Little Bluestem: Stories from Rural America

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  “They’re not even going to bother with the house. Jared said they’ll just go on down to Prairie and get one of them modulars. Or a double-wide.” One of the neighbors was walking up from the shed towards the barn. There was the tractor up there to do, one Jersey milk cow, the Surge equipment and line, and the bulk tank. The auctioneer was pretty specific about the barn. Then the house. That had triggered what he had overheard. Another neighbor had bought the place for their son. Simmons? He thought that was the name. He looked past the two women, walking up, and down towards the shed. They had worked through its contents like a corn picker, taking the best and spitting out the stalks, the little stuff, for later on. Now they was on to the little stuff. Not much little stuff, but what they had was on that wagon. The auctioneer had got back on the platform he had rigged on the back of his pickup and one of the assistants was up on the wagon.

  Now this here is a grab bag item, folks.

  The handler lifted up a cardboard box and tilted it towards the crowd, showing its contents this way and that.

  This is where it gets interesting now. You take a look. You put your money down and you take your chance. What am I bid now for the whole box? No, ma’am. We can’t itemize it. Just the whole box. Grab bag, folks. What’ll you give for the whole works. Step up and have a go! Who’ll get me started? Givemea-ten-andateneanatenanda-seven- andaeanasevenuheanasevenans-five-aneanafiveeheanafive…

  The assistant continued his rounds with the box, stepping over a couple of halters, leather not nylon, that he thought about getting but that was before the stone boat and the running gear for a wagon and the bob sled. He had thought they would take all those items out into the yard—still green in late October—but it had started out as a raw day and perhaps that was just as well. But it was tough on the crowd in there and he had made sure to go in early and one of the handlers was looking right at him most of the time, figurin’ that he was figurin’, and no one bid him up—except on the running gear which most everyone can use. So part of Lester’s shed was his. He thought of Lester’s family but who would be there? Perhaps a niece or nephew? He saw no one standing off the side or up at the house or talking to one of the auction people or standing offhand by where they give you the numbers up in the milkhouse. Whoever was family was not going to get much. Oh, it was a fair crowd all right. Mostly Bear Valley people, a couple of others from places round about. Early on, he seen one of Hanson’s Implement people scouting about, but not much here for him. No, sir! No big stuff or new painted stuff here. Maybe the tractor. Hansons liked to move the tractors.

  He had gone back their way on that first day in June and drove through the lot just to price things out. There was one of the newer side deliveries, maybe ten, twelve years old. Efficient enough, but heavy. Got to jack it up to get it on the tractor tow bar. There was one in good shape and he had got the number and walked in to talk to Jack. Pulled open the desk drawer and looked the number up on the little list and paused there a little, too, before looking up, blinking before getting that cool, even stare of his: “Seven-fifty.”

  “Kind of high, don’t you think, Jack.” He remembers looking down and the paper now being slid back into the desk.

  “Well, you know, Gordon, it’s haying season. Rakes, wagons, balers is what they all want this time of year. Had two or three in here looking this morning.”

  “But not buying.”

  “Buyin’? Oh, they’ll be back.” Just then his name, Jack Hanson, nice and clear, repeated two times over the intercom. Even here at Hansons, he thought, the noise of the new ways. Hansons Implement on the move. He remembers nodding as Jack picks up the phone. “Thanks.”

  Now here’s a unique item, folks. Something from memory lane here for sure. Darrell, how many of them is you holdin’? Two or three? Ah, there it is, two. Two of them short handled sickles, sharpened and ready to go with almost-new, looks-like-hickory handles! Yessir, a collector’s item. Something for the fence row or something for the wall. Who’ll give me twenty. Twenty? Fifteen. Fifteenafifteena-te’en for two...

  He remembers working the side delivery with the team. It ran out free and easy, spinning grass into hay with less noise now than his. Lester’s would be always Lester’s. And because of that he had gone back once, mid-July, to tell him how it was. And Lester had produced some blackberries, fresh picked, and they had splashed them in some cold milk from the spring house, sitting out in the lull of the evening coming on, scolded by a swallow as they sat on the porch, looking at the birds in and out of the barn, a nighthawk above, beginning to collect insects, no cars on the road. Quiet.

  Quiet and the last time. Had been back once more in September. But the door was locked and the window curtains pulled tight. Hadn’t wanted to snoop, but it just felt shut up. Had wondered of a nursing home or hospital. But the feel was simply gone. Passed away? Passed out of sight for sure. Not really moved off or drifted away. More like settled it. Had gone to town and settled things. He tapped on the window pane a couple more times and didn’t even bother with the barn. The weeds were high along the bank side facing the road. Canada thistles.

  When they finished with the wagon, he was finished. The wind had shifted northwest and was pickin’ up. “Well, I’m done,” he had said to no one in particular. Somebody had started taking things out of the house and just looking at them coming out—tables, headboards, dressers—he knew he wouldn’t be waitin’ for the house. You take a man’s field equipment and let it stand around, cobbled together, and it’s bad enough, even though it looks natural enough out in the air where it belongs. But when the house has got to come outside, too. And the bedroom is out on the front lawn with the threat of rain, well, the whole place of it is lost. These things were placed somewhere, used, cared for, made up, and—much later—made do. They was a part of a life, gathered and arranged by a person and a spirit of life cultivated nurtured here right along with the fields. What would they be doin’ on the front lawn? Lawn already slicked up in places from where the tires of the auction people had spun out earlier, probably in morning dew.

  So he left. He knew he wouldn’t be taking the Lobo up here for a while yet. Not down Bear Creek anyway. The wind was up, ruffling the tablecloth on the table as he turned to go.