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?’
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.
Jerry Brotherton 