Three Veterans on Grandpa’s Eighty

“You going out this year, Dale?” one of the women asked.

He shook his head. “Gave it up. I hunted the county forest up by Augusta for thirty years. Last two seasons I had guys walk in on me in the dark, set up fifty yards away. One fella shined a light right in my face at five in the morning.”

He said it without any heat, just a fact. Then he picked up his fork and went back to his ham.

Next to him sat Tim Seger, thirty-four, lean and clean-shaven, home from Afghanistan since the summer the Army pulled out.

Tim worked nights at the cheese plant in Mondovi and lived with his mother. He almost never spoke at church.

“I haven’t been since I was a kid,” Tim said, very quietly, to his plate. “My uncle used to take me. He sold his land when I was fourteen. After that there wasn’t anywhere to go.”

Across from Tim was Wes Hanna, forty-one, stocky, with forearms like fence posts. He was a mechanic at the implement dealer in Durand and had done two tours in Iraq. He snorted, not unkindly.

“Nobody’s got land anymore,” Wes said. “Either the Minneapolis guys lease it all up at a hundred bucks an acre, or it’s somebody’s buddy list. If you’re not on the list, you hunt the ditch.”

I set down my coffee cup. I could feel my face getting warm.

“I’ve got land,” I said.

They all looked at me. Dale with his fork in the air, Tim with his eyes coming up off the plate for the first time all evening, Wes with his mouth half open.

“Grandpa’s eighty,” I said. “Out on County H. The ridge is all white oak. Nobody’s hunting it this year. I’d like it to be you three, if you want it.”

Wes recovered first. “What are you asking for it?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Dale set his fork down very carefully. “Amy, nobody gives hunting away anymore. Not in Buffalo County. Not that ground.”

“Grandpa did,” I said. “For sixty years. He said land was for somebody who needs it, not somebody who wants it. I think you three need it.”

Dale tried to argue. He offered me five hundred dollars, then a thousand. He offered to plow my drive all winter.

I told him if he put one dollar on my kitchen table, Grandpa would come back from the grave and haunt us both.

He laughed then, a short surprised laugh, and rubbed his beard. “All right. But we’ll fix whatever needs fixing. That’s not a payment. That’s just how it’s done.”

I told them the truth about the stands, too, because I didn’t want them walking into a mess.

I told them about Brad and the four thousand dollars and the letter. I told them his stands were still on the ridge and I didn’t want anybody climbing into them.

Wes frowned. “He know you’re doing this?”

“He knows the land is posted,” I said. “He knows his permission is gone. Anything else is none of his business.”

Tim didn’t say anything at all. But when the potluck was over and I was carrying my empty roaster to the car, he came out into the parking lot and held the door for me, and he said, “Thank you, ma’am,” like I had handed him something heavy and good.