Horrible Harvest

Our little farmhouse weren’t nothing but a one-room chamber. The kitchen was in the southwest corner. The beds were to the left. The dining table was at the opposite corner, and the hearth was at the right of the door.

“This is certainly a lovely home.”

Mr. Miller couldn’t bring himself to go along with his wife’s praise. It was a poor excuse for a house built by a man poor in spirit and money. The family being raised in it were to be poor forever more. He couldn’t think of no compliment to give or agree with about a house that held so much poverty. “We’ve another gift.”

“Another?” Momma was rattled by the news. She found the first gift just plain grotesque. She expected more of the same.

“Mr. Stockton, I believe it is in your possession. In your saddlebag. This one is from Isabelle and me.”

The advance man zipped out the house and back so fast, you’da thought he parked his horse on the porch. He held tight to a package wrapped in a gold cut of silk cloth tied by a purple lace ribbon.

Mr. Miller give direction to his aide. “Don’t just stand there, man. Hand it over. To our most gracious hostess.”

Momma fought her nerves and took the gift from Mr. Stockton. “I fear you have blessed us with too much of your thoughtfulness. One gift, let alone two, is not necessary.”

Mrs. Miller smiled. “Nonsense. We’ve shown up uninvited. Never has a gift been more necessary.”

“My, my, the wrapping is a vestige of something truly spectacular.”

“I’m afraid the wrapping is far more spectacular than the gift.”

Mr. Miller adopted his boy’s hangdog posture. “And this is where I own the choosing of the gift, and Isabelle, the wrapping, which is meant to appeal to you, Mrs. Tennyson. My dear, you were right, as always.”

“I’ve more of the fabric. You’re welcome to as much as you want. It is from Italy. We’ve just returned.”

Momma give a blush of embarrassment before tugging the ribbon loose and unfurling silk fabric. A book.

“The gift itself is for you, Horace. May I call you Horace?”

“Yes. Of course. Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. The book is for you.”

Daddy give loose a nervous smile and nodded.

Momma read the title aloud. “The Planter’s Northern Bride by Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.”

“An outstanding book. An excellent rebuttal to that fable of trash by that Stove woman.”

“You know it’s Stowe, dear.”

“Whatever her name, she authored horse excrement.”

Daddy sunk into a posture of unease. He knew nothing of a woman named Stowe, nor were there enough sober days left in his lifetime to pour through the pages of such a thick book about a northern bride.

Momma’s grip on the book turnt her knuckles snow white as she looked as if she wanted to strangle the life out of it. She knew full well what this Miller gift meant.

Mrs. Miller groaned. A pall barrelled in like a rolling cloud of thunder. “I told you it was an unfit gift, Cameron. You’ll have to excuse my husband, Mrs. Tennyson. His life entire is built around politics and convincing others he is right about how the world should be constructed.”

“You forget I suggested a bottle of Tennessee bourbon, did I not?”

“An even worse gift. We know not their position on temperance.”

“It is a fine gift. We love books, don’t we, Horace?”

Daddy didn’t understand a word of her lie. He feared books. Hated them. They were the demons that would one day cost him field hands. His boys. Well read. They’d work themselves free of his hell and cut loose from his rice paddies. Eventually, he come to realize that Momma’s lie was meant to save him, so he let a smile dent his cheeks. “Yes, we do. Books are always a welcome sight. In fact, Grace was once a schoolteacher.”

“And this is where I must admit we are aware of Mrs. Tennyson’s turn as a teacher. I hope you won’t think me a practitioner of subterfuge, my dear lady, but I am a cautious man. My investment here, in the Lowcountry, was to be considerable, so Mr. Stockton did what he does. He inquired about the quality of our potential neighbors. The Tennysons. You’ve the reputation as a most productive farmer of rice, Horace. More yield per acre than any other in these parts. In the country entire, perhaps.”

Daddy beamed. At first. Such a compliment laid at his feet was far overdue. He did have a talent few possessed, but his aptitude didn’t produce nothing but heartache and low wages. His pride turned bitter extra quick.

“And your wife. A teacher. Did you know, my lady, that four of your former students have attended Harvard? One a graduate of West Point. They all credit you for their love of learning. That is quite the feat considering you only taught for two years. And at such a young age.”

Momma hated how flattered she felt by Mr. Miller’s observation. Who it come from irked her more than what was said. “You are too kind. And thorough in your research.”

“I cannot say it is why I purchased the properties I did in this area. That was a business decision. One I could not pass up, but I can say it has contributed to the notion that I can fulfill a fanciful idea I’ve had since I was a boy.”

Mrs. Miller give him a look that quieted him.