There's a song that says "it's later than you think"and it is perhaps lamentable that someone didn'tsing it for Henry that beautiful morning....
Pipe of Peace
By James McKimmey, Jr.
The farmer refused to work.His wife, a short thin womanwith worried eyes, watched himwhile he sat before the kitchentable. He was thin, too, like his wife,but tall and tough-skinned. Hisface, with its leather look was immobile.
"Why?" asked his wife.
"Good reasons," the farmer said.
He poured yellow cream into acup of coffee. He let the cup siton the table.
"Henry?" said the woman, asthough she were really speaking tosomeone else. She walked aroundthe kitchen in quick aimless birdsteps.
"My right," said Henry. He liftedhis cup, finally, tasting.
"We'll starve."
"Not likely. Not until everybodyelse does, anyway."
The woman circled the room andcame back to her husband. Hereyes winked, and there were linesbetween them. Her fingers clutchedthe edge of the table. "You've gonecrazy," she said, as though it werea half-question, a half-pronouncement.
The farmer was relaxing now,leaning back in his chair. "Mighthave. Might have, at that."
"Why?" she asked.
The farmer turned his coffee cupcarefully. "Thing to do, is all. Eachman in his own turn. This is myturn."
The woman watched him for along time, then she sat down on achair beside the table. The quick,nervous movement was gone out ofher, and she sat like a frozen sparrow.
The farmer looked up and grinned."Feels good. Just to sit here.Does well for the back and thearms. Been working too hard."
"Henry," the woman said.
The farmer tasted his coffeeagain. He put the cup on the tableand leaned back, tapping hisbrowned fingers. "Just in time, I'dsay. Waited any longer, it wouldn'thave done any good. Another fewyears, a farmer wouldn't mean anything."
The woman watched him, hereyes frightened as though he mightsuddenly gnash his teeth or leap inthe air.
"Pretty soon," the farmer said,"they'd have it all mechanical.Couldn't stop anything. Now," hesaid, smiling at his wife, "we canstop it all."
"Henry, go out to the fields," thewoman said.
"No," Henry said, standing,stretching his thin, hard body. "Iwon't go out to the fields. Neitherwill August Brown nor ClydeBriggs nor Alfred Swanson. Noneof us. Anywhere. Not until thefood's been stopped long enoughfor people to wake up."
The farmer looked out of thekitchen window, beyond his tractorand the cow barn and the windmill.He looked at rows of strongcorn, shivering their soft silk in themorning breeze. "We'll stop thecorn. Stop the wheat. Stop the cattle,the hogs, the chickens."
"You can't."
"I can't. But all of us togethercan."
"No sense," the woman said,wagging her head. "No sense."
"It's sense, all right. Best sensewe've ever had. Can't use an armywith no stomach. Old as the earth.Can't fight without food. Takesfood to run a war."
"You'll starve the two of us,that's all you'll do. Nobody else willstop work."
The farmer turned to his wife."Yes, they will. Everywhere a farmeris the same. He works the land.He reads the papers. He votes. Helistens to the radio. He watches thetelevision. Mostly, he works theland. Alone, with his own thoughtsand ideas. He isn't any different inMaine than he is in Oregon. We'veall stopped work. Now. This morning."
"How about tho