The Place Out Back

Micah knew the time was coming to go to that place out back. He had been pondering its inevitability for over a year. He had, he realized, grown old, old and tired. Eighty may not be ancient for some, but he felt it’s weight. His wife of fifty-five years had passed on two years earlier enduring a slow and agonizing “death by the inch” as he called it. His life’s partner was gone. Their three children had dispersed like the winds throughout the country. They called occasionally and visited when their lives permitted, which was not very often.

 “You know, dad… work, family, the kid’s school.” Micah understood, but in the depth of his being, he felt an aching solitude. He was truly emotionally and geographically alone.

               The fact was, as one of his children put it,

“Dad, you live in the middle of a place that even “nowhere” couldn’t find.” Indeed, the home was twenty-five miles each way between two small towns: “Justice” was an old cowboy town, turned tourist attraction where every day at noon, two men from the historical society would dress up as gun slingers and have the shoot out in front of the bar on Main Street. “Copper Mine” was the other way and was named after the mine of the same name discovered one hundred years earlier and tapped out soon after its discovery, now experiencing a rebirth with land developers, and  trendy restaurants. Micah’s home was so remote, it’s location did not have a name. It was just there. Yet, this had been the family home for generations going back over a hundred and fifty years. It was handed down to a succession of Micah’s male lineage each with the understanding that it could not be sold and the family members would keep “the promise” which was not spoken but was understood. Micah thought about the promise quite often lately and was fully prepared to fulfill it when the time came, and it was drawing closer.

He would be the last. His sons did not want the home. He really could not blame them. They had to make a living and the farming lifestyle that had supported past generations, did so no more.

He remembered the good times, when the home echoed with the sounds of laughter and celebrations. Now, it just echoed. Several years back, a major builder offered Micah a considerable amount of money, more money than he had ever imagined, to sell so they could build a brand-new collection of cookie cutter, antiseptic, characterless homes for the younger generation. He refused. He had to. Never sell and keep the promise.

He had to admit, though that the old homestead was also showing its age. The windows were drafty and when the winter gusts punished the side of the home, it whistled through the cracks and made the curtains flutter. The roof dripped in places and the floors creaked. In his younger days, he and his sons made the necessary repairs. He was now alone and too old to do it himself. The home was tired and so was he. He laughed. He didn’t know which made more noise, the floors or his bones.

At times he would take his “walking stick”, a nomenclature that lent it more dignity than just calling it a cane, walk the short distance to that place out back, unlock the heavy door, sit in the only chair and think. He felt a solemn peace in this place. It was quiet, so quiet Micah could hear his own heartbeat. It was a cathedral of sorts, a venerable sanctuary where, he believed, he could converse with his ancestors who had dutifully kept the promise. He heard their voices and obeyed their commands. As he aged, he heard the voices more frequently. Perhaps, it was his intense loneliness and his need to have somebody, anybody to speak to. Perhaps the promise that kept him here was taking its toll. Perhaps, he was declining into senility. Micah needed to keep the place respectfully clean. He dusted and wiped the woodwork and glass. He needed to make certain the field mice and worms did not penetrate. It was part of the promise.

One fall evening as he sat on the porch watching the gray clouds portent the coming winter snows, a truck drove up the long dirt driveway leading to the house. The door opened and a heavy-set, tall man got out and meandered up to Micah.

Micah recognized him.

“Evening, Jim. Looks like an early winter this year. Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Thank you, Micah.” And with that he brought a chair over to Micah making certain it would hold his weight before sitting.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Jim?”

Jim Nichols was the county zoning officer. He and his family knew Micah and his family for decades and also remember the good times.

Nichols held in his hand an envelope with his office’s return address on it.

“I felt it only right that I deliver this to you in person, Micah. It would ‘t be respectful to just mail it.”

Micah looked straight ahead and waited a moment to respond.

“I appreciate that, Jim. Your family and mine were always good neighbors. My I have the envelope, please?”

Jim Nichols sighed and handed it to Micah.

Micah opened it and read what it had to say.

“What is eminent domain? What does that mean?”

“It means that the state is going to build a highway that will connect the town of Justice with Copper Mine. It is going to run right in front of your home, Micah. I’m sorry, old friend. They are saying that it will bring more income into the state and create more jobs. They are calling it “progress.”

Micah said nothing for a few moments. He looked at the ancient weeping willow that, no doubt, would be sacrificed. After all, more folks need to be able to see the gun fight each day at noon.

“I understand. Thank you for coming by personally, Jim. I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, Micah. I will keep in contact with you and let you know when they are going to begin.”

And with those words, the zoning officer rose from his chair, got back in his vehicle and drove away. Micah watched the truck grow smaller as it negotiated the pot holes and left his property. Micah also rose and went back into his home. The fall wind had penetrated the living room and Micah felt a chill. He donned his father’s sweater which was always kept on the leather chair by the fireplace, looked around, smiled resolutely and walked out the back door to that place out back. The time had come to keep the promise. Never sell was part of it. He hadn’t. The state had plans to take it. Never leave was the other part. His ancestors hadn’t left. After all, there they were, all three in glass coffins perfectly aligned, their bodies, preserved as if they were merely asleep, yet eyes wide open looking up at him, reminding him of the promise he had to keep. It was time, there was no reason to delay and longer. Micah walked to the last of the glass coffins, the one with his name on it. He slowly opened the glass lid, climbed the two steps up to the platform on which it rested and got in. He closed the glass top, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. He had kept the promise.