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1
DARCY
Istand on the front porch of the old farmhouse, holding my morning cup of joe, and looking out across the land I’ve lived on since I was born. The dew glimmers on the soft grass that engulfs the yard, despite the sticky threat of a humid spring day. Birds tweet softly from their newly built nests in the old western larch trees nearby. Somewhere near the barn, squirrels and mice scuttle about their morning routines, ignoring the lonely girl standing on a broken-down porch.
It’s safe to say this farm is everything to me, and holds all of my fondest memories because I wasn’t just raised here; I was actually born in the upstairs bedroom.
I grew up hearing my Pa recite the story over and over again, possibly one of his favorite anecdotes. He’d always start out the same way: “Your Ma was in the kitchen baking a pie and I was out mowing the yard when all of a sudden, handfuls of pie went whistling by my noggin, mere inches from covering me with flaming hot crust and steaming berries.”The story continues along the lines of how the midwife was late, and how Ma kept squishing berries into Pa’s hands while she squeezed his palms to death. Then, I popped into the world surrounded by berries, flour, and powdered sugar. In fact, Pa says that I was just the sugar they needed to complete their family recipe.
It’s a sweet story, and just like my mother before me, I like to bake pies. The first time I ever made one, Pa dodged me like a cat. I laugh out loud as I think back on the moment. Pa claimed he had to be careful around me and pie, since that’s how my mom announced to him that she had gone into labor, by throwing one at his head.
It feels good to laugh, I muse.It’s been a stretch since I’ve been able to enjoy these happier memories. I sit down on the porch steps, eager to let my mind enjoy these rare moments of tranquility before the pain and grief set in, like they tend to do.
I let my mind wander to my early years on the farm – playing with baby chicks, learning to milk the cows, picking wildflowers for the vases my mom kept in every room. The property is surrounded by old trees, the climbing kind that are perfect for a kid’s adventures.And also perfect for giving me so many scars when I fell out of them, I think with a chuckle. I instinctually rub the scar on my arm where I’d broken it from just such a misadventure.
Right before my sixth birthday.
Grief sweeps in, taking over the happy memories I want to focus on, and instead tearing at my already aching heart.
Ma.
One week before my sixth birthday, we said goodbye to my mother. I didn’t know it as a child, but Ma had been sick for some time, and her death was confusing for a girl so young. My mother had been a raven-haired beauty who was as delicate as she had been beautiful. I remember she smelled like lavender and every night at bath time I’d beg her to let me smell like that, too, hoping it was the scent that made someone so lovely.
Even now, sitting on the front porch thinking about her, I can almost smell that subtle lavender scent in my mind. I breathe deeply, missing her. I suppose it was my age that saved me from feeling intense grief because as a kid, I hadn’t been able to really grasp such loss. But now, at the fragile age of twenty, it hurts to know that I lost my only female role model before I’d had the chance to learn about life from her.
With Ma’s death, Pa had stepped in to play the role of mother and father.
I honestly don’t know how it did it all. Raising me, running a farm, working as hard as he did. I shake my head in wonder at my father.
Pa really had done it all. He learned to braid hair so that my long, wild, brown tresses were somewhat contained. Neither of us had any sense of style, so he would dress me in overalls and too large t-shirts most days. When my body started to develop into its womanly figure, Pa gave me some money to go to the local five-and-dime to buy a few nice sundresses, in case I ever wanted to go out or if I needed them for school events.
Shifting so I can lean my back against one of the porch columns, I smile as I think about those early years. Pa running the farm, trying to teachmehow to run the farm, and all the while insisting that I just enjoy being a little kid.On my first birthday without my mother, just one week after her death, Pa had been so upset that he didn’t know how to make my favorite cake. So instead, he got two gigantic steaks and stuck a candle in the middle of mine. And every year after that, a steak-cake was our birthday tradition.
It’s hard to believe it’s been six months without him.
Unlike my mother’s passing, Pa’s death is the most painful thing I have ever experienced. The disease that took him had been silent, deadly, and unfortunately, not very swift. Pa always claimed that he wasn’t in too much pain, but I knew it wasn’t true. I watched him deteriorate in front of my very eyes, slow at first, but then fast. He went from not being able to lift a bale of hay to being unable to balance a fork in his fingers. It was horrible for both of us – for my father and the loss of his independence, and for me, witnessing such frustration and indignity.
The last few days of his life, however, were a blessing. He had seemed more at ease, talking about how he’d finally get to be with my mother, that he had taught me all he could, and how I’d be just fine. In those last hours, I didn’t contradict him, and he passed with a peaceful smile on his face.For that I will always be grateful, I vow.
But today, sitting on the porch of the farmhouse that now belongs to me, looking out over the run-down property that also belongs to me, I am less than grateful.You could have taught me so much more, Pa, I argue with no one.I’mnotfine. I’m miserable.
After all, the farm is suffering. During my father’s sickness, I was pre-occupied with keeping him comfortable and happy. Then, those first few weeks after my father’s death, I blamed the property’s condition on the fact that I was depressed. I’m still depressed, to be honest, but it doesn’t matter. The animals won’t wait for anyone, nor do the crops. There’s no excuse for its rundown state.
In some ways, I feel like this land, my home, has turned against me. The wheat refuses to grow, despite having planted it just like Pa used to. The damn chickens are finicky about how often they lay eggs and seem to be disappearing daily. The vegetable garden is taking its sweet time to yield anything edible. I sweep my hand through my still-wild hair, longer over the years but still unruly.
At least the cow provides milk every morning.A smile comes to my face as I think about Miss Bethy. When I was a kid, I used to call her Miss Moo Cow, and my father got her a bell that read just that: Miss Bethy Moo Cow. Now, I hear the little bell tinkle, the old beast’s signal that she’s ready to be milked once more.
I wipe my brow and grimace. It’s not yet seven in the morning and already the sun is blazing hot and the air muggy. Last night’s rains left a stagnant, clammy heat in the air, and I can already tell it’s going to be a scorcher. But the rain also amplified my favorite parts of the farm: the smell of tilled soil and Carolina jasmine, the latter of which runs along the wooden fence along the perimeter.The jasmine is the only thing about this place that is going well, I think in a rueful tone.
I look up at the porch ceiling. It’s covered in cobwebs and chipping plaster, flecks of which cover the porch floor, despite my constant sweeping. The railing is missing some bars, and one of the front steps is cracked. The doorframe into the old farmhouse is rotting from all the hard winter storms, sagging inward like a beaten old man.
To one side of the porch is the large, if slightly unruly, vegetable garden. The early tendrils and blossoms for peas, tomatoes, onions, squash, eggplant, and beans have already started to show, and I’m pleased that I haven’t totally failed when it comes to caring for my little domain.
They’re just growing so slow is all.
I sigh, impatient as ever.I can deal with slow.
My contentment is brief. I wince as I glance further out toward the crops. Just last week I transplanted the seedlings from the potatoes, sugar-beets, and barley into the fields, just like I’d been taught to do. Usually, the little sprouts spring right up. But still nothing.
