Farmer Webber Gets Company
by Charles C. Cole
Merle Webber, retired-adjacent, unlit pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, is whittling a small piece of wood on the steps of his back porch, an excuse to sit a spell and enjoy the pleasant weather while admiring the white blossoms in his small apple orchard.
A stranger, a traveling salesman, explores around the corner of the house, his eyes searching for his next customer. He supports a large khaki rucksack. When he spots Merle, he pauses, removes the bag and pulls out a rumpled dark dress jacket, pulling it on quickly, over tattered jeans and an ill-fitting plaid cotton shirt. He is now in uniform or as close as he ever gets.
The salesman reviews his spiel one more time in his mind. He turns on his smile. He’s ready as he’ll ever be.
Even at this distance, Merle can see the hunger in the man’s wide eyes. Merle stands, ready to duck inside despite the soothing atmosphere, at least until the ignored and unwelcome intruder gets impatient and departs. Nothing good just falls from the sky and shows up at your door.
“A minute of your time,” comes the clarion call. “It’ll cost you nothing, I promise, to hear me out.” Definitely a salesman, thinks Merle. Merle’s mother is looking down at him from the Protestants’ afterworld and reminding him about being neighborly, even to strangers, especially to strangers in need. Nothing more needy than a cold-calling salesman in the middle of nowhere.
Merle closes and pockets his knife, then sets his pipe and stick on a small table by the door leading into his kitchen. As a final gesture to temporarily clearing off his to-do list, he brushes his hands against his pants legs.
“Nothing, you say? Now that’s something I can always afford.” He steps down to meet the unshy interloper. “Make your speech, son. Go ahead, move your mouth. Let’s get this awkward non-sales pitch over with. What you got in that sack of yours?”
The man beams, probably having faced numerous closed doors. “First, let me introduce myself: Casco Boutilier, well-traveled pedestrian and professional optimist. And you are?”
“Call me Merle.”
“Merle, you ever find yourself out in the middle of your orchard — my, what a blessed orchard, I must say — and your feeling parched, not just thirsty but bruised and battered by the very elements that grant your trees such bounty?”
“Once or twice, I’ll allow, sure.”
“What do you do?” asks Casco. “What can you do? Toddle home. Maybe slowly motor back in the saddle of your John Deere tractor, listing to one side, eyes heavy and breathing shallow.”
“It’s an Allis-Chalmers,” corrects Merle.
“New one on me,” says Casco.
“Not so new: 1939.”
“Regardless, you forgot your thermos of coffee and you just need a pick-me-up. You could eat the inner bark of a white pine, but that would take work. You want something quick.” Casco whips off his backpack, sets it at his feet and quickly removes a small can labelled: “Dehydrated Angel Sweat. Just Add Water.”
In response, Merle shakes his head and snorts cynically in spite of himself.
Casco continues: “Hear me out.”
Merle gets serious. “Son, I ain’t religious, but there are folks nearabout who pray before every meal, never swear and think of their preacher as extended family. They’ll stone you. If this is a joke...”
“I believe.”
“Helluva an offering.”
“I believe He has more love, more tolerance and more patience than all of us put together. He’s the Creator and, therefore, created our sense of humor.”
“Are you trying to convert me?” asks Merle. “I’m plumb confused.”
“Just to make you think. Maybe make you smile. Small enough to tuck in a toolbox and lasts pretty much indefinitely.”
“You’re brave. What’s in it?”
“Depends what you believe. I’ve never been to the plant. I’m just a distributor.”
Merle looks up toward the afternoon sun and yanks his ever-present white handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow. A hat with a brim is what he needs. He hates baseball caps, especially as small billboards for sports teams, and as a New England farmer feels silly in cowboy hats.
“Bet you don’t sell as many in this economy as when it’s booming. People think it’s anti-God to laugh. Tell you what: I’ll buy three cans, and you’ll be on your way. Both of us winners, leastways neither the worst for the brief interaction. How’s that sound? But you got to promise me you won’t go up Winthrop Hill Road; those people will crucify you.”
“You don’t want to hear my speech?”
“Not only that, I’ll pay you to not to give me the speech. Just the cans, please, and be on your way.”
* * *
And so, the deal was done, and another mostly idle-free family-centric crop husband returned to the call of his demanding livelihood.
The afternoon passed and the evening and the next morning. Then the aggressive heat and a brassy sun converted a farmer and tractor into a one-man militia on an unwinnable skirmish. Boy, did he need a hat or sunglasses or sunblock, but at least Merle had his can of holy perspiration.
Panting, he pulled under the shade of a full apple tree and reached into his toolbox. There was his new can. He laughed sadly at himself, at the state of the world, at all those serious politicians in government, and he hoped his late parents weren’t watching or criticizing.
It wasn’t an exotic elixir or Miss Ellerbee’s prize-winning blueberry pie from the local agricultural fair but, looking at the odd little can, hell if he didn’t feel a smidge better.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
