The Dinner Horn

Nearly three years ago this fall (when I was a mere thirteen:) I wrote a short story. I wrote it for the small writing club that Lisa and Mr. P led for a short time, and this particular assignment was to write a story about a picture. So I did. The picture I chose was a painting by Winslow Homer that I had noted in the National Gallery of Art. The title was simple yet imaginative, and it intrigued me. Therefore I used the title of the painting for the title of my story, and wondered what might be the deeper story behind the painting.

I never shared this earlier because for awhile I had hoped to do something with it. But since I never have gotten around to it, and have now moved on and my writing style continues to change I am reminded that I have only been letting this dear story of mine collect dust! Oh my, that will never do! So I am about to share it here with you:

The Dinner Horn

Plop-splash. The old wooden bucket had just landed neatly in the deep well. I maneuvered the rope to let the bucket tip and fill with cold water. When I thought it was full enough, I strained my muscles on the handle and began to slowly but assuredly roll the rope up, bringing the bucket closer to the top.

As it neared the brim of the well, I reached down to grasp my prize and heave it up. My suspicions were justified. I had gotten too much water; I had filled it near the top and this was a massive five-gallon vessel.

The year is 1865. My family lives here on a farm in the wide open countryside of Pennsylvania. There are eight of us: Papa, Mama, my two older brothers Charlie and Jonathan, me, and finally my younger siblings Daniel, Carey, and Sarah. We all are very close, but unfortunately our family has been separated over the past couple of years. Papa, Charlie, and Jonathan have been brutally taken away from us by this savage War Between the States. Not that they were forced to go. They chose to leave out of their own free will, and I’m proud of them devoting themselves to this noble cause. However, I still can’t see the sense in a country dividing only to turn around and fight.

“It’s the complications of war, Lizzie,” Papa had shaken his head sadly when I put this point to him. “I don’t understand it anymore than your own pretty head does. It’s just the way it is.” Before long, he was gone.

In the meantime the rest of us stayed home to take care of the farm. Carey and Sarah were too young to do much, but Daniel was a fairly capable twelve-year-old. Together he, Mama, and I labored to keep the farm running.

Now, two years later at age seventeen, I poured what water I needed into a lighter bucket. Even as I poured I could feel a refreshing coolness emanating from the water, reminding me how warm it was for April.

Lifting the pail, I turned and made my way past Molly, our cow, chewing passionately at the edge of our pasture. She turned and gave me a mournful stare. I ignored her however and began to cross the farmyard.

A door banged, and Carey and Sarah came prancing out of the house, giggling. They began to chase each other, and soon they were running around me in circles. Marching on, I pretended as if I didn’t even notice that I was being treated like Maypole.

Just then, Maxwell, our German Shepherd, bounded around the corner of the house. Barking happily, he bounded forward to join the party which had forgotten to invite him. I knew he would make me spill the precious water, but, with expert timing before the inevitable collision, I sidestepped him, and his attack hurtled by me harmlessly. It helped to have had plenty of practice.

I pressed on to the house before Maxwell could conjure a counter attack. Entering the house, I sighed with relief. This place wasn’t extremely large, but this simple brown farmhouse was a haven of joy and peace, even if it was just from charging dogs.

The second my foot was inside the doorway I was enveloped in the sweet, cozy aroma of baking bread. At the next instant a waft of something else curled around my nostrils, and as the identification of this scent went to my brain, I was stunned as if Maxwell himself had bowled me over.

“My bread!” I cried, and dove toward the stove, my forsaken bucket of water sloshing dangerously on the floor. I peered at my two forgotten loaves of bread. They were brown, but faint traces of black whispered hideously at one end of each loaf.

I sighed as I took the loaves out to cool, but this time it was a sigh of dejection.

“My, does it smell nice in here!” A bright voice broke through my melancholy. I turned to see Mama, who had gone to town for most of the day to get supplies.

“They’re ruined,” I lamented. I knew I was just being juvenile to take the well-done loaves so hard, but, being a perfectionist, I did feel rather crestfallen.

Mama came to look over my shoulder and her trained eye scanned the loaves.

“They don’t look that bad Lizzie, and I’m sure they’ll taste just fine.” Mama always did have a way with making things seem better, and she had to, what with Papa gone and all. I abruptly turned my thoughts away from myself and my silly bread.

“How did the trip to town go, Mama? Any news?” We lived deep in the country with few neighbors, and we always gleaned news of the world from town.

Mama ignored my first question. “Aye, there is at that.” Her eyes sparkled and she took off her hat. “But first, this is Wednesday, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Then we best be getting ready for the dinner horn, as it’s nearing close to six o’clock.”

I smiled and almost skipped out of the room with eagerness before darting upstairs to get ready.

For as long as I could remember, I had done the dinner horn. Even when I was small, Mama would ask me to blow the thin instrument to call Papa home from the fields to eat dinner. I was delighted with this little chore, and have been ever since; even so that no one else has been allowed to do it except me. It became known as “Lizzie’s job,” and I loved standing on the hill, calling Papa and later my brothers home.

When Papa, Charlie, and Jonathan were about to leave for the war, a thoughtful Papa turned and said to me, “Lizzie, I’ll miss your blowing that melodious little thing to tell me to hurry and come home to eat. You’ll never know how much it means to me to hear that sound and come home, even if it’s just to be with you.” At this he swallowed, wavering. “I want you to do something for me while I’m gone. At six o’clock each Wednesday I’d like you to stand on that hill as always and blow the dinner horn. That way at that time I can think of my sweet girl Lizzie and my priceless family. And maybe someday I can come home in answer to that call.” I hugged him, and that sealed the agreement.

So ever since I have blown the dinner horn for Papa, in all weather, even in the snow. It has become a sign of promise that Papa will return.

I now hurried into my best dress, which was white, and Papa’s favorite. Then, pinning up my blond hair, I laced up my good black shoes. I liked dressing up for the dinner horn now, even though I had never done so before Papa left.

Going downstairs to get the horn, I saw that Mama, Daniel, Carey, and Sarah were waiting for me. They watched me in silence as I went out the door and they followed me to wait on the porch.

I strode forward to the corner of the house and stood there at the top of the hill, taking in the green expanse of land before me. A breeze caught my skirt, wrapping the light fabric around my legs, and then creeping up, it brushed my cheek, feeling like a ghost’s gentle finger.

The world seemed to be listening as I raised the dinner horn to my lips. Then I blew. The sound sprang up, and it merrily skipped across the field, ringing joyously with a hope unspoken. My spirits lifted and soared, wanting to join that dancing melody. Then it was gone, and the sound had died.

The silence almost drenched the light inside of me, but a new sound came to my ears. It was traveling on the wind, faint and barely audible, but still existent. Straining my ears to listen, I perceived that the sound was a voice, maybe two or three, shouting from afar. A minute later, three figures came into view around a clump of trees. They were running.

I don’t know how I could tell from the distance, but the moment I saw them I recognized them. Suddenly I was halfway down the hill, elation having given wings to my feet. Papa and the boys were home at last.

~The End~