Linnea

Linnea never lacked for anything.  That being said, she led a hard life.  She was never one to complain, or mine others for pity, but you could see it in her eyes, and the way she carried herself. There was a mingling of hope and despair; longing and fear; that would sometimes cross her face when she didn’t think anyone was looking.  It was that vulnerability that made me fall in love with her.

Not that I told her, of course. But she knew.  Of course she knew.  I was never good at hiding my feelings, no matter how hard I tried.    As they say, I wore my heart on my sleeve for the whole world to see.  Whenever she smiled at me there was an extra twinkle in her eyes that wasn't there when she smiled at others.  And she smiled a lot.  Despite everything, she never lost her smile.

My family moved to Presque Isle, Maine, shortly after I entered my tenth year, late spring of 1936.  The move was both exciting and scary, as most big changes tend to be.   My father had gotten a job as a foreman at Jehnnson’s Furniture, the largest furniture manufacturer at that time in Aroostook County.  My mother was hired on as well, in the upholstery department.  She would spend ten hours a day padding chairs, and sewing on cushions by hand, then come home and do the cleaning and cook dinner for father and me.  Yet she would always find time to sit with me and go over my school studies, or read a story to me.

I was too young to work in the factory, but plenty old enough to work on the neighbor’s farm; picking stones out of the fields, digging holes to plant seed, picking potatoes once they flowered.  Back then, everyone earned their keep.

Calling the place we moved into a house would be a generous exaggeration.  It was, for lack of a better term, a large three-roomed shack; a bedroom, a living room, and  kitchen.  The previous owner was not big on comfort, or convenience.  We relied on the outhouse in the side yard to take care of business.  I slept on a cot in the corner of the living room, which I would fold up and put away every morning.  We had limited running water, and bathing was done either in a small copper tub, or in the nearby stream.

I was hired on at the Wilette farm a month after our arrival.  The fields bordered one side of our property, and stretched as far as the eye could see.  The house itself, though, was only about a half mile away.  My father and I walked there early one Saturday morning; me somewhat reluctantly because I knew what was coming.  I didn’t want to waste my time getting sunburns and blisters for only a few dollars a week.  I wanted to explore, and fight pirates out on the sea, or hunt tigers through a tropical rainforest. My imagination was at its peak then, and I knew instinctively that once I started working, it would begin to shrivel and atrophy, perhaps even die completely.  But as I said, working was expected of me.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel my father’s hand on my shoulder as we walked up the drive to the Wilette house, his fingers calloused from years of working with wood, the occasional squeeze of my shoulder as he pointed out different things to me.

We mounted the steps, and father rapped on the screen door.  “Good morning,” father said to the girl as she appeared at the door.  “May we see your father?"

The girl looked at us with bored curiosity and nodded.  “He’s in the barn,” she pointed behind us and to the side, her finger brushing against the screen.  Father thanked her, and we crossed the yard to the barn.  Inside was huge, larger than you would expect  upon first glance from the outside.  The aroma  was a mixture of soil, manure and hay, an earthy and cloying smell that was intensified by the heat and humidity within the barn.  It was a smell I grew to love over the years.

Peter Wilette was at the far end of the barn, sharpening the blades on one of his many plows.  He was a traditionalist; what these days we would call “old school”.  All his plows were horse drawn, even though motorized tractors had been readily available a few years prior.  “If it was good enough for my pa, it’s good enough for me,” was his favorite answer to many of life’s questions.

“My boy needs to learn about responsibility and earn his keep.  Ferquesson said you’re always looking for field hands.”

“Not always,” Wilette answered, never looking up from his plow blades.  “But I never turn away help, neither.  You never know when you might need it.”  Leaning back, Wilette pulled a kerchief from his back pocket, wiped his forehead, and nodded.  “Ayuh.  Suppose I could use extra help cleaning stone and seeding.”

My father nodded.  “The boy will be over after school, come Monday.”

“Ayuh,” Wilette sighed, bending back over his plow.  We left the barn and headed back home.  At the edge of the property the girl was picking berries.  She held the corners of her apron in one hand, forming a pouch to catch the berries in.  She looked up as we approached, shading her eyes, and gave me a half smile.  “Guess I’ll be seeing you a lot more.”

I nodded.  Rather sheepishly, truth be told.  “Good,” she said.  “I wanted somebody to boss around.”  Her smile grew, and instantly I knew we would be friends.  That’s how I first met Linnea Wilette.

*****

When I was 14 I broke my leg.  It was a stupid accident, really, one that never should of happened.  But then, isn’t that what really defines an accident, an aberration from the norm?  It was a gorgeous afternoon in May, school had let out for summer the day before, and Linnea and I had spent the first day of summer break hiking and exploring and running and playing, basking in each other’s presence and friendship.  It was nearing nighttime, the sky a mottled orange and red and purple.  We were climbing one of the trees bordering the Presque Isle Stream; an Eastern White Pine, if memory serves me.  My memory from that night is pretty patchy, coming in jagged flashes, and smudged recollection….but I remember the branch.

I had climbed up the tree no problem, skipping from branch to branch, like Tarzan in the serials.  I stood in the upper branches, my shoulder against the trunk, and stared out at the stream, the golden-orange flames of the setting sun dancing on the water’s surface.  The view was breathtaking, truly, and I caught myself wishing the moment would never end.  Linnea was on the branch beneath me, and even though she had the same view as me, I wished there was room for her on the branch beside me.  

 The brilliance of her smile rivaled that of the sun, and there was a quickening of my pulse which I didn’t understand.  I stared into her eyes, and for a second, something seemed to change.  Like a door opening just a crack, I caught a glimpse of something wonderful and beautiful, something that I wanted to explore, and lose myself in.  Then she lowered her gaze, and the moment was lost.  I suddenly realized I was holding my breath.  I let it out in a hot rush, and I had to lean against the tree to steady myself.  “It’s getting late.  Papa will tan both our behinds if I’m late for dinner.” she said, starting to climb down.

“Ayuh,” I breathed.  I started down, lowering myself from branch to branch.  I was three-quarters of the way down when I stopped to wipe the sweat from my eyes.  The branch I stood on was at least four inches thick, easily twice as thick as the one I stood on at the top of the tree.  But it was half rotted, filled with woodpecker holes, and without warning it sagged, then snapped completely.

  I tumbled down the tree,  bouncing and sliding off the branches, the limbs tearing at me.  A vortex of green and reddish-brown filled my vision, then I crashed through the bottom, and I landed hard.

  The pain was immediate and nauseating.  I can’t remember if I screamed, I’m sure I did.  My memory becomes unreliable, and all I can see are red-tinged flashes, like overexposed snapshots.  

Linnea leaning over me, crying.  My father and mother above me, holding my hands.  An overly bright hallway, lights flashing by in quick succession.

The first clear memory I have after the fall was of Linnea sitting in a chair at the foot of my hospital bed, staring out the window.  She held something in her hand, turning it over repeatedly, but I couldn’t see what it was.  She hadn’t noticed that I was awake, and I watched her for several moments.  The way she chewed at her bottom lip, her eyes bright yet nearly vacant as she stared outside.  I was certain that whatever she was seeing, it was not on the other side of that window.

“Penny for your thoughts.”  My voice startled me.  It was hoarse and gravely, and my throat felt dry and cracked.  I licked my lips and swallowed, but it did no good.  I looked around, hoping for some water, and saw a cup sitting on a tray to my right.  Linnea was at my side instantly, and she held the cup out to me.  I drank from it greedily, spilling half of it down my front.

“Slowly,” she said.  Her voice was low and soft, almost meek, and there was a tightness around her eyes, a barely hidden pain which I hadn’t noticed before.  Had it always been there, but I was just too naive to notice it?  Or was it newer, fresher, perhaps brought on by my fall?  “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Me too.”  She held out her hand.  "Here."  When I raised my own hand she unfurled her fingers.  A piece of wood fell into my palm, roughly three inches by one.

“It’s wood,” I said.  She smiled briefly, and in that split second  my heart melted.  She reached into her back pocket and pulled something free.

“This goes with it.”  It was a penknife, and I turned the two over, a blank stare on my face.  “My Papa has been whittling wood since he was a boy, and he taught me how to do it.  I figured I could show you how.  You know, while your leg healed.”

I grasped her hand, giving it a quick squeeze.  “That would be great.”

*****

I spent the rest of that summer honing my skills with the penknife as my leg slowly mended itself.  My fingers soon became a patchwork of cuts and calluses.  Every time the urge to quit came over me, I would think of Linnea, and the look in her eyes when she stood by my hospital bed that day.  To quit felt like a betrayal, and I couldn't do that to her.  So I pushed on, and as my leg improved, so did my whittling.

 By the end of August I was walking around on my own, with a limp that would stay with me the next seventy years.  It was on that last Saturday of August that Linnea was knocking on our door by 9 o'clock.  She had become a fixture of sorts at our place that summer, and my parents gradually began to think of her as family. Mother greeted her with a smile and freshly made doughnut, still warm and glistening with grease.  Linnea bit into it and her eyes closed in pure pleasure.  When she was finished she thanked Mother then turned to me.  "Are you ready Ahab?"

I smiled at her, and held my penknife like a harpoon.  I thrust my arm forward, finger pointed toward the distant hills.  "Thar she blows!" I shouted in my best pirate voice, and bounded out the door.

My leg was still tender from the break, and running caused a fair amount of pain.  But on that final Saturday of summer, I felt the barest of twinges as we chased each other through the open fields of wildflowers, laughing and screaming until we collapsed in exhaustion and laid in a meadow of Blue-bells, staring up at the clear summer sky.  A gentle wind moved through the pale blue flowers, and it felt like we were being carried away by ocean waves.

Reaching into my pocket, I grasped what I had brought for Linnea.  "I have something for you," I said.  She turned to me, a questioning smile dancing on her lips.  I pulled my hand free and held it out to her, fist clenched.  When she stretched out her hand, I placed mine on top of hers and opened it.  She smiled when she saw it, and her eyes brimmed with tears.  Lying in her hand was a pendant of a thrush that I had carved for her, its wings outstretched in mid-flight.

"It's beautiful."  I felt Linnea's fingers slide between my own, and it felt so natural, so right, that at first I didn't pull away.  I turned to her, but she was still staring at the sky.  All at once I was transfixed by her beauty, and my heart started to race.  She was wearing a green and white gingham dress, and for the first time I noticed her emerging womanhood.  My pulse quickened as a strange, but pleasant feeling wound itself through my stomach.  On its own, my thumb moved gently across the back of her hand, caressing it.  She turned to me.  Our faces were barely an inch apart, and that strange wonderful feeling coursed through my body again.

     I nearly kissed her that perfect summer day, Lord knows I wanted to.  I'm pretty sure she wanted me to, as well.  At least I like to think so.  But as the years lengthen and the memories deepen, it's easier to romanticize those moments that matter most to us.

     At times, I've regretted never taking the chance and leaning forward those last few inches, but I also don't regret it.  How differently my life would have been if we had taken our friendship to the next level.  It's impossible to say with any certainty where we would have ended up, how large our family would have been.  It's those thoughts that sometimes kept me company when my spirit was at its lowest.  Increasingly, it's those cherished memories of innocence and loyalty which comforts an old man during the long, sleepless nights.

*****

It’s been nearly seventy years since that day in the field, and I’ve done a lot of living during that time.  I’ve had three wives, divorced two and buried the last; I have five children and twelve grandchildren, with the thirteenth on the way.  I’ve seen the Wilette farm prosper, and nearly fail; I’ve seen floods and blizzards and near droughts.  I’ve seen Presque Isle transform itself from a small close-knit community into a bustling city.  I’ve witnessed three wars, and several near-wars and occupations.  I’ve met hundreds of people, but none quite like Linnea. 

The envelope that arrived in the mail yesterday had no return address, but was postmarked Dover, Maryland.  It was thick, bulging.  With curious trepidation I sat at the kitchen table and slit it open with a knife.  I pulled out the contents, and my eyes misted over as I saw what was wrapped within tissue paper.  Even after nearly seven decades, I could still recognize the handwriting.

My dearest friend;

Where to begin?  I’m sorry that I didn’t stay in touch as promised; I was afraid that it would keep alive certain memories that I wanted dead and buried, put away and forgotten because the thought of them was too much to bear.  And it did help, at first.  But after awhile, I realized that in doing so, I lost the one thing I wanted, and needed the most.  How much easier this all would have been if I hadn’t shut you out completely.  I’m truly sorry for hurting you; I know I must have, because it hurt me.  The hours spent with you were always my happiest.  How I wish we could have those back. You always knew how to make me laugh; and when I needed it the most.  How I loved you for that, and the way you could make me forget my pain and self-doubt.  Those memories got me through some rough patches over the years, and for that I thank you.  When you read this, my Love, I would have lost my battle with cancer.  I’m tired, so very tired of it all.  The memories of you, and our friendship, have gotten me this far; you may not have been in my life these past years, but you’ve always been in my heart.  I dream of the time when we can run through the fields again, chasing the endless summer and all it promised.           

                                                                                   Always yours,

                                                                                                     Linnea

Tears blurred my vision, and my heart ached worse than I thought possible.  I picked up the charm I had carved for her all those years ago, and kissed it.  Never far from my heart….  I sat there holding it, and thought about Presque Isle all those years ago.  I thought of a young boy, meeting a young girl, not knowing how profoundly their lives would change.  I remembered the joy and freedom we had shared, and I thought to myself Linnea was right; how wonderful it would be to do it all again. Two thrushes chasing the summer sun.  How wonderful indeed.