The Soil of a Man, the 4th part
[from the the beginning, if you missed it...]
When Emilie left that Fall, I left too. Uncle Calvin knew a man, his childhood minister actually, who owned a small farm on the other side of the state. Thomas McCann needed help, and Uncle Cal arranged for me to get the job. I packed up everything that mattered into two army surplus duffle bags, fueled up my rusted Ford and made the long drive to Abingdon, a town with one stoplight but two barbershops and five diners. A hand-scribbled chalkboard straddled the sidewalk in front of The Coffee Cup: Chicken and Dumplings / Hot Apple Strudel.
I turned west at the square and followed my directions out of town, down a dirt two-lane a couple miles to the clean, straight line of white fencing that marked the small but well kept McCann parcel. I rolled to a stop at the gate and looked up at the hand-lettered sign hanging over the entrance: Give it a Rest.
I drove in and stepped out of the truck. Three barking dogs darted up, licking and yelping as though I'd been separated from the litter. "Go easy, boys, don't smother him all at once." A man stepped off the porch, giving a wave with one hand and working his pipe with the other. Thomas McCann was sixty-something, a head brimming with unruly grey hair, a stride strong but relaxed and a wide grin that suggested he'd been waiting for you his whole life. "You must be Thad," he said, draping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me close before I had any chance to misdirect him with a handshake.
"Uh, yeah, that's me."
"It sure is. It sure is. Glad you found us all right." Unfazed by my obvious discomfort, his grip only tightened. He walked me into the house, squeezing my shoulder all the way. It was as if the dogs and McCann were in cahoots, neither one keen on giving me space. I would discover that up-close physicality wasn't a style of greeting for McCann; it was a philosophy. He didn't like anything that sniffed of pretense or fraud, and he believed the kind of distance most humans expect was a sham all the way down, a subconscious scheme for keeping people far enough away so we can keep on pretending, while no one ever gets close enough to know.
The first week, we walked over the farm, and he showed me around town. On Sunday, we went to Mt. Carmel Presbyterian Church where he served as the minister. The sermon was unlike any sermon I'd ever endured. I actually listened to this one. McCann spoke slow and gentle, like he was talking with you, not at you. There was gravity to his words, but it was the kind of seriousness that didn't seem at odds with laughter -- which is a good thing because there was a lot of laughter happening in those pews, particularly when Old Miss Gabney's snoring took off. As the snoring grew, so did the snickers. Mrs. Carter started to lean over to tap her on the shoulder, but McCann stopped her. "Don't wake her," he said, "I never like to bother a person at peace."
"In fact," he added, "maybe a few of you should stretch out and join her."
[to be continued...]
When Emilie left that Fall, I left too. Uncle Calvin knew a man, his childhood minister actually, who owned a small farm on the other side of the state. Thomas McCann needed help, and Uncle Cal arranged for me to get the job. I packed up everything that mattered into two army surplus duffle bags, fueled up my rusted Ford and made the long drive to Abingdon, a town with one stoplight but two barbershops and five diners. A hand-scribbled chalkboard straddled the sidewalk in front of The Coffee Cup: Chicken and Dumplings / Hot Apple Strudel.
I turned west at the square and followed my directions out of town, down a dirt two-lane a couple miles to the clean, straight line of white fencing that marked the small but well kept McCann parcel. I rolled to a stop at the gate and looked up at the hand-lettered sign hanging over the entrance: Give it a Rest.
I drove in and stepped out of the truck. Three barking dogs darted up, licking and yelping as though I'd been separated from the litter. "Go easy, boys, don't smother him all at once." A man stepped off the porch, giving a wave with one hand and working his pipe with the other. Thomas McCann was sixty-something, a head brimming with unruly grey hair, a stride strong but relaxed and a wide grin that suggested he'd been waiting for you his whole life. "You must be Thad," he said, draping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me close before I had any chance to misdirect him with a handshake.
"Uh, yeah, that's me."
"It sure is. It sure is. Glad you found us all right." Unfazed by my obvious discomfort, his grip only tightened. He walked me into the house, squeezing my shoulder all the way. It was as if the dogs and McCann were in cahoots, neither one keen on giving me space. I would discover that up-close physicality wasn't a style of greeting for McCann; it was a philosophy. He didn't like anything that sniffed of pretense or fraud, and he believed the kind of distance most humans expect was a sham all the way down, a subconscious scheme for keeping people far enough away so we can keep on pretending, while no one ever gets close enough to know.
The first week, we walked over the farm, and he showed me around town. On Sunday, we went to Mt. Carmel Presbyterian Church where he served as the minister. The sermon was unlike any sermon I'd ever endured. I actually listened to this one. McCann spoke slow and gentle, like he was talking with you, not at you. There was gravity to his words, but it was the kind of seriousness that didn't seem at odds with laughter -- which is a good thing because there was a lot of laughter happening in those pews, particularly when Old Miss Gabney's snoring took off. As the snoring grew, so did the snickers. Mrs. Carter started to lean over to tap her on the shoulder, but McCann stopped her. "Don't wake her," he said, "I never like to bother a person at peace."
"In fact," he added, "maybe a few of you should stretch out and join her."
[to be continued...]
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