Harvard Comes To Montana

"Harvard Comes To Montana", Chapter Five

By Griz

umgriz@protonmail.com

Hi, Guys:

Thanks for your continued interest in Jeff and his Summer after graduation. Jeff is facing a future without the education in business and veterinary science he'd planned for, and without Marc who will be gone at the end of August. Only five weeks away. How to make each minute count.....something they both want.

Unrelated to this story, but a genuine appeal to readers: Please donate to nifty.

Also, please: consider donating a coat you're no longer wearing, as well as gloves, mittens or shoes, to donation centers specifically for that during this season. We lose a lot of Our Own, especially gay kids, to the streets each year. If we can't give them a home, we can give them some comfort. Kindness costs us nothing, and means everything to someone who is cold, alone and scared.

Thanks, Men.

Griz

*** The following story is a work of erotic fiction. If you are under the age of 18 or if this type of fiction is prohibited in the location where you are reading this, do not read any further.

All characters and names are creations of the author. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Please show your support for Nifty, a great organization that gives opportunities to all types of authors to express themselves. To find out how you can contribute, go to donate.nifty.org/donate.html ***

It was still Monday morning, and we had a busy day ahead of us. I was worried about none of it; my big brother was back.

After Mom and I got in the house with Anders and Lola Cola, I could tell they'd discussed Anders' August plan. She was beyond happy, but her face was still marked with sorrow and worry. Mom will talk about moving forward in the face of adversity, and she means it; but the practice is far from the theory. Still, having both boys home and working together was something she couldn't have imagined. She made sure we knew that, since she said it repeatedly.

Anders and I discussed surveilling at least most of the other crops, and both agreed with getting trucks scheduled. Mom volunteered assuming that task since she had talked with the carriers for years. Anders wanted to see specifically how the wheat was doing, since he was listening to the Ag Report out of Billings saying wheat might have its best market year in a long time. If our crop was anywhere even close to harvesting, he thought that should be the next priority. Dad had said essentially the same thing last week. While they might not have been close, their minds operated almost exactly the same.

My focus today was on flying over the crops, and I suspected we would not get through it in only one day. The three of us were at the kitchen table, iced tea flowing and treats for a furry beast on the floor, assaulting her Kong.

"What we don't get done today, we can do Tuesday morning and evening. Oh, goddamn.....am I the only one who forgot?? Dad's grave!"

Both Mom and Anders looked at each other. We were so wrapped up in so many things, we neglected an obvious---and very timely---responsibility. I told them I'd take care of it this evening after dinner. Mom said she wanted to work with me; she wanted to measure everything and keep things as neat as possible. Anders decided it was a family thing, and would be there, too. We settled on 8PM. We haven't used the backhoe much this year. Other than planting, we haven't been too busy on any machines or equipment. Dad was genius at knowing when to plant----from the week, to the day, to even whether morning or night, depending on the crop and when we'd first water it. I hoped I had paid attention.

Anders and I enjoyed some leftover chicken and then headed out in my truck. I knew Lola Cola liked riding in the bed, and didn't get to do that in Bozeman. I was glad she was here, and would be for the Summer. Anders and I didn't have many differences, and one of our similarities is a love of Bernese dogs. Our horses were always mystified by her, and would surround Lola Cola and sniff her all over. Bolt liked to lick her ears, which made the dog sit there and whimper with love as she got a tongue bath. They thought she was a horse, too. I wondered if Lola Cola thought she was a horse, or that the horses were dogs. Regardless, this was going to be a fun farm with her there, and with the advent of puppies, too.

The drone was fully charged with two replacement batteries also ready, and I cleaned up the camera lens. I decided to feed it real-time to Anders' and Mom's phones. Mine would just store the video file, and I would look at it later. Dad marveled at the innovation, and wanted to get more drones. Mom said he just wanted an excuse to play a new kind of video game. She wasn't wrong.....Dad is, to this day, the best big kid I've still ever known.

While Anders drove, I sent Mom a text about missing her opportunity to get the judging entries in at the fairgrounds. She forgot all about it. I asked her if she minded if I ran them in early Tuesday morning. My plan was to be there right when the gate to the grounds opened up. That was a plan she liked. I liked how smoothly she, Anders and I were working together. Everything was logical, and I knew I'd do this for awhile, and Dad would've approved.

The rest of the day ran according to schedule. Lola Cola went nuts when she saw some antelope only 100 feet away. Anders told her to run and get em, to which she just barked and sat down and looked up as if telling US to go get `em'. We laughed and got back to work. The crops were looking good. We had a lot more barley to bring in, but this was what we planted last of that grain, so waiting until the end of the first week of August would work well. No rain was expected at all in August, and the extra few days in the Sun would mature the grains in the husks and increase their protein content.

I said to Anders the alfalfa was still growing, and that we shouldn't be concerned with it until the second week of August. I pulled some off and chewed it. Nice and sweet, with just a little grassy bitterness. It would finish nicely in the meantime. We covered the status and planning of all the crops and after being out for a surprising four hours, we drove back toward the house. Anders had a slight smile on his face. I asked him what was so amusing.

"You are, that's what. Or who. I tell kids in my classes that it's a delicate dance during harvest, to schedule trucks to get the grain, then contacting the Custom Combine guys if they're not driving their own equipment, and confirm what they'd arranged earlier in the year with them, then contacting the food broker to tell them the plan, and a few more concerns. And in one afternoon here, with no excitement in your voice, you just make it all work like it's nothing. Your instinct can't be taught, but I'm trying to do exactly that. From the test scores I see, either they're never going to get it, or I'm not teaching well."

"I doubt it's the latter, Anders. You, Dad and I all think alike. It's how he ran an efficient operation, staffed as leanly as possible, but stayed in the black for almost seven years now. So you still like teaching?"

"God, no."

"What?? Why not?"

"Because the test scores don't support the curriculum. As more Big Ag companies buy smaller farms, fewer kids get into how to be competitive; not with each other, but with the market. Knowing the stuff Dad and you know, again, by instinct. Just this year alone, there are 500 fewer farms across the country than there were last year. The acreage hasn't changed; just the ownership. With each generation, there are fewer members of families, and that means fewer among them going into Ag."

"Damn.....I didn't know you weren't happy."

"I love farms. I love farming. I love this land and how long it has been in operation. I just couldn't get along with the boss. I wasn't out to break his heart, so I didn't hire on with another farm somewhere. I kept my hands in the soil by teaching. THAT part, I don't regret. It's a dead-and job, Jeff. Not teaching; just my particular subject. I'm teaching the science behind growing food that people need to understand. And I mean farmers. Consumers don't care much, though they're beginning to."

"Big Brother. My gosh. I feel badly that I've never asked you about your job. You're so good and patient with people, it seemed you'd be a natural in a classroom. What would you like to do, though?"

"The truth?"

"Always the truth."

"Move back here, partner with you, spread the work out so you don't go nuts too soon---though you WILL go nuts---and smile watching my dog and her pups chase butterflies and pheasants."

I launched myself at my brother and hugged him so tightly. That was music to my ears, and I would not have thought it possible! Did our operation actually have a chance for another generation?! I actually cried, but these were tears of joy. I knew my brother was being honest---I never had to wonder about that. I just hoped it wasn't a passing fancy, one that he'd change his mind on after a week of actually working this land again.

He smiled and hugged me back. Mom was going to FLIP. Heck, I wanted to jump out of the truck and just run all the way back home and tell her. The prodigal son returns! Slay the biggest steer in the corral, round up all the neighbors, buy lots of beer and throw the biggest fuckin' party the county has ever known. THAT is exactly how big a deal Anders' `truth' was to me. Oh, please don't let me be dreaming.

We got back home, agreeing on the way to say nothing to Mom this week about what we'd discussed. Placing her on an emotional roller coaster would be disastrous. And that would fuck all of us up. We washed up in the barn and headed toward the house to check in with Mom.

"Jeff! Where's my rig?"

"I parked it behind the barn. I figured if folks couldn't see it, they'd think you weren't home, and wouldn't stop in."

"Oh, Honey.....thank you. I can't avoid people forever. We'll see several at the Wednesday, so some alone time today will be greatly appreciated. Were you boys pleased with the crops? I liked what I saw on my phone! Everything is coming along."

"Yeah, Anders and I saw each crop, though not all the acreage. I ate some alfalfa, he ate some wheat."

"Mom, that Spring wheat has never tasted better. Nothing like Sy Gunsight Red Spring. It tooth-grinds just right between soft and hard. That's going to make some amazing flour."

We talked some more, laughing at our enthusiasm and drinking lemonade Mom made. We always had lemonade and iced tea in the fridges---in the kitchen and in the barn. I think we were so encouraged by the crops' maturity that we forgot to be sad.

---Oh, Dad. I'm not forgetting you. I will never forget you, even if I forget everything and everyone else. Even myself. I'm happy at this moment because I know what I know, and that's because you taught me what you know. And Anders is coming back! Oh---and I met Marc. I am happy.---

I mentioned to Anders and Mom that I wanted to groom the horses this afternoon, too. Mom started asking Anders questions about life in Bozeman, so it was a good time for me to mosey off. On the way, I sent Marc a text.

"Marc. Are you there?"

"Well, I'm certainly not there; otherwise you could see me, and we could talk like normal people."

"GROAN Don't quit your day job. Can we speak, though?"

My phone rang.

"Hi, Jeff. How's your afternoon going?"

"Really well, actually. Anders and I went out and looked at more crops. We're in agreement on a harvest schedule, per crop. He's so good to work with! We communicate well. I'm glad he's here, and will be until.....well, maybe September. I don't know for certain what he'll decide, but as far as I'm concerned, later is better than sooner. Mom is smiling and laughing. I didn't think that would be possible for another year."

"I'm happy to hear that! Nothing here has really changed since we saw each other last. My grandparents are all curious about my career plans. Grammy thinks I need to make friends. All you do is work, work, work. You'll have an entire library of books written before you're 40!' I love them. They're incredible. I really hope this move is the right thing for them. It seems so.....extreme. They like you, Jeff. He's such a nice young man!'"

"They have good taste, obviously."

"Hmmm.....I guess I missed their glowing accolades on your humility."

"Everyone seems to miss that. I don't know why. Marc, I know it seems like all I do is drive around the state, but this is an exceptional week. I need to bring Mom's things for the fair in tomorrow morning. 7:00AM. Can I persuade you to go with me for that errand?"

"Yeah, that's great; I'd like that. Just so I can tell my grandparents, how long do you think we'd be gone?"

"90 minutes at most. I got a call from Dottie. She's the owner of the Empire. I left my favorite hat there, and I'd like to swing by and get it. I feel naked, even if I have another hat."

"Heh.....I'm that way with a coat I like in Winter. Sure; of course."

"Until then.....what's in store for your evening, Marc?"

"My grandparents like to play cards and listen to old jazz music. I like that, too. Grampy wants to take his truck out in about half an hour, just to make sure it still has gears and brakes that work. He has no idea, I think, what that truck could bring to a collector. He said this morning, `Old trucks, old houses and old people.....they all break down.'"

"I like them. Marc.....um, I am really glad you're staying for August. I suppose you could go sooner, if the right buyer for the house comes along."

"There's no need to leave sooner. I know I can make the closing date on or after the end of August. I'll be here, Jeff. I have no one nor anything to rush back to. I made a commitment to you."

"Okay. To be clear, Marc.....my hoping you'll stay isn't just about me and your much-needed counsel; I want to know you more. And my horse wants to meet you."

"Any horse with sense wants to meet me."

"Oh, by the way; do you ride?"

"Yes. I don't have my own horse in Massachusetts, but I have friends out of town who have horses and a lot of property with trails. City people come there to move at a snail's pace around them, just to slow down at one dollar per minute. I ride out in a field."

"Western?"

"Yup, Cowboy. And Dressage. With real saddles and everything."

"Holy fuck....."

"What?"

"Ummm, nothing, really. A thought crossed my mind is all. I need to groom these horses, so I'll get going. Text or talk later?"

"Just try to stop me."

"Marc, I....."

"I like you, too, Jeff. And no, it's not too soon for two men to know they like each other."

"I'm glad. I wasn't going to say that, but I'm glad you did. I hoped I wasn't getting silly."

"Oh, I suspect you can get pretty silly, but not about this. See you tomorrow at seven?"

"Seven. And since we're stopping at the Empire, make sure you have some clothes on this time. That should subdue Lu Barney."

"Damn! The ONE PERSON in Fergus County who wants to see me naked, and I have to wear clothes."

"Don't even joke about that, Fucker! You're right about one person wanting to see you naked, but Lu Barney is NOT invited to the show."

"There'll be a matinee and an evening show."

"I'll buy all the tickets."

"You want a box seat?"

"Nope. I want to be DOWN and in FRONT.....Marc."

"Oh, my gosh.....it's getting hot in here.....I thought you had to see about a horse or something."

"I do. I broke my own request, my own rule. Sorry."

"Don't be, Jeff. We can have fun along the way of getting to know each other. No lines have been crossed."

"Okay, thanks, Marc. And thanks for the conversation. More a little later this evening. Maybe bedtime?"

"I'll be here. Unless Grampy and I take this truck out and it dies in the mountains somewhere. Oh, Jeff.....I'm sorry. Insensitive of me."

"Not at all. I knew what you meant. Can't ignore time-honored vernacular. Send up a flare if that happens."

"I will, Cowboy. Later."

"Later, Professor."

I took the horses out one by one, brushed them and then combed their manes and tails. Magnificent animals, horses. Each of these had their own distinct personality, and had their own strengths in terms of agility and ability. My horse was a gentle soul and liked everyone. Bolt was a good communicator. He would be perfect for Marc to ride, and Anders' saddle would fit him well.

I've known Marc a day, and yet, we communicated like we'd been friends for years. Even out on the highway yesterday, I had no fear of the situation after he stopped and leaned against my truck. And yeah, I think he's hot and everything, but if I close my eyes, I don't know if I can recall every little detail about him, physically. But I bet I could write down everything we discussed, and the describe the sound of his voice.

Of course I wanted to be physical with Marc. He IS an incredible specimen. I wanted that kiss. A real kiss. I was glad for the opportunity and the privacy at the Taylor home, brief though it was.

My experience with guys is not a lot. Five. I didn't experiment when I was really young. Who had time, and what opportunity? Adding Marc to the esteemed list brought the number to six. A year has passed since the last time I was actually plotting to end my `Dry Spell'.

I was 16, and I happened to be in town during the Central Montana swim camp. My town had a six-lane Olympic-sized pool and three diving boards of different heights. Teams from high schools all over the middle of Montana, North to South, converged on Fergus County to benefit from each other, as well as two Olympic medalists.

I was driving by the pool, knowing about the swim camp. I'd always thought the idea of wearing a Speedo was ridiculous-----until I saw 75 boys on deck at the pool wearing them. My epiphany was swift. Barely seconds passed until I realized my trip back from town needed to be delayed for at least ten minutes. With my truck parked across the street, I walked over to the fence and watched one of the visiting Olympic athletes giving a demonstration of some kind of stroke.

The boys' eyes were glued to him, and that allowed me ample opportunity to do the same with my eyes on them, and not get busted in the process. Oh, my god. Rather, `oh, my athletic gods'. All the guys were lean, some more muscular than others, some tall, some not. A few very hairy (BONUS!), and most not. This was eye candy I could definitely use later that evening when it got down to Me Time. If only I could've wrangled about three of the swimmers and take them with me up to the hayloft.....

My Poor Paco was sore that Summer from endless abuse. I was hoping if I did it enough, I'd wear the skin down, and I could grow a new foreskin. No such luck, but it sure felt good trying.

I knew last Summer that in one year and one high school graduation, I'd be in college, where there'd be almost endless opportunities to meet guys. I'd have enough experience, little though it might've been, but I'd be ready for `em. Would they be ready for me, I wondered. Something I didn't tell you before, but you might've deduced it yourself when I told you I'm of Polish stock.....

Do you get it now? Not about THAT, but about my teenage hubris? Heh.

Back in the present moment, 8:00 PM was upon us, and the wind from the West began to pick up just a little, as it always does when the Sun's rays aren't aimed right down on the land as much as they are at Noon. It was a nice evening. Mom got out her bright purple measuring tape and spool of string. Anders found a dozen or so stakes in the barn where we kept the kitchen garden stuff. I ran to the equipment barn and checked the liquids levels in the back hoe. Looked good. It started right up. After idling a few minutes, I eased her forward and aimed for the little section of land West of the barn where four generations of my own stock were buried. On Wednesday we would add a fifth.

Mom used the string efficiently to block Dad's grave. I saw she was extending another six feet beyond. Anders said I was probably a little more accurate with the back hoe than that. Without looking up, Mom said she was plotting hers, too. We were silent. What does one say following that? With the lines clear, I aimed the bucket and began my work. You probably never think about graves being dug, but when you're preparing your own father's, suddenly that soil is a concern. It's where a great farmer will lay for eternity and beyond. This soil will absorb one of its own.

You might also now be wondering how we have a cemetery on our land. 130 years ago, Fergus County did not exist. The only cemeteries were the one in an empty field at the edge of town that no one owned (so the state of Montana legally owned it), and the Catholic cemetery up on the hill overlooking the old brick works below.

Our little burial ground on the farm was "grandfathered in", so we were allowed to continue adding our people to it. The only limitation: only people related by blood or immediately by marriage. Another benefit for ours: because we weren't in the city, embalming was not mandatory. In reality, we composted our people. From the land they came, to the land they return.

Dad would not be at his own funeral. His presence wasn't necessary for it, but for the burial, obviously yes. Father Tim would come to the farm, likely riding with Jerry and Dad in the big, black SUV more often used these days than a hearse. The grave would be blessed, and once in it, so would Dad. Mom, Anders and I would be, too. Everything has a ritual, but none more predictable than a person's death at some point after their birth. And so it goes, and so it goes.

Once most of the work was down with the back hoe, Anders and I jumped down to clean up the sides and floor of the grave. My phone buzzed. It could wait. This is a solemn act, digging a father's grave; and for the two other people with me, whose graves I'd also dig, someday.

Half an hour later, Mom, Anders and I stood at the foot of the hole. My brother and I hugged Mom from each side. After a few moments of silent reflection on the past several hours and thinking about the endless hours that would follow, we wound up the string, pulled out the stakes and took the shovels, pick axe and back hoe to the equipment barn. I hosed them all clean. I'd need the same shortly before bed. Walking back by the graves, I looked toward the end of the row. Right by the fence, I guessed, would be where I'd lie someday. Later is better than sooner, and with someone is better than alone.

I walked into the house, kicking my boots off at the door. Anders must've playing with Lola Cola; I could her joyful barks and his laughter. He had said, ".....my dog and her pups....." Was he planning on breeding Bernese? We had more than enough room in the barn for that operation. I knew nothing about breeding dogs, but I didn't imagine it was too far different from breeding cattle. Bernese can sometimes throw litters of ten or more pups. Lola Cola came from a litter of 11.

I was with Anders when he went to get a pup. Within seconds, we wanted to take all of them. THAT would be a full-time job in itself. She was the one of the pups who came right over to us when we walked through the gate, and even after we met the others, she was insistent that we should watch her be adorable. Who were we mere humans to deny her her natural talents?

I needed to follow up with my brother about his comment, though. That could be an interesting addition to this farm.

I walked further into the house. In the smaller room off of Mom and Dad's bedroom was Mom's sewing room. She didn't sew much anymore, but all us boys had lots of new shirts for school. Anders and I never had hand-me-downs; Mom made sure of that. I saw Mom digging into the closet through big plastic totes. She pulled out the largest from from way in back.

"Hey, Mom; you need help moving stuff around? I'm done in the barn."

"Oh, thank you, Jeff; I found what I was looking for."

Mom pulled the lid off. In the tote were several old cloth sacks. The kinds used for seed, potatoes, anything on a farm that had to be containable. These were old, too; `heavy cotton muslin', I remember my grandmother telling me. I never knew why they were such a hot commodity, but I was now seeing them again for the first time in at least ten years.

"Oh, the seed and potato sacks. What're they for, Mom?"

"Your father's shroud, Jeff. I'll rip the stitches out to create larger sheets of fabric, and sew them together."

"Is this the procedure for everyone buried here?"

"It has been for two generations now. Prior to that, the body was just lowered into the ground in whatever clothes they had on for the funeral. Something we saw on tv featured a person enshrouded this way, and we liked the idea. We told your dad's mother about it, and that was exactly what she wanted for your grandfather and her. Your dad and I thought it was practical, and also a little ceremonial, too. We began saving muslin sacks whenever we saw them. She and I felt it was fitting to recycle the sacks while `recycling' a family member. Sounds morbid, I know."

"I don't think so. I like this a lot. Can I help in any way?"

"No, Honey. This is the last thing I will make for your father to wear. Solo project, Jeff. I would like, though, if you'll take this to town with you tomorrow and drop it off at the funeral home. Jerry will know what to do with it."

"Yeah, I understand completely. Or as much as I can. Mom, do you want something to drink? I'm going to have some ginger ale."

"You and your dad and ginger ale! Yes, please; I'd like some, too. Anders is in the basement with Lola Cola; would you please check if he'd like something, too?"

"I will."

I skipped two steps at a time down to the extra-deep basement. Anders and Lola Cola were playing, indeed. They were so great together. Perfect companions, and at that time, a fur baby was as close to a seventh generation on this farm as we got.

"I'm getting some ginger ale for Mom and me. Would you like some, or something else?"

"Hmmm.....yeah, I would. That's perfect."

I returned upstairs to hear Mom whistling and singing while working on the gunny sacks. She was always doing that when she was being "domestic". It made the house even homier when she did musical things. I poured ginger ale over three glasses of ice, and took Mom hers. She smiled and said, "aaaahhhhh.....just what I needed. Thank you, Honey. What are your brother and his bear-imitating dog doing down there?"

"Just playing. She really likes tug-o'-war, and she is not weak! I'd say fairly evenly matched. I'm going to check emails on my laptop, in the kitchen. Holler if you need something, Mom; and don't lift heavy things on your own."

"Okay, I won't."

She resumed humming and I returned to the basement. I walked Anders' glass over to him and sat on the old sofa we had down there. Anders was next to me.

"What is she doing up there?"

"Building Dad's shroud. It's pretty neat, really. Simple and practical, nothing artificial going in the land. Apparently that's how Dad's parents were buried, too"

"Oh. I wondered what Dad will be dressed in."

"Nothing when he's buried. It'll just be him inside the cotton shroud. Um, what are you wearing tomorrow, for the funeral?"

"I brought a suit. What about you?"

"I have mine Mom and Dad bought me at the beginning of the school year for the Homecoming Dance. I tried it on already. Still fits, though my arms and shoulders are tight in it. I'll be okay."

"We'll probably be the only ones in suits."

"No doubt, Big Brother. Um, you know what I think we should do.....?"

"Wear clean and nice farm clothes, and take the suits with us, in case we see anyone else in a suit?"

"There you go, reading my mind again."

"Easy to read your mind; there's not much in there, and what is was written with the BIG crayons!"

"Evil Big Brother! Hey, unrelated, but apropos a comment you made earlier. Something about watching Lola Cola and her pups chase butterflies. Are you thinking of breeding her?"

"You're too late, Little Brother; she was bred two weeks ago."

"Wow! With another Bernese?"

"No. A Rat Terrier. OF COURSE another Bernese, with papers. Lola Cola has papers, so we'll register the births. The father's human wants a split right down the middle in the number of litter. I agreed to it. I'm hoping for no more than four pups, all of them healthy. However, if I get a runt, I'll love it and give it the same home the rest would get."

"I like that a lot! So I'm gonna be an uncle, Lola Cola?"

She woofed and wagged her tail, at who knows what. I took it as an affirmation, regardless.

"Jeff, Dad's brothers aren't well enough to travel. Vasily is really suffering with COPD, and Pavel is just mentally declining fast. His doctor said it would not be advisable for him to be here. It's just going to be us out here, Father Tim and Jerry; he has to sign paperwork stating Dad is buried legally, and Jerry personally witnessed it."

"Anders, I don't feel sad at the moment, but I think the funeral will be difficult for me. I realize your reaction will likely not be like mine, but please stand next to me, okay? I'll need your strength."

"I was planning on Mom being right between us, but we can make this work."

"Nope.....you're right. Mom in the middle. We are her protectors now. It's what Dad would want to see, and probably everyone else. You just being close to me will give me strength, Big Brother."

"Do you know what the arrangements are for the funeral? Pallbearers, music, all that?"

"Mom says it's all arranged, and was in advance. How long ago they did it, I don't know. When Mom and I were talking about it awhile ago, she said six of Dad's friends and neighbors would load Dad from the funeral home cooler into the SUV. They already know to come to the funeral home after it's over."

It was time to go upstairs and get caught up on neglected email correspondence. Anders and Lola Cola stayed down and played some more. I wandered into the sewing room, but no Mom.

"Come in the living room, Jeff!"

I walked in to see several opened gunny sacks laid together, all edges connected. It looked to me to be 8' wide and 10'. I asked Mom if I understood her concept, and explained what I thought I was seeing. She confirmed, with some details I would not have considered.

"If I have to much muslin, I can trim it back. I want this to fit your dad snugly. When we lower him, I want him to be stable, so he won't move around in the shroud and be off balance."

From the remnants, Mom would create four long, wide strips of muslin fabric, from the same gunny sacks. These were for us to hold onto with Dad lying on top of them, which we would then lower into the grave. We would also add a bushel of alfalfa spread on the floor of the grave first, then place dad in, and then more alfalfa over the top. Then before adding the soil back to the top, we'd throw in some cow manure in the grave. Everything would work together to decompose Dad and make him beneficial soil for the land. He will be involved in the farm more than he thought he would be, once buried.

Checking email was not a long process. Few, actually; and most of that was correspondence from the University of Montana. They'd received my registration paperwork and payment for that fee. Fees here, tuition there.....oy. I closed the laptop and took it back upstairs to my room. My room seemed so quiet now. Gone was the typical evening ambiance of Dad listening to some evening music on the public radio station, and the rustle of the newspaper he'd read at the same time. The smallest things, trivial and mundane, made their absence known at deafening decibels.

I showered before bed, and even changed the sheets. Finding some `quiet night' music on Spotify and relaxing with the last chapter of book was my late evening. The window of my room was open and a gentle breeze rustled the curtains and brought with it air that moved over the crops. Even with only that unmistakable aroma, even if I never saw the crops with my eyes, I knew harvest was only hours away. The sound of the wheat stalks as they moved against each other in breeze was also telling. It was a sharper sound now. The stalks were no longer green and full of water. Drier now and taller, more mature and with greater purpose.

I was thinking of the wheat, but I hoped the same could be said for me. I loved my age, but I yearned to not be green, to be more mature, to have this farm succeed as my greater purpose. I am, for now, the culmination of six generations and 130 years within them. Everything my kin wanted for this land was now my responsibility to deliver on.

Marc or a man like him to be here with me was not seeming to be in my future. He's not moving here and I'm not moving there. Was there a compromise----anything that could be done----to continue on this course, but past August? Nope. I didn't think so. A dream, but what a nice dream.

I faded off into one, something about muffins and cherry pies and prize ribbons and carnival rides. All the things that create the one-week-a-year illusion of a challenge-free community. And a dream of Marc. Two days is all I've known you, but it seems like months. You're so comfortable; your arms around me, your lips on mine, your voice in my ears. You are more than welcome in my dreams, Professor; that might be the only place where I can keep you, all to myself.