God’s Farm … A Story. Four.

27 Apr

 

God’s Farm … A Story.

Four.

 

Chandler hoped his confession would go much better than he could imagined. It always had in the past. This was not the first talk he and his father had had.

The earliest he could remember was when he was a child, and the family lived in a large two-story brick home on the sloping side of Colonial Drive. He could not remember what he had done, but it was the final straw for his mother, who had uttered the dreadful decree, “Wait till your father gets home.”

He figured she said that because, with him, her next disciplinary step would have been murder. Scoldings, spanking the hand, then the bottom, and finally whipping bare legs with a switch torn from the bumblebee bush outside the kitchen door comprised her repertoire of behavior modification. Plus, there were three of us, my two older sisters and younger brother, although Daniel was only a toddler.

He sat in the sun room “to think about his sins.” He didn’t really know what a sin was, except it must be bad, because the word echoed about the huge stone sanctuary from Dr. Watt’s on Sundays.

His friend who lived next door, and whose family was Baptist, said a sin was a kind of fish. He thought that because once he had looked in the baptismal pool where peoples’ sins were washed away, and noticed what he thought were fish in the water. It later turned out it was algae, and after several years of baptisms, people began coming out of the water only to develop severe skin rashes. The pool was finally drained of the sins, refilled and chlorinated against further sin infections.

Chandler and his family were Presbyterian, and members weren’t dunked, but sprinkled. If you were sprinkled as an infant, the baptism “stuck” for the rest of your life. There was no danger, therefore, of getting infected by sin, because you weren’t put in the font, and Dr. Watts towelled your head off afterwards. Chandler figured the worst that could happen to you was maybe head lice.

So he waited for his dad to come home, and when he heard the loud roar of the Corvette pull into the drive, began to get nervous.

“He’s in the sunroom thinking about his sins,” he heard his mother say when his dad walked through the front door. No hug or kiss. Just, he’s your problem now.

Chandler loved the way his dad smelled. It was a mixture of cigar and aftershave. So he had mixed feelings when the door opened to the sunroom, and his dad peeked in.

“Maybe we ought to do this in my office,” he said, lips pursed.

The office. Chandler had been to the office of the principal on his very first day as a first grader. He and his older sister Leigh (who should have known better) were late walking to school, and crossed the final street without the help of a crosswalk patrol guard, a Sixth grader with a white safety patrol belt strapped about his torso.

“Hey, you two! C’mere!” And they were hauled off to the principal’s office, whimpering along the way. He discovered that the rumors Dr. Dingman kept a large paddle hung on the wall next to his desk were true. Also true was the lettering on the paddle: Board of Education.

Chandler’s dad closed the door to his office and pointed to a chair, where the young boy sat obediently. He asked the offense Chandler had committed.

Chandler told him.

“Are you sorry you did it?”

Yes.

“Will you ever do it again?”

No.

Now for the punishment. Chandler sat up straight, prepared to take it like a man.

“When I smack my hands together, I want you to yell and scream, okay?”

Wha –– ? Okay!

“Do you think you can make some tears?”

Think so.

His dad slapped his hands together, and Chandler wailed loudly. This went on for about thirty seconds, and his dad stopped, then opened his arms to Chandler, who hugged his hero for several precious minutes, really crying now.

Chandler’s dad was an only child. His father had died in the Great Flu Epidemic of 1916. At the time they lived in Luverne, Minnesota, near the southwest corner of the state. His dad’s father contracted the flu in October, and his condition worsened as he did not respond to treatment. Actually, he did respond, because the treatment killed him. It was believed that fresh air was part of the cure for the flu, and the windows of the bedroom his father lay ill in were kept wide open. He died in November of pneumonia, brought on by the flu and exacerbated by the freezing Minnesota “fresh air.”

Chandler’s grandmother, Bapa, was pregnant with his dad at the time, and moved in with Great Aunt Vi, the matriarch of the Wilson family, a widower whose husband had owned the town bank. She inherited the deeds and titles of nearly all the farmers in Rock County, and was more than glad to raise Charles Chandler as her own –– conditionally, of course. Bapa was a school teacher at her husband’s death, and Great Aunt Vi secured her pledge not to remarry. The payoff? Charles C. Wilson, II would become her sole heir to a considerable estate.

As a result Chandler’s dad was reared (the correct term, his grandmother insisted. You raise chickens and cows, you rear children) by his mother and great aunt. There was no male present in his life at the time –– other than his friends.

He had no idea how to rear a son. And, as his nature was in the more lenient direction, he abhorred the thought of striking any of his children, and all were coddled by him, much to his wife’s consternation.

Chandler uncapped a green bottle of Coke, and pried the top off a can of Charles’ Chips to eat as he awaited his father’s return home from work. He had avoided any conversation about his impending confession to his mom, murmuring things like “fine,” and “okay drive” and “I’m bushed” to her questions. He had already dumped his duffle crammed with dirty clothes in the laundry room, and Virgie Mae was busy starting loads of laundry.

He heard the garage door below open automatically as his father pulled into the driveway in the Stingray. He heard it close. He heard his father’s heavy steps on the wooden stairway thumping up to the main floor of the house. His father was whistling Oklahoma, one of his favorite musicals. When he came through the door at the top of the steps, he saw his son sitting with the can of potato chips in his lap.

“Cee-Cee!”

Chandler put the chips and Coke down and stood.

“Hi, Dad!”

“God it’s great to have you home! How long did the drive take?”

No matter where they went, family always greeted each other with an accounting of how long it took to get wherever, like the beach.

“Took me three and a half hours.”

“Not bad! Not bad at all!”

“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Can it wait till after dinner? Haven’t hugged your mom and I’m starved! Where’s Daniel?”

“Next door I guess at the Lynch’s.”

“Can I fix you a G and T? I mean, you are a college man, right?”

“Sure, Dad. That’d be great.”

Which was the way it went for two days –– his dad putting off the talk because of this or that, which was perfectly fine with Chandler. He began to think he might be able to get away without any kind of confession until his grades arrived in the mail. But even then, since he was expecting the grades and knew when the postman came by, he could intercept them. Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if his kept this bit of news from his parents for a few years –– say ten or twenty. Then he could bring it up in a laughing manner, as if looking back into the past at everything he had done they didn’t know about.

“What you don’t know can’t hurt me,” he thought, realizing that was not exactly the way the phrase went.

On the third day, he opened the High Point Enterprise, and drifted through the various sections. World News, local news, sports news, social news, and finally, community news.

A photo of a girl he knew was featured, with the headline, Price Organizes Local Group For Peace March on Washington. Alice Price! Her father was a minister, and the church he was pastor of had bought the two-story brick Wilson home on Colonial years before.

“This is fate!” A box at the end of the article gave the day, time and location of the organizational meeting. He tore the item from the paper, folded it, and put it into his billfold, then walked quickly to the phone and dialed.

“Is Billy there? Hey, Billy, what are you doing this coming Thursday afternoon? There’s a meeting about organizing a group from here to attend the Washington peace rally this summer. Want to go?”

He and Billy chatted a bit, then Chandler hung up. He was psyched! He was going to actually do something to make up for all of his sins.

“This calls for a beer!” And opened the refrigerator.

 

 

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