It was August of 1923. The morning sun had risen out of
the haze in the east and it peered now over the elm by the grain elevator,
shining through the chinks in the morning-glory vine that shaded Black Jim
McGregor as he sat on the side porch of his house. The village was coming
awake. Emil Weber was already hoeing in his onion patch, back bent, head
down. The dew was drying and warm August smells spread through the air:
the odour of ripening tomatoes in the garden, the heady perfume of
milkweed from across the street, and just a hint of Emil's onions. Black
Jim sat uneasily, feeling that he should be somewhere - driving a team or
wielding a pitchfork. Yesterday's evening paper lay unheeded beside his
chair. He had put it aside to think of his own affairs, of the thing that
had come upon him secretly, sneaking up like a thief in the night. Old
age, the intruder, the visitor repulsed so many times, had at last come to
stay. Never admitted before, it had come at last, the end of his
usefulness. And there was nothing for him to do now, nothing that really
mattered. Oh, he could hoe the garden, or feed the chickens, the last
survivors of the farm days, but any woman could do it as well, perhaps
better. More than that, he was no longer Black Jim, but Grey Jim now. Once
his hair had been as black as any crow. In that Highland Scottish
community there had been many McGregors, some related distantly, some
closely, and some with whom there was no known connection. There had also
been many Jim McGregors, because their stubborn Scottish forebears clung
to the same Christian names. In later years some had broken away from
tradition and chosen names like Elmer, Wilbur. Vernon, or Floyd, odd
sounding absurdities, not even good Sassenach names. Jim thought about
this, turning it over in his mind; it was all part of the frightening
changes taking place in the world and crowding out familiar things.
All this had come to pass since he had left the place
to young John - Black Jim's John he was called, to distinguish him from
Curly Jim's John - and retired to the village. Of course there was nothing
else that could have been done. The move had been forced on them by
Janet's weak heart. And when Elspeth had come to live with them, things
had gone well enough for a time. Janet had recovered some of her strength,
and Elspeth seemed happy in her silent way. He had worked with John a
great deal, and they were better friends then than they had ever been,
though even now they did not talk much except about the work that was
being done. And Janet had tried to be content, though sometimes she burst
"I don't see why I have to be so useless, Jim. I do
little enough. I know I shouldn't complain, when there are so many worse
off than I am. It's just that all these years of work - now I'm just a
bystander, and I begin to wonder why we did all those things that seemed
so necessary at the time. Where are the dreams we had? The dreams I had as
a young girl?"
Jim, concerned by the distress on her face, tried to
"Did you dream of a prince on a white charger and all
you got was a plain man with an axe?"
"The plain man was my prince, don't ever doubt that.
It's just that the dreams got lost along the way."
Janet discovered the new village library, a good one,
established by donations from the estate of a hard-bitten Scotsman
expiating the greed of a lifetime by benevolence after death. She had read
little since girlhood, and now, to pass the time, she began with old
favourites, only to find them sugary, insipid. Searching for something,
not even sure what it was, she progressed through books on history and
some of the classics to philosophy. There she was stopped by something she
could not quite follow. Fascinated, she tried to comprehend the workings
of these brilliant minds and came to know at last that even these great
men in their wisdom had no agreement among themselves. It seemed they knew
little more than she did of the whys and the wherefores. The knowledge
brought peace of a sort.
As the years in the village went by, they accepted the
easy life with better grace. There were, after all, things to do, visits
with other retired people and noisy card games in the Town Hall. They
drove to the farm to see John and Katie and the little boy, Rory. They
looked at the flower beds and wandered through the stable and back to see
how the cherry grove was doing. They sat on the creek bank and watched
what seemed to them to be the very same waters they had seen gurgling down
the little rapids.
"It's beautiful, Jim, a lovely place, and we made it
so, didn't we? Remember the old cabin and all the stumps. Oh we worked,
how we worked, but it was worth it. I can feel happy about it now. We made
something out of nothing."
Janet did not live long after this. Jim woke one
morning to hear her gasping for breath.
"Oh the pain, Jim, the pain again."
The doctor came and gave her a needle. The pain left
and she went to sleep. But Dr. Wilson was not as cheerful as usual. "I
think we should have a nurse, Jim. I'll see if I can get Mrs. Gordon. All
we can do is keep her in bed and change her medication. But she needs a
good nurse. I don't like the sound of her heart at all."
The nurse never got there. Jim was beside her bed when
Janet woke again. He saw the grief in her eyes. "I have to leave you Jim.
I have to go. I know it now; I have done what I could. Oh my dear, my
dear, take care of yourself."
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