The Rose Farm Trilogy
By Brenda Kennedy
***
Copyright 2016 by Brenda Kennedy
KINDLE EDITION
Disclaimer: People and places in this book have been used fictitiously and without malice.
This box set was previously published in three volumes:
Forever Country
Country Life
Country Love
Dedicated with love to my sisters,
Martha, Rosa, and Carla
Dedicated with love and respect to
David, George, and Frank
Dedicated with love to
John, Bo, and Rexy
I will always strive to be better because of you.
I would also like to dedicate the series to the residents of Rose Farm, Ohio, who witness simple living at its best.
***
Chapter One (Forever Country)
Abel Kennedy
It’s been six months since I lost the Heavyweight Boxing Championship fight to Bobby Grether. Although I’m disappointed, I know that he won fair and square. Even I can admit that.
After the fight, I stayed hidden in my suite at the Bellagio Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. I was waiting for the swelling and bruising to go down on my face before being seen in public. I looked bad. In fact, I looked as bad as I felt. I was never one for public humiliation. I was the fighting champion, and then suddenly I wasn’t. It hurt. It hurt almost as bad as the injuries.
I talked to Momma and Pops every day. Pops said he saw the fight on television, and he knew the condition I was in. He said Momma busied herself in the kitchen, makin’ fried chicken and peach cobbler so she had an excuse not to watch the fight. I invited them to all of my fights, but they didn’t attend any of them. Pops is busy on the farm and Momma, well, she doesn’t want to see anyone hittin’ her baby. “Baby” is her word, not mine. I’m 31 years old, so I’m hardly a baby. But I’ll always be her baby, no matter how old I am.
My managers, Tony and Mack, stayed with me during my recuperation time after the fight. They were disappointed when I lost the championship belt, but I think they were more disappointed when I told them I was retiring. Well, maybe I’ll semi-retire; I haven’t decided yet. I do know this body needs a long rest.
I decided to return to my country roots in Rose Farm, Ohio for the holidays. My parents are getting old and when my brother called and asked if I could come home and help on the farm, I couldn’t say no.
I fly into Columbus, Ohio, rent a pickup truck, and drive myself to Rose Farm. Pops calls the farm “The Kennedy Mule Hill Farm,” but I’m not sure why. As I travel the old country roads, I see not much has changed. I left the rural area right out of high school and returned home only a few times over the years.
I didn’t want to be a farmer, and I didn’t want this life for me. I’ve stepped in manure way too many times. I like music, and I know that the Mississippi Sheiks’ Walter Vinson, who used to work as a field hand, had a very good reason for quitting and taking off with his guitar to play the country blues I love so much: “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life behind a mule that’s farting.” Of course, that was back in the days when mules pulled plows.
Pops works hard, and he’s a proud man, but I wanted more for me, and for them. I thought if I made a lot of money, I would move my family away from the farm and into the city. I would be able to provide for them, and their life would be better, happier, and easier.
I was wrong. They never left the farm, and they never cashed most of the checks I sent home for them. I sent them more than enough to pay off the farm, the farming equipment, and a sufficient amount to retire on and hire a farmhand. Those checks are stored away in a box in a closet. I will never understand why they chose to struggle the way they do. Pops did call me once and asked if he could cash one of the checks. He said Momma was getting’ mighty tired of holdin’ an umbrella over her head while hearin’ the gospel. I think that translates into “the church roof leaks.”
Most people call their farms ranches, but not in this neck of the woods. They’re just farms. There’s nothing fancy about a farmhouse, country land, or country living.
I drive through Crooksville, and nothing has changed. The old Crooksville Bank, now called “The Community Bank,” is still there and Peaches Place, a family restaurant, is just up the street. I watch the people as they mosey down the road stopping to talk to their neighbors. Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, Carhartt workwear, flannel shirts, and camouflage anything is still the dress code for these parts. I look around and I don’t see anyone I recognize. I wonder if I would even know anyone if I saw them. Probably not.
I consider stopping at Peaches Place for some homemade apple pie but decide against it. I wonder if my sister-in-law, Mia, is working today. I’m not the same person I was when I left here, and I already feel out of place. I look down at my black slacks and white button-up shirt, and I definitely don’t fit in. I have cowboy boots, a guitar in the back of the pickup, and a cowboy hat. Maybe I fit in more than I want to admit. I also have a brand-new harmonica I’d like to learn to play. Fortunately, a harmonica doesn’t take up much space.
I stop at the only country bar between Crooksville and Rose Farm. The County Line Bar is a popular bar that was open when I lived here. It used to be called The Jolly Bar. It looks like the only place in town to grab a cold one. I put on my cowboy hat and make my way into the bar.
It’s early on a Wednesday night and there’s already a small crowd gathering inside. Is it Ladies Night? I get I.D.’d and pay the $5.00 cover charge at the door. I’m a little surprised to have to pay a fee in this area.
“When did you start charging a cover charge?” I ask the bouncer at the door.
“Since the Max Bleu band started playin’ here.” He nods to the stage in front of the bar and I can see the band setting up. Max Bleu Band. I kind of remember in high school a few guys getting a band together. Max was one guy’s first name, and Bleu was another guy’s last name. For the life of me, I can’t remember their whole names.
I make my way to the bar. After I order a Bud Light, I take the only seat left at the bar. It’s beside a girl with long brown hair. I don’t complain.
I look around the bar and drink my beer. When the band begins to play, I turn and face the stage. They introduce the band members and then themselves. I quickly recognize them as the guys from high school.
The brunette sitting beside me orders a Pepsi and I’m a little surprised. Who comes to a bar and drinks pop? Someone bumps into her and she almost falls off of the barstool. I quickly reach for her to prevent her from falling onto the floor. The drunken guy looks at her and stumbles away.
“Asshat,” she yells after him, and scoots back onto the stool. She turns around and looks at me and says, “Thank you. You can’t even have a drink without some drunk bumpin’ into you.”
I remove my hands from around her waist. “You’re welcome. You’re only drinking Pepsi?” I ask.
“My boyfriend’s the drummer. It’s still too early to drink. If I started drinkin’ now, I’d be like that asshat,” she says, nodding to the drunk guy staggering across the room.
I smile to keep from laughing. “I don’t think I ever heard a girl say ‘asshat.’” before.
When I say that, her smile matches my smile. “Sorry, that’s not too ladylike, is it?”
“It’s fine. It’s just not a word I hear everyday.”
“And I’m not like any other girl.” She laughs. “Hi, I’m Megan Rose.” She reaches her hand out for mine.
I shake her hand and say, “I’m Abel Kennedy.”
“I know that name.” I watch as her brows furrow together. “Abel Kennedy�
� how do I know that name?”
I watch her take a drink of her Pepsi from the can. I don’t answer her, I just smile. The room starts filling up and it’s now standing room only. Onlookers now block the view we had of the band. I watch as she leans forward to try to get a better view of her boyfriend.
The drunken guy reappears and stands beside her to order another drink. “Hey, baby,” he slurs.
She leans back away from him and says, “I’m not your baby.”
I watch him, and he watches her as he orders a double shot of Jack Daniels from the bartender. “Not yet, you’re not, but I was thinking we could hook up later.” His licks his lips and it’s disgusting. I watch as she stiffens. He takes his double shot and downs the entire drink. I watch as he wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand and says, “You ready to suck me off?”
I stand and put my hand on Megan Rose’s shoulder. I look down at him and say, “Don’t talk to my sister like that.”
She stiffens more but doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if it’s because I’m touching her, or because I just called her my sister. Probably both. His smile now fades and he stutters. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know she was your sister.”
“Well, now you do.” I look down at Megan Rose and say, “Sis, why don’t you go and get us a table closer to the band?”
She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t look at him or me. She stands and quickly walks away.
“You stay away from her, got it?”
“It’s just a misunderstandin’,” he slurs. He raises both hands and stumbles away. I watch as he makes his way through the crowd to the exit.
I finish my beer and pay my check and Megan Rose’s Pepsi bill. As I make my way out the door, I see Megan Rose sitting at a table closer to the band. She’s sitting with other girls who I assume are the band members’ girlfriends or wives. She sees me and I tilt my cowboy hat and leave.
As I make my way to my truck, I see the drunken guy getting into a car with a girl. Just as I open my door, someone yells, “Abel.”
I turn around and see Megan Rose running towards me. The air is cold and she wraps her arms across her mid-section for warmth. “I wanted to thank you for what you did for me in there,” she says out of breath. I look behind her and I see a guy standing at the doorway watching us. I recognize him as the drummer in the band.
I watch her and say, “You’re welcome, but I really didn’t do anything.”
She laughs. “You did do something, and I appreciate it. Most people just keep to themselves; they don’t want to get involved. I can tell that you aren’t from around here.”
“I’m just visiting.” She doesn’t need to know that I am from around here. I’ll be leaving soon and chances are I’ll never see her again.
“I told Nick what happened and we both appreciate it. Thank you.”
I look behind her, and I assume Nick is her boyfriend. He nods and I return the gesture. “You’re welcome, Megan Rose. You should get inside because it’s cold out here.”
“Okay, be careful, and I owe you a drink the next time I see you,” she yells and walks towards the bar.
I watch as she makes her way towards Nick. They both wave and I watch as he holds the door open for her and walks in last. I get in the truck and head home.
I’m stalling and I don’t know why. It’s home; I’m home. I arrive in Rose Farm, which is only a few miles from Crooksville, and see that the old school is still standing. It’s been condemned: Windows are busted out, and pieces of graffiti are written all over the brick building. I have to wonder why the eyesore of a building is still standing. Why wouldn’t they tear it down? Memories flood my head with the stories of the old schoolhouse that I heard when I was a child. I was too young to attend there before they closed it. I look further into the field behind the school, and thankfully, the outhouses — there used to be one for the boys, and one for the girls — are no longer there. This was a three-room schoolhouse, and each teacher taught two grades: 1-2, 3-4, and 5-6.
We still need to fight the War on Poverty, but we may never win it because in Mark 14:7 Jesus said that “ye have the poor with you always.” Even if we never completely win the war, we need to fight it. Let all of us remember Proverbs 28:27: “Whoever gives to the poor will not want, but he who hides his eyes will get many a curse.”
When President Lyndon Johnson declared his War on Poverty, the Rose Farm School was shut down, and students were bused to York Elementary School in Deavertown, which was just a few miles away. Federal money flowed into York Elementary, which started a library. Boxes of paperback books arrived frequently at the school, and the students did the work of setting up the library. The school also got one of the first videotape machines, which was used to show students such things as anti-smoking documentaries.
The school also occasionally put on special programs. A few days or weeks before he died in the late 1960s, an elderly world-famous violinist — was it Mischa Elman? — performed a concert there. The students were excited because he owned a Stradivarius, which they had heard was worth $100,000. However, the students were disappointed when a string broke on the Stradivarius and the violinist disappeared behind a curtain and brought out and played a different violin. The best part of the concert was when he played a medley of classical music that was used in famous movies and TV shows. For example, he played the theme from Hitchcock Presents: Charles Gounod’s “Funeral March of a Marionette.” The principal, Gerald Clutter, told me.
This is a place where people sometimes say “George Warshington,” “warsh rag,” “drownded,” and “Crooksville swimming pull” — not “Crooksville swimming pool” — and lots of people don’t pronounce the ‘g’ in -ing words, but culture still comes here occasionally. Of course, now, with the World Wide Web and other modern technology, culture is available anywhere modern technology is available.
Clarence’s small store is no longer at the bottom of my parents’ driveway. In its place is a parking lot for the only church in Rose Farm. The village is too small for a McDonald’s, but of course it has a church. I look up the snowy rocky path and thank the good Lord that I rented a Chevy truck. Otherwise, I would have to park at the bottom and walk up the one-mile long driveway that leads to my parents’ farm. I check my cell phone and of course, I don’t have any messages. I shut it off and tuck it into my jacket pocket before driving up the steep driveway.
The road is dark and rocky. On one side of the one-lane road is a dirt wall, and on the other side is a cliff-sized hill. It would have been nice — and safe — if my parents had used some of the money I sent them over the years to install a guardrail running the length of the driveway. It’s a dangerous drive up the hill although no one has ever had an accident on it. Not that I know about anyway. In my younger years, Pops always warned me about the blind spot right around the sharp bend. Blind spot? Is he crazy? The entire driveway is a blind spot.
When I reach the top of the lane, the red barn comes into view first. I look at the barn before I look past it into the open pasture. The sun is setting and I’m not sure what I expected, but the field is empty. The large oak trees that offer shade for the horses and cows are now bare of their leaves. I see no signs of farm life anywhere.
I park the rented truck and grab my duffle bags and guitar case before heading towards the white farmhouse with tattered black shutters. The screen door bursts open, revealing Momma in her white apron and black dress. She wears a smile only a mother would have for her child. I could be a drug dealer, and she would still love me. Behind her is Pops. He smiles as he follows close behind her.
“There he is — my boy’s finally home.” Momma throws up both hands and makes her way down the four steps leading from the large wrap-around porch.
I place the duffle bags and guitar case down on the gravel lot and hug her tightly. Her hug is warm and welcoming. Sadly, it’s been awhile since I’ve been home. I hug Momma and wonder if she’s always been this small. I definitely get my height from my
Pops.
“I missed you, Momma,” I say, honestly.
“You’re home and I couldn’t be happier.” She backs away and places her small hands on my face. She searches my face for what? Scars? Bruising? Battle wounds? Honesty and happiness? I can’t be sure. I hunch over so she can see my face and smile to let her know I’m okay. “I’m happier than a pig in waller,” she says seriously.
Do people really say that? Happier than a pig in waller. “Huh?”
“Oh, never mind. Are you hungry?” she finally asks.
“I am.”
Momma is the best cook around. Pops always said she was an excellent cook — her food wasn’t always pretty, but it was always delicious. I have to agree. My mouth waters at the thought of her fried chicken and homemade biscuits.
“Good, dinner’s almost done. Get warshed up and I’ll finish up supper. Your brother, Levi, and his wife, Mia, are on their way.”
I hug Pops while Momma wraps her small arms around herself for warmth. It’s November and it’s already cold.
“Let’s get inside before your Momma catches a cold.”
Pops grabs a duffle bag and helps Momma into the house while I follow close behind with the other items.
Once we are inside, Momma tells me to put my things in my old room. The smell of Momma’s chicken and biscuits fills the air. It’s my favorite meal and I knew she would make it. Since I became a boxer, I almost always only eat food on the healthy list. Fried chicken and biscuits were never on the healthy list. I’m looking forward to pigging out on a few home-cooked meals while I’m here.
I walk through the kitchen, dining room, and living room, and then into my childhood bedroom. Everything is as I left it over ten years ago. The room is clean and smells of cedar. I look at the white curtains, white walls, and dark hardwood floors. My high school sports trophies are still on the bookcase along with some medals and ribbons I won. Although I loved football and weightlifting, I think track and wrestling were my favorites. Momma thought after-school sports would keep me out of trouble and it would set a high standard for Levi, my little brother. I think she was right.
Rose Farm Trilogy Boxset Page 1