A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance

What Matters Most

         The winding road to the stables had coursed its way around the silo and the pasture. I had driven up from Manhattan for several hours, and just by the sight of this place, I was breathing more freely. I took in everything gradually. Snow with broad brushstrokes had whitewashed the scenery. Wood-smoke arose in curlicues from the chimney in the main house. An occasional wind gust exchanged pleasantries with the silence that dwelt in this magnificent winter panorama. If only Diane were here to see all this. . .

         In slow motion, my childhood flashed back at me, Grandpa’s Morgan horses, ponies, hayrides, hiding in the silo behind the alfalfa hay, and of course Jesse, my very own Morgan horse with small ears, gracefully curved neck, and large understanding eyes. Jesse was short, measuring only a bit more than fourteen hands but he was my first love. He was the first animal to inspire a passion for veterinary medicine in me.

         I got out of the car, circled around the snow-covered pasture on foot, and headed into the stables. The partitions were empty except for one old horse, Tax Break, blanketed and kept by Donavan, the grounds keeper. Donavan had named him in jest, for the time when horses were tax deductible. Donavan’s family had lived here longer than my grandpa had owned the place. The farm had exchanged many hands, but Donavan’s family had stayed on probably since the Civil War times. Tax Break lifted his head and snorted. “Hello, Tax Break,” I said stroking his mane.

         In the main house, Greta served me tea and crumpets as in the old days.

         “I’m glad you could come before the closing, Master John,” Donavan said. “There are some papers and things that used to belong to your grandfather. They should pass on to you. The new owners would probably throw them away.”

         “Donavan, please call me John,” I said laughing. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

         “Yes, Master John,” he said, handing me the key to Grandpa’s roll-top desk. Donavan could never give up his aristocratic way of addressing me.

         So many decades, so many papers. . . The more I shuffled through the papers, the more I admired my grandfather’s record-keeping abilities. He had everything properly dated and filed. Still, there was a lot I didn’t know. If it weren’t for Donavan to fill me in, so much of what was in there would remain in the dark for me.

         After supper I called Diane.

         “John, wouldn’t it be less painful if we stopped talking to each other? After all your mind is made up.”

         “Diane, please understand. This is very difficult for me.” Just to hear her voice had brought tears to my eyes. “Can we stay friends at least?”

         There was a short pause.

         “John, I could never be just your friend.” I heard the phone click at the other end. For a good while, I stood there listening to the short beeps of the receiver.

         What was wrong with women nowadays? Why was Diane so unreasonable? We had had an intense relationship, but she was adamant about staying around her family. She said, her parents were sickly and being their only child, she wouldn’t leave them. Neither was she willing to change the country.

         “John if it were anywhere within the United States, I’d have no problem,” Diane had said. “But to settle in Australia? I can’t do that. I love it here. I’d like to see my family and friends at least around the holidays.”

         On the other hand, I had always romanticized Australia after discovering Astoria, Queens. Astoria and Australia had little in common, but to me  both exemplified man’s struggle against all odds.  During my high school years in New York City, I had a classmate, Steve, whose grandparents lived in Astoria. I went to visit them with Steve quite often and discovered Astoria, the town for the new immigrants and their struggles. It seemed so romantic, so heroic to adapt to a new place!

         During my veterinary internship I had written a short travail on the sheep farming and medicine in Australia. Through the research I had done, I had become enamored with Australia. Now when the opportunity presented itself, I wanted to grab it. After a few months stay in Sydney to put my papers and licensing in order, I planned to live in a small town practicing veterinary medicine and own a sheep farm in the countryside. The proceeds from Grandpa’s farm would help finance my new venture. My mind was made up and I was excited over my project. Except for Diane.

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         “I’ll be here only for a day or two, Donavan,” I said after breakfast. “Let’s go through everything.”

         “Maybe you’d like to examine the sales file, Master John?”

         I couldn’t believe how many hands the farm had exchanged before Grandpa. It took quite a while to sort through the many papers while listening to Donavan’s stories.

         “Just look at the price Grandpa paid for the farm, Donavan? Things must have been so cheap those days.”

         “This farm was very costly to your grandfather, Master John. Not in terms of money though.”

         Right at that moment I noticed a small envelope under the files in the bottom of the drawer. I picked it up and opened it. It was a handwritten contract signed by two men, one by my grandfather, the other by the previous owner. It was not the sales contract but it was an agreement of sorts. It said:

         “I, Henry G. Runyon, in exchange for the Fire Creek Farm to the east of Manchester, New Hampshire, and Figure Two, shall not seek the attentions of Melissa A. Thorsen. In return, Robert E. McAlister shall sign the sales contract and leave the Fire Creek Farm and the State of New Hampshire for good.”

         “What kind of an agreement is that?” I exclaimed. “What do you know about this, Donavan?”

         “I’ll tell you Master John,” he said. “But first permit me to attend to Tax Break.”

         “Sure, Donavan. Why don’t I walk over to the stables with you and you tell me about it? I could use some fresh air.”

         I helped Donavan as he loaded up a flat bed sleigh with hay and pulled it from the silo to the stable to feed Tax Break.

         When we passed by the lamp pole in between the two buildings, Donavan stopped and motioned to the fence.

         “It was right there under that lamp Miss Melissa gave your grandfather his first kiss and I saw it. But I didn’t say anything to anyone on account of the fact that Miss Melissa was promised to Master McAlister.”

         “I don’t understand. Wasn’t Grandpa the next owner after McAlister.”

         “Yes, but let me go back a bit. Your grandpa had started studying veterinary medicine. In summers, more help was needed on the farm. He had come in as a farm hand. He cleaned the stables, fed the horses, and did chores around the farm in return for room and board and some pocket money. Actually we roomed together since my Pa was the caretaker for the McAlisters and I also lived in the farm.”

         “I never knew that. I mean I didn’t know Grandpa studied veterinary medicine. No wonder he was so encouraging to me!”

         “Well, unlike you, he never finished school because he suddenly found himself a farm owner.”

         “What about that deal, Donavan?”

         “Well, Miss Melissa’s father and Mr. McAlister had served in the First World War together. They thought that their kids would be good for each other. After the war they introduced them. Miss Melissa’s family lived in Texas. They used to come and stay here for months at a time. That way, the kids got to know each other. The year your grandfather came to work in the farm was close to the time the wedding was planned for. Miss Melissa came here with her mother to put her trousseau together. I know this because my father drove them to Boston from here to do their shopping at least couple of times a week. Your grandfather was grooming a horse when Miss Melissa first entered the stables. He dropped everything and looked at her. She too was quite taken by him. I was right there to watch them eye each other and I told myself, this ain’t good.”

         “You mean to tell me that my grandfather stole someone else’s girl?”

         “I wouldn’t quite put it that way, Master John. Miss Melissa had something to do with it too. She’d seek him out making believe she was interested in horses. Later on, as things got hotter between them, they’d meet there under that lamp post by the stables in secret.”

         “What happened afterwards?”

         “I heard through the grapevine that one day there was a big argument between Robert McAlister and Miss Melissa in the big house. Then Miss Melissa’s mother took her to Boston. There, they stayed with a friend of theirs for a while. Your grandfather was let go immediately. So he went to Boston and got a job there. Then Robert McAlister’s father went to Boston and came back with your grandfather in tow. That’s when they signed the deal.”

         “My grandfather gave up the girl for the farm?”

         “Don’t forget Figure Two. That filly was also in the deal.”

         “Why? What was so special about that horse?”

         “Her lineage came from Figure the original Morgan Horse. She was Figure’s ninth grandchild. Figure Two was Robert McAlister’s horse but she took to your grandfather better. Horse sense, you might say.”

         “This doesn’t seem right to me. My grandfather was bought.”

         “Don’t judge your grandfather too harshly, Master John. He suffered for Miss Melissa for quite a while. For years, I’d say. Your grandfather used to be a jolly fellow. He used to laugh and joke all the time. I never saw him smile much after that for quite a long time. As far as being bought goes, your grandfather gave Mr. McAlister all his savings for payment also. It didn’t count much as money but it was some kind of a payment.”

         “You liked my grandfather, Donovan.”

         “He was my buddy. He became my boss later but he always treated me as his friend. What happened to him just happened. One can never guess what life forces people to do.”

         “What became of Miss Melissa? Do you know?”

         “Her mother took her back home to Texas. McAlisters moved there also. I heard Master Robert and Miss Melissa were married in Houston much later. I don’t know what happened to them afterwards. Who knows? Miss Melissa was a spoiled flirty little thing and Robert McAlister, a solemn man, was several years her senior. But Miss Melissa and Robert McAlister were both used to acting fancy. Probably Miss Melissa wouldn’t be good match for your grandfather anyway. She wasn’t anything like your grandmother. Your grandmother worked for the farm very hard. Adding ponies, hayrides, and riding lessons were her ideas. She was one heck of a smart woman. Your grandparents worked well together. They were good friends with each other.”

         “Did my grandmother come in the picture right after Miss Melissa?”

         “Nope, that took about another six years. Master John, you know, you remind me so much of your grandfather. You used to be a happy giggly boy too. Until recently you used to laugh and joke whenever you came around here. If you don’t mind me saying so, your gait has changed. Like my horses, I can tell people’s innards from their gait.”

         “Maybe I’m just getting old, Donavan.”

         “No, Sir. I don’t think so.”

         Before we left, Donavan put an extra blanket on Tax Break.

         We walked back in silence through the half-sleepy landscape. With each motion of the wind, snow on the trees fell to the ground by the handfuls. Before we entered the house again, Donavan pointed to the clouds.

         “It doesn’t look good, Master John. You better plan on staying a day or two more.”

         From my bedroom window, I stared at the snow flakes fall idly at first, then with gusto. For a long time, I watched the stables, the silo, and the wide open landscape with its hills and valleys looking pristine and peaceful under their white cover, and I gazed at the wooden fence rails laden with snow and the lamp post under which  lovers used to meet. For a split second, there exactly under the lamp post, Diane’s form took shape in my imagination. Someone whispered, “How can you leave all this?” I turned around. I saw nobody.

         The next day, while we were at breakfast, the phone rang. “Don’t get up, John. I’ll see who it is,” Greta rose from her chair.

         “It is the broker,” she said, when she returned. “Do you want to talk to him? He says to tell you that the bank is giving difficulty to the buyers. They need extra time to make other arrangements.”

         “Thanks, Greta; I’ll go talk to him.”

         Later in the evening I called Diane. Her message machine came on. I knew she was home and she was screening her calls.

         “Diane, please pick up the phone,” I begged. Then I said, “I’m not going to Sydney. I’m not selling the farm. This morning I told the broker I gave up. How would you like to be a horse farmer’s wife in New Hampshire?”

         Diane picked up the phone. “John, it wouldn’t be fair. I don’t want you give up your dream for me.”

         “My dream is here, with you, Diane. I’m not giving anything up. I’m holding on to what matters most.”

         Diane’s sobbed, “Yes, John. Oh, I’m so happy!”

         I gazed outside through the window. Under the flickering light from the lamp post, I could see the shape of the stables beneath the thick snow.