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She chuckles at my surprise at seeing my high school principal.
“Oh, so you do have a memory,” she teases. “Maybe now you can tell me if you remember who took the activity bus for a joyride and left it in the creek.”
My guts roll over and bend me in half. “Shit, I’m sorry, Ms. Kraus. I mean, sorry for cussing. I mean…ah shit…”
With another gentle chuckle, she pats my shoulder. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I knew it was you. And I’m not your principal anymore.”
I make it a point to donate the cost of my misdeeds to the school. I got into so much trouble in my younger days I had forgotten about the activity bus incident.
“I don’t know what to say. But it’s good to see a friendly face in Darling Creek. Even one who used to call me on my shit at least once a week.”
She waves my comment off like what I did to make her life a living hell was absolutely nothing.
“Well, come on in. Breakfast is getting cold.”
I step inside and follow my old high school principal through a small rustic entryway, where I see nothing but a rough side table and a braided rug.
The hallway is equally minimal, and I smile at the framed barn quilt on the wall. To my right is a small recessed shelf in the wall built to hold the house telephone, now used to display fresh flowers in a handmade pot. The kitchen is a typical farmhouse style with bright yellow wallpaper, original metal cabinets, and butcher block counters. The only modern things here are the fridge, range, and the double ovens in the wall.
There’s a shelf across the window with small herb planters and other plants, all housed in pots that look like they came from the same source as the flower jar I saw in the hallway. The same goes for the ceramic pitcher and matching creamer and sugar bowl at the ancient corner-booth eating area.
“Can I help with anything?”
“You can have a seat.”
She’s still got that teacher voice that makes me want to obey immediately, and I slide into the booth. Ms. Kraus produces a plate of biscuits and gravy, plus sides of eggs and bacon. Then sets a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee in front of me as well.
“Thank you, Ms. Kraus. This looks great.” I don’t tell her that I don’t eat carbs. I wouldn’t dare. Besides, these are the most tempting buttery biscuits I’ve ever seen.
She sees me eyeing the plate and laughs, “Eat up. You’re gonna need the calories today. And stop calling me Ms. Kraus. I’m just Joy.”
Joy? I don’t think I ever knew her first name. Joy is much nicer than Kraus. But I don’t say that either.
I would rather die than insult someone who made me a delicious breakfast. I mean, I’ve already driven her into early retirement, and now she’s a ranch cook? Good lord, I really must have been a piece of work in high school.
The fact that she’s being so nice to me feels oddly more painful than tolerating snide comments from friends of Hattie. Not as painful as losing the championship on an interference.
This breakfast might be good enough to heal those old wounds. I polish it off in minutes while Joy bustles around the kitchen, prepping food for what looks like lunch and dinner.
Soon, the two of us are catching up like old friends. She tells me she always wanted to be a potter, so as soon as she retired, she took classes in Missoula, where she met an accomplished potter named Anita, and I can’t help but notice how her aging face goes soft when she says the name.
The things I’m learning about my former principal — that she’s brimming with dreams and goals and desires that have nothing to do with a building full of teenagers — make me a little sad that I left Darling Creek the way I did.
I move to wash my dish, but she takes it from me. “Joy, thanks for breakfast. It was great. Let me help you clean up.”
She lets out that now-familiar chuckle and waves me away. “That’s literally my job three days a week. You’d better get going. Casey is gonna have you start in the barn.” Joy gestures with her chin toward the mudroom. “We got some broke-in shitkickers in the mudroom that should fit you. Don’t want to ruin your picture-perfect boots, Johnny Cash.”
Yep, she still has the same sense of humor I remember from school.
A rough wooden bench in the mudroom creaks under my weight as I change out of my “city boots.” Smirking, I slide my feet into the old, worn steel-toe boots and a million memories flood me once again.
As soon as I was old enough to pick up a pitchfork, I went to work at Hall Ranch. My mom couldn’t afford new boots, a hat, or anything I needed while she was single, so I wore second-hand gear.
Something clicked as soon as I won my first local rodeo competition and saw that modest check. I was never going to wear anything second-hand again.
Now, I look back on that young kid and laugh. If only he knew he’d be right back here, wearing second-hand boots. At the time, I did it to help my mom with bills and the house payment. Now, I’m doing it to impress my future wife.
Patsy follows me to the barn, a short walk from the house. The familiar scent of manure, hay, and farm animals in the barn hits me like an old friend.
