Tall Tail

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Sliding sideways, recovering, Harry slowly drove her year-old ATV down the farm road. With two exceptions, the pasture fences remained unbroken. Near the creek that separates Harry’s place from Cooper’s place, two trees had crashed into the far pastures. Uprooted sycamores, mud clinging to their roots, littered the creek bed. Rumbling to the beaver dam, she cut the motor, swinging her leg over the seat.

Hands on her hips, Tucker by her side, she examined the beaver dam. Part of it, torn away, was already being repaired by the industrious beasts, who paid little attention to Harry. Seeing her over the years, they knew her, of course. She never bothered them, nor did Tucker, with rare exceptions. None of them slapped their tail on the water as warning. Perched on their haunches, they looked at the human for a moment before returning to their task. Intelligent creatures, they retrieved those pieces of wood entangled in roots or hung up behind rocks halfway in the water. Other beavers chewed at saplings farther away from the creek.

“Come on, Tucker.” Harry remounted as Tucker jumped onto her lap, muddy paws and all.

Harry considered pawprints her fashion signature.

The ATV had been altered so instead of pushing a little lever for the gas with her right thumb she could twist the right handlebar cover as one would do on a motorcycle. Sure made long trips on the ATV easier. She felt she had better control.

Harry preferred two wheels to four, but covering the kind of terrain she did in various weather conditions, an off-the-road motorcycle wasn’t as useful—plus, on a motorcycle she couldn’t carry anything. A toolkit affixed to the back of her machine met most needs. Much as Harry loved her old 4x4 truck, this was cheaper on gas and she could wiggle into places forbidden to the truck, unless she wanted to wreck it.

Up the east side of the Blue Ridge they climbed, dodging downed limbs along the way. This side occasionally saw weather fly over it, dipping to the lower land below, which rested at eight hundred feet above sea level. The top of this particular ridge hovered at two thousand five hundred feet, high enough. Humpback Mountain’s top stood higher than that. The gap for Interstate 64 neared three thousand feet, and Humpback even stood higher. Along this old path, Harry had cut out turnarounds. Halfway up the mountain stood a sturdy shed. All was in order. The walnut trees were unscathed, but then they were more than a century old, with root systems deep and wide unlike the loblolly pines. Other conifers also stood tall; they, too, were very old. Harry thought some of them might even be virgin trees, along with some old oaks and hickories, impressive.

Most of the damage lay below.

“Okay, sugar, down we go.” She turned the ATV around and put it in creep gear to slowly descend.

Once at the bottom, she could view her farm from the back and much of the old Jones place, which Cooper rented. A herd of deer snuck out of the forest, turned to stare at her, then loped toward Cooper’s.

Back at the barn, driving in the aisle, the minute Harry turned off the motor, she heard the welcome hum of electricity.

“Thank heavens.”

“Imagine life without electricity?” Tucker jumped down. “Think of all the work, of haying without a tractor. Well, a tractor doesn’t use electricity.” The small dog was smart.

“Simon, are you up there?” Harry called up to the hayloft.

No response sent her up the ladder and she spotted him: The possum, awakening, blinked, curled his head tighter to his chest and fell back asleep. Harry then looked up at the barn’s cupola. The big owl, Flatface, safe and sound, dozed in her nest.

Harry scrubbed out the water buckets inside each stall, refilled them, then picked out the stalls, since the horses had spent the night inside. She left the outside stall door open so they could come and go at will. Usually in summer they spent the day outside only when it was cooler. As the rain had pounded and the wind wailed, she had allowed each horse to make up his or her own mind. They elected to stay in. The four broodmares contently ate. She hadn’t bred any this year. Short of cash, it takes a fair amount of money to raise a horse, then train it. So the girls munched away while her two foxhunters, one a Thoroughbred and one a Saddlebred, played outside, lots of chasing back and forth.

Harry rolled out the wheelbarrow to the manure pile. She covered the big compost heap, cut down six feet into the earth with a tarp so it would degrade faster. Made the best garden mulch ever, which she would deliver to friends. As she and Fair rarely gave dinner parties due to his work schedule, this was her gift, a way of keeping in touch.

After sweeping out the center aisle, she retreated to her tack room, which was invitingly cool. The mercury hovered at seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit, unusual for July.

Picking up the phone, she dialed Susan Tucker’s number.

“You okay over there?” Harry asked after Susan answered.

“Yes. What about you?”

“Two trees over fences by the creek. Actually, that’s about it.”

“Same here. Have you watched the weather?”

“No, I’ve been out doing chores,” said Harry. “When I left, still no power. Thank God for the generator. I rode up to check on the timber, yours and mine. Fine. A few branches down low, but once you climb, fine. If that wasn’t the damndest thing. One minute it was calm and the next minute, Kaboom!”

“The power came back on about an hour ago, so the first thing I turned to was The Weather Channel. Should be clear until the weekend, then maybe a few pop-up thunderstorms.”

Harry filled Susan in on yesterday’s sad event.

“Barbara Leader?” Susan repeated.

“Right.”

“Oh, dear, she was such a nice person. G-Pop adores her. He needs help in the house now. He refuses to go to hospice.”

“This will be hard on your grandfather.”

“Barbara could handle him. She’d whisper to him, ‘I know you have secrets.’ And he’d laugh. He needs to laugh. You’ve seen him. He’s lost so much weight, but he’s a real fighter.”

Samuel Holloway, a World War II naval hero, became governor of Virginia in the early 1970s, helped in part by his war record and strong leadership qualities. Susan and Harry had both been born in the middle of his gubernatorial term. They had no memory of his years in office.

“Yes, he’s a fighter,” said Harry. “He was such fun when we were growing up. We were too little to know anything about politics, but he would play with us when he was home. I wonder if elected officials still do that?”

“Harry, of course they do.” Susan laughed. “They aren’t all egotists and monsters.”

“Your cousin weighs in heavily on the egotism scale.”

Edward Holloway Cunningham, the son of Susan’s aunt, Pauline Cunningham, had a seat in the state Senate. At forty-two, he was readying for a run for senator, the election in the fall. Campaigning never stops in America, and Eddie was coming out swinging.

“I’m not Eddie’s biggest fan, but Mother always says, ‘Don’t hang your dirty laundry on the line,’ and I don’t. Mom and Aunt Pauline saw a lot of political turmoil growing up.”

“They got through it.” Harry complimented the two sisters, now in their late sixties.

“One of the good things about sexism is that although I was the granddaughter of a governor, no one expected much of me other than being a good hostess. And here I am married to a state delegate, but in Ned’s defense, that came late. He didn’t start out to be in politics.”

“He’s lucky to have you. You handle it well, all those fund-raisers, charity events, dinner parties. You amaze me.”

“Harry.” Susan felt a rush of gratitude. “What a sweet thing to say. As long as I have my kids, both out in the work world, you, my dog, and golf, always golf, I can keep sane, I think.”

“You can. Hey, know what? When I passed the Avenging Angel, he still scares me!”

“Me, too.” They both laughed.