Chapter 1

I slept under the tree.

I don’t know how long I was out, but when I awoke, the sun had moved a significant amount in its daily arc across the sky. An hour? Maybe two? As I said, I don’t really know. And I guess it doesn’t really matter.

The tree, a stately old maple, stood like a solitary guard in the middle of a field that had become overgrown. A natural scarecrow if you want to think of it that way.

There was a time when this field alternated between soybeans and corn. However for several years now, it has been unattended. Unless of course the intended yield was weeds and clover. In that case, it was going to be a bumper crop.

The tree was ‘my’ place. Not really mine, except for in my own head. Officially the tree was on land owned by Stanley Matthews. I guess more accurately the estate of Mr Matthews. Old Stan died three years ago. Around the time the soy beans and corn ceased growing.

When we bought the place 6 years ago, Stan arrived at the door about 10 minutes after the moving truck pulled away.

“Howdy,” he said by way of greeting. No hand extended to shake. Just a solitary word.

I eyed him carefully. Stan was definitely a throwback from a different time. A world I didn’t know. He stood there on my porch in dirty coveralls and a plaid lumberjack coat, with his hands placed deeply in his pockets.

I thought I saw a bulge in his cheek. Chewing tobacco? No, that would make the image too perfect. It must have been gum, although he wasn’t chewing it.

I stood at the door, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. Unable to bear the awkward silence any longer, I extended my own hand. “Hello. James Roberts.’

At that moment, he turned and spit into the garden. An ugly brown wad landing among the decorative rocks the previous owner had placed there. It was chewing tobacco after all.

He turned back to me. A thin line of brown spit on his chin. “Howdy,” he repeated.

Again I waited. Again he said nothing further. Unable to handle the silence any longer, I decided to end this conversation, if it could truly be called a conversation.

“Well, nice to met you,” I muttered as I began to back into the hallway and close the door.

“Yes. yes it is,” Stan sad.

What? Did I hear that right? Pa Kettle comes on my porch and has the audacity to think he’s doing me a favour? It turns out he was, but I didn’t know that at the time. How could I?

“You I mean. Nice to meet you is what I meant to say,” he stammered, realizing how arrogant he may have appeared to me. This time he extended his hand. I took it and shook it, feeling the callouses.

Its funny how when someone puts out their hand, you take it. Well, most people anyway. Not my new friend here, but most. My father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by his handshake.

“Stanley Matthews,” he said as he grasped my hand firmly. Firmly, but with a warmth behind it. “Most people call me Stan though.”

Still grasping my hand, he turned and spit more tobacco juice into the garden. This was a man who worked hard. I could tell that from his hand. He was also not much on social graces. I still haven’t had another person spit tobacco juice while shaking my hand. I doubt if I ever will.

“I’m sorry for my manner, Mr Roberts,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve stood on this porch having a conversation. the woman before you became distant when her husband died. Almost like she blamed me. And I suppose having a real neighbour again will take some getting used to.”

Despite my earlier assessment of Stan as Pa Kettle, I realized he had an intelligent softness about him. First impressions can often be wrong.

“I wanted to introduce myself to you and make the same offer to you as I did to the Lawrence’s. they were the ones before you. Although i suppose you know that. You bought it from Susan didn’t you?’

“My land is your land, Mr Roberts. Oh, I don’t mean to farm it. And I don’t mean you can make money off of it. But, I have plenty of property that isn’t farmed. Some of it wooded. Good for hiking or walks with someone special. Do you have someone special, Mr Roberts? I suppose I’ll learn that in due time.

“In the winter, you can snow shoe or ski if you are so inclined. Just don’t disturb my crops. Thats all I ask’

I didn’t know what to make of his offer. This awkward man I’d never met just offered his land to me to play on. I was pretty sure I’d never take him up on it. But that’s how the tree, the lonely sentinel in the middle of soy bean crop, became mine.

“I don’t want to keep you on such a fine day. I just wanted to introduce myself and make the offer. We will talk again, I’m sure,” Stan said. And with that, he turned and began to walk away.

“Thank you, Mr. Matthews”

He turned. “It’s Stan. Mr Matthews was my father.”

Turning back, he spat another brown wad into the grass this time, and ambled down the walkway to the driveway. I was still slightly taken aback and was semi-frozen in the doorway. I watched him reach the road and turn right towards his home about a mile down the road.

Way back when, I don’t remember the exact history, and I must admit to not being too interested when I heard the story, the property I now owned was part of his land. It wasn’t owned by him at then. The land belonged to the Timmons’ family, a pretty prominent family in these parts. The Patriarch of the family, Owen, had two sons and a daughter and worked the land until he was 60. The daughter had married and moved away, but the sons lived and worked on the property in a house Owen had built for them , set behind the main house, almost like a guest cottage. When he turned 60, Owen determined he had had enough of working the land and wanted to retire. He also didn’t want to leave. I’m sure it was quite the conundrum for the Timmons family. The solution that came about was that Owen had about 2 acres of the property severed and built a retirement home for himself, while his two sons remained in the other two houses and continued farming. How they decided which son got the main house and which got the guest house, I’ll never know. Maybe it was age. The retirement home that Owen Timmons built is now mine.

Lost in my own thoughts for a few moments, I realized I was standing with the door open and began to back into the hallway to let the screen door shut. I looked to see Stan walking, but he was already out of sight.

“Who was that?” said a voice behind me.

I must have still been in a daze from my encounter with Stan, but it is not usually that my wife’s voice will make me jump. Sometimes Amy’s voice will give me the feeling of nails on a chalkboard, but rarely does it make me jump.

“Oh, just a neighbour who wanted to introduce himself,” I replied.

“Well at least he waited until the truck was gone,” Amy continued. “I guess he only wanted to meet the man of the house? Otherwise you would have called me”

“It wasn’t like that, dear. He is sort of an odd duck. He did ask if there was a lady of the house, but didn’t even wait for a response.” I was getting defensive. Maybe it was the stress of moving.

“Anyway, he offered us his land. Anything thats not currently being farmed that is. To hike, ski, snowshoe, whatever we want” I said as a way of trying to deflect the criticism of not having introduced her.

“Mighty neighbourly of him isn’t it? I mean how does he know we aren’t going to use it for ritual sacrifices?” Good old Amy, always ready to throw a wet blanket on something good.

“We wouldn’t do that thought,” I muttered.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that!” Amy said.

I’m not sure what got her back up, but she was in one of those moods. Again, maybe it was the stress of moving. Or maybe it was just her nature. Stan had said to use his land for walks with someone special. I got the feeling that wouldn’t be happening.

“What kind of person comes over to a house immediately after the moving trucks leave and offers up his land to people he’s never met?” Amy asked.

“A nice one,” I muttered. _Something you wouldn’t know too much about._ “We aren’t in the city anymore, dear. People are nice here. They share. They help”

“I wanted to move out to the country to get away from people, not have them in our business!”

“He wasn’t in our business! He came to say hello and to offer us some land to play on! I do think it was ‘mighty neighbourly’ of him!” I said.

“We’ll see about that. Nobody offers something for nothing. He’ll want something in return. You watch.”

This was escalating quickly, and to diffuse it, I walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water, and then continued moving furniture and unpacking. We didn’t say much to each other, other than to clarify where something was supposed to go. I was glad for that. If something as simple as a neighbour coming over could almost start an argument, what would my putting the bed against the wrong wall do?