September 1st, 2019, Sunday afternoon: Labor Day weekend
Uncle Logan flicked his fishing rod back and forth over his shoulder. “Woody, do you have a girlfriend yet?” He plopped his lure in the water, a scant three inches from my leg.
I jerked and fought to stay upright against the current. “Blast you, Uncle Logan. If you mess around, how do you expect to catch Old Soldier?”
He chuckled. “I got your attention. Now answer the question.” He reeled in his line.
I regained my balance. “Why should I respond to your silly question? It’s got nothing to do with why we’re here. We came to fish, not to talk.” I reeled in my line and prepared for another cast.
“Son, we can always fish. I’m tuckered. Let’s talk.”
Fishing never tired him. Why now? Was he sick? I pointed to the old tree stump at the edge of the river. “Give me five minutes. Old Soldier could be within its roots.”
“Okay, you’ve got those five minutes. But he isn’t there.” Uncle Logan flicked his line and dropped the lure under an overhanging branch on the opposite bank. “He likes these cool places to search for grubs and flying insects, not the deep recesses.”
I cast my fly toward the stump and toyed with the line as the lure skimmed across the surface. A telltale ripple might reveal our lurking trophy.
Five minutes passed, and neither of us got a bite. We reeled in our lines and retreated to the bank with our day’s catch. During the summer holidays, Uncle Logan and I camped out in this meadow to fish. He was a top fisherman in my book.
This place, under the overhanging oak trees, was our favorite spot. We’d seen Old Soldier, a twenty-three-inch trout, two times in the rapids. We christened him with that moniker because of his scarred and ratty tail.
He grabbed my stringer with four rainbow trout and held them up, each one longer than fifteen inches. “These fish are nice. Let me put them in the cooler with my five.” He pointed to the pickup truck. “You get those sandwiches your mom made. She makes the best cheese spread with honey.” He rubbed his stomach, and a smile creased his cheeks.
I fetched Mom’s wicker basket, grabbed a sandwich, and stretched out my six-foot frame on the plaid blanket.
Uncle Logan took a sandwich and glanced at me. “It appears your mom’s cooking has put muscle on your bones.”
“I got my muscles by working for you, lugging feed sacks and making hay.”
He took a bite. Between chews, he asked, “Back to my question. What’s your answer?”
I frowned. “What’s the question?”
“The question is about your girlfriend. How’s your search coming?”
I rolled to face him, and a fly landed on my sandwich. I brushed it away.
“Would you quit harping on that subject? I have no interest in girls.”
“Why aren’t you interested in a young lady?”
“Because I’m not ready for marriage.”
He peered at me. “Before a man is married, he’s not complete.”
I snorted. “After he’s married, he’s finished.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with getting a wife?”
I held up two fingers and wiggled them. “First, I’ll look like a bumbling idiot in my search, and finding the right girl would take too long. Second, the dating scene is baffling and difficult.”
He grunted and took a bite of his sandwich. “You’re a handsome man with blond hair and are intelligent enough to avoid any pitfalls in your search. What’s wrong with finding one to share your life?”
I lay back. “I don’t need a wife. When I get my agriculture degree in May, I’ll work with you and the farmhands. That’s my plan.”
He rolled to face me. “Don’t let your final year at college make you lazy. Never do your studies with half-measures. I’ve not done anything less than one-hundred percent.”
I would agree. He’d used his acute perception to build a dominant chain of computer stores before selling out and retiring. His retail stores had covered the entire state and half of each surrounding one. His competitors nicknamed him the Bull because he always charged ahead.
“Uncle Logan, your insight helped me get a 4.0 GPA by teaching me how to read people. I work hard at everything.”
“Everything?” He snorted and pointed to the cooler in the pickup. “Not today—you didn’t. Your stringer is proof you didn’t fish hard enough. Your four fish against my five weren’t enough to win our bet. I always win.”
I chortled. “Not on the Fourth of July, you didn’t. You treated me and mom to a full-course meal at Mike’s Restaurant, remember?”
Uncle Logan growled and said, “That was a fluke, and you know it. If that darn turtle hadn’t messed with my stringer, those five beauties wouldn’t have gotten away, and you’d have lost.”
I grinned and waggled a finger. “But you can’t prove those fish got away, so I didn’t lose.”
He lay back with his hands under his head. “That was one time you outfoxed me. Otherwise, I usually outsmart you. You try your best to beat me in our wagers, but this old man maintains the edge.” He reached for another sandwich and took a bite. “I’m visiting lawyer Bennett next week to make a new will.”
“Why? You’re sixty-one and raring to go like a bull among heifers. You have lots of years to lie back and fish.”
He eyed me. “Someday I’m going to pass. It’s best to make plans and not let the state take a bite out of my assets. I want my money to go for the best good.”
I sat up. “What about our plan for a home for unwed pregnant girls that you and I drew up last year? You’ve got enough money to build one.”
He grunted. “You always campaign for pregnancy centers. I agree that more of them should be available. It’s too easy to get an abortion these days.”
“Uncle Logan, why don’t you build one now? You could.”
“If building one is important, then make it your life’s goal.”
I snorted. “I’d like to, but how could I accomplish it? You have the money. I don’t.”
“It’s your dream, so keep planning. It’s how I built the business.”
Overhead, a blue jay jumped from branch to branch, squawking at a squirrel who chattered back.
For a few minutes, Uncle Logan watched the antics of the squirrel before pointing at it. “I bet she’s trying to protect the babies in her nest. Because she’s a great mother, I’ll make sure a home for single pregnant women is built. Does that make you happy?”
I lay back on the blanket. “Thaaaaank you. I’ve been praying you’d do that.” He always kept his word.
The squirrel flipped her tail and disappeared into a hole in the tree.
“Woody, getting back to a girlfriend …” He put his hands together as if casting a line. “You need to hook one.”
“Come on. Quit harassing me. I told you a hundred times that I’m not interested. Why do I need a wife if I’m coming back as your partner? If I were to look for a girl, there’s no way I’d do it until after graduation.”
He eyed me. “In my will, you’ll inherit the farm like I always said, including this meadow by the river. But I want to make certain there’s a pretty girl beside you when you take ownership.”
“Say what?”
He focused on the clouds floating lazily above. “You’re not deaf. You heard me.”
“Mom is your sister. Will you include her in your will?”
He rotated his jaw. “I’ll amply include her, and that’s a promise. It should have been my wife, Mary. Her death changed my life.” He rolled to face me. “Marriage isn’t a word, it’s a sentence. But with Mary, it was a sentence of love. She was the cream at the top—the best thing for me. That’s why I’m aiming for you to find the right girl. You’re a grown man and not getting younger.”
“Will you stop it? Why is it so important for me to find a wife?”
“Because Mary and I never had children. Your mom brought you into this world, and a year later, she met Daniel, your stepfather. He raised you. Woody, you’re the only person left to pass on the Hancock name. I’ve called this place Hancock Farm and want that name attached to it for a long time.”
“Why is our name so important?”
“Because William Conrad was persnickety. He sold me the land but inserted a clause saying I, or an heir with my last name, had to own it until the year 2030. He wants me to improve the place, and he hopes a Hancock name won’t be attached to it. If it isn’t, the farm will revert to him and his heirs. Now you know why it’s important to find a wife. You can then give it to your son, keeping it in the Hancock family.”
I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. “Forget it. You’ll live until then, and it gives me lots of time to get married. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You better make plans, because you’ll inherit the farm.” He paused before snickering, then he laughed out loud. “Woody, would you wager I can make you get married faster than you want?”
I jerked. “What in the world? No, I won’t take your bet.”
“Are you chicken or something? I never knew you to back away from a good wager. We’ve made many friendly bets: fishing competitions, football games, baseball teams, and elections. Why not one where you find a pretty girl?”
“Just forget it, because I won’t bet you.” I glared.
The blue jay flew off, and the squirrel exited her home, chattering above us and scolding me like she knew a hidden secret.
He shrugged. “I’m warning you. You’ll lose my two wagers without even betting.”
“Huh? If I don’t bet you, how do you figure I’ll lose when I reject your wager?”
“Here are my wagers. First, by the end of next year, you’ll be married and have a child on the way. Second, you’ll be the one to build our home for single pregnant girls.”
I snorted. “None of that will happen. To meet a girl and date her would take nine months. Then there’d be the engagement and the planning for the wedding—another six to twelve months. More than a year would have passed. Nor do I have the money to build a girl’s home. I wouldn’t bet you, even with good odds, because it’s my life we’re talking about.”
“Suit yourself. I figure you’ll jumpstart things and be in a hurry to tie the knot. Then you’ll build the home we want. Think about it and let me know if you change your mind. I’m taking a nap.” He closed his eyes.
My uncle sometimes had crazy ideas. We’d made different bets, but never about me getting married. His insistence on it had become a point of contention between us. I planned to farm and not raise kids, at least not soon.
He appeared to be dozing.
While he rested, I retrieved a can of Coke from the truck, popped it open, and took a swig. I meandered into the woods and topped the ridge overlooking Uncle Logan’s farm. His white colonial-style house and red barn stood like beacons in an ocean of green cornfields.
His 1,280 acres of farmland faded from view beyond the horizon. He’d made this farm into a centerpiece by growing Cass County’s record corn harvest every year. Other farmers tried to match his success. However, Uncle Logan’s main agricultural accomplishment involved his Angus beef herd. He’d striven to make it a showcase, and he’d achieved that goal. After graduation, when I returned to work beside him, I’d concentrate on raising good—no, the best beef animals.
After I finished high school, I worked for him for six years, and he trained me on how to keep the farm profitable. When I went to college, I helped him during the summers and on holidays. And I planned to keep working beside him without a wife in the way.
The sun crept lower in the sky, and I returned to where he slept.
Uncle Logan hadn’t moved, and his eyes remained closed, but he asked,
“Woody, how old are you, twenty-five?”
I stood over him. “What’s the matter with you? Your mind is slipping. You’re usually sharp as a tack. I’m twenty-eight. Don’t you remember my birthday celebration at your house? You wore a pointy hat and tooted a horn.”
He didn’t open his eyes. “Ah, yes. It’s getting hard to think these days. Woody, I don’t know an easy way to tell you this, but I have stage four prostate cancer. It’s metastasized, and the doc gave me until the end of the year. I might not reach Christmas. I won’t see you walk down the aisle with a pretty girl, but I promise it’ll happen sooner than you think.”