The old farmhouse was surrounded by subdivision. Fieldstone foundations cracked and splintered from too many winters. The wooden porch was unstable, leaning like old Mister Braunk himself as he sat on the steps.
Two hectares were all that remained of the Braunk family farm. Two hectares and all of his memoriesâeighty-three years of his own, and the recollected stories great-grandmother Liesel had passed to him when she homeschooled him and his brothers.
He sighed as the June morning sun warmed his aching body. Standing with the help of his cane, he stretched, feeling his joints crackle. Mikey, his mud-brown mutt, limped up beside him as they ambled down the rutted gravel lane toward the shiny new mailbox. His daughter had insisted the old one be replaced when she last visited.
Five hundred steps down. Tall spruce and cedar windbreaks hid most of his new neighbours from view. As he walked, he could pretend the city hadnât oozed eastward and consumed the fields, hadnât levelled the old barn he had built with his brothers.
Seven a.m., and the old country ghosts could roam free before vanishing once commuters and schoolchildren claimed the day.
At the mailbox, he found yesterdayâs mail and todayâs newspaper. He carefully placed the letters deep into the pockets of his workman pants. Then he slipped the newspaper free of its pale blue bag and used the bag for the useless flyers. It was ridiculous how much paper was wasted on stupid things. He dropped the bagged flyers into the recycle bin.
Five hundred slower steps back to the porch.
It always felt longer going uphill.
He glanced at the front page as he walked. He snorted, and Mikey looked up at him with furrowed eyebrows.
âItâs okay, Mikey. Iâm just being crotchety. Youâd think Iâd have learned by now that all politicians are fools. But I tell ya, they get dumber each year. There are seven deadly sins, and our leaders seem to have perfected them all.â
Mikey whined and let out a soft bark.
Old Braunk glanced up and saw his wife weaving toward him.
âHilda, where are you going, love?â
She looked up, confused. âOh, Wolfgang, I went out to check on the hens. Theyâre all gone. All of them. I have to find themâŠâ
He stepped forward and slipped an arm around her.
âNow, now, Hilly. No worries. No worries. Theyâd stopped laying, so I took âem to market. But Iâll get new ones. Those red ones you like. And the ones with furry feetâŠâ
She interjected, âFurry? Silly manâthey are birds. Itâs feathers. Fluffy is the word.â She halted, her forehead furrowed. âNow what were they called? Fine mothers⊠ah, Cochin! Yes, some Cochin hens would be excellent. Have you had breakfast? I started making some eggs and then realized I needed to⊠where are you going, Wolf?â
He hobbled as quickly as he could up the steps and into the kitchen.
She had done it again.
The pan smoked on the front burner as the oil charred. He turned it off and slid the pan back, then opened the window to let the smoke out.
He leaned against the cold steel kitchen chair, shaking. He felt the familiar twinge and fumbled with his pills. One under the tongue. He slowed his breathing.
âOh, my sweet Hildegardâyouâll be the death of usâŠâ
He moved slowly to the door and saw that Hilda was weeding the raised flowerbeds by the family cemetery. Mikey lay by Ottoâs marker keeping watch. Wolf tested the teapot. Hot. She had made that okay.
He poured two mugs and added milk, then went out to her, his hands still unsteady.
