Swans Mate for Life

Swans Mate for Life

From Chicken Soup for the College Soul

Swans Mate for Life

The end of my sophomore year was approaching. Mom called me at the dorm one muggy evening during the last week of May. My summer break would be spent with Grandma and Grandpa, helping out around their farm. The arrangement made good sense to all the family. I wasn’t fully convinced of that myself but figured it was just one summer. Next year would be my little brother’s turn.

I packed my car after my last exam and said my goodbyes until the fall. My friends would keep until then. Most of them were going home for the summer anyway.

The farm was about a three-hour drive from school. My grandparents were both in their seventies, and I knew they really needed the help around the farm. Getting in the hay would be something Grandpa couldn’t do by himself. He also needed help with repairs to the barns and a host of other chores.

I arrived late that afternoon. Grandma had fixed more food than the three of us could possibly eat. She doted over me entirely too much. I figured all the attention would taper off once she got used to having me around, but it didn’t. Grandpa wanted to bring me up to date on literally everything. By the time I settled in for bed that night, I’d decided things would be okay. After all, it was just for one summer.

The next morning, Grandpa fixed breakfast for the two of us. He told me Grandma had tired herself out yesterday and was going to rest in bed a little longer. I made a mental note to myself to not ask her to do things for me while I was there. I was there to help, not be a burden.

Grandpa surprised me that morning. Once we were out of the house, he seemed more in his own element. The farm was his domain. Despite his age, there was confidence in the way he moved about the place. He didn’t seem like the same person who had fallen asleep last night on the couch before the six o’clock news was finished. As we walked the pastures getting a close-up look at the livestock, Grandpa seemed to know each cow. And there were nearly two hundred of them!

We didn’t do much real work that first day, but I gained a sense of appreciation for what Grandpa had done all those years before I was even born. He wasn’t an educated man, but he had raised and provided for four children on this farm. I was impressed by that.

Weeks passed. By June we had already baled one cutting of hay and gotten it safely into the barn. I gradually settled into a routine of daily work with Grandpa. He had a mental schedule of things that needed doing, and we worked on part of it each day. In the evenings I usually read or talked with Grandma. She never grew tired of hearing about college or anything I was involved in. She told me stories about her childhood, family and the early years after she and Grandpa had married.

The last Saturday in June, Grandpa suggested we go fishing, since we were caught up on everything. The pond was in a low pasture near the woods. Years before, Grandpa had stocked it with fish. We drove the pickup to the pond that day, looking over the livestock as we went. We hadn’t expected what we saw when we got to the pond that morning: One of the swans was dead. Grandpa had given the pair of swans to Grandma on their fiftieth anniversary.

“Why don’t we see about buying another one,” I suggested, hoping the situation could somehow be righted. Grandpa thought for a few moments before answering. He finally said, “No . . . it’s not that easy, Bruce. You see, swans mate for life.” He raised his finger to point, holding the fishing pole in his other hand. “There’s nothing we can do for the one that’s left. He has to work it out for himself.”

We caught enough fish that morning for lunch. On the way back to the house, Grandpa asked me not to tell Grandma about the swan. She didn’t get down to the pond much anymore, and there was no sense in her knowing about it right away.

A few days later, we drove by the pond while doing our morning check on the cows. We found the other swan lying near the same spot we had found the first one. It, too, was dead.

The month of July started with me and Grandpa putting up a new stretch of fence. Then July 12 came. That was the day Grandma passed away. I’d overslept that morning. Grandpa had not knocked on my door, either. It was nearly eight o’clock by the time I could hurriedly dress myself and get down to the kitchen. I saw Dr. Morgan sitting at the kitchen table. He was a neighbor my grandparents’ age, long since retired. He’d come to the house several times before on social calls. I immediately knew something was wrong. This morning, his tattered old black bag was by his feet, and my grandfather was obviously shaken.

Grandma had died suddenly that morning of a stroke. By the afternoon, my parents were there. The old house was soon crowded with relatives and Grandpa’s friends.

The funeral was held the next day. Grandpa had insisted on having it as soon as possible. On the second day after the funeral, Grandpa announced at the breakfast table, “This is a working farm. We have a lot of things to do. The rest of you should get back to your own lives.” Most of the family had already left, but this was Grandpa’s way of telling the rest it was time for them to go home. My parents were the last to leave after lunch.

Grandpa was not a man who could outwardly express his grief around others, and we all worried about him. There had been talk of his giving up the farm. My parents thought he was too old to live out there alone. He wouldn’t hear of it, though. I was proud of the way the old man had stood his ground.

The rest of the summer flowed by. We stayed busy working. I thought there was something different about Grandpa but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I started to wonder if he would be better off living with someone after all, but I knew he could not leave the farm.

September was nearing, and part of me did not want to leave. I thought of skipping the fall semester and staying around a few more months. When I mentioned it, Grandpa quickly told me that my place was back at college.

The day finally came for me to pack my car and leave. I shook his hand and chanced a hug. As I drove down the driveway, I saw him in the rearview mirror. He waved to me and then walked to the pasture gate to start the morning livestock check. That’s how I like to remember him.

Mom called me at school on a blustery October day to tell me Grandpa had died. A neighbor had stopped by that morning for coffee and found him in the kitchen. He died of a stroke, same as Grandma. At that moment, I understood what he’d clumsily tried to explain to me about the swan on that morning we fished together by the pond.

Hal Torrance

More stories from our partners