“Let’s face it. The farm is the world’s most expensive family retreat center,” Daniel said, with his habitual sense of righteousness. (The definition of conspiracy: a lie spoken as if it were true).
Daniel, as the legatee owner of the farm, was de facto banned from it until Geemaw died. Well, not banned exactly – he and his children were always welcome to come and inspect what was her rightful property until she died. But she made it clear that this was a visit and not a long one, and that they were not yet fully endowed with ownership.
There were snakes in the basement of the old house. Everybody knew it, and some had actually seen them. The furnace was down there, and the water pump, and sometimes Geemaw put up preserves and stored them there. Some jars were at least twenty years old and covered with dust. Going into that unfinished untamed carved from the dirt in the 1800’s hole was so repellent. Even before the snakes.
And it was also the storm cellar, where everyone had hidden during the last tornado in the 80’s. Geemaw and Grandfather and a couple of teenage grandchildren had watched the funnel approach. Noone but Geemaw had ever seen one up close and real before. Grandfather thought it would “blow over.” Geemaw did not. The children believed Geemaw, the experienced country girl who said, “where are the flashlights, Mac? It’s going to be a while until we have electricity and it’s dark in the cellar.”
Of course, he did not know, but she did, and extra batteries, too. The funnel was rising over the trees in the north woods, and they could begin to hear its roar and cracking. It was impossible to tell how fast it was approaching, or if it even was. The trees offered little perspective from the distance of 400 yards.
The farmhouse was in the middle of a clearing, on a knoll rising gracefully above the surrounding fields and pastures. There was a sprawling oak a little too close to the house where they had picnics and lemonade sometimes. Not that day.
Grandfather wanted to watch the spinning cloud as long as possible, and stood recklessly in what was surely its path. Geemaw finally shepherded the children down the stairs, into the darkness and spiders and mice and snakes and preserves and dirt and damp, which felt no safer than the howling up above.
“Mac, I am going to close the door now. Do you want to come in?”
He did not answer. Did he not hear? Was he so sure he could tame the wild whistling of God’s wrath? Was he testing his faith? Was he just being obstinate and crazy? Finally, he came through the cellar door and they closed and locked it with what now seemed an extraordinarily flimsy rusty bolt. That was the way of so much on the farm: everything not quite buttoned up enough, ever.
— Gina
Daniel, as the legatee owner of the farm, was de facto banned from it until Geemaw died. Well, not banned exactly – he and his children were always welcome to come and inspect what was her rightful property until she died. But she made it clear that this was a visit and not a long one, and that they were not yet fully endowed with ownership.
There were snakes in the basement of the old house. Everybody knew it, and some had actually seen them. The furnace was down there, and the water pump, and sometimes Geemaw put up preserves and stored them there. Some jars were at least twenty years old and covered with dust. Going into that unfinished untamed carved from the dirt in the 1800’s hole was so repellent. Even before the snakes.
And it was also the storm cellar, where everyone had hidden during the last tornado in the 80’s. Geemaw and Grandfather and a couple of teenage grandchildren had watched the funnel approach. Noone but Geemaw had ever seen one up close and real before. Grandfather thought it would “blow over.” Geemaw did not. The children believed Geemaw, the experienced country girl who said, “where are the flashlights, Mac? It’s going to be a while until we have electricity and it’s dark in the cellar.”
Of course, he did not know, but she did, and extra batteries, too. The funnel was rising over the trees in the north woods, and they could begin to hear its roar and cracking. It was impossible to tell how fast it was approaching, or if it even was. The trees offered little perspective from the distance of 400 yards.
The farmhouse was in the middle of a clearing, on a knoll rising gracefully above the surrounding fields and pastures. There was a sprawling oak a little too close to the house where they had picnics and lemonade sometimes. Not that day.
Grandfather wanted to watch the spinning cloud as long as possible, and stood recklessly in what was surely its path. Geemaw finally shepherded the children down the stairs, into the darkness and spiders and mice and snakes and preserves and dirt and damp, which felt no safer than the howling up above.
“Mac, I am going to close the door now. Do you want to come in?”
He did not answer. Did he not hear? Was he so sure he could tame the wild whistling of God’s wrath? Was he testing his faith? Was he just being obstinate and crazy? Finally, he came through the cellar door and they closed and locked it with what now seemed an extraordinarily flimsy rusty bolt. That was the way of so much on the farm: everything not quite buttoned up enough, ever.
— Gina
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