A walk into the past.

 

As I walk down the lane on my way to the homestead, my old and forever home, dust on the wind peppers my skin, raising little goosebumps. Or maybe the goosebumps are caused by my memories of this place. I'm old as dirt now, old as the dust riding the wind today and I can't tell anymore.

Have you ever had a dream? Ezra and I had so many hopes and dreams when we came here, starting out. The plans we made all seemed so real and so full of color.

We had saved what we could, before we came here. But lawd, there were no trees. We had to order the lumber for our house and barn and it came in on the train!

We slept under the wagon until we could get a lean-to built. We didn't get much rain. Never do here, out north of Yuma, Colorado, on the high plains.

I was with child at the time, with little Ben.

I told Ezra he better learn some mid-wifing as we was a long way from town, or the doctor. We didn't have a riding horse, just the two old plow mules and they wasn't none too fast.

We learned, quacklike, to set up some rain barrels because, like I said rain is pretty hard to come by here.

But we loved our place. We set in a garden, and Ben and the mules set to plowing. It's good ground for corn here, if it would only rain. The only thing you can count on here, about the weather, is the infernal wind. Every day.

Ben and the mules had most of the corn planted when I came to term. We had our little lean-to fixed up nice, too, ready for the baby. Ezra done good and I chewed on a rag and we birthed little Ben just fine.

He was a good baby and let me tend to my chores every day. He loved the chickens when we gathered the eggs. We had them in a little coop where they spent the night else the coyotes would make short work of ‘em.

We'd brought our milk cow, Old Jerse, with us, out from Missouri. She was well broke to lead when we got here, walking along behind the wagon, so we tied her to the wagon at night to keep her safe, too. She grazed the pasture through the day, wearing her bell so's we could always find her.

I was with child again by harvest. We'd had a little rain so we had a pretty good crop. Ezra ordered in some more lumber and we started on a cabin. Some neighbors helped him with it, so by spring, I had a cabin to raise my children in.

Sarah was born on a cold, windy, spring day. This time was harder on me and harder yet for little Sarah. She sickened and died of the fever by her second month.

We started a cemetery on our homestead. I prayed “Dear Lord, please don't let me put more children in the ground.”

Two years later, I was with child again.

Caleb lived longer. But at 6 months, he joined his sister in the cemetery on the little rise looking over the homestead.

Ben was getting big enough to help his daddy the last time I was with child. He could handle that old team of mules, though his lines wasn't as straight as his daddy's. But for six years old, he was a good little man.

I birthed Annebelle and it was good. No fever came to claim her.

We worked, through all the seasons, through that God-forsaken wind, in all weathers, to make our farm a success. Some years, it rained and we had a crop to harvest. Some years it didn't and we had to run our bill up higher at the Yuma General Store. But we got by, just.

We all spoiled Annabelle; she was the apple of our eye. She always followed her daddy around. Ezra was getting some snow in his hair. He was some years older than me when we wed. Out in the field one day, walking behind the mules, and Annabelle tagging along behind, Ezra fell and couldn't get back up. Annabelle came running to fetch me. She, Ben, and I got him to the house, but the light was leaving his eyes.

Ben saddled a mule and fetched the doctor but by the time they got back to the homestead, the light was gone from Ezra's eyes, forever.

We put him in the ground beside his children. Ben and I put the crop in and Annabelle tended the cow and chickens. We was too tired to eat, most nights.

Annabelle got the wasting sickness around her sixteen birthday. Just wasted away. I disremember the date.

Ben found a girl and went on out west; somewhere that it rains, and the wind doesn't blow every day, he told me. I never have seen my boy since.

I can't blame him. He worked hard after his daddy passed and we never got ahead. This infernal place!

I loved it when we came here and learned to hate it for taking everything from me. I live in a shack in Yuma. Neighbors give me what they can so I don't starve. It don't take much. But that accursed homestead will always be my home.

I'm walking there now. I been walking for 3 days but I won't stop till I get there. My shoes came apart and my feet are bleeding, but I ain't stopping. And I won't be leaving. I been hearing that hoot owl now for weeks. Death's coming for me and he ain't gonna find me in town.

He can look for me, sitting on that little rise overlooking the homestead, with my loved ones.

But, stranger, would you do me a favor? Would you tell those good folk in Yuma to come bury me there, before the coyotes come?