Dave Eagleston Sr. - West Of Alva

The fresh spring wheat blew like a sea of golden waves outside my bus window. A light brown hawk drifted motionless high above the wide yellow field and then landed on a nearby fence post as I rode past. It was the beginning of the spring of 1961. I was on my way to work on a farm located just west of Alva, Oklahoma, according to my father. About fifteen miles west, he had said.

He always says things like that even when he knows I dont understand the whole east-west thing yet. As the big bus rolled past farms and wheat fields, I tried to figure out why my parents would send me off to work for someone they didnt even know. I sure couldnt understand it. But all my efforts to talk them out of it had failed; I finally had to give up.

The farms we passed looked a lot alike, and as they merged together in a blur, I stopped seeing any of it. But I could feel the moisture on my face as a tear trickled down my cheek. I scrunched down in the seat, repressing the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Late in the afternoon, the half-empty bus pulled off the main highway into a dusty lot. We were stopping at a run-down filling station. The place didnt look large enough to be a regular stop, but we were pulling in anyway.

The huge Greyhound bus groaned to a stop beside the gas pumps as dust blew past us, signaling our arrival. At the front of the bus, the driver looked into his rearview mirror and called out in

a strong accent, Hey, young fella, this is Bronsons Corner. He hopped out to retrieve my suitcase from the luggage compartment. I forgot about the driver and looked out the window. Id never seen anything like Bronsons Corner before, and I wasnt sure which felt worse, my disappointment or the nervousness lurking deep within me.

Shoulders slumping under it all, I followed the driver down the steps, thanked him for the ride, and watched him climb back into his black leather seat. The muscular, serious-faced driver slammed the door, gunned the noisy engine, and steered the long bus onto the highway. He left me there without another glance, standing alone in the dirt and clutching my suitcase.

The strong smell of diesel slightly faded as I glanced around. It took me about a second to quickly scan the landscape. There were two small gas pumps, an old house with a general store in the front, a wooden garage off to one side littered with greasy car parts, and an old Ford pickup with a cracked front windshield parked beside one of the gas pumps. The grimy filling station might have looked a little better if someone, anyone, had been there to meet me. But no one was. I stood there for a moment, wondering what to expect inside the store. The taste of fear, as thick as the diesel Id just smelled, rose in my throat.

After working up my courage, I opened the front door of the general store and walked into a dark, cluttered room. The store consisted of several long wooden shelves loaded with dry goods, canned goods, cereal, and other food products. One aisle contained huge burlap bags of animal food along with rope, nails, and other hardware products. The musty smell of rope and dirt hung in the air like an invisible free sample of the products for sale.

In the next aisle, two men stood near each other. As one man removed tin cans from a cardboard box, he handed them to the other person, who stacked them on a shelf and lined them up neatly. The taller of the two wore a dirty white apron. He carefully slid the green-labeled cans to the left, then placed the new yellow- labeled cans on the right. The older man wore dirty coveralls, a dark green shirt, and a well-oiled cowboy hat. At first, they didnt

see me, so I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt them. They were talking about someone named Perry.

Well, Ill tell you, the man with the apron said, if Perry doesnt shovel out his barn pretty soon, the cows will have to crawl in on their knees just to get milked. He added another yellow can on the shelf and continued. Theres enough cow manure under that roof to fertilize half of Oklahoma. The older man laughed and started to answer. Then all of a sudden, he seemed to notice me standing by the door.

He glanced down at my suitcase and slowly dragged out his question, Can I help you, son?

Sir, is this Bronsons Corner? I said, shyly.

The older guy hesitated. The man with the blue apron, who seemed to be the store owner or manager, smiled and spoke before his friend had a chance to reply. It sure is, he said. He had a friendly face, and his pleasant expression was just enough to help me relax a bit. Are you looking for someone in particular? he asked.

Yes, sir, I answered. I took a deep breath, then clutched my suitcase a bit tighter. Im hoping to find a farmer by the name of Pierce.

The older man dropped the can he was holding. The yellow tin missed his left foot by a few inches, banged onto the wood- planked floor, then rolled slowly toward me. The two men looked at each other as if I had asked about a ghost or something. I stooped down and picked up the escaping product, which I recognized as creamed corn. The store owner took the missing can from me, then stepped back while he rubbed it clean with his apron. He glanced over at his friend.

Go ahead, he said. Tell him. What? The older man asked. Tell him.

OK, OK, Ill tell him.

Im Henry Pierce. Who are you, son?

My name is Matt, sir, I replied. Matt Turner. I just got off the bus from Tulsa.

The two men stood silently for a moment. Neither said a word. That queasy feeling in my stomach made its way into my throat again. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans.

My father told me he stopped in here for gas this winter and talked to you. I think he spoke to you about whether you needed a hand to work on your farm.