Monday morning, I was at the feed store at seven o’clock, right when Ray unlocked the door.
I had to start my route at seven-thirty. So I was already wearing my co-op jacket.
Everybody up here knows that bulletin board at the feed store. It’s by the front counter, next to the coffee pot. It’s where you find out who has hay for sale and who lost a beagle.
I took two thumbtacks out of the corner of the board.
I pinned up my index card.
Then I pinned Dale’s receipt up right next to it.
Just the receipt. On its little parts-store paper. With nothing written on it except what Dale wrote himself.
Ray was behind the counter counting his cash drawer. He looked up when he heard the thumbtacks go in.
He came around the counter and stood next to me. He had his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.
Then he pulled them down.
He read the card.
He read the receipt.
He read the card again.
“Jim’s splitter,” he said.
“Yes.”
He looked at the receipt for a long time.
He didn’t ask me one single question.
He took his glasses off and folded them.
“You want some coffee, Becky?”
“I’ve got a route,” I said. “Thank you, Ray.”
And I went to work.
I didn’t say another word about it to anybody. I just pinned up two pieces of paper and drove my propane truck.
But you can’t fill a propane tank in this county without somebody coming out on the porch in his slippers to visit.
And by Wednesday, they were coming out with something in particular on their minds.
A man named Larry, out on Pine Road, held the hose for me while I filled his tank. He’d never done that once in six years.
“I’ve got a thirty-ton splitter,” he said. “I could have it in your yard tonight. You could keep it till Easter.”
“That’s good of you, Larry. But I’ve got one.”
“So I read,” he said.
That would’ve been the easy way out. For everybody. Dale included.
But then the red one would’ve sat in Dale’s shed for the next ten years. With Jim’s handwriting on it.
I didn’t want Larry’s splitter. I wanted my husband’s.
Three other men made me the same offer that week.
The phone rang at home too. Two calls were for the free oak. Both from people farther out than Otter Creek Road. One was a widower on Spring Lake. One was a young mother whose husband was deployed.
I wrote their names down.
Specialty: Emotional Turning Points
Rachel Monroe writes character-driven stories about betrayal, second chances, and unexpected resilience. Her work highlights the emotional side of family conflict — the silences, the misunderstandings, and the moments when someone quietly decides they’ve had enough.