Chapter Seven

Bitsy

There are few things in this world more beautiful as Whiskey Hollow at Thanksgiving, with one of them being Whiskey Hollow at Christmas. Even through the worry that had been weighing on me since reading Granddaddy’s letter, I couldn’t help but smile as my car approached the worn sign for Galloway Farm. It was the same sign that had been sitting at the end of the drive that led to my grandfather’s farm for generations and I noticed that the lettering was definitely looking the worse for wear. I knew that the sign was there and what it said from the countless times that I rode down that drive. I wondered how many other people in the Hollow, and even beyond, felt that way about it. Even more, though, I wondered about the people who came in from the surrounding areas each year to pick pumpkins and buy goods that Granddaddy sold at his little stand. Could they even see it anymore? Did they know it was there?

As I drove down the curving drive, I looked out over the pumpkin fields to either side of me. Usually at this time they should be completely empty, picked over by all the families who came to the farm to choose the perfect gourds to carve up for their front porches, festoon their Thanksgiving tables, and bake up into pies. Now, though, I was seeing orange dotting the shriveling vines, and large sections that didn’t even look as though they had been planted for the year.

What’s going on?

The front door to the house opened as the grinding of my tires against the gravel announced my arrival and I saw Granddaddy step out. He looked a little older, but still strong, his face weathered by the years that he had spent in the fields. I recognized the clothes that he was wearing and could still envision my grandmother sitting in her rocker on the porch, that very plaid shirt draped across her lap as she lovingly mended the tears and pulls that would happen during his work. Over the years I had bought my grandfather countless shirts, encouraging him to replace the wardrobe that he had had for decades. He would wear them a time or two, making a fuss over how nice they were, and then they would disappear from the rotation and he would be right back to the old shirts. I was sure that if I went into his room I would find his cedar chest and old antique wardrobe overflowing with folded, nearly-new shirts. I knew he did it because he saw the same thing that I did when he looked at the shirts. He couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of them when they were the most tangible thing that he had left of the wife he was deeply devoted to from the time he was a young teenager. So, I never mentioned it. I just kept on giving him shirts just in case he ever changed his mind. One day I would take the old ones and turn them into a quilt, but until then I would just have to hope that the stitches never gave out.

“Well, are my old eyes deceiving me or am I seeing a ladybug out in this autumn weather?”

I rushed up the steps of the porch and into Granddaddy’s arms. He hugged me close and I breathed in the comforting smell of his pipe tobacco and sunshine in his undershirt.

“Hi, Granddaddy,” I said happily.

“What are you doing here? I thought that you weren’t coming until Christmas.”

“I know,” I said, stepping back from him. “But you said that you wanted to talk to me so I thought I would come down a little early. I had a few extra days of vacation time from work.”

“I told you that we could talk about it over Christmas,” he said. “You didn’t need to come all the way out here just to talk to me.”

“Well, I wanted to come home, too. I haven’t been here for a while and I’ve been missing it.”

“That’s true. It has been a good while since you’ve made it back. I’m glad to see you.”

He leaned in and gave me a kiss on my cheek.

“It’s good to see you, too. What is it that you needed to talk to me about?”

“All that can wait. I have a few things that I need to take care of and if you’re going to be staying for a couple of days you’re going to need to settle in. Bring your stuff in the house and relax for a bit. I’ll see you when I get home.”

I nodded, wishing that he would just tell me so that the dread and anticipation would go away, and watched as he climbed down the front steps and headed for his truck where it was parked to the side of the drive. I waved at him as he drove away and went back to the car to get my bags. The feeling of happiness and safety closed around me as I stepped through the front door into Granddaddy’s house. I had grown up in a smaller house to the back of the property, first with both of my parents, then with my mother when my father left us. That place was dark and sad, and I rarely got near it since moving in with my grandparents after my mother disappeared. This house, though, was warmth, comfort, and happiness. It was love and safety. It was the only place that was really home.

After putting my things away in my old bedroom, I headed out through the backdoor to explore the farm. The condition of the pumpkin fields at the front of the house had been upsetting, but I was trying to tell myself that I might just be jumping to conclusions. The biggest and most popular fields had always been the ones to the back, and those were probably empty exactly as I expected them to be.

When I got to the fields, however, I saw that they were very much like the ones to the front. Still dotted with pumpkins, vines tangled over each other, the patches looked like they had barely been touched this season. I remembered the heyday of the farm, when all of the families used to come and pick pumpkins and eat the doughnuts my grandmother made, buying up the crafts, preserves, pumpkin and apple butters, and baked goods that she would sell. Though some of the heart had left when my grandmother died, the farm had stayed popular for years, remaining a seasonal tradition for many families throughout the Hollow and in the surrounding areas. Now it looked tired and broken down, as if it had seen very few visitors in the two autumn seasons I had missed.

Feeling sad and guilty, I walked into one of the fields and picked two pumpkins, carrying them back into the house. I thought about what was happening on the farm as I cleaned them, rubbed their skins with oil, and tucked them into the oven to roast. I would later turn them into a thick soup for supper.

I had just closed the oven door when Granddaddy came back into the house.

“Right back into the kitchen I see,” he said.

I nodded.

“I’m roasting up a couple of pumpkins,” I said. “When they’re done, I’ll do up the seeds. I’m thinking I’ll do half with salt and half with cinnamon and sugar.”

“Always best to have choices.”

I noticed a sadness in his voice and he seemed to be avoiding looking at the oven or at me.

“What’s wrong, Granddaddy?” I asked, not willing to beat around the bush any longer. “Is something going on? Are you sick?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. You know me. I’m as healthy as a horse.”

I nodded.

“I know that,” I said, “but you said that you needed to talk to me about something, and by the way the farm looks…”

I let my voice trail off, not knowing what else to say.

“Sit down, Bitsy.”

I sat down at the breakfast table and watched as he stared at his hands for a few moments.

“I’ve decided to sell the farm.”

The blunt words seemed to drop into my stomach like stones.

You could have beat around the bush maybe a little.

“Why?” I gasped. “What’s going on? Are you sure you aren’t sick?”

“I’m not sick, Bitsy. Not sick. I’m just old. The farm hasn’t been bringing in the money that it used to. Families aren’t coming out like they did years ago and when they do they don’t buy as much. There are more things to do a few towns over and more people selling things. It’s just harder to get by. Then some feller came by here a couple months back and said that he might be interested in buying the property.”

“You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I am serious. I can’t keep working as hard as I do just to watch everything that I’ve worked for slowly slip away. If I sell the farm, I’ll have enough money to buy a little house and retire. I can even give some to you so that you’ll be set for a while, too.”

“I don’t need money,” I told him. “I’m fine. I can’t believe that you would genuinely consider selling everything that our family has ever had.”

“It’s not something that I’m proud of, Bitsy, but sometimes you have to do things that you never thought that you were going to have to do.”

My eyes slid over to the calendar he always kept hanging on the wall and I withheld a sigh.

I think I’m about to find that out for myself.

I turned back to Granddaddy.

“Please reconsider,” I said. “Just for a little while. I’ll come back home and help with the farm. We’ll bring it back together, and next year you can make your decision. Just give it one more chance. One more season.”

He stared at me for a few long seconds before finally nodding. I felt relief wash over me.

“Alright,” he said. “One more season.”

“Good,” I said, letting out a breath. “There are a few things that I have to take care of back at my house, but I’ll be back at Christmas and I’ll be home from then on. Everything’s going to be alright. We’ll do this together.”

All of us.