Mr. Johnson

Mrs. Elena Johnson

October 5, 1853 -  September 27, 1931

Earl sat on a wooden bench looking at the gravestone.  It had now been one year since his wife passed away and he missed her more than life itself. She was buried just beyond the garden on the crest of a grassy hill where she could look out over their 1000 acre farm forever. At 78, Earl would join her there soon.

Earl was a tall slender man.  He had a full head of white feathery hair that had a slight wave like thin windswept clouds.  He lived his life honestly and tried to be fair and honorable in all things, and it showed in his soft kind eyes.

Every morning after breakfast he would come and sit on this bench and talk with Elena as if she was still alive and sitting across from him at the table.  It was the one thing that made her passing a little easier. For a few minutes every day it was almost as if she was still there, and these few minutes were now more important to him than anything. They were his last connection to her.

Earl and Elena had a wonderful life together. They both grew up in the area, went to school together, and were always in love with each other. They were best friends before they were old enough to know anything about the birds and bees, but as soon as they both blossomed, they became high-school sweethearts, and married just after they graduated from public school.  Earl inherited the farm from his uncle Jeromy, who had no children, and who died when Earl was a teenager.  So the newlyweds moved onto the farm and built a beautiful life together.

They had two kids who grew up to be kind and thoughtful adults.  Now they had children of their own and lived nearby.  Earl and Elena turned out to be pretty good at farming. Throughout the years they were successful and well-regarded by their friends and neighbors.  They had thrown many magical parties on their farm, and even put on theatrical performances during the summer in a small pasture. The whole town would participate. Such great times they had together, such happiness. Theirs was a life well-lived and they enjoyed every minute of it.

But now Elena was gone, and Earl was near the end too. He was terribly sad, and even though there were people all around that loved him, and there were workers around taking care of the day-to-day of the farm, he was alone and his days were empty.  His morning talks at his wife’s grave were the last link he had to her. And on this day, this morning, the one year anniversary of her passing, his sadness was especially hard.  He spent most of the morning talk just staring off across the fields with tears in his eyes. The thought that his last few years on Earth would be sad and empty left him with a heart that broke again with every passing moment.

After his morning talks, he went for long walks around the property. It gave him something to do, eased his heart a little, and kept him in touch with the land that he loved so much.

On this hollow-hearted day, he was walking toward the back of his farm in a large wooded area. The edge of his property ran along the river and there were miles of untillable  forest lands along the bluffs, with ages-old paths worn through them. Earl loved walking in these woods and he had come here a lot over the years. As he walked, decades of memories floated all around him. He always felt there was magic in these woods, like there were angels among the trunks and wild tangled underbrush, angels who took care of him, who gave him clarity when life was hard to understand.  It was a happy place, a familiar place, a place that was as much a part of him as his own family.

As he walked through the thick, beautiful ravines near the river, the early autumn smells were exquisitely rich and intoxicating. He noticed what looked like a new path through the brush.  Someone had obviously cut back some of the scrub and undergrowth and created a new path.  Even though people were in desperate straits because of the Great Depression, he still didn’t want any squatters on his land. He followed the path deep into the dense woods toward the river. It finally ended at a small shack just back from the river that Earl referred to as the Boathouse. Years ago, before Earl’s time, there was a small dock where the harvest was loaded onto barges, and new goods and supplies were unloaded. But the dock was abandoned long ago. The woods had reclaimed the area, and the Boathouse became overgrown with vines. But as Earl walked to the shack, he saw it was cleaned up. The vines had been cleared away, along with some of the scrub bushes around it, and the dock had been repaired and was usable. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, but whoever had been there was very neat and tidy.  Indeed, the undergrowth in the area had been trimmed and pruned and was downright pretty. It was like an enchanted little shed in a dreamy fairytale forest with its own little dock. As he approached, he could see that there were new curtains in the windows that were drawn shut.

He knocked on the door. Then knocked again. There was no movement inside, so he turned the handle and opened the door. Inside the tiny shed, the walls had been decorated with pictures and trinkets, there was a bookshelf with a scattering of books, a small cot with a blanket and pillow, and just under a window, there was a small desk with a view of the river through the trees. A stack of lined paper and a handful of pencils sat on the desk. Next to the desk was a table piled high with papers and notebooks and folders. It dawned on Earl that this was a not a squatter looking for a place to live, but a writing shed, a place for someone to be quiet and write.

He had been ready to order his uninvited guest to leave his property, but now he was happy to let the visitor stay. He thought it was a wonderful use of the abandoned old shack.

That night back at the house he sat at his desk, pulled out a piece of paper, and dipped his pen.

“Dearest Sir or Madam,

My name is Earl Johnson and I am the owner of this land. I discovered today that you have renovated my old shed into a personal sanctuary and private writing place. I generally do not allow trespassers to squat on my land, but after seeing the love and care you put into it, I’ve decided to let you stay as long as you like, so long as you remain respectful of my property. I shall not disturb you, but you may approach me at any time should there be anything you might require of me.

Sincerely,

Earl Johnson”

The next morning, after breakfast, he sat on the wooden bench and told Elena all about his discovery and that the Boathouse now had a rather charming new occupant. He was sure Elena would approve. After his talk with Elena, he folded up the letter, walked back to the shed, which took the better part of the morning, and left the note on the door.

A couple of days later, Earl found a note on his front door.  He sat at the table and read.

“Dear Mr. Johnson,

I discovered the old dock and shed a few months ago while on a pleasure-boating excursion from town.  I wasn’t looking for a shed, but there it was, hidden in the trees, and it seemed sufficiently neglected and remote that I thought it ok to use it without looking for permission. But since you found that I am using it, I am exceedingly grateful and thankful for your permission to continue. If you ever wish me to leave, I shall vacate immediately.

Sincerely,

Eugene Hedgewood”

Earl set the letter down and sat back.  Hedgewood, that name was familiar.  He used to know a Deborah Hedgewood back when he was young, but he hadn’t thought about her in years.

Earl had a secret crush on Deborah when they were in school together. He thought she was absolutely gorgeous, but because of Elena, he just admired her from afar.

But one weekend a few years out of school Earl and Deborah found themselves staying in the same hotel in the city. They were there for different reasons, but out of pure coincidence they were in the same place, at the same, time a long way from home, without their spouses.  Earl had gone to the hotel restaurant for dinner and he noticed her sitting alone at a table.  He sat with her and they both confessed that they had always admired each other. They had a wonderful time talking over dinner, then later,  for the one and only time in Earl’s life, he spent the night with another woman. And what a night it was. It was a night that was never to be repeated, but, at least for Earl, it was one of the most beautiful things in his whole life. When they went home the next day, Earl and Deborah went back to their own lives, and didn’t keep in touch.  He never spoke of that night with Elena, or anyone, but kept it quietly tucked away as his own sweet memory, and one that he was happy to have.

Earl sat back and thought about Deborah – how beautiful she had been, how he had loved being around her – and wondered if she was still around. After a few minutes, he got up, put on a chore coat and hat, and walked out to the barn. Over in the corner sat his 1925 Chrysler Sedan under a canvas cover. He pulled off the cover, got it running, and drove off toward town to see some old friends, make some inquiries, and see if anyone knew anything about what had become of Deborah.

It turned out that she was indeed still around. One of his friends gave him an address, and soon after, Earl pulled  his Chrysler to a stop in front of a small Victorian house with neatly trimmed hedges and a white picket fence.  Even though it was small, it was well-tended and looked like a wonderful home.  He turned off the motor, set the brake, got out, walked to the front door, and knocked.

After a minute, the door opened and there was Deborah.  At seventy-eight she was still lovely. She had a blue silk flower-print scarf around her shoulders and her long white hair was pulled up in a bun. White wispy stands draped around her soft face, and her beautiful blue eyes were unmistakable.

“Deborah?” Earl said.

She looked at him for a few seconds. Then a big smile washed over her face. “Earl Johnson? Is that you? Good heavens! I never thought I’d see the day...  Where are my manners, come in, come in!”

The house was as charming inside as it was outside, with handcrafted oak furniture, beautiful draperies, exquisite fabrics and rugs, and striking original artwork on the walls. There were bookshelves and books everywhere. Deborah was obviously a very well-cultured woman. There were also a couple of hand-tinted photographs of Deborah with her husband and son.  They sat on the sofa and Earl told her about his life with Elena, about their children, and that she had just passed a year ago. She told him of her life with her family, and that her husband had also recently passed away.  She said that her son lived nearby and took care of her.

Earl told her that someone named Eugene Hedgewood was using a shed on his property and asked if she knew him.

“That’s my son. Eugene is the light of my life.” She said. “He’s a writer. I’m so proud of him. He writes under the name Thomas Hightower.”

Earl’s face lit up.  “Thomas Hightower?!” Earl was very familiar with Hightower’s books – everyone was familiar with his books – he was a very famous author.  “Good heavens!”  Earl sat back and looked off.  “Thomas Hightower is using my Boathouse as a writing shed . . .” he mused.

Deborah enjoyed watching Earl’s reaction.  She smiled at him.

Earl saw that she looked happy, that she was smiling at him, and thought about the beautiful night they had shared all those years ago. He smiled. His heart was happy sitting there with her.

“Earl, I have something to tell you.” She said. “I would never have said this before, but now I think it might be alright.  He’s yours.”

Earl looked a little baffled.

“Do you remember the night we spent together in that hotel?” she said. “Eugene is yours.”

Earl’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.  “What?”

“My husband never knew, but I knew. And that was a secret that always made me happy. I adored you back then. If I’d had two lives, it would have been nice to spend one of them with you.” She said.

Earl was frozen. This was a lot to take in. He looked into Deborah’s eyes and was overwhelmed. He said, “That night we spent together has been one of the most beautiful and cherished memories of my whole life.  I’ve always adored you . . .  And we had a son? . . .”

Deborah and Earl talked a while longer. Eventually, the afternoon grew late, they made plans to see each other again, and he drove home.

The next morning after breakfast Earl sat on the wooden bench at Elena’s gravestone. So much had happened since yesterday morning – where to begin?  He ended up telling her everything. As he did, he realized that his life was suddenly not empty, that love had come back into his heart, that there were new mysteries to solve and discoveries to be made,  and that maybe his last few years would be some of his favorites.