At the Farm

Trixie and I had no sooner started exploring the filthiest parts of the farm immediately after our arrival when Grandma called us.

“Come on, we’re going to the store. Now. And leave that filthy dog here; it can’t ride in my car.” She said.

Thus began that summer’s momentous events and Grandma’s begrudging acceptance of Trixie and me in her life. And her house. I suppose anything new and different at nine years old qualifies as momentous. Even having a new neighbor is momentous, whether it is someone my age—a new playmate—or, someone older, but still in need of a thorough vetting for the neighborhood grapevine. Being abandoned here at the farm with my crazy grandparents and my sane dog definitely qualified as momentous.

According to Grandma, though the farm was self sufficient, there were still some things that we had to get in the village. Things like toilet paper, chocolate, flour, salt and sugar. And gossip. We were making a chocolate run, so Grandma could make her world famous chocolate cake to celebrate my arrival. Or incarceration, as I saw it. But, I do like the cake, so it was worth tying Trixie to the garage for a look around our new home. While we were there, Grandma could get the village scoop from Gladys.

We headed to IGA, which doubles as the coffee counter and information center of the town. Grandma methodically crossed things off her list, forgetting all about me as soon as she was in her element. She looked at the display nearest the register and began laughing until tears coursed down her face.

Wiping her eyes, she asked Gladys “Where in the name of Jezebel did you get the idea to sell rocks? And how much of Howie’s money did you waste on boxes of rocks with hair on them?”

Gladys sniffed ”I ordered 10 boxes of those Pet Rocks and you mark my words, they’ll be gone in two weeks.”

“I don’t see what fool would buy a rock—even if it does have hair on it—when there’s a quarry just half a mile away where you can get them for free.” Said Grandma. Then she remembered the tourists. “I am sorry I offended you Gladys, I sold you short. But instead of $1.50, I think you should price them at $3.00 and make a sign that says that they are hand-made in the village by local needy children and you can sell a boatload more than 10 boxes in the next twelve weeks. You could make enough to retire on.”

Gladys pondered this and said, “I think you may be right Mrs. Browne. Hey you- shortstuff- are you here for the summer? Do you need a job? I’ll pay you a percentage. Or a flat fee per rock-person. What do you think?”

I was browsing through the musky lures, deciding which one I’d hit on if I had a brain the size of a balled up staple and paying no attention to the adults, when grandma whacked me with her cane and told me to mind my manners. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase, I would mind my manners a lot less.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, were you talking to me?” I said.

“Yes, shortstuff, I was. I was asking if you would like a job for the summer, as your grandma tells me you’re here until school starts and she’d welcome you having something to do with yourself aside from annoying her and the animals up at the farm. You’re Margaret’s kid, aren’t you? What’s your name anyway?” Gladys asked.

“My name is Hermia, after a Shakespeare play, but everyone calls me Hermy. And I guess I would like a job for the summer.” I answered, having no idea what I was getting into in my first hours in town.

“Well, Hermy, how ‘bout you come back this afternoon and we’ll come up with a plan for your summer job. I’ll provide the glue and the hair.” Said Gladys.

We left the store, me still more than baffled about what was going on. She explained that I would be making pet rocks for Gladys to sell to the tourists—who will buy absolutely anything—while they were on vacation at the Lake in the summer. Still unsure of what this might entail, I decided not to worry about it until I had to. On the way to the car, I noticed an old woman with a hawk-like face scowling out of the library window at us. I asked Grandma who that was and why she was staring at us and she told me to mind my business. I thought I was.

Once we got back to the farm, I freed Trixie from her confinement, which was a joke, as the hundred pound Newfoundland mix could have pulled free of the door handle anytime she wanted to. Grandma was starting on dinner and the cake so we picked up our exploring where we left off, until she called us. She reminded me that I said I would go back to meet with Gladys. She said that Uncle Ned’s old bike was in the milkhouse and to help myself.

I went to the milkhouse and found a rusty bike with a pink banana seat and a clown’s horn attached. It wasn’t pretty, but it looked like it might work. It even gave the impression of having air in the tires. I got on and started pedaling, with Trixie running ahead of me. It had not occurred to me to check the brakes before getting on the bike and I was rudely surprised near the bottom of the big hill when I could not slow down and achieved what I assumed to be warp speed before losing contact with the ground.


Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.