Country Grit: A Farmoir of Finding Purpose and Love

by Scottie Jones

  The tractor was parked back in the shed without a scratch. Until writing this now, I don’t think Greg knew how close his tractor came to being scrap. Probably it never came close at all, given that Brick was a gifted logger. What he wasn’t, though, was a carpenter. He could tear floor boards out, but putting them back would require Luther and about four more weeks. And what I didn’t know was that the steelhead run started in a week, so I was about to lose one rambunctious logger.

  Like everything else in the country, schedules are organic. Commitments do not adhere to the tight structure of the factory, as they do in the city, but to the ebb and flow of nature. And, in Oregon, commitments are especially malleable when the fickle inclinations of those silver fish drive them upstream.

  LUTHER AND OTHERS

  Brick prepared his exit by referring us to Luther, who he promised was a skilled carpenter capable of speeding things up. I had heard stories of Luther. A lifelong bachelor, he lived with his dog in a bunkhouse behind his mother’s place just off the main road. Luther tended a small farm, supplying most of the fresh vegetables at the Merc. He did a little farming and the occasional odd job, but mostly Luther kept to himself. It was rumored that he ran a still up in the woods and that he consumed more than he sold. Some thought him a ne’er-do-well, while others thought he just about had it all figured out. One thing was certain: he lived life at his own speed, without the slightest concern for what others thought. The only schedule he recognized was the cycle of the moon that guided his planting.

  The stories did not match the breezy attitude of the man ambling up to my door. Blue eyes, straw hair, sun-burnished face, he sported huarache sandals and faded blue jeans held up with a multi-colored Mexican peasant sash. The look was more gypsy surfer than hillbilly hermit. And that smile, like a neon sign flashing “wanna ditch school?” I wondered how many women had reclaimed their inner schoolgirl while cruising on the bench seat of his beater pick-up truck.

  I opened the door and he held out a widget—a trellis made of willow and split cedar. It was part garden furniture and part folk art.

  “It’s my calling card. Keep it and think of me, if you need any handy work.”

  Greg stepped out from behind me and examined it. “I’m impressed. What kind of work?”

  “Two hands, two feet kind of work. Whatever you got. I can usually figure something out, but I like working with wood.”

  Now as a point of fact, I had neglected to tell Greg that Brick had referred Luther. Just as I was about to correct that omission, Greg veered the conversation into the fast lane.

  “I need a bridge over the creek. We got a footbridge, but it washes out.”

  “I can do that.”

  “But I don’t have any money.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Before we went too far down the wrong path, I intervened. “Umm, I think he’s here about the barn … And what bridge!? We don’t need a bridge.”

  “‘We don’t need a bridge?’ How do you plan to graze the far field when the floods hit? And what barn?! You mean Brick’s not finished stringing lights?”

  “Well, I may have forgotten to mention, it turned into a little more than stringing lights.”

  “What?! How much more?”

  “Well …” I said with exaggerated impatience. “That’s why Brick’s friend is here.”

  The man with straw hair and huarache sandals looked at us both and offered, “I got some pot in the truck if that will help?” Then he smiled and added, “’cause I’m starting to feel a little stoned just listening to the two of you.”

  Well, that fit. A ditch-school smile and pot in the truck. I knew Greg was now thinking he wanted this guy off his property. Before he could serve his eviction, the gypsy surfer continued, “I like to think I’m friends with most people up here, but which one sent me?”

  They both looked at me, expecting illumination.

  “Aren’t you Luther?”

  “Nope, and I checked before I left home. I’m Jack. I bet you mean Luther Vinson. Lives off the state route. You got him signed up to do your barn? Well, he does good work, least he did the last I knew.

  “I’ve been gone ten years. Just moved back. I was up on Whigby Island working as a handy man for rich people. But my daughter called saying she needed help with expenses. We’ve always been close, so I moved back to help her on her farm. Well, that, and my Catholic girlfriend converted to witch. She said my male energy was creating a ripple in her vortex and I should move outside. She packed my stuff and put it in the truck. When I released the parking brake, it just rolled right on down to my daughter’s place. So I’m back and looking for work but looks like I’m too late for this job. So, Brick who?”

  “Brick Reahl.”

  “You mean Rick. You got Ricky working on your barn? I was his shop teacher in high school. Ricky is a prankster. Locked me out of the school bus on a field trip. Course he forgot I had the keys and enjoy a good prank myself. He missed supper that night. Ricky is a good man, but Luther will get the job done.

  “Well, you got my card. Let me know if you want to do the bridge. I got thirty dollars an hour on Whigby but here I’ll do it for ten.”

  Apparently, Jack knew how to get to “yes” with my husband.

  “Ten dollars an hour?”

  “Yup.”

  “It’s about a forty-foot span and needs to support the weight of horses.”

  “That’s a significant bridge. Tell you what, we can harvest the cross beams on your property. That will save you enough to pay my labor. But I’ll need your help setting the beams. What do you say? Wanna build a bridge?”

  “Just one thing. I can’t have drugs on my farm. Can’t afford the legal entanglements.”

  Jack looked confused and then remembered, “Oh you mean the pot. That’s barter—better than money. In these woods, you’ll find it opens more doors and closes more deals than greenbacks. But your farm, your rules. No drugs.”

  Greg nodded and they shook on it. It was going so well, I thought maybe I could add on, “And maybe when the bridge is finished, Jack could help with the barn?”

  Jack drew back. “That’s a little tricky. A fella piggybacks on another fella’s job and that fella might start to feel a little stepped on when he sees his paycheck nibbled down. Probably best if we leave all the stallions in their stalls.”

  Okay, then. No piggybacks. Only stallions in stalls. I couldn’t help but wonder if it were women building a bridge, wouldn’t they welcome the help? Maybe not. Mares need stalls too. Still, I liked thinking about the stallions in their stalls.

  Two weeks later, Greg had a substantial bridge over our creek. It was the first “substantial” thing he had ever built, and a great source of pride. More than a carpenter, Jack was also a teacher. And more than a teacher, Jack was also a sculptor of the social vibe. A true artist of folk craft, he used wood and music and story to bring folk together. But we didn’t know that yet. Greg just knew he liked hanging out with Jack and they built a helluva bridge together.

  THE HERMIT AND THE GYPSY

  Luther did eventually arrive, looking like a wooden mannequin occupying the passenger’s side of Brick’s truck. Dressed in T-shirt, farm overalls, boots, and red bandana enclosing long, graying hair, he offered no invitation for engagement except a full, two-syllable “Hell-lo” that initially rose in cadence, then dropped in the dirt—seemingly exhausted under the weight of so much social obligation.

  We walked over to the barn to survey the scope of the project. From the distance came the rhythmic pounding of nails. I noted that construction on the bridge was underway as a simple point of reference. Luther could not have cared less. Brick pointed to the unit of rough cut lumber and asked if we wanted the more expensive galvanized nails used on it. I deferred to Luther’s judgment.

  Luther responded that it wasn’t his barn, and wasn’t his concern if we wanted to use cheap-ass nails that would rust out or not.

  So galvanized nails it was, then.
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  As for start date, Brick noted they were here now. Good because we needed the barn finished in time to put up the hay. They both nodded and began to square themselves away on job priorities. I was sent to town with a list of supplies, including galvanized nails.

  Before leaving, I noted Greg would be able to assist as soon as the bridge was complete. Brick, looking sheepish, responded, “Good, ’cause I can give you two more days and then I have another commitment.” Commitment being code for steelhead run on the Siletz River.

  I looked at Brick and then at the cavern that formerly was a barn and then at Brick again.

  Brick rushed to reassure, “Luther can finish up. Truth be told, Luther’s twice the carpenter I am.”

  Luther looked at me, waiting to see if Brick had just canceled their work order. I asked point blank, “Can you finish without Brick’s help?”

  “Always have.”

  Apparently this has happened before. “Well, guess I better get those supplies so I don’t hold you up.” I shot Brick a wilting look that he pretended not to notice. He was practiced at escaping the judgment of women.

  They put in two full days of work. The third day, Luther’s mother dropped him off in the morning. The fourth day, she dropped him off at noon. The fifth day she went into town and he missed his ride altogether. A pattern was emerging.

  I was inclined to fire Luther and hire Jack, who had been prompt, and true to his word. But this is a small town and firing a member of the community could have unforeseen ramifications. Asking them to work together also was fraught with complications, as Jack had indicated. Greg had a solution. Hire them separately. Give each stallion his own stall, or in this case, own side of the barn to work on. The competition might improve Luther’s work ethic. Greg would function in a swing position, helping both and making sure the competition remained friendly. We would start fresh on Monday.

  Monday morning, Jack showed, eager and willing. Luther was absent. We called and Luther’s mom walked the phone to the bunkhouse. Luther was still in his bath. He would be on the job as soon as he finished his soak. When would that be? When he finished.

  That tore it for me, but Greg wanted to give Luther one more chance. As Greg explained to Jack, he hoped competition would bring out the best in Luther.

  Jack smiled, “Luther’s not into team sports.” Then he winked and climbed into his truck, “Honey might work with flies but not so much with cats. Leave it to me.”

  An hour later Luther was on the job, looking freshly washed and as close to motivated as Luther ever got. Jack had access to motivational aides that were not in Greg’s toolbox. As Jack had noted, money only goes so far in the country, especially with asocial, self-sustaining misanthropes like Luther.

  Jack asked Luther where he wanted him to start. By handing Luther authority, Jack neatly avoided conflict. Luther took a few measurements and then directed Jack to start cutting boards to his specifications. Greg would transport the boards to Luther, who would be nailing in place. The construction was underway. Everyone found their role in service to the overall goal, submerging the struggle for dominance to the quest for accomplishment.

  Gradually the tedium of pounding nails was interspersed with stories of small triumphs, painful losses, and acts of defiance against The Machine—meaning, whatever form oppression took in their respective lives. Jack initiated, but each man found in the others’ stories a portal into their own. And as they caught up on each other’s lives, they found common themes that opened new portals to new stories that connected them in felt experience just as the work was connecting them to the project of building a tangible barn. By day’s end, tired bodies acknowledged a day of accomplishment that made the pain worthwhile and sustained the men’s spirit. The stories had woven them together in a cloth of companionship, and the weaver’s hand was so deft that it was barely seen.

  Jack drove Luther home and arranged to pick him up in the morning——right about breakfast time. Seems Luther’s mother made the best cinnamon buns in the county. Luther was never late again—or not as late—and Jack was never hungry again. The men found their woodworking skills to be complementary. Luther’s slow, methodical style curtailed Jack’s tendency toward impulsiveness and reduced errors, while Jack’s enthusiasm kept Luther on task and moving forward.

  And that’s how a gypsy surfer and a hillbilly hermit became the Wayfaring Brothers Construction Company. No job too big or too small, depending on the whether … meaning, whether they’re in the mood.

  PEEPING TOMS

  Chickens can’t fly, but they can manage a pretty good airborne hop. A six-foot fence will keep most chickens cooped. Turkeys will fly the coop. Heritage turkeys can catch enough air to sail over any fence a farmer can put up. Fortunately, they sail back at dusk. By mid-summer, our turkeys began free ranging beyond the coop. The dogs weren’t having any of it and chased them back. Thus began one of those epic struggles between freedom and limits. When the dogs were away, the turkeys tasted freedom. And for turkeys, freedom tasted a lot like fresh grubs and grapes.

  Through the summer the turkeys alternated between harassing the chickens, scaring the cat, running from the dogs, and hanging out with us while we did our chores. We would look up and find them staring at us through fence rails, or dodging sprinklers, or begging for lunch scraps from the farm help. While the hens were timid and uniform in personality, the toms were adventurous and provocative, with displays of tail feathers declaring their uniqueness. What started as strutting often escalated into tussling and squabbling matches with lots of commotion. And when they weren’t showing off, they were running in packs patrolling their territory. One poor delivery man was cornered by a circling gang of gobblers in full display. Cut off halfway between his van and our house, he was frozen with package in hand. “Beady-eyed devils” was his description of our heritage bronzes.

  They were great at sound mimicking. Any discordant noise would draw a chorus of gobbles. Greg took to baiting them, calling to them in the morning and waiting for a response. He tried a rhythmic, turkey rap repartee with some success until complaints from the neighbors shut it down. Art ahead of its time.

  Of all their antics, the toms were at their turkey best in the summer evenings. We have large, glass doors that open to a back patio. Regularly of an evening, three to four toms would be posted at those doors peeping in. Their long necks craning to see what lay beyond those panes of glass. Then they would bob and weave, looking for a better vantage point only to return to their tippy toe, full stretch stare. When their frustration reached a peak, they would start pecking at the door. This brought snarling dogs charging at them, causing them to scatter to the four corners.

  I assume they were responding to the turkeys they saw reflected in the glass, but who can say what goes through those pea brains programmed by mother nature? I do know that having large birds doing the bob and weave shuffle on your door step is both a delight and a mystery. And far more entertaining than anything programmed on the TV.

  In November, the truck came to collect the turkeys for market. I had mixed emotions. Loading lambs into an unfamiliar van is a nightmare. Their instinctive response is to protest, which seems a natural response to the impending event. In contrast, the turkeys allowed us to scoop them up without a fuss and place them in the van. They stood huddled in a tight group, wary of the new surroundings, but making no attempt to escape. Their vulnerability and their utter trust of me made it feel like an even deeper betrayal than with the lambs. It was just so sad. After that day, I swore I would never raise turkeys again. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a farmer—at least not a turkey farmer.

  That is, until our butcher mentioned how many pre-orders he had for next year. His customers raved about the taste. But then, they were used to commercial turkeys. These turkeys were heritage. A breed that existed only because a small farmer refused to “go big.” And they were raised on a small farm where they had a good life. They were beautiful, healthy birds that wandered our farm, digging gr
ubs, chasing cats, and doing their turkey dance to their heart’s content. They had provided the local schoolchildren with an up-close turkey experience that produced an abundance of questions (what’s the thing on their nose called? a snood) and colorful drawings. They had a happy life and they provided nourishment for us.

  Are we justified in taking another life to provide for our own? I believe so, if it’s done as ethically and humanely as possible. I am proud that my animals have a good life; I don’t think I will ever lose the sadness I feel for their sacrifice, though, and I’ve come to realize that’s a good thing. The sadness comes from caring about the quality of their life.

  So, we will be raising turkeys again. But I swear, those chicks need to make it on their own this year. And like most of my oaths, this is iron-clad … until it isn’t. Until I find a chick, fallen from the nest and struggling to survive. On our farm, the circle of life often involves a layover in the kitchen infirmary.

  Leaping Lamb Farm from hayfield

  Leaping Lamb Farm 1895 farm house

  The main barn, built in 1932

  Chaco and Mora

  “Hair sheep” rams

  Annie’s house

  Bridge over the creek

  Loading hay into the barn

  Chaco

  Scottie and “Rabbit”

  Annie and Caitlin with Chaco

  Greg holding twin lambs

  Processing apple cider on a cold day

  Our assembly line setup for inoculating mushroom logs

  Petting a chicken

  Photo credit: Joanna Lezak

  Peeping Tom at the back door

  Henry (farmer in training) delivering produce from the greenhouse