Free On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren Page B

over. It happens every day in these parts. I stopped the truck and walked over to it. I dreaded what I would be confronted with the entire walk over to the tractor. I dreaded reaching in and seeing if I could feel a pulse. I shined my flashlight on the ground. “Henry? Henry?” I called, but not very loudly because I knew there would be no answer. I noticed the swerve of tractor tracks in the soil before me. I followed them with the flashlight, noticed where the tires had really trenched in, and then I saw it . . . his hand. At first, I didn’t know what it was, but then the flash of his wedding ring gave it away. As soon as I recognized what it was, I moved the light of the flashlight, paused, turned, and went back to the truck. Sure, if his hand had just been cut off, it might not have been hopeless, but I figured he had been there for a fair bit, long enough to have bled to death, and I didn’t want to see it.
    I drove away. It was a long, quiet, creepy ride back. I shook, but I did not cry. I didn’t know what to think. I knew I should cry. I tried to cry. I just couldn’t. When I finally reached the house, Mike was waiting for me. I stopped by the side of his car. He looked at me questioningly. I slowly shook my head. My eyes must have told him a lot. He got on his radio and called for backup. I drove on into the driveway, parked, and went into the house.
    I couldn’t stop thinking about his hand. It struck me that he no longer had a hold on me, and that I no longer had his hand in marriage. I thought about his hand, how it had never been particularly tender, particularly loving. I thought about how I couldn’t remember if we had ever held hands after our wedding ceremony. I don’t think so. It was an interesting body part to find lying in the dirt. There is so much to a hand.
    The house did feel strange without Henry for a while. That was about the extent of my grief, though—uneasiness. Maybe because I didn’t love him, or maybe because I just didn’t have time, I never did grieve. I learned within two days that Henry had mortgaged the farm to buy that tractor, and I was about to lose everything. That left me with no time.

Phil on Lesson One
(June 3)
    “Good to make your acquaintance, Phil,” Al says to me in a heavy southern accent. He looks like Colonel Sanders in a skirt and sips scotch. He points me to a seat in his bare living room. “I am sorry to hear that your marriage is in the toilet.” What? How did he know? Before I can ask, he adds, “No one learns to play the pipes unless their marriage is already in the toilet, Phil. Okay now, hold this.” He hands me a long singular pipe. “This here is a chanter. First you play the chanter. In a few months, we add the bag, but cork the drones, and you practice blowing your arm off the bag. That, Phil, is called ‘playing the goose.’ Although you are clearly experiencing marital problems, do not confuse playing the goose with choking your chicken. True, pants are worn for neither, but other than that, they are entirely different. Now, when you find you are able to play the goose, keep your tone even, and march simultaneously, yes, Phil, when you can do that and not pass out, you are ready to uncork one drone at a time. This is no overnight process, Phil. This requires patience, Phil. You do not look like a patient man.”
    I’m at a loss. What do you say to that?
    “At one time, I was not a patient man either, and then I discovered scotch. Okay now, place your fingers over the holes. You will play notes by removing one finger at a time. Try not to cover the holes with the tips of your fingers. Keep your fingers flat. Yeah, like that. Good. Now blow.”
    I blow. It squeaks. It’s the worst noise I’ve ever heard. Still, I can hear potential and am encouraged. I keep trying. I’m finally able to hold a note. After a little time, it begins to sound pretty good!
    “Now uncover this hole here. Blow.” I blow again. Wow! I love this!
    “Phil, it