A Simple Loaf of Bread

by Donna Poole

His to-do list would keep a young healthy man busy for a year, and he was anything but young and healthy. He was way exhausted.

But she couldn’t get him to retire. His father had died on a tractor. His grandfather had died in the barn—but not until after he’d finished the day’s milking. It had been years since the farm had turned a real profit, but he still got up before the sun each morning and came home almost too tired to eat supper each evening. The old machinery broke down often; the house needed way too many repairs, and poison ivy was swallowing the yard. The riding mower had died years ago, but she pushed mowed what she could, less each year. Their once huge yard was now a tiny square around the ramshackle, century-old farmhouse.

They had the same conversation almost every morning over steaming bowls of oatmeal. “Why are you being so stubborn about holding onto this place? You know the boys are never going to come back and work the farm. They’ll sell it faster than they used eat hot biscuits as soon as we’re gone.”

He didn’t use his words, just stirred his melting butter and brown sugar into the oatmeal, but his blue eyes, clouded now from too many days spent squinting at the sun, answered her question with one of his own.

And why can’t you understand? This farm is my life.

She knew what his sad eyes were saying, and it hurt. Once, sixty years ago, when he’d brought her to the farm, she’d been his life, or so she’d thought. It hadn’t mattered then that they’d had so little time to spend together, because the time they’d carved out had been sweet, full of love and laughter. Now, the few minutes they had together he snored in the recliner, and she sighed and flipped through retirement magazines.

Sometimes he even fell asleep at the supper table, and that worried her. “Go to the doctor please,” she begged. “It could be your heart.”

But he shook his head. “Not going to pay the doc good money for him to tell me I’m old.”

It seemed every conversation ended in a stalemate.

He sat on the edge of the bed rubbing the back of his neck one evening.

“If you did retire, we could spend more time together,” she said.

He snorted. “And do what?”

He lay down facing away from her and started snoring immediately.

How can he do that? Fall asleep and snore when we haven’t even said goodnight to each other?

Resentment burned in her chest and kept her awake. His words kept echoing in her thoughts. And do what?

Once her thoughts cooled, she admitted he had a point. If they had more time together, what exactly would they do?

A long-ago memory bubbled to the surface. But how would she keep him awake long enough?

As soon as he left in the morning, taking his lunch with him, she got to work. First, she made the bread. She hadn’t made any in years, but when you’ve made as many loaves as she had, you never forget how. She only hoped the yeast in the freezer was still active.

While the bread was rising, she went to the front porch and checked out the swing. It was filthy. She swept off years of dead leaves and road dust and gave it a good scrubbing. When she went back to the kitchen to check her bread the dough had risen so much it had escaped the bowl and was running down the side toward the counter.

She quickly washed, dried, and floured her hands and punched down the dough. It felt good to push it back where it belonged.

“Yeast is amazing,” she said to herself. “It’s always a mysterious thing how it works through the dough so fast. Kinda like life, I guess. A little bit of something spreads a lot faster than you intended sometimes.”

She wiped a tear with the corner of her apron. “No more bitterness,” she whispered to herself. “No matter what.”

“Stews good,” he said later. “Thought I smelled homemade bread though.”

“Did you now?” she said.

“Think I’ll sit in the recliner a bit before bed,” he said.”

“How about sitting on the porch swing instead? I cleaned it off today.”

He scratched his head and stared at her like he’d never seen her before. “Did you now?” He grinned. It had been a long time since she’d seen that grin. He looked so much younger.

“You…don’t remember, do you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Somethings you don’t forget. Do you want me to cut the bread?”

She laughed. “Already done.”

About a half an hour later he sighed with satisfaction. “Woman, your homemade bread and strawberry jam tastes as good as it ever did. Been too long.”

They sat in silence for a bit, watching the sun set over the barn.

She said, “When we were young, we used to sit here sometimes with bread and jam and talk about how when we were old we’d have more time. We said we’d sit here together and watch the sunset every night. Remember?”

He nodded. “Supposed to rain tomorrow night though. Can’t see the sunset.”

“We could play Scrabble,” she said. “We used to do that sometimes.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Long as you don’t use the letters to make any bad words.”

“Bad words? Like what?”

“Like r-e-t-i-r-e.” But then he laughed and took her hand.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

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