Hired Man

For centuries, farms had a hired man or two who helped with milking, haying, and other chores. In Charlotte’s Web, Lurvy is the hired man; he is generally feeding Wilbur a pail of slops. Robert Frost wrote a poem called The Death of the Hired Man in 1915. (Though the entire poem isn’t as well known, the lines

Home is the place where, when you have to go there,

They have to take you in

are famous. I’m sure many who quote them aren’t aware they are referring to a hired man.)

I’ve always hired men to help me, not only for the big projects but for various odd jobs. My friend Mike has been my reliable right hand for years, changing oil and flat tires, or stopping by to saw up a dead tree. However only this fall, with Allen working with me for most of two months, have I ever enjoyed a situation a bit like the old-time “hired man.”

It has been a cozy feeling, having someone on the farm day after day. Another set of muscles on the other end of a heavy board, another brain planning and problem-solving. Sometimes I’d come upon Allen fixing a sticky door or a dripping spigot for me, unasked, and I’d feel almost teary.

It’s also been fun to watch someone else enjoy the animals. Allen loves them all. I’d often track where he was around the barn by listening for his voice talking to the sheep or the cows.

A few days ago it was unseasonably warm and we ate lunch sitting on the tailgate of his truck in the sunshine. (Actually, I ate my lunch; Allen ate his dinner from a modern insulated cooler bag that he nevertheless calls his dinner pail.) As we ate, we tossed our sandwich crusts to the chickens. The black hen had brought her two chicks — yes, out of sixteen eggs, only two chicks survived the barred rock hen’s maniacal enthusiasm unsquashed — outside the barn into the sun. The tiny black puffballs scurried under the hen’s feet, peeping and pecking at the ground. “The mama’s talkin’ to ‘em and learnin’ ‘em how to scratch!” Allen observed happily. His delight in the scene increased my own pleasure tenfold.

More than anything, in the midst of the hard work and long days, the cold and wind and dripping noses, Allen and I have shared a million laughs.

Every day brought new jokes about me being big, him being little (“I’m short,” he’d insist with dignity); him being old, me being nuts (“I know I’m a bit strange —” I’d say, or, “slightly eccentric—” or, “kind of odd —” “A bit?” he would tease. “Slightly?” “Kinda?”)

Perhaps my favorite memory is the day we broke through the concrete floor of the garage for the sewer and water pipes. We had to excavate a narrow hole six feet deep through the subsoil. About four feet down we hit a rock. Allen was too short to reach, so it was up to me. For over an hour I was head down inside the hole, hanging from my hips on the garage floor, scrabbling blindly at the subterranean rock with bleeding fingers. Finally I had its edges. “I’ve got it, Allen!”

Unfortunately the hole was so narrow I could not wiggle myself back up without letting go of the rock. I could feel Allen pulling on my boots, trying to drag me out. First one foot, then the other. No luck. I was jammed upside down in the hole like a cork in a bottle. My arms were stretched down over my head, my hands clutching the rock. I was helpless. I felt my stomach bump against the dirt of the hole as I started to giggle.

“Allen!”

“Don’t let go of the bastard!” Allen warned, wheezing and pulling.

Finally in desperation he grabbed the straps of my overalls behind my shoulders and heaved. I popped up out of the hole with grit in my hair, bleeding hands — and the rock! For a moment I lay sprawled on the garage floor in surprise. By the time I staggered to my feet, we were both laughing so hard we could only lean on each other, gasping.

The electricians were there that day and the head man was waiting to ask me a question. He said politely, “Before things get too crazy —” His assistant looked at Allen and me, smeared with dirt and laughing hysterically, and snorted: “Too late!” This made us laugh even harder.

So many fun times. Allen has become a dear friend.

Unfortunately the economy that allowed for hired men has gone the way of the Model T. I’m long since out of farm money and winter is closing in. Friday was our last day. The run-in shelter is finished and the mudroom doors are hung.

I will see Allen occasionally this winter — he will stop by for milk when he can, and he has said he will help me take Georgie to the butcher in December — but for now our working days are done.

I’m on my own again.

Short ribs

After saying I hate to try anything new, last night we tried a new dish. Barbecued short ribs. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten beef ribs, and would never have ventured there, but when you have a bull butchered you wind up with hundreds of pounds of meat, some of it unfamiliar to me. Not only do I feel I owe it to dear Hughie (the bull) to be mindful and conscientious — I try to use and be grateful for every scrap — but Georgie is going to go in another month and I need to clear out the bottom of my freezer.

The ribs were OK. It certainly went against the grain for me to pour a bottle of flavored corn syrup (Kraft’s barbecue sauce, a first-time purchase) over meat. However, neither DH nor the children had any objection to this sugary treat. The overflow sauce soaked into their brown rice and they mopped that up, too.

“Wow, I love ribs!” Lucy said, wiping her orange-smeared face.

“Me, too!” agreed Jon, licking his fingers. “I just think we should get boneless next time.”

I grinned. “Boneless ribs?” I nudged him in the chest. “How’d you like to have boneless ribs?”

We all laughed. Imagine my surprise today to discover on Google that there is such a product as boneless ribs. What hath God wrought?

For our next ribs meal I’m going to look online for a recipe that doesn’t drip corn syrup. However the success of the sickly sweet Kraft barbecue sauce may make it a tough switch. How do you keep ‘em down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree?

On rural language

I have always loved to listen to workmen talk. The sentence construction and grammar are so distinctive that I am constantly delighted. While looking at a horse trailer last week, Allen and I met two other elderly men. One of them, speaking of a large local family, said, “Ain’t ‘nough brains between ‘em to make a good house cat!”

That generation never “hauls” rocks or stones, they “draw” them. Allen recently bought a new truck and I was concerned by the very small size of the truck bed. He shrugged. “Don’t matter. Ain’t gonna draw nothin’.”

Babies don’t cry, they “blat.”

When Allen refers to a “chimbley” (chimney) I feel as if a history book is speaking.

Not only do I enjoy hearing dialects and accents but unconsciously I can begin to copy them. When he was small, my son would become agitated when I was on the phone with my mother (from the Deep South) for any length of time. My voice would gradually take on a drawl and my R’s would soften. “Stop it!” Jon would cry furiously. “That’s not how you talk!”

I try very hard not to slip similarly into the rural idiom when I’m working with Allen. I’m aware it could be taken as mockery or condescension if I suddenly began speaking with fractured grammar. However I often repeat his words in my mind, examining how his sentences are put together. It is a quiet, ongoing pleasure.

Yesterday Allen and I jacked up the roof of the run-in shelter where our post had sunk. He was giving me directions with the jack while he stood back to watch the roof line.

“You keep pumpin’ til I say stop,” he instructed. “Cabbage?”

I looked up. “What?” I began — and then the penny dropped. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. “Allen, are you saying capisce?”

He grinned at me. “Cabbage, caboose, it don’t matter none.”

Nursery Food

Harried cook making mozzarella with a child in 2008

I had all sorts of plans for the weekend. It was due to rain on Saturday and clear on Sunday, so I thought I’d do chores, clean, and grocery shop while it rained and then stain the run-in shed in the sunshine.

Nope, it drizzled all weekend. However my family doesn’t mind when I spend more time around the house. The meals improve. On Saturday we had grilled rib-eye steaks, fresh bread, baked butternut squash with drizzled maple syrup, and green beans.

I wish I had the enthusiasm for cooking that many of my friends do. They are as excited by a new recipe as I am about finding a new chick under a hen. I, conversely, could be called a dogged cook. I cook because we have to eat, and I try to nourish my family properly with fresh and (as much as possible) home-grown ingredients, but there is no spark or dazzle for me. I’m afraid when considering a meal I tend to remember the number of pots and pans that will have to be washed.

Part of this may be a basic lack of interest in food. To say I’m an unadventurous eater would be a major understatement. I wasn’t exposed to a wide variety when I was young and I am not someone who likes to try new things. When I was in my early thirties, we moved to the D.C. metropolitan area. DH suggested Chinese food. “I don’t like Chinese food,” I said. He and I had lived in a very rural town for ten years and my only association was childhood meals of canned La Choy chow mein noodles with canned glop featuring ginger slices (as a little girl I thought it was sliced bamboo) poured on top. DH prevailed, we ordered Chinese take-out, and surprise! I loved it! However, this experience unfortunately did not open the door to a new me.

DH has many meetings over restaurant meals. He always reads the menus carefully. He loves to try new things. He would try Grilled Sneaker Treads if someone convinced him that somewhere it was nouvelle cuisine.

I, on the other hand, rarely go out and when I do I like to order the same thing. I have to remind myself not to be upset if, two years later, a restaurant has changed its menu.

It won’t surprise anyone to learn that the staple meals I prepare are very basic: burgers, lamb chops, pasta casseroles, beef stew, shepherd’s pie, cheese omelettes, chicken, pot roasts, meatloaf, baked potatoes, hearty soups. I was reading an English novel recently and a character referred to this sort of menu contemptuously as nursery food.

Of course! Nursery food! I ate all of these things as a child and my taste buds have never grown up. In fact, if someone were to serve me a plate of hot, crusty corned beef hash with poached eggs on top (a delicious feature of my childhood that mysteriously I’ve never attempted to replicate) I’d dive in.

I thought I was the worst possible culinary stick-in-the-mud but I’ve been topped. Last night Allen called to plan work for today. I told him I was making vanilla ice cream for our family dessert. (Allen loves vanilla ice cream.) Then I mentioned I’d just finished making a pound of fresh mozzarella cheese and had mixed up a batch of pizza dough and that soon Lucy and I would build our homemade pizzas for dinner. Silence.

“I don’t like pizza,” Allen said finally.

“You don’t? Why not? You don’t like tomato sauce?”

He laughed. “Ain’t never had it.” It turns out that Allen, too, prefers nursery food. He never ate pizza as a child — why try it?

My dear friend Alison turned 50 last week. I am taking her out for a birthday supper. She loves lobster and a local restaurant is having a $12.95 special.

Of course you can guess: I’ve never eaten lobster. But just for Alison, because I love her, I’m going to try some.

“We need Kate, and we need Leo”

I am very fond of the movie Love, Actually. Long ago when it came out and I saw it in the theater, I recognized all its faults, but since then I’ve seen it so often that I don’t care about faults any more. I just enjoy spending time with the fine ensemble cast, which includes many of my favorite actors, and I particularly enjoy Richard Curtis’s humor. (Curtis wrote the screenplay as well as directed the film.) It’s well-written, cheerful, and sappy. Perfect for me.

In one scene Liam Neeson is trying to help his eleven-year-old stepson sort out a thorny romantic dilemma.

“We need Kate,” he says, “and we need Leo. And we need them now. Come on.” In the next shot you see the two watching Titanic. On screen Jack and Rose are standing in the prow of the ship, their arms spread into the wind. “Do you trust me?” asks Jack. “I trust you,” says Rose.

Neeson and his stepson are acting out this scene in their living room.

“Do you trust me?” asks Neeson.

“I trust you,” says his stepson.

“Fool!” yelps Neeson, tickling him, and they both collapse, giggling, on the sofa.

I’ve always loved this tiny scene and I remembered it the other night when DH was away, Jon and I were feeling ropey, and Jon pulled out the Titanic DVD.

Jon, Lucy, and I watched the film over two nights. For Lucy it was a bit too frightening and too sad for real pleasure. She watched the second half cuddling with me in my chair, her face half-turned from the screen. Lucy has been exposed to so little media (do we count all seven seasons of West Wing?) that at twelve she is a tender soul. I had to explain to her that Jack and Rose hadn’t really existed, but Titanic had, and had indeed gone down. “I don’t like boats,” she said in my ear.

For Jon, who first saw it when he was about Lucy’s age, I think it was a visit to his childhood, a return to a less complicated time when idealism reigned and soaring romance seemed right around the corner. He was blue when the first credits rolled, but by the time the dolphins were leaping in the waves creaming from the bow of the ship and the lush score was ringing out, his mood had lifted. “This film may have one of the best soundtracks ever,” he exclaimed. Whenever I looked over, his face by the light of the screen looked intent and happy.

Isn’t it wonderful how a well-made film or book can smooth out a rumpled spirit? When I myself am a bit knocked off my feet by life I go back to my own childhood and reread old favorites. Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House books. Anne of Green Gables. My Friend Flicka. All Creatures Great and Small. Cheaper by the Dozen. Mrs. Mike. The Family Nobody Wanted. Big Red by Jim Kjelgaard. Karen by Marie Killilea. Of course most of these books were written for twelve-year-olds, but that never bothers me. Deep in their well-thumbed pages I feel warm, protected, and safe.

And doesn’t everyone need that once in a while?

Onward and Upward

Yesterday due to family circumstances I had to rearrange my work day. When I finally got down to the farm after lunch, I found Allen leaning in his passenger door, rummaging in his truck.

He turned to greet me with a big grin on his face and a goofy hat on his head. “It’s Cowboy Allen down at the ranch!”

I burst out laughing and he gave me a hug. “Thought you sounded a little sad on the phone,” he explained.

I am blessed with wonderful warm people in my life. DH telephoned from North Carolina. My big sister sent her cell number. My friend Alison called from the road on her way to a conference. When I told her I was working with Allen, she said, “Oh, good, then I know you’re all right.”

Together Allen and I put up all the wood nailers (in August Lucy and I had found 12′ rough-cut 1×8s on Craigslist for $2 apiece and I’d ripped them to 1×4s) and then the metal roofing.

We’ve known that due to misplaced posts, the building was not only bowed but about 9″ out of square. Still, these issues became even more blindingly obvious the moment the straight sheets of metal roofing began to go on.

“Don’t want Dean to see this,” Allen warned.

“I’ll keep the bull in the paddock,” I promised.

We both laughed. In fact all afternoon, as we pulled up sheets of roofing and screwed them down, we kept looking at our wonky building, shaking our heads, and laughing. I started calling the shed Castle Cattywampus.

As long as it stands and keeps the animals dry, I’m not too worried. It’s a 43×12 building cobbled together out of scrounged materials, second-hand roofing, and some new posts, rafters, and lag bolts. Including labor it cost me about $800. I could barely build a wood bin for that.

However we also discovered that one of our posts, originally dead level and plumb, had sunk, causing the roof to have a perceptible swayback. Allen was frustrated not to have the excavator on hand to effect a five-minute fix. We will make up our morning next week, to finish final details, and he says he will bring a car jack to lift it back into place.

“If that don’t work we’ll give ‘er a nudge to straighten ‘er in the spring, when we got the machine.”

But for now the animals have a roof over their heads in bad weather, and that’s a great feeling.

Letting Your Children Grow

My son has been struggling these past few weeks. He’s made some poor decisions. Nothing terrible, but the emotional fall-out has been painful for him. He is very sad.

He’s 22 now. Six-foot-four and bearded. A man. I have to let him learn from his mistakes.

It is very hard for me. I am a tigress — or an army tank — when it comes to my children. I will move heaven and earth to keep them from harm.

My mother was exactly the same. We used to joke about Mom taking on Mrs. Paslowski, the second grade teacher who was so very misguided as to pick on my little sister — “Poor Mrs. Paslowski!” Knowing that Mom was always at your back was a bulwark. Whenever things were frightening in my college travels I can remember thinking, “As long as I can find I-95, I can get home.” To the absolute safety of my mother’s love. On the other hand, I had the longest adolescence in history.

How do you help your children grow up? How do you find the line between enough intervention and too much?

I am feeling nostalgic today for the years when my boy’s biggest anxiety was shots at the doctor’s office.

in Florida, 1999

A great little gift

If you or anyone you love spend a lot of time on the road, and drink coffee or tea to keep caffeinated, check out this mug. It’s a Thermos Nissan 14-ounce, leak-proof travel mug.

Yes, we are now pausing for a commercial break!

After researching all the options — and who knew there were so many? — I bought one of these nifty travel mugs as a present for DH a couple of months ago from Amazon (free shipping). He opened the package with a fond but skeptical smile. Imagine buying a mug on the internet! But now he is a True Believer.

DH is always arriving or departing in the middle of the night. We are two and a half hours from the nearest airport or train, so if he arrives in Albany at 9 PM he’s rarely home before midnight. He often leaves at 3 AM.

DH became a tea drinker while climbing in England in his college years. Earl Grey laced with heavy cream and lots of sugar has powered him down the road now for decades.

He’s had many insulated mugs over the years, but the Thermos Nissan beats them all. A mug of tea prepared in our kitchen will still be piping hot when he’s waiting to board his plane three hours later. When you have to travel as much as DH does, when all the hotel rooms blur together, I think it’s the little grace notes that become important. (I notice that DH keeps his mug on his bedside table so there is no danger of its pieces being lost in the melée of our family kitchen!)

Last night I grilled steaks to celebrate having DH home for dinner. This morning he left before dawn for North Carolina. He was carrying his overnight bag slung over his shoulder and his briefcase in one hand. I gave him a kiss and his loaded mug for the other as he headed out the door.

He works so hard. A hot cup of tea is the least I can do.

More run-in progress

Yesterday Allen and I spent another six hours working on the run-in shelter. The weather was unseasonably warm, in the 50s. A gorgeous day for working outside. We got a late start due to carpool issues (Jon’s usual ride was sick) but I remind myself that in last summer’s rains, six hours of work would have been a long day.

We began by marking and cutting off the 12′ rafters, front and back, so our 12′ metal roofing would have an overhang.

Allen buzzed off all the boards with my chainsaw. Because the frame is, as we realized yesterday, both racked and bowed, we decided not to obsess about precision or perfection. I know the shelter will be a blessing for the animals and as long as it isn’t too obviously odd-looking, I am almost as calm as Allen.

Though I do worry about Allen. At 71, being on his feet all day as a carpenter is hard on him. He doesn’t bend easily to pick up tools or lumber. Climbing ladders and in and out of my truck, which we use as a staging platform, is tiring. He’s short of breath. His right shoulder is wonky, making it difficult to raise that arm. He never complains, however, and without saying anything I stand so he can put a hand on my shoulder as he climbs up or down. We joke all the time. I often can reach the rafters just on tiptoes. He calls me “Long Legs” or “Giraffe” — “I figured I’d leave that one for Long Legs,” or “OK, Giraffe, you get on that end of the board!”

Meanwhile he is still much stronger than I am. When I would grow tired, driving heavy lag screws over my head, I’d sometimes feel Allen’s hand reach up to push my elbow or wrist, helping me drive it home. I figure between the two of us we make one pretty good able-bodied worker.

But luckily we’re not in a race. Allen is as tuned into animal life as I am. “Look at them hawks!” he’ll say suddenly, and we’ll both lower a board to watch a pair of redtails soar overhead. Or,”I bet them cows are missin’ the machine. They was always watchin’. It was their TV!”

As we had to do lots of cutting and fitting to create the front overhang, our progress yesterday was not rapid. Still, by the end of the day we had the overhang framed and the reinforcing row of stringers up.

The unseasonably warm weather is due to continue today. Allen points out that logically we should put up the roof nailers and start the roof before a storm blows in — as could happen at any minute — and we’re stuck struggling to do it at 15° in a blizzard.

However I have to take care of life at home for a day. I always have to remind myself that the farm is a hobby and that my family still deserves clean sheets, matched socks, wholesome meals, and to have someone tending the hearth.

Back to work

DH has had such a grueling schedule recently he’s been a passing ship. This past week he went to a conference downstate Wednesday and Thursday (I didn’t go with him, as I usually do, because we couldn’t cover logistical problems for the kids). He got in Thursday night in time to run his demanding quarterly board meetings all day Friday and Saturday. Sunday, he drove to Maine for a meeting. Today he’ll drive home. Wednesday he leaves again to give a presentation at a conference in North Carolina.

“Wow,” I had said when he calmly outlined this exhausting program to me. “You’re certainly not a whiner!”

He smiled. “I hope you’re not just realizing this.”

No. DH is one of the hardest, most disciplined workers I’ve ever known. He rarely stops and he never complains. He sets a standard that is difficult for anyone to live up to.

On the farm, Allen, in his different way, is exactly the same.

For me there is great comfort in such dependable, unstoppable people. It’s a bit like being hitched to an over-sized engine. You know you’re going down that road willy-nilly. So you just scramble to stay on your feet and keep up. Or, as Allen says, “Just put ‘er in high gear and let ‘er roll.”

Yesterday Allen and I began putting the roof on the run-in shed. We are having a spell of sun and warmer (40°) weather and it’s the perfect opportunity to finish off the job before deep snow.

Now that the excavator has gone we’ve — of course — discovered that our front posts are off by half a foot. We set them in such terrible weather, in such poor conditions (buried stumps and boulders in the way), under such time pressure, that we could not be precise. We can’t fix them now.

Allen as always was calm. “We ain’t building a church. It’ll be fine.”

It is fun to be working with Allen again. We joke and laugh all day. Here he is pretending to object to the camera.

Yesterday we got up all the 2×12 rafters. As we were putting away tools for the evening Allen said, “It ain’t gonna be a thing of beauty, but the cows won’t mind.”