Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Curtis, part six

Following a breakfast of eggs and coffee, Mr. Curtis took the new Mrs. Curtis on a walking tour of his farm. First, he showed her the outhouse on the far corner of the back yard. While he continued his narration, he made her wait outside the door while he used it. Then he showed her the cornfields that were sprouting rows of new stalks. He was pleased to let her know that they grew much of their own feed. The silo was near the cow barn. He encouraged her to climb the ladder, so she could see how much grain he actually had stored. More than enough to last until the current crop came in, he boasted. Her stomach full and the warm sun making everything look fresh and new, Leta’s spirits had lifted after a particularly frustrating morning. She climbed the ladder with her husband right behind her.

She liked the feel of him behind her, and how he felt proud of his farm. He opened a small latch, and she peered in. Once her eyes adjusted, she could see the corn piled fairly high inside. But she didn’t want to look too long for fear of what else she might see.

“Looks good, don’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, “that’s a good amount of corn in there.”

“Sometimes I have enough that I can sell a bit to the neighbors,” he boasted.

Nearby was a garden of sorts. While it was late in the spring, the vegetables seemed to be having trouble starting.

“Needs weeded is all,” Curtis said. “But we got beans, tomaters, cabbages, carrots, ‘taters, squash and whatnot. There’s a strawberry patch right over there and raspberry bushes near the coop.”

As she had already been in the barn to milk the two cows, he didn’t take her there. It was just as well. Earlier she had defensively kicked a ferocious barn cat and believed she killed it. While she felt badly, she was only learning how precious the dozen or so feral cats that lived on the farm were to her husband. Before long, she would learn that each one had a name.

The coop, as he called it, was his pride and joy. It was a series of six sheds, each one large enough for a small person to comfortably fit inside. Each had a small door and a ramp into a yard. The yard was enclosed by a large wire fence, held up by wooden posts every eight feet or so. On one side was a small gate for persons to enter and exit. Wandering in and out of the coops and around the yard was a flock of chickens, cackling, clucking and scratching at the dirt.

“Got about 200 here,” Curtis said, sticking out his chest with his face beaming, “and they lay about 125 eggs a day. Over there in that corner is Grouser, the rooster. He helps me keep the cluckers in line.”

The rooster was standing proud and tall. From Leta’s view, it looked little rough around the edges, but if the hens laid 125 eggs a day, then it was doing its job.

“I’ve been meaning to add a second yard,” Curtis continued, “but ever since my Maddie died, it’s been pretty tough going for us.”

Leta already knew the story. Curtis’s first wife Madeline died six months earlier from a long battle with cancer. Losing her distressed him, and in Leta’s estimation, resulted in the state of disrepair of his home. But now she was here.

For the first time, Leta married to take care of someone else. This was a revised outlook on life for her, and once she finally decided to pursue it, she dedicated herself to it. She set a personal goal to lift the sadness that coated Curtis’s every move. She had no intention of replacing his wife. She realized that was something beyond her capability. But she could make her new husband’s life pleasant and lively, perhaps happy. She would neither overestimate nor underestimate her capability in this matter.

She put her arm around him.

During the few moments of her reverie, the hens had realized they were there and began to charge the fence, cluttering that corner of the yard with the volume of their clucking increasing anxiously.

“Grab a basket, Mrs. Curtis,” he said, pulling himself free of her near-embrace. “These birds are hungry.”


To be continued.

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