Little Bluestem: Stories from Rural America

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  The ’65 Ford was her truck. Took it and left me the Granada. I looked at that Granada and thought of goin’ down to the feed store and loading up feed sacks in the back seat and the trunk. Clouds of white smoke and the smell of bran and molasses all over the velvet-blue interior. Wasn’t that just her way? Sure it was hers, but she could have just as easily taken the car. Would work better in town for her. Leave the farm truck for the farm. Next day I took the car down to Jones Used Cars. Looked the whole rank of trucks over and couldn’t find one to suit me. Then went out over by Sabin to that country dealer out there. Easy Meadow Auto Sales. Nothin. I wanted to trade even up. The ’72 Granada with no liens straight across for some kind of a work truck. Went in to work and asked the guys there and finally, day five—that’d be a Friday night—when I came in for swing shift, Gary said he heard a guy up by the Grove was sellin’ a flat bed. Thought it was a three quarter and didn’t know what year, but it was used enough, he knew that. It had a second rebuilt engine in it and a new four speed tranny. Field tires with pretty good lugs. And a real nice new bed made out of some full dimension oak the guy had cut down and then finished off himself. Stakes for the sides.

  Sounded good and when I saw it, I was sold. Traded him straight across Saturday morning and then most of her was done. Could smell her in the car. Could picture her riding there, lookin’ over at me when maybe we went into town for shopping and a movie. Still could do that on Saturdays. Right up to the end. Or seeing her sitting behind the wheel, turning it slowly, the chat of those low-profile tires kickin’ up gravel, grinding to a halt.

  That’s about what it was. Six days of grindin’ to a halt. Got rid of her mostly that first hour with the bundles, sold her car, then worked on the house—actually cleaning it good with pine sol. Comin’ in with boxes for what was left of her stuff. She left fast. And I wasn’t goin to throw away her things that was left. Just sort of put ’em up in cardboard. Packed them up and stacked them in the far reaches of the bedroom closet. Cleaned out the front hall. Boxed her shoes and mud boots. Two can pack, too. Packed her up!

  A week later I thought I was all set, but I still wasn’t thinkin’ straight. Came back from the mill with the corn seed—hybrid seed it was, not even open pollinated—thinking I was rational and all set to go. Can’t imagine it, now. Just didn’t know any better I guess. Came in and ran off to work, stackin the seeds up in the barn. They stayed there for a while—a good four weeks—before there was time for any plantin’.

  I suppose the corn was part of that general rush to get settled that started right up the first we heard of the place. You see, we had come out here late in the fall. Just had time to get the water line run out underground from the well and set up the foundation and the main power outlet before the winter set in in earnest. Moved our stock over. Added on to the shed on the south end of the barn to create a windbreak for the cattle. Roughed up a couple of box stalls for the team inside and brought over my sheep fold in two parts, one half in each wagon load. Got ’em up on skids and nailed them together and took the team and dragged them half way down that parkin’ lot to where I thought the sheep would best be for winter. And then the snows and the sealin’ in.

  With the woodstove set up in the living room, the house was warm as toast. But sealed it wasn’t. Back in the far end, when the January clipper’d come through, you could almost think you saw the curtains move. Then at the front, by the stove, you were inside a Mason jar—the air and the heat of that place sealed tight.

  So it was my first season plantin’. I just grabbed what everybody else did, and went to it. Spent the two weeks of rain out in the barn working on the old 999 planter and the sulky disk, the spring-tooth and the plow. By the time the rains had quit I was mostly ready. I took the team out and started workin’ them. The rains had softened things up some. There was no hard earth-crackin’ sun, so the earth stayed tolerable soft and we could plow. I have a walking plow, of course, but started off with the JD two bottom sulky that I’ve got. Took it easy. There wasn’t much to plant. An acre per horse per day is the old rule of thumb. Five days later I had my ten acres of corn planted. All ten. Just saved a little patch for the sheep.

  It was only later that I realized that I had the same crazy driven thought about the corn as about those bundles of oats. Just had to get them in. Plowed it all down. That left the sheep in a little patch around the fold, the cattle up by the barn, the horses in the barn or a little space of night pasture that we had fenced off to the east. Nothin’ more. Just plowed fields. I wound up discing and dragging the whole thing and then planting it to corn. Hauled manure just for one day before I plowed it down. Didn’t use no chemical inputs. Couldn’t afford any. And we had some pretty good spring rains after plantin’ which washed some pretty good ruts right down the middle of things. So by the time of May, I could see I had a ripe disaster on my hands. Weak sickly stalks of corn. Mud. Mud hardened into an asphalt crust of hard pan. Johnson grass and quack grass doin’ just real fine in and between the rows.