Hunter Lake 4/100

Hunter Lake 3/100 Henry walks back to his home

HUNTER LAKE 3/100 Henry walks back to his home

Today was like the day Henry Setterholm returned, only it was Spring, fields not grown yet. Like Junior he carried on his shoulders, not grown yet either. Would take some time to teach him the ways of the earth, how to respect it so it would give back to you.

Then of course there was Alma, his wife and the mother of his children. But she was more than that. She held it and him together in a way that was difficult to explain. She was a strong woman and he wanted to talk over the truck invasion he had just experienced. Those Engineers were up to no good. He knew the stories. There were pipes about 4 feet under the surface of North Dakota farmland, and no record of their existence. The farmers had been convinced it was a good idea, especially when they heard how their neighbors had done it, and how the mayor approved it, and how all the permits were already there.

He walked across a field of prairie grasses that led up to his home. The winter snow crushed them flat, and when the melt happened they popped up and green shoots pushed their way out between the roots, searching for the sun like everyone else did after a long winter.

A smile spread across his war-weary face. The sun brushed his wool winter hat and spilled onto the exposed forehead, chin, neck and hands. His camo greens blended in with the tree break his dad had built. Pants tucked into his army boots, he stopped in anticipation.

The prairie sounds were back, the way he always heard them, a comforting blend of earth noises making their into his life the way they should. It wasn’t much and yet it was everything.

“Henry, speed it up, dinner’s on.” It was Alma’s voice, another song on the prairie, it caressed his ears like the rest of the sounds.

Junior patted him on the head. “Down.”

Henry placed him on the prairie grass and he raced through. His hat bobbing through a field that parted way as he ran towards the house. “Mommy, mommy, glebes.” Junior gleefully climbed up the concrete stairs to a kitchen door slightly parted to admit his excited entrance.

The white house looked molten gold in the afternoon sun. Already a few months into daylight savings, more of the evening stretched ahead. Henry looked back at Hunter Lake, it too reflected gold and sky blue. He sighed and his shoulders relaxed a little.

“He liked the bird mating dance, I see.” Alma smiled at Henry. He loved that smile, had thought about it for the four years he was gone. Nothing would shake his faith in a woman who stood rooted in the prairie.

“I swear, you seem taller every day.” Henry shook his head. “Maybe I’m shrinking.”

Then the laugh, the gentle quiet one that rose from inside her as she delighted in the world and the family that surrounded her. It was infectious, and even when he was in the foulest mood ever he couldn’t help but react with laughter.

“Hey, my friend June is coming over tomorrow, she’s been keeping tabs on the Water Board meetings, taping them; she’s gone to Bismarck, listened to the legislators, read all the new bills. Listen to her, I trust her perceptions.”

“I donno’, rather just work the farm.”

“I’d believe that, until I see you like this, kind of wigged out after what happened today.”

“Let’s eat.” Henry nodded his head.

“Kids, we’re ready.” Alma started bringing the hot food to the dining table.

The table stretched across the length of the hundred-year-old-house. On one side the windows opened up to the East, where flat plains stretched out endlessly. The stairs rattled with the footsteps of four girls. They poured into the dining area and took out dishes and flatware from the built-in buffet and placed them all around the table, the youngest grabbed cloth napkins and tried to fold them on all 7 plates. Henry sat at one end, with Junior in a highchair, Alma at the other, passing the plates around. One large bowl with steaming mashed potatoes dripping with butter, another with bright green beans from last years harvest, steamed from a bag right out of the freezer, slices of pan seared and roasted turkey breast.

“Alma, Ivy, Rose, Sunny, Paradise and Junior, I am so grateful to have these days and evenings with all of you. This beautiful meal was prepared by your mother, from the earth you all worked so hard to keep in our family while I was gone. I say this every evening, and I will continue to say that we live in a world graced by plenty and beauty, but it only stays that way because of what we do. Let’s eat!”

“Hey I want more potatoes.”

“You already had some.” The oldest, Ivy, sat up straight and stared at Paradise. She was used to keeping them in line.

“No I didn’t, you always hog them.” Paradise turned to Sunny her twin sister.

“Well what did she do to get so many?” Rose, the quiet one started to chime in.

“I want more potatoes,” said Paradise.

“Ivy, you’re not the mom of us, you can’t tell us what to do,” said Sunny.

“You just stay upstairs and text,” said Paradise sticking her tongue out.

“Shut up,” now Ivy was standing.

“Ivy and Mark sitting in a tree…” Paradise and Sunny rhymed together.

“Stop it.” Ivy’s tears rolled down her face.

“That’s it children.” Almas’ voice was calm.

“About those trucks.” Henry’s voice was loud, it put a damper on the whole argument.

“Goes for you too Henry, I told you, talk to June.”

Hunter Lake 2/100

HUNTER LAKE 2/100 Henry and the Surveyor

Still crouched in the weeds on the northeast side of Hunter Lake, Henry protected Junior from the cold as the unexplained white trucks rolled by.

“Glebes,” Junior whined as the Western Grebes startled at the sound of the trucks and swam away. The beautiful courting ritual was interrupted. He stretched to see more.

“Tomorrow we’ll see,” Henry’s smiled enveloped his son with a blanket of warmth and reassurance as he let Junior snuggle into his chest.

Words whispered out of Henry’s mouth. “Hold it, watch.”

The rumbling of one truck after the other had drowned out the prairie sounds: lake water lapping, fish jumping, rushes whistling, gnat swarms buzzing, mating grebes screeching. Henry felt he might as well have been in the big city and glared at the trucks in disgust. The shadows from the trucks created a strobe effect from the sun.

Henry closed his eyes and waited, the rumbling stopped. Through the binoculars he saw what he needed: license plates of three white commercial box-like trucks parked end to end, the logo still not completely visible. Out of each truck popped a beige uniformed man. One carried surveyor’s tools. Three men waved at each other.

They carried the familiar tripod, a monocular, and clipboard. As they positioned their tools to map out the perimeter of the west side of Hunter Lake, it looked like they approached Henry’s location on the east side.

Henry secured Junior to his side and stood tall, he swung his binoculars over his shoulder and pulled out his cell and started snapping photos. Then, he pushed a speed dial, “Alma.”

Henry’s face relaxed as the phone rang until he heard what she had to say.

“Alma, there’s trucks here.” Henry’s face took on a chiseled look, brows furrowed and lips pursed as he listened to Alma. He shook his head back and forth as his eyes narrowed.

“Uh-huh, here’s Junior.”

“Home, talk mommy.” Junior grabbed at the phone.

Henry handed him the phone as he scooped up the boy and pressed him against his shoulder and started with a soldier’s steady march. He made his way to the “beige men.” His broad boots sunk a little into the bright green grasses of Spring, little purple crocuses popped up behind him. The ground had thawed enough for Spring flowers. The smell of wet muck from the edge of the lake rose up with each step. In the quiet of the afternoon, he could feel the wind pick up, blowing his thinning blond hair to the side in wisps as thin as corn silk, only one of his kids had that blond wispy hair he grew up with. He pulled his hat off. He was sweating. He cleared his throat and grunted a little with each step.

“Poppa, mommy talk.” Junior extended the phone to his dad.

“Yup, just lookin’.” Henry’s speech was clipped as he ended the call.

Henry stuffed the phone in his pocket and continued his march across the prairie. “You.” It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation. The man with the tripod turned toward him and waved. Henry recognized the type. Not anybody he’d seen in town, probably from Fargo.

“You’re on private property.” Henry pointed at the man.

“Just surveying.”

“What for.”

“Water Board.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“My boss asked me, just a job.”

“This is my land, you need to get off my property.”

“This is wetlands…public property.”

“Easement doesn’t mean public.” Henry’s voice became uncharacteristically louder.

“We’re done here.” The beige man folded up the tripod and signaled the crew back to the trucks.

“You better be.”

Junior pushed himself off Henry and started to run towards the lake. “Come back here.” Henry turned his back to the trucks and started after his boy.

One by one the trucks seesawed their way across the narrow paved road to turn around, no shoulder to tolerate much more. When they finally passed Henry the men dressed in beige looked straight ahead.

Henry lifted Junior high in the air, Simba like and smiled. “We’re gonna’ make this right.” He planted him on his shoulders and smiled and hummed.

“Itsy bitsy spider.”

Junior gleefully waved his arms in the air.

Henry skipped and sang. “Down came the rain.”

  

Hunter Lake (1/100)

Hunter Lake (1/100)

HUNTER LAKE 1/100

Henry and Junior

Henry Setterholm lifted military grade binoculars to his ruddy face and gazed out onto the shallow lake.

He slowly put his finger to his lips “shhhhh” pushing quiet air toward his son.

Henry mouthed the words “Quiet” and pointed to the bull rushes along the east side banks of the lake.

He slowly handed the camouflage painted binoculars to his two-year –old son who rolled on his side and smiled.

“Psst, they’re not a toy, son.”

Henry slowly lifted his son into his lap while he sat cross-legged and held the binoculars in place, directed to small mounds behind the tall rushes. “That’s a nest from last year, now keep looking, I’m going to show you the Dance of the Western Grebe.”

Junior squirmed and giggled sending a hand up for a high five. 

The sound of bull rushes swiping each other got louder and softer with the late May breeze that pushed across the North Dakota prairie. “You warm enough?” Henry touched the chapped red cheeks with the backs of his hands and he brushed against the little ones fingers. He pulled the wool stocking cap down the back of his neck and let the red curly hair escape out the edges, then wrapped his own wool scarf around his neck and snapped his camo jacket tight around Junior’s chest. He held his small hands in his and blew on them until he could feel the warmth in his own.

Junior said, “I stay Pa.” and looked with his clear blue eyes into Henry’s. Henry held tight with one hand and with the other looked out the binoculars. Junior snuggled into his chest.

The familiar ratcheting sound pierced through the prairie breeze and Henry stiffened. In the reeds he saw a patch of white and with the binoculars the yellow piercing eyes beneath the crested head feathers.

“Bird dance?” Junior twisted around and paid particular attention to the high pitched squealing, like sounds chalk on a chalkboard.

Two black crested large white birds appeared with wriggly minnows hanging out of their long pointed black beaks in a small break in the reeds. Like a nautilus shell pattern they started to circle closer to each other.

“Feet like propellers on a motor boat, you’ll see.”

Beaks still dangling with minnows they seemed to stand up and face each other, chest to chest.

Treading water, it looked like they could walk on water.

They didn’t even bob up and down, their pointed beaks touched and they swallowed their minnows in one gulp and the crest on the top of their heads lifted up on the back.

“Keep listening.” The piercing sounds continued first a gym whistle flutter sound and then a piercing high-pitched sound.

 “Dance,” said Junior. The chest pumping continued and the two birds stood tall on the water.

The afternoon sun blazed across the prairie and Henry sighed as though he had held his breath for years waiting for that moment, he realized he had done just that.

Suddenly, he felt the earth tremble underneath and put one hand down as though to stop the shaking. His hand touched the edge of farmland that led to the wetlands, a glacier made shallow lake. He felt his skin tighten and beads of sweat trickle down his forehead. The breeze turned hot, his heart raced, he felt like he was back in the desert, waiting for the IED, waiting for the explosion. When he blinked the vision disappeared and he was back home, with his son, at the lake. He shook his head, he wanted to forget a battle that wouldn’t leave him.

He heard his son’s voice, “poppa!” He hugged the boy tight.

Then he looked toward to source of the rumbling earth, over his shoulder, driving across the highway, he only saw “Engineer” and couldn’t make out the name. The earth trembled again and he had to shake off the fear again, had to remember he was back home in North Dakota.

“Poppa?”

Henry looked down, he was surround by his land, by the lake with the Dancing Western Grebes and their mating call, by the sounds of the bulrushes in the wind, and the silence of the prairie.

What was an engineering company doing out here?