brought it close to her eyes so she could read the numbers. The roman numerals were supposed to glow in the dark, and they still did, more or less, but the hands for the hours and minutes were just too close in length, in her mind. She'd bought it at a yard sale over Labor Day Weekend to replace the digital clock that had to be reset every time they lost power. It drove her crazy in the winter, because they seemed to lose power for a minute or two at least three or four times a week. One good wind, the lights would flicker, and she'd be resetting the digital clock that was plugged into the wall--a clock with digits that somehow managed to move forward at a pace that was downright geologic until they approached the hour and minute she was looking for. Then they'd speed up, explode forward like a rocket ship, and force her to start the process all over again.
This clock was a little better both because it ran on batteries and because she could set the time with a knob on the back she could control, but it was far from perfect. If only the minute hand were maybe a quarter of an inch longer.
She figured at four in the morning that Paul was up for the day. The man had never farmed a day in his life, but now that he was in his mid-sixties, he was starting to act as if he had eighty-five Holsteins to milk. He just didn't sleep anymore.
She decided she might as well get up, too, and join him downstairs for breakfast.
I hope I didn't wake you, he said when he saw her in the kitchen doorway. He was reading what looked like a magazine at the pumpkin pine table, and when he looked up at her she was struck, as she was often, by the way his head had grown rounder and his skin had grown smoother with age. His hair, as thin and fine now as an infant's, was whiter than table salt, and it covered his skull like a bathing cap. He was eating cold cereal from a glass salad bowl while he read, and she saw that he had poured orange juice on the flakes instead of milk. She found herself wondering, as she did every morning when she saw the orange and brown mixture, how he could eat it that way. She remembered the first time he'd done it, about two years ago, she had feared it was the onset of Alzheimer's: The poor man was pouring juice instead of milk on his bran flakes, completely oblivious to convention. No doubt he'd start getting lost in the bathroom any day now.
But then he had reassured her that he was fine, and explained that his doctor had suggested the juice was merely another way he could cut back on his cholesterol.
You didn't wake me, she said now. Did you sleep well?
For about four hours.
She opened the canister with the coffee and spooned some into the percolator. She asked him what he was reading.
One of those touristy history texts we got on the road, he said with disdain. She'd worked as a docent and gallery manager at a small folk life museum in the village of Middlebury once the youngest of their children had started high school, and he knew she would share his scorn for the piece.
Which one?
The Pony Express.
Someday they'll have one for e-mail, she said. A little e-mail museum.
When he removed his fingers from the magazine, the pages flipped shut. Too virtual, he said. No bricks and mortar to celebrate.
She plugged in the coffeepot and then sat across from him. Though he'd been old enough to retire for close to half a decade, this was the first semester that he hadn't been in the classroom, his first autumn away from the college. It was clear to them both how much he was going to miss teaching and being around young people, and so they'd taken a road trip to make the transition easier. They'd tuned up their ancient Volvo wagon and driven all the way to the Little Big Horn and back. The plan had been to drive to Illinois, visit her mother's ancestral homestead in Rockford, and then continue west so he could see firsthand the actual places he'd talked about for so many years in his classes. The Corn Palace. Wall Drug.
This clock was a little better both because it ran on batteries and because she could set the time with a knob on the back she could control, but it was far from perfect. If only the minute hand were maybe a quarter of an inch longer.
She figured at four in the morning that Paul was up for the day. The man had never farmed a day in his life, but now that he was in his mid-sixties, he was starting to act as if he had eighty-five Holsteins to milk. He just didn't sleep anymore.
She decided she might as well get up, too, and join him downstairs for breakfast.
I hope I didn't wake you, he said when he saw her in the kitchen doorway. He was reading what looked like a magazine at the pumpkin pine table, and when he looked up at her she was struck, as she was often, by the way his head had grown rounder and his skin had grown smoother with age. His hair, as thin and fine now as an infant's, was whiter than table salt, and it covered his skull like a bathing cap. He was eating cold cereal from a glass salad bowl while he read, and she saw that he had poured orange juice on the flakes instead of milk. She found herself wondering, as she did every morning when she saw the orange and brown mixture, how he could eat it that way. She remembered the first time he'd done it, about two years ago, she had feared it was the onset of Alzheimer's: The poor man was pouring juice instead of milk on his bran flakes, completely oblivious to convention. No doubt he'd start getting lost in the bathroom any day now.
But then he had reassured her that he was fine, and explained that his doctor had suggested the juice was merely another way he could cut back on his cholesterol.
You didn't wake me, she said now. Did you sleep well?
For about four hours.
She opened the canister with the coffee and spooned some into the percolator. She asked him what he was reading.
One of those touristy history texts we got on the road, he said with disdain. She'd worked as a docent and gallery manager at a small folk life museum in the village of Middlebury once the youngest of their children had started high school, and he knew she would share his scorn for the piece.
Which one?
The Pony Express.
Someday they'll have one for e-mail, she said. A little e-mail museum.
When he removed his fingers from the magazine, the pages flipped shut. Too virtual, he said. No bricks and mortar to celebrate.
She plugged in the coffeepot and then sat across from him. Though he'd been old enough to retire for close to half a decade, this was the first semester that he hadn't been in the classroom, his first autumn away from the college. It was clear to them both how much he was going to miss teaching and being around young people, and so they'd taken a road trip to make the transition easier. They'd tuned up their ancient Volvo wagon and driven all the way to the Little Big Horn and back. The plan had been to drive to Illinois, visit her mother's ancestral homestead in Rockford, and then continue west so he could see firsthand the actual places he'd talked about for so many years in his classes. The Corn Palace. Wall Drug.
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