Just lately, a second depression, called the Great Recession, was broadcast live by cable TV, radio, the Internet, and every possible form of instant communication. Same old, same old, no matter how you sliced and diced it. That was Harry’s logic as she pondered life from her tractor seat. She plowed under her harvested barley field. She allowed her sunflowers and the small patch of cornstalks to stand as she thought of how history is a shadow dogging your every step.
Finishing up her work in bright sunshine, the temperature a remarkable sixty-four degrees, she bumped along in the old reliable machine, kicking up dust, driving back to the big shed. Next to her, Tucker had a little seat with a seatbelt. At every lurch, her corgi ears would jangle, then straighten out. Made Harry laugh. Sometimes her animals or the wild animals she watched proved so comical, tears would roll down her cheeks.
“Got to check the vital signs,” she said, turning off the engine. After unhooking Tucker’s seatbelt, she held the dog in one arm, not easy, and climbed down backward off the vehicle.
“You are very particular,” the dog accurately noted.
Harry checked the tractor’s oil, the fuel line, and the hydraulic line. The only thing she didn’t check was tire pressure. She rarely worried about that, although if a big temperature shift occurred, she’d do it.
“Tucker, waste not, want not,” said Harry. “If you keep things tip-top, saves money and saves worry, too.”
“Right, Mom,” answered the corgi. “I don’t waste bones or greenies.”
A flutter overhead made both domesticated creatures look up. A brilliantly colored male goldfinch perched on a rafter, showing off his plumage. “Whatcha doing?” the little fellow asked.
“Mom’s going over her tractor,” said Tucker. “She does this every time she finishes a job. Careful.”
“Tell her to put out more seed, will you? The bird feeder’s getting low.” Thinking he saw something to eat, he pecked at the rafter. Nope. He spat it out.
“I’ll try, believe me,” Tucker promised, “but she doesn’t understand. Hey, how come you’re on your own? You goldfinches are so social.”
“Too much chatter in the flock. I needed a break. Who needs to know the sordid details of everyone’s nest? I like being in the tractor shed. Nice and quiet. No one else is here, although in the summers the swallowtails build nests. Pushy, those birds.”
“Don’t the cats harass you?” the dog wondered.
“The gray cat is too fat to harass anybody,” he chirped with pleasure. “Now, the tiger, got to keep my eye out for her. Fortunately, she’s usually occupied by something else.”
“Do you talk regularly to any other birds? Birds that fly around farther away than you do?”
As Harry wiped off her greasy hands on an old red cloth, the happy little fellow hopped down on the tractor seat and looked down at Tucker. “Sure,” answered the bird. “Birds do love to gossip.”
“Ever run into those crows who ate the scarecrow?” asked Tucker.
The goldfinch hopped down to a back fender to get closer. “I heard you were there with the cats. The crows complained you all spoiled a great find, but they didn’t know who killed the human, if that’s what you want to know. They said he was fresh meat. So he was killed close by, maybe even killed in a car or something.”
“We kind of stumbled upon it. Did you talk to anyone who knew about the murdered witch at the church?”
“No, but I heard about it. When you live in a flock, news travels fast. And I also socialize with birds other than goldfinches,” he said proudly, bragging at how cosmopolitan he was. “Anyway, I don’t know anything about that witch except people seem to like killing one another, so what’s it to you?”
“My human is curious, plus she liked the witch lady. She wants to catch whoever did it.”
The bird cocked a snapping black eye at the corgi. “You need better control over her. She’s wasting her time. Now, spending more time on her fields, that will yield something of value.”
Tucker’s attention was diverted by a vehicle coming down the driveway. The sound sent her flying out of the tractor shed to bark warnings.
“Dogs are idiots.” The goldfinch laughed as he hopped to the other rear fender, getting closer to Harry.
The slender woman turned around, hands cleaner, beheld the small brilliantly colored bird. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello back at you,” he chirped, which sounded to her ears like “potato chips.”
Hearing the familiar goldfinch call, she smiled. “You’re a bold fellow.”
She hung up the red rags, walked out of the shed, glanced over her shoulder. The goldfinch chirped, then flew up to the rafter.
“Hey,” Cooper called out, Tucker at her heels.
“Is this a courtesy call or business? I never know when you’re in uniform,” Harry said.
“I was down at Rose Hill. Thought I’d stop by on my way back to town.”
The two fell in side by side as they made their way to the house.
“How’s Aunt Tally?” Harry asked. Rose Hill was the old lady’s estate.
“Never changes. She’s besotted with the baby.”
The two walked into the sunny kitchen.
“Is she dispensing advice?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No, she’s leaving that up to Big Mim, who, by all accounts, is a treasure trove of childrearing wisdom.”
They laughed.
Before they sat, Harry asked, “Coffee, tea, Co’Cola, hot chocolate?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Cooper took a seat at the table. “Harry, I asked Aunt Tally a lot of questions about Hester, about ownership of old farms, stuff like that. Someone should record what she remembers before it goes with her.” Cooper felt that every old person was a library.
“Good idea,” said Harry, sitting across from her. “Learn anything new?”
The tall deputy nodded. “More than I imagined. Who married whom. How many children, legitimate and non. Who hated whom and who was smart and not. She said such things run in families. I showed her a county map with farms outlined. She knew the history of every single one, and her memory started with the end of World War One. Got really clear in the twenties, but she said with her parents, her friends’ parents, and their grandparents—well, the living memories recounted to her when she was young, all put together, reached back to the 1830s. She could just rattle stuff off.
“She pointed out which farms had been well managed, even through the Depression, World War Two, and up to today. She knew where some of the old slave graveyards were, and even where there are Indian mounds, which may or may not be graveyards. Most of that history has been lost. She said if you have an ancestor in a graveyard, you have a legal right to tend to that graveyard once a year. She noted farms that had endured ups and downs, and much of that seemed to tie in to drinking. Then there were those who lost everything.” Cooper sighed. “I hit a dead end. Learned a lot, but …”
“Any disputes?” asked Harry. Aunt Tally could always tell a good story.