A Little Spot to Call One's Own
An American Story
George wasn’t like the other members of his family. “Different,” was the word they used. “George is different.”
Not that he was particularly strange or unsocial. But rather that – from a very early age – he had his own ways and he rarely asked others’ permission or opinions before doing something. He could be prevailed upon to join family activities, but usually only if it involved doing something he already wanted to do. And while he got along with the various family members, he could often be found gazing off into the distance. At parties and gatherings, he would end up outside on the porch, leaning against the railing and looking off towards the trees and the mountains beyond.
When he was eighteen, he took up smoking, which his cousins told him was a dirty habit, but which he said gave him an excuse to stand outside on the porch and watch the sunset.
As a small boy, he often spoke of homesteading – going off to Idaho or North Dakota or Nebraska and staking out a plot for a farm. He’d been born too late of course – born in the year of the centennial anniversary of the Homestead Act. But even in the Space Age, there were farms to be had for those willing to work them.
So, it should have been no surprise to his cousins when, at age twenty-one, George left their home in Albany for Montana. And yet it was.
“What do you mean by this? Going off and leaving us behind?”
“You’ll be back in six months. You think you can farm? It’s hard. You’ll fail and be back here with your tail between your legs by Christmas.”
“What’ve you got to prove? Why’ve you got to run away from everything? What are you running from?”
But the worst was cousin Percy, who was a year older than George and always made sure George knew that fact. “You and your precious ‘independence,’” Percy told him. “You think you’re some kinda cowboy. John Wayne or someone. Your silliness may cost you nothing but a year or two of your youth. But think of the toll it’ll taking on the rest of us. It’s embarrassing, y’know, having a cousin who has some kinda compulsion to go be a rancher out in Death Valley or wherever. You never stop to consider the repercussions your actions have on the rest of us. Why can’t you just get a real job here in Albany like a normal human being? This isn’t 1890.”
George just shrugged and told Percy that he hadn’t consulted him because he knew Percy would have nothing nice to say, that Percy had had nothing nice to say since Percy had been six and George had been five, and that if Percy kept his opinions to himself, George would keep his to himself.
George got told off by his uncles and his aunts for saying this. After they finished telling him off for pulling up his roots and leaving everybody. But soon enough he was gone – with little more than the clothes on his back and the money in his pocket, money he’d been saving from his job at the slaughterhouse. When he got out to Montana, he bought a plot of land, but before he worked it, he hired himself out to one of the local ranchers. He told the man he wanted to learn, and that he’d work for board and room. The rancher said that was fine and he taught George how to work the land, how to live on it in good years and in bad, in winter and in summer, and how to prepare for the hard times that inevitably befall every rancher at some point.
George saved his plot of land for years, so that he’d have something to build a house on someday. For several years, he worked for the rancher, who in turn taught George everything he knew.
During that time, it turned out that Percy would leave home, too. Percy headed up to Canada, to much familial fanfare. George’s uncles and aunts didn’t give Percy the hard time that they’d given to George. They wished Percy well and told him to phone often and to come back on visits. He had a new job in Toronto’s financial sector, with a good future. And Toronto wasn’t that far from Albany, after all. Certainly not as far as Montana.
After a few years, George left his apprenticeship with the rancher. He told the man he felt he had learned enough and was ready to strike out on his own. The rancher bade him farewell and good luck, and told him to drop by every few months given that their land was only separated by a few dozen miles. George told him the same.
Meanwhile, Percy moved up in his career. He worked long hours and spent his weekends drinking with his colleagues. He wore expensive suits and lived in expensive apartments and people told him he was moving up in the world.
They rarely visited him. When they did so, it was Christmas or another holiday. Percy stopped visiting for Thanksgiving when he moved to Canada. “It’s just another day of the week,” he told his parents.
One Christmas, both George and Percy were back in Albany. It was the first time the entire extended family had been together since George had left home at the age of twenty-one. George had brought his new fiancé, Annie, whom he’d met out in Montana. His aunts were nice to Annie and his uncles paid their respects and told him he was doing a good thing by getting married. But Percy made known what perhaps other family members felt but were too prudent to give voice to. They were sitting at dinner together, and Percy looked two places up and across the table at George.
“You know, until now, we were all figuring you would give it up sometime and come back East,” he said. “But now you’ve met Annie, there’s no hope. We were all hoping you wouldn’t meet some girl out there and settle down.” He shook his head. “Oh well,” he continued. “She seems nice and all.”
Everybody at the table stopped speaking and turned to listen. Annie didn’t say anything, but looked around at the table defiantly, as if discovering that her presence was in some way unwelcome. George put down his fork and said quietly, “Percy, you can insult me all you want and I’ll ignore it for the sake of Christmas and this family. But if you insult my fiancé again – in front of her and in front of everyone – then I’ll knock you down as soon as we’re out from under this roof.”
Then he went back to eating. Percy colored. Several of George’s aunts tried to make different conversations at the same time and ran over one another’s words. Everyone tried to pretend George hadn’t said such a startling thing. Percy tried to pretend he was ignoring it, but he never said anything rude about Annie again.
Many years passed. George and Annie had several children and George’s farm prospered. Percy never married, but continued living the single life in Toronto. When George and Annie’s children were old enough to help their father and mother work the farm, George was able to turn a healthy profit and pay back his loans. He added some rooms to the house they’d built. He bought more land, adjacent to his property and bought cattle to graze there. He raised cattle and chickens and hired men to work for him.
Around the time when George’s children began to go off to college, Percy wrote to George. He said it had been too long, that he wanted to mend things between the two of them, and he asked if he might come out to visit George and Annie. George replied that, of course he was welcome since he was family. They had a spare bedroom and Percy could come in late fall after much of the work of the harvest was done and after a big sale of several dozen head of cattle.
Percy came just before Thanksgiving, which he still said wasn’t a real holiday. “You thought it was real enough when we were boys together,” remarked George.
“Anything for a day off of school,” replied Percy.
George showed Percy around the homestead, which had grown into a veritable thriving ranch in the intervening years. “So, this is the place you’ve got here, huh,” remarked Percy. “This is what you’ve been doing out here all these years.”
“Yes.”
“This is what kept you from ever coming back East.”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
George’s face was weathered and tan from the years. His skin had reddened and callused in places and he had scars on his face. Percy, meanwhile, had gained twenty pounds. His skin was pallid and his complexion poor. Both of them looked older than their years; George lean and worn from working the farm, Percy stooped and bent from years at a desk.
They walked along the edge of George’s property. There was a barbed fence running down over a slight rise, on which stood a copse of trees. While they were heading slowly towards the trees, Percy took the opportunity to berate George for his rapaciousness. “Seriously,” he said, “what is the fascination with adding to your land? What is the point of getting more land? Is land – physical property – some sort of masculinity thing?”
“What are you talking about?” asked George.
“What’s the point of owning so much land?”
“I don’t know. What’s the point of growing a business, or making more money? You’ve done well for yourself in Toronto. I don’t begrudge you that. What is the problem with the way I choose to earn a living?”
Percy grunted, but changed the subject. He was huffing and puffing from the walk. “I get it,” he said as they stopped to lean against a couple of fenceposts. “You’re trying to show me up. I get it. I’m out of shape from sitting at a computer all day. You’re so physically fit from working outdoors in the sun. You’re just taking me on this little jaunt to rub it in. I’ve had enough. I’m not above calling uncle. We can go back. You don’t have to rub it in anymore.”
George looked at him in surprise. “Percy, what are you talking about? I wasn’t doing anything of the sort. I was just showing you my land. I thought my might like to see it. See the stream over there? The cattle go in to cool themselves off in the afternoons. If we’re out much longer, you’ll see them start to head over there. But if you’re tired, by all means, we can go back.”
“If we’re out much longer, I’ll be wanting to go in that stream myself,” said Percy.
As they walked back to the farmhouse, George said, “Percy, I didn’t realize the walk would be so tiring for you.”
“It’s okay,” mumbled Percy. “You win this one.”
“Win what? It’s not a competition. What would the point of that be? I don’t have anything to prove to you. You’re my cousin and my guest and it’s been many years since we’ve seen each other.”
Percy said nothing and they walked in silence back to the house for lunch. George had to run several errands that afternoon and Percy needed to make some phone calls, so they parted ways until supper.
It was just Percy and George and Annie at supper. The kids were all either out with friends or not yet back from college for Thanksgiving. Annie and Percy were civil to each other, but Annie had never liked Percy ever since that Christmas in Albany.
After dinner, George and Percy sat out on the porch in rocking chairs while George smoked and they both drank beer. Luckily, Percy hadn’t turned up his nose to some pale ales from the local microbrew, so he had something to drink. Finally, Percy asked, “What do you get out of this? All of this?”
“Out of what?”
“This whole ranching thing. This whole independence thing. The homestead, working the land, coming out here, everything. What is there that’s kept you out here so long? Bitterness?”
George looked at him with a mildly puzzled expression that slowly gave way to understanding. He stood up from the rocking chair and leaned up against the balcony. Percy joined him at the rail. George swept an arm out at all the land they could survey, indicating the rolling hills and the sharp mountains beyond. The sun was setting off to one side and the sky sang with clouds glowing in all shades of pink and orange and red.
“Percy, I think what you don’t appreciate it is that I get this. All of this. Look at the mountains. See the way the sun sets over them and over my land. You can almost hear the quiet settle over the place. At the end of the day, I can sit here and look out at that view and it’s mighty peaceful. There is nothing like this in the world. There is nothing I enjoy more than to sit at the end of a hard day’s work and survey my land and watch the sun go down and watch the mountains and see the fruits of my labor. When I got here, that field over there was fallow. There was no farmhouse, no barn, no fences, no shed. I cleared the trees and the stumps and built all of this. I had help, sure, but the point was never to do it all myself. What do I get? I get all of this.”
“Hmm,” said Percy.
George went on. “Percy, all my life, you misunderstood me. When we were boys together, I resented that. But I don’t resent it anymore. You’re just different than me. Bitterness? What do I have to be bitter about? All my life, this was what I wanted most in the world. And I got it. A little place to call my own. A little spot in the world in which to do my work and in which to be at peace.”
Percy wanted to acknowledge this as valid. He wanted to be kind to his cousin for a change. But he felt that same cold feeling he’d felt so many times before in his life, when a person close to him showed vulnerability. He could sense what George wanted to hear him say, but he just couldn’t say it. And he could sense what he could say that might hurt his cousin and – as he had so many times in the past, and not just with George but with girlfriends and other cousins and even his own mother – he felt a powerful urge to say it.
“That sounds very nice and poetic,” he said. “And maybe you even believe it’s true. Maybe you’ve rehearsed it enough to yourself to where you believe it’s true. Sounds like you got it from a cowboy movie. Something an old Clint Eastwood might say. It’s what you’d say if you imagined yourself some kinda hard character who pretends he’s the better man. This pretense of simplicity – it’s a lie, George – you’re smarter than that. Hell, if I’m going to be honest, that was the thing that always got me about you. It’s all fine for some dumbass redneck to think he’s the latest incarnation of Jesse James or Wyatt Earp. Or for some radical, reactionary weirdo to join a militia in Idaho to prep for the end of the world or to plot to overthrown civilization. But you’re intelligent. You always were. I didn’t get how a kid as smart as you could believe this crap about independence and solitariness and going out to work the land. Do you actually? Believe it? That you’re some kinda rugged individualist? That coming out here and building a homestead makes you more of a man? Is this about feeling inadequate?”
George watched Percy’s face for a while. “No,” he finally said. “It isn’t. And I never would have said this about you until you said that, but I’d ask the same of you. Do you feel inadequate? Is that why you always try to put me down whenever we’re together?”
Percy colored, but said nothing. “I understand your question,” said George, “am I giving up intellectual pursuits by coming out here to work the land? Yet you’ve seen my library. I haven’t given up on a life of the mind. I suppose I just didn’t want to earn my living by my mind.”
“I saw your bookshelves. I noticed you didn’t have Atlas Shrugged,” snorted Percy.
“Because I’m not an Objectivist, Percy. One needn’t believe in the virtue of selfishness to enjoy solitude and contemplation and to work the land. One needn’t follow Ayn Rand to believe in creating a reasonable degree of self-sufficiency.”
Percy couldn’t resist one more comment. “Or is it some kind of colonialist thing?” he asked. “You know imperialism. Owning land. A man’s got to own land and all of that. Colonizing your own small corner of the world? So you feel better than other people.”
George sighed. “That’s a low blow,” he said, “even for you. And you know it isn’t true, much as you’d like to believe it. I suppose in one warped worldview that presupposes all property rights as exploitation, you might come to believe such a strange thing. But come on. You don’t really think that has anything to do with my life, do you?”
“I suppose,” said Percy. “Still. I just don’t get the whole rugged individualist thing.”
“I’ve never used that term to describe myself, Percy.”
“Isn’t that what self-reliance is about? You used that earlier. Or self-sufficiency. Something like that. Agricultural autarky. Right? Independence?”
George turned fully to face Percy now and leaned against the rail. “Percy,” he said, “When you emailed me and asked if you could come and stay, I said that of course you could, and that it had been too long since we had seen one another. You never thanked me. You never thanked Annie. You’ve done nothing to acknowledge our hospitality. Instead, ever since you’ve come here, you have insulted me in little ways – griping about the farm, making suggestions about some psychological neediness on my part, even complaining about the food.”
Percy interrupted him to apologize, but George waved a hand. “I don’t need an apology,” he said. “If you showed a little gratitude, that would be nice, but I don’t expect it, and – if we’re being perfectly honest – I didn’t expect it when I invited you to stay. Percy, I think the other thing you don’t get – and perhaps nobody else in the family does – is that I’ve never asked anything of you. Anything at all. I don’t need your approval, or your gratitude, or your kindness, or your support. I don’t even ask that you respect me. I don’t need it. You come here and you’re rude to my wife, you complain, you show disrespect and disregard for our hospitality. But I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t try to convince you of my position. I don’t need you to want the things that I want, to enjoy the things that I enjoy, to desire the things that I desire. You’re different. You have different dreams and desires. You could, I suppose, realize that other people – such as myself – might be different from you. But you’re entitled to your own opinion. If you want everyone to be like you, that’s your choice. I’ve never tried to impress you. If you don’t respect me, that’s your choice and I won’t try to change it. But you could keep it to yourself a little better. You could show just the tiniest hint of being grateful – if not to me then to my wife – for our hospitality. You could complain a little less. You could poke a little less.”
George sighed. “But I suppose that might even be too much to expect. Too much to ask from you. Even when we were small boys and I still wanted to be your friend, you showed me nothing but hostility and superiority.”
Percy reddened. He looked down. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I suppose I’ve been a bit of a pompous ass.”
“You could say that,” said George. “I won’t.”
“If I made you feel that way,” said Percy, “why did you agree to let me come out here? Why did you host me if you knew I would be rude to you?”
“You’re my cousin, Percy. We don’t have to like each other. We’re family, though, and that still means something – to me at least, even if it doesn’t to other people.”
“Thank you.”
Percy sat back down and looked out over the stream and the mountains. They were silent for a long while.
“Do you want me to be honest?” Percy finally said.
“Yes. If there’s one thing I want from people, it’s that.”
“You really did open my eyes there and I can say that I feel some contrition. And, looking out over the mountains, now, I can see that it’s beautiful out here. I’ll admit there’s something to your position. You’ve got a good thing out here and it does seem – as you might have said – mighty nice. Right now, I feel sorry and I do wish I’d treated you better and not been such an ass. I do feel grateful to you and Annie for putting up with me. But in two days, I’m heading back East. I’ll go back to the city and my old ways and old companions. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think I’d feel differently then. I’m not sure people can change. We’ve been frenemies for too long, George. The old ways are too ingrained.”
“That’s okay,” said George. “I didn’t figure you’d change your heart overnight.”
“You understand?”
“I do.”
“How does that not bother you?”
George shrugged. “Guess I never cared what most other people think, seeing as there’s little I can do about it. As long as I’ve represented myself as best I can, I can’t really ask people to change for me. So I don’t care too much what other people do, long as it don’t really hurt or affect me or someone else.”
“Is that really possible?”
George looked at him a long time, as if he were pondering the deep philosophical nuances of that question. Finally, he said, “It’s easier than you might imagine.”
And they sat in silence for many minutes, contemplating this statement. They made a pair, the American who left his home and left his roots to carve out what he believed to be a better life, and the naturalized Canadian who relinquished his American citizenship to join a constitutional monarchy. Perhaps they understood one another all too well.
“Come, we musn’t fight,” said George with a grin.
“You sound like my mother,” said Percy.
“Yes,” said George. “Aunt Elizabeth was forever trying to keep the peace between us.”
They shook hands. “You should come visit me in Toronto sometime,” said Percy.
“What? And play the ugly tourist?” said George. And they both laughed.
“Well, you probably will stand out,” said Percy. “Mom and dad don’t. Canada isn’t terribly, terribly different for them than Albany. But, you always were an exception.”
“I know what you mean,” said George with a smile. “I know what you mean.”