A Child's View of Life on the Farm**

Winter begets spring, which spawns summer, that falls into autumn. And there it goes, round and round and round -- like a dog chasing its tail. That's what growing up on a farm is like -- the same thing over and over again. The cattle are hungry in the morning; they're hungry in the evening. The chickens lay eggs in the morning; the farmer's wife gathers them in the evening. Day in. Day out. The corn gets planted in the spring and harvested in the fall, year after year after year. I guess there are slight variations, like the summer of '68 when it hailed so violently we lost all the crops. They were battered to the wet ground as if gods had come down from the skies and performed a sadistic dance over the tasseling yellow corn and full heads of wheat. The crops were stomped into the ground a few short hours before they were to be harvested and shipped to starving children in China.

My father cried--not for the starving children--but for us. He didn't try to hide the tears like he did at Uncle Joe's funeral the year before. In his faded blue work shirt, his shoulders shook so much, I wondered if God hadn't reach down and given him a shaking. For what, I didn't know. Only after he had snot dripping from his big nose did I understand the impact of nature's wrath. A year's worth of work was battered away. The labor was done, but no paycheck was to come.

I have never seen my father cry like that before or since, not even when his father died. That proud German heritage doesn't allow us to mutter, "I love you," without a great deal of discomfort. Love came in other gestures--my beautiful Dancerina doll I got for Christmas in 1971 or getting my favorite dinner every May 28th, my birthday.

That German mentality carried over into our work life. Growing up on a farm, I learned things sooner than town kids. I made mud pies at two, helped butcher my pets at three, and was behind the steering wheel at four. People say kids adapt quickly. That's because they don't have a choice.

My first driving experience wasn't enjoyable. It could have been, but for a few problems. Firstly, I wasn't tall enough to see out the windshield. Secondly, I couldn't reach the gas, brake or clutch pedals.  I didn't know what a clutch did.  What plagued my thoughts more than anything was the potential I had for maiming and killing as I attempted to steer the unyielding steering wheel. It started out innocently.

"Tammy, come help me feed the cattle. I need to push hay to them from the back of the pick-up." Mom said over our noon-meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. "You just need to steer." Twenty minutes later, I'm in the driver's seat and she's in the bed of the pick-up truck, without a care in the world.

"Mommy, the cows aren't moving!" I screamed.  "I'm going to run over them." I sobbed. Couldn't she see these cattle in my way?

"Keep driv'in," she yelled from the back of the old blue truck.

I gripped the steering wheel like it was my savior Jesus Christ. I was going to run over a dozen head of cattle; Jesus was nowhere to be seen. Floating cow heads were all I could see out the bug-smeared windshield. It hadn't rained all summer and the pasture I was driving in was ugly and brown. No prickly cactus apples to eat this year. They were all dead. Just like me and Mommy were going to be. After I hit the cows, the pick-up would roll over on its side and that would be the end. Never would I make it to kindergarten.

In between tears and snot, I tried to take control. "Move you stupid cows. Get BEHIND the pick-up. Mommy's feeding you," I yelled out the open, driver's side window. My voice went unheard as the hungry cattle stood in front of the pick-up and bawled for their hay.

I couldn't see Mommy in the back of the pick-up, but I could see her in my mind. Right before we left for the pasture, she put on a pair of muddy, black galoshes. It wasn't just old, caked-on winter mud, it was dried cow poop, too.  They were my Daddy's so they were too big, but she didn't care. Her dusty blue jeans looked more white than blue. She had cooked fried chicken for dinner (noon meal) and wiped her flour-covered hands on her jeans, instead of washing them off, like I had to.

She had on an old olive-green, short-sleeved shirt. It used to be pretty when she wore it to town, but now it was covered with bunched up balls of fabric. There were so many little balls, it looked polka-dotted. On her shirt, just below her shoulder, she had about eight safety pins attached. She collected them, like some people collect pennies. Like pennies, safety pins are plentiful and useful. Earlier in the day, the zipper on her jeans went "pop." She took a pin off her shirt and used it to keep her pants closed. Mommy never wore gloves. It was kinda hard to tell the difference between her hands and Daddy's. Hers were a little smaller, but just as beaten up from farm work and butchering chickens.

After dinner, I watcher her put her hair up in those pink plastic curlers with the brushes inside them. Near the front, where her hair was shorter, the curlers were small black ones. I had taken the littlest pink curlers for my dolls and never told her. She wrapped a dark blue handkerchief around her head so the hay wouldn't get stuck between the curlers.

I knew she'd be getting mad because it was really hot outside and the sweat would be dripping onto her eyeglasses. She'd also be mad because of my crying. I wasn't hysterical if I could hear the pitchfork scrape against the bed of the truck every few seconds. That way I knew she was alive -- still dumping loose hay bales into the pasture for these awful cattle.

"1, 2, 3 . . .5," I counted the seconds out loud. " Mommy, are you still back there?" If I didn't hear the ringing of the pitchfork against the steel bed, I got scared. If something happened to her, I wouldn't know what to do. My feet were miles from the pedals on the floor, not that I knew which one to push anyway.

That thought didn't help my outlook. A bottomless fountain of tears welled up in my eyes, my snot dripped like thick, raw egg whites. I stuck my lower lip out and sucked my upper lip to keep from sobbing again. My sticky, sweet snot found its way to my mouth. As I tried to lick it away, I looked out the open truck window. A cow, staring at me, licked his snot too.  His big head was so close I could have reached out and touched it. He was one of those black, white-faced cows. Black, with a white face.  His nose was pink, like my kitten's, but his nostrils were so big, half his tongue disappeared as he searched for his snot to lick away.

"Mommy!!"

"What?!"

"How . . .how many more bales?" I counted the seconds again. "1, 2, 4, 5. No! Start over. 1, 2, 3  . . .If only Spencer were here." Oh, I was mad at my brother for going to school! I forced my eyes away from the top of the dashboard and the cows' heads. I looked to see how fast we were moving.  The red stick was between 0 and 5. "Stay closer to 0, please," I begged. I loosened my white and purple fingers from the steering wheel and grabbed up higher on the wheel. Now I could sort of see the cows' necks, not just their floating heads. On no, something evil loomed in the background.

"Mommy!" I yelled out the window. "There's a hill in the pasture. What do I do?" If I couldn't press on the gas pedal, the truck would roll backwards, Mommy would fall out and I'd run over her.

I closed my eyes, but I kept my hands on the wheel. Mommy had said before we started, "Just drive straight." Okay, okay! I'll drive straight.

I had to take one hand off the wheel though. I was drowning in my own snot and tears. I loosened my grip and quick as a prairie dog, I wiped my face against my long-sleeved shirt. A line of snot connected my sleeve and face together.

I always dressed in long-sleeved shirts and pants. The shirt I had on was a hand-me-down from Spencer. Mommy said he grew so fast there was still lots of wear in his clothes. Susan, who was right in between Spencer and me, refused to wear them. The blue jeans were mine though. They had red and white plaid cuffs at the bottom.

All summer long my brother would wear only shorts. Mommy told me that once, when I was little, she put me, Spencer, and Susan out in the yard in a galvanized tub filled with cold water from the garden hose. We were naked. Spencer and Susan splashed around in the sun and got brown as a jar of iced tea. I sat there and turned as bright red as one of her tomatoes in the garden. Mommy said the next day I had enough liquid in all my blisters to water the flowers.

If Spencer were home today, he'd be driving this big pick-up truck. They said I'd go to school next year--if I lived that long.

Suddenly the pick-up shifted. I couldn't tell what happened, but it felt differently. I pulled myself to the very edge of the seat to get a better look out the windshield.  That didn't work. Now I couldn't see anything, but the dials in front of me.

I scooted my butt back to where it had been. I listened to the cows mooing and the birds talking. I didn't hear the pitchfork. Mommy had fallen out. "MOMMY!!"

"I'm right here." She stuck her head in the driver's window. "Now get over. Or do you want to drive home?" She smiled as she said this.

"Mommy!" She opened the door while the pick-up still moved. I looked down at the red stick again. It was on 1. "Be careful," I warned her.

I was so happy. I laid my head down in her lap and cried some more. Her legs were busy shifting gears, pushing up and down on the pedals. I didn't care that my head bounced around like a basketball. We were both alive. Finally, her foot rested on the gas pedal. I could lay still. The smell of hay hung on her as if she'd tumbled around in it. It was a nice smell, even though it reminded me of cows. I rubbed my hand up and down her jeans, making designs from the flour that still clung to them. All at the same time, Mommy smelled like hay, fried chicken, and the Dippity-Doo gel that had sweated from her curled-up hair.

I sat up to make sure there were no more floating heads in front of the pick-up. "Mommy, I don't like cows."

"You'll get used to them," she told me, nodding her head.  "You'll get used to a lot of things you don't like."



**"A Child's View of Life on the Farm" was previously published Winter 1997, in The Returning Woman Magazine, a publication of Hunter College, NYC. A friend suggested I post it here. I thought it would make a nice companion piece to "Slice of Life," posted January 2015. Thanks for the suggestion CA.

Slice of Life

Forty years ago, I wrangled my way into my father's secret life for a day. Well, that is how my 8 year-old mind perceived this one special memory.

What are those memories we hold dear? Family vacation? Camp? Birthday party?

Mine involves my dad. Most times, he was an enigma to me. But every now and then, I glimpsed a different man. That was the man I wanted for my father. I wanted the one who talked loudly with his friends; the one who told the jokes and everyone laughed. Not the one who yelled, swore, and intimidated.With us-his two daughters, two sons, and wife-he shouted and didn't tell jokes.

As a parent now, I realize my siblings and I produced stress in his life and his buddies helped alleviate it. I get that. My kids can be a pain in the ass, but they are also an endless source of joy. I'm not sure I was a source of joy for my dad the way my children are for me. Then again, it was a previous generation. Love was revealed differently.

I spied bits and pieces of my dad's alter ego sprinkled throughout my childhood. The first time was after a church service. Mom got caught up talking to the pastor, while Dad slipped by and went outside. I restlessly stayed by my mom's side. I wanted to be outside too in the May sunshine and grass. As she and I left the foyer of the church, I saw Dad. He was with a cluster of other men, about six of them. All their ties had been loosened from around their necks to varying lengths. Dad's face and hands were animated as he talked. Suddenly, all the men burst out laughing. As wives and children appeared, each man left the shrinking circle to shoulder their responsibilities once again.

Occasionally, my family got together with our neighbors for pinochle parties. The grown-ups played cards, while the kids fought and played downstairs. Despite the childish shouts, "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Danny right over," I could hear a man's boisterous laughter reaching my ears through the air vents. It was Dad's. Why couldn't I make him laugh like that?

Every Wednesday in our small town was a livestock sale at the sale barn.  My dad went once or twice a month, depending on the weather and work. How I snuck into this bastion of maleness, I can only guess. I suspect Mom dropped Dad off while she went grocery shopping and warned him not to eat any pie at the sale barn cafe. She had apple and peach pie at home.

"Pie? I'm starving. Let me go with Daddy!" would have been my desperate response.

 To most people, the smell of cow manure, cherry pie, and coffee seems peculiar, even off-putting, but to me that mixture of odors represents my young hand nestled into my dad's over-sized, calloused farm hand. The only lipstick in this place, was on the woman behind the luncheon counter who my dad briefly flirted with in an attempt to get out of paying 35 cents for his cup of coffee.

Inside the sale barn, I sat next to Dad on the wooden benches that enclosed a large pen that could hold a dozen cattle. We sat next to my favorite neighbor, Leland, who lived down the road a couple miles. "Guten tag, liebchen," he said to me and winked.  They two men continued on with their German. My dad spoke only German until he started first grade at the local rural school in Kansas around 1933. Apparently, he managed to retain enough of it to converse with someone else who spoke it infrequently. To this day, I love hearing German spoken.

Their conversation was drowned out by a motherless, baby calf that was pushed into the empty arena. He bawled so loudly for her, the auctioneer had to have him pushed out before bidding could start. Next, a few head of cattle got herded into the well-worn, dirt-covered area. The auctioneer was busy calling and scanning the crowd for potential bidders. His assistant prodded the lumbering animals with a stick to display their girth. I understood more German than whatever words were reeling off the auctioneer's tongue. I looked over at my dad. More men had sat down and joined him and Leland. English replaced the German. I was glad Dad had changed into a clean pair of overalls.

I realize now the cattle sale was just an excuse for him to get away and be amongst his own kind--other hard working farmers, worried about corn, wheat, and cattle prices and the next blizzard. I hope my tagging along didn't ruin his afternoon.

Everything mesmerized me that day. The auctioneer with his unintelligible language, men relaxing, paying for pie, instead of eating their wives' pie that was most assuredly sitting on clean counters at home.

But nothing was as mysterious and wonderful as my father's personality on display for me for an entire afternoon.