August Comforts

Posted on Tue Sep 8th, 2026 @ 4:05pm by Wanderer Brielle Anders

2,334 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Wandering About
Location: Brielle's Farm – Southern Wisconsin
Timeline: August 2, 2010

The smell reached them long before they reached the orchard. Warm apples. Fresh bread. Cinnamon.It drifted through the open windows of Brielle's old pickup as she followed the narrow country road through the valley, sweet enough that even Toby lifted his head from where he had been sprawled across the back. Miranda inhaled dramatically. "It smells like pie!"
Sebastian, sitting beside her, rolled his eyes with all the weary patience an eight-year-old could muster for his younger sister. "It always smells like pie."

Miranda twisted around in her seat. "It does not."

"It does."

"It does not."

"It does."

"Doesn't."

"Does."

Brielle smiled to herself and kept her eyes on the road. She could have stopped them. Probably should have. Instead, she let the argument continue behind her as the pickup rolled past fields of tall corn and stretches of pasture bleached golden-green beneath the August sun. It was such a normal argument. That was why she liked listening to it. Children were supposed to argue about whether farms smelled like pie. They were supposed to complain about who got the window seat and whether the other one was touching them. They weren't supposed to know when to be quiet because adults were angry. They weren't supposed to learn how to disappear into another room before someone noticed them.
Here, Miranda could insist an entire farm smelled like pie. Sebastian could tell her she was wrong. And nothing terrible happened. The gravel entrance to the Miller property appeared ahead. Brielle slowed and turned in. The Miller farm was larger than hers and looked as though it had grown organically over generations rather than ever having been deliberately planned. The farmhouse sat beneath mature trees, its broad porch shaded from the afternoon sun. Beyond it stood weathered barns, sheds, fenced paddocks and an orchard heavy with late-summer fruit.

An old tractor sat beside one barn.

Another, considerably rustier machine seemed to have been abandoned near a shed years ago but had somehow become part of the scenery. The place looked used. Comfortable. Lived in. Brielle hadn't even shut off the engine before Miranda announced triumphantly: "See? Pie."

Sebastian groaned.

Brielle laughed. Walter's wife was already waiting on the porch. Elsie Miller wore a faded blue apron over her clothes, and there was flour dusted across the front of it. She wiped her hands as she came down the steps, waving enthusiastically.

"There they are!" she called. "I was beginning to think Walter had scared you off."

From beside the barn came Walter's answering laugh. He was bent over an old hay wagon with a collection of tools scattered around him. "Told you she'd come."

Brielle climbed from the pickup. "I said I would."

"That doesn't mean anything," Elsie declared. "Walter says he'll fix the back gate every spring."

Walter straightened. "I fixed it."

"Three years ago."

"It still counts."

Brielle found herself laughing before she could stop herself. Toby bounded from the truck and immediately began investigating the unfamiliar yard with enormous enthusiasm. He was joined by Walters dogs. Miranda barely made it two steps before Elsie marched straight past Brielle and crouched in front of her.

"And who's this beautiful young lady?"

Miranda suddenly became shy. "Miranda."

"And I hear you like chickens." That overcame the shyness immediately.

Miranda nodded very seriously. “I have six."

Elsie's expression became equally serious. "I have forty-three."

Miranda's jaw dropped. She looked at Elsie. Then toward the barns. Then back at Elsie. "Can... can I meet them?"

Walter chuckled from across the yard. "Looks like you've got yourself a farm helper."

"I think I do," Elsie said. She offered Miranda her hand. Miranda looked automatically at Brielle.

Brielle nodded. "Stay where I can find you."

"I will!"

The answer came while Miranda was already halfway across the yard with Elsie. Brielle watched them disappear toward the chicken houses. Something warm settled inside her. It was still strange seeing other adults treat her children with uncomplicated kindness. No expectation. No judgement. Just kindness.
Sebastian had already noticed the tractors. Of course he had.

The afternoon disappeared almost without Brielle noticing. Sebastian followed Walter from shed to shed, fascinated by every rusty tractor, broken engine and old tool hanging from the walls.

The Miller farm seemed to contain decades of machinery. Some of it worked. Some of it might work. Some of it appeared to be held together through equal measures of wire,
stubbornness and Walter's refusal to throw anything away. Sebastian loved all of it. "What's that?"

"Cultivator."

"What does it do?"

"Cultivates."

Sebastian frowned.

Walter grinned. "Turns the soil between crop rows."

"Oh."

Three seconds passed. "What's that?"

Brielle leaned against the doorway of the shed, arms folded, trying not to laugh. Walter had the patience of a saint. Or possibly the hearing of a man who'd spent too many years around tractors. Eventually they reached an ageing John Deere parked beneath an open-sided machinery shelter. Its green paint had faded in places and there were scratches along the bonnet from years of work. Walter patted it affectionately. "Ever driven one?"

Sebastian's eyes widened. "No..."

Walter glanced towards Brielle. "Mind if I change that?"

Her first instinct was immediate. No. Too dangerous. Too big. Too many things could go wrong. She looked at Sebastian. The hope on his face was almost painful. Then she looked at Walter. He wasn't treating it casually. He was waiting for her permission. Her decision. Brielle hesitated only a moment before nodding. "With you."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Sebastian's face lit up. Walter lifted him carefully into the driver's seat before climbing up beside him. "Right. First thing you need to know is you don't touch anything until you know what it does."

Sebastian nodded solemnly. "Okay."

"Now this lever..."

Brielle stayed where she was. She watched Walter explain the controls. Watched Sebastian lean forward to see everything. Watched her son's hands settle carefully onto the steering wheel. Then Walter started the tractor. The engine coughed once before rumbling into life. Sebastian's face transformed. Pure delight. Brielle couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him look so carefree. Not simply happy. Free. He wasn't watching anyone's mood. Wasn't wondering whether he was being too loud. Wasn't checking whether he was allowed to enjoy himself. He was just an eight-year-old boy sitting on a tractor. Brielle folded her arms more tightly across herself. She wanted this for him. She wanted a thousand ordinary afternoons like this.

Miranda, meanwhile, had apparently been employed. Elsie had given her a small basket and taken her into the chicken house to collect eggs. The little girl carried each one with both
hands as though she'd been entrusted with something priceless. "This one feels warm," she whispered.

"Means it was laid today," Elsie explained.

Miranda's eyes widened. "It came from the chicken?"

Elsie looked at her. "That's usually where they come from." Miranda considered this information with absolute seriousness.

Brielle covered her mouth to hide a smile. Miranda looked down at the egg again. "Did it hurt?"

Elsie blinked. "Well..."

Brielle decided that was a conversation Elsie could handle. She quietly retreated toward the farmhouse.

Somehow, not long afterwards, Brielle found herself sitting at the Miller kitchen table with a mug of coffee she hadn't asked for. Elsie had simply placed it in front of her. No question. No ceremony. Coffee appeared. So had a plate with two slices of fresh bread and peach preserves. Brielle had quickly realised that refusing food in Elsie Miller's kitchen was probably impossible. The kitchen itself smelled faintly of bread, coffee and whatever Elsie had been baking earlier. The windows stood open above the sink, and through them Brielle could hear chickens clucking outside and the distant rumble of the tractor.

She wrapped both hands around the mug. It was strange. Nobody expected anything from her. Nobody questioned her. Nobody asked who she had been. Elsie simply talked. About gardens. About goats. About preserving peaches. About which fence always blew down after winter storms. "The north one," Elsie said darkly. "Every year."

"You haven't replaced it?"

"Three times."

"Four," Walter called from the doorway.

Elsie looked over. "Three."

"Four."

"The first time doesn't count. You used rotten posts."

"They weren't rotten when I put them in."

"They were rotten when you found them."

Walter removed his cap as he stepped into the kitchen. "Technicality."

Brielle laughed into her coffee. Normal things. Ridiculous things. Wonderful things. She couldn't remember ever sitting around a kitchen table simply talking. Not while relaxed. Not without measuring every word before she spoke it. Elsie sat opposite her. "You've settled in nicely."

Brielle looked down at her coffee. "I'm trying."

"You've done more than try."

She looked up.

Walter had quietly joined them. "Folks talk."

Brielle's stomach tightened. It happened so quickly she couldn't stop it. Her fingers stiffened around the mug. Folks talk. Those words had never meant anything good. They meant judgement. Whispers. Questions. Walter noticed.

His expression softened. "The good kind."

Brielle didn't answer. Walter began counting on his fingers. "You repaired the old Wilson fence."

"It was falling over."

"You traded soap with the Thompsons."

"They needed soap."

"You fixed Mrs Reed's generator."

"She couldn't start it."

"You gave eggs to the Harris boy when his hens stopped laying."

Brielle blinked. "I didn't think anyone noticed."

Walter laughed "Oh, we noticed."

She looked between him and Elsie. To Brielle, none of those things had seemed important. A fence took an afternoon. Soap was soap. The generator had needed a new fuel line. And she'd had more eggs than they could eat. Elsie reached across the table and gently squeezed Brielle's hand. "This valley takes care of its own."
Brielle went completely still. Its own. For just a second she couldn't speak. Nobody had ever included her in a sentence like that before. Not genuinely. Not without some condition attached.But Elsie wasn't talking about where Brielle had come from.She wasn't asking who her family had been. She wasn't asking what church she'd belonged to or who she'd married or why she'd arrived in Wisconsin with two children and enough belongings to start an entirely new life. She was simply telling her: You belong here.
Brielle looked down quickly at her coffee."Thank you."

Elsie squeezed her hand once more before releasing it. "You're welcome."

And mercifully, she didn't make anything more of it.

As the afternoon drew to a close, Walter disappeared into one of the barns. Brielle was helping Sebastian load his things into the pickup when he returned carrying a small wooden toolbox. It was old. Not damaged.Used. There was a difference. The timber had darkened with age and handling, and the metal corners bore scratches from years of being carried through barns, sheds and fields.

Walter held it towards her. "I've got two."

Brielle stared at it. "You've got two, what?"

"Toolboxes."

"I can see that."

"This one's yours."

She looked from the box to Walter. "I can't—"

"You can."

"Walter."

"You need tools."

"I have tools."

"You have some tools."

He held the box out again.

"This is a proper set."

Brielle didn't take it.

"It's too much."

Walter shrugged.

"You'll lend it back one day when somebody else needs it." That stopped her. Not repay me. Not you owe me. Not even bring it back. Pass it on. Brielle finally reached for the handle. The weight surprised her. She set the box on the open tailgate and lifted the lid. Every tool had been cleaned. Every socket arranged neatly. Wrenches. Pliers. Screwdrivers. A hammer worn smooth along the handle. A collection built over years. Maybe decades. Brielle looked up. "You trust me with this?"

Walter smiled. "You've already earned it."

Her throat tightened. She closed the lid. "Thank you."

Walter nodded as though the matter were settled. "Just don't let Sebastian reorganise the sockets."

"I heard that!" Sebastian called.

"Good!"

The drive home was quieter. Miranda had fallen asleep clutching a basket of fresh eggs, her head tipped sideways against the seat. Toby was sprawled in the back, snoring softly after spending most of the afternoon attempting to supervise forty-three unfamiliar chickens. Sebastian, on the other hand, had apparently acquired enough energy to last until Christmas.

"And then Walter showed me the clutch, and you have to push it all the way down, but you can't just let it go because then the tractor jumps, and there's a gear for going backwards and—" Brielle smiled as she drove.

"Really?"

"Yeah. And he said next time I can help move it from the barn."

"Did he?"

"Yep."

"We'll see."

"He said I was good."

"I heard him."

Sebastian fell silent for perhaps five seconds. "Do you think we could get a tractor?"

"We have a tractor."

"A better tractor."

Brielle laughed. "Nice try." The sun was beginning to sink as she turned onto the gravel road leading home. Golden light stretched across the fields. Long shadows reached from the trees. The farmhouse came into view ahead of them, sitting peacefully against the rolling Wisconsin countryside. Her farmhouse. Their home.Brielle slowed as she approached the driveway. She thought about Elsie's hand over hers. This valley takes care of its own.

She thought about Walter's toolbox sitting behind the seat. About Sebastian laughing on the tractor. About Miranda carefully carrying warm eggs. She had spent twenty-five years believing kindness always came with strings attached. A favour created a debt. A gift created an obligation. Help meant someone would eventually remind you what they'd done for you. Today had proven otherwise. Walter and Elsie hadn't asked for anything. They'd simply opened their home. For the first time in her life...
Brielle had neighbours. Real ones. People who noticed when she helped. People who wanted her children around. People who trusted her with things that mattered to them. People who apparently considered her one of their own. And somehow... That felt almost as unbelievable as owning the farm itself.

 

RSS Feed