He’d grown up in a much larger place, with diners and stop lights and one way streets and a public city bus system, such as it was. There was a professional class in his hometown – small, sure, but there were multiple lawyers, for example, and more than one dentist, and more than one doctor, and more than a handful of small business owners. In Pine Grove there was one lawyer, one dentist, no physician, and just four retail merchants – and they were struggling hard to stay open, and making less each year. Three were near retirement, with grown kids and no mortgages, and they were assiduous and highly visible patrons of the fourth. They overpaid for their cold cuts, staples and day-old pastries at Sonders’ place to try and help him stay open. They could get cheaper everything 20 miles down the road, but Sonders had kids, and he was one of their own, and “it’s what you do.” Will had quickly learned all of this, including the broad uses of “It’s what you do,” and had re-arranged the household budget so that he could afford to get everything he possibly could in town. This made him popular with the business owners, a small and fading social class, but more than that he fundamentally agreed that “It’s what you do,” even though he had to turn the thermostat down and quit taking premium cable.
He liked Pine Grove, but he had to concede that living in a small town was a challenge. He had more education than nearly anyone else in town, and more than certainly anyone his age, and this meant he was never off duty. He could be buying cabbages at the IGA and someone would approach and ask a question about cars or the road construction schedule over on the four lane – neither of which were remotely his field by training or interest – or about their families’ decisions on education, or basketball, of course. No one ever asked him about crops or weather or livestock, thankfully, recognizing that as a “town boy” he wasn’t likely to know any more than Pine Grove’s most coddled eight year old. He had found the attention not unenjoyable when he was newly arrived, but it had started to wear thin.
“Yes, I’ve read the new Fords are quite reliable as well; No, I’m not sure when all four lanes will reopen, either; Well, now, St. Joseph’s has a fine program in business, but Indiana State is good, too, and likely to be cheaper; No question, the Lancers will be just fine without a center as long as Petey makes his share of shots.”
One of his two days off a month was spent in Danville, two counties over but across the state line and so a different (and to Pine Grovers, suspect) place, where he’d go for a pizza and a movie; the other day was usually spent in Indy, at a game if the Pacers or Indians were in town, at the Eiteljorg if not. He liked the anonymity, but he lately found these days oppressive. Everyone was coupled, and he was not; they had family, or purpose, and he had neither of these things. He accepted that he had to get out of town from time to time, to see other people and to be reminded that time was moving and that changes were happening. It was harder to accept that none of it – the coupling, the families, the pursuit of goals, change, was happening to him. His days away had become another of the growing list of things about which he found himself ambivalent.
His was a dying career in a dying town, and the riotous fecundity of the undulating acreage that had sustained the parents and grandparents and forebears and first settlers of the county seemed nearly superfluous now. Wastrel. No kids wanted to stay and work those acres, for less and less money, less and less security, less and less control over what you planted and how you harvested. You could spit watermelon seeds in the soil in this county and get fruit the size of a car seat in 6 weeks without too much effort, and a friend from undergrad who had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin had said “You can’t call what these folks do around here ‘farming’ because it’s too easy!” when he was through on a visit shortly after Will had moved up here. And while what his new neighbors did yielded a life of many subtle if irregularly spaced rewards, it certainly wasn’t easy, and it certainly wasn’t easy to make a living. He didn’t blame kids for going to college or going to work in town and not coming back. The town was dying, and some days he felt he was here to perform last rites.
After he’d see another sagging old barn or farmhouse, or read of another estate sale, or when he thought of the sheer force of human effort that it had taken to drain the swamps and reveal the rich topsoil in the lowlands, or break through the prairie grass and plant trees on the soft ridges, and that this way of life was passing as surely as that of the Miami and Wea before them, it was almost inexpressibly sad. He certainly couldn’t talk to the townspeople about it. And maybe looking at the garden and seeing that beautiful mud this morning had just got him thinking, but it lay heavy on him today. Why did they get up and look at the sky, and watch the weather? Why did they lay awake at night, thinking of the cost of seed and doing the math in their heads until they deceived themselves into thinking the break-even point was higher than it was? Why shush their loved ones to hear the futures prices out of the Chicago Board of Trade on WGFA? Why work every day, year round, 14 hours a day, on this beautiful land, to wrest from it a bounty that no one seemed to know about, or appreciate?
“Christ, have mercy,” Will intoned, ruefully and aloud, and was startled first by his own voice, and then again and even more so by the response. He faltered, forgetting his next line, muscle memory and habit jangling with consciousness at the wrong moment. “Lord, have mercy,” he said, too loudly and after too long a pause, and he could feel Genny Renaud eye him over her tri-focals. He’d have to head out to her farm this week, ideally some morning, for coffee after the daily Mass, so she could see that his eyes weren’t rheumy, that he wasn’t fuzzy headed, that he was sober and engaged and his best solicitous self. He wanted to make sure she was still on his side, before she got a notion to send a letter to the Chancery.
Not that it mattered. No one at the Chancery cared about Pine Grove, or him, really. And certainly no one there cared about a poor old woman like Mrs. Renaud. Will cared about her, or wanted to, it was a compulsion of his to look after those whom others weren’t, and he knew that the ritual and rite, however desiccated they had become to him, still were the centerpiece of her meager table.
He stopped indulging his musings and refocused, finished, and crisply delivered the readings. His homily was on perseverance – six minutes, about right for a daily Mass in a drafty church in a dying town – if more erudite than impassioned, well, it could have been worse. It was the feast of St. Appian, a hermit, so Will spoke a few sentences on his example as one of those who hear a calling and pursue it despite what others might think. He kept to himself his thoughts of how self-indulgent that path could be. With all of the misery in the world, to shut oneself up in isolation and reflect and pray seemed its own kind of profligacy. All three heads in the congregation nodded along.
He thanked the altar boys after Mass – he didn’t always have one, let alone two, and they did make things go more quickly – and turned out the lights after they’d left, and turned down the thermostat to 55°, and left to return to the rectory.
He liked Pine Grove, but he had to concede that living in a small town was a challenge. He had more education than nearly anyone else in town, and more than certainly anyone his age, and this meant he was never off duty. He could be buying cabbages at the IGA and someone would approach and ask a question about cars or the road construction schedule over on the four lane – neither of which were remotely his field by training or interest – or about their families’ decisions on education, or basketball, of course. No one ever asked him about crops or weather or livestock, thankfully, recognizing that as a “town boy” he wasn’t likely to know any more than Pine Grove’s most coddled eight year old. He had found the attention not unenjoyable when he was newly arrived, but it had started to wear thin.
“Yes, I’ve read the new Fords are quite reliable as well; No, I’m not sure when all four lanes will reopen, either; Well, now, St. Joseph’s has a fine program in business, but Indiana State is good, too, and likely to be cheaper; No question, the Lancers will be just fine without a center as long as Petey makes his share of shots.”
One of his two days off a month was spent in Danville, two counties over but across the state line and so a different (and to Pine Grovers, suspect) place, where he’d go for a pizza and a movie; the other day was usually spent in Indy, at a game if the Pacers or Indians were in town, at the Eiteljorg if not. He liked the anonymity, but he lately found these days oppressive. Everyone was coupled, and he was not; they had family, or purpose, and he had neither of these things. He accepted that he had to get out of town from time to time, to see other people and to be reminded that time was moving and that changes were happening. It was harder to accept that none of it – the coupling, the families, the pursuit of goals, change, was happening to him. His days away had become another of the growing list of things about which he found himself ambivalent.
His was a dying career in a dying town, and the riotous fecundity of the undulating acreage that had sustained the parents and grandparents and forebears and first settlers of the county seemed nearly superfluous now. Wastrel. No kids wanted to stay and work those acres, for less and less money, less and less security, less and less control over what you planted and how you harvested. You could spit watermelon seeds in the soil in this county and get fruit the size of a car seat in 6 weeks without too much effort, and a friend from undergrad who had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin had said “You can’t call what these folks do around here ‘farming’ because it’s too easy!” when he was through on a visit shortly after Will had moved up here. And while what his new neighbors did yielded a life of many subtle if irregularly spaced rewards, it certainly wasn’t easy, and it certainly wasn’t easy to make a living. He didn’t blame kids for going to college or going to work in town and not coming back. The town was dying, and some days he felt he was here to perform last rites.
After he’d see another sagging old barn or farmhouse, or read of another estate sale, or when he thought of the sheer force of human effort that it had taken to drain the swamps and reveal the rich topsoil in the lowlands, or break through the prairie grass and plant trees on the soft ridges, and that this way of life was passing as surely as that of the Miami and Wea before them, it was almost inexpressibly sad. He certainly couldn’t talk to the townspeople about it. And maybe looking at the garden and seeing that beautiful mud this morning had just got him thinking, but it lay heavy on him today. Why did they get up and look at the sky, and watch the weather? Why did they lay awake at night, thinking of the cost of seed and doing the math in their heads until they deceived themselves into thinking the break-even point was higher than it was? Why shush their loved ones to hear the futures prices out of the Chicago Board of Trade on WGFA? Why work every day, year round, 14 hours a day, on this beautiful land, to wrest from it a bounty that no one seemed to know about, or appreciate?
“Christ, have mercy,” Will intoned, ruefully and aloud, and was startled first by his own voice, and then again and even more so by the response. He faltered, forgetting his next line, muscle memory and habit jangling with consciousness at the wrong moment. “Lord, have mercy,” he said, too loudly and after too long a pause, and he could feel Genny Renaud eye him over her tri-focals. He’d have to head out to her farm this week, ideally some morning, for coffee after the daily Mass, so she could see that his eyes weren’t rheumy, that he wasn’t fuzzy headed, that he was sober and engaged and his best solicitous self. He wanted to make sure she was still on his side, before she got a notion to send a letter to the Chancery.
Not that it mattered. No one at the Chancery cared about Pine Grove, or him, really. And certainly no one there cared about a poor old woman like Mrs. Renaud. Will cared about her, or wanted to, it was a compulsion of his to look after those whom others weren’t, and he knew that the ritual and rite, however desiccated they had become to him, still were the centerpiece of her meager table.
He stopped indulging his musings and refocused, finished, and crisply delivered the readings. His homily was on perseverance – six minutes, about right for a daily Mass in a drafty church in a dying town – if more erudite than impassioned, well, it could have been worse. It was the feast of St. Appian, a hermit, so Will spoke a few sentences on his example as one of those who hear a calling and pursue it despite what others might think. He kept to himself his thoughts of how self-indulgent that path could be. With all of the misery in the world, to shut oneself up in isolation and reflect and pray seemed its own kind of profligacy. All three heads in the congregation nodded along.
He thanked the altar boys after Mass – he didn’t always have one, let alone two, and they did make things go more quickly – and turned out the lights after they’d left, and turned down the thermostat to 55°, and left to return to the rectory.
I am waiting.
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