Country Grit: A Farmoir of Finding Purpose and Love

by Scottie Jones

  “No.”

  Brick laughed. “I guess you have gone country. Every favor comes with a price and sometimes two, right? But not this one.”

  “By that you mean, especially this one, so the answer is especially no.”

  Brick laughed again. “No, seriously, can you hold onto Paco for a day or two, just until I can get a pen built?”

  The truth is that any favor Brick asked could not be denied. Our debt to him was enormous and, while he might skip out to go fishing, he was always there when it counted. “Okay, so a day or two is how much in Brick time?”

  “Forty-six hours. I’m giving you two hours as interest on the loan.” Brick smiled.

  “Let me ask Greg?”

  Brick blew the truck’s horn to call him. Greg came around a corner and took one look at Brick, then the burro, then me. “No!”

  I decided to sit this one out. Brick cocked his head and laughed, “You know what they call a drive-by in the country? When you leave your car window down and someone throws a bag of zucchini in the back.”

  This might have been funny if it weren’t true. Zucchini grow in abundance, and by the second week of August, you look for “friends” to receive the gift that keeps on gifting.

  Greg was not laughing. Brick continued, unfazed. “It’s only temporary ’til I get the pen built. I drive by Eva’s place every day and see this poor animal out there suffering. This was Jack’s burro. Eva’s got her hands full working and raising a family. I promised her I’d give it a good home. Just hold him ’til I can get the pen built—couple days.”

  As burros go, this animal was worthless and pitiful too. It was a miniature, Sicilian burro, meaning it had a full burro body, including big ears and big belly, on stubby little legs. The Sicilian meant it had extra-long hair, which was matted and hanging over its eyes, with globs of dried mud attached everywhere. It resembled a walking haystack with a black nose.

  Brick untethered the donkey and led it down to graze on the grass. Instead of grazing, it walked over to Greg and nuzzled against him like a big, gray dog. I had to look down to keep from laughing. This burro was a delightful con artist, not unlike Jack.

  Greg began to stroke the hair out of the burro’s eyes. “Two days?”

  “Forty-six hours.” I clarified, “Two hours for interest.”

  Brick laughed, “Probably less.”

  “’Cause if it goes one minute over that, I’m bringing this donkey down to your house and tying him to your front porch,” Greg asserted.

  “And you’d be in your rights to do that.” Brick responded.

  Then Greg turned to me and with the full measure of his moral authority, pronounced, “And don’t you get attached, ’cause this animal is gone in two days.”

  Right, I’ll be careful not to do that, Sergeant Rock, but then I wasn’t the one scratching his ears at that moment.

  Brick visited for a bit and then it was time to go. He drove casually down the driveway, careful not to hit the gas until he was out of sight. I lingered to watch him pull away. He didn’t turn toward his house but instead turned toward the river. There was a fishing pole in the gun rack. No doubt, that’s where he was headed when he came across Eva and her burro problem. Heavy is the head that wears the mayoral crown.

  I doubted that we’d see Brick again for at least a week. We had been the target of a country drive-by. Instead of zucchini, it was a burro. I didn’t mind because it was Jack’s burro, imbued with some of Jack’s personality. Brick understood this connection and was counting on it to make the adoption stick. Objectively, we were probably in the best position of anyone in the vicinity to take on a burro—that is, if we were staying. And it would likely take us many months to sell the farm and who knows what options would open for Paco in that period. Mostly, I was just curious how long it would take Greg to realize he’d been hit by a drive-by.

  Of course, Paco still had to work out his place in the horse hierarchy. With his stubby legs, it was at the bottom. No use to challenge the obvious. If Paco needed to feel big, he could raise hell with the sheep, which he did occasionally. Paco’s place was unique and he accepted it with grace.

  As for me, Paco redirected me away from the cabin and all that loss. Paco came into Jack’s life when he lost Rosco. Rather than focusing on the loss or retribution, Jack pivoted into a new relationship. The little burro was a reminder of Jack’s light touch with life’s hard problems.

  We were going to have to pivot off this farm. I didn’t know where to or even how to yet. But wherever we went, we would be taking our horses with us, and how much more trouble is a little furball donkey going to be? It just needs a certain lightness of touch.

  The forty-six hours passed without incident—unless you count Greg rubbing Paco’s ears an incident. A week later he noted Brick had still not built a pen. On reflection, Greg observed, Brick was a great guy but a bit “irresponsible” for the duties required of a donkey. After careful consideration, he thought it would be better … for the donkey … if we just kept him … until we had to leave.

  I hadn’t told Greg that Brick had already called asking how the “goat” was working out. I confronted him about doing a drive-by. He was a little chagrined but laughed and said it just made more sense given we had the setup. He added, “That little booger is cute.” The truth is that Brick knew the deal was sealed when the burro nuzzled Greg. But I wanted to see how far I could take this.

  “Brick agreed to forty-six hours and you’ve been more than fair. I’ll put the halter on and you can walk Paco to Brick’s front porch and tie him up, just like you said.”

  “I just don’t think that’s fair to the donkey.”

  “Deal is a deal. This is a farm. Every animal has to pull its weight. The donkey is not our problem.”

  “I don’t know. I kind of like having the donkey here. Reminds me of Jack.”

  “You mean to tell me that you got attached?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “Then I think we should keep the donkey.”

  “What about Brick? Think he’ll be upset?”

  “I think he’ll get over it. Why don’t you take him a beer and see what he says.”

  That’s what Greg did. Apparently, Brick has amazing recuperative abilities.

  BEAR IN THE GARDEN, BEES IN THE TRASH

  A yellow lab was making a nosey skitter across our front lawn. Trot, stop, sniff; trot, stop, sniff. This is bad behavior in the country and did not go unnoticed by our canine nation. They bolted out the dog door in full war cry. The lab realized his error too late to make an escape and did the next best thing. He rolled over in utter surrender. Both dogs were on him with ferocious snapping jaws but as soon as he went leg up, they pulled up and circled. There was some pawing and growling and a few snaps at his face, but the lab held his pose. Finally, the growls gave way to butt sniffs, and the lab popped up ready to play with his new friends.

  With the canine conflict resolved, we moved on to the human conflict. This kind of bad behavior leads to dogs being shot. The dog had tags, I just needed to catch him and phone the owners. It wasn’t hard since the dog approached me with wagging tail. After a proper introduction, I bent over to read his tag. Big mistake. I got a face washing like I hadn’t had since that mud puddle incident at age four.

  Through the licks, I was able to read that Louie belonged to one Mark Sunkett, residing in San Francisco. Licky Louie was a long way from home. Most likely Louie wandered from his owners while they were visiting somewhere in the area. Hard to know exactly what scenario brought Louie to my lawn and, ultimately, it was not my concern. This was a call to animal control. As I was making the call, another interloper—possibly a bear … with a bald head … and tie-dyed T-shirt, tanker shorts, and flip-flops … was meandering across my lawn calling for Louie.

  I stuck my head out the door and called to Mark who responded with a quizzical look. “It’s okay. Louie has already started the introductions. You’re the new neighbor, right?”

&n
bsp; The bear-man was quite genial, with large brown eyes and an impish smile—teddy bear was a more apt description. I invited him in for get-acquainted coffee and a muffin. He flipped open his cell phone to call his wife, Kathy, to join us. It was a real greenie move. I handed him the phone and reminded him we live in a slot valley. Then I demonstrated the proper way to call a spouse by giving a shrill whistle. Slot valleys may be bad for cell phone reception but they’re great for echo. Greg and Kathy joined us before the coffee finished percolating.

  Kathy and Mark had worked in the Bay Area as mental health counselors. Kathy, a willowy blonde with a voice so calm it could turn a Chicago trucker into a tree hugger, was a psychiatric nurse—a job in high demand with great geographical flexibility. Mark was hoping to transition into the construction trade. After being priced out of the Bay Area housing market, they came north to find a home with enough land for subsistence gardening. By lowering their housing cost and supplementing with gardening, they could survive on Kathy’s salary while Mark transitioned.

  So once again, urbanites looking to get back to the land. But they didn’t buy a farm, only a large garden. And they were ten years younger than us with more energy to pull it off. So probably relatively sane. Still, they were in for a steep learning curve. We shared our story, minimizing key parts with the generic “it’s a lot of hard work.” They were still in the brightly deluded stage. It would have been cruel to throw that much cold water on their dream in our first meeting. And I left out the part about contacting their realtor to sell our farm. It would take Tanya months, and we had time to ease into that topic.

  Instead we offered to introduce them to the community. They would need the formal tail-gate welcome from the mayor. We told them which beer he liked. And we told them they could get the beer and any other necessities such as ammunition, lamp oil, suspenders, ginseng root, bolt cutters, or pizza at Nate’s Merc. And I invited them on my morning walk with Sarah, which they accepted with pleasure. We were in mushroom season, so our walks benefitted not only our muscles and minds, but supplemented our meals as well. Better than a gym membership.

  This next part began with a mole. If you’ve never seen a mole, they’re about the size of a sewer rat, with black fur, pointy snouts, sharp teeth, and bright pink paws that look like they’re wearing gloves put on backwards. Their hair follicles are uniquely perpendicular to their skin so their fur won’t bind when they reverse in their tunnels. They are a peculiar and rather sinister looking creature.

  On this particular night, Bubba, our own emissary from Satan, dispatched a mole. He found it not to his taste and dropped it by our back door before moving on to more delectable mice. The mole carcass sat by the door the rest of the night and the better part of the next day before Greg disposed of it in the trash can. He did this in total disregard of the obvious omen posed by evil (Bubba) killing evil (the mole). I’m pretty sure that doubles the evil. You can fact check it in any witch’s bible.

  Having finished my chores, I was discarding a feed bag in the trash when several wasps emerged from the mole carcass, then several more, then a horde. Before I could get the lid down, they swarmed me, going for my only exposed region—my head. I swatted them away and dropped the lid but not before I was stung on the neck. I flashed on the intense pain from last summer’s attack and the warning that I might be developing an allergy to wasp venom. I rushed inside for some Benadryl.

  As I reached the door my entire body began to feel prickly hot. Not a good sign. Skip the Benadryl, where’s the EpiPen? Yes, where is the EpiPen? I called Greg. By the time he arrived, I had found the pen. I checked the expiration date but it kept blurring out of focus. Or was it my legs wobbling? I handed Greg the pen and told him about the wasps with growing panic in my voice.

  The psychologist took over. He began talking me down from my anxiety attack. I tried to relax but the symptoms weren’t getting any better. “The pen. The pen.” I remember getting that much out. My heart was racing, my throat constricting, and my vision was blurry, bright lights. The symptoms alarmed Greg and he called Kathy. He was better at talking than medicating. Kathy wasn’t there but Mark came immediately. I was on the floor losing consciousness and the only thing between my death and the EpiPen was the deft reactions of these men. Greg called to Mark to read the direction while he administered the shot.

  “EpiPen, manufactured for DEY, Napa, CA by Meridian Medical Technologies, Inc., a subsidiary of King Pharmaceuticals, Inc., Columbia, MD, USA.”

  “Skip to the directions.”

  “These are the directions.”

  “Yeah, just get to the important part.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “For Christ’s sake hurry, she’s turning blue.”

  “I’m calling Kathy.”

  And so they did. Kathy told Mark to hold the phone to Greg’s ear. In her exquisitely calm voice she said, “Slam the pen into her thigh.”

  “What about her clothes? Should we cut a hole or something?”

  Still calm, “Just slam the damn thing.”

  And so the boys did, saving my life.

  The next thing I remember, I was lying on the floor, cushion under my head, and Greg dabbing a towel full of ice on my forehead. Mark was on the phone to 911. Kathy came through the door about ten feet ahead of the paramedics. Did I know who I was? Where I was? Yeah, it’s still spinning but I could talk. They started an IV.

  More people. The dogs kept pushing the door open and were chased out. Two hunky firemen lifted me onto a stretcher. Someone canceled a helicopter. More hunky paramedics loaded me into the ambulance. We sped down the gravel road past Brick pulled over in his truck. I remember the look of concern on his face. The rest was surreal. Facing backward as we whipped through the curves of the mountain pass. Kathy’s voice so reassuring.

  I spent the next few hours in the ER, throwing up. Gradually my heart stopped racing, my throat opened up, and the hives went away. The doctor noted it had been a close call and next time, not to delay the injection. Greg looked embarrassed. It may have taken him awhile but he got the job done when it counted. I gave his hand a little squeeze. There was Kathy and Mark hovering around my bed. I realized we had just forged a lifelong bond and I thanked them from the bottom of my heart.

  Back home, we stocked up on EpiPens and reviewed the procedures for using them. We also laid in a good supply of wasp spray. I called Brick to reassure him. He was greatly relieved.

  As for me, it was a terrifying event that traveled from the banality of farm chores to the cusp of death in minutes. Another delusion destroyed. That sense of safety, of time enough, that we all assume without a questioning thought. That sense is an illusion. We do not have enough time. And knowing that, what do you want to do with this life, right now?

  Yes, what indeed!

  RULES OF THE CIDER HOUSE, REVISITED

  Having your life saved is an oddly ambivalent experience. While it’s at the top of the chart for positive bonding experiences, it’s difficult to assuage that persistent sense of debt. These people saved my life, after all. The Sunketts were gracious people and would gladly have forgotten the whole event. I, however, couldn’t escape the feeling that I should end every sentence to them with pulsing gratitude. “Would you like a glass of wine and thank you for saving my life?” And perhaps it was their graciousness that kept that feeling in play. Greg, by contrast, was quite happy to have me eternally in his debt. I had to remind him that his contribution was to try to talk me out of anaphylactic shock.

  Being gracious people, the Sunketts had a gracious solution to our friendship impediment. They proposed a juicing party. Just like Bay Area hipsters to rename happy hour, I thought. But they had another kind of juice in mind. We had a small apple orchard behind our house that fed a variety of livestock and wildstock and occasionally a few people. They suggested we get together to juice some apples. They would supply the labor, namely Mark’s bear-aptitude for shaking apples from trees. We would supply the resources: the apples and a
press Greg had picked up at a yard sale.

  So on a chilly November morning, we assembled on our concrete car port, with tubs of apples and a medieval-looking press, to juice. A bold move since our collective experience at juicing was to pay a store clerk for the finished product. Being children of the Industrial Age, we broke the task into a series of production stations. First, the apples were dumped into cleansing solution, then they were taken to a chopping station where they were quartered, then dropped into the automated pulverizer, then into the press. The press had a manual screw top the boys tightened down, squirting juice from the ribbed sides of the containment cylinder into a collection pan which was then funneled into a pure stream of liquid gold.

  Easy enough, right? Except it was a chilly November morning. The cold eliminated the wasps that would have had a keen interest in our sweet nectar product. The trade-off was standing on cold concrete while retrieving apples from icy water baths, producing a numbing chill that makes the handling of sharp knives challenging. When the apples aren’t quartered properly, they jam the pulverizer. Using bare fingers to free a pulverizing machine is never a good idea. Multiple thrusts with a wooden spoon work better, but that spits out regurgitated pulp that must be dodged to avoid having your face painted. And there’s the compacted mash at the bottom of each squeeze. This has to be pounded out with a sledge while someone holds the press. It’s inevitable that, at some point, the sledge will strike frozen red knuckles.

  On this occasion, it was Greg’s knuckles and the sledge blow was mine. Unlike the Sunketts, Greg is not a gracious person. He flung a slushy clot of apple mash at my face. Greg is also not quick. Certainly, not quick enough. I ducked and it hit Kathy in the face. Let the court record reflect that I was innocent of intent. She screamed a vulgar misrepresentation of my birth mother and threw a glob that hit me in the face. I responded with a particularly large, pulpy gob that hit her square in her flaxen hair. Yeah, that’s right, sticky apple curds matting her flaxen hair. Apple juice probably dribbling into her ear. And for good measure, I plugged Greg too. Greg drew a bead on me but Mark nailed him before he could execute. Kathy came to Greg’s defense and roiled Mark with a head splat. With the sides chosen, the battle was enjoined. There were no winners and no quarter given until we were mashed out.