Tending

The rolling fields of grass whereupon George Mayback’s farm is located were wet with late September’s morning dew. The rooster perched himself on the low wooden fence and cried into the vast dawn sky bleeding shadows of ripe daylight. Mornings like these were beginning to prompt a chill as autumn began to turn over, just as George did in his bed. 

Efforts to arise were proving increasingly difficult. But steadily, George aligned himself with the axis of his spine and sat upwards. He brushed his hand over his face and allowed himself to ease into comfort before setting foot onto the wooden floor. He noticed the pain in his back was not as sharp today, but became sort of ambiguous in his old age.

George was a farmer through and through. He’s lived in Fallburg, Ohio, for all of his 75 years. His destiny as a Mayback has been informed by generations of agricultural maintenance. His father inherited the farm in 1893, one year before George was born, and settled into the green pastures that George has tended to since he was six years old. It was his father who taught him how to sow the luscious dirt and care for the animals that cooed in the barn: cows, chickens, and horses. 

George remembers days when his mother baked bread from the fresh eggs he collected for her in a wicker basket. On the window sill, they would cool and George could smell it wafting across the field. Fresh bread and butter were his favorite things to eat after hours of sweating through his flannel shirt out in the pasture. His mother encouraged him to drink a glass of milk to keep his bones healthy and strong. It was here that George and his parents lived for decades.

With no family of his own, George felt it was his obligation to preserve the sanctity of the Mayback farm in honor of his mother and father. He was a man that took dignity in his work and the bounties he could cultivate. George was long known in Fallburg by many but this amicability was not reciprocated. He kept his head down and worked. The farm has always been his pride and joy, why should he make friends? After decades of sowing, he reaped only nature’s spite. 

It was an early April day, fifteen years ago. George stepped foot outside the door in his rubber boots and made for the dirt that beckoned him. He raised his hoe with two hands above his head to strike the ground. In his stature of momentum, he gasped sharply. His lower back resisted the force with which he would drive into the ground just as he had done for decades. The jagged shock of stress he felt in his back brought him to his knees. His hollers of pain ripped into the clouds that hovered above his head and cracked with thunder.  

Arthur lived just a house over and knew of the elusive farmer. Some days, when Arthur went on walks, he would pass George along his trail in the low grass. Arthur’s parents often talked amongst themselves about the poor man, all alone now. I swear he’s always out there working. That can’t be good for him, Arthur’s mother would say. From the window of his kitchen, at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Arthur could observe George outside from the moment the sun rose to when it fell. This day was no different, but Arthur saw the thick grey clouds crawl across the sky like a spider as George collapsed and felt worried. His screams rippled through the glass window and Arthur felt prompted to help. 

The rain followed suit, and George winced in disbelief. He staggered across the field as the heavy rain fell onto his haltered posture–each droplet debilitating his strength. He began to wonder if he would be able to make it inside, his duties to plant still at the forefront of his mind. His breaths became shallow. 

Arthur ran as quickly as he could across the grass. “Hey, hey!” he called out. Arthur waved his hands above his head, as George squinted and saw a figure cloaked in yellow rubber approaching. In his delirium, he swore it to be the Morton Salt Girl. Thunder boomed from above. 

Arthur stood before George as he let out a groan. 

“Are you okay? Let’s get you inside.” 

“No, no. I’m okay. Get on. Really, I am, I just–”

George paused. From underneath the hood of Arthur’s coat, George was surprised to see his neighbor’s face for the first time. He had Down Syndrome.

“Do-do your parents know you’re out here right now, boy?” George tried to say through his labored breathing. “Don’t worry, I’m here to help you.” Arthur extended his hand toward the farmer now kneeling in the mud. Arthur’s hand was small and George hesitated before allowing him to hoist him up, surprised by his strength. “You’re almost inside. Just lean on me, okay?” Arthur said, wrapping George’s arm around his shoulder. 

At eight o’clock on this late-September morning, George awaits at the kitchen table for his friend. 

There’s a knock at the door and George shuffles over, smiling warmly to see Arthur in his flannel shirt and dirt-lacquered jeans. “You know you don’t need to knock any more, son. I know it’s you, Mayback.” His voice rattles with age. George’s eyes, grey with time, soften with gratitude. He watches as Arthur turns to the cabinet to grab a tin of coffee grounds. “How is your back this morning, George?” He asks as he fixes the filter of the coffee maker. “Ah, it’s not too bad today. I actually got up quicker than I thought I would.” 

“I hope you don’t think I’m making coffee for you.” Arthur kids. “I need this today more than ever. It’s gonna be a long day of harvesting.” George lets out a hearty laugh. He knows that Arthur does not drink coffee and that he’s brewing fresh joe just for him. “Sure is. Drink a glass of milk before you go on out there, Art. I’ll see you back inside for lunch.” 

Clutching a pail across the fields, Arthur makes his way to the barn doors. Humming an old song under his breath, he greets the animals with a gentle caress on their foreheads. The horses sigh with recognition of Arthur as he smooths his thumb down the bridge of their noses. The cows flick their ears as he draws near. Their tails swing in anticipation of their friend. The chickens strut about his feet.

After his duties inside the barn, Arthur grabs a scythe from the wall and heads for fields wielding tall stocks of grain. He stands before the long, wavering stems and whacks outwards. The lofty bran falls around him as he trudges through. 

From inside, George watches Arthur work, nursing a cup of coffee between his leathered hands.