Peeled and worn

Scarred by snow shovels

Blistered from Summer sun

Faded beauty needing love

Dreading the chore

I gathered the tools

Sandpaper, stain and brushes

A day of play given away

Cedar smeared along the grain

Rejuvenating oil filled the flaws

Each stroke caressed the thirsty pores

Wood’s magnificence was restored.

More than lifeless planks held by screws

A deck embraces family and friends

Breaking bread, making memories.

Refreshed, it’s time to party.

Smoke rings circle the old man’s head as he rocks back and forth, deep in thought.  His favorite spot after dinner is the southeast corner by the kitchen’s wood burning stove.  The January snow cover is 2 feet, deeper than usual at this time of year and the daytime temperatures hover around a frigid 12 degrees Fahrenheit.  Chores start before sun up and continue long after the sun dips into the West because the cows need to be milked every twelve hours.  His stooped frame aches from the extreme cold and he wonders how many more winters he will be able to work.

Gnarled fingers pull the pipe from his mouth.  He tamps down the tobacco with his left thumb, sucks in air through the chewed mouthpiece a couple of times and tamps it again.  Satisfied that the flame will last, he returns the pipe to his lips.

Weathered by the elements, his face is pitted and lined, causing him to appear older than his 82 years.  Unruly shocks of grey hair surround compassionate blue eyes.  The family lost the best milk producer today.  She slipped in the free stall barn and could not get up.  It hurts to put an animal down, but it had to be done and as the head of the family, it was Alfred’s job.  When it was done,  he took her to the edge of the field, near the woods, dug a hole with the John Deere bucket and buried her near the stone wall, under the maple tree.  He never gave death a thought until recently.  It always seemed a natural part of the life cycle.  But as his time grows nearer, his grandchildren’s laughter is sweeter, the hawk circling the cornfield in search of prey appears more majestic and the daffodils poking through the frosty ground are brighter as they blast the arrival of Spring.

The rhythmic creaking of chair runners against the worn, wide-board floor sounds farther and farther away.  Alfred’s chin sinks toward his chest, but he catches himself, snapping his head back with a jolt.  The work day had not yet ended..  He parks his pipe in the dented, pewter ashtray to his right and forces his weary body to a standing position.

Still dressed in his faded denim blue jeans and threadbare, red flannel shirt, he scuffed across the kitchen floor in his turned over fleece lined leather slippers.  Stacked in neat piles on the steel farm table were the month’s bills.  The milk check was deposited this afternoon.  As was his habit, he would face the bills tonight.  Heaving a sigh, he sinks into the white, painted chair and pulls a pile towards him.  With a quick flip through the pages, he sees that this month is no different than any other.  He owes more than he can pay.  The cost of grain, electricity, equipment and building maintenance skyrocketed, but milk prices have not risen proportionately.  Alfred’s heart aches for his son who spent his entire life on the farm and expects to pass it down to his son.  Five generations lived and died on the land.  How could he tell his son that they were going under?

A rap at the door pulls him from his thoughts.

“Dad, are you still up?” a voice calls from the other side of the door.

“Yup.”

Will enters.  He is a 25 year younger version of his father.  He pulls out a chair and sits down

Fidgeting in his seat, Will struggles for words.

Without looking up, Alfred asks, “What’s on your mind, son.”

“I found a way to keep the land.”

Alfred looked up in disbelief.  “What?”

“I know we’ve been in tough shape for a long time.”

“You knew?  Sorry, I didn’t know how to break it to you.”

“That’s OK, Dad. I’ve been trying to get up the courage to tell you that I made a deal with a guy from New York who wants to start a winery.  He’s willing to sign a long term lease and hire us to work the place.  Best part is we can stay here.  Dad, say you’ll sign the papers.”

Alfred looked from the piled bills to his son’s eager face.  “Son, this is your decision and your future.  I didn’t think there was a way to save the farm, but you came up with one.  I will be happy to spend the rest of my days watching the sun set over the vineyard.

Will smiled.

Son, I’m proud of you.

Karen walked to her car as fast as she could.  Her footsteps echoed in the empty parking garage.  She picked up her pace to a fast jog.  His gait quickened.  The hair stood up on the back of her neck as she felt him closing the gap.  Her sleek, crimson Corvette was around the next concrete pillar.  She could not give up now.  Failure was not an option.  Reaching into her black, leather purse, she fumbled for her keys.  Fingers flew past lipstick, hair brush, a package of tissue, notebook and a pen.

“Crap!  Where are those damn keys?”  she mumbled as she dug through the mess.  At the bottom of her purse, trembling hands found the key fob tucked into a corner.  She was breathless and her legs felt like rubber.  It was now or never.  This was her last chance.  She kicked off her three inch red pumps, hiked up her black, leather skirt and sprinted.  Cold concrete shredded her stockings and the tender skin beneath, but she felt no pain as her long legs extended like a gazelle’s.

Escape was within twenty feet.  Her thumb pressed the electronic key.  Instead of the headlights coming to life, the trunk lid popped open.  Panic set in.  Sounding like a charging bull, her stalker was gaining ground.  He was close, too close.  She dared not turn to look.  Another wild attempt with the key and the Chevy engine roared.  Two long strides and she reached the driver’s door.

“Focus, Karen, and you’re home free,” she whispered under her breath.

Her right hand reached for the door handle.  Before she had a firm grasp, a claw clamped onto her left shoulder.  In one movement, she spun around with lightning speed and planted her right knee into the attacker’s groin.  A blood curdling yell emitted from the chaser as he crumpled to the ground.  Knowing that her reprieve was brief, Karen flung open the car door and dove into the driver’s seat.  She punched the clutch and put the road machine into gear.  Squealing out of the parking space, the ‘Vette tore past the human heap.

Karen negotiated the corners like a NASCAR pro as she wound her way down from the sixth floor to the first floor exit.  Only the gate separated her from freedom.  With icy, blue eyes and a determined jaw, she floored the gas pedal. The gate shattered on impact, sending wood splinters over the hood and roof.  At the open garage doorway, Karen slammed on the brake to ease into traffic.  Without warning, two black and whites screeched to a stop, boxing her in.

“Dammit!” she yelled, banging her fist on the steering wheel.

“Get out of the car.”

Karen turned her head left toward the muffled voice.  She was staring down the barrel of a 9MM Beretta semi-automatic.  Defeated, she released the lock.  The door swung open and a smiling middle-aged, male face leaned into her space.

“Gotchya!  Hand over the jewels.”