lord think?”

"You want some more coffee? You're getting low," I said, getting up to get the pot off the stove.

"And you didn't come out here to chat," he said, watching me fill his cup, remembering why he called me.

“I never heard much of what you said before, Dad.”

"No one had to tell me that you were your father’s son, Bobby. I use to stand on the porch and listen to you read to your grandmother. Moby Dick was one of my favorite books. Hearing you read it made me smile. I'd read it to your grandmother when I was a boy. She'd fix dinner and have me read to her," he said in an abrupt change of direction that caught me off guard. “Your grandmother could see it in you the way she saw it in me. We were never meant to be confined to a farm in Iowa. We had dreams.

“Times were hard back then. Depression! I stayed because my father couldn’t afford hands. When he got hurt, it was up to me to get in the corn. When the smoke cleared, I was the only man left standing. With nowhere to go. I stayed. If it hadn't been in my blood before, it was by the time I met your mama. I was a farmer through and through.”

“Why didn't you tell me instead of letting me walk away?”

“I couldn't take the chance you'd look up to me and want to be like me. You might have stayed because we had a hard year or two, and one morning you'd wake up and face the same life I faced. I didn't want that for you.

"You could have told me. I was your son," I said as I sat back down at the table. “You should have let me chose.”

“It wouldn't have been a choice. That's what I'm telling you. You would have stayed because it's what was expected.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you once you were growing up. I could feel your anger with me. It was something else I felt bad about, but you didn't feel obligated to stay. You did what I dreamed of doing. I felt good about it. I thought you'd find a good life and you did.”

“You should have told me something,” I argued.

“Your grandma told me, after you were gone, how much you reminded her of me. She said she was sorry I didn't get off here. I didn't get to follow my dreams.”

“I should have known,” I protested. “It seemed like you loved this place. I don't get it, Daddy. I don't understand. I'd like to, but I don't.”

“Some times dreams come true but mostly they get eaten up by something or other you don't see coming. It's what happens. I wasn’t meant to leave. You were. I dreamed of seeing the world and you're seeing it. I've never been farther than Davenport and Omaha. The only reason I went to Omaha was to see your Uncle Ralph. He was such a pain in the ass, I never went back.

“There's no way to explain it, except it happens the way it happens and it's best to accept it and not struggle so much. For reasons you'll never know, the farm was my sanctuary.”

“I never saw you as a dreamer, Dad,” I said, looking for something I might have missed. “You never got east of Davenport or west of Omaha?”

“Nope! I had to take care of the farm. I have seen you on the television, Bobby. That plane crash you covered a few years back. Your Uncle Junior called me. He was so excited he couldn't talk. Hell, I thought someone died. ‘Bobby’s on the television’ he said. Uncle Junior hooked me up to that cable thing. He told me the channel where you were.

“Hah! There's my kid big as you please, telling the story of that plane crashing right next to the airport. I'm not one for television, mind you, but I left the set on until you stopped appearing to explain where the investigation stood, once the mucky mucks got off the screen each afternoon.

“I was proud as a peacock. I surely was. It was twenty years since I'd seen you, but I could pick you out of a crowd. Uncle Junior knew it was you in an instant.

“You made something of yourself. Your mother would be proud, Bobby. She surely would. You've done well. It's how I knew where to call you once I saw that trunk. I don't remember what I'm looking for half the time, but I remembered the station you were reporting for.

“I've seen you a couple of times since. You were covering stories for your station but you made it to cable. No way to know what's going on out there without the cable.”

“I didn't consider that people in Nodaway might see my broadcasts,” I said.

“So, that's when I knew you were okay. I wondered about you. The fact you didn't come home meant something. Your Uncle Ralph said you called from time to time. That meant something. Do you still write for the papers?"

"I do both, Dad. The local paper publishes my editorials. News casting is my profession. Mostly I do local stories for television. The plane crash was my first international coverage. I was traveling back from a story on the Mississippi flooding that year. As we approached the airport, the plane in front of us crashed. We didn't know it but as we set down the plane is burning off to the west about a mile. They diverted flights after we landed. We were lucky to get on the ground,” I said, recalling the events.

“Speaking of a story dropping into my lap,” I said with joy. “Only officials got into that airport for the next week, and me the only newsman in fifty miles.

“This was my story!” I asserted.

My father sat smiling, as I retold the tale.

“I got a phone hookup to my station in Portland and a local television company provided me with cameras. My broadcast was carried live on networks nightly news every night for a week.

“My career took off after that. I go out on stories of interest in Portland, but mostly it's local. When my station wants to comer an international story, they send me.”

“You wanted to leave the farm?” I asked, connecting to something he said and I didn't listen to that closely.

“Yeah, I had my bag packed after graduation too. I was waiting for a chance to make a break for it. It was the Depression. I couldn't just leave while losing the farm was still a possibility.

“Pa got crippled. It was up to me to get in the corn. One season led to the next, and here I am. It's complicated. No point in getting started on that. I didn't leave. I never left.”

“I didn't think about how it was for you,” I said.

“Wasn't your place to know. Your job was to grow up. If I was more like my Pa, you'd be tending the corn right now. I doubt that would be nearly as satisfactory as the life of a big time television newsman.”

“That would be accurate. It hurt to leave but the farm was all I knew. I was scared at first.”

“It's a constant struggle. They keep the price of corn low and you need to borrow to plant each year. You need to buy machines, work as hard as a man can work, and you hardly make enough to survive and pay off the note. The banker is waiting for the year the crop fails. You can't pay the note and the bank takes the farm.

“It's not a depression, but farms are going under like it is. You can't work hard enough to break the hold the bank has on you. With only me here, I plant this main field. I don't need to borrow against the harvest to do that. Our farm is among a few lucky ones to survive. It's all over now.”

“There's corn in all the fields. I didn't see any houses.”

“Aren't any houses. They bring in trailers during planting and for the harvest. They've got it down to a science. It doesn't require farmers any longer; just laborers. One company owns most of the corn you saw.”

“I couldn't have stayed if I wanted to. I was no farmer,” I said. “I didn't want you to ask for my when I was older but when you didn't ask, it made me mad.”

“We make quite a pair, Bobby. We survived. We all find a way to deal with what's done to us and we survive, and that trunk is still waiting for you. Times a wasting. We'll have another cup of coffee before you leave, son.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said, feeling as if I missed a chance to ask the right question during an interview.

“If you see something you can’t take on the plane, let me know. I can have it shipped to you. Don’t be bashful, Bobby. Whatever you don't take will probably go to the dump and no one will know I was ever here.”

Chapter 3

Memories

I didn’t know what to expect when I was on my way to the farm, but what I'd learned didn't change anything. It did offer me some insights into my father as a man.

He hadn’t been in my thoughts in years. Hearing he was sick stirred no emotion. Sitting across from him, I couldn’t find the anger I once felt for him. Maybe time does heal all wounds. Maybe the fact he was dying mellowed us both.

I’d go through the trunk. I might find something of my mother's I wanted. Maybe I'd find something in my room.

“Son,” my father said, as I looked down through the hole in the ceiling.

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Keep your eye open for the history of the farm. It's in one of my journals up there. I used to write a bit. Look for a composition books like you used in school.”

“OK, Dad.”

“I sat a spell with your grandfather before he died. I wrote down the Sorenson history. It's something you might want to keep. It goes back to the 1860s when my father's grandfather came to America and cleared this land. Your mama read them. She held onto them after we married.”

“I'll keep an eye out. You think it’s up here?”

“I did all the writing I was going to do before I met your mother. She put them somewhere. I never ran across them, but I just now though about Pa telling me the farm's history. Sounds like something you might like.”

“OK!”

“Junior read it. He could add things about when we were growing up. Your Uncle Ralph wouldn't be any good at it. He could probably tell you the names of the girls he fancied.”

“Uncle Ralph a ladies men. That is a surprise,” I said.

“If there was a watering hole, Ralph was drinking from it.”

“He is a salesman, Dad,” I said.

“Your mama and grandma used composition books to keep the farm's records. Might be a passel of them somewhere.”

“OK, Dad. You rest and I'll see what I can find.”

My father as a writer was another surprise. I started out to be a writer, but I needed to eat, so I had to get a job. I wrote my script every day but Hemingway I wasn't. A lot of writers were journalists in his day.”

I didn't know much about my father. We never talked as I recalled. He was always in the field. He was at the table for dinner but he didn't have much to say. We lived in the same house for eighteen years and we didn't know each other.

My father could have shipped the trunk and my things to me. He didn't need to call. There was more to being called home than met the eye. I might never know why.

As a journalist I was paid to read between the lines. It wasn't what was said that told the story as much as what was left out. My father wanted to see his son before he died.

I never wrote my father. I didn't ask him about his life. I didn't come to Iowa to find my father. I came for the same reason he called. Perhaps we could put the past to rest.

As I opened the trunk, a colorful sweater came into view. I held it to my nose and imagined I smelled my mother.

Grandma Sorenson brought me a piece of my mother's clothing after she died. I was in bed crying, as I did each night after she died.

When I took what she brought me, she said, 'Smell it and tell me what you smell.”

“My mother,” I told her, absolutely amazed.

At nine I didn't understand it but that smell put me to sleep every night. Somewhere along the line the piece of clothing with the smell disappeared, but it got me through the hard times.

I carefully placed the sweater to one side, uncovering the secret of the smell. Essence of Lavender was on the oddly shaped bottle. I unscrewed the cap and inhaled a familiar fragrance. It was the scent of my mother. The sweater had been scented with it before the trunk was closed.

I sensed Grandma's hand at work.

I put the perfume with the sweater.

Looking back into the truck, I saw my mother smiling at me out of a photograph of her and my father. They wee in front of the church. Mama held a bouquet and my father wore an ill-fitted suit. They were younger than I was now.

I couldn't hold back the tears. I hadn't cried since she died.

Seeing my mother gave me joy. I had no pictures of her or my father. I set the picture on top of the sweater. I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hands.

Thinking about my mother no longer hurt. Her lose was a source of constant anguish back then. Time had healed that little boy's wound.

I reached for my wrist.

That's when I realized my watch was on the nightstand at home. My life was all about schedules and time. I hadn't checked the time for an entire day. How odd was that?

A commuter flight for O'Hare left every other hour until nine at night. I'd be fine. They always ran late. I never did.

I worked my way into the middle of the trunk finding small items, ear rings and a necklace. The next big item was a scrapbook with Clark Gable's, John Garfield's, Judy Garland in the ruby slippers, and Bette Dais's picture. Each picture took up an entire page.

My mother liked movies.

I saw myself in a theater with my mother and father. We had popcorn, I remembered. Where was there a theater?

In between two scrapbooks was a tracing of my head from second grade, Mrs. Johnson's class. I’d printed Bobby Sorenson under the cutout of my head. We pasted it on a sheet of colored crape paper. I'd given it to my mother.

She hung it in the kitchen. That’s where it was the last time I remembered seeing it, but here it was in her trunk. I put the rendering of my seven year old head on top of the other things. My mother had once cherished it. I would keep it.

I sat on the floor and thought about nothing. My mind wandered from one thing to the next without focusing. There were images out of my past that flashed into and out of my brain. Once more I felt like I was a child again.

I took off my jacket, laying it across the open trunk lid. I was sweating. The air in the attic was stale. I looked at the half empty trunk and the pile of things I set aside to take.

Why did I want things I didn't know existed an hour ago?

I sat without having a purpose. I needed to cool off. The sun had obviously come back out. The humidity was on the rise.

Welcome to Iowa!

After a few minutes of indecision, I moved down the ladder out of the attic. I was hungry. I went back to the kitchen and turned the heat on under the coffee pot.

I felt cooler. My wet shirt clung to me. I loosened my tie.

I heard my father in the parlor as I sat back in front of my coffee cup. I was hungry and wondered how we'd deal with getting something to eat.

“Don’t do that, son,” Dad said, moving the coffee pot off the flame. “That’ll be so strong you’ll need to chisel it out of the pot. I’ll fix fresh. Won't take a minute.”

“Don’t bother with that, Dad. I can drink strong coffee. Actually I'm hungry. You sleep in the parlor? Your bed would be more comfortable.”

“No where is comfortable. The davenport fits the bends in my body. I just let the bones down where I am when I need to. The stairs give me trouble now. It's best I stay off them.

“I didn’t get to the store to put anything in for you to eat. We can drive down to the diner and get a bite. The coffee is tolerable. The A&P over in Sims is the closest place for groceries. I don't drive. My eyes are.... Junior hasn't had time to take me this week. He didn't know you were coming.

“I haven't had time to tell him I called you. Anyway, I'll get my sweater. You can drive us. I have a bit of an appetite today and the diner suits me fine.”

I guess we were going to eat. It wouldn’t take long. I held the door open for him to sit in the passenger seat.

“Just go into town and turn the opposite way on the road that goes to your school. They’ll be open. Did you find those journals?”

“No, I got sidetracked down memory lane. I’m only half way through. I'll keep my eyes open and poke around once I empty that trunk.”

“Well, if you want, may as well send the whole kit and caboodle out to you, son. They don’t make trunks like that any more.”

“I suppose not. I still want to see what's there now that I've started on it. I'll look for those journals when I'm done.”

“Your mama took those journals out from time to time. When she did the books she got the journals out. Then she'd read from them. You'll find a pile of them somewhere.”

“I’ll find them before I leave, Dad. Don’t worry about it. I'll take them back with me. I'll want to read our history.”

I got to the school road and turned left.

“I'm going to be cremated, Bobby! I've decided I don't want to be in the ground. I've told your uncles. I've been in the dirt all my life. I want to be set free. The book says, 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." I'll go straight to the ashes and save a lot of laying around trying to get there.

"You aren't going to be buried with Mama? I thought you'd want to be with Mama? There's a plot beside her!"

“I just told you, I’m going to be cremated. They'll spread me out in the meadows. It’s how I want it, Bobby. Besides, your grandma is in the plot beside your mother by the church. Those were my mother's plots. Pa wanted to be in the meadows. It's a long story but I'm being cremated. It's already arranged. All I got to do is lie down and die.

“OK! OK! I'm just surprised. I figured.... You say what you want and I'll see to it,” I said, saying more than I should.

I could feel my father's eyes on me as I turned into the diner parking lot.

“Sorry, Bobby. I do get on edge about certain things. I don't expect anyone to understand why I want what I want. Once I'm gone, no one will care. In those journals you're taking back with you, there's a story I wrote about someone I was particularly fond of long before I met your mama. Read that and it explains things better than I can.”

“I didn’t say anything, Dad. We’ll follow your wishes,” I said. “I'll read what you wrote. I'll find the journals before I go. The house isn't that big. They're probably in the attic.”

It wasn't like it mattered once someone was dead. My mother wanted to be at the church. I'm sure it's what my grandmother wanted. Men aren't so worried about where they end up.

"Your mother was a kind and gentle woman who had the misfortune of falling in love with a farmer. She deserved better. She wanted to be where I was in spite of her poor health. It's just the way life is.”

There was one waitress and a cook; three old men sat in the last booth in the back of the restaurant. My father nodded and the men nodded back. He didn't interrupt them.

“Howdy, Mr. S. Where you been hiding yourself, sweetheart? You bring your insurance man with you? We don’t get many folks gussied up in here,” she said, dwelling on my outfit. “I ain't got no insurance and couldn't afford it if I wanted any.”

“My son, Hildi. This is Hildi, Bobby. I’ll have the meatloaf special if Horace hasn't eaten it all by this time.”

“Oh, no, Mr. S. I keep an eye on him so he leaves some for the customers. How about you, Bobby S.?” She asked, turning her attention to me.

“I’ll have the same.”

“We want coffee,” my father ordered, “And if you’re still working out of the first pot you made this morning, you can fix us fresh.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. S, fresh coffee all around. You look tired. You feeling OK, hon?”

“Fine!” Dad said. “Just getting old, Hildi.”

My father left out that he was dying.

“Arles passed, Robert,” a red faced man said, standing next to my father's chair. “You know they put him up in that home where they put us when we're too feeble to feed ourselves. Found him dead up there about a week ago.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Dad said. “Good man, Arles. He'd been up there a spell. I won't ever go up there.”

“Four years he was there. Didn't know his own name. We'll all be dead one day,” the man reminded us. “I'll do it without a stop over at the home.”

“Me either,” Dad said. “I decided I'm not going when my time comes. Who'll watch my farm?”

“Oh, the bankers watch our farms, Robert. You didn't know that? They keep an eye on our land.”

Both men laughed.

There were no inquiries about health or crops or any of the things I’d expect on a lazy afternoon in a quiet farm town at harvest time. These men had sons who did the farming now. They drank coffee and remembered how it used to be before they were put out to pasture.

The food was served right away and it was surprisingly good. The coffee was about half the strength of what my father brewed. I had no urge to get up and do laps after drinking several cups with our dinner. My stomach was more than happy to get its fill.

I'd buy a couple of candy bars when I reached O'Hare. They'd get me back to Portland.

My father was quiet on the way back. I didn’t know if he was tired or in pain. Once we got to the house, he sat with his door open. He didn't get out.

I walked in front of the car and over beside his door.

“You OK, Dad?”

“How about giving me a hand. Once I get down I can’t get out of these things,” he explained. “Doesn't help they make the new cars so low. Junior's got one of these puddle jumpers. He drives my truck when he takes me to town. I can still get in and out of the truck by myself.”

I felt the need to flee but I needed to get back to the trunk in the attic.

My father held onto my arm as I walked him to the sofa in the parlor. He laid down after taking some pills and I went upstairs.

I saw the string on the exhaust fan. I was delighted by the noise it made as it hummed to life. The air in the attic was stuffy.

The fresh air immediately began to circulate and it helped. I once more became lost in a life I hardly remembered. Being thrust into my past had a greater impact on me than I expected.

As I moved some letters and sheets of paper, the light bulb above the trunk burned out.

“Shit!” I said. “Why me?”

I didn't let go of what I was holding until I felt a place where I could set the papers down,

I went downstairs in search of a light bulb.

“Finished, Bobby,” my father said from the hall.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. “Light bulb burned out. It's too dark to see anything up there.”

“Your grandmother's pantry is the best bet. I don't remember if we have any extra but that's the least of what I don't remember.”

“You didn't sleep long,” I said.

“It comes on me. I fall right to sleep and in an hour or so, I'm back up. I put that pot of coffee on for when ever you're ready. Should be about done if you want to take a cup upstairs with you.”

“That'll work, Dad.”

“I can remember back to when I was a kid. I can tell you some of the conversations I had with Ralph and Junior. I can smell roast beef and boiled potatoes cooking on the stove as my mother waited to take the biscuits out of the oven. I remember they melted in my mouth, but I'll be damn if I remember where I keep the light bulbs,” he said.

“Arles didn't know his own name for years. How can that be? A man lives, raises his family, tends his farm all his life, and then one day he loses himself? Better to die while I still know who I am.” he said, looking directly at me.

“Dad, I need light if I'm going to get out of here tonight.”

“The light bulbs? Sorry. My mind wanders. The best I can do is the pantry, Bobby. Look there first. I might remember where they are once I see them. If I recognize them.”

“Maybe the hall closet?” I thought for him. “Kitchen cabinets? Fran kept our bulbs in the kitchen over the sink.”

“Over the sink,” he muttered. “I recollect the light went out over the sink. There were four four bulbs in the pack and I may have put the spares in the cabinet over the sink.”

As I moved gloves, a hammer, boxes of wooden matches to light the stove, and there were three bulbs in a pack.

My father absently held open the curtain that covered the kitchen window with two fingers, like he was seeing someone of great interest to him.

There was nothing in the driveway but my car. He was seeing something of interest to him.

“Yep, here they are,” I said, hoping not to startle him. “Let me help you back to the parlor, Dad. I shouldn’t be much longer. I was getting to the bottom when the light burned out,” I said. “Almost like I'm not supposed to see the rest.”

“Once I’m up, I don’t want to go down for a spell. Thanks anyway. The coffee will be ready when you come down. We can have a cup before you go.”

He was sitting at the table now. I should have taken him to the grocery to make sure he had food. Sims was the next town over. It wasn't that far. I could leave tomorrow.

“Yeah, won't be long,” I said, planning on taking a glance over the papers and letters so I could see if I wanted to take them too. I was sure I'd caught a glimpse of a composition book as the light bulb burned out. I wasn't certain, but if they were in the trunk, I wouldn't need to look farther..

As I picked up the papers I was holding before going down stairs, I noticed more loose papers, letters, and several composition books were under these things.

The top composition book was in my handwriting. It was from my high school English class. Some of my English papers fell out. I had nice handwriting.

The papers were marked in the upper corner of each paper: B, B+, A, C, B. I remembered the teacher without recalling her name. I saw the kids’ faces. I knew their names.

I was a good student. My mother encouraged me to read and study hard. The same was true of Grandma Sorenson, when she came to look after me. Dad would say I needed to keep my grades up so I'd have a good future.

I made no effort to save my schoolwork but here it was in the trunk with my mother’s things. I was a senior years after she died. My grandmother had a hand in saving my work.

Life before my mother died was good. After that, I didn't know if I would survive. I didn't know if I wanted to survive. There was only pain. It didn't leave me until I left the farm.

Now was sitting on the floor of that farm house's attic, looking to recover something out of my past that meant something.

I began reading from the loose papers. When I scooped them up to remove them from the trunk, there were a half dozen more composition books in the far corner of the trunk.

There were a couple of dozen letters among the papers. When opening one of the letter, it folded into its own envelope. I was amazed at the simplicity. There was a military insignia near the address and no stamp. Turning it over, it was addressed to my father.

'Dearest Robert,' I read. I looked the letter over again.

It wasn’t my mother’s handwriting. The handwriting was a mixture of printing and writing. You could see where the author stopped writing and then restarted the letter three different times. Some was written and some printed.

I was too caught up in the moment to consider there might be consequences for reading my father's mail. I was a journalist and my journalistic juices had begone to flow.

My father was a farmer who never left the farm. Reading a letter or two from someone who knew him might shed some light on a man I hardly knew. What was the harm?

The letters were in the trunk. The trunk had passed to me. I would read one for a sense of continuity.

Time was immediately suspended. Without a watch time didn't exist in that attic. Like pieces of a puzzle, these pieces of my parent's lives were mesmerizing.

I'd read one letter for perspective.

Dearest Robert,

We are back on a ship and my men are settled in for the night. No telling what our destination is this time. I’m too busy to write most days, but mail was waiting for us once they got us below decks and I decided to write before I'm needed.

Three of your letters caught up with me, so someone knows where I am. Wish I did. Since we're heading north, I'm assuming we're on the Med.

I know you'd love to see Italy, and Montgomery’s boys made no secret they were continuing north until he's in Rome. Maybe they'll shoot some Nazis on the way so we don't need to shoot so many.

Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet were in Italy. Maybe I’ll get to stop and say hello to the woeful lovers, but no telling where we’ll end up this time. Even mentioning Italy will probably get the censor's pencils working. Once you hit the Mediterranean, you simply follow the smell of garlic and you've found Italy. it's no secret.

Patton’s been nipping at Monty’s backside since he knocked hell out of Rommel’s Africa Corp. They’re like two roosters in the same chicken house. I suppose we're the chickens in their barnyard game.

I wish we’d end this thing so I can get back where I belong. Our biggest battle will be getting in the corn before the rains come. I long for those days when I didn't have a dozen kids to keep alive. It's a full time job.

You are constantly in my thoughts, Robert. At times like these, when there's time enough to think, it's hardest being away from you. It’s hard to believe that so many men are so willing to kill each other simply to keep us apart. When it’s all said and done, the armies will go back to picking cotton and corn and I'll return to Iowa.

One day perhaps, young men will stop answering their country's call to war and they'll need to figure out another way to settle differences. Those men who profit so handsomely from war would need to find something not so deadly to manufacture. Only then will there be a peace that lasts.

Best say no more than that or I may find myself in front of a firing squad. I have enough boys shooting at me as is. I don’t need my own boys doing it.

I'm going to try to get some sleep. I wanted to write you first.

All My Love,

Sven

Confusion replaced curiosity. What did it mean?

My Uncle Sven was lost in World War II. My mother told me. By the time I was old enough to ask questions about my heroic uncle, I forgot about him.

I knew all the Sorensons but I knew nothing about Sven.

I was named Robert Sven Sorenson Jr. My father didn't mention Uncle Sven. He wasn't in the stories Uncle Ralph and Uncle Junior told about their childhood.

As a piece of wartime history, it was a fascinating artifact. As a letter to my father, it was troubling. What did it mean?

My journalistic instincts told me I needed to investigate farther. This man felt very close to my father. Reading another letter might clear up the mystery of who he was.

There was a story about the Founding Fathers that came to mind. They wrote many letters to one another. They were loaded with flowery affectionate language. Thomas Jefferson and John Adams letters to each other spanned fifty years.

In 1776, as young men, Jefferson and Adams were friends. Once they were involved in the politics of running the new nation, they became political rivals. Once they'd both been president and got out of politics, their friendship and their correspondence resumed, as did the flowery prose.

When Adams was on his deathbed, his final words were about Jefferson. “Jefferson lives.” Thomas Jefferson died a few hours before John Adams on July 4, 1826.

There was a bond between the two that wouldn't be tolerated in the politics of the 1990s. Any hint of affection between two men today was strongly discouraged. Two male politicians appearing to be affectionate to one another in this day and age would ruin them.

As athletes, sports fans, and even as men at work, you could be good friends under close scrutiny, but there was a line you dare not cross as friends. The difficulty being, men no longer could locate the line, and so any affection whatsoever could be misconstrued as more than friendship.

It was a sad testimony for our society. War was fine. Slaughtering entire populations was necessary, but one man showing affection for another couldn't be tolerated.

Was this what bothered me about the letter?

I remembered the upheaval created when the letters between Lincoln and his friend Joshua Speed were released.

They shared a room in the same boarding house and slept in the same bed for years, long after they were both successful lawyers and could afford their own rooms.

Did this suggest they were homosexual? Were they friends who didn't mind the arrangement and saw no reason to make a change?

The letters by today's standards would be called intimate. He was someone Lincoln knew and trusted.

As president of the United States, considering what he faced, whatever it took for him to hold the country together, wasn't too much to ask.
Lincoln needed the counsel of a man he trusted. A man who was his friend.

Does it matter what Lincoln and Speed felt for each other?

George Washington made the new republic work. Lincoln saved it from destruction. What did it matter how he did it or what his relationship with Speed had to do with it?

While I had no trouble believing that Lincoln and Speed were good friends, using the language of the day to communicate, I had no knowledge the same was true of men in WWII. Would a brother close his letter, 'All My Love?'

There was only one way to learn the truth about the letters. The discoveries in the trunk had led me into an unexpected direction. Like any story, I intended to get to the bottom of this one.

There had to be a story about Sven that I could be told. I had a right to know who he was. I carried his name. Had his loss been so traumatizing no one spoke about him?

My father married my mother after the war. She may not have known Sven. Grandma said Sven saved Grandpa's life. She didn't elaborate. There may be more information in the trunk. Before I upset my father, I would read more and try to answer the questions I had.

I sat back down, giving up the idea of going downstairs to ask questions. I picked up the next letter to see if it began and ended the same way. It did.

Dearest Robert,

We’re on another beach like the last one, only with more sand and fewer bullets. Since Sicily we haven't seen any action. The Italians don't want to fight and the Germans are farther north at the moment.

Hard to know what Jerry will do. They're smart buggers and they don't like being killed. The Italians on the other hand have a charming habit of throwing down their weapons and putting their hands up as soon as they see Americans. What's not to like about that?

There’s fighting to the north and I can't tell you where here is for the usual reasons. The German’s have reached the mountains and our troops are gathering for a fight at a place called Monte Cassino. My pen slipped. Didn't mean to write that.

The beach is secure and I've just been told we're officially here, Anzio Beach. That's according to the U.S. press. I suppose they should know where I am.

My men have been unloading supplies. No one minds. We're done for the time being. Plenty of food and it's quiet enough to sleep at night. I could get to like Italy. We'll come to see it together one day. I'll bring you to the beach.

My squad is getting restless. I better finish this and call it a letter. I’ll write more later. More supplies are about to come ashore.

All My Love,

Sven

The next envelope was the final one of this type. I looked into the trunk and only composition books remained. I opened the final letter. The writing was larger and it was neatly written and spaced. The others seemed hurried, tilted on the angle of whatever surface he used to write on. He could have written this one on a desk.

The one unusual thing about this letter, something stained the outside of the envelop. The outline of the stain was apparent on the inside. I imagined he spilled his coffee. The years had faded the stain to an outline and the writing was easy enough to read after so many years.

Dearest Robert

I can't help but think of you and wonder what you're doing. It's winter where you are and I sure miss the farm. Another harvest has come and gone without me there to help you.

I hope you had enough help to get the job done. Lord knows I wish I was there to help with preparations for planting this year. I'd love to sink my hands into the rich Iowa soil one more time.

I've only wished that a thousand times since I left you. It seems like a hundred years ago, Robert. With Ike running the show it can’t be too much longer.

We’ve all started talking about when we get home now that we're on the continent with Jerry. All my men sit and listen to me describe the farm, you, how the corn smells just before harvest. One of my best boys, Raymond, is from Iowa. Didn’t figure he’d make it at first, but he’s turned into a fine soldier with good instincts. He's so young.

I only hope we all make it home to the ones we love.

Time to quit this. The more we think of home, the greater the fear we'll never get home. I lived a good life, Robert. If my number comes up, I want you to have a good life too. I know I said we shouldn't think about that, but the more killing and dying I see, the closer death seems to be. With that in mind, I figured I wanted to say that. I want you to know how much I love you and how often I think about you.

Each letter reminds me how long we've been apart. Regardless of what happens, don't forget me or our love.

All My Love,

Sven

P.S. If I do get back, I’ll never leave the farm or you again. I’d sure like a cup of Jake’s coffee right now.

Chapter 4

Arc of History

The last letter I read was was a love letter. My father loved a man before he married my mother. I was shocked by the idea of it.

I knew gay men but this was my father. He was a farmer, a man who went toe to toe with the land and mother nature for fifty years. It was difficult to associate him with being gay. Realizing how abhorrent stereotypes were, I wasn't capable of accepting what the letters from Sven told me.

What about my mother?

How could my father marry my mother after loving Sven? What was her role in my father's life? I didn't know much about my father. Now I thought I knew why. He was a man with secrets.

The original questions remained unanswered. Who was Sven? Where did he come from?

Maybe my Uncle Junior or Uncle Ralph could answer my questions. My mother wouldn’t have lied to me. What did she know? This brought me back to anger and where my father was concerned, anger was never far away for me.

I held the letter as I went downstairs. I picked up the phone in the hallway. I hesitated to figure out the rotary dial out of my ancient past.

I dialed my Uncle Junior first. He was easier to talk to. I was sure that he had the answer.

“Uncle Junior, who am I named after?”

“Your father,” he said without hesitating. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the house. Who’s Sven?”

“You need to ask your father. It’s not for me to say.”

“You knew him?” I asked.

“We all knew him. You need to talk to your father. Better yet, let go of it. Whatever you're after, Bobby, let it go.”

The dead air on the phone left nothing else to say. I pushed down the button before dialing Uncle Ralph."Uncle Ralph? Bobby! Who’s Sven?"

"What? Sven?" Uncle Ralph said, making a strange sound in his throat.

Then was a difficult silence.

"He was in the war. He was from here. Who was Sven?"

"It's not for me to tell you. Are you at the house?"

"Yes, sir, I've been here for a few hours. Dad is sleeping. I found letters from Sven when he was in the war. The letters are signed, 'All My Love, Sven.' Who was he? I've got his name."

"Oh my God! Does your Pa know you're in his things?"

"Uncle Ralph, Daddy is dying. I was looking for the farm’s history he wrote while your daddy was dying. I came across these letters and I'd like to know who Sven is.”

"He was a special man all of us loved. He loved us, Bobby. He stayed on the farm during hard times. He saved your grandfather's life and he helped save the farm. He was family to us and that’s all you need to know.

“If it’s your name you’re worried about, if you're half the man Sven was, you’re a better man than most. Now, I've told you who Sven was. Don’t you ever ask me about him again as long as you live. Do you understand me, boy? I've given you all you're going to get.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You best not bother your father with this. He’s dying. Let him die in peace and let Sven die with him. It's ancient history.”

I held the phone away from my ear when it was slammed down. He was madder than a hornet. Why did the mention of Sven set Uncle Ralph off? There had to be more.

He was Dad's lover. Uncle Ralph confirmed the pieces I'd put together. The reaction from Uncle Junior and Uncle Ralph told me the letters meant what they said.

How did my mother fit fit into this picture?

Only one person knew that story.

My mind went in circles.

I decided to take one more shot at the trunk. There had to be a way to satisfy my curiosity.

I set the letters with my mother's things. I didn't know why I wanted them. There were a few loose papers inside, but I reached past those to take the journal off the top of a pile of a dozen composition books.

Regular letters spilled back into the trunk. Among them were more wartime letters addressed to Grandma Sorenson from Ralph and Junior. Most were from Junior.

I left those in the trunk and to examine the journals. It had facts and figures written on each page in Grandma's handwriting. The farm's books.

Grandma Sorenson slipped the letters inside as they arrived.

I set that composition book on top of the letters. I took out the next journal in the pile, opening the cover.

There on the top of the first page in my mother's handwriting was written, The Farm Hand.

I read the title several times. The handwriting that filled the page under the title, and the rest of the composition book, was my father's.

I felt like I'd found what I was looking for. I leaned my back against the wall and began to read.

It was neatly written. I had no trouble reading the words in spite of its age.

I was immediately introduced to Sven. The story was written about the farm where I was born. I had no difficulty visualizing it. I never knew my grandfather but my grandmother was true to form.

Putting my father into the picture as the story teller created difficulty. It was straight forward. He had an economic style.

Once I got beyond my father writing it, I became captivated.

I hadn’t gotten far when my anger rose.

Getting up from the floor, brushed off my pants, I went downstairs holding my finger in the journal.

I slid the parlor doors open. It was empty.

“I just made a pot of coffee. You may as well come in the kitchen and sit a spell. You’ll never get back tonight, Bobby.”

Looking outside I could see it was dark. I looked at my wrist again to confirm I didn't know what the hell time it was.

“Shit! What time is it?”

“No planes out this time of night. Can’t say for sure. I’d guess it’s after seven. The clouds set back in and it makes it difficult to read this time of night.”

“Why in hell don’t you have clock,” I fussed as if it was his fault my easy in easy out plan didn't work.

“You know, there for an hour or two, you were actually good company. You came in here like you were the front edge of a thunderstorm and you intended to rain on me. After a few pleasant hours together, we're back to the rain.

“Seems foolish to waste what time we have left. You can get out in the morning. Portland will still be there and I doubt they'll replaced you in two days. Come sit down at the table and we'll have some coffee, Robert.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, back to being the scolded little boy.

“To tell you the truth, I do have a watch somewhere. Haven’t wound it in a spell. Since I got nowhere to go, I stopped hurrying, son, and my time is about to run out.”

“Did you get any sleep?” I asked, regretting my attitude.

“Yeah, I slept sound until you stirred your uncles up. Hard to sleep through a tornado. I figured then you'd gotten your teeth into something you weren't going to let go of.”

“What is this?” I asked, as he stirred cream into my coffee like I was still a kid.

“Sit down, Bobby. I need a minute. I hadn't expecting to talk to you about Sven. Make it easier on both of us. Take those things home with you. I hadn't see those things since before your mama died. They tell the whole story.”

“What is this?” I said.

“Sit down, Robert,” he said in his I’m-your-father voice.

“I can’t. I need to make a call. I'll need to stay the night,” I said apologetically.

“Make your call. I promise not to kick off before we talk. It might be easier on both of us if I did. You still don't listen, Bobby.”

“I want to know about this,” I said, waving the journal.

“Make your call. We’ll have the talk you’re dying to have.”

“Hey, it’s me. Don’t meet my plane in the morning. I’m still here. I’ll call you before I leave here tomorrow.”

As I got back to the kitchen I held the journal up for my father to sees. He shook his head.

“What time is it?” he asked, knowing I asked.

“Four forty-five. Six forty five-here.”

He laughed deep inside and he smiled at me.

“Sit down, Robert. This is more than a one cup of coffee story. You sure this is the last memory you want to have of your dear old dad?”

“I need to know what this is all about, Dad. Who is Sven?”

“I’ll give you what you want but I can’t keep looking up at you. It hurts my neck. Now sit down,” he ordered.

I sat and drank from the cup he sat in front of me.

“I figured that’s what this was about when your uncles were so short with you. I thought that journal and those letters were lost. I should have checked the trunk before you came home. I simply wasn't up to it. Seeing your mama's things. That journal. The letters she must have saved. You've got more pain there than should be allowed in one lifetime, son. You want to hear the story, I'll tell it to you. One editorial comment from the peanut gallery and you can go find a motel. Those are my terms.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, needing to know now.

“You know your mother put those things away for you to find after I was gone?”

“Why would she do that?”

“It's part of me. She's part of me. You're part of us. It's how your mother thought. I should have burned it, but I didn't. You ask your questions. I'll answer them. The one thing you don't get to do, judge me,” he said, giving me a hard stare.

My father was more alive than he'd been since I got home.

“My mother know about this? Did she know who she was marrying? How could you do that to her?”

“Son, I don’t give a damn what you think about me. You gave up your right to judge me a long time ago. I’ve been polite. I’ve let you have it your way. Don’t you ever disrespect your mother's memory in front of me again. She was the kindest, most gentle woman I ever knew. For some reason she loved me more than I had any right to be loved. I loved her. That's what you get to know.”

“Did she know that you loved a man?” I demanded to know.

“Your left your journalistic skills in Oregon? Where’d you find that, boy?” He said in a powerfully impatient voice.

“In the bottom of the trunk you sent me to look into.”

“Use your noodle, boy. That's where your mama kept her private things. What I wrote in there was all about who I was before your mother and I took up with each other.

“We met at church. Your grandma introduced us. I wasn't a big church goer, but I went along. Once I knew she liked me, and before we decided to get married, I gave the journal to her. You can see she wrote the title on it.”

“I don't understand what it means.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“Your mama knew I'd never be able to open that trunk. The logical conclusion is she thought you'd open it one day.”

“She knew and she married you anyway?’ I said in a question which had no answer.

“The man in the book you’re waving around was my one great love. I wouldn't expect you to understand. Your mother understood love. She accepted there are different kinds of love. She accepted the love I felt for Sven.

“She read his letters and the story I wrote about him, and she decided to marry me. Your mother was a good woman.”

“This is about him coming to the farm?” I asked, taking a sip of coffee and resting my hand on the journal.

“I sat down to write about Sven soon after I found out he was killed. I wanted to remember everything about him. It was just before spring in 1944. I was afraid I'd forget him, but he wasn't in what I wrote. He was the fields and in the memory of things we did together. Sven lived in my heart. So, I didn't need to read what I wrote to feel close to him.”

I began to understand how my father became like he was.

“While you were with my mother?” I asked coolly.

“You're a journalist. You've got your story right there. Read it. If you have questions, I'll be right here for a while.”

“I'll read it. First, if this man was your great love, how could you marry my mother?”

“When I met your mother, I was going through the motions of being alive. I worked the farm. That's all I had. There was nowhere to go. No future and a short past. Your mama put a smile on my face and laughter in my heart, and so I married her. Sven died. I didn't. She made me want to be alive.”

“Did you love my mother?” I asked to know.

“Son, I’ll forgive you that remark, because you are my son, but you gave up the right to ask questions like that.

“When your mama died, I wasn’t fit to be of comfort to you. I asked your grandma to come to take care of you. I live with the guilt over not being a stronger man, a better father to you. I took solace in the fields. Same as after Sven died.”

“I was a farmer’s son. All the farmers’ sons worked their fathers’ farms, except for me. I was the oddball.”

“And you know where those farmer's sons are? Struggling to bring in the corn before the rains come, and those sons have never been farther than Omaha or Davenport, like their fathers. Like me,” he said. “I dreamed of getting off this land, Bobby. I never did. I made certain you did.”

“When I was a boy, I watched you walk the fields. I never understood what it was you were looking for. Now, you tell me you didn't even want to be here. Come on, Dad, I find that hard to believe. You love this farm.”

“Yes, I do. I lived my entire life here. You got off because I wasn’t going to do to you what my father did to me. I wasn't too clever about it, but I had a farm to run and diplomacy wasn't my business. Once your mama died, you made it clear you weren't happy here. I believe it went, ''I hate this farm and I hate you.'

“I wasn't fond of my father either. He was a hard man. To him the farm was everything. There were rules about who took over the farm. He was the first son and he got the farm. I was his first son, and I was to get the farm.”

“Even if you didn't want the farm?”

“I didn't have anything to say about it. When he saw I didn't intend to take the farm, he made my life miserable. I was trapped between a world I wanted to escape and my duty as a Sorenson. He was crippled. Tag, I was it. Didn't matter what I wanted. I'd never let the farm go under.

“I was devastated by your mama's death. If I wanted to live, I had to keep my mind off the pain. I got plenty of practice with that after Sven died. I didn't hold your words against you. I knew you needed to blame someone. I did use them to keep you from changing your mind.”

“As far as my being your father, I made sure you ate well and had a roof over your head so you could get a good education. Once your grandma came, she picked up where your mama left off, preparing you for a future.

“Don't get the wrong idea. The happiest years of my life were spent right here. When Sven came, the farm was all I knew. He loved the land. He taught me to love it. We shared our lives together here. It's where I was with your mother.”

“So, you want me to believe you loved my mother but you loved a man before you loved her?”

“Robert, I don’t want you to believe anything. I’m not in the believing business. I’m telling you what my life was about, because you insist on knowing. I won't lie about it. Sven was the love of my life. Make of it what you may, but I loved your mother in a different way than I loved Sven. You believe as you like. You want to accept what I'm telling you, that’s fine. If you don’t believe it, that’s fine too.”

We both drank coffee as I considered his words.

“You made a good life for yourself and you didn't need to come home. That's fine. It was your life. I'm fixin' to die now. I asked you to come home for your mama's things. I didn't want them thrown out.”

“You could have sent the trunk, Dad. You wanted me to come home. Why? It's not as cut and dried as you say.”

“If I'd thought of it sooner, that's true. My worry was that I'd die before I got it sent. It was easier to call you home. You were a boy the last time I saw you. I did want to see what kind of man you turned out to be.”

“The kind who wants to know about Sven. You named me after him. Mama lied. She said Sven was my uncle.”

“You are going to push until I throw you out of here, aren’t you? When you were in her belly, she asked me what I wanted to name my son. I asked, how do you know it's a boy. She could tell by the way you kicked. She said, 'I want to name him Robert, after his father. I said, 'I don’t know. That's my father's name.' She said, ‘I want his name to be Robert Sven Sorenson so he’ll grow up like you two, good and heroic.’

“I asked how we'd explain the name to you? She said, ‘You loved Sven with as great a love as a man could have for his brother. That qualifies his as Robert Jr.'s uncle.'

“Nothing nefarious in her thinking. She did not lie to you. She believed what she told me and I loved the idea. Junior and Ralph were both pleased with your name. We owed Sven more than we could repay and this gave him a place in our family.”

“It was Mama's idea?” I said, thrown off balance.

“That's the kind of woman she was. She loved me enough to try to see things as I might see them. Naming you after me seemed awkward, but your mama was wise in ways most men aren't. You for instance. By giving you his name we'd keep Sven alive in you.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Mama said those things?”

“You're doing it again,” he said without a smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Bobby. Actually, you don’t need to understand. We understood and it made sense to us. You were given the name of the best man I ever knew.”

“I used to stand at the fence, while Grandma was in her garden. I’d watch you walk the fields after the corn was in. I never understood that either, Dad. Was he the reason you spent so much time out there alone?”

My father thought about this. His anger with me subsided. When he got back to our conversation, he'd seen something that would furnish the best answer to my question.

“You were looking for him? Is that it? I need to know, Dad. That's the image of you I have after all these years.”

“I was with him,” he said softly. “I could feel him with me when I was out there, where we worked together. I was never alone when I was in the fields.”

He made no effort to remove the oddness from his words.

“You were what? He was dead? What does that mean?”

“Read it, Bobby. It tells the story. Make of it what you will. I did the best I could for you and you turned out pretty damn good. The complications of my life are mine. You don't get to judge me. For better or worse, I'm the father. You're the son. If you're fortunate enough to have a child, you'll understand what's right for that time. Your child may not understand your actions in his time.”

“If you wanted to get off here so bad, why’d you stay? When you met Mama, you knew being out here wasn't good for her. Why didn’t you sell the farm?”

“It wasn't mine to sell. It became mine to work. In my father's time, it's all he knew. When the farm passed to him, horses pulled the plows. I learned there was a world out there in school. I wanted to see it.”

“You don't give a damn what happens to it now,” I argued.

“It's a different time,” he said. “No one depends on the corn now.”

“You stayed because this is where you were with him?”

“My heart was here. Yes, this is where Sven and I were together, but I didn't have anywhere to go. My father and mother depended on the farm to stay alive. I couldn't leave.”

“If I could have gone with him and died with him, I’d have done it. Had I done that, it would have put you in a pickle. There's no way to know your mother wouldn't have died even if she hadn't married me and lived on the farm.

“She was here because she wanted to be here, Bobby. Life unfolds. We get to see today. We wait to see tomorrow. It's easier to know what to do when you look behind you.”

“That makes sense.”

“I lived my life here. I'll die here. If there's a hereafter, we may find our way back to each other in a better place. I'm not holding my breath, but I don't oppose the idea.”

“Not find your way back to Mama?”

“You do ask hard questions, son,” my father said, his eyes penetrating me.

“I'd like an honest answer,” I answered.

He laughed and shook his head as if he couldn't believe his ears. He was considering whether to answer me or not.

“You don't listen when I do answer you, and what I said was, if there is a hereafter, we may find our way back to each other. I was thinking of the big we. Your mother, my mother and father, and Ralph and Junior and you, when your time comes, but if you insist on pinning me down and you want me to tell you the one person I'd want to spend all of eternity with, that would be Sven.”

While the answer was shocking, when he said it, it didn't surprise me. I felt a sudden sadness. It wasn't over his answer. For the first time I felt sad that my father had lost Sven, and I could see my mother accepting the love they shared and not trying to destroy it.

Sons weren't as easy. My father was making an effort to give me what I needed. I was beginning to see he was a good man, who didn't do what I wanted him to do. He certainly didn't say what I'd rather hear him say.

That didn't mean my mother’s death didn't once again reach inside of me to twist my heart. Seeing my father’s pain while we talked about my mother, told me he loved her too.

I wasn't a kid any longer and it was time I faced the truth.

My cup was empty and my father stood next to my chair pouring me more. As he filled his cup, I noticed the air in the kitchen was cooler. It was lighter. Easier to breathe.

Once the pot was back on the stove, my father sat down, stirring cream in his coffee, he began to speak.

“You've beaten a path around the barn. It's time to open the door, Bobby. I can answer the same question any number of ways, but you have the story in front of you. Read it. I'll answer questions the journal doesn't answer.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not wanting to leave the kitchen or the coffee.

“Do you want me to read aloud? If you haven’t seen it for so long, If I read it out loud, you’d get comfort from it?”

“That would be nice of you. My eyes tire so fast I’d never get to the end on my own, but I’d love to hear it as I wrote it. I never read it after I wrote it. It was meant to be a record, because I wanted someone to know about our love. Having that die with us seemed sinful. To me anyway.

“As I said, I had hopes of leaving the farm up until the day Sven walked up our driveway. From that day forward, I spent most of my time thinking about him.”

”Sven.” I said, reading the first word on the first page. “A year out of high school, I expected to be far from my family’s farm. The circumstances of the time denied me my dream of seeing the world. The dream wasn’t dead, only postponed,” I said, feeling my father's yearning.

“You wanted to be a writer? I’m still afraid to call myself a writer. Most of what I do is writing but I worried about jinxing myself if I call myself a writer,” I explained.

“I was young and had no such fears. It was quite clear to me. I saw no reason why I couldn't do it.”

“It’s funny how seeing it in writing makes it real. I think of you back then, way younger than I am now. My father? A writer? You were a writer, Daddy! Many writers write novels about their lives. I write scripts.”

The idea my father wrote a novel excited me. I read through my father meeting Sven and how they got off on the wrong foot. It was a good story that took on a new meaning to me.

“You wrote in school? This is well written, Dad.”

“That’s all I got to show for it. I did write in school, but I had that one story to tell. The Farm's history isn't what I wrote. It's what your grandpa told me. What his father told him.”

“It’s not just that you wrote it down. The way you speak as the narrator, the pictures you paint with words are easy to visualize. You definitely are writing with passion,” I said.

“Yeah, well, you were going to read that as I recall,” he said. “Maybe read and ask questions later?”

“Oh! Yeah! Read!” I said, unable to quiet my mind.

It was a a whirl with questions. I wanted more information. I had no difficulty picturing it in my head.

I positioned the journal so I could read on.

“…But time moved agonizingly slow back then, and farm work was a drudgery I no longer had a taste for.” I let the journal tilt away from my face. “This description is nothing I'd recognize as coming from you. You were always working. You knew what to do and you did it. Hard to believe how you really felt about the work,” I said.

“Read,” he said, looking up out of his coffee.

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, I was working on the new fence Mama had been promised for two years, when Sven walked up the driveway and into our lives,” I hesitated, looking to see what I'd describe as my father's trance.

I went back to the words he'd written about his life.

“He was big by any standards and he walked in powerful strides, looking like he knew where he was going. He paid me no mind as he passed. I stopped digging and watched him stop at the bottom of the three stairs that led to the back porch and the backdoor. He paused as if to gather his thoughts before he’d ask for work,” I said, pondering the scene in my own mind.

He just walked up?

“How did you know he’d ask for work, Daddy?”

“Read the damn story,” he snapped without looking up.

“He paused as if to gather his thoughts before he’d ask for work. It wasn’t unusual to see hands walk up our driveway in a search for work. Times were tough,” I let the book tilt away from my eyes again. “I see. You answered my question in the very next sentence. It’s like you knew the question will be in the reader's mind,” I observed about his writing style.

My father looked up at me with fire in his eyes. I kept stopping when he wanted to hear the story as he'd written it. I knew I shouldn’t anger him with my endless questions about things I’d never considered before.

“Give me the damn book,” he growled, wrestling it out of my hands and into his own.

Clearing his voice he began to read,

“The latest arrival interested me far more than the dull job Pa had assigned me. By this time everyone was of interest to me. I wondered where he had been and what he knew that I might find interesting.

“It turned out with Sven there were no simple answers,” my father said, and I wasn't sure if he was reading or not.

Chapter 5

Robert & Sven

I watched as my father change in front of me. He read the words he wrote before I was born. He had begun to come back to life. The color returned to his face. The rugged lines that etched the years into his face smoothed. His faded blue eyes began to sparkle.

Speaking softly, but distinctly enough for someone hanging on every word, he told the story. I mean he told the story. The journal stayed beside his coffee cup and he spoke from memory, recalling for me the day Sven walked into my father's life.

He saw the story as he told it. He knew the words. He saw it as it happened over fifty years before.

It was mesmerizing.

He spoke about Sven as if he'd been at the table yesterday. He brought both Uncle Junior and Uncle Ralph to life in a way I'd never knew them.

There was everything but a shrine to the long ago dead soldier, but the story was Sven's shrine. It was a heroic portrait of a good man who appeared one day and he made the Sorensons his family.

He came, was hired, saved my Grandpa's life, and the farm was saved. He wanted to work the land, be fed, have a roof over his head, and be part of a family again.

After years together tending my father's farm, Sven went to war and didn't return. Not only was their relationship over, Sven was in a place my father couldn't reach. He planned to go to Italy but the farm didn't allow a lot of down time. Old age and cancer made it clear he'd never visit Sven's grave.

*****

Sadness overtook me as I listened to the tale my father had to tell. My complaint over my father not loving my mother enough, seemed pointless and petty.

I did not know love.

My father loved twice, which I'd considered admirable in any other man. Instead of being without feelings, he may have loved so deeply that what I saw was a man trying to survive the loss of both loves.

*****

My father stood at the window, reciting from memory what took place the day Sven came. Using two fingers, he separated the curtains the way he'd done earlier.

The way he'd done that day, and I had no doubt he was seeing Sven beyond the curtains.

My father was seeing what was there a half century before.

Grandma scolded him, taking a look for herself, and Grandpa Sorenson told them both to leave the new hand alone.

I felt the energy Sven's presence created. His pa saw his strong back at harvest time. Grandma saw someone that could be her son. Daddy saw a mystery he wanted to solve.

His mother put out lunch for him, saying there was no telling how far he'd traveled or when he'd last eaten. Even with his brothers waiting to be fed, time was taken for the new hand.

“He'll be hungry. This'll tide him over 'til supper time. We don't want him working on an empty stomach.”

He'd tend to his brothers in due time. He continued peaking at Sven through the curtain. No one having any idea what Sven would come to mean to the Sorensons that first day.

Taking the new hand his sandwich with a glass of milk, my father was fascinated by the bigger older boy. He couldn't wait to question him.

Sven shooed him away. He had a job to do. His directness left no doubt he'd been hired on farms before. If he did a good job, he'd be here tomorrow and maybe for the harvest. He wasn't letting a farmer's son distract him from his work.

It was a lucky farmer who found a good hand at harvest time. Sven knew his value. He was ready to show the farmer what he could do. Right now it was to dig fence post holes for the farmer's fence.

There was a salty exchange over where holes were in Sven's overalls. My father felt Sven was making fun of him and he didn't like it. He wasn't sure he liked him.

Sven had a mind of his own and he knew a farmer's son had little to say once the farmer spoke and they didn't talk back to their fathers, and so he kept digging in spite of my father's desire to know more about him.

My father was left with a sour taste in his mouth. Sven was far too blunt and dismissive for his taste. My father didn’t know what to make of Sven, keeping his distance at first.

“I was jealous of your Uncle Ralph,” he explained, leaning his back against the sink, “…and Ralph took right up with Sven. He was always full of himself in those days. I didn't know what Sven saw in him. Ralph wanted to talk women and he thought Sven was just the man to know plenty.

“By that time Ralph had been making the rounds in town with the girls after school. At night he had farms to visit after a girl giggled at his direct suggestions and boyish bravado concerning his skills.”

“Uncle Ralph as a ladies man?” I chuckled. “He’s such a sourpuss now. Who'd believe that?”

“The war did that. The war took a lot from this family. I was angry about Ralph's immaturity and boldness. You see, your Uncle Ralph as the answer to my difficulties. Ralph was a natural born farmer. He could spit in the wind and corn would grow on the moisture before it hit the ground.

“He loved the farm but he was young and he wanted what all teenage boys want. He was just more persistent than most. I remember he’d come in late to dinner, not a good move at Pa’s table. Mama would save him a plate. Pa would complain he ought to go hungry. They had no idea what he was up to, but I did.

“And Ralph got his dinner and then slipped out late at night to finish making the rounds. We slept in the same room and I'd hear him leave but I didn't always hear him come back.

“As quick as he saw Sven, he latched right onto him. They had nothing in common. Sven was in a strange place and Ralph made him feel welcome. I was put off by Sven's confidence. I was even more put off when he took up with Ralph. Why would a grown man take up with a kid?”

“What happened to Uncle Ralph? I don’t recall ever seeing the man smile,” I said, wondering aloud.

“He went to war. Your Uncle Ralph was the most happy-go-lucky sort I’d ever seen. I didn’t like it because it didn’t fit my plans, but Ralph didn’t care what anyone thought.

“Then, Sven came along. He was a man of the world. Iowa anyway. Ralph hung on the stories Sven told. They weren't to my liking, usually involved a farmer's daughters, but it's what Ralph asked about.

“They worked together, joked together, and sat in the swing comes an evening without ever getting enough of each other. I was jealous. Ralph was good with people without ever trying. He made Sven feel special.

“Ralph left the farm with Jacob. One of the boys who came to help us after Pa was crippled up. I think they were looking for Jacob’s mother down yonder. Mississippi I think.

“Then came Pearl Harbor and the next thing we know Ralph's in the army. Hard to keep track of him. Even when he wrote he didn’t say much.

“There was Normandy. We heard he was there. A friend of a friend came home. Said Ralph was on the boat with him. We didn't hear a word but we knew Normandy was a bloodbath.

“We didn’t know if Ralph was dead or alive. Thousands died going ashore at Normandy. We knew where everyone else was, but no word from Ralph.

“After we’d given up hope he’d survived, he called. He was coming home. We were thrilled that he was alive. We didn't know the half of it. We were in for a rude awakening.

“He never did come home. Not the Ralph who went off to war. That Ralph loved life and he wanted to know about everything in it. The Ralph who came home is stern and unyielding.

“He no longer takes much joy out of life and sober wasn't what he was for a spell. Ralph had lost himself and he tried to find himself inside of liquor bottles.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, not knowing his story.

“The war. We were all in the house when he came home. We were like bees and Ralph was our honey. We asked him questions and then he showed us his arm. We didn’t need to say anything. He took off his shirt with some difficulty and his body was marked with terrible scars, not the least of which was the arm that was no longer there.

“Mama told us not to make a fuss over it. We were to ignore his missing part. No one was to question him about the war. You want to quiet a room fast, let your brother show you how he was maimed by the war. It made us sick and Ralph's farming days were over.

“He’d been months in a hospital in England, and he spent more months in a hospital stateside. The war was almost over when Ralph came home.

“He put his shirt back on, refusing assistance. Only Mama could touch him. He grabbed his duffel bag and hoisted it up on his shoulder as. We admired his strength in the one arm he had left.

“Ralph was a boy when he left. He was a grown man now and he aimed to have his way. Pa was no longer able to get his attention, and so Ralph had it his way.

“The interview was over that day. He stopped on the stairs just as he was about to disappear. “’Don’t ever ask me about it. Never!’ he growled. It broke our hearts to meet this Ralph. Only Mama could get near him.

“I don’t recall seeing him again for months. He stayed up in his bedroom, the one he had shared with Junior and me for years. Your bedroom in fact. Pa would ask about why he wasn’t at the table with us. It was the place Pa found order from the life he could no longer live.

“Mama told Pa, ‘He’s home. Be damn satisfied our son came home at all.’”

“We all knew Ralph hadn't come home. He'd been ruined. Pa wasn’t capable of understanding Ralph, but by God he understood your grandmother just fine. It was the only time I heard my mother set my father straight. He never mentioned Ralph not being at the table again.

“Mama took Ralph dinner every night, and he'd even talk to her some evenings. The nights he wouldn't open the door, she’d leave it next to the door.

“I'd put plumbing in the house for Pa. Ralph waited until we were all in bed before he used the bathroom. Then he'd go out. Lord knows where he went. He didn't want anything to do with us. He didn't know us and we didn't know him.”

“My room was Uncle Ralph's room?”

“Yep, Uncle Junior's too. I slept in there until I decided to sleep in the barn. I've remodeled it a couple of times. Ralph started coming downstairs about planting time in '46. He didn’t have much to say and we’d say hello and talk about the weather and the farm. If he was in a good mood he might nod, he might not, but he was home and I was thankful, even if the best part of him never came home.

“I regretted trying to make Ralph act like I wanted. I longed to hear him cut a fart for our benefit or make a lewd remark for the girls in town. That Ralph was lost in WWII. It was the time we got to be brothers and now I had regrets.

“It was in the fall. The war had ended the year before. We’d never heard about Jacob. He was in one of the colored units in the Pacific. The Japanese surrendered in August and there was no word. Almost a year after he died, we got the letter. ‘We regret to inform you.’

“Now Ralph and Jacob were close. The word of Jacob's death finished your Uncle Ralph off. He'd apparently been waiting for Jacob to come home. What he got was a notification of his friends death. Jacob took part in saving the farm in '37.

“He disappeared back upstairs for a spell. A few days later he comes downstairs. He's dressed neat, shaved. His too long hair is combed. He kissed Mama's cheek and he says, 'I'll see you later,' and he left through the front door.

“We never used the front door. When When Mama said he went out the front door, I knew he wasn’t coming back.

“Whatever demons were chasing Ralph, were hot on his tail. Once he knew Jacob wasn't coming home, there was nothing to keep him on the farm.

“I’d hear of Ralph from time to time. He was always drunk somewhere, making a nuisance of himself. I’d go looking for him but he was always gone by the time I got there. They wouldn’t arrest him. He was ruined by the war. No matter what he did, they looked the other way.

“Then, I stopped hearing about him, or people stopped tormenting us. He'd left us a long time ago.

“Jake died a few years after Ralph disappeared. Pa wanted him put out in the meadows. Jake had mentioned it to him while they walked once. They’d grown closer. We were all out there when we put him in the ground. And here comes Ralph. He's married. Living in Omaha. Working for his wife's father.

“I don't know how he knew. He was probably in touch with Junior. He was dressed in a coat and tie. He'd settled down with Aunt Lula and they were working on their second kid.

“I tiptoed around him. I hope he's forgiven me for my selfishness. I suppose he has. If he remembers. He does stay in touch. Calls at Christmas. He comes by on my birthday. I miss the old carefree Ralph. I don't think he's happy but he's a successful businessman. He's got money.”

“And he hadn't lost his taste for the ladies,” I said. “I never knew any of this. Mama said he lost his arm in the war.”

“I met your Mama about the time Jake passed. She didn't know the story because no one talked about it. We never missed Ralph more than when he came home.”

“I can't believe I don't know any of this,” I said, amazed by how clearly the memories flowed out of him.

He didn't need to turn a page.

“This all took place before you came along. You knew your Uncle Ralph from when he came to visit with Lula, dragging the line of kids with them by that time. I need more coffee.”

It was dark. Hard to say what time it was or how long we’d been talking. Time seemed suspended.

“Why’d Grandpa give you the history and not Grandma.”

“It's a man's world. He was passing the torch to the eldest son. I'm sure he saw me passing it to a son I didn't have yet. He was a product of his time, Bobby and it was the natural order of things.”

“I'd discuss the farm with him out of respect. Whatever I decided was law, no matter how strongly he disagreed. It was my farm. Still is for what that's worth.”

“It's what he wanted,” I remembered.

“He paid a high price to get what he wanted. By the time he began telling me the farm's history, the Sorenson history, he paid little attention to the farm. It was his final act.

“His time had past. It was my time. Not what I wanted. I didn't expect to see the Sorenson's time as farmers end. I pass it to you hoping our history isn't lost after I'm gone.

“Everything changes if you give it enough time. Junior can use the extra land to grow feed corn. Better yet, plant grass so his cows can graze. Once he's done, there is no one else.”

“How’d you feel when you took over the farm, Daddy?” I asked, picking up a point that interested me.

“Closer to Pa than we’d ever been. There was no thought to it. No feelings about it. It's what had to be done. The Sorensons were farmers and I ran the farm.

“I sat with him each afternoon for a couple of weeks He told me all he knew about the Sorensons. I wrote it down. The day after he finished, he died.”

“Was Grandpa sick?”

“No, just crippled up. You could see he'd given up. He had no reason to be alive. There was no passion in him, not even when he talked about his time as custodian of the land.”

“How old was he, when he died?” I asked, having no idea.

“Let's see. He turned twenty-one the year I was born. He took the farm when his father died two years before. I was thirty when he died, 1948. I married your mama in '48.”

“He was fifty-one,” I said astonished. “He was younger than I am now when he had his accident?”

“He was always old to me. I didn't think much about the eleven years he watched me run the farm. In all those years he never complained. I can't imagine the suffering he did.”

His words tailed off like he thought about his father a lot and he saw him differently now.

“You in a lot of pain, Daddy?” I asked, breaking into his thoughts with concern for my father.

He stared at me. He was considering whether or not to tell me about what he felt. His face softened. He smiled.

“Comes and goes. Good days. Bad days. I got pills. Do I have pills! I've got pills up the ying yang!” he announced. “They make me dopy, ...more dopy,” he said, amused with the joke he told on himself.

*****

I'd seen my father through a nine year old eyes all my life. My maturing toward my father stopped after Mama died.

in my relationship to him stopped after Mama died. I blamed him. I didn't know why. Blaming my father for my mother's death built a wall between us. I'd grown up.

I felt like my father lived a courageous life.

I couldn't imagine the suffering he'd done, not being with the man he loved. He lived a life of obligation and selflessly kept the Sorenson farm running.

And he hadn't lost his sense of humor.

*****

“I want to know more about Sven,” I said, drinking the rest of my coffee.

I didn't know how long we'd talked. I had work, a flight to catch, people waiting for me in Portland, but I hadn't made a plan for tomorrow's return.

We had time.

One more cup of coffee and a few more questions wouldn’t take long, but it was late. I got up to fill our cups again.

His eyes never left me.

He waited for me to sit down before he spoke again.

“This is what you asked me about. You want to listen, Bobby,” he said with determination in his voice.

“Once I was responsible to get in the corn, Sven stepped in immediately. He knew I was green. He'd taken a job with my father. He had no loyalty to some wet behind the ears kid, but Sven intended to do what he was hired to do.

“He knew right off we'd need hands. He took the truck and brought back Jake and his boys. Ralph and Junior were fit to be tied when they found three colored men in our kitchen. None of us were grown ups. Jake was the only man among us. He'd be mother and father to us. Sven was grown, but not much older than I was. We made it up as we went along.”

“Ralph and Junior were prejudiced?” I asked.

“Yep, they had little use for anyone who wasn't a Sorenson. They'd never known a black man. There were none in Nodaway. It took five minutes for them to realize we'd lose the farm if the men in that kitchen didn't get the corn in.

“It took all of us working sixteen hour days to get in the corn. It didn't matter what color you were. That seems so long ago,” he said, stirring cream into his coffee.

“Jake made coffee makes mine taste like a cup of that instant stuff. His biscuits were so light you had to hold onto one or it would float away. He could make a stew by passing a ham bone over a pot of water. Even Mama let him do biscuits when she came back to cook again.”

“Sven mentioned Jake's coffee in one of those letters upstairs. Funny you'd talk about it too.”

“That one got here after the notice of his death. He listed me as next of kin. This address. Three letters came after the notification. They weren't opened for a long time.

“I couldn't open them. I cried myself to sleep each night. I couldn’t see to read if I wanted to but I didn't want to read them. It was planting time. I worked each day until I dropped. Once we planted, my days were about the corn.

“I had no help that year. Jake did what he could, but it was painful to watch him. We only planted the main field. All the young men were over there.

“I could have let go of the farm that year, but I realized I had nowhere to go. No matter what I did, it wasn’t going to change what was.

“I was never going to see Sven again. I'd never see his grave or the spot where he died. The comment about the coffee was the final thing he wrote in his last letter. ‘I sure would like a cup of Jake’s coffee right now.’”

My father's eyes grew moist fifty years later.

“How do you remember that?”

“Once I could stop crying, I read the letters so often I know them by heart. I read them in my head while I worked the fields the way we'd walked them together. I heard them in his voice, Not so much any more. It's been a long time.”

“You never said how Sven saved Grandpa's life. That's what Grandma said about him. It sounded like she thought of Sven as one of her sons.”

“Pa was readying for harvest, 19 and 37. He worked on those old tractors constantly. Something or other was wrong with the Farmall. It's the red one that's still in the corner of the barn. He did a piss poor job of jacking it up. He knew better. He was angry with it. I'm sure of that. I can hear him cussing it.

“The jack didn't hold. By the time we got to him, he'd stopped breathing. A thousand pounds of engine pinning him to the ground. As frantic as we were, we couldn't budge that damn machine. Ralph was crazy. Junior sat crying. Mama was begging we do something. It's not a clear picture.

“We rolled a log over and by using a substantial piece of lumber as the fulcrum, we got it up high enough for Sven to wedge himself under the frame. He lifted it, holding it long enough for the three of us to drag Pa out.”

“He lifted a thousand pounds on his back?” I asked.

“Long enough for us to get Pa out and get the pry bar back under the frame and Sven got out. I'd say what he did was impossible, if I hadn't seen him do it.

“There's more in the journal. That's the highlights, and I left out the fact your grandma ran a mile to get us. No telling how long Pa was under that machine.

“Mama was getting an early dinner ready. She heard Pa cussing and banging on the Farmall. Then she noticed a deathly silence. She walked onto the porch, knowing something was wrong. The front wheels were off the machine and its front was on the ground. Then she saw his legs. Once she saw the situation, she ran to get us and that's when Sven lifted the machine on his back.

“I'd like to have met Sven,” I said. “He sounds like quite a man.”

“I'm sorry you didn't get to meet him. He was a good man. If anyone says that about me once I'm gone. I'll be happy. I did the best I could. Sven was twice the man I was.”

“You got off on the wrong foot with Sven. How'd you get past our displeasure with him?” I asked with journalistic ease.

“Pa’s accident.. There’s nothing like a dose of reality to make a nineteen year old kid see the light. Sven hadn't done anything for me to be angry about. He simply didn't act like I wanted him to act. Be gracious to the farmer's son.

“Pa could have died. The situation wouldn't change. I had to get in the corn. As soon as Sven saved Pa's life, he began working on what he was hired to do, help get in the corn. He became my right hand man. It's in the journal.”

“The Farm Hand,” I said. “I see why that's the title.”

“I just started writing. I think I wrote Sven on the first page. After your mama read it, she wrote The Farm Hand on the front page. It was perfect. Your mama had a sense for things like that. Anyway, that's how Sven saved Pa.”

“It's quite a story,” I said.

“I didn't know I loved Pa until then. You learn how much you care for someone when you're about to lose them. I prayed my ass off that day, I don't mind telling you.”

“Before the day was done, Sven brought Jake and his boys to the farm and the dye was cast? The harvest was on.”

*****

When I arrived in Nodaway, the idea I'd be captivated by anything my father had do say was the farthest thing from my mind. Now I had a million questions.

*****

“Pa carried the farm during harvest. He picked up a couple of hands if we could afford them. I had a farm full of kids and Jake. I didn't believe we could do it.

“Sven was a man, but he'd hardly begun to mature into manhood. He could be as big a kid as the rest of us. He worked farms long enough to know how farms worked.

“If I could do half what Pa did, I'd have been doing a lot. With two more kids and Jake, we were flying on a wing and a prayer, and it took every one of them to get in the corn.

“Sven didn't leave my side for the weeks we harvested. Every hour I spent in the field, he was beside me. I'd have broken under the pressure if he hadn't been. Every time I got down, he picked me up.”

“It was a lucky day when he walked into our driveway.”

“How did you two deal with having feelings for each other?” I asked.

“We were halfway done with Harvest. We'd gone out to get supplies. He put his hand on mine. We were in the truck. He told me that I was quite a man. Coming from the man I looked to before making decisions, it caught me flat footed. I had feelings for Sven the first time I saw him.

“By that time Ralph had taken up with Jacob. He was new. Sven was with me all the time and it had nothing to to do with him being a farmhand.

“That was '37 and we were rarely out of each other's site until '42. He died in early '44. I loved him in a way I'd never love anyone else.”

“For that time we Sorensons were enlightened on race relations. How'd that happen, Daddy?”

“When men come to save your ass, you don't care what color they are. They had hands. That was the only requirement. I was lucky to have them. We were all the color of corn silk when the harvest was done.”

“Everyone doesn't feel that way, Daddy.”

You do know where your grandpa is buried?”

“Yes, sir. What you call the meadows. Grandma use to take me out there.”

“His best friend is buried beside him?”

“Jake!”

“When he told us to put Jake out there, we knew it's where he intended to be planted. It's a beautiful spot overlooking the main field. It told us all we needed to know about civil rights. Jake was important to us. He was a good man and he lived out his final years with people who loved him.

“In those days people took care of their own business. We didn't become suspects because someone died on us. The sheriff didn't come around asking, 'Where's your Pa, boy? None of those good church going folk knew my pa was buried beside a black man either.”

“It would make a good movie,” I laughed. “I'd call it, 'The Coloreds in the Corn.”

My father laughed.

“Dad, this is an amazing story,” I said. “I would like to see what some other folks think.”

“Sure. This country is truly ready for a story about two men falling in love on a farm. America has shown no readiness to embrace that kind of love of love in 1994. Our love was too pure to share with people who hate love so readily.”

“It's changing, Daddy. People are learning.”

“Loving Sven was the best thing I ever did. Living in a country that watches men like us die, not lifting a finger, because we dare to love, is despicable?

“They let a disease do what they wanted to do to us. Good riddance to bad rubbish was the attitude. It made me sick to see this country's political and religious leaders conduct themselves in such a manor. That's what Sven died for?”

“It's not something I've considered from your point of view, Dad. I know it is changing. I'm reporting on it. Politicians and church people are joining with LGBT people to help men suffering with AIDS. I think there is a lot of shame involved with labeling AIDS a gay disease. Not a bright move,” I said.

“I'll take your word for it,” he said. “I haven't heard anything about people seeking to help gay men.”

“It's not something that's reported. I've covered it in Portland. It's a progressive town. There are advances being made in attitudes. It's changing, Dad. One day men like you and Sven will be able to get married. I'm sure of it.”

He laughed, having lived a love people openly loathed. He hadn't been with Sven for fifty years, and yet he'd still be ostracized for having loved him. This made their story even more compelling.

“If two people in love, regardless of how the state regards them, can be legitimized, it'll be an improvement. If men like Sven and me can get married, it won't make their love more pure, but for those who can benefit from such a thing, I think it would be fine.

“I'll never see it but I'd like to believe it will be possible one day for men like Sven and me.”

“It's going to happen. I see progress in Portland.”

“I wrote that for my benefit, Bobby. I didn't want to forget. Once I wrote it, I knew I'd never forget. Something about seeing it on paper solidified it in my mind. I told you that when I walked the fields, I don't walk alone,” he said, looking to see if I was listening..

“When I wrote our story, I wasn't alone. I could see him. I felt him. I relived the time we had. What happened wasn't possible, but it happened anyway. We were together again.

“It's yours now. For what it's worth.”

“I'm still digesting it. What an adventure!” I said. “In my business you need to know which stories to tell. If it was happening now, I'd cover it as a human interest story. It's about people dealing with adversity. The love story gives it an uncommon twist.”

“When you get down to brass tacks, I didn't know two men could fall in love, until Sven walked up our driveway. That's when I knew a man could fall in love with another man. Not something you heard about back then.”

“A lot has changed, Dad.”

“Looking back on it, it's a wonder we survived my first harvest. Jake even bought the coffee, flour, beans, and rice for the hands to eat. I fussed that my hands shouldn't be buying our food. He looked at me like I was crazy.

“A good thing smarter people than me said for me to shut up. We'd have starved if I got my way. I'd seen the harvesting done all my life. I knew little about doing it.”

“You might say Jake got his money’s worth, Daddy. He found a home, a best friend, and you never forgot what a good man he was. That's a good return on his money.”

“Never looked at it that way. Didn't see it the day he came to be parents and chief cook and bottle washer for us. And he worked in the field when he wasn't in the kitchen. The man was amazing, but you never noticed him doing it.”

“We did get in the harvest and saved the farm. Let me tell you, on the next to last day, I didn't know if we'd make it. I'd been exhausted since the second day, and I hurt from head to toe. I hurt in places I didn't know I had places.”

“Grandpa and Grandma must have been proud of you, Daddy. You got the job done and saved their farm.”

“My farm. It was mine from the minute that machine fell on Pa. It passed to me the minute he was unable to do it.”

“Like the presidency. The minute Kennedy died, Johnson was the man. No quibbling.”

“That's a bit much but there sure wasn't any quibbling. We did the harvest, the clean up, and got the machinery ready for next year's corn.

“I remember when your grandpa came home. November I think it was. He'd been in the hospital a month or more and then he stayed at a place in town until he got some strength back. I remember the day he came into the driveway the first time after his accident. We were all waiting for him.”

“Everyone?” I asked.

“Everyone,” he said.

“He let Mama help him get out of the car. He'd aged. Skinny as a rail. Pa was never a man who carried much weight, but he was down to skin and bone. I felt sick when I saw him. We were told to wait until he was ready to come home.

“He struggled to walk to the stairs at the back porch. No one was prepared for those three stairs. Ralph right away went to help him, but he wouldn't have it. He held Ralph off while he stared at those three steps.

“I guess it looked like Mt. Everest to him. His legs were a mess and there wasn't much strength in them, and so he stared at those steps as we stared at him, waiting.”

“Sounds terrible,” I said.

“Didn't make for a pretty picture. Sven had been working on one of the machines. He kept his distance, not sensing his status in our family. For the first time he was looking at the man who's life he saved, and we all knew it, but him.

“After a standoff for a few minutes, Sven tossed his rag on the machine, took those long determined strides that took him to my father, and he swept him up in his arms.

“'Morning, Mr. Sorenson. Nice to see you, sir. Welcome home,' he said, placing him down in front of the door to the kitchen.”

“Pa said, 'Thank you, Sven. Nice seeing you too.' Pa opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.”

“That broke the ice,” I said.

“Ice it was, but anything Sven did was fine with Pa. Pa was a stern man and he'd come home a cripple. It took some time for him to adjust. He didn't run the farm any more, but he knew it was in good hands.”

“Sven was unassuming,” I said.

“He was a humble man. He verged on sainthood with Mama. He had a home and a family as long as he wanted us.”

“Grandpa walked some?” I asked.

“He had his good days. Mostly in the spring and summer. He was better when it was warm. He had canes. He didn't always need them. Jake knew how to get him outside. They liked walking together. They leaned on each other.”

“He wasn't going to be bedridden,” I said.

“No. Not until the end. Your grandpa never complained about his pain. I could see the pain on his face. He was one tough cookie.”

“Your land,” I said.

“My land,” he said. “Once I got that first harvest in, he had no say. I'd ask him. He'd give me his opinion. I did what I did, running it past Sven first.”

“Don't mind telling you, I'm running on a fifteen minute nap I had waiting on the commuter flight into Des Moines, and I'm not sure what day that was or what day it is. I'm going to need to lie down before I fall down.”

“Go up and lay down on your bed. Open the window up there. It's going to be musty. I haven't aired it out in a spell. That good night air will cure what ails you.”

“Goodnight, Dad. See you in the morning,” I said, leaving him at the table as I struggled to make it to my room.

Chapter 6

Iowa Days

I was still yawning when I made it back to the kitchen after dawn the next morning.

“Get any sleep, son,” my father asked.

I stopped to pour coffee into the empty cup on the counter next to the stove.

“Some. A bit restless. Then nothing until a minute ago.”

“Almost like coming home,” he said.

“Boy, this tastes good, Dad. I wanted to thank you for taking the time with me, Dad. You've given me a lot to think about and you didn't need to do that.”

“You're my son, Bobby. I can't claim to have been a good father, but being your father, I'll give you whatever time you want. I know you have work, a life, but it's not like we can do this later.”

“I haven't been a very good son, Dad. I could have made an effort. It's not like I didn't know where to find you. What you've told me does make a difference. There's so much i don't know. I want to hear the whole story.”

“It's better when you can talk. I didn't always know how to talk. I didn't know what to say.”

“We've come a long way. I didn't want to come home,” I confessed. “Now, I don't want to leave. Funny how things can change when you do start to talk. I wish....”

“We're doing it now, son. I couldn't ask for more,” he said. “You take whatever time you want, Bobby. I'm in no hurry. What do you say about breakfast at the diner? We can talk over bacon and eggs. I have a hankering for some greasy unhealthy food this morning. How about you?”

“You hungry?” I asked.

“I believe I do have an appetite this morning. All that talking I suppose.”

The diner was half full at just after six, if the clock was right right. Some of the same faces were there. Nods greeted us as we sat at the only empty table.

There were younger faces with the older ones. I recognized some of these. As we ordered, whispers between fathers and sons were exchanged, 'Robert Jr. has finally come home.'

No nods came my way. I'd gone over to the enemy. I was no longer one of them, and thus, they didn't know me.

It didn't come as a surprise. I had no close friends as a boy. I knew the other boys but I shared little in common with them, beyond being born on my father's farm.

The younger men got up and left before six thirty. These were the farmer's sons who ran the farms now. Their fathers stayed at the dine, drink coffee and talked of better days.

My father and I didn't have much to say. I certainly had an appetite. We both ate bacon, eggs, and potatoes. It was more food than I usually ate in the morning, but I ate it all. It must have been the fresh Iowa air.

“Do you feel like walking this morning, Dad.”

“I always feel like walking. I like moving.”

“I'd like to go to the meadows. See where Grandpa is. Take a look around the pond and the forest. Can you make it that far?”

“I walk there every day in the spring. It's not far if it isn't too hot. You'll need some walking shoes, son. You can't wear those things in the field. You'll bog down.”

“I think I left shoes in my room. My feet haven't grown as much as my middle. I should find a pair that works.”

We went into the main field. The ruts from the corn rows were barely visible. The Iowa wind was gradually claiming back the rich black earth. I liked the smell of the soil. We walked across the field to get to the meadows.

As a boy, this time of year, the corn would be “As high as an elephants eye,” as the song from Oklahoma said.

A pair of sneakers stood the test of time and fit fine, once I took out the laces. I didn't know if feet gained weight but I suspected mine had.

“You let me know if you need to rest, Dad.”

“I've walked up and back a thousand times. I'll be fine. Don't be walking out of those shoes or you'll need a good scrubbing before you go back, if you don't want the folks on the plane to toss you overboard. I doubt they'd appreciate the fragrance of good Iowa soil.”

I got a laugh out of my father's earthy view of things. He sounded like a man who'd found peace within himself. He was nothing like I remembered. I'd been gone a long time.

“Have you had a good life, son?”

“I have, Dad. I was married and divorced right after I got my first television job. I thought I was in love but now I’m not so sure. No kids. Didn’t last that long, but Fran and I stayed friends. I like my work. I have good friends.”

“Don’t let not having kids bother you. Uncle Ralph has enough kids and grand kids to last the Sorenson family for generations to come.

I laughed.

“As long as you have a good life. It's the best any of us can hope for.”

“I get that. I can't help but feel like I missed out,” I said. “Family speaking. Might be why the marriage didn't last.”

“You did miss out, son. You missed out on years of your mother loving and doting on you. You left and found your own way on your own terms. That takes courage.”

“I wish things had gone differently between us.”

“Among the things we can do nothing about. We've made things better between us. That's what's important.”

“Yes, I'm glad I came home and I'm glad we could talk.”

“I regret you lost your mother so young. Your mother and I were happy together. We loved each other. Our love was what we made it. She was never threatened by my love for Sven. She accepted that as part of who I was.

“You were at the center of her world. I ran the farm. Once she was gone, we both struggled. It wasn't going to be OK. We lost your mother. How could we be OK?”

All I wanted to do was grow up and leave the farm after Mama died. It was time to finish growing up and accept my father as is. He had his short comings, but I wasn't perfect either, as Fran reminded me too often.

“We used to picnic here,” I said, as we reached the forest in the meadows.

“We picnicked here when I was a boy. Swam in the pond. Came out here to cool off on hot summer days,” he said. “Pa warned us to never knock these trees down. It's one of the few stands of trees in this area. Most farmers cleared all the land to grow as much corn as possible. My great grand father left this forest in place.”

“Mama didn't like me swimming,” I said, noticing the trees furnish a more intense shade than I remembered.

“When we needed wood, we took it from here, thinning the trees so new trees would grow. There are more trees here now than when I was a boy,” my father said.

“Your mother was protective of you. You were our only child. When I swam here, there were three Sorensons and two Millers from the next farm over most days.

“Your mama feared you'd come out here alone, and if you got into trouble, there was no one to help you.”

We walked from the pond to the two graves at the edge of the forest. We both pulled weeds. Nothing substantial had taken root. The old markers stood solid.

“Your mama is buried beside your grandma at the church. She bought plots for her and Pa, but Pa didn't want to leave his land. When your mama passed so young, she went beside where grandma planned to go. We'll stop there after we eat at the diner one morning.”

“I'd like that,” I said.

“Your grandpa hardly ever left the farm after his accident. Once they brought him home.”

“You've lived almost fifty years longer than Sven. Did you think you'd hold out for so long?”

We began to walk toward the house.

“Didn't think. Never thought about dying until doctors told me I was doing it. I'd like to be closer to Sven is, but I'm not. I don't know why I lived so much longer than he did.

“Great Grandpa Lloyd settled this land in 1875. His son and my father each worked the farm for about twenty years each. Last harvest I've been running the farm for fifty five years.”

“That's amazing,” I said.

“I've outlived my usefulness. It's time to go,” he said.

“They didn't catch the cancer early enough to treat it?”

“I got a nightstand full of pills. I guess they're keeping me going. I don't much care. I won't purposely die, and I'm in no hurry, but I don't see as I have much to do with it. It's my time.”

“Did you find happiness here, Dad.”

We walked while he considered an answer.

“I've come to believe happiness is a state of mind, Bobby. You rarely stay in one place. Best to make the most of where you are. It'll change before you know it. Why not be happy where you are with what you have?”

“Most people are anxious to get where they're going,” I said.

“Most people will never get where they think they're going. At sixteen I knew where I was going. At nineteen it all changed. At twenty-five it changed again. I discovered I didn't know a damn thing about a damn thing.”

“And you were happy?”

“I loved two people as much as I knew how. They loved me. I had a beautiful son and watched him grow up. Now I see he's a good man,” he said. “That makes me happy.”

“And you grew corn,” I said.

“I planted seeds each spring, watched them grow, and harvested corn each fall. It's a magnificent thing to witness. Nature is quite a force to reckon with. It's amazing.

“Had I left the farm, I'm sure I'd have come back,” he said without doubt. “Farming was in my blood, even while I planned to leave. I would be the last Sorenson farmer, and I learned to love the land and be happy on it.”

“If you left your life would have been different,” I said.

“I was happiest when I learned not to dwell on things I couldn't change. It was what it was, Bobby.”

“You're not the man I remember, Dad.”

“You aren't the boy I remember.”

“I was a lucky man. I've lived a good life. It's time for me to move on.”

“It's a good way to look at it,” I said.

Chapter 7

Reminiscences

We got some of the frozen meals Aunt Lula prepared for Dad for lunch. They were surprisingly good, but the fresh Iowa air had me eating like a horse.

“Your people won't worry you've gotten lost in the corn.”

“I'm going to call to tell them I'm taking a few days,” I said, not asking if he wanted me to stay.

“Is that what you want, son?” he asked.

“Now that I'm home, I'm in no hurry to leave. I think I'll stay a spell,” I said, giving him a chance to object.

“For how long?” he asked.

And I didn't have the answer.

“As long as it takes?” I said, thinking of him being alone and in trouble in the last days or final hours of his life.

I wouldn't leave my father to die alone.

“I'd like that, Bobby. I've enjoyed your company. Once you came, ...seeing you and knowing you're going on, it makes my mortality easier to accept. I'd lost touch with that fact.”

*****

The next morning I stood on the back porch with my coffee. The empty silent fields were unsettling. They'd never been like this at this time of year while i was a boy.

The day I left the corn was waist high.

At this time of day as a boy, as I got ready for school, I remember standing in the same spot, watching my father or at least hearing the tractor he drove while tending his corn.

I was sorry there were to be no more harvests on the Sorenson land. I'd never given the corn a thought over the years. Now its absence was striking.

The lack of sound was remarkable.

Sorensons had grown corn for as long as they'd been in Iowa. We'd settled this land, cleared it, and grew corn. After all these years, for the first time I felt a connection to it. I'd always been my mother's son, a Bostic.

Deep inside me the Sorenson's love of this land was growing. I'd ignored it for years, but coming home, facing my father, reminded me of my roots.

I wouldn't turn in my suit and microphone to come home to tend the corn. I wouldn't know how. Men like my father were obsolete. Growing corn the way he did wasn't profitable, no matter how rewarding family farming was to the family who farmed it.

Big corporations grew the corn now.

I knew the story. I'd reported on it.

A family farm goes under. The family ends up on the street. They've lost their home, their ability to make a living, their way of life. Now they'd need to fight to stay together.

“A family settles land, farms it for a hundred years, and now they're thrown off by people who grow nothing but rich,” I heard myself saying in a story I reported.

It was a sad truth of our time. Money trumped everything.

*****

We sat at the table, after deciding to go to the diner when the mood struck. We'd settle for coffee right now. It's how most of our days started, coffee and contemplation.

“Your grandpa gave me the history of the Sorenson farm before you were born. It tells about people you've never heard about, but we're here because they were here first.”

“I was thinking about that when I was on the porch just now. Great minds think a like,” I said.

He laughed.

“And not so great minds,” he said with a smile. “I just want to make sure you have the history.”

“I'll check to be sure. I plan to take all the journals. I'll keep the history and the story about Sven with me. I'll mail the others things before I fly home. They'll be safe in the mail.

“Everything you've told me keeps running around inside my head like it wants to get out. I haven't figured out what to do about it yet. You've given me a lot to think about, Dad. You've lived quite a life.”

“I don't know about that. I put one boot in front of the other. Didn't seem that complicated once I got moving.”

“No, that wouldn't. It's how you did it that amazes me. From Grandpa's accident to losing Sven and Mama, a lot of men would have become bitter and useless.”

“It ceases to be about you when you truly love someone. You give all you can, then, you give a little more. In time it's the love you remember, not your loss. For me anyway.”

“Fran and I were best friends. We made lousy lovers. I'd like to think I'll love like you've loved one day.”

“It has no time limit. If you meet the right person, you'll know it. Losing your mother so young, Bobby, it's difficult to trust someone completely. The fear of losing them is rooted in the pain of losing your mama. It's a hard pain to overcome. One day you'll throw caution to the wind and allow yourself to love someone completely. That's my hope for you, son.”

That hit home. Dad identified something I didn't see.

“You lost both of your loves,” I said. “I can't imagine that pain.”

“If it was just about me, yes, disabling pain, but it runs deeper than just me, Bobby. Let's take a walk. I'll show you something that explains what kept me here all these years.”

He sprang up, went out the door, walking toward the gate and into the field, where I caught up with him.

After a couple of minutes, I saw one lonely dead tree standing in the middle of the field. It wasn't easy to see against the gray soil.

“I never could understand why you grew corn around this damn tree, Daddy,” I said, remembering how it stood out.

“It's what's on this tree I wanted to show you. My father showed it to me when I was a boy. It meant nothing then. It was interesting.”

“It means something to you now?” I asked.

He ran his hand over the dead tree.

“Come here,” he said in a secretive whisper. “I'll show you what it's all about.”

I stood beside him, watching him brush the wood tenderly. Then I realized something was carved into the wood.

“Closer,” he said, until I was bent over with my eyes inches from his hand.

It took a second for my eyes to adapt to the bright day and the faint carvings time rendered almost invisible.

“The journal tells the history of the Sorensons on this land. This tree stands as witness to that history.

Like an ancient artifact my father would explain it to me as I tried to make out the carvings.

“Why’s my name with yours? I can read those two.”

“I carved your name here the day you were born. My great grandfather, Lloyd Sorenson,” he explained. “Settled here in 1875. He carved his name on this tree the day his first son, Jack, was born. Jack, my Pa's father, carved Pa's name here after he was born. Pa carved my name after I was born. Like you, we're all first sons. You were my first son. That's why your name is here.”

I was speechless. These were all men who worked this land. My name seemed sadly out of place. I saw my connection to the first Sorenson who lived here. I did live here.

“Ralph and Junior?” I asked.

“No. This was between Pa and me. It was between father and his first born son. As far as I know Ralph and Junior aren't aware of what's carved here.”

“I didn't live up to to expectations, did I, Dad.”

“I was the one who didn't live up to expectations. I had to be forced into it. This is a history. It's also a curse, son.”

“You were expected to be a farmer?”

“Right. Didn't matter what I wanted. My life didn't belong to me. It belonged to the Sorenson name. To the farm. When my brothers are gone, this land will go to the agricultural corporation. No one else will want it. This tree, the trees in the meadow, the graves, even the pond are destined to be plowed under.

“A corporation knows nothing about family. They know about corn. They care about corn. What began here over a hundred years ago will disappear soon. In ten years no one will know a Sorenson ever set foot here. History ends here.”

“That doesn't upset you?”

“Among the things I can do nothing about. I've watched a hundred farms lost to corporate growers. Had your grandpa not been crippled, this farm would already be gone. It's only because of how events unfold that I'm still here.”

“I wouldn't have made a good farmer,” I apologized.

“Your mama said, “Our son isn't going to be a farmer. You did what you were expected to do, son. You did what I longed to do.”

“And the history of the Sorensons?” I asked.

“I'm where that story ends. It begins again with you. This tree, this land has no meaning beyond the people who were here. Come on this side and I'll tell you another story.”

Opposite the Sorenson's names, he touched a spot with some carving. This was different. It was special in a way that was made significant by how he touched it.

I saw a heart. Looking closer, I read, 'SG loves RS' inside it.

“Once I knew Sven was going, I was a mess. I was afraid I'd never see him again. He sensed my apprehension. He brought me here and he carved this heart. I watched him carve his initials, loves, and then he carved my initials.

“Sven traced the heart and our initials with his fingertips and he told me to do the same thing. I was overwhelmed that he could express his feelings so easily.”

My father grew silent, and ever so slowly his fingers traced the heart and what was inside. His voice grew shaky.

“Sven told me this, 'No matter what happens, Robert, I'll always be right here,' he said, tapping his finger on my chest over my heart. 'Always.'”

Tears ran on my father's face like the pain was fresh.

Fifty years and his heartbreak had never healed.

“I don't know about you, but all this reminiscence has made me hungry. Let's go eat,” he said, walking away.

*****

Over the next ten days, I never felt closer to anyone than I felt to my father. The stories he told, his sense of humor, his ability to make me laugh, kept me enthralled.

On the morning of the eleventh day, I found Robert Sorenson, my father, dead. He'd died in his sleep.

I hadn't heard a sound. We talked late into the night, as had become our custom.

He was fine when I left him in the kitchen to go to bed.

*****

Postscript:

I called Uncle Junior and Uncle Ralph before I went outside.

I found myself walking to the family tree my father showed me. Once there, I cried.

Had i not come home, there would have been no pain. My father would have died without me noticing his passing.

I found out things were far more complicated than I believed them to be as a boy.

Going home was like going home should be. I found the family. I found surprises. What I gained by going home to see my father far outweighed the loss of him.

Nothing had changed but me. Home was still home. I'd lived in half dozen places in Portland. None of them were home.

I blamed my father for my mother's death, adding to his pain. He didn't hold it against me. I was his son after all.

*****

My life had always been about me. I decided my father's death would be about him.

When we talked about his death, he told me, “Since I can't be buried next to Sven,being cremated, putting my ashes in the wind, and maybe we'll find our way back to each other.”

I'd do my father one better than that.

After Uncle Ralph and Uncle Junior paid their respects and they agreed to let me take care of my father, I did have him cremated.

I located a colorfully hand painted glass decanter I thought he'd appreciate. My father went inside. I could easily tuck the jar under my arm.

I decided I wouldn't release the ashes in the meadow, his preference.

I always wanted to see Italy. I thought my father would like it. Flying to Rome, I took the short train ride to Anzio.

The train rocked gently. I enjoyed it. It was a slower way to go but the scenery was terrific. I’d rarely taken time to enjoy travel. My job meant I needed to hurry.

It was a nice day, until the train moved close to the coast. I had a hotel room reserved in Anzio. I could stay a few days if necessary.

The window next to my seat dampened as the train moved south. The sun peaked through at times. I was encouraged.

The door to my compartment slid open. I turned from the scenery and nodded my greeting at the older woman who came to take possession of her seat.

We left the station some time before. I was sure I'd have the compartment to myself, but company was good.

I watched as she clumsily arranged her things on the seat opposite me. She sat down facing me, rearranging her things again. She wore the most amazing hat. Her red outfit matched the hat perfectly.

“Nice hat,” I said.

“Thank you,” she sang. “It’s a lovely day.”

She either hadn't bothered to look outside or she liked rain.

“Do you come to Italy often?” she sang in what i thought was an English baritone.

Somehow she knew I wasn't Italian.

“No, I’ve never been,” I confessed in my American version of English, turning back to the window.

“Are you traveling alone?” she asked in a song.

“No, I’m traveling with my father. He’s never been to Italy either,” I said, hopefully avoiding the next question.

“How wonderful,” she sang for everyone to hear. “What a beautiful vase. Did you pick up in Rome?”

“No, Iowa,” I said, seeing confusion on her face.

“Is your father far?”

“No,” I said, patting the vase. “I like to keep him close.”

She eyed my father's resting place curiously.

The train began to slow for Anzio. Once I stood, tucking the jar under my arm, I slid the door open, I turned to bid her farewell.

“My father says to tell you it was nice meeting you,” I said, smiling an irreverent smile and patting the jar as I left.

I was sure she was the kind of woman who would tell the story of the odd American she met on the train.

I gave the cabby a nice gratuity when we arrived at the hotel.

“Graci,” he said with a friendly smile.

I hesitated half in and half out of his cab.

“English?”

“Not so much,” he said with a wonderful accent.

“Anzio? I go to Anzio at nine in the morning. The American portion of the cemetery. Will you take me.”

“Yes! Can do. Will take.”

“What time will you pick me up?”

“Yes. Nine I pick up to Anzio. I take.”

“Graci,” I said, and felt better about going to the cemetery and not being left while I conducted my business.

*****

My taxi was waiting the next morning and the rain had stopped, but it looked like it could rain any time. He drove me to a gate with a guard shack beside a pole with an American flag hanging lip in the still air.

“Let me off here. I want to walk up. I’ll be a few minutes,” I said as the driver nodded and smiled.

I brought a canvas bag with a shoulder strap where I put my father. Carrying a jar might be a dead giveaway.

The driveway was smooth and perfectly paved. As I approached, a uniformed soldier stepped out of his post to greet me.

“Sven Olie Gustoff please. I'll need directions. I haven't been here before.”

He stood at attention, clicked his heels, executed an about face, and went back into the enclosure. He checked a chart and turned to look at a map of the graves. He pulled a notebook size sheet of paper from a stack under the map. He circled Sven's grave, returning to me.

“Sir, if you’ll follow this drive, take your first left turn, walk to the end of the paved surface. Turn right, staying on the pavement. You’ll find Sgt. Gustoff at the fifth stone. Here's a map showing you where he is.”

“Thank you,” I said, glancing down at the paper to see if it agreed with his words and it did.

By that time he was standing back at attention as if I’d disappeared. I couldn’t help but feel honored to be allowed to enter there.

I felt a bit guilty about what I planned to do.

Before I turned I looked back but he was gone. I walked through the rows of gravestones. There was white marble on green grass with concrete paths to transport people so they didn’t step on the graves. It was all quite impressive.

I removed the jar from the canvas bag. I read the name on the gravestone where I stopped.

“Sven Olie Gustoff. Well, Daddy, I’m here. You and Sven are back together again. It’s as close as I could come to making your dream come true. I love you, Dad.”

I unscrewed the top of the jar.

“I didn’t know you, Uncle Sven, but you must have been one hell of a man. I think you remember my father.”

Turning until I felt the slight breeze on the back of my neck, I spilled the ashes out gently around the edges and then spilling the rest in the middle of Sven's grave.

“You two enjoy your eternity together. Gods speed.”

The clouds had begun to boil overhead and I was sure it was going to rain on their reunion. I tucked the jar back into the canvas bag and hurried, hoping to make it back to the cab before the storm began.

By the time I'd reached the first turn going back, it was dark. Not dark as night, but darker than I liked. I kept moving, until I turned back toward the entrance.

The wind began to blow. It was going to be a gale. The temperature was dropping. I felt like something was sucking the oxygen out of the air.

Dirt and debris began rising to be sucked into what looked like a vortex; a miniature tornado. I moved faster, not looking back. I wanted the safety of the cab.

Who knew Italy had weather like this?

Why on today of all days?

The guard stood outside his enclosure, hands on hips, looking into the sky. I turned in time to see a swirling cyclone shooting upward, above where I'd just been.

It was moving higher and faster, creating a rumbling sound. The low hanging clouds opened. The cyclone was sucked through in an instant.

The clouds closed. The wind died. The day brightened.

“What the hell! …I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said with astonishment. “Did you see that? What was it?”

“Oh, that,” I said, as I passed the bewildered soldier. “That was just my father saying hello to an old friend.”

By the time I reached the cab golden rays of sun streamed down. The clouds thinned to reveal a royal blue sky with pink and red hues. Its beauty defied description.

*****

I'm taking the train to Verona, once I see Rome. I want to be in the place where Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet lived. Just maybe it will bring me some luck.

I wanted to keep thoughts of love on my mind.

I'm taking a leave of absence. I'm returning home with a film crew.

For the second time in my life, a story has fallen into my lap. The plane crash didn't require much imagination to report. The story of the Sorenson's, as seen through my father's eyes, took a little longer for me to develop.

It's a fascinating story my journalistic side can't let go. .

I think I'll call it The Farm Hand.

The End of Silent Fields

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A Rick Beck Story - [email protected]

For David & for lovers who love everywhere.