Dawning on the Farm

Pre-dawn silence filled the farmhouse. The dark walnut chest of drawers rested heavily in the dim corner. It deserved a rest, a retirement of sorts. The wizened piece of furniture was just over one hundred years old and had traveled many rough miles to its present location. Lena’s ancestors built it by hand in Pennsylvania in the1830’s. The dresser was a plain and practical place of storage. Being utilitarian, it was handed down to each next generation, who took it with them wherever they went. They went to Iowa, then South Dakota, then Missouri, and finally back to Iowa. In a covered wagon pulled by oxen, on a flat boat, and by rail, the bulky and burdensome family treasure had crossed the Missouri River four times. It was a bit too large for the little room, but it felt at home in the corner, right next to an east-facing window with heavy ivory lace curtains. That quiet spot in the master bedroom of a small two-bedroom farm home was the proper place for it, for now.

Quietly, a sliver of sunbreak shone down the center of the dresser. On top of it rested a properly wound alarm clock, but it was never set. Real farmers don’t need alarm clocks; they know their day starts at the crack of dawn and the good ones usually awaken themselves before that.

Charley and Lena were both awake. They rested easily in each other’s arms, eyes closed and ears waiting for the rooster to wake the rest of the farm. There were pigs and cattle, a goat and two horses. The hens kept the rooster company and the dog left the cats alone, as long as they didn’t try to get his scraps. The cats could have all the mice they could eat in the barn, but Snowball was a selfish young German Shepherd, and the cats were properly chased and scattered if they came near his treats brought out from the dining room table.

Lena knew her son Harley was up already. She smelled the coffee he had started for her. He would be heading out to start the chores and she would have breakfast ready when he returned. Seventeen years old and still growing, he always wolfed down every morsel of what his mother prepared. Harley was a good son, a serious student, and a hard-worker. As soon as breakfast was over, his Uncle Lynn would come by to pick him up and head back to the dairy farm in West Des Moines. The milk route Harley worked with Lena’s brother helped bring in enough to keep the bankers happy for now, but just barely.

Charley kept talking about heading out to Kansas and other places to the west to work on a wheat crew, but Lena dreaded that. She was pleased that Harley was so helpful to his uncle. Lynn’s dairy farm made him good money, and he also drove the rural mail delivery route in his area. Lynn helped Lena when he could, but most of the time Charley was too proud to allow her to take any money from her brother. So, Harley worked to earn the extra money, and Charley’s pride was preserved.

Lena heard the screen door slam and knew Harley must be back, but it seemed too early for him to be finished. Perhaps she had fallen back asleep; yes, she had, because Charley’s side of the bed was now empty. Lena told him many times not to get up and leave her like that, but he said she looked tired lately, and he didn’t want to be a widower. He and Harley would both be wanting their breakfast sooner than later, so Lena sat up. Looking out the south bedroom window, she could see Jim and Betty’s roof.

Betty, who lived down the road a half mile and was married to Charley’s cousin Jim, told her last week that she thought Lena had some sadness and was acting differently. Acting too melancholy and moving slower than normal, she said. Lena had told her to mind her own business and to quit listening in on the party line phone they shared. She had nothing to be unhappy about and that was that. The money they owed the bank for the cattle and for the windmill they had to replace was cutting deep into their small savings, but they could hopefully live off of it until Charley got some of the cattle sold. Hopefully. Worry was what Betty saw on Lena’s face. It was the Great Depression and it showed up on the faces of most people, and especially farmers.

Ready to start her day, Lena made her way to the kitchen. Harley had the fresh eggs already washed and on the kitchen table. The stove was warming up, so she got the biscuits mixed and put them in the cast iron skillet right away. There was one last bit of sausage left in the icebox, so that would mean today’s breakfast menu was fried eggs with biscuits and gravy. Charley looked up at her over his favorite bright blue tin mug of coffee and smiled.

“How’s my little blonde sweetheart this morning?” he said as he grinned broadly and winked at her. She loved his two-eyed winks and a little laugh escaped her mouth.

“I’m just fine, except some big lug of a farmer got up out of bed without his wife again! And please don’t embarrass me in front of the boy, Charles.”

“I gotta teach him how to talk proper to his girl someday, Lena,” the tall and prematurely gray farmer argued. “He’s a startin’ to get pretty handsome and the gals will be takin’ bigger notice of him this fall when school starts again.”

“They already do, what with that chirpy little Findley girl popping over here about once a week to ‘borrow’ something for her mother. Really, she expects me to believe that her mother runs out of kitchen necessities EVERY week? Maxine Findley is not that scatter-brained! That daughter of hers is just trying to grow up too fast!” Lena was visibly flustered and protective of her well-built young son, and her face flushed as she fried the eggs.

“Now just calm down, Lena. She ain’t gonna hurt him. He’s too busy to bother about women now, anyway.” Charley turned to Harley, who was now also flushed. “Ain’t you, son? Too busy to mess with no women, that’s you, right? Tell your ma.”

“I’m too busy, just like he says, Mother. You know I am. Marian just likes to talk and to get out of her chores. That’s why she comes clear over here all the time. Her ma always hollers at her and she doesn’t like it, so she comes all the way over here.” Harley shook his head, “Walking over three miles, just to get far away from her ma. I tell her to go home and do her chores, then her ma won’t have nothing to holler about.”

“Harley! Use your grammar! Her ma won’t have anything to holler about!” Lena sputtered. She had her degree from a business school in Huron, South Dakota, and was not going to raise a child who sounded uneducated. Never. Rare were the farm wives with even a high school education, so Lena was an oddity, and very proud of it. It was really coincidental the way she came to marry this Iowa farmer, as she was the only one of her three sisters who did not marry a professional man. However, she never corrected Charley’s grammar. He was perfect for her, she said.

Lena’s family had moved back to Iowa from Missouri, walnut dresser and all, and they were all living in Valley Junction, just west of Des Moines. Charley had gone down to the Des Moines rail station, from his farm in rural Grimes, to pick up a new car he had ordered from St. Louis. Lena was there meeting her Aunt Polly, who was arriving for a visit from California.

Trains coming from two opposite directions had brought this pair together. Aunt Polly had needed help moving her bulky travel trunk, and suddenly, Charley loomed over them both, offering to help. He gave Lena her first two-eyed wink, and she actually laughed out loud. Polly frowned at her, but it was too late; Lena and Charley had exchanged glances, as well as their hearts…right there on the rail platform, in front of everyone.

They married six weeks later. Polly encouraged them to not delay because she wanted to be at the wedding; she claimed she was responsible for the meeting. Charley said it was his love of Carlington cars that led them to each other. He would always wink at Lena when he said that, and she would always laugh. It was a wonderful love.

While Lena cleaned up the breakfast dishes and prepared the scraps for Snowball and the chickens, Charley and Harley headed out to the feed lot. The son had already fed the goat, and the pigs, but Charley wanted to help Harley with the cattle. He had to be sure not one of them was off their feed, and that they all appeared to be gaining weight. He surely did not want to leave his family and head west to harvest wheat, but he’d do what he had to do to provide for them and to protect the family farm. His grandfather had bought these eighty acres in 1866, and it was where his family belonged. He would do anything necessary.

“Hey, Dad, I think I saw a rat down in the feed room. Nearly as big as one of the cats!”

“What? We don’t need none of them around here. Probably came in with that load of smelly sheep old man Monahan bought for himself the other day. Even rats wouldn’t want to hang around those stinkin’ critters. Them cats better get rid those vermin if they want to keep their happy home. That’s the only reason I put up with them; to keep the rats and mice outta the barn and other buildings! I got no time for cats…or rats.” Charley was not kidding, Harley could tell he was mad about having rats. He shrank back a little; not that his dad was ever mean to him, but his dad was a big man and was powerful strong. He threw their bales of hay around for the cattle like they were shoeboxes. Empty shoeboxes. Not like they were hundred-pound blocks of grain.

Harley completely respected his father, and he knew his dad felt the same toward him. He had heard Charley bragging about his “strong-as-a-bull, hard-workin’ kid” to his friends at the pig auction in Perry just a month ago. He was proud that his dad was similarly respected by all the other farmers they knew. His father might not be as literate as his mother, but he had finished fifth grade, and was a straight-talking, honest, hard-working man. Charley’s tall muscular figure, wearing striped overalls, with a farmer’s tan, and that flat-top, nearly silver haircut… it was a striking image standing there in the bright mid-morning sun.

“We’d better get goin’ on cleanin’ the big water tank, son; don’t need no livestock gettin’ sick on us. Then we’ll need to check that fence up against Jim’s pasture. His skinny cows keep a leanin’ on it tryin’ to git to our corn. Remind me to tell him to feed those animals more!” Charley strode off toward the giant water tank at the base of the barnyard windmill. An early summer heatwave had filled it with green and yellow pond scum or something worse, and his father decided to empty it all out and give the livestock clean water. It would take a couple of hours. By the time they checked out the fence, it would be time for lunch.

At lunch, Harley would have time to see if the new Reader’s Digest had come in the mail. At lunch and after dark were the only two times he had to read. His mother insisted he read. Harley was fairly sure his father at least approved of his love of reading, but Charley adamantly frowned on it “during the daylight hours God gave us to farm.” So, he read at lunch and after sundown. He loved that what he read gave him a connection with his mother. He would be working with his father all day, and really put his heart and hard work into it, but his mother had always encouraged him to higher aspirations, if that’s what Harley wanted. It was what Harley saw on that milk route of Uncle Lynn’s that made the young man realize that he did want more.