Showdown at Elk Lake

By: Nicholas Hall
(© 2019 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

nhall@tickiestories.us

Sitting patiently, stoically waiting, this Saturday afternoon in early September, leaves on the oaks and maple trees in the yard and distant woodlands beginning to portend the changing of the seasons through the gradual metamorphosis from summer green to the multi-colors of Fall, contrasting starkly with the dark, almost black color of the coniferous pines nestled in and amongst them on my own one hundred and twenty acre farm, for the guests who'd called the day before to arrive.

It wasn't a large farm by any means, but it was a good place to live! I was born here on this lakeside farm, purchased by my parents when land such as this was unwanted, when lakefront property was considered a liability rather than an asset as it is today. After high school, I stayed on the farm and, as my parents aged, willingly shouldered more and more of the responsibilities and work associated with it. I loved the farm and work associated with it; I really never wanted to be anyplace else!

I wasn't alone growing up, but my younger sister Mary Beth, chose to leave the farm for other adventures, mainly marriage and returned home with their family for one week each summer to visit grandma and grandpa; not two not three, but one week only! Mary Beth never really liked the farm or our rural, northern community growing up and even as an adult it held a certain distaste for her. It was only under the constant urging of our parents she'd relent and make her yearly visit. It saddened Mom and Dad she acted that way, often blaming themselves for "spoiling" her. They did but no more than they did me. We were everything important to them as we grew up and they acknowledged it by showering affection on us.

Mary Beth wanted nothing to do with the grime, grit, and smell of the farm, with its good years and bad. There were times we had a little extra and more times than not we didn't! She left the farm, married a wealthy banker down near Milwaukee and had the big bucks and the "good" life until he dropped dead of a heart attack!

It was here, on this farm, I met the love of my life, Clyde Barrington! Clyde was a feed, seed, and fertilizer salesman who, new to the area and the people, dropped by one day to entice or persuade me to purchase his products. He sold me, not only on his seed, feed, and fertilizer products but on his personal, substantial, and talented personal applicator and I convinced him to spend his time off with me at the farm. Mom and Dad didn't object, at least openly to me, concerning my relationship with Clyde, but in those days "men just didn't love men," at least in public. It was against the law, if found out, so we just kept it quiet! When Mary Beth and her family made their yearly visit, Clyde discreetly "slipped" away for that week, returning to open arms when they left.

Clyde and I made an agreement, in later years, with Mom and Dad, to purchase the farm jointly as a partnership with them having the right of life residence there. They asked Mary Beth if she would object if they sold the farm to us. Mary Beth was wise to our relationship and refused to acknowledge it, other than to refer to us as "buddies." She told the folks outright, she wanted nothing to do with the farm and even refused, in writing of course, any prior claim to the property through blood relationship and inheritance. Her visits stopped shortly thereafter. I guessed she felt it was "out of sight, out of mind" as far as my love for Clyde and his for me.

Clyde and purchased the farm on land contract so the folks would have a monthly income in addition to their social security to live on. We added a small apartment to the back side of the house, providing them with an access to the main house and an outside entrance of their own. When they passed away years later, the farm had been paid in full. They'd lived a good life, they felt, on the farm, and as time progressed, really loved Clyde as another son. We both thought their lives were short, but in the end, we had no choice concerning that.

Clyde and I made significant changes to the farm, modernizing the home, repairing the existing outbuildings and constructing new ones. It made the farm a home, a working home, and a pleasant place to live for us. The farm was profitable under our care; well, enough to keep the wolf from the door at least. Summer evenings, swimming in the lake, fishing, or just boating was our recreation. Winter found us cuddled up with a fire in the fireplace either reading or enjoying each other's company.

Fifteen years ago, when Clyde was sixty-eight and I was a year younger, we kissed each other goodnight and when I woke in the morning, I was all alone.

I notified Mary Beth and her four children, Lambert, Lucy, Constance, and Wesley. The only one to attend the service and internment was Wesley. He was a career armed forces man and took leave to attend and express his condolences and offers to help. Accompanying him was his very pregnant second wife (his first decided she just didn't like the military life) Christine. They stayed with me for few days after the service and it was such a comfort to me! She was such a sweet young lady; a nurse he'd met while stationed in England. She and Wesley were ever so nice to me, accepting my love for Clyde, and consoling me in my grief over the loss.

Life had to go on; it was what Clyde and I both wanted if the other went first, and so it did. I continued to live alone, but surrounded by not only memories of our good times together but with childhood and recent friends and good neighbors.

Lambert, my sister's oldest son, called a couple of days ago and announced he, along with his two sisters, Lucy and Constance, together with their spouses, would be arriving sometime today for a visit of undetermined length and an undisclosed purpose. When I inquired if they all would be staying at the farm, since there was room, including the small apartment, Lambert replied,

"No, Uncle Harry, we're all flying into Central Regional Airport and have reservations at a motel. It gives us the chance to spend some time together since we're scattered all over. We'll rent a car and drive out the next day. We don't want to bother you. It would just be extra work for you to take care of the six of us."

It sounded to me but a poor excuse and really meant they wanted the chance to talk "strategy" without me present. What a bunch of bullshit!

I heard a vehicle before I saw the min-van enter the gate rumbling and rattling down the long gravel drive to the house. They may think they're fooling me, but I know damned well why they're making this "social call" to their "dear old Uncle Harry." Nope, you can't shit an old turd as Clyde used to say. They'd be conniving, selfish, self-serving, and hypocritical as their mother (God rest her soul) and their late father (may he rot in hell) and led by that pompous ass, Lambert, who, as he grew older, was more and more like his father every day. I know one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but dammit, Mary Beth and her husband never acknowledged my life with Clyde or considered I had feelings too! No, it was always about them and "fuck me" (which Clyde did so well) so to speak.

I could see these off-spring of my sisters during their visit, patronizingly playing on my mild nature, quietness, and age; oh, yes, they would plead all sorts of age related matters, as if they ever cared to begin with. But, they didn't want to hear that I'm certain!

The minivan slowly rolled to a stop near the front entrance to the house, facing the front door and porch; the very porch Momma used to stand on waiting for the school bus to unload Mary Beth and me as we came home from school and walk down the lane to her welcoming arms. It was the very same porch I stood on anxiously waiting for Clyde to drive down the lane after he returned from an extended sales trip and welcome him with open arms; we'd embrace, kiss each other, and tell each other of our longing for his company, expressing our deep love for each other. But they didn't want to hear that!

Of the four of Mary Beth's children, these three drifted away from farm visits as they matured, found other "more important" things to interest them, and when they married. In fact, they hadn't been on the farm since the death of their grandparents. It was their opinion, according to Lucy, "this old place is such a backwater place, I don't know why anyone would want to stay here." Well, that was before property such as this became more and more valuable. It was only Wesley, their youngest brother, who reveled in the place, enjoying every minute he and his family were here. They not only enjoyed the lake, but just wandering about and helping around the place and never once mentioned anything about how remote it may be. But they didn't want to hear that!

The six of them slowly, cautiously exited the rental minivan as if expecting to be met by me with a shotgun (although I had considered it) or some apparition of heinous proportions, but neither the hobgoblin they expected popped out from behind the bushes or me. What did appear, after the first van door slammed, was Hector, my old gander, who decided someone was invading his territory and set off a ruckus of honking and hissing, joined in the noisy alarm by his loose harem of geese and their nearly mature goslings, each adding to the cacophony in the chicken yard warning all there was possible danger lurking nearby. Lambert cast a cautious eye toward the penned up fowl, not trusting the old gander to stay penned but fly over the fence and expand his protective territory to the area surrounding the house and van.

"Serve him right," I muttered to myself, "if old Hector escaped and latched his beak on Lambert's lazy ass; it'd save me the trouble of kicking it!" Although, at my age, I don't know if I could any more.

The entourage started up the short walk, past the rose bushes Clyde and I planted so many years before as a symbol of our lasting love, and the peonies Momma planted and cared for while she and Daddy lived here; past the purple lilac bush, now green instead of bright with spring flowers and overflowing with sweet effervescence. I thought I should get out of my chair to greet them, but piss on them; they know the way. Besides, what condemned man helps the hangman tie the knot?

The six of them finally made their way up the steps to the porch and I felt it was time for me to make my appearance so I rose, walked to the door leading to the porch, and invited them in to the living room, where I returned to sitting in my favorite chair. I waited until they sorted themselves out and announced the reason for their collective visit.

After a few awkward moments, Niece Lucy began, "The place really looks nice, Uncle Harry. It must take a lot of work for you to clean and maintain it. A big, old house like this takes a lot of work, especially if there is only one person to do the job. Just doing the laundry and vacuuming must be tedious and just about wear you out!"

I chuckled to myself, not so they could hear me, understand, as I contemplated her attempt at segue which, if they only knew, wasn't going to work. It really didn't take much work or become tedious at all; I just wrote a check once a month to a cleaning lady, the daughter of an old friend, for her weekly visits, but they didn't want to hear that!

Constance, Niece Number Two, listening attentively for an answer from me which didn't come, decided to use a little different tact; "Are you eating properly, Uncle Harry? You seem to have lost some weight. Perhaps you need regular, balanced meals, and someone to monitor your intake. I know it must be difficult to cook three balanced meals a day and then have to eat alone, so I don't suppose you do it, do you?"

How the hell would she or any of them know if I'd lost weight or gained weight? Shit, they haven't seen me for years; for all they knew or cared, I could weigh seven hundred pounds or my current one seventy-five and they wouldn't have known the difference, so I replied calmly with a smile,

"Oh, I do just fine as it is," and let that subject drop. I can still cook, quite well, thank you and 'Meals on Wheels' even delivers a couple of time per week, depending on the menu I choose and the weather. The young lady who does my cleaning often would fix a casserole for me before she left and Mrs. McClimon, just up the road, often stopped by with something for me. Of course, there was the weekly senior meals night at the Community Center I went to and enjoyed, as well as the Friday fish fry at the Legion. I didn't mention either, the doctor advised me to lose some weight and do some exercises, including walking, to help control my diabetes. According to my last visit to the doctor last week, I was doing quite well and fairly healthy for a person my age. The doctor agreed with me there was no reason to seek any other housing arrangements. No, they didn't want to hear that either!

The unease grew in the room; the six of them sat, looking first at me and then to each other, seeming to realize perhaps this meeting was not progressing as they had originally planned. Lambert decided to attempt another tract in the discussion, one he hoped would bring me to the conclusion they were trying to make me come to or perhaps catch me up and find reason to discuss the real reason for their visit.

"The lawn and the surrounding farm land is terribly big for a man your age to manage," Uncle Harry. "If I'm not mistaken, chickens, ducks, and geese can sometimes be a burden to care for. You know, feed, water, and gathering eggs can be a twice daily chore, not to mention having to clean up the pens. Didn't I also hear a pig or two grunting and squealing out in the old hog lot?"

I smiled in response to his questions; I know he expected me to say, "Hell. Yes, my ass is dragging so low every day my balls bounce down when my ass bobs up when I walk and I just want to rid myself of all the fucking work;" but, I didn't. Instead, continuing to smile, "Yes, you did hear hogs and no, they, along with the fowl are not difficult to care for. In fact, it takes less time than you would imagine."

But those were not the words they wished to hear from me nor did they desire to hear about young Robbie McClimon, now fifteen and son of Catherine and Rick McClimon my neighbors; Catherine often brings me meals and, as a nurse at the clinic where I receive medical attention, checks my blood pressure and gives me a quick going over. We became acquainted when young Robbie showed up one day a few years ago standing beside my mailbox at the end of the lane with broken chain on his bicycle. Standing there, looking forlorn, somewhat desperate, and a little upset, when I walked down to check to see if I had any mail. (Part of my exercise routine.) In fact, I do it several times per day in good weather and less in bad weather when I use the treadmill at the house.

I spotted the young lad, asked him his name, "Robbie McClimon," and introduced myself; "Harry Winthrop." It didn't take long, as we squatted down together, almost cheek to cheek, inspecting the broken chain and puzzled over it, until he told me he and his folks were new to the neighborhood, his mother started to work at the clinic, his dad was an outboard motor mechanic and working at one of the local marine dealerships, he was eight years old, was the youngest of three children, home alone now his brother and sister were moved away, really liked riding his bike, thought the lake I lived on looked fun, and wondered if I had any kids.

"No, but, Robbie McClimon, I think I can fix this broken chain in my shop if you'd be so kind as to wheel it up there and help me with it."

He was so eager and enthusiastic, chattering the entire walk up to the shop and while we fixed his bike. According to his mother and dad, who I met later, he was so shy, especially around strangers. Well, Robbie and I were strangers no more after the first thirty seconds after we met. He chattered like a young blue jay and I loved it. He worked right alongside of me, fetching tools, holding the chain while we secured a repair link, steadied the bike while we slipped the chain back on the sprockets, oiled it with a "pippty-pop" oil can, and soon, with a big hug and a grin that was worth a million dollars, and a "thank you, Mr. Winthrop," peddled his little ass down the lane toward the main road as fast as his little legs could pump.

From that day on, Robbie was often a welcome daily visitor to my house, which is much more than I could say for the six of them sitting in front of me. I hadn't seen these sorrowful wretches in I don't know how long. So pleased they have finally taken an interest in me - HA!

As Robbie grew, he mowed the lawn and helped me in the garden and delighted in taking care of livestock. Old Hector accepted Robbie's presence in the hen yard and bothered him not. Why should he, they almost grew up together. In fact, the pigs my visitors heard when they first arrived were Robbie's and the sale of those three porkers this fall, and others in previous years, went toward his college fund, along with what he earned helping me around the farm.

He helped feed and water the chickens and the eggs he gathered, not used by me or his own family, he sold to the neighbors. When we butchered chickens and other fowl, what we didn't use, he also sold, adding to his college fund as well. His mother often apologized for his continued "pestering me" and I really shouldn't pay him, they should pay me for watching out for him, but I assured her, he was no bother and he was a joy to have around the house. It was little enough to pay to have the young man around to help me, visit, and keep me company. Besides, many things he wasn't' paid for, he did voluntarily, such as he would do for a grandparent or favorite uncle, which it seemed I'd become. The hay and crop ground was rented out, so paying Robbie presented no financial hardship, but my six antagonists, peering at me like vultures waiting for a sick or injured animal to finally succumb, didn't want to hear that; no, they only wanted to hear and believe the negative!

"You must be awfully lonely out here all by yourself, especially during the winter when snow blocks that long lane to the house. How would an ambulance get through if something should happen?" quizzed Constance.

I smiled to myself, as I found myself doing quite often in this little drama now unfolding, but said nothing in response, for the moment. I wanted to tell her the ambulance would drive down a plowed lane, free of snow. Robbie used the little Ford tractor with the back blade and front bucket to plow and clear my lane and barn yard, then do his folks, and several others bright and early before school after each snowfall, and again at night if they needed it. The money he earned plowing those other folks (mine he did for nothing since I provided the equipment and gas and his folks also because I pointed out they did feed and clothe him) went into his college fund as well. Actually, he would have done it all for nothing since he loved farting around on the tractor, but after I visited with him about how much money he could make, decided he may as well have fun and earn some bucks at the same time.

You see, Constance asked the wrong question; if she'd asked, "I bet you miss Clyde something terrible at times don't you?" and my answer would have been "yes;" as much as I'd miss my beating heart, his soft breath on my neck as we lay in bed loving each other, his arms around me, holding me tight, expressing his love for me and mine for him. I missed those little things; the faint smell of his aftershave, his booming voice as he bounded up the steps after a long sales trip on the road, announcing how happy he was to be home and be with me.

There were those holidays we spent together, celebrating as any other couple would; the winter vacation we took to Florida, the fishing on the lake, drinking our coffee sitting on the porch watching the early morning sun peek over the forested hills down the lake; the Fourth of July Parade and going out on the pontoon boat to watch the fireworks being fired off from the county park on the south end. Clyde was my life's partner, my companion, my love, and my heart's desire and I missed him so terribly, terribly much!

But was I lonely now, not really, so I replied, "No, Constance, I'm not lonely; alone sometimes, but not lonely. The neighbors are great; I have occasional house guests, and I have many friends in town to visit with and who visit me, so I don't worry too much about being 'lonely.'"

What I didn't tell them, after Robbie became a regular at my house and part of my life, was all the hours he and I spent over the years fishing from the dock extending out into the lake or from the fishing boat. He became and was, a nephew I could dote over, spoil, and love as I would any of my nieces or nephews children if they, like Wesley's boys, were visitors and would let me. I became Robbie's "uncle," as he began referring to me as and addressing me, and a person he could confide in and enjoy being himself around without fear of retribution or ridicule.

I'd sold the pontoon shortly after Clyde passed away, so we didn't have that to cavort on, just the fishing boat. It's just as well, the pontoon was more than I could manage, although we could have with Robbie's help, but the memories of the good times Clyde and I had on the pontoon were just too strong for me to keep it. I laughed silently to myself, as I pondered the mission of the six of them sitting in front of me, fidgeting, waiting for me to say something, remembering one time Clyde and I took an evening ride on the pontoon, stopped in the middle of the lake, and proceeded to do what lovers do. Stretched out on my back on a blanket on the floor of the pontoon, the sides sheltering us from any passerby's, Clyde between my legs, his arms wrapped under my shoulders holding on as he pushed us both toward the heights we desired, when we heard someone hail us with "Having motor trouble?"

Clyde popped his head above the side, remaining tightly sealed to me, and answered, "Nope, the motor is working just fine; we're just enjoying the sunset," and with a sigh and a slight push forward, continued, "there's nothing like watching it sink deeper and deeper; almost as you can feel it grip you and take you with it."

"Can't say I disagree," answered the voice. "Nothing like a beautiful sunset," and motored off.

I didn't tell Constance and the others of the trips to town with Robbie driving my old pickup truck either. Illegal as hell since he was, maybe thirteen when I first let him drive it, but no one in town seemed to care. The town cop was a local boy and. I went to school with his Dad, would see us, give us a wave or thumbs up, and we'd motor through town with Robbie at the wheel and me in the passenger seat. I guess he figured like me, any boy who could handle a little tractor plowing snow in the winter and gardens in the spring could handle my old pickup truck. Besides, he was driving his daddies' truck when he was about the same age! Robbie was a good driver; of course, he had a good teacher!

Our trips to town were usually a couple of times per week during the summer and on Saturday's during the school year. I'd do what little shopping I needed, we'd have lunch, and drive home. There were evenings, when Robbie didn't have school work or activities, he'd stop by and we'd enjoy a game of chess or cribbage.

There were school activities I'd attend, along with his parents, watching Robbie participate in sports, music concerts, or school plays. It was fun for me and rewarding for Robbie, considering the way he'd beam when he saw us in the audience. Of course, the next time he was over, he'd just have to discuss it all with me!

Lambert cleared his throat, to gain my attention I assumed, and announced, "Uncle Harry, we've decided it's time for you to give up living alone and isolated out here. You need to sell the farm and move to either an elderly assisted living complex or a nursing home where professionals can monitor your nutrition and health issues. You'll be among people your own age and receive better care than out here alone. It really boils down to a safety issue for you and our concern and love for you that brought us to this decision."

"Ah, ha!" I thought, "They finally got right down to the nut-cutting; safety and love for me, my ass!"

I nodded, giving Lambert and the others the impression I was contemplating what was being said and asked thoughtfully, "There are only three of you here; where's young Wesley in all of this decision making?"

Lucy answered, somewhat dismayed, clucking her tongue, "Oh, Uncle Harry, he's somewhere in Europe. He's made a career of the military; don't you remember?"

I smiled to myself, knowing full well they now thought I'd lost my memory and they'd arrived just in time. I knew damn well where Wesley was and it wasn't Europe. They didn't know the relationship I had with Wesley and his family. We often exchanged letters and at least one of the four boys wrote to me weekly, either by snail-mail or e-mail, sending descriptions and pictures of the places they'd lived and visited. But these six didn't know Wesley and his family had been and were frequently visitors to the farm, spending some of their leave time when they were stateside, enjoying the lake and other features the farm had to offer. They couldn't make it every year, especially if stationed overseas, but rarely did two years pass without a visit.

Robbie was always thrilled when they did come and would race over as soon as I called him. Wesley's oldest son, David, and Robbie really seemed to hit it off from day one and became the best of friends. Where one was, you'd find the other. Robbie always seemed so sad when they left and David wasn't too happy about leaving either.

It was after one of their visits, not this summer, but the summer before after we'd returned from one of our trips to town, when, wandering in behind me with a bag of groceries, he was less chatty than usual. Helping me put away the groceries, he remained strangely quiet. Something was definitely bothering him. I fixed us each a cold soda, took them to the living room, handed one to Robbie, sat down, and asked, "Robbie, why don't you tell Uncle Harry all about what's bothering you?"

Tears streamed down his face, he set his soda down, walked over, and let me pull him close to me, my arms surrounding him, protecting him from the world or the troubles he now faced. Finally, catching his breath, he hiccupped, "Uncle Harry, when did know when you were gay?"

Ah, ha- someone is concerned about his sexuality!

"Oh, I suppose I knew from maybe age eight or nine I liked boys better than girls. I really knew by the time I was twelve or thirteen and after that I had to watch myself so I wouldn't get caught peeking at other boys' cocks in the restroom."

The word "cock" brought his head up and looked at me as if I had seven heads.

"Robbie," I responded, "you know and use the word, along with others, and so do I, just not around some people, okay? Now if I'm going to tell you things straight off, I'll have to use some words your mother may not approve of."

My comments elicited a giggle from Robbie, knowing full well what I meant.

I proceeded to tell him what it was like being "queer" in those days and how society really didn't look favorably on the whole idea of boys liking boys, declaring it against the law, and the ostracizing that took place. Finally, I told him of meeting Clyde and the happiness we had. I let him absorb all of it until I asked the question that needed to be asked but I was certain I knew the answer,

"Robbie, do you think you're gay?"

He slowly nodded his head 'yes.'

"How do you know? Many boys go through a time period when they're confused about their sexual identity."

The flood gate opened and he began telling me what he liked and didn't like; what turned him on and what turned him off; it was quite a litany for such a young man. He stopped to catch his breath, I touched a finger to his lips to silence him for a moment and said,

"Robbie, its okay to be gay! It's who you are and what you'll be. Your life may not be the easiest since there are still many among us who do not see us as real people; they see us as freaks, mentally ill, sinners, and so on. They're wrong; we're just like them. We fall in love, we want families, want to marry which, thank God, is now legal throughout the United States, and live lives much like others, only with people of our own sex. We only really want to love someone, be loved, and share our lives with that someone. That's how it was with Clyde and me and will be with you."

We sat a moment longer, and I added, gently, "So, you fell in love with David, right?

Robbie looked up at me and said, "Yes, Uncle Harry and I miss him so much!"

"Does he know how much you love him?"

Robbie nodded.

"And now you're both sad he's had to leave, right?"

Again, Robbie nodded.

"I know how you feel, Robbie. When you're with someone you love the whole world is a beautiful place and it's as if nothing else really matters -right?"

I gave Robbie a kiss on the forehead, remembering the time Clyde and I had together and how much I missed him, saying, "Now you know what it was like for Clyde and me, falling in love. It makes no difference whether you're gay or straight, lesbian, or bi or whatever when you fall in love, does it? Robbie, you just enjoy yourself and court each other and all well be just fine!"

All that year, Robbie and David would text each other and "skyped." I gathered they could see each other and talk over the internet. Personally, I don't use it. My computer uses are pretty basic. When I asked Robbie how David, now living in Hawaii where his dad was stationed, was doing at Christmas time and how did he look, he replied, "Great and he's tanned all over," so I gathered David was naked at the time they communicated.

Lambert interrupted my thoughts, continuing, "So, Uncle Harry, we've decided tomorrow you and I will go to town and sign a contract for you to live in the elderly assisted living complex and Monday we'll put the farm up for sale with a realtor I've contacted. It won't take long to get it sold, the market being what it is, and hold an auction of all of this stuff," waving his arm around the room.

Again, I nodded; what they didn't know was Wesley and his family were here for a month in July and Christine and the boys were flying in on Monday to take up permanent residence until Wesley could join them after he retired in another month.

Robbie was positively thrilled and so was David! They were, no doubt in anyone's mind, a couple; both families seemed to approve and so did I.

One hot afternoon in July, when Wesley's were here visiting and making plans for their move, Robbie and David, after working in the hen house, headed down to the lake for a swim. I glanced out and didn't see them. Growing somewhat concerned, I wandered down to the beach near the dock to see if there was a problem. My attention was diverted, as I neared the beach, to a stand of willows several yards down the lake, when I heard David moan, "Please, Robbie, harder!"

The needy voice sounded like and came from the same stand of willows Clyde and I used to frequent to hide ourselves from boaters on the lake. I walked quietly to the willows, peeked in, and spotted my two young teenagers, both naked; David bent over, hands on his knees, Robbie behind him laying on David's back, arms wrapped around his waist, head over David's shoulder, rhythmically pushing forward and back as deep as he could. Reaching the point of no return, Robbie shoved as deep as he could, his ass cheeks clenched tight in orgasm as he pumped his seed into David, and said, so tenderly, "I love you so" bringing about a similar spurting of white strings of cum from David, as he spewed out onto the sand.

I stepped back quietly and walking back to the house decided I'd need more little pigs to feed out in the future, perhaps more chickens, and definitely help the boys line up more gardens to plow, driveways and lanes to plow in the winter, and any other entrepreneurial ventures they may want to do. God, it was going to be such fun, watching them as they grew and loved each other.

But, Lambert and the others didn't need to hear that - fuck'em! They didn't want to know four years previously I deeded half of the property to Wesley, making us co-owners with the caveat I could live here with them (in the apartment) as long as I wanted or I'd changed my will so the farm and everything, except for a trust I'd set up for Robbie, went to Wesley when I died!

I smiled at the six of them, nodded, seeming to approve of their decision, bringing a collective sigh of relief from them, stood, faced them, grinned like a mule eating shit, and said,

"Go piss up a rope and kiss my old wrinkled ass, you young whelps; I'm not going anywhere!" and left the room. I walked into the kitchen, fixed myself a large Brandy Old-fashioned and settled back to celebrate my decision and rejection of theirs, but they didn't want to know that, did they?

The End.