The
smell of popcorn, burned hot dogs and sweat invaded his nostrils as Jason
pushed his way down Fuller Street, past vegetable carts, homemade pie stands
and the booth with carved wooden bears holding ‘Welcome signs’. He weaved
around baby strollers and people who thought it a good idea to bring their dogs
for a walk through the shoulder to shoulder traffic. He entered through the
back of the jewelry stand and sat down at the table.
“How’d
we do?” Sheila asked.
“Pretty
good shopping day” he told his girlfriend as he emptied the wallets and watches
from his pockets.
Now this is the way I remember the story going. I could be wrong, I was only 5 at the time.
“Mother, might I have a piece of your deliciously fried chicken. You make the best there is in all the world,” I asked.
She looked at me with love in her eyes and said, “I’m sorry my precious son, the favorite of all my children, but you will have to wait until your father gets home. Then we shall all eat together. It would be a shame if your father was deprived of your company. It will be so wonderful to sit at talk with you. You are the best son any parent could ever ask for.”
“ Oh I do understand dear mother, I shall wait patiently like a dutiful son. Gee I sure love you. Is there anything that I might help you with?”
So there I, was sitting patiently and watching her frying her chicken and singing. I was thinking how great it was to have such a fantastic mother.
But suddenly my evil brother Phillip came slinking out from the shadows. He had an evil grin on his face, and a cloak half covering his head. Being the horrible brute that he was, he informed her that he was in a hurry and could do whatever he wanted because he was a big brother. He grabbed a piece of that chicken off the plate and went running out the back door. “Bwaa…Haa…Haa,” he laughed as he ran out.
Now with that turn of events, my mother quickly spun around and with that fork still in her hand, started shaking it in his direction. “Just for that young man, you will have to do without your sup…” That fork, slippery from chicken grease, went sailing out of her hand with the accuracy of a cruise missile and with divine providence stuck smack dab in the middle of his back.
You would have thought that she had stabbed him in the back with a machete the way she ran to him. I mean, she was all over him…hugging and kissing and praying.
“Oh my goodness mother,” I said. “I do hope that my dear precious brother is alright, but if you’ve killed him, may I have his piece of chicken?’
Empty Boone’s Farm bottles rattled in the back floorboard to the rhythms of lust. She was only twelve when her father abandoned her. Now each night she spent in the back seat was just her attempt to erase him from her memory. Each night was an endless stream of the same old shit as boys, trying hard to act like men, dripped sweat from their foreheads. They took what they could and left her cold and empty. Every night ended with tears soaking her pillow. Each time the razor touched her skin, the scars took a little longer to heal.
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.
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Jerry Brotherton 