Just a Farmer's Son

         Twenty-two years as a tax man collecting for the southeast region of Georgia can put quite a few lines on a man’s face. I swear every couple days I looked in the mirror I could catch a glimpse of a new one. My wife, Betsy, always told me I was just imagining them, but I knew her upbringing taught her to bear me that kindness. However, I know the truth when I see it.

         Betsy was a sweet, Southern belle that any fella in Georgia would have been proud to see walk down the aisle toward him and take up his hand in front of his preacher. I was as nervous as a rabbit caught in my headlights that she would find out what a simple man I was and change her mind before making it halfway to the church. What relief I felt when the doors creaked open to reveal she hadn’t yet caught on. I ignored the stern look her father gave me as he walked down the aisle alongside my treasure.

         “A large family” was what my Betsy dreamed of; a broken heart was what she got. My own heart cracked in two as I looked upon her stone face after the doctor sat us down and told us she’d never be able to bear children. She cried for a week. I told her we had each other. The look she gave me when I said it, told me I had given my importance in her life a little too much credit.

         I’ve driven down countless dusty Georgian roads, meeting with, pleading with and, at times, brawling with destitute farmers when the worst of planting seasons hit. Eight years ago I was driving down one of those dusty, indistinguishable roads, bracing myself for a heated battle to collect taxes due to my beloved State of Georgia. Not a clue was afforded me that this particular road was leading to circumstances that would change the way I lived from that day forward.

         As I wound closer to the Baxter Family Farm, I thought about all the phone calls and letters that had gone ignored in the last three months. I’d come out to the farm once before in ’53. I was pleased to find Jim Baxter had at least half of what he owed along with a promise to get the rest to me in two months time … which he honored. He’d been widowed for two years and raising two young boys on his own. Seemed like a nice enough fella, which made me all the more irritated that the man didn’t return one message that I’d left with his son. After awhile the phone wasn’t picked up at all. That’s when I knew it was time to take a trip.

         I fished my handkerchief out of my trouser pocket as I drove along. I wiped the sweat off my forehead that the breeze from the open window of my car refused to reach. After an hour and a half trek, I came once again to the single lane road that led to the farm - two more miles of dust. Finally the pale blue farmhouse and oversized barn came over the line of the fields.

         I pulled into the driveway where my welcoming committee awaited. Two young boys were perched on the porch as I pulled my car to a stop in front. The older of the two wore thick glasses, dirty jeans and a dingy, gray t-shirt that was probably white at some point early in its career. He looked to be about eleven or twelve to me. As I gathered up the paperwork on the passenger seat, the boy came down the steps leaving behind, what I presumed to be, his younger brother of about six-years-old. The little boy had an anxious look to him as he watched his bigger brother approach me.

         “Afternoon, boys,” I said as I stepped out of my ’58 Ford Coupe. “Your father home?”

         “No, sir.”

         “Well, come on now. Please run inside and tell your father Mr. Wellings from the Revenue Department of Georgia is here to see him.”

         “He’s not here, Mr. Wellings.”

         I shoved one hand in my pocket and held the paperwork at my side. “I’m not sure I believe that, son. I sent your father a letter telling him I’d be coming by to visit today. You sure he’s not around here somewhere?”

         “I’m sure, mister. Sorry, but my pop’s gone on a trip to Augusta. Lookin’ at some used farm equipment for real cheap, he said. You’ll have to come by some other time.”

         “Listen, son, I just traveled an hour an’ a half to get here. Now I’m not leavin’ until your father gets back from wherever he is.”

         At this the older brother looked at the boy on the porch, who started staring at his bare feet.

         As I started walking toward the porch, the boy suddenly made himself two inches taller and wedged himself between me and the house. “This is private property, Mr. Wellings. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

         I stood there dumbfounded. The boy probably weighed one third of my weight, and yet there he stood his ground. I couldn’t help but be pissed, but at the same time impressed. I would have to take a different tactic with this one. He was obviously not your typical twelve-year-old.

         I leaned against the side of my car to take on a less confrontational air. “I’m not tryin’ to cause trouble here, son. Ah, what’s your name?” 

         “Peter.”

         “Peter. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet a fine young man such as yourself, Pete. Now what’s your little brother’s name?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the silent boy.

         “Christopher!” the little boy on the porch blurted with a smile.

         Pete turned around and shot his brother a look that immediately erased the boy’s smile.

         “Christopher and Peter. Two fine names." I pushed myself away from the car. “Think you boys could give me a little tour of your farm?”

         “Like I said before, Mr. Wellings, this here is private property,” Peter said.

         “Pete, I’m just takin’ a look around your place, that’s all. It’s real nice here. What harm can come from a man just lookin’ around?”

         Peter considered my request at length while taking a quick survey of the farm. “No harm … I guess.”

         “Great,” I answered with the warmest smile I could muster given the circumstances. “You want to take the lead?”

         Peter turned to his brother. “Come on, Chris.” Christopher rocketed off the porch at his brother’s command. He skipped over to Peter and held his hand without a second thought.

         We walked around for a bit. I noticed a large tractor out in the field about 200 yards away. I found this very strange - Jim Baxter impressed me as a farmer who took care of his equipment, not as one who would leave it out in the open to get damaged by the elements. As I looked closer, it looked as though the crops in the field were only half harvested. Well, no wonder the man was unable to pay his taxes in the past quarter.

         We took a little tour of the barn, where the haystacks were neatly placed atop one another. A few chickens were running about, and a couple cows were in their stalls. The same old stuff I saw at most other farms.

         “I came here shortly after your mother died, Peter. Not sure if you remember that.”

         “No, sir. I don’t”

         “Your dad was havin’ a tough time then. He really missed your mom.” Christopher stared at me, listening intently to the conversation. Looking back on it now, he probably didn’t remember one thing about his mother, so I’m sure any information about her interested him.

         “Yeah, I know,” Pete replied.

         “She’s buried up on the hill over there, isn’t she?”

         “Yes, sir.”

         “Shall we take a walk and visit her?” I figured I’d try anything to keep myself from leaving, so if their father really was in Augusta, there was a chance he’d return before I gave up waiting. Or he’d finally come out of hiding so as not to put his sons through too much torture.

         “I’d rather not, Mr. Wellings.”

         “Oh, come on now. It’s not a bad day for a little walk, now is it?”

         Pete looked down at his little brother, who was still staring at me with fascination. “I suppose not,” Peter said with a low sigh.

         Truth is, it was hotter than hell that day. It was a ten minute walk to get to the hill that was interspersed with plush trees that offered welcoming shade. I must have wiped the sweat from my neck and face twenty times before we reached the trees. I made lots of small talk with the boys - school, baseball … anything to get them in my good graces. They weren’t too talkative though. Must have heard all kinds of stories about the big, bad tax man, I suppose.

         As we walked toward the hill, a lone headstone came into sight under the largest tree. I found it odd that I could still see a rounded mound of dirt. Surely after so many years, the ground would have leveled. I huffed and puffed until we finally came in front of the simple headstone.

Marybeth Louise Baxter

Loving Wife & Mother

Brought Heaven to Earth from

August 7, 1927 – October 1, 1951

         The boys were more silent than ever. As I looked, I pondered the mound of dirt as it was only interspersed with grass. And the proximity of the mound to the headstone struck me - it was off-center. Not in front of the headstone at all.

         I gave myself a minute to take in what it all meant. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered to myself before I looked down at Peter.  “What happened, Peter?”

         “What do you mean, Mr. Wellings?”

         I looked down at the boy and noticed him staring at the mound of dirt somewhat dazed. “You know what I mean, Pete.”

         Pete pulled himself to his full height once again and looked me square in the eyes. “Nothin’ happened, Mr. Wellings. What are you talkin’ about?”

         But when I stared him down, he knew it was no use. Tears welled up as he began to speak, “We didn’t do nothin’, Mr. Wellings. He was just havestin’ the crop out there on the tractor one day while Chris and I were workin’ in the barn. As the sun was goin’ down, I came out of the barn and I saw my dad had stopped the tractor in the middle of the field. He was just sittin’ there. It was real weird. After about ten minutes, I ran out to see what he was doin’ an’ all. I don’t know. I guess he musta had a heart attack or somethin’. He was just slumped in his seat. I checked for a heartbeat and everything."

                "Well, then what?" I asked.

         Peter pointed at the mound of dirt. "Chris and I dug this grave that night, cuz I was afraid of what my dad would look like the next day.”          

         “Christ, boy, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

         “We have no family, Mr. Wellings. No aunts, cousins, grandparents. Just nothin’. If I told, me and Chris woulda been split up right then and there. I just knew we’d never see each other again.” Pete paused for a long moment. “All I got left is my brother, Mr. Wellings. I wasn’t about to give him up too.”

         “You boys brought your father all the way over here from that tractor?” I asked in amazement.

         “We have a wagon in the barn. It was real hard gettin’ my dad off the tractor, but once we had him in the wagon I was able to pull him alright while Chris pushed it from behind. I still feel awful about that. Poor Chris was cryin’ the whole time. He was already afraid of the dark.”

         “I’m not afraid no more,” Christopher protested.

         “I know,” Pete said, gently squeezing his brother’s hand.

         “When did all this happen?”

         “During the last harvest, remember?” Pete replied.

         I thought for a moment. It was May 3rd. “The last harvest was about eight months ago,” I said.

         “That’s about right.”

         “You mean you’ve been here all on your own for eight whole months?” I said incredulously.

         “Yes, sir.”

         “How could you be here for that long and nobody’s noticed two boys living on their own?” I asked skeptically.

         “Oh, people did come around. Especially at the start of the spring plantin’ season. That’s when I thought it was all over. Loads a people came trying to sell my dad equipment, seeds, fertilizer, you name it. But I always said he was away. I just took their numbers and assured ‘em that if he was interested he would give ‘em a call.”

         “What about school?”

         “We still go to school. I knew it woulda been a dead give away if we stopped goin’. Bus picks us up about a mile down the road,” Pete said, subconsciously nodding down the road. “I wrote up a letter and signed my dad’s name asking that the bus not come close to the barn anymore on account of a new cow we bought that goes crazy at the sound of it. I had to make Chris swear not to say a word about our father dyin’ and all.”

         “And food?”

         Here Pete looked at me like I was a fool. “I’m a farmer’s son, Mr. Wellings. You don’t think I can grow enough food for two people?” I looked away for a moment avoiding the heat of his gaze. Peter continued, “I knew the tax thing would get us sooner or later. I was going to mail in our last $50 to try and put it off a bit longer, but I kept it in case we needed it for any kind of emergency. My dad told me that this land has been in the family for five generations and that we had to do whatever it took to always keep it in the family.”

         I was blown away. What was I doing at the age of eleven? Riding my bike? Playing marbles? Fishing? I certainly wasn’t raising a six-year-old on my own.

         “How long do you think you can keep this going, Pete?”

         He looked down at his brother. He looked back at me and said, “Not much longer now, I guess. Since you know an’ all.”

         “Please don’t take my brother from me, mister,” said Christopher as he took up the back of his brother’s dingy t-shirt in his hand.

         I didn’t know how to respond. As a responsible adult my mind said I should go immediately to child services and have the boys taken care of. But in my heart, how could I be sure they weren’t better off on their own? After all, they’d made it eight months already, and they looked just fine, for the most part anyway - maybe in need of a good bath, but other than that, just fine.

         “Come on, boys,” I said in a low voice. I took up Chris’ hand, which he seemed happy with, and we all walked back to the house in silence.

         We ate lunch together that afternoon. A feast of fried eggs and tomato slices with fresh milk. The boys talked a lot then. It was obvious that finally letting someone in on their secret had taken an awful load off the boys. At first I wasn’t sure I was pleased to be that person.

              On my drive home late that afternoon, I thought of all the explaining I would have to do to convince my wife that we should take care of these boys. Funny thing was, she didn’t need much convincing.

              As we discussed it, we knew there was no guarantee that if we told the authorities about Jim Baxter’s death, that we would be allowed to adopt both boys; so we decided to keep up the ruse. The boys insisted on staying at the farm. As one of the highest paid tax men in Georgia and with no children of our own, we were more than capable of handling the expenses of the farm. At first we feared the legal ramifications if someone ever caught on, but as our love for the boys grew, we agreed not to worry about it. “We’ll cross that bridge if and when the time ever comes, John,” Betsy said to me.          

              So every weekend for the past eight years we’ve spent with the boys at the Baxter Family Farm; their farm. Pete is quite good at handling it on his own now. Not that he ever needed my help in that regard. Heck, he had to teach me how to handle the farm equipment. More than once I nearly took a couple fingers off trying to figure them out on my own.

              Christopher says he wants to go away to college someday; doesn’t quite have the farmer’s heart his brother has. I’ll always remember when we first started taking care of the boys, how Christopher was happy as hell to finally have a mother around for the first time in his life. And my wife, well, she was happy as hell to finally be one.





2943 words          



*This is the product of a writer's group prompt using a picture prompt instead of a word prompt. The picture showed a young boy standing on a porch and an older boy standing out in front of the porch.