lived his widowed aunt, she was his mother's only sister and had six kids; no, that field wasn't oats, it was flax.
"Turn here, Gay."
Gaylord obeyed and turned down a narrow dirt lane. The air was warm and seemed to cheer him. It was good to be out of the heavy traffic where you had to be so careful. Good to be able to drive at ease and watch the moving landscape.
He reached a wooden gate and stopped. An immense chain circled it and a cedar post and he wondered how Rogers would ever open it. It was both fascinating and puzzling to him because as if by magic the gate swung open under Rogers' touch. Giving it a shove, Rogers drew back to let him pass.
Rogers jumped back into the car, said, "This is the farm. Now just follow this path until I tell you to turn. Durn it's rough. Not like it used to be. But you can't get people to keep your place as good as you would. I used to have it smooth as glass … except when it rained … boy, it's impossible."
"I don't mind the bumps, and I bet it is bad when it rains … it's so black."
"That's our old house," Rogers pointed to a small wooden house with a porch, which, as Gaylord first peered at it seemed to consist mostly of small brightly painted window frames, though these were flanked on either side by white walls. It wasn't an unattractive house, and he was presently aware of the many blooming rose bushes around it. He turned a questioning gaze on Rogers. "Who planted all those rose bushes?"
"Mother," said Rogers, whose natural orbit surrounded him, including the spreading tree on the right side of the house.
"They're sure in bloom."
"We won't stop now," Rogers said good-naturedly. "But if you want some we can stop on the way back."
"I don't want any … they're too pretty to pick and by the time we got home, they'd be dead. Thanks anyway, Glenn."
They passed the house; stables; and fenced in corrals; over an open cattle guard, and headed for a solid line of trees outlining the horizon in front of them.
"There's Jake," cried Rogers … "Hi, Jake." He waved his hand.
