The Pickaxe

~Jesse walked slowly toward Archie's restaurant.  He was a tall man for his age, bent slightly forward, but he used no cane.

 Jesse entered the hole-in-the-wall restaurant; a bell rang.  He took his usual stool behind the counter.  The two vinyl-sheathed booths were empty, but Jesse never sat in a booth unless all the stools were taken.  Today he was the only customer.

 Tom came out from the back room:  "And what will it be today, Jesse?"

 Jesse started to say "the usual," but then he'd been saying that too often lately, so instead he said, "I think I'll risk my stomach today and take it with pickles and onions, pickles and onions and mustard."

 "Right oh," said Tom.  He reached into the cooler for two tenderloin patties and slid them into the deep fryer.

 Tom asked, "Was Bill Beck your brother?"

 "Yes, he was."

 "Well, I'm sorry about him dying."

 "He was a good man," said Jesse.  "But stubborn."
 
 "Well maybe that's a family characteristic," said Tom.

 "I wasn't stubborn or fool enough to keep on farming," said Jesse.  "Bill had to try to farm our worthless old homestead that broke my father's back.  I feel guilty I let Bill give me money to buy out my interest in the place.  He was welcome to it.  I never felt so happy as when I turned my back for the last time on that damn hill-country farm."

 Tom pulled the tenderloins from the fryer, plopped them down on the buns, and put on all the fixings.  He set them down in front of Jesse along with coffee.

 Jesse felt restless as he ate the tenderloins faster than usual.  Poor Bill and that old place.  It should have never ever been farmed.  Driving the horses along the creek to wherever there was a plot flat enough to plow.  And Dad making us work like slaves sunup to sundown.  Counting and recording every egg that was laid, every pig slaughtered.  It's a wonder Dad didn't try to keep up with the rabbits.

 Jesse left a dollar for Tom and started back up the hill.  It was a nice spring day, but Jesse was still remembering the old farm of his youth.

 As Jesse made it close to his rooming house he saw his son Roy's white station wagon pull up in front.

 Jesse smiled big like he always did when relatives paid him a visit.  He and Roy shook hands just like his family always did.  Roy had a brown paper big in his other hand so Jesse figured that, just like usual, they'd go up to his room and drink some of the whiskey.

 But Roy said, "Dad.  I've been down to your old place and I've brought some tools back.  Do you think you could use them?"

 They went to the back of the Ford and Roy opened the tailgate.

 Jesse peered inside.  He knew some of the tools.  There were two spades, a rake, a hoe, and a pickaxe that Jesse knew well.

 What hours he'd spent with that pickaxe trying to cut paths you could drive a wagon through on that rocky ground.

 "Well, I don't want the pickaxe, that's for sure," said Jesse and he smiled as he said it.  "Son, couldn't you use these tools?"

 "No Dad, Gladys and I already have all the tools we need for our little garden.  Say Dad, maybe if you asked Ralph and Mabel they'd let you grow a few vegetables."  Mabel was Jesse's cousin.  She and Ralph owned the rooming house where Jesse stayed.

 Jesse thought of the big back yard.  There would be plenty of room for a little garden.  Ralph and Mabel would appreciate the vegetables since they had more trouble getting around than Jesse did.

 Jesse though of the first thing he could remember ever growing - carrots.

 He said, "Well, I'll see what I can do with the spades and the rake and hoe."

 "Great Dad," Roy said.  "And Dad, I've got your favorite.  He pulled down the top of the sack so Jesse could see it was Old Crow straight, just like usual.

 Jesse thought that there might be rocks in Mabel's back yard.

 "Son," he said.  "I guess I'll take the pickaxe too."