The shaft of sunlight coming through the window in the backroom of Whitie's General Store felt good. Sort of deep-down good. The worst part of winter was past, and now there was a small period of time before spring planting.

It had been a wicked but beneficial winter. Hard and bitter as all winters are in the Great Plains, but the snows were the helpful type. Not the hard-blasting wind-driven snows that sting the face and cause blowing drifts, drifts that could easily build to double a grown man's height and devour equipment and, more importantly, cattle. This winter the bulk of the snows were of the big fluffy, moisture-laden type that lay heavily on the ground in a vast thick white blanket. That blanket would soon melt and slowly, very slowly, the fluffy flakes would release their moisture and soak deep into the rich dark soil. Much needed moisture, too, for as Hank put it, "The creeks have been so low on our place the fish have to swim on their sides."

Hank and his boys have a farm just north of the Johnson's spread. They work two sections. About 1,350 acres, more or less, was how the deed was recorded. Mostly alfalfa, some wheat, and some field corn for silage. Yes, if there were not too many spring rains to cause flooding, it should be a good year for crops. Hopefully, since the last three years had been near disasters.
But today there was time to sit a spell with friends and neighbors in the back of Whitie's Store and bask in the glow of the sunlight in the window. As they danced in the bright rays, tiny speckles of dust seemed to play in the sunlight. Al said the tiny particles were angels of good sent to assure the hot, dry growing season that all the farmers needed. No one laughed. They understood what Al meant. The tools were all repaired, cleaned, and ready. The rolling stock was tuned. Now it was time to pause and visit with good friends and neighbors.

Ed and Jesse hunkered back and shifted their weight in the ancient swivel chairs Whitie had gotten somewhere and happily put in the back room for the regulars who, in effect, composed Whitie's family. Whitie was old. No one could remember when he wasn't there to help out the "boys" or their families when needed.

Tana, Whitie's wife of forever, was in the front of the store humming a happy tune. Tana was an Easterner come West to be a teacher. That she did for over 40 years. Like a factoring number, she was a constant. A round, angel-faced imp, she constantly scolded the children who came in the store and then made sure that each one got a sucker or a piece of licorice. Watching her doings out of the corner of his eye, Whitie never saw a thing. They were not a pair, they were one. In the back room, time passed slowly and no one spoke. No one needed to. With people like this, there are times when the unspoken word said volumes. Mel finally got up, stretched, and said he'd have to be going. Gene asked, "You coming by tomorrow?"

"Not really sure. Jane and I are going to look in on Mrs. Branson and see what help she might need after Lou's operation. He's doing fine, by the way, but will need some help with the spring planting."

As if one, they all said, "Tell Lou we'll be there and for him not to be concerned. Just get well."

"I'll do it," said Mel as he walked out.

One by one the men got to their feet and said their "see yous." Little had been said, but much had been communicated. No one need tell these men what needed to be done or the value of a helping hand or the treasure of friendship. For generations the strength of brotherly love, relief, and truth had been ingrained in them as a way of life. It did not need to be taught, but they made sure these values were also in their offspring.

John was the last to leave the store and waited for Whitie's bye-bye and Tana's caring hug with a hello for Alice, John's wife. The warming sun outside felt so good. Soon enough he would curse its heat, but not today. Today, he could just loaf along for a bit. "Might even drive over the ridge on the way home and catch the view on the way back to the farm," he said to himself.
On his leisurely, meandering drive home, John was immersed in thought about his life with Alice, the kids, and their farm, the hard times and the good. Put it all together and things were just fine. John would also stop by the Winston farm for just a short "hello." Since the tragic death of their daughter, Abel was having a terrible time in picking himself up. John would see to it that he and the neighbors would finish Abel's new barn. Deep inside, John was also excited. His petition had been accepted by the local Masonic Lodge. In a few hours, he would realize many of his neighbors were already members. At age 56, he would find a new beginning that would fit him like a glove. He would soon find out that he had been a Mason all his life in heart and deed.
There are thousands of men out there like John. Can't we find them?

Jack A. Hendee  is an Iowan by birth and a Californian since 1952. In 1959, he was raised a Master Mason in Lorenzo Lodge No. 709, Hayward, Calif. (now merged with Acacia Lodge No. 243)  and is a member of the York Rite, Scottish Rite, and Al Bahr Shrine, all in San Diego. He retired from a career in marketing, sales, and distribution. A former member of Boys and Girls Mental Health Society, he now pursues several hobbies: writing, fishing, ham radio, photography, and boating where he holds a U.S.Coast Guard Master's License. He is much too busy in all Masonic Bodies but looking for more to do.