george and martha

The time was seven 'o clock in the morning. The sun barely lit the dim morning sky. George pushed open the front door of his isolated countryside home, isolated from the city, modern conveniences, and most people too. He was isolated from change. He liked things just the way they are- (or were, anyway) and refused to conform to any of society's silly guidelines. He bent far over, using his butt to hold the door open, while arching over to retrieve two half-full buckets of milk he had set of the porch seconds ago.

"For heaven's sake, Martha." George bellowed, spilling milk on the kitchen floor, "Give me a hand carrying the milk."

Martha rolled her eyes and took another sip of her fresh coffee.

"I do all the work around here, Martha. I get up at the ass-crack of dawn, milk the cows, plow the fields, and you will not even offer me a hand with the milk."

Martha interrupted, "Look, dammit... You are eighty-six years old, George. We only have one cow, and it's milk is no good. And we don't have fields anymore, we have a garden. You're retired, whether you like it or not. Now, Jimmy said he'd take care of us, so don't stress yourself out, dear. Come on now, George, we don't have to go through this every day, so sit back and enjoy the beautiful morn..."

"Damnation! Woman! I'm not going to let that big city bastard son of mine write me off with a check just so he can tell himself that he's done his good deed for today so he can sleep at night. Honestly, all that boy cares about is the stock market and money..."

"And us, dear, or he wouldn't keep supporting your retirement."

"He's a disgrace! A shame to this family. Too stubborn to follow in his dad's footsteps. Now he tramps about in big cars, gets drunk at all of his big-shot parties, and sleeps with whores!"

"He gave that up years ago, dear," Martha replied in a caring old, yet motherly tone. "And even if he does, he is our son and we love him."

"There's no excuse for a boy to refuse the pride of his ancestors. My father was a farmer, and I was more than happy to take up the family occupation."

"Okay now, George," Martha was getting annoyed now. "Shut up. Jimmy's his own person. You can't control him or change his mind. Now drop it." Martha continued to glare at him with that stare that commanded the end of the argument, just like it had done a thousand times throughout their marriage. A few seconds passed, then she picked up her book of crossword puzzles and a pencil whose tip was worn almost down to the nub.

George stood in the doorway, staring at the wall, thinking, perhaps of some last minute retort that couldn't find it's way to his mouth. His hands twitched slightly and slowly as he thought to himself. There he stood for several minutes, silent, then in a slow, pathetic, pitiful, way he turned around with his head hung low and walked out the door. He entered the house again, without the buckets, and sat down at the kitchen table. He sat, restless, perhaps thinking of something to do to fill his time. George lived to be a strong man. He persevered to be strong throughout his life in everything he did. His strength carried out in his speech and argument (he always had the last word and imperatively demanded his perspective as truth), in his life for he was now an extremely old man, and most evidently in his work. He almost fought for blood when circumstances arose and brought to his attention that his age had outlived his ability to farm. Such a strong individual faces torture at the thought of sitting idly by, with nothing to do but await death.

With age, also came the control of George's emotions. Some would muse that such an uncomfortable predicament such as awaiting a slow death upon retirement without any alternative would warrant a few tears, but George had little use for crying. He had learned of what little help they are, and his last strong emotions had been spent several years ago. His life, he felt, had turned grey and weary. The solid pleasures of life, the inconsistencies that made it exciting had left, leaving behind a bland sea of dull space and a minimal amount of daily routine, which also assimilated his mind into a dull emotionless blur as well. Perhaps this benefited him, though, to take all of life's problems with a grain of salt and brush off the troubles of normal young men. He cared little to know all of this, and he cared little to think about all of this.

Martha lived a happy, cheerful life. Through all of life's iniquities, big and small, she could smile and laugh and make you believe that their frivolity had little impact on the outcome of tomorrow. When certain devastating tribulations would occur in life that light attitudes and smiles could not deflect, she simply sat in a kind expressionless silence or retreated to an inconspicuous area and emerged only when her trouble passed her.

Martha tore herself from her crosswords after a few minutes, sensing George's discomfort, "George, why don't we sit on the porch and watch the sunrise together over a nice glass of iced tea?"

George kept his mindless gaze.

"Go on, George. I'll be there in a couple of minutes with your tea. Then when the ground softens up, you can work in your garden."

George responded by silently raising from the kitchen table, and slowly strolling to the door. Upon the front porch, his favourite rocker awaited, a fine handcrafted piece of work that was bought at a bazaar several years ago as a birthday present from old Chet Johnson, who passed away a few years ago. He sat down slowly, gripping the worn handles to the chair as he descended as if it would try to escape his rear. Martha emerged from the house moments later with two tall glasses of home brewed iced tea. She sat down and took a deep breath.

"Look at that, George." She started in her cheery voice. "Isn't that beautiful?"

The golden tip of the sun peered out of the orange, morning sky over the amber waves of grain and illuminated the entire landscape. Rarely did either of them take the time to enjoy such a sight until more recently in their lives. It quickly became their favourite daily pastime.

"I sure don't remember the sun ever bein that beautiful until now." George bashfully admitted. "And what the hell is that?!"

Two small figures emerged from the corn field a few yards from the west side of the house. As the first astronauts emerging onto the soft planetscape of the moon from their bulky space vessel, the two strangers looked somehow historic. Perhaps their distance and surroundings slowed them, and they moved slowly and gradually.

"They don't look familiar, George." Martha kept rocking in her chair, apparently careless to the intrusion of the strangers. "Are they the Anderson's boys?"

George held his steady gaze upon the two. "Get my gun, Martha."

"Oh, shut up, dear. You are always saying that, but I doubt that you could even hold up that old rifle. Now, if someone wanted to kill or rob us that badly, they'd easily do it during the night. Honestly, just sit tight and see what they do want."

George and Martha sat patiently, with eyes fixated on the two. One of them was apparently much older than the other. The older one led; a stocky, yet shortly built man with long, wiry, black hair. The other one followed faithfully behind; a young ladwith no hair at all wearing oversized trousers which were caked with mud from the knee down. Their reddened skin revealed their sun-soaked weariness. Both of them took much time in trudging through the overgrown grass and weeds surrounding the house. George slowly reached into his front trouser pocket and pinched a dip of snuff from a small pouch. He rarely ever chewed tobacco. He habitually did it for several years, especially when he ran the farm, but he quit when he started getting terrible gut aches. He still, however, occasionally still dipped for small social gatherings (which were now rare) or when he wanted raise his appearance as a hard, tuff old man.

Martha caught a sight of George chewing, and proclaimed, "Oh, for heaven's sake, George. Put that away!"

As the mysterious duo approached the porch, the nervous old couple expected the worst, but were strangely caught off guard, as the older one of the strangers began speaking. "Grandma! Grandpa!"

George and Martha glanced suspiciously at each other briefly. George spit a mouthful of tobacco juice and spit at the man's shoes.

"Okay, I'm not your grandson. I'm sorry. A friend told me that he tried that on another old couple, and they invited him in for dinner."

George stood up and angrily shouted, "What are you trying to say about old people? You think we're stupid, don't you?"

His wife pulled his shirt sleeve, beckoning him to sit down. "No, dear. He's tired and hungry. These boys just need a proper breakfast. Now, he's being honest. I think we should let them in and help them out."

"Yes, yes!" The toaster exclaimed, interupting the old woman. "We don't mean you harm. We are just very tired and hungry. And we..."

"Who are you? What's your business here?" George asked, nodding his head with each question.

"I am Farmer Bill," Bill bowed his head, "and this is my companion..uh,.." Bill rubbed his throat, thinking about the toaster's head. "Tim! This is my friend, .. Tim!"

"Farmer, eh?!" George sat upright in his seat. Martha retreated into the house. "Bill, eh? Are you old Will's son? No. William never did have any boys. What kind of crops are you investing in?