13
It was September.
There wasn’t a second cut of hay. And very little of our field corn could I cut or try to sell for silage. The ears were few and stunted, yet I collected every one to shuck for our chickens.
During warm weather, our hens roamed free, surviving by pecking at every bug and beetle. Winter was another story. The snow and cold demanded that our chickens would stay cooped. Corn had to be provided. An animal, even a hen, burns more fuel in winter. So do people. This meant that our teapot money drained away to vacant.
Mama and Carrie canned every vegetable that I could dig up from our little backyard garden. Not much to can. In better years, my mother and aunt would spend weeks by the stove, paring, slicing, and processing all their jars on our Acme American stove.
One time, sweaty with boiling beets, Mama said to her sister, “There be only two seasons in Vermont. Winter and canning.” Mama had a wit.
At least I kept my job at Ferguson’s Feed & Seed. During my noon hour, on the first day of September, I made a trip to the Town Clerk’s office. A lady was there. The only person.
“How do,” I said, taking off my hat. “My name is Robert Peck. Me and my family, we’re uphillers. Is this where people pay taxes?”
“You’re here for that purpose?”
“Yes’m.” I swallowed. “No, because I don’t have the thirty-five dollars. Not a penny of it. My father died, and …”
“What’s your name again?”
“Peck.”
She searched through her records, then stopped. “Haven Peck?”
“No, I’m his son. He’s dead. Please, tell me what happens if I can’t pay.”
“Then your property is placed in jeopardy. Perhaps you ought to consult a lawyer. My brother-in-law happens to be …”
“Excuse me. I want to be polite, but we don’t have a lot to spend, on anything.”
I nodded. “Yes, a regular job at the feedstore, right here in Learning. If you doubt it, you can ask Mr. Porter Ferguson.”
“How old are you, young man?”
“Thirteen. Does that make a difference?”
“Not usual. I was just curious. You’ll have to register for school in two days. And attend. You won’t be working any longer. By the way, what was your stipend at the feedstore?”
“My what?”
“Pay. What do you earn?”
I smiled at her. “Well, I started there at fifty cents a day, but because I come early and stayed late, Mr. Ferguson upped my wage to seventy-five cents.”
“Six days a week for Mr. Ferguson?”
“Yup. I mean yes’m.”
“Do you own your farm outright, or is there some sort of a lien or mortgage on it?”
“It’s mortgaged. But we’ve been paying it off pretty steady. Only four years to go and it’s all ours. Free and clear.”
The lady made a note on our paper.
“Your property will not be free and clear if you haven’t settled your annual tax. How do you propose to raise thirty-five dollars? Or do you expect to become a burden to the township?”
“No, I don’t.”
“By statute, there is a fiduciary obligation on indebted real property. Legally, no continuant can be considered in our jurisdiction without further proof of viable assets. An attorney, for a reasonable fee, can explain all this to you and then represent you in court, at which time you can opt for a judicial review.”
My knees started to wobble. Inside my brain, all she’d said was starting to mill around, and I didn’t savvy a word. “We want to pay our taxes. But can’t right now. By next growing season, in a year, I’ll be able to settle whatever we owe.”
The woman smirked. “If I had a dime for every deadbeat that gives me that story, I’d be rolling rich.”
“Thank you,” I told her, even though she hadn’t given me much of a cheering.
When I returned to the feedstore, Mr. Ferguson was messing through a pile of papers. He sat with his ledger book before him.
“Few of the people who trade here are paying me any cash. What they owe’s on the cuff.” Mr. Ferguson shook his head. “And my cuff isn’t big enough.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferguson. It would be nifty if you’d prosper. You’re a honest merchant.”
“Rob,” he said, looking up at me over his half-moon glasses, “I can’t afford to keep you on. You’re a worker. But we’re all into tough times. If business takes a healthier turn, I’ll hire you again.”
I felt stunned.
“Then I’m all through here?”
“Yup. I’m sorry. Hope you know it.” He pointed at a ten-pound burlap sack. “So we’ll part as friends, there’s a bag of cracked corn. Take it. Before spring, your chickens might get hungry.”
Thanking him, I left uproad for home.
When I reported to Mama and Aunt Carrie about my double dose of bad news, they both told me not to fret about it, because school was starting up again.
Mr. Ferguson’s cracked corn never made it to our hen coop. Out of necessity, I fed it into our hand grinder, turning it into meal. Mama baked bread with it. Then apologized for its taste. This was corn not intended for people. But we had to live.
Just on a slim hunch, I went to visit our easterly neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Long. Her name used to be Mrs. Bascom, a widow, but she married Ira Long, her hired man.
They had both become close friends.
“Any chance that you people might be needing an extra hand on your place? If so, I’ll work hard and cheap.”
Their faces told me the answer before they did. “No chance at all, Robert,” said Mrs. Long. “I don’t have to tell you that money’s pretty scarce right now.”
Ira said, “Maybe you hadn’t heard. But the paper mill in town is only running two days a week. Not enough orders to meet a payroll.”
I clenched my teeth, took a breath, and made them a second offer. “You won’t have to pay me,” I said. “Not in cash. Because I’m willing to work for food.” I looked at both of them. “Please, just for something to eat. If you kill a hog, I’ll help, if you give us the hoof meat.”
Mrs. Long and her husband looked at each other, then back at me. “I believe,” she said, “we might take you on, Rob.”
Ira nodded. “At least at day’s end,” he said, “you’ll be able to tote home a few goodies. It’s a deal.”
He shook my hand.
“However,” Mrs. Long said, with a smile on her pleasant face, “we can’t allow you to skip school. It wouldn’t be right, would it, Ira?”
“No indeed. Our bargain is for Saturday only.”
“All right,” I said. “Even if it goes against the Shaker faith, I’ll work Sunday, too, if need. Or during the week. If you can light a lantern in the barn, I can tackle night work. Any dirty job you don’t aim to do, I’ll handle.”
Ira smiled too. “You know,” he said, “before today, I don’t guess I ever realized that manhood comes in a pint size.”
Mrs. Long said, “Robert, I took a pair of pies out of the oven about half an hour ago. Would you please do me a favor?”
“Yes’m.”
“Wait right there.”
She left for the kitchen. In a breath or two, she returned, carrying an entire pie. And for me, a glass of milk.
The fresh smell told me what pie it was.
“Blueberry,” I said.
“You got a nose,” Ira said and pretended to punch my shoulder. “You ought to been born a coonhound.”
I laughed. So did the Longs. It felt good. Strange, but I hadn’t been laughing much of late, and it was a righteous joy to turn it loose. It was as though I had a mouthful of wrens that wanted to fly free.
“Your mother’s a good cook, Rob,” said Mrs. Long. “So I’d value your family’s opinion of my pie. Because I might enter it at the county fair next week.”
Mrs. Long, on a second trip, brought three plates, a knife, and three forks. She cut the pie into six, and we ate a half of it, three generous slabs. I sure didn’t need much urging to attack my share. If my appreciating was the favor Mrs. Long wanted, I was certain willing to grant it.
Ira and I held our forks like people do at home. Knuckles up. But his pretty woman held her fork a odd way. Knuckles down. There was no understanding female folk.
We finished our pie. I wondered if my mouth had turned as blue as Ira’s.
He asked, “Rob, did you hear about the boy in Learning who ate a entire blueberry pie, all six pieces?”
“No,” I said, “what happened to him?”
“Well, he went to a dog show, yawned, and took third prize.”
We all hooted at that, even though I’d heard it from both Papa and Ben Tanner. But old jokes are as good as old friends. However, inside me, I was feeling guilty that I had eaten blueberry pie while my mother and aunt had none.
“Dear, dear,” said Mrs. Long, “that other pie is only going to spoil rotten, and I’ll have to throw it out.”
“The hogs’ll eat it,” Ira said.
“Or,” said his wife, “I might bury it out in the garden. You know, to help fertilize my petunias.”
The two of them were winking at each other, and I was a bit slow to catch on. Yet it was a merry moment when Mrs. Long made me carry the other pie (a whole one) back to our place.
That evening, Mama and Aunt Carrie and I took quick care of half of it. We saved half of the blueberry pie for breakfast.
Not a crumb was wasted. Nary a speck.
We pecked pie like sparrows.