The Mysteries of Soldiers Grove Read Online Free PDF

snow-laden branches above the deep drifts when the blowing stilled.
    I loved the edges of our woods as well, the in-between places where mowers could not reach, so fraught with changing growth and wildflowers, such delicacy through this fervent striving, sometimes the tiniest blossoms appearing on uplifted chandeliers of green stems, or the sudden, petite flowers that lasted only a day or two like reminders of forgotten times, or the weeds that split and spread across each other in intricate green patterns.
    But my favorite time in the woods was late autumn, when I could go out by myself in jacket and gloves to shuffle through thick drifts of leaves to look far down our ridge through naked stands.
    Many things are revealed about trees when just a few scattered rags of yellow leaves are wagging on their branches. The limbs and crisscrossing trunks record the achievements of summer. Their bare abundance gave me comfort. I could count on their verdure to return after the coming snow and cold.
    Then the snow. After the first tentative sprinkles, it would one day rush in to blanch and overwhelm the hills and valleys in sculptured whiteness for months on end, giving face to the winds.
    And so the driftless hills were my Eden, in their varied attitudes, my redoubtable kingdom come. This is the place that Heath brought me to so many years ago.
    Late in our marriage, one spring day there was a sudden, hard afternoon rain, which passed quickly and gave way to sunshine again. Heath, spreading manure in the fields, had been soaked. When he came in that evening, he stopped outside the screen door to take off his reeking work boots.
    When he came in he looked so weary and soiled with his work, smelling like an animal himself, almost embarrassed to be in the kitchen; I went to hug him but he gently held me off and grasped me at arm’s length before bending forward to kiss my forehead. He was shamed to be so soiled. I wrung my apron—then hastened to lift the teakettle as it began to shriek on the stove.
    Heath reached around and slipped something from his back pocket. It was a surprise. I don’t know what had prompted him—he’d never before done such a thing—but on his way in from the fields he’d paused to pick a spray of wildflowers for me and wrapped it in a large tree leaf. As he placed the bouquet in my hand he was damp with grime and the whiff of dung. He had arranged the flowers carefully with even some sprigs of green intermingled.
    He seemed to be amazed himself by what he’d done—the flowers were such tender, intricate things in his rough, unwashed hand.
    My own surprise preempted speech, but I removed one yellow blossom, went to Heath and slipped its stem into the top buttonhole of his soiled work shirt. Before our eyes could meet, I moved to the cupboard to find a Mason jar for the bouquet, filling it halfway with water from our tap. The flowers fanned out gratefully as I placed them in the water. I went to Heath again and leaned to kiss his weathered cheek.
    Heath opened large gardens for me when we arrived on the farm, and at first I grew flowers, but over time these gave way to the vegetables we needed. If Heath and I walked together, we walked on Sundays. Then we worked at keeping our paths clear through the woods. When we talked together, usually it was in the evenings after supper, about fertilizer or rainfall or the cost of seed brands. In the early mornings before he left for his work we chatted over coffee about local things, neighbor gossip, dog stories, house problems. Then he would be gone to the fields.
    I assisted Heath as much as I could with the farming. I tended small animals, grew the garden, kept the accounts, made our reports to the natural resources department, did the shopping, and ran errands to town. I was not able to work for long hours out of doors in the high heat of growing season, so I stayed in the house, reading and listening to music during those days, and this helped to sustain me