It was a balmy summer’s day and Joseph Timms felt the sun warming his shoulders as it baked his flannel shirt to his back and blistered the top of his head. He stood on his front porch, viewing the modest smallholding that served him as both home and business. With a galvanised bucket swaying gently from each hand, he was about to pass the small whitewashed fence that marked the boundary of the farmhouse, when he heard his wife’s shrill voice echo in his head.
Don’t forget to put your hat on, you silly bastard. Don’t think I’m going to spend all evening rubbing after sun into your bald head.
Returning to the house, he duly donned the floppy straw hat that habitually hung behind the front door and, looking every inch the country bumpkin, he padded off to the milking shed. It seemed too grand a name for the tiny building that scarcely provided shelter for the three cows that made up the Timms herd. Settling a stool beside the first of the beasts, he took hold of her swollen udders and began milking.
Squeeze them, you old fool, don’t pull them. You won’t get any more milk out of the stupid animals if you yank them off, you know.
Chastened by his wife’s instructions, he worked more gently on the animals and, in due course, filled both of the buckets with their warm, creamy milk. Grunting under their weight, he carried them back to the farmhouse, each movement of his narrow hips sending a miniscule wave of milk cascading over the lip of one bucket or the other.
Don’t fill them right to the top - we’ve only got three cows. Try to keep it all in the buckets, idiot!
The milk safely deposited in the sterilised churn, he went outside again, to attend to the pigs. He filled their trough with feed, topping it off with a few choice leavings from the kitchen table and smiled in silent gratification as they lowered their jowly heads and slurped noisily away. They were, by far, the favourite of his animals, content to gorge themselves and wallow happily in the mud on a hot day like this. It always broke his heart when he had to have one of them taken away for slaughter, no matter how high the price they might command at market.
Picking up the fork and shovel that lay against the wall of the sty, he began the laborious task of mucking out. It was back-breaking work on a day like this and, though he set to it with a will, he could not wait to be finished with this particular chore. Though he let his mind wander as he cleared up the pigs’ droppings, the familiar tones of his wife were never far away.
You need to dig with the shovel, you lazy old sod. You’re just spreading the filth around, doing it like that.
The hogs well fed and their sty cleaned, Joseph pulled a red gingham handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. He was hungry and thirsty now and couldn’t wait to get back to his kitchen for a well-deserved sandwich and a cold beer. Removing his thick gloves he strode as swiftly as his creaking joints would allow, back in the direction of the farmhouse.
Don’t forget to feed the chickens, Joe. They can’t live off sunshine and fresh air, you moron.
Ah yes, he thought…the chickens.
He made his way to the coop, to check on them. Lifting up the roof, he held his handkerchief up to his face to protect himself from the smell. There were a few bluebottles in there, but not as many as he was expecting. The chickens had seen to that, gobbling up the insects in the absence of their regular corn. The birds were looking a little thin, but they seemed to have adapted well to their new diet and he wondered what his wife would have to say on the matter.
For the past forty years she had directed him incessantly on how to run the farm, hollering instructions on tending the animals or repairing those fixtures and fittings that required his attention. Not once had she raised herself from her fat backside to lend a hand, being content to sit in the voluminous chair on the porch with on of her magazines. From there, she kept an ill-tempered vigil, never allowing any error in her husband’s labours to go unchecked.
It was a point of some gratification for Joseph, as he looked beneath the cloud of flies and feathers, so see his wife finally silent. Her hard features had been disfigured by the attentions of maggots and the ravenous pecking of the chickens, but he could still make out that familiar look of anger and indignation on her face.
In spite of himself, Joseph smiled. After all these years, he had proven that he knew one thing about farming that his wife had not.
Hungry animals will eat anything…
©2009 Kevin G. Bufton
Tags: Kevin G. Bufton
December 21st, 2009 at 1:58 pm
Wife, the other white meat. Good job, Kevin.
December 22nd, 2009 at 8:57 pm
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