SURVIVAL By John Rolfe Gardiner
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First of two parts
ester snuffled up a handful of pills, washed them down with some water, considered the wrinkles in his morning mirror, and took a second gulp to get the fat oval one past his tonsils. His clothes were wrinkled, too, and who cared; the tee shirt and briefs he slept in, the soiled trousers he pulled on, the cracked boots he laced while sitting on the end of the bed without waking her. At the stairway he got a firm grip on the railing because the big oval one working with the heart pill could throw him off balance if he moved too quickly. Years ago Lester had been farrier to Mr. Mellon’s barns at the training track, putting racing plates on young thoroughbreds that might pull a nail into his thigh right through his chaps for no reason whatever. Other farriers let him have most of the work at the track. He made a living at it, plus galloping Mr. Mellon’s horses when he was still skinny and fearless. Lester gave up the galloping at forty-five when belly spilled over buckle. He had thirty more serviceable years before the heart troubles came on. That, and the many thousand horses that had leaned on him, put him out to pasture. He’s on the heart pills now. One of them cost more than a year’s groceries so a much cheaper one comes to him now from Turkey by way of Canada. Reading the list of side effects you might wonder he’s standing at all.
John Rolfe Gardiner
Long-time Unison resident and author John Rolfe Gardiner’s Virginians made their first appearance in the fictional suburban village of Worton in a series of short stories carried by the New Yorker and gathered in his collection “Going On Like This.” His recent subjects, have watched in admiration or despair as their rural Virginia county’s population grew from 20,000 in the mid-1930s to its current half-million.
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Steady at the back door he took his walking stick, and was off down the driveway. Miriam would be watching from the window. Once on the graveled road, he took no notice of her calling to put his mask on, hoping he could get past Graham’s place at the corner without being seen by Graham, Sir Talks-A-Lot, who flies the rebel flag, and claims a score of listeners to his podcast about his right to display the banner. Graham, a Britisher. A balanced pivot put Lester on a downhill stretch, one foot carefully in front of the other, but Graham’s wife came out her back door to catch him beside her garden. Her head was lowered as she hurried forward, arm raised, wagging a finger to stop him. “I heard they put a dead coon in your driveway,” she called. “That’s a shame. That one and his woman gone near four years.” Lester stared at her, holding his balance on the hill. Jerry Stack used to live in the Grahams’ place. People called Stack a jacklegs out of jealousy; he could do most anything for you, even put an addition on your house and top it with a standing seam roof bent with his own roofing irons. Then charge so little you’d worry for his hard-pressed wife. Graham’s wife was still going on about the last president’s family, how they kept church and a tight rein on the two girls. “Anyway, a settle-aged man like you shouldn’t have to put up with that … say, you’re one who’d be interested in this…” “Interested?” “Well,” she said, “you had his signs up in your yard, didn’t you? It’s no secret you…”
MIDDLEBURG SUSTAINABLE COMMITTEE| Holiday 2023
