“Real sociable, I call it,” Gran spoke, smiling.
Mother chuckled. “The opening gun of the Prestons’ social whirl. And I thought I had a surprise! Well, hold on to your respective seats, anyway. We are invited to the Van Keurans’ for Christmas Eve and they are coming here for Christmas dinner. I had my orders direct from Mrs.—er—Em’ly. Isn’t this something . . .” her face grew more serious and she sent a tender smile to Gran. “Something wonderful that you did, Gran.”
Janet jumped up. “You mean, Mother, that Andy is going to have a Christmas tree and gifts and . . . everything?”
“He certainly is.”
For once, Janet was too happy to bubble over. She just stood, her eyes twin stars, and breathed: “Gee, oh gee.”
A contented chuckle came from Father as he settled deeper into his chair: “Well, young lady, you sound as if Andy’s Christmas tree were more important than yours. We will have one too, you know!”
Janet looked at him; there was a faint hint of accusation in her eyes! “These grown-ups are so dense sometimes,” it seemed to say. “But, Dad, we always had one. It isn’t the same as having one for the very first time. But Andy . . . he’ll be awfully happy, won’t he, Dick?”
Dick, while Mother was talking, had sauntered over to the window and now stood with his back to the family. So no one could see the flushed, ear-to-ear grin on his face. They only heard his slow, casual answer: “I guess so.” Of course, he never knew that his voice sounded as if a small fairy-orchestra were playing the very melody of happiness that sang in his heart. Neither did he know that grown-ups don’t always hear the gruff, boyish voice, but have very good ears for the hidden melodies in boys’ hearts.
Suddenly he spun around. “Here comes Andy in an awful hurry.” He ran to meet his friend and in no time at all a breathless Andy catapulted into the room.
“Gramp,” he panted, his thumb jerking over his shoulder, “he’s a’chasin’ them men . . . with the pitchfork. He won’t pay me no heed just hollerin’ at them he is . . .”
Father jumped up. “Come on, Andy, we’ll have to do some tall lying, you and I,” he grabbed Andy by the arm, propelling him out the door, “to make Christmas come out right,” he grinned at his family before he disappeared.
Gran, Mother and the children streaked after them, pausing just long enough to snatch coats from the rack by the door. Mother threw Father’s coat at Dick. “Run and make him put it on . . . out in this wind in his shirtsleeves!”
They could hear the commotion before they came to the bend of the road. Then, the first thing they saw, were the men from the electric company, two on the very top of the pole by the Van Keuran barn, two half-way up and still climbing. Under the pole was Mr. Van Keuran, brandishing his pitchfork and shouting at the top of his voice.
“Get that pole out’a here, you bloomin’ polecats,” he roared. “Come on down and GIT!”
“Wait a minute, Jake,” Father cried, reaching him and laying a detaining hand on the pitchfork-arm. Mr. Van Keuran let out another bellow: “John Preston, you git away from me. I ain’t no pauper, hear? You ain’t gonna pay for nary a wire strung into my place, nobody is!” He glared at the men again: “You gonna git or am I comin’ up after you?” Then he stuck his chin into Father’s face: “You call ‘em off, hear?”
Father shrugged. “I can’t interfere with them. They have orders to wire this road up to your barn. It’s . . . some kind of war business. Isn’t it, men?” He looked up, winking broadly. The man lowest down on the pole grinned. “Mister, it’s anything you say as long as you get that . . .” Whatever he was going to call Gramp, got stuck on the glinting prongs of the pitchfork. “Get that man away from here,” he finished, grinning.
Gran planked herself in front of the still blustering old man. “You are a great big wind, Jake Van Keuran, but you can’t scare me. Why in tarnation should we pay for your wires, tell me that? It’s an emergency, that’s why they’re bringing power here. John had absolutely no idea that anything like this was going to happen, not until a week ago, that is.”
“That the truth?” Mr. Van Keuran glowered at Father. Father held up his hand.
“On thy word of honor, I knew nothing about this until I received notice that . . . a . . . state of emergency requires this work done. Just a week ago today.”
Mr. Van Keurn’s gaze bored into Father’s eyes. Then he sent a withering glance at the men on the pole and a stream of tobacco juice at the base of it.
“That big guy,” he pointed the pitchfork at the man on top, “he said John Preston is payin’. Who’s a bloomin’ liar now? You tell me an’ I’ll show you what happens to liars around here!”
Father gulped, looked up again, his face and eyes sending frantic messages to the big foreman. “Who told you that I was paying?” he called.
“Listen, Mister. I don’t know you from a hole in the wall. I got orders to wire past Prestons’ and up to the Van Keuran place . . . in a hurry. He isn’t paying,” he pointed to Mr. Van Keuran, “so I thought it was you. Now . . .” he let go of the pole with one hand, to scratch his head, “now I guess it had better be what you say—an emergency job. Maybe we’re setting traps for Nazi parachutists. I don’t know. Just . . . will you please get him away from here?”
“Well?“ Father looked at Mr. Van Keuran. A sheepish grin answered his question. The pitchfork ceased to be a weapon as Mr. Van Keuran swung it on to his shoulder. His eyes twinkled up at the men. “Can shinny up quicker’n polecats; that’s the truth. Git on with it then if’n you got to; I ain’t holdin’ up no ‘mergency job. Come on, Andy, we got manure to spread.”
He nodded to the Prestons, grinned again by way of apology and sauntered off, laughing to himself. Andy, close behind him, turned his head long enough to send them a happy grin too.
Father explained to the four relieved men, what the whole thing was about. They laughed and the foreman said: “Well, we made record time going up and we learned some new words, anyway. The old coot has a vocabulary that sure is pure dynamite. WOW! How are you going to get around wiring his barn without running into that pitchfork of his? You paying for that, too?”
“His grandson is,” Father said as proudly as if Andy were his own. “That kid?” The foreman ogled his surprise. “With what? Marbles?”
Father glanced at his watch. “You men stop at our house for coffee and sandwiches when you’re through. And I’ll tell you a story about ‘that kid,’ that’ll warm the cockles of your heart, more than hot coffee.”
Later in the afternoon the four husky, burly men sat in absorbed silence, listening to Father’s story of Andy and his Gramp. When he finished, one man, whose hair was turning gray at the temples, sighed:
“Well, Mr. Preston, I say that that kid is pure wool and a yard wide. I’ll remember this for a long time. Got three boys of my own. One, the oldest, is a regular in the Army; been in the Philippines for some time now. You know,” he frowned, “the kid wrote us about some funny business going on down there, as long as a year or two ago. Those Japs, they are cooking something and it sure smells. Army men don’t like it. All that scrap iron, oil, machinery, we have sent them up to a few months ago . . . my guess is, we’re going to get it back— in bullets.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Father mused. “It is a ticklish situation but maybe Secretary Hull can come to terms with them. We don’t want trouble down there now. Fighting in the Pacific would be a calamity now that we are on the brink of a real war in the Atlantic. Keeping up friendly relations with Japan seems the best policy at the moment.”
The man smiled wryly. “Speak soft and carry a big stick. Yes sir, that’s all right, if you got a big enough stick. We haven’t. Not where my boy is we haven’t.”
Gran snorted: “My good man, this country has never lost a war yet. If Japan starts something, we’ll just send over a couple of Marines and they’ll say Uncle quick enough.”
The man rose. “Mrs. Preston, you will forgive me for contradicting you.
We don’t know what a war like this is. I was in France in 1917, that was just shooting off firecrackers to what this is now. We haven’t lost a war yet, no. Because we haven’t been in a real war yet, fighting for our lives. I am not an educated man, but it seems to me that we are sitting on a nice big keg of dynamite and no telling when it will go off.”
“Pooh. They wouldn’t DARE attack a power like the United States!” Gran bristled. She was so little and yet so belligerently certain that her country was not going to be attacked, that the big man smiled down at her gently. “I sure hope you are right. My boy is in the front line . . . maybe that’s why I am seeing bogey-men.”
Gran looked at him with understanding. “I know. Those firecrackers in France . . . they took two of mine.”
There was a little silence in the room, short, but very dark with shadows of the past and shadows of the future. Then the foreman sighed: “Well, men, time to go. Thanks, Mr. Preston, that was fine grub and a fine story. I’ll remember that yard of the Van Keurans’ at Christmas time . . . the yard with the fine new light for the old man to see by. I’m glad we have had something to do with it.”
After they left, Dick came out of the brown study that kept him withdrawn while war talk was going on. “Dad, if we are really going to fight . . . will you become a soldier too?”
Father took him by the shoulders: “Dicky, if we are really going to fight, I’ll let the government decide where I can be most useful. If they want me to fight on the battlefront, I’ll fight with guns. If they want me in a defense plant, I’ll fight with tools. If they want me to produce food on the farm, I’ll fight with that ‘heap of scrap iron’ I am turning into farm-machinery now. But, wherever I will be, I’ll fight. Does this answer your question?”
“Yes sir,” Dick said seriously. “Then . . . I can fight too, can’t I? Helping you here.”
“That’s right, you can. You will.”
Gran’s eyes were shining. “John, we have pooled our resources. We still have over two thousand dollars left. Get more cows. More chickens. Get your team. Whether there is a war or not, whether you’ll have to leave or not, we will fight, right here.”
Next morning Mr. Jewens, the electrical contractor, showed up. Father started to tell him that, since he only had two short days to give the two jobs, the Van Keuran barn would have to be done first. Mr. Jewens was a comfortable looking, tall, rather heavy man with a booming voice and kind eyes. He listened to Father quietly, then said:
“Well, anything you say, Mr. Preston but, I have a proposition to make. Was it the seventeenth you mentioned . . . the old man’s birthday?”
“That’s right.”
“Well sir, if you could take the old people some place . . . Christmas shopping would be a good excuse, on the day before the seventeenth, I would rather come over again and fix their place for a real surprise. I like that Andy boy somehow. We’d do your barn today then. To me, it seems worth the extra trip . . . sentimental old fool I may be.”
Father smiled. “You are not alone, Mr. Jewens, by no means. And, unless I am, not a fool either. That’ll be just fine. But, how can you arrange it, as busy as you are?”
“Where there is a will, there’ll always be a way. Mat here,” he pointed to his helper, an elderly man with a black patch over one eye and a merry soul peeking out of the other, “decided to give up his day off, so we can do it . . . right.”
Mat grinned shyly when Father expressed his appreciation. “That’s nothing. I got a grandson, Fred. Twenty-two he will be on the seventeenth. He is in the Army now. Drafted. Can’t do much for him, so I thought . . . let’s do a little for somebody’s birthday, anyway.”
“Hmm. I see. This is getting to be a county-wide conspiracy,” said Father jokingly, but Dick, listening eagerly to the conversation, could tell by his voice that he was very well pleased.
They went to the barn to discuss details and in a little while the two electricians were busy. They were still working when darkness fell, using flashlights and lanterns to finish up the job. The Prestons were just about through with supper, which the men refused to share, when Mr. Jewens stuck his head in the kitchen.
“Who wants to pull the switch?” he asked, smiling jovially.
They hurried out and almost ran across the dark yard, Gran ‘way ahead of everybody else. Mother caught Father’s hand. “Let her do it.”
“Try to keep her from it,” Father whispered, chuckling.
Gran’s hand was on the switch, just inside the barn door. She seemed to be waiting for the others to come in, then pulled the handle down. The barn blazed into light, almost blinding to them now that they had lived by candlelight and the soft glow of oil lamps for months. The cooling plant began to purr softly in the milkroom. The cows were stirring, a few of them lowed in surprise, but for a little while there was no other sound. Then Mr. Jewens spoke:
“I want to show you how the milking machine works, before we leave.”
He explained everything in detail, then, with a cheerful: “See you on the sixteenth,” the two men left. After a while the barn was dark again and the family was walking back to the house in contented silence. Dick spoke, his voice wondering and slow in the still December night:
“Dad, why are people so much nicer in the country than in the city?” Father didn’t answer right away; he had been thinking the same thing. Gran spoke instead:
“They have more room to grow. Just as a tree that grows unhampered, is a sounder, sturdier tree than the ones fighting for sun and air in a dense forest. It’s against nature, to crowd things too much. A good farmer knows that; he’ll never plant his seeds too close or he’ll have puny, weak plants.”
“Too much alone-ness isn’t good for people either, Mom,” Father said, opening the kitchen door. “As witness the Van Keurans’, as they were when we first met them.”
“Well, gnarled and battered hard they may be,” Gran’s smile was as soft as the candlelight in the kitchen, “but they are sound and sturdy. Including that sapling, Andy. Give that sapling a little care, some windbreak, and he’ll grow into the sturdiest straight oak anybody wants to see.”
Father threw himself into a chair and chuckled. “My career is anything but dull. Engineer, advertising man, farmer, and now a plain, ordinary windbreak!”
Gran ran her fingers through his hair. “Takes a row of tough evergreens to make a good windbreak,” she said, her eyes full of mischief.
“And we are it,” Mother finished, laughing.
CHAPTER XV
FAMILY AFFAIR
SUNDAY, December seventh, was a clear, cold day. The sun had been trying all morning to fight winter off once more, but it was a losing fight. Thin coatings of ice glistened under the sun’s touch, but did not thaw, because winter, now just beyond the mountains, was blowing its icy breath down the valley and defeating the sun.
Fat Pot-Belly in the back parlor was glowing and there was a blazing log-fire in the front parlor. Gran had been baking cakes, bread, and pies all day Saturday; Sunday from early morning on, she and Mother were keeping Eureka busy, cooking the rest of the meal.
The whole house had taken on a holiday air; smiles seemed brighter, voices more cheerful, everyone was rushing around, noisy, rosy from the crisp air outdoors and Eureka’s hot breath in the kitchen, and very happy. The dinner was to be the first real party in the Preston farmhouse; nothing seemed too much trouble to make it just right.
Janet and Dick had spent hours on Saturday afternoon gathering armfuls of bittersweet, red swampberries, and pale, waxy bayberries to decorate the rooms and the table. Father had set up the extension table Mother had bought at the auction, in the back parlor; it was clumsy and ugly, but it had twelve leaves to make it big enough for any party and, as Mother remarked, no one would have a chance to look at the table anyway, as long as it didn’t break down under all the food Gran was preparing.
Mike and Linka showed up first. Mike shaved so close and smooth, that his face looked like a polished apple; his gr
eat, big, happy grin would have illuminated the room even if the day had been gloomy. Linka, shy, giggly, and starchy crisp in her bright print dress, still didn’t speak beyond chuckling and gurgling monosyllables, but she pitched right in, in spite of Gran’s protests and showed that she knew her way around when it came to preparing and serving a big, hearty meal. Soon, she was completely at home in the kitchen and determinedly wrested every soiled pot and pan out of Gran’s hands, to wash and scrub it into gleaming cleanliness. She was just yanking a roasting pan out from under Gran’s hand when Father and Mike came in from the hall. Mike was holding a big cigar Father had given him, proudly and carefully between his gnarled fingers. Linka said something to him in their own language and Mike laughed with her.
“Linka, she say: ‘Noon sun much more strong t’en ev’ning sun.’ She mean: ‘litt’ old woman sit on chair, let Linka do work.’ ”
Gran snorted: “Little old woman indeed,” but she smiled at Linka, whose whole round body was shaking with comfortable laughter. Then the Van Keurans arrived and soon the meal began.
It was a long meal, a noisy, happy, rich meal. From one o’clock until after three they sat at the table and, to Mother’s great surprise, ate almost everything down to the last cookie. They all pitched in, helping to carry the dishes to the kitchen and helping the women to clean up. All, except Mike. He stretched out in Father’s chair, happily puffing on his third cigar.
“What’s the matter, Mike? Ate too much or are you just plain lazy?” Father teased him when he came in for another armful of plates. Mike gave him a superior glance, then beamed. “Look, John, American, alla time American like you, you good man. But you no know not’ing how man got to fix woman. You spoil woman. Me, Mike, me plow, cut wood—man work. Woman work? NO! Not . . . how you say? Not on you life, huh?”