The New Creek

Beaver’s whole family watched as the long boy ?? eased up to the embankment, ramming it, tearing up a fat slab of sod. 

“Al right, Floyd!” Beaver’s voice was louder than the truck engine. Even the echo could be heard. It was a moist Saturday morning. The mother and her children all had puffy faces, rousted so early for the great event. Floyd Gargus came striding from the cab of his flatbed, taking slow but long steps so that he seemed to be rushing and dawdling at the same time.

“You’re tearing up the whole goddamned valley,” said Beaver. 

“Ope, sorry,” said Floyd, seeing the damaged grass. I can lay that back in place for you.”

“Just don’t knock my barn down on your way out!”

Beaver was up on the flatbed by now, kicking the chain binders.

“Here, Bill, let me get those. ‘Scuse me, Mrs. Beaver, ‘scuse me, honey.” Floyd took a high step up onto the flatbed and bent over one of the binders with a strange wide-footed stance, and jerked the iron handle. A chain that had been straight as a pipe went slack. “ ‘Scuse me, Bill, I’ll get that one, too.” With his strange stance and another powerful tug he released the chain that Beaver had failed at. Beaver scowled. His large belly made it difficult for him to handle tasks at ground level. Floyd hopped to the next binder. 

“Okay, Floyd, we’re not running a race here.” But in a few more moments Floyd had all the chains slack, and then he hopped off the bed and went swooping around it, unhooking the ends and throwing the loose chains onto the flatbed with a series of terrific thumps. The little girls put their fingers in their ears. The oldest of the boys had been moving around, taking in the operation from different angles, memorizing everything with a blank face. The other boy, standing with his sisters and mother, wore a frown of interest, watching the birdlike motions of the stranger. Beaver was laughing. “Goddammit, Floyd, where’d you learn to work the circus?”

His wife laughed against her will. Floyd heard it and smiled at her. “Sorry ‘bout the commotion so early in the morning. My family’s probably still snoring at the ceiling.”

“Oh, we’re having fun,” said Beaver’s wife, blushing. “Aren’t we?” she said to the three kids beside her, who all blushed, saying nothing. 

“Pretty exciting, gettin’ your own private bulldozer.” Floyd stepped down from the high bed, where’d he’d been finishing up with the chains. He almost stumbled, but didn’t seem bothered by it. “What do you think, Billy?” he asked the eight-year old boy. “I would’ve chained it through the treads instead of over ‘em,” said the boy. “It wouldn’t have used as much chain. Floyd smiled, but his voice was respectful. “Well, I guess I got enough chain to spare.” 

Beaver had gotten into the cockpit. “You got that thing braked?” he yelled. And he started the big engine grinding. Floyd bounded to the cab in long, slow leaps. “I’ll make sure!” he said, but his voice was swallowed as the bulldozer came to life. Floyd emerged from the cab giving a thumbs up, and Beaver, serious and angry, looked over his shoulder and let the dozer move in reverse. The flatbed lurched and shook like a roller skater. His wife got her three children well away. “Billy! Billy!” she called in a stern voice. “Get over here!” The blonde boy rolled his eyes and came towards her in reverse, walking backwards so he wouldn’t miss any important detail. The bulldozer twitched sideways a little in sudden bursts as Beaver aimed a more or less straight path off the back of the flat bed and up the grass bank, mashing and cutting the sod. At the top of the bank he stopped, searched among his many controls, then lurched backwards again, then forward, rotating in a series of small jerks, and finally headed off towards the creek. The little girls and the youngest boy had their fingers in their ears. The other boy started after his father. “You stay way back” recommended his mother. The boy looked at his mother with a blank face, nodded, and continued in the wake of the bulldozer. 

SLIGHT REVISION OF THE ABOVE PARAGRAPH: AUG 12, 2010

Beaver had gotten into the cockpit. “You got that thing braked?” he yelled. And he started the big engine grinding. Floyd bounded to the cab in long, slow leaps. “Let me get it!” he said, but his voice was swallowed as the bulldozer came to life. Floyd stretched his arms and long upper half up into the floor area of the bulldozer cab where Beaver’s feet were and strained his whole body in a stiff twist. Then he backed out of it, giving a thumbs up, and Beaver, serious and angry, looked over his shoulder and let the dozer move in reverse. The big flatbed lurched and shook like a roller skate. His wife got her three children well away. “Billy! she called in a stern voice. “Billy! Get over here!” The blonde boy shook his head in private wise commiseration with himself and came towards her in reverse, walking backwards so he wouldn’t miss any important detail. The bulldozer twitched sideways in sudden bursts, one way then the other, as Beaver averaged out a straight path off the back of the flat bed and up the grass bank, mashing and cutting the sod. At the top of the bank he stopped, searched among his many controls, lurched backwards again, then forward, rotating in a series of small jerks that pulled the ground like a rug, and finally headed off towards the creek. The little girls and the youngest boy had their fingers in their ears. The other boy started after his father. “You stay way back” recommended his mother. The boy looked at his mother with a blank face, nodded, and continued in the wake of the bulldozer. 

“Well, Mrs. Beaver, I guess he’s got him a new toy,” said Floyd. 

“He’s been thinking about it a lot,” agreed the woman. 

“He’ll save himself a lot of money, I guess. ‘Course, excavating ain’t as easy as it looks. Oh, not that I know anything about it. I’m sure Bill will figure out whatever he needs to know.”

“He figures out just about anything.”

“Yeah, he’s some kinda fella. I’ll tell you, personally I think the area needs someone like Bill.” He and the woman both blushed. “I mean, a lot of people respects Bill. We’re glad to have you folks join us out here.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Beaver a little coldly.

“How ‘bout you kids, huh? You like being country folk?: The girls hid behind their mother. The boy, because there was no room back there for him, just looked at the grass. “That one must be the mechanical one,” said Floyd, nodding towards the blond boy, who was busy studying his father as he practiced raising and dropping the bulldozer bucket. 

“He’s gonna be a real worker,” said the mother. 

“Well, I better get on outa here. My wife’s got us signed up for a trip to the art museum in St. Louis.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Beaver. “That should be fun,”

“I guess it should be,” said Floyd, with a laugh, and loped away to the truck. 

The boy and the oldest girl stayed behind to discuss it all. “Look at the grass!” said the girl, running to the spot where their father had first learned to turn the tractor. The sod was destroyed — and there were similar patches of destruction all the way to the back end of the meadow, where their brother was watching their father scoop up whole sections of weedy lawn. “I guess it’s better to tear it up with a bulldozer than with a truck,” said the boy. His mother looked at him and laughed.

It wasn’t until much later that day that the family at large knew what was going on. The oldest boy came into the house trailer and said, “Dad’s excavating the creek.”They all stood outside the house trailer and watched. Only their father’s head and shoulders were visible as he drove through a deep section of their beloved creek. The could hear the iron of the bulldozer grinding on stone, hear the whole machine rattle and bang as it hit a rock that, for the moment, refused to budge. The youngest children all wailed. Their mom said, Oh,” in a sympathetic way. “Make him stop,” said the young boy. There was a delay before their mother said, “Dad knows what he’s doing. I guess he’s going to make it better.” The young boy thought of all the spots in the creek that he loved — the pools, the weedy section of the bank, the little waterfalls that were so fragile even a hard rain could alter them — or wash them away. He thought of the frightened minnows of different colors, the shrewd crawdads. The one bluegill from nowhere that they had named “Felix” because at first they though he was a catfish. “How can it be better?” he asked. Their mother didn’t answer. The boy walked to where his brother stood in front of them all, his back straight and still.

“Billy,” he said, trying to see his brother’s face, is he going to make it better?” The older boy, made a face and walked farther away so that he was still out in front alone. “Do you want him to?” asked the boy. 

“What difference does it make?” said the other. “He’s doing it, isn’t he?”

Beaver worked all day without eating or drinking. He worked fiercely, angry at the unfamiliarity of the machine, but gradually he got to know its ways. He learned how to think with the machine, move as the machine. He started getting his ‘seat’-of-the-pants familiarity with it. He was never content with a vehicle or really any kind of machine until he knew it that way — automatically and physically. Most of the time he forgot that his oldest son was watching him, but when he remembered he felt the pride and love that meant more to him at certain times than anything. But he didn’t like the look his son gave him once as he was struggling with a particularly large boulder. The boy had shook his head sadly, as if to say, “That’s not the way I would do it.”

“Goddammit to hell mother fucker!” shouted Beaver, and then more shouts like it, until the rock came loose. 

The old, crooked weedy creek gradually yielded to him, becoming a trench as straight and even as a foundation footing. Beaver grew very hungry, but he was enjoying himself too much to stop yet. His mind spun with the possibilities that lay waiting for him and his dozer. And for some reason he didn’t even try to figure out, he didn’t want to be in the trailer with his family, anyway. In his hunger he found himself thinking of beans. remembering the widow’s beans. He hated himself for thinking it, but the widow’s beans had been as good any he remembered. Better than his wife’s. Beaver had 225 acres of hilly, rocky ground, much of it in sore need of improvement. Beaver was the man to do it, and now he had the tool to do it with. And when the time came, he would have his sons, or at least his oldest son, do it for him and with him. He kept thinking of those beans, but he had a lot of work to do to get everything the way he saw it in his mind.

For the moment, this person’s beans or that person’s beans, weren’t important. There were just too many improvements waiting to be made.