Blue Shadows Farm: A Novel

Prologue--November 2000

3 November 2000 Blue Shadows Farm Link Lake, Wisconsin I don’t remember ever seeing the metal box. But here it is, dust covered, dented, and buried under some bigger storage containers. It is dull green, a couple feet long, a foot or so wide, and maybe a foot deep. I blow off the dust, slowly lift the hinged cover, and peer inside. Sometimes the most logical decisions are the most difficult to make. At least that seems the case for me. Here I am, a seventy-fouryear -old woman with arthritis in both knees, a perpetually sore back, and I’m still working as hard as ever. I own this farm called Blue Shadows. It has been in my family for three generations, but my friends tell me to sell the place and move to town. Truth be known, I am about tuckered out. “Take it easy for once. You’re working too hard, Emma Starkweather ,” my friend Kate, the often cynical, sometimes arrogant, and always thorough editor of our weekly newspaper said. I’ve been putting off a decision. Part of me doesn’t want to leave this place. I 1 Prologue was born here, grew up here, and never left. I know the time is coming when I can’t take care of it anymore. A farm needs taking care of—the buildings and the land and even the spirit of the place all need careful attention. I sure don’t want the place to go to the dogs like some of the places around here. I got a good offer for the farm from Modern Nature Educators, a company that says they want to do what I have been doing. Since 1986, I’ve operated Blue Shadows Farm mostly as a nature preserve and a place for kids to learn about the outdoors firsthand. I think I’ve about made up my mind. I’ll sell my place and buy one of those new condos right on the shores of Link Lake. Live high on the hog for a change. That’s why this afternoon I’m up here in the loft of my farm’s first log cabin. My grandfather Silas, who was a Civil War veteran, built this cabin when he homesteaded the place. Now I’m sorting through all these old boxes. Around these parts, when you move, you have an auction. And before you hold an auction you sort through all your junk and decide what’s worth trying to sell, what should be tossed, and what you can’t part with. I haven’t been in this loft for years. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I climbed the ladder next to the old fieldstone fireplace and stuck my nose up here. This loft was once my grandmother’s bedroom , when she worked for my grandfather as a housekeeper. Later she and my grandfather married. I didn’t remember how small the place was. I can’t even stand up straight without cracking my head on the cabin ceiling. Now, here I sit with this old metal box. First thing I see when I lift the cover is a thin, greenish strip of metal a couple inches wide and maybe a foot long—a stencil of some sort—with the name “S. Starkweather” cut into it. Likely what my grandfather used to ink his name on his military gear. Underneath the stencil I find a tattered copy of Thoreau’s Walden. Imagine, my grandfather read Thoreau. The old guy was tough as nails and filled with surprises. 4 Prologue—November 2000 5 Prologue—November 2000 Pressed inside the book I find a lupine flower, dry, brittle, and faded blue. Lots of them grow on Blue Shadows Farm these days; I didn’t know they grew here when Grandpa first arrived. In a corner of the metal box, I see a tiny yellow box. In it I find a Karner blue butterfly resting on a little piece of cotton. It has been carefully preserved with its tiny wings spread. Today, these little Karner blues are one of my favorite kinds of butterflies that flit around this farm. Digging further, I find yet one more little container in another corner of the metal box, this one crammed full of Indian arrowheads , some perfectly formed with sharp edges, others less perfect. This box is a treasure...