Working With Crops

It’s been raining since Thursday. The weatherman says it’s good, says we need it, says the crops will grow better. I don’t know much crops, even though I was born and raised in a town surrounded by them. All I know is I went to change pipe one morning with a friend in high school and when the alarm went off at 4:30 I decided I wasn’t the type of person to work with crops.

Tom was the type to work with crops, though. He always felt a kind of urgency to rise before the sun, to tend to cattle, to operate a hay bailer. And so it went with us: him rising without a sound, making enough coffee to fill a thermos, pulling on his weathered and worn cowboy boots in the mudroom, then revving up the tractor to tend his fields. I, in the meantime, lay undisturbed in bed, stretching the length and width of his queen-sized mattress, burying my head between my and the now-vacant pillow.

Once the rooster crowed and the dogs barked along with it, I’d pull myself out of bed and feel the coolness of hardwood on my feet as I walked from the bedroom to the bathroom, then finally to the kitchen. His house was small and modest. A simple three-bedroom farmhouse with a large kitchen and dining room, and a living room fit for two people and no more. Whenever we set down to watch a show at night he’d always comment, “Will need something bigger once the kids come along.” As if kids just somehow magically came along.

For Tom, though, life had a way of happening through no fault or choice of his own. He didn’t buy the farm or set out to run it, but it was passed along after his parents died in an automobile accident. In fact, if Tom had any choice, he likely would have worked under the auspice of his father until the old man died at a ripe age, and Tom, after years of following his Paw, would then take over, as if the change in guard were a ruddy old tractor falling apart, and a newer, though slightly used model had been sent to replace it.

As it went, Tom took over the farm when he was barely 27-years-old and worse for the wear. Thinking he had years to teach his son about cover crops and how to balance a ledger, Tom’s father left him with little practical business knowledge. 

This is how I met Tom, as a brand-new accountant returning to my hometown with zero job prospects and even less hope for the future. Tom, desperate and not knowing what else to do, started asking around town for help with the farm’s finances (it seemed to him that the banks would come to liquidate the farm any day now considering the number of negative numbers in previous reports). Word of his near-desperation reached Joann, my mother’s hairdresser, who then passed along the information to me. I had nothing else to do, so I called Tom and the next day I was at his farm with a pile of crumpled papers in front of me, and just beyond the papers, a very stressed young man pacing fretfully on the hardwood flooring.

“I don’t know anything about any of this,” he told me. He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke. There was something measured about his speech. It was clear to me, right away, that he rarely spoke out of turn, and if he did you could be sure he had thought long and carefully before commanding attention from anyone. Tom went on to tell me about his parents, about his hard-working, farm-loving parents. He then told me about his sister who now lived in the city, and in his own words, was a “good-for-nothing city junky,” which fell on deaf ears because I too found a great deal of joy in walking between 70-story buildings and dipping into local restaurants that likely failed health inspections. But I was here now, and in my flannel top and worn-out jeans looked nothing like a city junky. Always better to fit in.

Tom then told me about his brother who he employed part-time as a bailer and maintenance man. His brother, Aaron, always had grease in the creases of his knuckles and a backward baseball cap repping the Oregon State Beavers. Aaron became an immediate problem for me because the numbers did not add up. Tom was paying Aaron a full-time salary for part-time work, and even worse than that, Tom couldn’t really afford to pay anyone anything. The numbers were bad.

I didn’t tell Tom this, not at first. The man had just lost his parents and was reeling with grief over them, and then he was dealing with an ongoing fear that he would lose the farm and all his dad’s hard work in just a month's time or less. I had to be gentle.

“Is there any place you could make cuts?” I asked one day. It was early October and he was trying to focus on getting everything ready for winter. He looked up at me with a smirk. We were friendly by then. 

“Well,” he started, “The accounting department is kind of a pain my ass.” He winked at me and I laughed in a way that reminded me of secrets under the covers at slumber parties. Like I was a girl again.

“Good for nothing accountants,” I said, shaking my head in despair. “Only ever bringing bad news and making you pay for it.”

Tom stalled for a minute, mid-pace, then pulled out the kitchen chair and plopped down on it. He rapped his fingertips on the worn-out oak. 

“You know,” he fiddled with his baseball cap, rapped his fingers more speedily on the tabletop, “I’d like to take you out sometime.”

I’m sure I blushed. My face felt as hot as the August sun. I moved my head forward so my bangs could fall in my face and then brushed them back with my right hand.

“I mean, I like you. Like, I like you like you.” I couldn’t help it, I laughed out loud. It’s like we were back in middle school. We were, to his defense, in unchartered territory. Everyone I knew was meeting people online and here I was in this charming man’s quaint farmhouse, balancing his checkbooks, when he asked me out, in person, for a proper date, and then validated that request with antiquated reassurances. I was floored.

“Laughter isn’t my ideal response when I ask a pretty girl out on a date,” he said, removing his cap and running his fingers along the bill.

“No, no,” I said and placed my hand palm-down on his side of the table, “I like you like you, too.” I winked at him and laughed again. I hadn’t felt joy like this in a while and it felt nearly unfamiliar. 

—

The following night Tom picked me up at my parent's house and started driving north out of town. In high school, this would have surely meant sex. I lost my virginity in the back of a pick-up truck after we went north of town. But this was different. We were adults and the rules had changed, at least I suspected they had.

We listened to the local country music station and Tom turned up the dial when “Dive Bar” by Garth Brooks came on. We drove past mile marker 52 and turned onto a dirt road which we followed for another three or four miles. Tom kept stealing glances my way and I returned the favor, meanwhile the both of us were giggling and giddy.

When Tom finally stopped the truck we were near a field of alfalfa which trembled in the soft breeze and moonlight. 

“I have a treat for us,” he said, “Get in the back.”

I knew where this was going, but I wasn’t going to stop it. I climbed into the bed of his truck and found a mountain of blankets to cushion ourselves from the metal. Then Tom joined me and pulled a bottle of whiskey from under the covers along with a box of Triscuits, some Tillamook cheese, and a loaf of summer sausage. We took turns cutting chunks of cheese and meat and chomping on crackers.

“Why’d you come back?” He asked mid-bite. I lowered my hands to my lap and tossed my head to the stars which were dimmed by the full moon.

I sighed. “My sister is sick.”

Tom sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

We were quiet for a while aside from the crinkle of hands searching for crackers.

“I’m glad you came back,” he said finally.

I looked over at him. “Me too.”

And then he leaned over and kissed me. It was the most unassuming, innocent kiss. He wasn’t desperate, which I half expected after the loss of his parents and the stress of the farm. Instead he was tender and reserved. Nothing like any of the farm boys I’d kissed growing up.

“Where have you been?” He asked, pulling away slightly.

“Here, but not here,” I said, waving my hand like the whip of a flag. “I wasn’t really here, growing up, not really. I was just counting down the days until I could leave.” Tom nodded along.

“I felt the same way,” he said low like a confession. I turned to face him.

“The son of a farmer?”

“When I was a kid I dreamed of being a teacher like Mr. Watson—”

“Seventh-grade English.”

“Yeah. He made me realize that I didn’t have to be a farmer if I didn’t want to.”

“So what happened?”

“My dad. Wanted to make him proud, but also he made it pretty clear I wouldn’t be part of the family if I didn’t take over the farm.”

“What about Aaron?”

“Aaron,” he started, “You’ve seen Aaron around and know he isn’t worth a lick when it comes to farm work. He’d rather fall asleep on a hay bail than make one.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” I said with a laugh. Tom grimaced. “So it all fell on you.”

“Yeah,” he said and took a pull from the bottle. “It all fell on me.”

We drank more and fooled around in the bed of his Chevy. We explored one another like we were meeting for the first time. It felt like we were. 

As we drove home later that night, we listened to more country music, which I didn’t hate, and I sat close to Tom, in the middle seat, feeling his forearm brush against my thigh every time he shifted gears. When we got closer to my house Tom took my hand in his. “How about we just go back to my place and call it a night?” I nodded an aggressive––maybe too aggressive––yes, and we sped off to the farmhouse I’d grown to love in my few months as Tom’s accountant.

—

By late winter I had moved into Tom’s place, spending most, if not all, nights of the week sleeping in his queen-sized bed. I woke up with the roosters and cooked a six-egg breakfast, four for him and two for me, grilled bacon, and fried hashbrowns. He’d then come in around 7:30 to enjoy breakfast and another cup of coffee, then fill his thermos for the road. I learned to love life on the farm and had planted seedlings for a spring garden. All the while, though, I knew I had to tell Tom that his farm wasn’t lucrative. That this little life we’d begun to create, with the future kids and all, wasn’t remotely realistic.

I felt like a double-agent indulging in this life while knowing full well it wouldn’t last.

I decided to tell him of the farm’s grim future by the first day of spring, which was now only two days away.

—

“You okay?” He asked at dinner that night. We were having meatloaf and mashed potatoes with creamed corn, one of my favorite meals as a kid. I piled another spoonful in my mouth and muttered a half-hearted, “Mhmm.”

“You look pale,” he said. I braced myself against the table.

“It’s only March!” I said in protest.

“No,” he laughed, “I mean, you look pale like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Oh,” I sighed and dug my fork into my food. “It’s nothing. I think maybe my allergies are acting up with the change of seasons. Plus all this rain.”

He nodded and we went back to eating in silence.

—

The next day started like any other. Tom got out of bed before me, I rustled but didn’t wake. When the rooster crowed I pulled myself out of bed and into the kitchen where Tom had left a note offering recommendations for alleviating pale skin which was equal parts farce and fact. I turned the dial on the stove which clicked before the starter caught, then cracked six eggs into the cast iron skillet. As the flame licked the bottom of the pan and the eggs popped in oil, I heard Tom stomp his boots on the front porch, and then the familiar creek of the screen door.

He looked defeated.

“What’s going on?” I asked, setting the towel I draped over my shoulder onto the counter near the stove.

“Rain won’t let up and the tractor keeps stalling. I’m drenched head to toe and all I keep thinking about is how I never wanted to be a farmer.”

He fell into the kitchen chair and dropped his head in his hands. I picked the towel back up and ran it through my hands from end-to-end.

“Well,” I started, “I might have some good news for you.”

I should have known then, and I definitively know now that losing the farm that held his family’s legacy wasn’t good news in any situation. In fact, losing the land that his late father had spent his entire life tilling and working and creating was possibly the worst thing that could happen. That Tom’s inability to run a cost-effective farm operation would feel like the single worst failure in his entire life.

In the moment, though, it felt like the perfect opportunity to present him an out. That he could, in fact, go back to school and become a teacher like Mr. Watson. That he had options, and most of all he had me.

But once I’d finished explaining the devastating outlook for the farm, Tom looked ghastly.

“Get out,” he said, raising a finger towards the door.

“What?”

“Get out!” He said and stood up so quickly the chair fell onto the kitchen floor behind him. I threw my hands up in defense, having never seen this side of him. “You heard me!” He yelled, “Get out of my house.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom, I thought––”

“You were wrong,” he said. 

And he was right. I was wrong.

—

My calls went to voicemail and were never returned and for a while, I thought he might be so busy dealing with foreclosure that he couldn’t spare a minute to talk to me. I realized, not much later, that he simply didn’t want to hear my voice.

I decided to drive by the farm the following week to see if he was there and if there might be a realtor’s sign on the front lawn. There wasn’t and he didn’t. Aaron came out to warn me not to come back, that my willingness to sell the farm felt like fresh betrayal. I tried telling him I didn’t want them to sell the farm, but the numbers made it feel inevitable. He was stern and angry.

“You didn’t even consider other options,” he said, “You immediately decided to pawn off the farm to the highest bidder.”

“I looked at the numbers, Aaron, and they didn’t leave me with any hope.”

Aaron kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. I thought about my first night with Tom in the truck.

“Have you ever actually thought about what Tom really wants?” I asked him. 

He looked me straight in the eye. “Have you?”

I retreated home after that like an abused dog. I went up to my room and fell backward onto the bed I’d spent years plotting my hometown escape from. I looked up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that were still plastered to my ceiling and thought about the morning I went to change pipe with my friend.

It turns out, even after all these years I’m still not the type to work with crops.