The Stone Harvest - Chapter 1
Spring 2019 - Tuesday
The stones came up every year. They crept through the soil bit by bit with the annual frost heaves as the earth chilled and thawed. Oval stones that cost $200 per ton elsewhere would litter the land if left alone. This field had sat fallow long enough. Last year, my first on the property, I paid a neighbor to disc up the field and broadcast a native grass-and-seed mix: fescue and wildflowers. Ignored for several years, the twenty-acre patch had turned to non-native grasses, knapweed, vetch, tansy, and oxeye daisy. For nearly twenty years, no cattle had grazed, nor had anyone mowed or burned or sprayed. Nothing. It was perfect for the five-year project I had in mind.
The land was dead flat, a triangle whose eastern side ran northeast along what had once been a railroad line. Bordered by Wyoming Avenue to the south and with neighboring hay fields to the west, it had a drainage ditch between the two that was filled with the fruits of previous stone harvests. The field itself would still need a few more years to recover, but some carefully managed goat grazing, when I eventually get them, and harrowing should bring it back to its native condition. I had no desire to use the land for hay. Instead, I wanted to create a wild oasis, my very own piece of somewhat controlled order in this world filled with so much uncontrolled chaos.
For the second time in as many springs, I rode an old tractor over every square inch of the field, dragging a harrow rake. The previous owner's family left the equipment behind when they abandoned the property, and I was more than happy to put it to good use. Harrowing knocked down any furrows caused by the discs, filled any low spots, and gave the seeds a good covering of earth in which to take root. It also taught me how many stones there were in this field. On many other properties nearby, I had seen huge piles and long rows of stones dumped after someone had harvested them. A farmer would work the soil, then send a son or daughter out with a pickup or four-wheeler and a trailer to collect them. The rock harvest would take longer than any other aspect of the farming cycle. Nothing was growing yet, and the kids needed a chore to keep them out of trouble. Hence, this part of the country had lots of fields with four-foot-tall stone walls bordering them.
It was during this, my second season of stone harvesting, that the problems began. The year before, I had noticed an unusually large collection of stones, or rather, so many in one tight place. It didn't seem like the rest of the field, but I didn't give it too much thought. There were plenty of stones to deal with, so there was no use getting worked up over these few. This year, the same problem in the same area. The harrow grabbed enough of the buried nuggets that it dislodged the others, exposing ten or twelve to the gray sky. It was unusual enough to get on my radar, but not enough to alter my plans.
I didn't return to that spot for two days. Harvesting from other parts of the field, I already had an impressive collection for the stone wall I hoped to build. By the time I returned, sure enough, the rocks hadn't moved on their own like I had wanted them to. One by one, they went into the back of my new-to-me farm truck.
BAM!
BAM!
The low clouds and the closeness of the mountains made the din of granite on metal echo loudly — a rich, satisfying tone. The effort of moving the stones left me with a modest sweat, but the chilling breeze worked just as hard to cool me back down. As I cleared the first few stones, I could see several more an inch or two below the surface. Might as well, I thought. There was no way this project would be easy, so I kept plugging along. By about the twentieth stone, I ignored a growing suspicion that the rocks were in an unnaturally neat, elongated shape.
"Nope. Perfectly natural." I half-whispered to no one in particular. It was the thirty-seventh rock that did the trick. Nothing special about it. Mostly gray, a few black specks, and two white ribbons going through the center. Its uniqueness lay beneath it. I saw the cuff of a sleeve, remnants of what was probably a gray hoodie or sweater. And with it, a small, desiccated hand.
Though not a surprise, I had to take a step back to collect my thoughts. It's not every day that you find a dead body. Rarer still to find an old one buried on your property, property you bought and moved to for the direct purpose of not finding dead bodies anymore. Despite the apparent age of the body and its long-term exposure to the elements, it still had traces of that smell, that goddamn smell of death and decay. I said to the world my first clear words of the day, "Well … fuck!"
