Page 28 of Grouch-ish

Brock claps the man on the shoulder in a display of good ol’ boys’ club bonding, while side-eyeing me and guffawing. “Oh, she’s going to make it up to me.”

My mouth falls open, but Brock reaches for the edge of the lumber cart and pushes it forward, leaving me a second behind him with the store worker.

“Thirty-seven years with my misses. Worth every fight.” Fondness fills his voice.

Marriage is work. It has its moments. It has its rewards.

I glance at Brock’s back, or rather his backside, as he tilts forward pushing the lumber cart.

Would every fight with him be worth it?

Something tells me it might.

+ + +

Brock sheepishly asks for my assistance with the fence posts. While the work could be done by one, having an extra set of hands would help and I’m feeling generous today. The sun is still shining brightly, and I take a deep inhale of the fresh wintery air around us.

After our silly spat, we chatted easily about anything but fences on our return to the farm. Brock likes hard rock music from the eighties; I’m a country fan. He likes espionage films; we’ve already established I like holiday rom-coms. Which leads to a discussion about Die Hard being a Christmas classic . . . or not. And whether Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix should be included in holiday movie debates.

“It should,” Brock adamantly argues.

“You’ve watched Harry Potter movies?” I don’t know why I’m surprised.

We’ve driven as close as we could to the broken fencing and Brock hardly gives me a glance, concentrating on the first fence post while he answers. “My daughter Ellie was a huge fan. She’s the Hermione-type. Know-it-all, smart as a whip, heart of gold.”

Delight fills his voice as he speaks of his daughter.

“Wants to be a teacher when she graduates.”

“A noble profession. And what about your son?”

The tool in his hand slips and Brock pauses, staring at the post before him. “He’s a good kid.” He sighs. “I rode him hard in high school. Wanted him to take advantage of every opportunity at school. Work hard. Play football harder. Wanted him to get a scholarship.”

“And did he?”

“Yeah.” Pride fills Brock’s voice once more, but something strained mingles with his proud papa tone. He snorts. “But he doesn’t really know what he wants. Says he wants to be a fireman.”

“A noble profession as well,” I remind him.

Brock shakes his head. “I know but I just want . . . I don’t know . . .” Brock stands and runs his knuckles underneath his chin. “I want him to do something more. Something that would bring him more money. More stability. Less risk.”

“What about happiness? Isn’t that important?”

“A job’s a job.” Brock squints and glances off into the distance.

“Are you unhappy with the department?”

His head swivels and his eyes narrow at me. “Are you trying to head shrink me again?”

“No.” Taken aback by his sharp tone and sudden change in demeanor, I stare at him.

Maybe I’m referring more to myself. My job had been just a job and I’d wanted something more for myself. I didn’t know what that would be any better than Brock’s college-age son, or so it seemed. For me, I hadn’t been able to stomach one more day in Atlanta. I had no idea what was next for me.

In answer to Brock’s question, I wanted him to be more open-minded. “So what if your son wants to be a fireman? Let him learn for himself if he loves or hates the job. Let him discover if it’s a job or his life’s calling. Let him be his own person.”

Brock huffs, eyes still aimed toward the opposite farmland. The silence around us turns as cold as the air.

“Is this about you and your family? Your sense of obligation and the responsibility you took to be there for them when you were young.”