Not a Farmer

 "How long ya figure Marshall's gonna stay around?" Edna asked the question once she and Carl were alone at the table.

Carl hesitated, his coffee cup just inches from his lips.

 "Not much longer if he has his way," Carl answered. "You and me both know that he hates this place. He'd be gone in a minute if he had the money. Never thought a boy'a mine would hate farmin' so."

 "Well, farmin's not for everybody and ya know ya work 'im pretty hard, Carl."

 "Yea, I work 'im hard," Carl stared at his wife. "But not a bit harder than I work Thomas or James...or myself. Farmin' is hard work, no one ever said it weren't. And if a farmin' family is what ya born inta, then ya gonna hafta do some farmin', plain and simple."

 "I know, hon." Edna said and patted her husband's forearm. She knew Carl did not like working his kids so hard, but the Depression, as the politicians called it, didn't leave him much choice. And here in 1937 Arkansas, while the state's motto was "The Land of Opportunity," there had not been a lot of opportunity in a number of years. 

 "At least we're not sharecroppers," Carl would reminder her occasionally.

Carl was proud of the fact that every one of the 116 acres of prime Cross County farmland was all his and Edna's. Because of that, they didn't have to worry about a banker breathing down their necks as some farmers had to. And while it was not anything like the "company" farms he'd heard tell of, it was enough to feed his family with a little left over to put aside.

Then if a person added to that a couple of hogs, a milk cow and two dozen hens, a family could keep a well-stocked dinner table. All in all, compared to a lot of the people he saw, his family was doing about as well as anybody around. They had been poor before the depression and it was not much different now.

They did see a good many people who weren't doing so well, though. Almost every day hobo's, bums, itinerate workers, displaced teenagers, and every other sort imaginable would pass through looking for work or a bed or a meal.

The Southern Pacific tracks were less than a hundred yards from their front door. A ditch as well as a four-foot wire fence ran between the tracks and the gravel road in front of the home place, but it never stopped anyone from coming over to beg for a handout. And Edna always obliged.

 "Ya givin' away all our food," Carl would scold her, but she never turned down a hungry soul.

His words were not about to stop her from doing, what she called, her "Christian duty." She wasn't the only one in the family who gave handouts, however, Marshall was almost as bad.

A couple of years before on a Sunday afternoon, Carl and Edna and the younger kids had gone to visit her brother, Alonzo. They came home later that afternoon to find that someone had been in the house. A quick scan showed that nothing was missing...except food. Whoever had been there had eaten half of what was left from the noon meal. And Marshall was the only one home at the time.

 "Marshall," Carl asked his son when the boy came in from hunting. "Did you let someone in the house while we were gone."

 "Yessir," Marshall said smiling with Samaritan pride. "It was a family. Man, wife and two boys got off the train. I was sittin' on the porch cleanin' my rifle. They came and asked if there was some food. I said 'sure' and showed 'em in."

Carl stared at Marshall not knowing at first how to respond. He had always admired his son's truthfulness. In fact, he had once told Edna that Marshall was the only person he had ever seen who, he believed, would cut his own hand off rather than tell a lie to someone.

But, truthful or not, good Samaritan or not, this was just too much. Strangers in his house was something Carl simply could not tolerate. He also knew, however, that a lecture or even a whipping would have had little effect on his son. In fact, the only thing he had ever really "stung" Marshall was his or Edna's disapproval.

 "Sit down, son," Carl motioned him to the porch steps. They sat side-by-side staring off into the field. "Ya momma's given out a lota food over the years and we're proud to do it. But, son, she don't bring 'em inta the house to feed 'em. That's just askin' for trouble. So, if you wanna help 'em take a plate out to 'em, but don't ever let 'em in our house again. Understand, son?"

 "Yessir," Marshall nodded. "It won't happen again."

 "Good," Carl said, patting his son on the back. "And remember, we've gotta feed our family first, so make sure you don't hand out everything."

 "Yessir," Marshall repeated, returning the grin, then stood and trotted toward the barn.

Neither one of them realized that Edna had been listening to the exchange behind the front door screen.

 "We have plenty, Carl" She said when Marshall had gotten out of earshot.

 "For now, we do," He said as he walked up the steps and into the house. "But I think things are gonna get worse way before they get better. We need to get used to saying 'no."

As he said this, she gave him a look that almost made him ashamed that he didn't just parcel out the farm inch by inch to anyone that asked. Then she said in her most disapproving voice, "Carl, we could be where those people are, but for God's grace."

He always hated it when she started preaching. He never knew how to respond. She was a churchgoer, and he was not. The last time he had gone was well over a year before that and the only reason he went then was because Jenny, his youngest daughter, had asked him. She was four at the time and, naturally, had him wrapped around her finger.

When Carl led Edna and most of their kids into the Fortner Crossing Baptist Church that Sunday morning, he thought he was going to get hugged and back slapped to death.

 "Carl," Uncle Billy Pyle rushed up and grabbed him in a bear hug when he saw him. "Boy, it's good to see ya here. Edna, how you?"

 "Just fine Uncle Billy," She smiled and tried to push Carl along to a seat knowing he was uncomfortable enough even without all the attention.

Uncle Billy held onto Carl, though, and turned around to introduce him to Joe Hemphill, Curley Adams and several people Carl already knew and most of whom he was not particularly fond of.

 "Carl."

He recognized the deep voice of Reverend Adam Ray behind him. He turned and the pastor took and held Carl's hand in both of his beefy mitts.

 "Son, welcome." Reverend Ray said. "I been waiting for ya. Knew sooner or later the Lord'd get a hold of ya."

 "Mornin', preacher," Carl said, amused that he had called him "son" considering they were both about forty.

After a few more hugs and handshakes, Carl finally managed to get to the pew where Edna was already seated. He wedged himself in between his wife and Miss Mable Carson, the spinster school "marm".

 "Hello, Mr. Bentwood," Miss Carson said, staring straight ahead. "How is Marshall doing. I hope and pray that someone is still trying to talk some sense into him."

 "Doin fine, Ma'am," He lied, happily refusing to return the coolness of her words. "He seems to be right where he wants to be."

 "We all wish he hadn't quit, Mable." Edna picked up the conversation, trying to keep it civil. "Carl, too. He tried to talk him out of it, but ya know how Marshall is. He's got a head as thick as an anvil and twice as hard."

 "Well," The marm adjusted herself in her seat. "I just know that it is a terrible waste! A terrible waste."

Fortunately, P. L. Simpson, the song leader, had decided it was time to start the service. He arose from his seat on the small dais and leaned his lanky frame over the podium as if to reach out and touch everyone not only with his music, but literally.

 "Everyone turn to page 165 in the hymnal and let's praise the Lord with Amazing Grace."

The congregation proceeded to sing hymn after hymn in mostly off-key voices, the most off-key also being the loudest. After twenty minutes the church's four deacons brought out the offering plates. Dick Adams, one of the four, prayed heartily for the Lord to open the hearts and pocketbooks of His children. Then, with the people duly charged, the four stern-faced men began passing the plates row-by-row. A few minutes later, the deacons returned to the front of the sanctuary, the four plates now overflowing with money that the people didn't have. Once the deacons had gone into the back of the church to count the take, Pastor Ray arose and strode to the podium where he laid his Bible open. He gripped both sides of the podium and stared out over the crowd. His command silence met their silence of anticipation and he savored the moment...milked the moment. Then he spoke.

 "Today, we'll be in Luke, Chapter 15, beginning with verse eleven," The pastor boomed and immediately began reading the parable of the Prodigal Son. He then preached for over an hour directly at Carl. At least that's what Carl thought simply because he was the only "fresh meat" for the preacher's pastoral fire. A few times during the sermon, Carl felt a tingling at the back of his neck but ignored it.

Carl had heard somewhere about what Christians called the Holy Spirit. And he knew that a lot of people felt that tingling or some other feeling when the Holy Spirit "touched" them. But he didn't like being pushed by anybody, not even the Holy Spirit. He did things on his schedule and in his way, not God's. And if he ever did decide to become a Christian, he would do it when he got good and ready not before.

After services, Carl and Edna walked the quarter mile to their house. The kids were jabbering as kids do, but neither parent spoke. When they got home, Carl strode inside, went immediately to a cabinet above the sink in the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Edna watched, but said nothing as he poured three fingers into a drinking glass, returned the bottle to the cabinet and sat down at the kitchen table. After a moment, he raised the glass to his lips and took a sip of the whiskey.

 "Don't every expect me to go again." He said it almost in a whisper, but never looking at her.

Edna acted as if she hadn't heard him, but he knew she had.