Windrow Garden Page 2

  Bending to her work, she smiled to herself as she remembered it was Monday. The restaurant would not open for business again until Wednesday. Her daughter would not be home from school until almost four o'clock. She figured she had enough time to do some things for the farm and a few things for herself. She was glad that she would remain mostly undisturbed for two whole days. In the evening she would ask her daughter how her day had been. Wednesday it would be back to the food preparation for lunches and suppers, except Sunday when only a later lunch would be served to the churchgoing folks.

  Thirty minutes later, after she had managed to put the finishing touches on the hotbeds by making sure that the warming bulbs were working, Sally walked to the old barn to look for a roll of plastic sheeting for the framed lids. Lost in her own thoughts as she approached the huge double doors, a rumbling collapsing sound from the interior startled Sally. Just as suddenly, an alarmed scream erupted from inside the barn and sent a chill down her spine. She grabbed hold of the large wooden handle and jerked the door open with all her might. Inside, the windowless gloom of the old barn and the billowing dust made her blink and stumble against a scattered drift of hay on the floor. A second scream came from the darkened interior, quickly followed by the pained cursing from a man’s terrified throat. Sally dashed past the machinery and ran as fast as she could toward the sound.

  At the back of the barn, near the corn combine, Sally found Bill Cornweir pinned under a pile of hay bales. As Sally rushed to his side, Cornweir raised himself under the green avalanche and tried to use his broad shoulders and thick arms to move the hay away.

  “Are you all right?” Sally asked, kneeling next to the stricken man.

  “I can’t get out …” he said, and collapsed against his exertions.

  “Lie still. You don’t know what damage you’ll do.”

  “Can’t seem to…breathe good,” he complained as beads of perspiration flecked his forehead. The false heat was an odd contrast to the billowing breaths of steam coming from his mouth in the cold barn. His chest heaved against the weight of the bales that held him and made his breath labor more.

  Sally rose from where she’d knelt and grabbed the first bale she laid her hands on. She lifted and jerked it up and away from him in panicked motion. As she raised the bale from his body, he tried to move but screamed again as something seemed to tear inside him. The scream panicked Sally. With the bale in midair, she jerked involuntarily at the sound of Bill’s shriek. She toppled backward with the bale.

  “Damn it, Bill. I said lie still.”

  “Ah, lassie…it hurts,” he moaned, and sank to the floor again.

  “Wait. I’ve got to get help. Don’t move!” Sally ordered, scrambling to her feet as she turned to run.

  Outside she ran toward the houses and yelled as loud as she could for anyone who might hear. Heads emerged from the greenhouses, and two men came running toward her. In the next instant Carl Marmer and Jake Grimes were at her side. They had been fertilizing and watering the new berry bushes when Sally called for help. Carl was a tall lanky man in his late forties. He’d run ahead of the sixty-five-year-old Jake and reached Sally first.

  “Bill’s in the barn, hurt. Stay with him,” she said as she dashed past them. “Don’t touch him, the bales, or anything. And don’t let him move! I’m going to call an ambulance.” She raced past them to the tack room and the phone on the desk. Fear thundered in her ears. She did not like the graying paleness on Bill’s face when he’d slumped back to the floor of the cold barn.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later the paramedics arrived, escorted by a sheriff’s department officer. The barn had filled with Carl’s wife, Martha, and the two younger male part-time workers. They’d seen people running to and from the barn and had come to offer whatever help they could. There had not been much to do but worry. The farmstead workers were milling about nervously, not knowing what to do, or taking turns as they tried to keep Bill conscious and still. The paramedics found Sally sitting next to Bill, holding his hand, and trying to say encouraging words to him. They examined Bill, stabilized him, carefully rolled him onto a flat-board restraint, secured it, and carried him into the ambulance.

  Sally motioned to the ambulance driver, her eyebrow raised in question.

  “Too early to tell,” the driver said, understanding the silent inquiry. “Broken leg for sure, some ribs by the way he’s acting. Might be some internal injuries as well. We won’t really know till they get a look at him at the hospital,” she said as she climbed up into the cab of the ambulance.

  “Jake, go with him. Make sure they know he has insurance,” Sally said, waving to the elderly man. “I’m going to call his fiancée. She’ll want to know.”

  “Sure thing, Sally girl,” the old man said as he scrambled inside the unit and sat next to the attending paramedic.

  Sally felt a deep, sinking feeling swirling in the pit of her stomach as the ambulance drove away with her mechanic and right-hand man. She depended on him. As the farm’s ten-year veteran at fifty-five, Cornweir was the backbone of the farm and a respected member of their little, rolling-hill community. No other hand had done as much as he to keep things running and running smoothly. He was the glue that held the farm together. It would take a long time for his injuries to heal.

  “Fine thing,” she said to herself, shaking her head. “I’m acting like I’m the one who got injured. Ungrateful,” she muttered to herself as she walked toward her house. She made sure everyone who worked for her was insured for injury and covered by medical insurance. She’d done everything she could think of to protect the farm and the businesses. But now she heard her own head talking to her like she and the farm were the only things that counted. She did not like the message. She could not, would not, desert him, but she would need to temporarily replace him. The business of farming had to go on. If it didn’t, neither she nor anyone else would have the farm to call their own. That was unthinkable.

  = Chapter 2 =

  Grounds for Growing

  A compost heap is the oldest form of recycling. As the art of composting is a matter of patience, you will need to create the heaps four to six months in advance of application on the garden. However, rapid composting can be done during warm weather if the pile contents have been shredded or ground into finer pieces, mixed together with manure, and placed in a container lined with plastic. This method does not require the turning or mixing as in the slower technique. In summertime, the shredded, mixed pile should be available for use in two to three weeks. During the cooler times of the year, it would take five to six weeks before the mixture would be available.

  Locate a compost heap in an area where water does not stand. Drainage is important. Although it is possible to accumulate compost in a loose heap, it is best to make an enclosure. Different types of materials for construction may be used if the heap is placed above ground. Constructing a compost heap above ground is easier than laboriously digging a pit. Unmortared cement blocks, bricks, scrap lumber or permanent enclosures of redwood or cypress, and woven wire or wood slats are preferred construction materials. Lining the wire or fencing with tough plastic will speed the compost decomposition. For slow composting, put soil or sand in the bottom of the pile in layers two to three inches thick. Add a similar thickness of organic materials. If the organic materials are coarse, use six to eight inches of material instead. If the materials are finely chopped such as grass clippings, use the first method. Then add a two—to three-inch layer of manure. Manure provides nutrients for the growth of microorganisms that are necessary if the compost pile is to do its work. Repeat the layering process until the container is full. Make sure to water frequently as you put in the layers. Do not, however, drown the layers as you place them in the container. Discretion is the byword here.

  Note: The top of the pile will need to be indented, or be slightly lower in the center than at the sides. The dent or dish will allow rainfall to soak in rather than to run off. High temperatures gen
erated in the compost pile will require that the pile be moistened once a week if dry weather prevails. A dry compost pile overheats, works too rapidly, and loses its nutrient substances. Compost may be used as soil enhancement, fertilizer for the garden, mulch for shrubs, or topdressing for the lawn.

  In two to three weeks, if all goes well, the pile will shrink and sink. If not, you can loosen the contents of the pile to allow for greater aeration or water it if it is too dry. The pile should be checked for strong ammonia or other offensive odors, which are sure signs that things are not progressing as intended. Over-watering or an imbalance of the mix of materials causes offensive odors. In four or five weeks the pile should be hot deep inside. At the end of three or four months, the pile should be half its original size. The compost should have the odor of moldy leaves or, better yet, an earthy rich aroma, and will be dark, moist, and ready to use.

  Compost added to the garden provides important nutrients to the soil for successful garden projects. It is no small coincidence that the words nutrients, nutrition, and nurture are derived from the Latin root word that means to feed. Everything that lives must be fed what it lacks in order to survive and to flourish.

  Groundwork

  Master Sergeant Nicole Jeager tossed the last of her personal items into the jump seat of her blue dually truck. The covered bed was already full to bursting. As she slammed the truck door, she realized that for the first time in twenty years she did not know what she was going to do with the rest of her day. Worse, she did not know what she was going to do with the rest of her life. She looked as melancholy as she felt. March, having come in like a lion, was trying to leave the same way. The temperament of the weather suited her. It seemed fitting that the weather would be as disagreeable as her attitude about being forced out of the Army. She did not want to leave, but she knew it was time to go. The morning maneuvers were beginning, people were on their way to their assignments, and she was discarded. A last tour of duty had been cut short, and there was no one arriving to see her off. Rumors were thick, and she was barely escaping unscathed. She would do it alone and ignore the averted eyes of those with whom she’d worked during her last year. It would be the last time she set foot on the government’s property at Fort Leonard Wood —or Fort Lost in the Woods, as it was called by those who served there.

  What do civilians do? she wondered as she stood outside the noncommissioned personnel quarters. Unconsciously, she ran a hand through her thick black hair and brushed back the stray strands from her dark eyes. Proud and tall, her firm form almost sagged under the weight of the outlandish question she thought she would not have had to answer for a long time. She had intended to retire when she was fifty-five. Her leaving now was fifteen years shy of her goal.

  Her old plans had included staying in until she’d given the Army thirty-five years. That intention would have provided her with a retirement equal to a hundred percent of her monthly pay. But now, a bit over forty, she’d only served the minimum and barely escaped with her pride, reputation, pension, and honorable discharge intact. Her reputation on the base had been shadowed but not swallowed by rumor. She was escaping not a moment too soon. Still, she was reluctant to go. She had given the Army everything it had ever asked for. It had been the only place where she felt respected and valued. It was one more home she didn’t have anymore.

  She had joined the Army at eighteen. Everyday since then, her life had been planned, orchestrated, and directed by the needs of an organization she’d felt pride in belonging to. For twenty-two years, two months, and five days, the only thing that she had ever been required to respond had been Yes, sir, or Yes, ma’am, I’d be delighted. Nothing short of direct compliance, assured competence, and timely delivery had been required of her or the soldiers she supervised. She’d given willingly and had served proudly.

  For the longest time, but not as long as she wanted, she had hidden in an olive-drab closet in the Army, which became a comforting certainty, a family, and a career. Her enlistment had been a necessary escape from the poverty and hopelessness she’d known as a child.

  She had fled the drudgery of the farm life she’d been born into in upper Michigan. She had fled a childhood filled with hard labor, too many mouths at the table, too little food, and parents worn down from the tribulations of scraping by. Poor little half-breeds. That was what the locals had called Nicole and her siblings. Her parents were from different nations. One white and one part-Pottowattomie.

  Removed from her mother’s people and the reservation in Wisconsin, struggling alone in the harsh climate of northern Michigan, the family could not find the ends everyone else worked to make meet. The oldest of seven, tall for her age, and good with her hands, she had become the repository of all the responsibilities her parents could or would no longer assume. Being required from the time she was ten to be responsible for the children, to work in the fields, and to help her father in repairing the equipment had made her accountable beyond her years. The long years of struggle had made her father a hard, bitter man who spent a lot of time reading from the Bible. He began sermonizing to his silent wife and bewildered children. He closed the doors of their house to the outside world and harbored secret fears and suspicions against their infrequent visitors.

  Nicole’s mother tried to shelter her from her father’s growing anger, but she could not protect her all the time. The anger became distance as he heaped more responsibilities on her for the success or failure of the small farm. She had wanted to help him be proud again, to help him make his dreams work, and to chase the growing fear from his haunted eyes.

  As the years passed, the whispering of neighbors changed from taunting speculation about why he’d married his olive-skinned wife to a real and alarmed concern for his sanity. He began to hide in the house, shunning work for fear he’d have to meet those who ridiculed him and his life.

  Nicole took his place in the outside world at fourteen. She had been relegated to a position of being the third parent and extra farmhand. She’d found a natural calling as the one who would defuse a crisis, the one who could bring light and laughter back into a situation. A quick smile, a rephrasing of the obtuseness of nature or difficulties kept the family moving and breathing even down their hard road. It was necessary work. What first was survival became habit in time.

  During her senior year in high school, Nicole had begun dreaming of escape. Her mother encouraged and nurtured her dreaming, urging her to find a way to make her own way in the world. The dream had grown into a real possibility during senior career week and her introduction to an Army recruiter. Senior girls had not been invited to the presentation of the military recruiters. She and the other girls had been shuttled off to occupational vendors touting secretarial schools and nursing academies and a few colleges attempting to attract future teachers. She had heard the military recruiters talking as she lingered in the hallway between her assigned sessions. She heard them telling about enlistment bonuses, faraway travel, and the excitement of adventure, special duty, freedom, and independence. It had been simple. She would have the opportunity to make something of herself in the Army. Something beyond her bitter, hardscrabble adolescence and beyond her endless days of backbreaking toil.

  Nicole had lain in wait and collared the tall, broad-shouldered man in the dark green uniform as he left the building. He was impressive, and Nicole hesitated. Then she gushed out her interest to him as she stared at the march of yellow service stripes sewn on the forearm of his sleeve. He responded to her interest with enthusiasm and a hint of amusement in his voice. He did not try to diminish or belittle her obvious sincerity. He handed her forms and brochures and told her where to find the recruiting station should the allure of his profession remain undiminished.

  Three months later, before graduation, and two days after her eighteenth birthday, she enlisted. Having lied to her parents for the first and last time in her life, she had begged them to let her go to an away basketball game with friends. She told them she would stay overnight w
ith teammates and let them know later what the big city had been like. It was a fib, a tiny untruth, and a direct defiance of her father’s orders never to stray from the path he harangued and preached about. The lie took her to an induction station. It took her down the corridors of physical, psychological, and vocational examinations the Army performed on her. It matched her with her interests, her natural mechanical abilities, her hopes, desires, and dreamed-of opportunities. A way out.

  On graduation night, instead of joining the noisy celebrants in all-night parties, Nicole ran down the streets of the little town and boarded the midnight bus for basic training in Georgia.

  During the first week of basic, she’d written her parents, trying to explain to them why she had made the decisions she had. She sent money and promised she would send more every payday. She tried to tell them why she’d left, why she wanted a different life, why she had to leave. On every day of the twelve weeks of basic training, and in every letter she mailed, Nicole asked for their blessings.