Grand Change by William Andrews Page A

life.”
    â€œI never knew you to trade a horse that didn’t have the heaves,” Pete White said.
    â€œWell, Pete, right now I got the best horse I ever had or seen and he ain’t got no heaves.”
    â€œHas he got any speed?” Pete said.
    â€œNow you see him and now you don’t, and he can haul, too. I had him hauling logs the other day and one of the sleigh bunks caught on a stump and didn’t he break both traces and it never took a fizz out of him. Now I wouldn’t lie to you. He just whipped out of there like nobody’s business.”
    â€œI’m not surprised, with the kind of harness you got,” John said.
    â€œNow, John, there ain’t nothing wrong with my…”
    The bell over the door jangled and Joe Mason stepped in. The soberness of his demeanour grabbed our attention.
    â€œOld Tom’s gone, boys,” Joe said. “Passed away about an hour ago.”
    The stark reality hitting home seemed to freeze the room in that greyness.
    Old Tom had been especially bad for the past few weeks. When I’d been forking off a sleigh-load of manure in the field earlier that morning, I’d noticed the doctor’s rig at Tom’s door. The Old Man and I had been planning to drop in on the way home.
    â€œYoung Tom asked me to look after getting the grave dug,” Joe Mason said. “I got Jim and Alban and Charlie. Dan will probably come.”
    â€œI’ll be there,” The Boss said.
    â€œYou come up short, let me know,” Sam said.
    â€œThe same here,” John Avery said.
    Joe nodded. “I guess we’ll get at her early tomorrow. We’re going to need picks and crowbars.”
    They had to pick and crowbar their way through four and a half feet of ground, frozen solid, and a foot and a half of brick clay to get the grave dug.
    Old Tom had passed away quietly. After the work of the undertaker, he lay with a peaceful look in the cushioned coffin in the Dougal living room, amidst the sickly sweet smell that surrounds all biers. Friends and relatives came softly into the room to shake hands with the family and take their last look by the coffin. Most didn’t wait around for long, but long enough for respect; when they spoke, it was in hushed tones.
    It was cold in the church the day of the funeral. The wood stove there could not force the chill from much farther than the nearest pews. The nail heads in the walls, void of insulation, were white with frost.
    At the singing of “Shall We Gather at the River,” to the wheeze and drone of a pump organ, the minister actually dropped his hymnal to blow on his fingers.
    Ethel, wrinkled and grey, stood with a peaceful acceptance that showed mostly on her face, which was speckled by a black veil. Her children, now solid men and prim ladies, held the hands of their children. The peaceful look of acceptance rested on their faces as well. At the close of the hymn, the minister could not resist hiding his hands behind the pulpit to rub them warm. Then, opening his worn Bible, he read:
    â€œFor God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but hath everlasting life.”
    The preacher’s words, somewhat stiffened by the chill in his lips, rose and fell in resounding echo. When the reading was through, he paused for a moment to study the people sitting rigid in their pews. Then he began his eulogy:
    â€œWe all know what kind of man Tom was: honest, upright, charitable and hard-working. But he was more than that. He was a man who sought after the things of God.
    â€œI visited Tom a few days before his death. I can still see him sitting in his old rocker, talking of life, its joys, labour and brevity, and what life really is. And this is pretty much what he had to say:
    â€˜I worked hard, long as I can remember. I worked hard. I made this property what is with what God gave me. I cleared the land in the back