There were several different kinds of loss. There was the kind that came all at once leaving a man with nothing and the kind that was a clear and distant inevitability that kept him awake at night, worrying over things that were out of his control. One was no less cruel than the other, though if you asked Tim Dixon, he would have wanted the whole thing to be over with. This business of taking out loans in the hopes of saving a sinking ship seemed like utter nonsense to him but all the other farmers in the valley seemed to be doing it, and quite frankly, he had to try to make it, at least to this years harvest.
Being a pious man, he preferred to pray for peace and contentment, where other men would have prayed for happiness and riches. It was not for lack of faith that he desired these things, on the contrary, he believed the presence of peace during difficult times was something of a devine miracle in and of itself.
Perhaps it was his desire for peace which drew him to farming in the first place. A man who worked hard all day felt at peace come evening. He liked that kind of satisfaction; knowing he had done his portion for the day, paid his dues, so to speak.
As he predicted, the spring rains were light, if at all. Despite his prayers, there was no peace for Timothy Dixon.
He rung the restlessness from his body with day after day of field work. His anxiety ran so high it was all he could do to get to sleep at night. Running his body hard throughout the day, he could hardly stand, come sundown. Yet still, at night he would awaken, heart pounding and mind racing; recalling debts he owed, thirsty fields, and broken machines needing parts he could not afford to go without. He was fighting a losing battle and he knew it, yet every morning, just as he had done all his life, he rose before dawn and faithfully tended his parcel of land.
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