Sowing Seeds
The two of them stood there beside the woodpile. It had been a long night of celebrating. A house-warming full of games, questionably-named drinks, and close friends. John and Jeremy took to getting fresh air that morning after sleeping off what they drank. They stood in an unfinished triangle; a shape begging to be finished. I came out a bit later than the other two due to my unsuccessful repacking of my sleeping bag. The clear sky and harsh sun greeted me, my eyes responded in self-defense. Stumbling blindly toward the woodpile, I took my assigned spot. The conversation led by Jeremy was at the latter half of a discussion of politics. It lasted only a few minutes after my arrival, slowly tapering off into awkward bodily movements and obvious avoidance of eye-contact. I had heard snippets of them going back and forth on certain ideas, but couldn’t make anything out of the pieces.
We had all known each other from high school, and while life tried to get in our way, attempts were made to remain in touch. Parties, such as the passed one, were one of these attempts. Changing schedules made getting together harder and harder with each passing year, milestone, and tragedy. We frequently spoke of always having time to get together, no matter how busy or far we were. We even scoffed at our parents’ supposed busyness, that we would never be so weighed down to not have time for each other.
“So, how's the owning a house-thing?” I muttered after a few seconds to break the loud silence, standing mostly slouched with my head pointed toward the ground. Loose wood chips flew as kicks punctuated my sentence. Sleep did not come easy last night, but I feigned alertness to reassure people I was fine despite the ill-effects it had on me at times.
Jeremy turned from the stacks of split logs toward the red barn where they kept their horses. "It's nice, plenty of work to do around here. Got cows to take care of, gardening, finish moving in, stuff like that. Her dad's been helping out, since it was his farm. Though, he can't do too, too much.” He had one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes, an attempt to fight the intense headache-inducing sun.
Looking out at the kilometers of field, he gave a sigh sounding either like relief or anticipated stress. A familiar expression of the heart. "We're going to fix up this place the way we like it."
He had spent a portion of the night explaining what he planned to do with the space. The basement will be allocated to freezer space and a game room, while the backyard will be set up for green houses so they may have year-round veggies. A hard determinedness overcame his usual stoic face. It was a subtle shift, unnoticed by the inexperienced. His eyes sharpened; they flickered with resolution. His words became more concrete, differing from the causal abstract. Hearing his plans, a viral itching passed over my mind. Was I planning enough in advance? Is working for the sake of living not enough? I waved off these thoughts with an imaginative hand. Working through these thoughts while being sleep-deprived was a bad idea. That is better saved for a well-rested brain.
Yet, I believed Jeremy worked hard—almost too hard. Seemingly to his friends in a way to make up for things, whatever those things were no one asked, or when they did he didn't humor it. This bore into my mind from time to time. Was it a cross he felt he needed to carry? It reminded me of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations mindset: "Life sucks, but work hard and shut up."
I turned to John, balancing on a freshly-cut log smaller than both his feet. I thought he seemed like the kind of person that would think a bit more positively about life. John himself was well-versed in wonderful stories of his childhood. Tales of whimsy despite conflicting economical conditions.
Even after quite the night, he seemed to be the least impacted by the events prior to the conversation. Having a queen-sized blowup mattress all to yourself and going to bed early would help with that. “It really is a nice place, from your veranda you can see the mountains.” John motioned grandly. "You got this nice chunk of forest for camping and firewood, and plenty of land for gardening and animals.” He beamed a smile toward Jeremy to signal his happiness for him. After returning a wide grin, Jeremy suggested we take a walk around the property line to look at the space.
Both Jeremy and John continued to speak whilst walking as I half-listened. The contents of the conversation did not interest me, but the conversation itself did. It wasn’t the content of the discussion, but everything else. It was what was left unsaid. It was the non-verbal communication. It was the previous exchange that led up to the present one. The two of them spoke of the possibility of owning a cottage across the line, of the ways they could better benefit themselves with the present system of laws, lawmakers, and policies, and of what the future would hold. I focused on the edges of this interaction—not the fat and meat, but the bones and what remained. Though we were young, Jeremy and John's intentions expressed through their words had a familiar air to it. It reminded me of my parents and their friends. I believed that the impending change that we dreaded in high school had already made itself comfortable. That we would not have all the time in the world. That nestled in our hopes, doubts, and frustrations was the beast of inevitability. Their words followed the wind dissipating into separate syllables, then phonemes, and then simply expelled air becoming no different than the breeze.
I decided to return inside to finish picking up anything I left out.