A work that still needs a great deal of editing:
the first time the boy was on the Hickory Ridge farm
he doesn’t remember:
he was a babe in the war that didn’t end all wars.
the boy does remember the old farmer man
his pear shaped, white haired, hard-worn, sweet wife;
he remembers
the old farmer man rousting him
from the duck-down bed before daybreak,
when he would watch
the old farmer man standing in the new bathroom,
added on to the tinned roofed farmhouse
after they got indoor plumbing
where the old man stood before the cracked mirror
with the metal sink with a hand pumped spigot
to draw the well water for the morning ritual:
the old man soaked and washed his face,
then took the badger hair shaving brush
to lather up his face with the mug of shaving soap,
opening the razor blade out of the handle,
stropping it on the leather strap
hanging from the hook on the wall,
then cocking the blade while
pulling up his chin to stroke the razor blade
up and down until his face skin
was as smooth as a baby’s bottom;
after the boy jumped into his jeans,
they headed for the southeast pasture
where the old farmer man, leaning on the top fence line,
cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled “sooey, sooey;”
the boy wondered why, since the hogs
were in a sty about three-quarters on the other side
of the farm, near the barn;
then a cow appeared over the hill,
then another, and another
until the half-dozen or so had collected at the fence;
the old farmer man opened the gate,
walking in with the boy beside him;
as dawn was breaking, the two led the cows
to the barn, while along the way,
the boy watched the old farmer lady
in the chicken coop, collecting eggs
in her white muslin apron
as they continued to the barn
into the stalls with feeder troughs in the front;
the old farmer man pulled out
two, small, three-legged stools from their niche,
along with two metal buckets,
handing one of each to the boy, who,
watching the master,
would stroke the cow’s teats
producing a trickle while the farmer man
filled his bucket and then again from a couple of more cows
before they poured the milk into
the tin milk churns and the old man screwed on the tops
to take back to the farmhouse where several would be put
on the roadside for the diary to pick up and homogenize;
one was saved for their larder.
the boy and the old farmer walked about twenty yards from the barn
to the pig sty where a hog and two sows
roiled in the mud;
they slopped the pigs;
the boy wondered why this last act,
slopping the pigs rolling in the mud
stinking to high heaven
was so satisfying him later in life.
the old farmer and the boy walked
back on the beaten path to the gate from the fields,
passed the mound of the fruit cellar
to the screened-in back porch
where white muslin covered the immediate victuals
for the next day or two
including the butter churn,
which the old farmer’s wife would fill
with the milk from the one of the milk cans
to pound the plunger again and again
until she could scoop the butter on top
with her ladle;
she had her butter,
as well as the old farmer’s buttermilk for breakfast;
the three sat down for breakfast
at the wood table with six caned-seat chair,
all painted white just like the wood-walled kitchen;
she served up the fried eggs, over-easy,
with bacon and grits with biscuits,
butter and blackberry jam
she had canned in the spring;
the old farmer drank buttermilk
concluding with coffee;
the old farmer went to the front porch
to sit in the rocking chair
where the boy would climb into his lap,
feel the scratchiness of the old cardigan on his cheek
as the old farmer rocked and smoked his pipe.
there are times now, the boy,
older than the farmer ever reached,
wishes he could have kept on rocking there
forever…