Hometown Brandon - Summer 2015

Camille Anding
The Time Coin
The hum of the tractor was
hypnotic to Scott’s sun-burned
brain, and he was just as bored
with his summer job in the middle of June
as he had been after the first full week of
its beginning. His only redemption to the
monotony of mowing the huge acreage
was the new friendship he was growing
with Jim.
As the estate’s grounds manager, Jim
was wrinkled and red-faced – wrinkled
from his years in the sun tending the
grounds and red from his zesty appetite for
the six-packs he always kept in his ice chest. Scott didn’t consider his new
friend an alcoholic as some described him. Jim was, in his estimation,
the product of a hard life dating back to his childhood.
When Scott had water breaks with Jim, Scott would do the listening,
and Jim would be the story teller. Scott was fascinated that a life of hard
work, war scars and few favors hadn’t diminished Jim’s joy in life. For
every valley and hard knock, Jim would always harvest a lesson for living
another day. It was ironic to Scott that Jim’s smile and contagious
laughter seemed to follow every hard luck story.
On days when the Mississippi humidity was competing with the
high temps, Scott would look over the acres of grass and complain to
Jim, “Someday I’m getting off this tractor and never mowing another
lawn. I’m finding a job that pays big bucks, and I’ll hire people to mow
MY lawn. I promise you that!”
Jim would slide his cap back from his
sun-burned forehead and smile in response to
his young assistant. Then with his unique gift,
he would remind Scott that money wouldn’t
bring him happiness. “You just spend whatever
you make,” he would say, “but life was a free
gift – new every morning.” The grass that
never stopped growing and the shrubs that
called for repeated pruning provided a job
that fed his family.
“Didn’t’ you ever just want to walk away
from the hard work when you were younger?”
Scott once asked.
“Son, work is all I’ve ever known – I believe Adam passed on his
curse of work that’s by the sweat of the brow. Nothing wrong with a
little sweat.” Then Jim laughed. It was a contented laugh that always
joined his labors.
The organ music and the shuffle of people standing to their feet
shook Scott from his memory trail that he had been following. The line
slowly formed and led him to Jim’s casket. He paused to look into the
face of his smiling friend who had been his mentor. Scott wished Jim
could see him in his tailor-made suit, ride in his Escalade and hear his
success stories. Scott’s eyes suddenly glazed with tears. No, what he
wished even more was to hear Jim’s laugh and know his contentment
– the contentment he hadn’t found in his big-bucks job.
Scott would do some heavy soul-searching on his long drive home,
and Jim’s spirit would go with him as his very wise mentor. n
66 • Summer 2015