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I stand up on the porch and put my coffee mug aside. Arms akimbo, I look out as far as I can see and spend a minute thinking about what I can do to fix the situation. Every night, I read and reread Pa’s old almanacs, trying to understand why the different crops are being so stubborn this year. I still haven’t found any answers in the guides or reports, and yelling at the fields only provides temporary relief.Just gotta be patient, like Pa.
But I’m less worried about the sprouts than I am about actual harvesting in a few months’ time. Most of the tools I need to complete the task need repair, and even more of them are too heavy for me to even use properly. Worst of all, the tractor stopped working a week after Pa died, and I don’t have the money to pay someone to fix it.
Shit. Money. I try not to think too often about my lack of it, but as harvest season approaches, I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. Pa’s funeral, even though it was small, cost me a pretty penny. And it turns out he had quite a few debts to be settled. I paid off what I could and since then, have been ignoring the growing number of bills and bank calls.
He was good with plants, but he wasn’t so good with our finances.
Across the yard, in a round paddock next to the old red barn, my old sway-backed mare, Gypsy, comes into view while munching on her morning hay.That bend is looking worse and worse. I shudder at the idea of the old gal aging and then eventually passing because I don’t want to say goodbye to another beloved member of my little family.
Plus, the barn itself looks as decrepit as the horse. Its once majestic doors and cozy loft look like they could crumble any minute. The barn houses the farming tools, Miss Bethy the cow, and so many of my childhood dreams. As a girl, I used to climb into the hayloft and read when I wasn’t helping my father around the farm. Books about faraway places with exotic scenery and adventures and romance. The barn was my safe haven from the hard life of manual labor.
Now looking at the dilapidated building, I shake my head.
I can’t believe how naïve I used to be. I’m only twenty – in fact my birthday was just last month – but Ifeelolder and so far away from the carefree little girl I used to be, even compared to just a few months ago.
Before Pa died.
A single tear slides down my face. I wipe it away quickly and with force.
Get it together, Darcy,I scold myself.These tears are of no use.
Yet the day my father had passed away, I let myself cry for exactly twenty-four hours. While some folks might accuse me of being cold-hearted, the truth was that I couldn’t let myself wallow. My father was out of pain, and I had no option but to move forward. The best thing I could do, I had decided, and the way I could honor my family was to keep this farm running.
After all, the Fields Farm has been in our family since my great-grandpa was a young man, and I intend to keep it that way. I was named for the man – Darcy Fields – so I feel a particular kinship to him.
Which is bound to make me a better farmer, I assert to comfort myself.At least,I hope.
From the barn, I hear Miss Bethy Moo Cow low once more, eager for me to go milk her. Her little bell rings again.
I take another sip of coffee, wanting to ignore the bovine and all my chores for just one more blessed moment, but it’s impossible. A cow in pain is more trouble than it’s worth, and sighing, I cross to the small shed by the house and retrieve the milk pail and watering bucket. As I fill the gardening bucket with cool water from the spigot, I reflect on the monotony of my life. Every day, over and over, I get up, drink coffee, milk the cow, work the fields, tend the vegetable garden, repair some piece of fence, barn, house, and then repeat, over and over again. It’s repetitive and difficult. Plus, I’m exhausted from doing it all by myself.
The fact of the matter is, I don’t mind hard work. I’m a country girl and this is my lot in life, but I’m lonely these days. Ever since Pa died, I rarely venture off our property. It’s partially because I don’t have the time, but it’s also because I don’t have the desire. The last time I traveled was a couple years ago when I found myself in Europe. Pa insisted that I “go abroad,” as many young girls my age were doing, and I found myself in a strange land called Lysenia. There, I was transported to a labor camp against my will, but thankfully, we were rescued by the Lysenian Army after a few short weeks. After that, I had no desire to travel again. I love the United States; I love my farm; and I’ll never take freedom for granted again.
Yet, I’ve never been so alone before. My parents are gone, and my grandparents are long dead. I think I have some distant relatives somewhere in the Panhandle area, but it’s been a long time since I spoke with them. We used to have some real nice neighbors when I was younger – farmers like us who owned their own modest plots, but then Big Ag swooped in, offering absurd lumps of money in exchange for land and home. Some families jumped at the offer, but others, like us Fields, held true.
But now, I wonder if we’ve made a mistake by not selling. There were a few bad seasons in a row, with unexpected frosts and broiling summers. Slowly, our neighbors moved on one by one, accepting generous buy-outs, and now, ours is the only homestead left, surrounded on all sides by one of the wealthiest Big Ag families in the business: the McLaughlins.
I shudder involuntarily as I think about that bunch of hooligans. They’re idiots, not to mention cruel and aggressive, but then I stop myself because the water in the pail is overflowing.Dummy, don’t waste resources, I scold myself. I turn off the spigot and lug the heavy bucket back to the porch, where it’ll sit until I’ve taken care of the milking.
Then, I grab the milking pail and make my way toward the barn, still ruminating on how large corporate farms seem to gobble up any property they can get their hands on. For years, the McLaughlins have been itching to get their greedy paws on my land, but we’ve evaded them time and time again.Assholes.
Miss Bethy moos again, and I can’t ignore her plaintive cry. “I’m coming, hold your horses,” I call out toward the barn. Gypsy the mare looks up at my voice, clearly not amused with my attempt at a joke.
Groaning, I square my shoulders and pull hard on the heavy barn doors that have gone rusty with age. “Oil barn doors. Add it to the list,” I mutter to myself.
Light pours into the barn, illuminating Miss Bethy and the various farmyard tools that Pa treasured. Some of them I’ve made use of, but many of the implements have gone rusty with lack of use. Others have just broken over the years, whether from age or my own poor mishandling. Try as I might, I have little to no skill when it comes to repairs.
I pick up the old axe and fiddle with its sharp edges, remembering how Pa used to use it to cut the old spruce logs for our fireplace. That simple act kept our living room cozy on the coldest of nights, a sensation I missed desperately this past winter.
Crazy to think about winter when it’s a hundred degrees outside.
I heave a deep sigh, and I hear Miss Bethy echo my sorrowful sound. I glance at the old cow, her form nice and fat, and her coat shiny. She looks back at me innocently, her mouth full of hay.
Wait a minute, if Bethy’s eating, then that sound didn’t come from her, I realize, startled. I freeze, straining my ears against the silence of the big empty barn. I hear a shuffling sound followed by another groan, coming from the back of the barn. I squint my eyes, trying to see into the gloomy interior.
“Hello?” I call out timidly. “Hello?” I repeat, more firmly this time. Grabbing the old axe to use as a weapon if needed, I inch my way toward the dark recesses of the barn.It’s probably just a critter, Darcy.Don’t freak yourself out for no reason.
Finally, I reach the last stall and my mouth drops open.
