Mr. Green Jeans

Pointing at smoldering remains of what he had come to know as Hazel’s house, Chad looked for hot spots. He had never known Hazel. She had died before he was born. His father owned the acerage surrounding the homestead. Chad hoped to farm it someday.

Land was expensive these days. Paper millionaires struggled to survive when crop prices were low. Burning the house made at least 2 more acres available for planting in the spring. Chad pushed an pulled his rake through the embers. The old barn was close to the house. Saving the barn was his job.

Chad wiped his brow, leaned on his rake and thought of the men who had built the place when they and the land were young. The land remained. The barn would stand for a while. Dad used it as a tractor’s garage. The house was gone.

Mr. Green Jeans drove up the lane towards the barn in his old red ford pickup. Chad didn’t know his real name. Stopping the truck, the old man pulled himself to touch his Beck’s seed corn cap in greeting. “Howdy” was all he said.

Chad watched him as he shuffled around the ashes. Occasionally he would stop and stare. His white hair blew in the summer breeze. He bent over and picked up a stone and pushed it into a pocket of his faded coveralls. They hung loosely over his narrow shoulders.

In his mind he remembered tossing a pebble at a window over 70 years ago. It was the evening he and Hazel kissed in the cornfield for the first time. A tear formed in the corner of his eye and quickly disappeared in the wrinkles of his face.

Chad watched quietly.

Mr. Green Jeans moved slowly back to his truck touching his cap as if to say goodbye. He cranked the engine and drove away.