by Amy Stinnett
“Har, har.” I shoved her foot off the edge of the couch. “No,” I scooted down and showed her. “Now, she was in a yin yang opposite me.
Liv wriggled into position and started rubbing my leg seductively with her foot. “Oh, Billie, I love having leg sex with you. You’re the best!”
I sat up and glared at her. “Have I mentioned that I truly hate you.”
“Many times.”
“Ugh.”
“Look, I wish I could live here with you and play farmer Sally, but I can’t. However, comma, I think you would be great at it, and I would love to come help sometimes. I don’t care if this Jodie chick is as clueless as she seems …” She made a circular motion with her hands. “At least from my point of view. Geez, don’t get your panties in a wad! But you have been more like yourself since you got here. I think you were getting bored with Seattle and school and stuff. I mean, why else would you end up with Ton-Ton. Just sayin’. If you want to go back to Seattle, I will miss you, but I do like seeing you from time to time. Also, I will be happy to take Frodo back, permanently, if need be.” She snatched him up and stuck her nose to his while scratching his ears.
Dammit Liv. It’d be easier to take your advice if you weren’t always right.
March 21, 2013
Yesterday afternoon three does freshened, meaning they’ve delivered their kids. Two of them were in the barn of their own volition, as with most of the other does, but the last one bristled at the idea of giving birth around people. Elliot and I had to corral her into the barn and then close it off with a fence panel so she wouldn’t be out in the cold all night. Elliot and Sheila were there all afternoon, and Jodie joined us after work, just in time to see the last of a second set of twins pop out.
After the last baby was dipped, rubbed down, and suckling on its mother, we all sat around on buckets and bales of straw (not hay), talking about the weather, Jodie’s kids at the library, and Sheila’s grandkids. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of one thing about my friends in Seattle that would be of any interest to any of them. I did tell them about my new “sister/niece” and stepfather. Harvey is starting to grow on me. Even Elliot, usually quiet in a group, told us about calling the veterinarian about a dog that was hit. It was over the weekend and she didn’t have any staff, so he went to the clinic and helped her set the bone. Just sitting around swapping stories was really cool.
I was actually sleeping in, when Bill called me this morning and asked to come over. He got another offer on the place that didn’t look like they would work with Elliot, and he laid out a strategy for hay production based on potential buyers that I had not thought about. Just as he was about to walk out the door, he turned back and asked me if I'd read my dad's journals yet. I told him Mom had not shared them with me, and I hadn't asked, but he said he meant the ones here at the farm. My mind went back to my Dad’s bookcase in the bedroom. Yep, the older ones were all in there, except for his last one that was on his desk. Bill told me Dad didn't mention them specifically because he wanted me to find them when I was ready to read them.
After Bill left I realized, I was as ready as I was ever going to be. I went to the desk and read the last few entries. Here is one of them:
Monday, 5 July 2012
I felt pretty good today, 4 out of 5. Hotter than hell, though.
All last night I could see the light on at Elliot’s place. Whether that was trouble with his mother or all the fireworks blasting around triggering him, I don’t know, but he showed up this morning in a calm mood. I think Elliot is the strongest man I’ve ever met. If I’d gone through all that he has, I’d be a shambles. The loss of his father, bonding with his unit and losing them, all of them, the violence of war, and the injuries, so many that can’t even be seen – just one of these could cripple a lesser man. But Elliot survived with his moral compass intact. I keep encouraging him to reach out into the world, or at least to Emmett, both for his own good and because this area needs more people like him in it. He has saved my bacon more times than I can count, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do to help him. I hope that wherever I land when I leave this world, Elliot or my memories of him follow me there.
They always say you can’t miss what you never had, but I miss my dad sometimes like I’ve known him my whole life. Here’s the final passage:
Thursday, 4 October 2012
The cutting’s been done for about a week now, and I had to get out of this house. One thing I’ve learned, whenever I have so many thoughts buzzing around in my head that I cannot think, I need to walk the land. And that was true today. Even though I had to stop many times to catch my breath, and my bones ached like I was in an Iron Maiden, I still felt the same sense of peace I felt when I landed here back in 1992. The sun was kind and shone down upon my tired bones and somehow my muddled thoughts were clearer, too. I thought about all the people, animals, and even down to a delicious ripe pear, all of the beautiful things that have made this life a wonderful place for me. With the bright blue ceiling, the snow caps in the distance, and the verdant valley around me, it would not be hard to believe in a creator, if I were so inclined.
Elliot found me on the edge of the field and helped me back to the house. I wrote out some final instructions for my will and called Bill to get things set up. Even though our love affair has long since faded, I want Michele to know my love for her is eternal. There has been no time during my life that I would not have welcomed her with open arms, but, alas, the life of a farm wife was never one she wanted. I want Billie to know how much she means to me, and this farm is the only gift I have to give her now. Whether she keep sit or uses it to fulfill a dream of her own, I care not a whit. I have done my utmost to protect and aid my dear friend Elliot, in recompense for his service and his abject loyalty to an old curmudgeon, but all that I have been able to do it plant the seeds that I hope bring fruit to his moving beyond the scars that war has inflicted upon him. I can feel myself slide back into that other realm, the one where my thoughts turn dark and gratitude wanes. My grandest hope is that I spend as little time there as possible before moving on. I doubt there will be further entries in my journal, so, so long. Or as our old friend Louis L’Amour says, “There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; that will be the beginning.”
I sat at Dad’s desk, making an attempt to work through all that Dad had written, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elliot through the window, carrying a bucket of water to our new second home, the goat barn. (By the way, the new pump works great!) I threw on my outside clothes and caught up with him trying to keep the goats from knocking the bucket over until he just gave up. “What’s today’s count?”
“44.” He grabbed a file he carried with him all the time, lifted a random goat hoof and filed on it for a minute or so.
“How many left?”
“5 or 6. A couple of ‘em’s stubborn. But we been lucky. A coupla puny ones, but they’ll live.” He started filing on another hoof.
“Elliot, are you doing okay?”
When he finished the hoof, he stood upright and looked at me. “You know, I think I’m getting better.”
We hadn’t had much time to talk since I came back from my trip. At least, there wasn’t a time I had felt comfortable asking him personal questions. “That’s great.”
“I been going in and helping that vet lady. Doing trimming and large animal stuff she’d just as soon not bother with.” He looked intently at the herd in the middle of the pasture. Because of everything with his mom, I never questioned when he did or didn’t show up early in the morning. But that made sense. It was actually a relief that he was getting out into the world. Like Dad wanted.
“That’s really cool!”
“You know, I been meanin’ to talk to you about that.” He paused. “She wants me to help her full time, but I been fightin’ back on it ‘cause of the kiddin’. I guess I’ll be having to cut back on stuff around here. Not everything, but a bit. No worries. I can set you up with the egg custome
rs, and I know a guy that can help out if you need him. He’s kind of a horse’s ass but he works good. And I’ll help you when the time comes to sell off the animals.”
I felt dizzy and thought I might pass out. Elliot must have not gotten the memo that I was considering staying. Heavily considering staying. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to blurt out a million things at once, but instead, I swallowed hard and asked him more questions about the vet. As he spoke, I tried to calm my mind and step back from the situation, but all I could think was How can I make this work without Elliot? I had the sinking feeling that the answer was I can’t.
After he went home, and I finished up the chickens, I ate a bowl of stew, thinking back on all the meals I’d shared with Elliot and how that seemed to be coming to an end. I checked the baby monitor, but nothing strange was going on there. I turned on the TV, shoved a random western into the DVD player, and curled up on the couch with Frodo. I fell asleep just as the bad guy rode into town.
March 22, 2013
At 2:36 a.m. something that sounded like a demon being slaughtered bellowed in my ear. I sat bolt upright and clawed at the baby monitor on the coffee table to turn the sound down. It didn’t sound any better at a lower decibel. I ran to the mudroom, threw on my outside clothes, and raced to the barn, slipping in mud and nearly falling at the corner. One of the remaining pregnant does was lying on her side, mouth raised toward the roof, howling with pain. I stuffed my hands in all my pockets and found no cell phone. It was back on the counter in the house, charging. I looked down at her backside and saw a giant hoof poking out. No time to go get the phone.
I reached around past the hoof, trying to find the other one. It was there! Having watched so many births over the last few days, even pulling one myself with Elliot’s help, I kind of knew what to do. This kid was stuffed so tight against her, though. I grabbed a towel and dried the hoof and part of the leg so I could get a hold of it. Just then, I felt the doe start to rare back and push the baby, and the second hoof popped out. I wiped it off, and a moment later she was pushing again.
I found myself giving her lots of encouragement, like I would a person. “Come on, Mama Goat, you can do it. Here he comes, just a couple more pushes.”
One more push, and the nose and head appeared with its tongue lolling out. On the next push the shoulders squeaked through, and plop, out came the whole kid. He was huge! I cleared the little guy’s mouth and nose and rubbed him all over with rags and pulled him over to his mother, who just stared at him and licked him once on the head. He was flopping around like a drunk seal, but clearly healthy. I was so relieved. Mama Goat snorted at me and commented that she’d rather I didn’t mess with her offspring, so I backed off. She got up and started cleaning him, steam floating up from the kid and his mother’s mouth. Within minutes, he was stumbling around his mother like a last call drunk.
I collapsed onto one of the straw bales and enjoyed the beauty of the moment. Maybe there is something to this parenting thing, after all.
Most of the other births had been twins, so I was prepared for a second delivery to happen soon. Sure enough, Mama Goat lay down and started grunting. This time, though, she wasn’t bellowing like the end of times. After the size of the last one, I was certain the next kid would be a breeze, and she was pushing the thing out like a pro. I just stood by, and moments later, a new kid plopped out on the ground behind her.
She sniffed it, licked its face, and went over to her other kid to start him nursing. I couldn’t see any movement from the new kid, so I knelt down and wiped his face with the cloth. No movement. I pried his mouth open, reached in and cleared it of a ton of goop. Still no movement. His tongue hanging out the side of it’s mouth. I started to panic.
If I went to call Sheila or anybody, it would be too late for this one. Elliot said sometimes you have to turn them upside down and spinning them. It sounds brutal, but I was willing to try anything. I grabbed the kid’s back legs and shook it. I turned around, and its head and front legs flailed lifelessly against me. I shifted my arms around the top of its back legs and spun around, hoping anything in its throat might come loose. I spun and spun until I almost fell down. Nothing.
I lay the kid down and tried rubbing it briskly. Nothing was working! I screamed out of frustration and looked around madly for something I could use to help. I begged Mama Goat, “Please fix this one!” But she just stared at me, chewing her cud like nothing tragic was happening. The first kid was bumping into her, desperately looking for a teat. I reached down and cupped the second kid’s nose with my hand and blew into it. He was getting colder. I could tell by the steam subsiding around his body and none issuing from his mouth and nose. I picked him up again and swung him around until I was dizzy. Same result.
This time, I collapsed on the straw bale, slid onto the ground, and burst into tears. Is there anything more terrible than losing a newborn life? I can’t imagine what it could be. Mama Goat seemed okay; she had one baby, and that was enough for her. But I sat there wishing I’d been more prepared, that I’d had my phone and called Elliot or Sheila or anybody even one iota more competent than me. I was sure that if I had, the baby goat would still be alive. This kid dying was my fault.
Through my tears, I saw a water bucket, knocked over and leaning against the barn wall. I half-remembered Elliot saying something about cold water. I jumped up and grabbed the bucket, still about half-full, and poured it onto the baby’s body. His body convulsed, and his head moved! Then he pulled his tongue into his mouth and made a gurgling noise. I leapt to his side and swept his mouth of the gunk that must have dislodged from his throat. I started vigorously drying him off.
Mama Goat sauntered over and began licking him leaving her first-born, confused at being cut off from nursing, bleated.
“Sure, now you’re interested,” I told Mama Goat.
Once the kid was toweled off and under its mother’s care, I pulled myself back to my hay stack. I leaned back and breathed in the barn smells and the utter joy of not losing that baby goat. I lay down on my side and stared at the perfect little goat family getting to know each other. I closed my eyes and, out of sheer emotional exhaustion, fell asleep.
March 22, 2013 (continued)
In my dream I hear boots trampling over rocks. I am climbing a hill and the other climbers are above me, just out of sight. I’m sure my dad is with them. I yell, “Wait for me!” and race to catch up, sliding in the loose rocks.
“Billie?”
Who was that? Dad?
“Billie. Uh. You should get in the house.”
I opened my eyes and stared up at Elliot, who was sideways for some reason, lifting his hat up and scratching his moppy red head. Under me, I felt the hard pack of a well-worn pony blanket over a giant straw bale and pushed myself up to join the living. The low-lying sun winked over Elliot’s shoulder.
“Oh, she went last night?” He pointed at Mama Goat. “How’d that go?”
I breathed in and thought to play it cool, but ditched the idea immediately. “Huge first one, second one almost died.”
He looked at the second kid, a quarter smaller than its older brother, then back at me. “You done good.”
“I almost gave up. It was terrifying.”
“Almos’ don’t count. These late ‘uns can be the hardest. I lost two last year. Stillbirth and one deformed. A coupla years ago, one from white muscle disease. Things happen.”
“Aw, crap! I haven’t dipped them yet.”
“That’s okay, I’ll get ’em. You get in the house and get warmed up.”
“Okay. I’ll be out in a few minutes to help you.” I stood up, feeling stiff as a board.
“Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here ’til noon. Pretty sure I can get things caught up.”
I slogged my way into the house and let a hyper and annoyed Frodo outside to do his business before I went inside to do mine. I splashed some water on my face and got ready to go back outside. My head was pounding, so I sat on the couch for a
moment, trying to gather my thoughts. Selling this place, not selling this place, leaving Elliot and Jodie, Elliot quitting the farm, dying babies, saved babies, Mom and Dad … and Bill, not going back to school, facing Seattle alone, Mom and her new family. All the concerns that plagued me whirled around in my brain, none settling, none reaching anything resembling a conclusion. And all the while, one phrase kept interrupting them: walk the land.
I filled my water bottle and shuffled out the door, hoping Elliot would understand my bailing on him to just walk around and essentially do nothing. As I stood on the edge of the porch, letting my eyes acclimate to the bright sunlight, now a few more inches above the horizon, the little grey hen, the one I had struggled to corral that one day, hopped across the driveway, intent on the chicken run. Behind her, four fuzzy chicks rushed to catch up.
“So, that’s what she’s been up to.” Elliot peeked around the corner of the house. “She must be ready to eat some real food.”
I marveled at her tiny body. Although she was all fluffed out, I could tell she had lost a bunch of weight. “Is she okay?”
“Yep, she’ll be fine. She’s just been sitting her nest ’til she’s almost starved. But watch her.” He went over to the run and opened the gate, and the birds scooted inside. We crowded the gate and peered at the little family. She went straight to the feeder and began pecking. Her children edged around her to see what the feeder was all about, trying the smaller pieces and huddling close. Soon they fanned out and began nosing around the run. A curious hen sidled up to one of the chicks and pecked at it. Mama Chicken lashed out at her in a bluster of angry squawks, diving at the other hen’s head with her feet and beak. “See, she’ll clobber anybody who comes near those chicks.”
“Hey, I know this is dumb, but shouldn’t there be a whole bunch more chicks? It’s spring now, maybe too early?”