ith periodic forays back to the car, to restore the tissues and wet the whistle, the gloaming turned to starry night, as a great harvest moon rose red and orange through and above a distant arbor. The goats continued to exercise their spell, and I returned often, to see if a more recent goat had yet ascended the ramp. The Goatel, the Kiddie Corral, the parking lot and the duck pond were all illumined by those lovely lights on rough wood poles found outside of the towns, whether shining on the lonely farmhouse, or at the country store upon the shelly tarmac, usually orbited thickly by flying bugs of strange habit, unknown in the city. The farmhouse might be isolated, and the road to the store unfrequented, while stretching beyond the farm, even beyond the fields, and on either side of the lane, are perhaps miles of thickets, or river bottoms with their snakes and tangled willow mots, unfriendly in the dark to a son of Adam; but those lights cheer him. Here are the habitations and hearths of men, with a door between the stalking night and the cozy parlour.
The Corn Mazes were, on their nearer edge, and in those spots unblocked by the tall corn, slightly lit by the lights from the poles. We had been warned by the website to bring flashlights for wandering the mazes after dark. It was possible to negotiate the eastern paths without them, but they make spiders big out here, and the spinners had been busy spinning their face-high webs since the early evening, stretching them right across the way from corn-top to corn-top, and our flashlight helped to prevent a mouth-full of spider and web, at least to prevent it more often than without a flashlight. The corn fields were burrowed, occasionally, by mice, their little holes visible to us on the edges of rows, and corn fields are proverbial as the delight of snakes, who feast upon the rodents who feast upon the corn. Most of the daughters of Eve, and this son of Adam, are fond neither of rodents nor of snakes, in the dark about one's feet.
We had had the occasional glimpse of the two children, as a man may of a shooting star if he happens to be looking in the right direction at the right moment. Ours, like a meteor personified, had last appeared red-faced and breathless at the car, for a drink to cool him on his rocketing trajectory through the universe. There had apparently been an incident in the corn mazes, where the two friends, wandering as orphans through the confusing and mapless fields, had turned upon one another in their lost frustration. Heated words had been exchanged, and covenants broken, a thing common among compadres in the trackless Sierra or The Valley of Death, and, recking not on supporting one another in their mutual plight, as Sir Philip Sidney wounded gave his water to his fellow, whose need was greater than his own, they abandoned each other, to make each his own way through the wilderness, and back to the abodes of men.
As I approached the fence for another warring episode with the belligerent geese, a bullfrog leaped croaking into the pond, disturbed by the approach of Farmer Bradshaw, The Master, in no way intimidated by the breathed threats, mutterings, and curses of His geese. Having interviewed the goats and the geese, I set my sights upon the Farmer. He too leaned upon the rails, and we talked about the weather and the agricultural prospects, which were, as Tolkein's rustic has it, "No worse than usual." He is from the Panhandle, my family's stomping ground on my Father's side, and still runs one of his experimental farms out upon the llano estacado, though he desires to chuck the experiments and settle down as just Farmer Bradshaw of the pumpkins and corn mazes. To do both is simply too much work, and, at this stage of life, he prefers Dewberry Farming to wrestling large-scale with the thorns and thistles, West of Eden.
We spoke of morals, and the decayed states of the county seats, the little West Texas towns of 5000 or so in which he and my folks had been reared, and where I had spent vacations with my grandsires. More on my heart than in our talk was the reflection upon those wide-open spaces and those closed hearts, the expansive vistas and the empty churches, the old brickworks laying off and the sheriff hiring, the downtowns dead to merchants and shoppers, but alive on a Saturday night to fevered cruisers with their beer and their dope and their MTV and their little redneck chicks, as full of worldly ambition as they are lacking in character, and destined most assuredly for a baby and a single-wide, before they graduate from the old high-school, built like the old streets by the bricks from the old brickyard, back when Pottersville was still Bedford Falls.
The blueish lights lit us as we talked, the moon soared above us, now in silver gray, and to the north the campfire pits were ablaze, casting their red glow upon the faces of the weenie-roasters and marshmallow toasters. By this time the crowd was lessened to a few dozens, and the pricking stars were increased to thousands and ten thousands. Economics would probably not allow such a thing, but from the moment we arrived, I had felt like a small inn on the property would be a boon, to me at least, for a single night. There was a certain degree to which I found Dewberry Farm homely and comfortable, and could have desired to be awakened by a distant crowing. To really put a cap on the thing, Farmer Bradshaw, as though he had not already made heavy enough capital investment, could build for us a bed-and-breakfast farmhouse, with wood pole lights and creaking floors, with screens on the windows and negligent curtains rippling in the soft night breeze. Set up a passing train, at a distance of a mile, to blow its whistle along about 10:30 PM, and let a screen door bang a quarter-mile upwind around 6:45 AM, wafted down the breeze and accompanied from indoors by the smell of coffee, bacon, toast and biscuits. Lade the checkered tablecloth with jellies, a capacious dish of scrambled eggs, and a tureen of cream gravy. Then shall we sit on the wide porch with the cow dog, and watch the men at work? Sounds very good to me.
Farmer Bradshaw excused himself, having, like all husbandmen, tasks at his going down, as well as at his rising. His most immediate was to remove two dogies who had wandered into the yearling pen: embarrassingly, ours! Yes, gamboling in the little kids' playground were two much bigger kids, whom I recognized. Discretion being the better part of valor, I let not my countenance betray recognition, before Goodman Bradshaw; just a couple of strays, with another man's brand, and I eased away from the showdown, toward the car. Had the Farmer but known - we found it out, days later - Peter Rabbits had gotten under his netting, and into his corn.
The moon had spent its low crimson, and now sailed high above in cold platinum. The children had spent their Assyrian energies, and desired recumbency after the pillage of Dewberry. Back up the Farm Road, back down the Freeway we rode, back into the city, with the gate out to the Big Sky clanging like the Marshalsea behind us. Because of my remarkable self-control, there would be a steak, egg, and cheese burrito awaiting my return from church on the morrow, unless my family, lacking that restraint, and heedless of the eighth commandment, should devour it before my time.