early tulips are already showing some?” Mrs. Foggelson asked, as though flowers were all we had been discussing since I had come in.
I nodded and cleared my throat again.
“I do so hope that we have a nice spring,” said Mrs. Foggelson. “We can’t have an early one—it’s already too late for that, but I do hope it’s a nice one. I am so tired of the dreary winter.”
My eyes drifted to a picture of Camellia on the corner table. Mrs. Foggelson had lots of pictures of Camellia. Or were they Mr. Foggelson’s? I looked about the room, my mind busy with embarrassing thoughts. Who would get the pictures? Who would get the brocade sofa? Who the silver tea service or the china cups?
What did folks do when they separated company, anyway? How did they ever go about portioning out a house? A home? I knew absolutely nothing about such things. But surely some rough days lay ahead for the Foggelsons.
Then another thought quickly came to my mind. With Mrs. Foggelson staying, maybe—“Does Camellia plan to stay on in the little town where she is, or—or might she come back home again?”
For the first time I saw the tears threaten to form. Mrs. Foggelson shook her head slowly, and suddenly her lovely, gentle face looked old.
“I don’t expect so,” she said candidly. “Camellia does not approve of my staying here. She has always been her daddy’s girl, you know. If she goes to anyone, it will be to him.”
I pushed back my chair and got to my feet. I felt so sorry for Mrs. Foggelson, but there was really no way I had of telling her. What could a young fella like me know about the way she hurt? How could I understand her reason for doing what she was doing? And yet, from the expression in her eyes I knew that her decision to remain behind was not made lightly.
“I’d best be going,” I said hoarsely. “I still have things to do before I head for home.”
She nodded in understanding and smiled. “You drop in anytime you can, Joshua.”
I worried about her as I left. The tulips were appearing. Mrs. Foggelson would do just fine tending her beloved spring flowers. But who would be responsible for the many other things that needed tending?
The school year was almost over, and Mr. Foggelson would undoubtedly leave as soon as he was finished with his teaching obligation. That would leave Mrs. Foggelson totally on her own. She hadn’t made many friends in town, either. She would need someone.
I had been brought up to not take kindly to neighborhood gossip, but I knew I had to talk to Aunt Lou. I knew she was busy with all her housework, the church, and baby Sarah, but Mrs. Foggelson would need some lady to talk to, and I figured that Aunt Lou would be just the one. I would help Camellia’s mother all I could. I wouldn’t be able to do much, but I’d pray. And I’d get Aunt Lou.
C HAPTER 13
Building
D AYS PASSED INTO WEEKS , weeks to months, and months to years. During those two years I worked hard, occasionally wondering if God would suddenly make up His mind about what He wanted me to do and move me on before I had things under control at the farm. If I had thought it through at the time, I would have realized that our heavenly Father doesn’t do things that way.
With the help of Mr. Thomas, we got the quality seed that we needed and began our crop rotation. But there were no miracles. The land did not turn more productive overnight. By the end of the second year of our new program, Grandpa and I both hoped we were seeing some improvement in the yield—but maybe it was just that we had a wonderful summer for growing.
The herd, too, was slow to increase. We were able to purchase a few good animals from Mr. Thomas, and with the best from our own herd, we began to build for the future. But there were no quick profits on our investment, and we had to watch the farm budget carefully so we wouldn’t overextend ourselves. The calves of that spring were the first real return we saw on our experiment; even
I nodded and cleared my throat again.
“I do so hope that we have a nice spring,” said Mrs. Foggelson. “We can’t have an early one—it’s already too late for that, but I do hope it’s a nice one. I am so tired of the dreary winter.”
My eyes drifted to a picture of Camellia on the corner table. Mrs. Foggelson had lots of pictures of Camellia. Or were they Mr. Foggelson’s? I looked about the room, my mind busy with embarrassing thoughts. Who would get the pictures? Who would get the brocade sofa? Who the silver tea service or the china cups?
What did folks do when they separated company, anyway? How did they ever go about portioning out a house? A home? I knew absolutely nothing about such things. But surely some rough days lay ahead for the Foggelsons.
Then another thought quickly came to my mind. With Mrs. Foggelson staying, maybe—“Does Camellia plan to stay on in the little town where she is, or—or might she come back home again?”
For the first time I saw the tears threaten to form. Mrs. Foggelson shook her head slowly, and suddenly her lovely, gentle face looked old.
“I don’t expect so,” she said candidly. “Camellia does not approve of my staying here. She has always been her daddy’s girl, you know. If she goes to anyone, it will be to him.”
I pushed back my chair and got to my feet. I felt so sorry for Mrs. Foggelson, but there was really no way I had of telling her. What could a young fella like me know about the way she hurt? How could I understand her reason for doing what she was doing? And yet, from the expression in her eyes I knew that her decision to remain behind was not made lightly.
“I’d best be going,” I said hoarsely. “I still have things to do before I head for home.”
She nodded in understanding and smiled. “You drop in anytime you can, Joshua.”
I worried about her as I left. The tulips were appearing. Mrs. Foggelson would do just fine tending her beloved spring flowers. But who would be responsible for the many other things that needed tending?
The school year was almost over, and Mr. Foggelson would undoubtedly leave as soon as he was finished with his teaching obligation. That would leave Mrs. Foggelson totally on her own. She hadn’t made many friends in town, either. She would need someone.
I had been brought up to not take kindly to neighborhood gossip, but I knew I had to talk to Aunt Lou. I knew she was busy with all her housework, the church, and baby Sarah, but Mrs. Foggelson would need some lady to talk to, and I figured that Aunt Lou would be just the one. I would help Camellia’s mother all I could. I wouldn’t be able to do much, but I’d pray. And I’d get Aunt Lou.
C HAPTER 13
Building
D AYS PASSED INTO WEEKS , weeks to months, and months to years. During those two years I worked hard, occasionally wondering if God would suddenly make up His mind about what He wanted me to do and move me on before I had things under control at the farm. If I had thought it through at the time, I would have realized that our heavenly Father doesn’t do things that way.
With the help of Mr. Thomas, we got the quality seed that we needed and began our crop rotation. But there were no miracles. The land did not turn more productive overnight. By the end of the second year of our new program, Grandpa and I both hoped we were seeing some improvement in the yield—but maybe it was just that we had a wonderful summer for growing.
The herd, too, was slow to increase. We were able to purchase a few good animals from Mr. Thomas, and with the best from our own herd, we began to build for the future. But there were no quick profits on our investment, and we had to watch the farm budget carefully so we wouldn’t overextend ourselves. The calves of that spring were the first real return we saw on our experiment; even
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