The Day George Danvers Bought The Farm

It was quarter past ten in the morning on March 7th when George Danvers realized he was on his deathbed.

He knew he was dying, of course. He was 97, and had been feeling it coming for weeks. Still, this was the first time he’d connected the idiomatic term “deathbed” to the actual location he was. The bed that he had slept in the night before, the spot he’d recently finished his breakfast, and where he was currently under the covers was his deathbed. He was literally on his deathbed. The realization was surprisingly comforting. Honestly, George thought with a smile, the term “deathbed” really wasn’t so bad, once you factored in the “bed” part.

Fabienne, one of George's home health aides, had come through about 30 minutes ago to clear away his breakfast, make sure he was clean and dry and had taken his meds. Fabienne was a wiry black woman in her mid-fifties with a Creole accent. George’s first thought was that he wished Fabienne was here right now, so he could share his realization about the deathbed to her, then immediately thought that maybe it would be better if he didn’t. She radiated pure kindness, and even though it seemed a clever observation to George, perhaps she might not take it that way.

Through the window of his empty room, he could see a small pond with an elm tree next to it. It had been frozen over all winter, but was thawing now, a thin coating of meltwater covering the few dark, patchy floes of soft ice that remained, obscuring the murky depths.

George arched his ankles back and wriggled his toes under the tight sheets. It felt good. The recent visit from his daughter Barbara and his grandchildren had also been good, as were the scrambled eggs he’d had for breakfast, with a little bit of sharp cheddar mixed in. He quietly thanked Fabienne for adding the cheddar, which he’d once mentioned might be good, and then had just appeared one morning. Fabienne was good. The morning was good. His mood was good. The 2004 World Series Run of the Boston Red Sox was good. George’s thoughts had a tendency to bounce around through the years these days, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to drop into a memory, long past. But that was good, too. He didn’t mind being transported to his boyhood New Hampshire home, or to feel his late wife Mary’s lips on his neck as a young man again, or to once again smell, and hear, his grandmother’s fried chicken crackling in her giant cast iron skillet. When he was a boy, George's grandmother would serve it with mashed potatoes and a biscuit, and would press a well into the potatoes with the back of the gravy ladle before filling it with homemade giblet gravy. He hadn’t had chicken that good in decades, and even though he never would again, George Danvers was still happy. He had done it. Suddenly snapping back to the present, and the bed he was in, he was filled with a deep gratitude. He was lucky. “If this is my deathbed” George Danvers said aloud to the empty room, “I can live with that.” He smiled, and closed his eyes.

“GEORGE CAMERON DANVERS. BORN JUNE 16, 1928, DIED MARCH 7th, 2025, 10:31 AM.”

George blinked his eyes open in response to the voice. He was standing outdoors at dawn, barefoot, on dusty ground, clothed only in a loose-fitting but extremely comfortable body-length garment. The air was heavy with a blanket of heat, and a cool breeze blew through his...hair! With a start, George realized he had a full head of hair, something he hadn’t had in over 60 years. He spread his fingers through it, the familiar but long-lost sensation flooding his senses. He looked at his hands, and saw his fingers were no longer old and gnarled. A slow smile spread across his face as the voice boomed out again.

“DAMU MOSI ODERA. BORN MARCH 5th 1959, DIED MARCH 7th 2025, 10:32 AM”

An African man materialized to George’s left, dressed in an identical garment to the one George was wearing. He was of a similar height and weight, his dark skin the only obvious contrast to George’s Irish-American complexion. The man appeared to be in his mid thirties, as George also appeared to be, to his surprise. Damu blinked his eyes open, and looked quizzically at George, who returned his baffled stare. The voice boomed out a third time.

“NADIA SVETLANA BAKALAV. BORN SEPTEMBER 23, 1939, DIED MARCH 7th 2025 10:33 AM.”

A sturdy Slavic woman appeared between George and Damu, also clothed in an identical body garment. Despite her large build and strong legs, she wavered on her feet before taking a few staggering steps to steady herself. The unlikely trio, standing three abreast on what appeared to be a sub-Saharan plain, dotted by spiny shrubs and the occasional low growing, drought-resistant tree, stared at each other with incredulous eyes.