The Soil of a Man, the final part
[from the the beginning, if you missed it...]
McCann was a man in cadence. It wasn't a cadence you could map or chart; there was no orientation that could devise a schedule so you could memorize where to be, when to be or how to be. McCann's rhythm was something you had to live. There was a time to work, a time to rest. A time to talk and a time for quiet. A time to laugh and, of course, a time for tears. Most important, there was always time for tea.
Every afternoon, though we never had a precise hour, we'd halt our work and head to the porch. We'd sip tea (Earl Grey, always Earl Grey) and eat Mrs. McCann's cold biscuits leftover from breakfast. It took me the longest time to get the hang of when teatime arrived. Sometimes it would be late afternoon, after we had finished our tilling or our weeding or our picking and we would drag our tired bones to our ritual. Other days, we'd stop right in the middle of a job and "go get refreshed," as Thomas would say.
One afternoon, McCann abruptly stopped the tractor right it the middle of the field, shut the engine off and climbed down. I trotted over, wondering what was wrong. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "Teatime."
"Now?"
"Exactly now."
Thomas McCann was the most unhurried, unbothered person I'd ever known. It was odd, even for a Presbyterian. I've never known a man to be less beholden to – and at the same time more attentive to -- time than McCann. Thomas didn't watch the clock; his rhythm ran deeper. You got the sense he was listening, always listening.
During tea that day we left the tractor in the field, I asked him why we had to have tea just then. "I had something to say," he answered.
"Why didn't you just say it? We didn't have to come all the way to the house for that."
"Of course we did," McCann replied. "This is our talking place."
And it was. For over a year, we chatted at this same spot, in these same chairs, mugs of steaming tea in our hands. The porch had transformed into a sacred space. This was why I was so attentive every afternoon, wondering when McCann would make the call to head to the house. This was why I'd come to love Earl Grey tea, even though I'd never had a single drop previous. I don't remember what Thomas had to say that was so damn important, but I remember that he had to say it. And I remember that he had to say it on the porch with the tea. I remember that, if he had never moved from his chair, I would have sat there with him all day and all night. I remember he left that tractor sitting in the middle of the field.
And I remember that I felt like I was wading into the water, and fear would not stop me.
[the end]
*if you'd like the story in print format, you may download it.
McCann was a man in cadence. It wasn't a cadence you could map or chart; there was no orientation that could devise a schedule so you could memorize where to be, when to be or how to be. McCann's rhythm was something you had to live. There was a time to work, a time to rest. A time to talk and a time for quiet. A time to laugh and, of course, a time for tears. Most important, there was always time for tea.
Every afternoon, though we never had a precise hour, we'd halt our work and head to the porch. We'd sip tea (Earl Grey, always Earl Grey) and eat Mrs. McCann's cold biscuits leftover from breakfast. It took me the longest time to get the hang of when teatime arrived. Sometimes it would be late afternoon, after we had finished our tilling or our weeding or our picking and we would drag our tired bones to our ritual. Other days, we'd stop right in the middle of a job and "go get refreshed," as Thomas would say.
One afternoon, McCann abruptly stopped the tractor right it the middle of the field, shut the engine off and climbed down. I trotted over, wondering what was wrong. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "Teatime."
"Now?"
"Exactly now."
Thomas McCann was the most unhurried, unbothered person I'd ever known. It was odd, even for a Presbyterian. I've never known a man to be less beholden to – and at the same time more attentive to -- time than McCann. Thomas didn't watch the clock; his rhythm ran deeper. You got the sense he was listening, always listening.
During tea that day we left the tractor in the field, I asked him why we had to have tea just then. "I had something to say," he answered.
"Why didn't you just say it? We didn't have to come all the way to the house for that."
"Of course we did," McCann replied. "This is our talking place."
And it was. For over a year, we chatted at this same spot, in these same chairs, mugs of steaming tea in our hands. The porch had transformed into a sacred space. This was why I was so attentive every afternoon, wondering when McCann would make the call to head to the house. This was why I'd come to love Earl Grey tea, even though I'd never had a single drop previous. I don't remember what Thomas had to say that was so damn important, but I remember that he had to say it. And I remember that he had to say it on the porch with the tea. I remember that, if he had never moved from his chair, I would have sat there with him all day and all night. I remember he left that tractor sitting in the middle of the field.
And I remember that I felt like I was wading into the water, and fear would not stop me.
[the end]
*if you'd like the story in print format, you may download it.
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