Poetry, short stories and a smidgen of real-life drama
Author: Jerry Brotherton
I am The Backyard Poet and I warn you that, not only will I ramble on about nothing but, I have been known to stand upon my soapbox and rant about things I care nothing about just to hear the sound of my own voice. I will try to force my opinion upon anyone willing to pay the slightest attention.
Karen is from Illinois. She followed the American dream west to make her future. In Peoria, she was beautiful, young and tan and everybody knew she would be a star. But now her empty stomach reminds her that home was a lifetime ago.
Karen
spends her days on casting couches and nights trying to stand out against the
crowd of young and tan Midwestern girls.
Billy
lives in a mansion on the hill. He has money and connections. Karen gives Billy
everything he dreams of. Billy gives Karen enough cash for a burger and another
day’s chance of being discovered.
I’m from a fairly small burg stuck somewhere in the hills of north central Missouri. The land of corn, wheat and soybeans. We all know that the world depends on small town farmers to feed our bellies. But do you really understand what a rough life these brave men and women must face each day.
At six o’clock in the morning, you’ll find them at the Main Street Cafe eating breakfast and discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. At ten, they’ll be at the coffee shop over on Fourth Street discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. Around noon, there back at the cafe discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. About two in the afternoon, you’ll find them parked somewhere, drinking coffee from their thermos and discussing in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer. Until five o’clock in the evening when you’d find them back at the cafe again for dinner. Can we guess the topic of conversation?
I am pretty sure that there must some, ‘secret society of farmer’s’, dress code that us ‘townies’ have no idea exist. But every day, rain or shine, winter or summer, their wardrobe never varied. Maybe it is simply the fact that Orscheln Farm and Home is just about the only place within a day’s drive where you can buy descent work clothes or for that matter just about anything else.
Still the only way of telling one of them from the other is by the type of sweat stained baseball cap they wear. Some of the younger farmer’s wear logos of their favorite sports team or school mascot while the older ones show up with a ‘#1 Dad’ or maybe a ‘World’s Best Grandpa’. Generally though, it is just John Deere green. Occasionally one of them might get a wild hair and decide to wear a blue-checkered shirt instead of a red one.
I’ve grown up with the stories of how farmer’s wives always got up at 4AM to milk the cows, stoke the fire and all that crap so she could serve a home cooked breakfast to her family. But these guys are always at the cafe eating and none of them look fat enough to have eaten two breakfasts every day.
I do have to admit though; they are a friendly bunch and will always raise their index finger or tip their hat at me as I pull off into the ditch in order to get around their mile wide tractors parked in the middle of the road while they discuss in lengthy detail the price of corn, the weather, politics, Widow Johnson, and beer.
Now you know why the American farmer has to put in 18 hours a day. It’s because they spend 12 of them doing nothing but talking and eating.
I’m
sitting here in my writer’s garret staring out the window. A full moon hangs
high in the sky. The weather is warm and a breeze drifts in through my open
window. I tell Google to play my favorite radio channel from Pandora. It’s
mostly 1960’s and 1970’s music and I close my eyes to let the music surround
me. ‘Henry the Eighth’ by Herman’s Hermits comes on and the images stretch out
from a past life and pull my mind back to a simpler time. Before
responsibilities of family and jobs consumed every moment; before the worries
about how much money was enough money and before those dear to me departed to
their heavenly home.
You see, Henry the Eighth was a favorite song from our youth. It was playing on the radio that night the front tire slipped into the loose gravel along the side of the road and sent us rolling end over end. I suppose it was a miracle that no one suffered any injuries, except Phillip, who got a bloody nose when I ‘accidentally’ kicked him in the face. We just pushed the car back over onto its wheels and drove back to town like nothing happened.
Now, when I hear the song, I see myself in my brother Norman’s 1966 Oldsmobile. With us three youngest brothers Paul, Phil and me rolling around the back seat while Norman performs ‘Bat turns’. My brother David in the passenger’s seat serving as the official co-pilot, beverage controller and radio technician.
We’ll cruise down those ancient gravel roads that lead us to nowhere in particular, just five brothers sliding through the darkness with the AM radio blaring out the day’s top twenty hits. None of us giving a damn about anything but the moment.
His only possessions were what
he managed to cram into his backpack. I’d see him sometimes, sitting on the
grass out in front of the Kum and Go with a six pack of the cheapest beer he
could find. He always waved and had a giant smile. Funny thing about him, he
never panhandled like the rest of the homeless (or the pretend homeless) did.
He didn’t carry the stench of alcohol around with him either. I always thought
of him as more of a traveling Monk than homeless. Until he shot our neighbor’s
dog for knocking over his beer.
Jerry Brotherton 