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OLE

It was hot. It was summer. It was green everywhere. Someone raised on a farm in the Midwest could conjure up such a hot end of the day when the pre-twilight quiet dominated the earth for a precious time. Hot, turbulent daytime air calmed into an almost balmy state. The wind ceased and the lush deep green from corn leaf, bush and tree merged into the very air itself. Even motion was stopped except, perhaps, for a lone barn swallow edging a path through the filtered air to gather in one last gullet full of insects. Only a hollow clanging sounded to disturb the quiet as a hog helped itself to more grain from the feed trough.

In the farmhouse, Vergie stood at the kitchen sink washing her hands and fuming a little
about "Eugene this" and "Eugene that," wondering when he would be coming in from the field.
"Eugene" was only addressed that way by his wife. To everyone else, he was just "Ole."
Vergie never seemed to be able to move too far away from that kitchen sink. Baking was her specialty, learned forcibly years ago as a young girl after her mother died. Earlier, in the morning, she had formed bread dough into soft rolls that came out of the oven light and
beautiful. Later she had baked up "Gabs," wonderful puffy chocolate cookies with a delicate,
almost exotic white filling that chefs anywhere would envy.
Vergie appeared to enjoy company, but feeding them was the most fun. She met guests with
sparkling eyes, her flawless skin and deep dimples belying her age. Her hair shone a gorgeous
silver, always perfectly done. She was quite tall, and rather big boned, except for very
small ankles and an exquisitely long, thin neck. Her hands were never still, and she washed
them many times a day, perhaps as a nervous habit.
The kitchen itself was unimpressive, probably because the inhabitants were so remarkable.
The single impression a visitor felt in the Biggar household was the strong feeling that
he or she was "safe" there. Safe, and accepted. Acquaintances became friends in that
domicile, and friends inevitably became family.
The boys - five of them when all together - usually hung around the front porch door
after they had finished up the milking, and each, it seemed, with one or more companions.
They laughed and hooted and smoked, comparing the latest goings-on around Elkton. For such
a small South Dakota town, there always seemed much to talk about.
The girls, Marie and Lonnie, sat in

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