Cameron of Meger Farm

I was surprised the old country road was still there, but it was. The original gravel road that meandered through the tall maples and oaks on each side from Darden, Missouri to Mitchell when I was a kid was now a two-lane blacktop with white lines on the sides and yellow painted stripes down the center. I knew from Grandpa Jonas that the road had started out as a wagon road. The twists and turns were there to make it easier on the horses than going up and down hills.

About half way between Darden and Mitchell, the old country road forked, and it was the North fork I drove that day. That fork was still just gravel and ran even deeper into the tree-covered hills and back past what had been two farms on its way to Petesburg. My grandpa and grandma lived on one of those farms -- a little over two hundred acres nestled in the broad valley between two high ridges -- and Wilson Meger lived across the gravel road on the other. It was pretty obvious nobody had used the road in a while. Weeds and grass had begun infiltrating the gravel from the road ditches on either side that marked the road. If I hadn't been down that road a thousand times before, I'd have missed a couple of the turns.

Grandpa Jonas' farm was a nice place to visit anytime, and I'd spent most of the summers of my youth there. He raised a few beef cattle and a milk cow, and the land produced hay and feed for them as well as corn and soybeans he sold at the grain elevator in Darden. Grandma Ellen raised a large garden and canned enough vegetables to last them through the winter. The apple, peach, and pear trees in the back yard let her can enough fruit for a pie or cobbler on Sundays. She also had a flock of laying hens that kept them supplied with eggs and the occasional chicken dinner.

It was a simple life that I enjoyed experiencing every summer. My dad, their only child, had no interest in farming and had gone to Missouri State and earned a degree in Electrical Engineering. He worked in St. Louis so that's where we lived. I hated St. Louis back then with its constant traffic and close neighbors. It was only tolerable because I knew that as soon as school was out, I could head back to Grandpa's farm for the summer.

Wilson Meger's farm wasn't much of a farm even back then. He owned about eighty acres and that was divided into three small patches accessible only by dirt lanes through the trees. As a result, Wilson didn't own a tractor. He farmed just as old Cecil Roberts, the former owner had - with a team of horses. He planted one patch of about six acres in hay every year to feed that team and his one milk cow and her calf over the winter. The other two patches of about ten acres each were planted with corn and oats. Wilson fed the oats to his horses and the corn to his cow and chickens. The rest of the eighty acres was oak, maple, and walnut trees, and shared the creek that crossed the gravel road just west of Grandpa's house and barn.

Like Grandma's, Wilson's chickens included several brooding hens to keep his flock going. His flock was of dubious breeding, but apparently furnished him with enough eggs and chicken dinners. Wilson only sold enough of his crops to pay his electric bill and property taxes; he needed the rest of his corn and oats to feed his livestock. As a result, he seldom had much money so he never ventured off his farm except to help Grandpa once in a while.

When Grandpa baled hay, Wilson would come over to help. Grandpa had only one tractor, so Wilson brought his horses, Jim and Duke, to pull the rack wagon that hauled the baled hay to the barn. I spent a lot of time riding on that rack wagon over the years, and once I got old enough, "earned my keep" as Grandpa said, by stacking those bales on the wagon and then in the barn.

Wilson was a very quiet sort of man, so nobody knew much about him. Grandma said he'd been married once, but his wife couldn't take farm life and had run off with a traveling salesman selling brushes and brooms. After that, she said, Wilson just pretty much kept to himself and took care of his farm.

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I hadn't come to Darden just to drive back to Grandpa's old farm. I was there because Grandpa had passed and willed his farm to me. I had no idea what an electrical engineer like me was going to do with a Missouri farm. It wasn't really big enough to sell as a farm, and it had a well for water and a septic tank. City people always say they want to move to the country, but when they realize they won't have city water and sewer, they start having second thoughts.

The old steel bridge that spanned the creek Grandpa and I had fished every summer looked pretty rusty and rickety, but the man at the grocery store in Darden assured me it was sound. Still, I drove slowly over the thick creosoted planks that formed the roadbed. Once across, I passed the lane to the Meger place on the left, and then turned into the drive of what was now my farm.

The memories came flooding back when I parked in front of the house. I could almost see Grandma walking out the back door and down the concrete walk Grandpa and I had poured the summer I was six. I had to smile when I reached the steps that lead onto the back porch. There was my name -Ted Rork -- and the date -- 1984 -- under the handprint I'd pressed into the wet cement.

The house was still in very good shape. Grandpa didn't hold with letting things go, so he kept it painted and the roof fixed. I don't know how he managed when he got on in years, but he did. He couldn't really do much farming once he turned seventy-five, but he kept up the house and helped Grandma with her garden. The rest of the farm he planted in clover and let his cattle free range.

Nothing had really changed inside the house. There was Grandma's old range, an ancient Hotpoint they bought in 1948 with some of Grandpa's mustering out pay from WWII. I assumed it still worked but I couldn't try it. I'd had the electricity disconnected when Grandpa passed, and I wasn't sure what I was going to do so I hadn't had it reconnected.

As I toured the rest of the house, that life of the past came back to me piece by piece. The big clock on the bookcase started to tic-toc when I wound it, and I remembered Grandpa taking a nap after lunch before going back to work. Grandma and I had to be quiet then, she said, so the only sound in the house was that steady tic-toc and the occasional snore from Grandpa.

I listened to that tic-toc as I went from room to room and re-discovered some of their lives. In Grandma's curio cabinet was the souvenir cup and saucer from the St. Louis Zoo she'd bought when they took the train from Darden to St. Louis to visit us. Also there was the little model log cabin Grandpa and I had made the summer when I was ten. I didn't remember her keeping it, but evidently she had.

In the cabinet in the dining room was Grandma's good china. It wasn't really china and it wasn't really good, but that's what she always called it. Those plates, cups, and saucers only came out of that cabinet on special occasions like Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Every other day, they ate on the plates Grandma had gotten one at a time with coupons at the grocery store in Darden.

By the time I'd gone through all the rooms, I'd remembered just how relaxed and comfortable their life had been, and a crazy thought was worming its way into my mind. Was it still possible to live that life, just like Grandpa and Grandma had? What would it take? Would I even remember enough about what Grandpa taught me to make the farm run like a farm should?

It was crazy, but the more I thought, the more I liked the idea. Life in a cubicle wasn't all that much fun, and that's what my life had become. I woke up every morning, showered and ate a bowl of cereal, then drove to my job. Counting the half hour drive each way and at least ten hours in pointless staff meetings or staring at my computer screen, a dozen or so hours out of every twenty-four were burned up by my job. I slept about seven hours a night, so that left five hours a day for me. Five hours was about enough time to fix dinner and then watch a movie every night. Weekends were better but still used up by yard work, shopping and laundry.

If I was living here, I could work when I needed to and relax when I wanted. I wouldn't have a lot of money, but I wouldn't need much and I had a nice 401K courtesy of maximum contributions over the last sixteen years as well as a significant savings account. When you're single and don't date, you don't have much else to do with your money.

The fact I didn't date was of my own choosing and that choice was because of Jane. Jane was what I considered at the time to be the perfect woman. She was pretty and took care of herself but not to the extreme some women do. She was intelligent enough to have earned a degree in mechanical engineering, and had a great sense of humor. She was also the most loving woman I'd ever met.

After a year of dating her, I'd bought an engagement ring and planned to propose on our date that Saturday night. That never happened. Jane was driving home from work that Friday night and was hit broadside by a kid drag racing with another car. The other car slowed when the traffic light turned yellow. The kid didn't and he paid for that with his life. The police estimated his speed at a little over eighty. They told me Jane never suffered any pain. That was a small comfort that didn't begin to take away the pain of losing her.

I grieved for almost six months before I thought about dating again, but I found myself comparing every woman I met to Jane, and they always came up short. After a year of doing that, I decided there weren't any more Janes in the world and stopped looking. Work became the most important thing in my life and I was successful at it. In fifteen more years, I went from Junior Engineer to Director of Product Engineering at my company.

As I prowled through the house, I realized I'd also become detached from life. I was just going through the motions of life rather than living it. If I came back here, maybe I could reconnect with things more important than transformer impedance and power factors. It would be a major change in my life, but that's probably what I needed. I could always go back to being an engineer if it didn't work out. When I got back to St. Louis that afternoon, I had a look at my financials and then drafted a letter of resignation.

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It took a week to get myself moved to the farm. Most of my stuff went into storage in Darden because I wanted to keep the house like I remembered it, at least at first. I did replace that old Hotpoint range. When I turned it on, it started to smoke, so I bought a new one.

It was fall by that time and Grandpa had sold all his livestock before he got really sick, so there was no need to do much work on the farm. Life for me became one of rising when I felt like it, eating when I felt like it, and taking long walks through the forest of oaks and maples that occupied about a third of the farm. I fished the creek and was happy to find out there were still bluegills, pumpkinseeds, catfish, and the occasional bass to be caught there.

Evenings were sitting in Grandpa's old chair and reading some of the books and magazines from the bookcase. They were full of information about farming and making things for the farm. As I read, my plan for the next year started forming.

Raising corn and soybeans was probably more than I could handle given my knowledge of what was required. I also didn't have the equipment I'd need, and buying it would put a huge dent in my savings. Cattle were probably a safer bet. I'd buy some cows and let them graze the fields. That would help keep the fields free of volunteer trees just in case I decided to plant them one day. It would also give me a small income once I sold the calves.

I'd need some chickens as well, and my flock would start as baby chicks I'd buy in the spring. By fall, they would be laying eggs and if I bought un-sexed chicks, I'd have some roosters for chicken dinners. My plan was to buy Buff Orpingtons since the hens tend to be broody and my flock would be self-sustaining if I let some of them set on their eggs.

By January, I was settled into my new life and enjoying every second of it. The house had a fireplace that Grandpa and Grandma didn't use once they had a propane furnace installed. A week after I moved in, I had the fireplace inspected and the chimney relined so it was safe. My nights through the winter were spent with a good book, a glass of scotch, and a fire crackling on the hearth.

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It was the first week of February when I was getting my mail from the mailbox at the end of the drive that I saw a power company truck drive into the lane to the old Meger place. Since nobody lived there, I figured it was just turning around, but it didn't. The truck hadn't come back after I sorted through the bunch of junk mail I'd gotten, so I figured somebody must be having the electricity reconnected. About dusk, a pickup truck drove into the lane. The back was stacked pretty full of stuff, though the tarp that covered it all kept me from seeing what that stuff might be. It was a pretty sure bet I was going to have a neighbor.

The thought I had a neighbor nagged at me all evening. It wasn't that I didn't want a neighbor. I was just curious as to who would have bought such a small place. I kept watching for any sign of life from across the road, but there was nothing. That's wasn't really surprising because the house was mostly hidden from the road by trees, but I thought maybe I'd see lights that night if someone was living there. At ten, I gave up looking out my living room window for any lights and went to bed. Tomorrow, I decided, I'd walk over and introduce myself.

The next morning about eight, I was just sitting down to a plate of bacon and eggs when there was a knock on my front door. After cursing to myself at someone who would interrupt my breakfast, I got up and walked into the living room. When I opened the door, there stood a person I thought was a woman, but it was hard to tell for sure. She wore insulated coveralls with a heavy coat over that, her head was covered by a heavy cap with earmuffs that were tied under her chin, and a pair of bright red mittens covered her hands. Only the small size of the insulated boots she wore and the delicate features of her face told me she was female.

Her clothing was maybe a little overkill but not really out of the ordinary for February. I'd checked the old thermometer with the Coke advertisement on the porch post that morning and it read all of twenty degrees. I'd just never seen a woman dressed like that before, and I was somewhat at a loss for words. The woman stuck out her hand before I could say anything.

"Hi, I'm Cameron Mason...from across the road. I know it's early, but would you know anything about electricity?"

Her voice was sort of a low alto that would have been sexy if she hadn't been dressed like a lumberjack.

As I shook her mittened hand, I said, "Hi, I'm Ted Rork and I used to be an electrical engineer, so yes, I do. What's the problem?"

She sighed.

"I called to have them connect the power yesterday and they said they would, but I don't have any in the house. I called them on my cell phone when I found that out, but they were closed. Without electricity, the propane stove won't run, so I spent the night dressed like this and trying not to freeze to death. Could you come see if they really did hook me up?"

Even dressed like she was, Cameron was starting to shiver. I wanted to be neighborly and help her out. I also wanted to eat my breakfast first.

"Sure, just as soon as I finish my breakfast. If you don't have electricity, you probably haven't eaten anything either. Would you like to come in and warm up with some coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs?"

"Oh, God, that would be wonderful."

An hour later, she had taken off the coat, hat, mittens, and coveralls, and was sitting at my kitchen table finishing a cup of coffee. She took a sip, put the cup down, and smiled.

"Thanks so much for letting me get warm and for breakfast. Even with all those clothes on, I was so cold I couldn't sleep very well and the stove is electric so I'd have had cold cereal for breakfast. That would have made me even colder."

That low alto voice now fit the woman seated across from me, and even if it hadn't been for the voice, she would still have been a desirable woman. She was a brunette with hair that framed a very pretty face and then draped gracefully over the blue plaid shirt she wore. I'd watched as she took off the coveralls. Her hips swelled from a full but not fat waist to fill out her jeans nicely, and the way her breasts pushed out the top of her shirt told me she was nicely endowed if not fairly large. Her hands were delicate, and her nails were cut short. I put down my coffee cup.

"Well, that's what neighbors are for. I guess you bought the old Meger place, so that's what we'll be."

"Oh, I didn't buy it. It was willed to me. Wilson Meger was my grandfather and when he died last spring, his will said I got his farm. I came out to see it a month later and decided it was livable. It took me this long to sell my house and get myself moved out here."

I grinned.

"That sounds like my story. My Grandpa Jonas...Jonas Rork...willed me this place too. I decided to slow down my life and give farming a try. Is that what you're planning?"

"No, not farming. I love horses, always have, but I could never have one in the city. This place is big enough for a few horses and there are woods to ride through. I make my living as a writer, and I figured I'd have plenty of time to write and get lots of ideas here as well."

"What do you write about?"

She grinned.

"You know those Gothic romance novels you see at the bookstores? The rich land baron falls in love with the peasant girl, they have fantastic sex and then get married and live happily ever after? I have seventeen published so far."

"Well, I've seen them, but I've never read one."

"They're mostly for women, although I have gotten some fan mail from a few men. A lot of women like to fantasize about things like that, so I give them that fantasy."

She smiled.

"They're sort of my fantasies too. It's fun to write them and put myself in the character of the peasant girl. It's like creating my own little world to live in."

I chuckled.

"Well, I guess the country is as good a place as any to create that world in. I hope it works for you."

"Oh, it will, just as soon as I get some electricity. My laptop battery died after an hour last night."

"Well, if you're done with your coffee, let's go have a look and see what's wrong."

I'd never been inside Wilson's house before. It was small, just a kitchen, living room, and one bedroom that had had one section walled off for a bathroom. The furnishings were about like what I had from Grandpa and Grandma -- a couch that looked hardly used, a chair by the propane heating stove that looked like it had been used a lot and one book case. The kitchen had a refrigerator that looked to be relatively new and a range that also looked pretty new. The kitchen table was small with two chairs, and when I looked at it closely, I was pretty sure Wilson had made the table and chairs himself. They weren't crudely made by any means. They just had that look that can't be replicated by machine tools.

I found the electrical entrance, if you could call it that, behind the kitchen door. It was an ancient fuse panel that was probably the one installed when the house was originally wired. I'd taken the precaution of bringing my meter with me, but I didn't need it. The main fuses were those that were installed in a phenolic block that could be pulled out of the panel. That block had been pulled out and sat on top of the fuse box.