No one now living had witnessed the Randolph River when it first overran its banks and fed the meander that eventually overtook a part of the Throgmorton farm. A few old timers could recall how water gradually accumulated, over time, barely perceptibly at first, and then season to season, leaving behind a slough that has stood ever since along the Sallee County Road a mile outside of town.

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The three hundred acres of farmland turned to wetland had become an exalted part of the local landscape. It came to be known as Throgmorton Slough. For generations, young and old walked the county road, taking in the watery expanse with its partly submerged clusters of trees, above which flocks of birds would soar, dive and roost. Young couples would court and toss pennies from the farm bridge spanning the shallow. Others would carry a pole and cast a line in hopes of enticing crappie or catfish from the still but not stagnant body of water that carried the swampy aroma of living land.

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Late last spring, for a short but intense while, the slough became a source of concern. Diamond shaped pockmarks began appearing on the leaves of soybeans irrigated by slough waters. Worries grew that the slough could cause or contribute to a blight on the community’s main cash crop. Then came a shock: slough waters went into dramatic retreat. The shoreline near town backed off 20 feet and revealed a growing mudflat. Botanists and hydrologists from the state university moved in immediately, and the mystery suddenly took another turn, this time to the good.

 

To the surprise of the scientists, who feared the worst, the data revealed panic to be premature.

Dr. Dub Carlson, dean of the Ag School, was scheduled to appear, albeit virtually, on a Tuesday evening at the Patrons of Husbandry Hall. He was expected to provide a scientific briefing to local farmers at 7:30, streamed live to the hall’s 135-inch TV, a recently acquired community amenity mainly used for watch parties for the state high school basketball tournaments. At the appointed hour Dr. Carlson appeared on the jumbo screen. His big round head, bushy salt-and-pepper moustache and brightly smiling face made him look like the great and powerful Oz’s sunnier younger brother.

 

Dr. Carlson registered an expression of amazement at the size of the crowd staring back at him from the packed, brightly lit assembly room.

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“Folks, I am so glad to be visiting with you this evening,” his over-amplified voice blasted, the volume then quickly dialed down. “I’m here at the invitation of our old friend and your good neighbor, Lester Faughnan, and was pleased to be invited.” Lester, stood inconspicuously to the side of the hall, and acknowledged the mention with a modest nod. Lester farmed the largest tract of land in the county. He was a trusted and respected figure. People appreciated his bringing everyone together.

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Carlson continued:

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“Let me say you have every reason to be concerned about potential crop blight and the movement of the slough, your priceless water resource. You did well to insist on an immediate scientific investigation.” 

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A couple of men nervously coughed and cleared their throats.

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“I’m here to confirm that soil and plant sampling produced no evidence of pest infestation. None. That was the main concern. There had been worries about Belgian hybrids carrying a stubborn, destructive fungus. The testing for fungus has been exhaustive. The pock marks could have signaled a serious problem. But they all came up negative. Turns out they are nothing more than benign blemishes, the chance and temporary product of hybrid seed development called 'residue.'”

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The crowd remained still.

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“It’s ok to be relieved, folks,” Carlson said, breaking the silence. “Your soybeans are safe and stable.”

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With that permission, there was an audible exhale, and a smattering of applause.

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“Dr. Carlson?” farmer Paul Joseph asked as he rose to his feet and stood by his folding metal chair. A big man, his hands clasped in front of him, farmer Joseph sharpened his resonant voice so it might be heard over an increasing murmur. The Josephs were heavily invested in soybeans. Paul, his wife Joy, and their six children, a seventh on the way, put all their beans in one basket. If they bet right, they would get ahead. But a loss of yield would hit them hard.

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“Dr. Carlson,” Paul Joseph said again, this time louder and in hopes calling out the distinguished man’s name would serve as a gavel to restore order. “We know farmers can’t be happy if they aren’t miserable,” he said, winning a laugh and the attention of the assembled. “What should we make of the shift and apparent drop in the slough?”

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“Its behavior is hard to explain,” Carlson said. “We’ve tracked how the level moved and seems dramatic. But the hydrologists believe appearances here are deceiving. They report ample water in those wetlands, every bit as much as before. The water’s still there, they say, but has migrated a bit.”

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“What could cause a body of water to do that?” Jimbo Davis, another popular farmer, interrupted. He was affectionately known as “hippie-dippy” Davis because he talked organic methods traditional farmers saw as more mystical than practical.

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“We don’t know.” Carlson said. “Here's what we do know : the shift in the water table, the how and when of it, were good news for your soy beans. The shift was sudden and fast moving and its timing early in the season had the effect of insulating young plants from any later incursion of destructive and invasive agents. It did so by cutting off nutrients like the turning off of a spigot, preventing incipient blight from taking hold. It's as though the slough had your backs!”

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Dr. Carlson then called on Kate Hutchison whose hand was raised. Kate had the second largest agricultural operation in the county, next to the Faughnan farm. Lester and his late wife, Verna, had known Kate since childhood and gone all through school together. A serious and handsome woman, Kate never married but had spent her life on the farm, alone since her father had died last winter.

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“Sounds to me like we’re going to have to find some other trouble to worry about, if we’re looking for trouble,” Kate said. “I'm taking no chances. I plan on counting my blessings, saying a prayer and keeping my fingers crossed.”

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It was possible nothing more would have been said had Lester Faughnan not stepped forward. “Let’s please thank Dr. Carlson,” he said. The applause was brief but polite.

*​

Lester remained standing in place and tilted his forehead slightly downward. Kate's quiet confidence brought to mind his Verna and he imagined for a moment what this evening would have been like had Verna been a part of it. She would have had questions ready for Dr. Carlson. She would have researched them and tried them out around the dinner table, with her and Lester’s two children, Michael and Beth, smart as they are, adding their good thoughts to enliven the inquiry. Verna would have produced a handout with the key points of the scientific findings. She would have made sure there were light refreshments at the hall for after the meeting, too. But Verna was not there and Lester’s family no longer was together as it had been.

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Two years had passed since Verna’s illness wended a cruel but predictable path that began with shock of diagnosis and hope of remission and then moved to the heartbreak of recurrence and, at last, acceptance of final illness and loss. Her and Lester's two children had long been out of the house, had found excellent partners and had chosen family life and professional careers that had taken them far away from farming and the home place.

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Lester’s thoughts drifted to how the slough had been a part of his and Verna’s good life together, especially the early years when Verna needed healthy alternatives to what in those days was gently referred to as a "enjoying a cocktail."                          

 

The two would take to-go cups of coffee in hand and swing by the slough, and pull their light fishing gear out of the back of their truck. They would pull the truck onto the shoulder, set their aluminum lawn chairs on the bank, and spend a half an hour or so seeing if anything worth keeping would come their way. Sometimes they would be joined by a few others who had the same idea and would pose the fisherman’s query, “Any luck?”

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Verna would reply, “plenty of luck. Just no fish.” Except sometimes she would let the catch do the talking for her as she would silently open her cooler and reveal a two or three pounder. With a wink she would ask a question of her own: “Don’t you think breaded, fresh catch pan fried with lemon juice makes a nice lunch? ”

*

It being a school night, most attendees promptly headed for home. Lester watched as Kate Hutchison walked to her truck. A huddle of half a dozen men remained in the hall. They were gossiping in low voices about the lovely Priscilla Lewis, and how they heard she was back with her husband, Butch, just as everyone had been speculating they were finished.

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Priscilla had grown up in town. She was a smart girl who had gone away to the state university. She came back to become a beloved third grade teacher in the R-3 District, specializing in helping children with special needs. Butch was from a farm family but worked construction out by Pecan Ridge. He was a cheerful but ordinary boy, average at best in the estimation of the envious fellas who thought him not good enough for Priscilla.

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Butch was rumored to be the source of marital problems. The specifics were sketchy. The men in the hall noted Butch’s supposed propensity to enjoy beer and to stay a little too close with old high school girl friends. A story that had been circulating about how the composed and carefree Priscilla was seen publicly berating Butch in an incident near town. The two were seen walking from the Baily’s Dairy Treat. They stopped on the farm bridge overlooking the slough, the place where Butch and Priscilla, like many young couples, became engaged. Some versions of the story had Priscilla unsteady on her feet. In others it was Butch who was wobbly. In all versions, Priscilla was raising her voice. She pulled the rings off her left hand and threw them into the marshy waters, stamping away.

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Lester had heard the story before. He stood nearby consulting his phone waiting for the group of loitering men to move on so he could close up the hall. He glanced at them over his shoulder, slowly shaking his head. Verna had been a regular volunteer at the community school and was especially fond and spoke highly of Priscilla. Had she been there to hear these men gossip she would have marched right up to them and told them what for. 

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The men sensed Lester's disapproval, and went silent. They nodded good night and headed on their way.

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Lester stepped outside, too. He stood alone on the gravel lot outside the hall, watching the string of distant taillights moving down the hill and along the county road. The warm evening air smelled sweet from the high grass, the chorus of katydids growing as the last of the dusk descended to darkness.

*

Over the months that followed, the slough shifted no further. Soy beans had a record yield. Paul and Joy Joseph had their seventh child, a beautiful healthy girl they named Gloria.

The slough water’s edge meanwhile had settled about thirty feet past the farm bridge. There it stood its ground. The favored spot from which to cast a line had changed, too. Fishermen now set up on a spit of land extending into the standing water. Everyone grew accustomed to the new configuration.

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On a bright fall Saturday morning, Lester drove home from town after picking up his mail from the post office. He saw a lone fisherman casting a line from the new point. The vehicle parked nearby he recognized as belonging to Kate Hutchison. Lester pulled over to say hello.

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The two had begun to visit when, 100 yards or so down the road at the mudflat under the farm bridge, they saw a young woman wading into the muck. Her back was turned towards them. She had left her socks and shoes up off the shoulder of the road, and her pants legs and sleeves were rolled up. She seemed to be holding a stick and was using it to poke into the mire. They saw her reach down to retrieve something. With a whoop she grabbed it up and hoisted both hands over her head, dancing in place for a moment before running back to the road to retrieve her things and hurry on her way.

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Kate said she liked to make a little time on Saturday morning’s for fishing the slough, especially in the fall. She showed Lester the two good sized catfish she had caught. She would make them into catfish cakes, she said, and bring them as an appetizer for a family gathering at her cousins’ house in Garland County the following afternoon. Lester said he would be traveling tomorrow, too, to see his daughter and her family, a three-hour drive. His granddaughter, Grace, was now four years old.

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“I would love to get your fish cake recipe,” he said. “If you think of it, and are willing to share it, I would be grateful if you brought a copy with you the next nice Saturday you’re up here fishing.”

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"May I keep a look out for you, Kate? ” he asked.

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She smiled and blushed and nodded her head yes.

*

Butch finished drying the last dish from supper and returned it to the cupboard. Priscilla placed a washed pot on the drying rack set next to the sink. A year had passed since Priscilla returned to the monthly meeting that, before her relapse, she faithfully had attended over the years. It was a testament to the integrity of the meeting that no one outside of her family, knew she had been a part of it. Even Lester didn't know that Verna had been Priscilla's sponsor.

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Butch had given Priscilla a simple silver band to soften the absence from her hand of the wedding and engagement rings the slough had held for safekeeping.

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Priscilla raised her left hand pointed to the three rings now on her ring finger, and then moved both hands and cupped them over her heart.

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Butch put up the dish towel to dry, wrapped his arms around Priscilla and pulled her in close.