Farmed Out (3 page)

What kind of torture chamber was this place? Mucking out a goat shed?

“You do it like so,” he said, skimming his shovel over the floor to scoop up hard round goat poops. “Then, you dump it over the side for composting later.” He turned the shovel over and tapped it on the open side of the shed. The little poops plopped into a pile.

I looked down at my beloved Andy Warhol T-shirt. It already had a streak of mud on it.

Then I felt a tug on my skirt. A brown and white goat had a mouthful of black ruffles.

“Ack, no!” I exclaimed, trying to pry the skirt out of its mouth. I got it out, but a big chunk had ripped off. The goat scampered away, spraying muck all over my legs.

“I told you not to bring those clothes,” my mom said, in that way mothers are so good at.

“You can borrow something of Anna's, if you don't have anything suitable,” Ruth said.

I didn't want to wear farm-girl clothes, but I didn't want mine to get all ripped and stained either.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

Five minutes later I was decked out in one of Anna's T-shirts and light blue jeans. I felt like such a dork.

When I returned to the goat shed, my mom was shoveling poop and singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” to herself. She changed the words to “Young Lynn Turner Had a Farm.”

I decided to take out my anger by shoveling. I dreamed of being back in the city, sitting in my favorite café with my sketchbook.

“Isn't this fun, Maddie?” my mom said. “Hard work builds character.”

I didn't respond. I shoveled harder, trying to drown out whatever other clichés were coming out of her mouth.

A few minutes later my mom leaned her shovel against the shed wall. She raised her arms and did a big stretch. “Well, this has been fun. I wonder what we get to do next.”

I straightened up. “What are you talking about? We're supposed to clean the whole shed.”

“Oh. Right,” my mom said, looking disappointed.

If my mom was going to not like the farm work, then I was going to
love
it.

I continued to muck out the shed, whistling as I worked.

My mom said something, but I pretended not to hear her over the sound of my vigorous scooping.

I was getting into a rhythm.
Scoop
poop, poop scoop
, I repeated in my head.

I wasn't sure how much time had gone by, but when I looked up again, my mom was gone.

“Mom?” I called. I poked my head around the side of the shed.

There she was, with a small herd of goats nibbling at her sleeves and nuzzling her knees. She stroked a brown goat's floppy ears. She was holding something in her right hand. Two of the goats had words written on them.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

She looked up, her hand poised over the left butt cheek of a white goat. I realized the thing in her hand was a muddy stick.

“Oh hi, Madison,” she said, as though using dirt to scribble on farm animals was normal. “Come see. I'm naming the goats.”

The white goat scurried away. It had
Glenda
printed in big muddy letters on its flank. The butt of another goat victim said
Gigi
.

“Mom, have you gone completely nuts?” I said finally, tossing down my shovel. The goats scattered.

“Not at all,” she replied, her chin held high. “I'm writing their names on the goats so that the Friesens can remember who they are.”

“Well, stop it right now!” I yelled.

Ruth and Klaus approached, carrying armfuls of hay. I covered my face with my hands in pure embarrassment. Oh
no.

“Good gracious!” Ruth exclaimed when she saw the goats.

“Meet Glenda and Gigi,” my mom said. “And there's Grace, Geena, Giselle and Ginger, but I haven't gotten to them yet. I thought I would start a tradition of naming your farm animals,” she added proudly.

I sucked in a breath, waiting to see what the Friesens would say. Klaus slowly took his pipe out of his breast pocket, lit it and took a puff.

“Gigi and Glenda are heading to the slaughterhouse tomorrow,” he said. “We supply restaurants with goat meat.”

My mom's eyes went pink and teary. “Gigi and Glenda?” she said, her voice weak. “That's what these goats are destined for? Certain
death
?”

I understood why the Friesens didn't name their animals.

“Why don't you take a break and come in for some iced tea,” Ruth said.

“Okay,” my mom said. She dropped the muddy stick.

“I'm going to go for a walk,” I said. “But I'll come in soon.”

I wanted to wander around the farm and get inspired for the art contest. I thought it was doubtful I'd find something to draw, but I might as well stay away from my mother for a while.

I walked past the tractors and the vegetable garden. It amazed me how they got those long lines of vegetables so perfectly straight. Past the garden was the barn. The door was wide open in the late afternoon sun. It was one of those classic red barns with white trim, like what you see in children's books.

Anna sat inside on a wooden stool, oiling some leather straps. Behind her was an enormously pregnant brown cow. Her sides stuck out so much that she barely fit in her stall.

“Hi,” I said from the doorway.

“Hey,” Anna said, not looking up.

Above the cow's stall was a hand-painted nameplate that read
Frida Cowlo
.

“Your cow's name is Frida Cowlo?”

Anna nodded, still not looking up.

“After Frida Kahlo, the Mexican painter?” I continued.

“Yeah.” Anna paused and looked at me with narrowed eyes. Then she turned back to her work.

I couldn't hide my enthusiasm. “Cool! She's one of my favorite artists.”

Anna sighed and set down the leather straps. “Is there something you wanted?” She looked up again. “Why are you wearing my clothes?”

Oh crap. I had forgotten about that. My time at Quiet River Farm so far was a string of embarrassing moments. “Uh, your mom lent them to me,” I said. “For working in.”

I tried to fix the situation by acting like it was no big deal. “So, what are you doing?”

“Look, I'm very busy here.” She turned away.

It appeared that Anna hated me. With her freckles and round blue eyes, she looked like she'd be nice.

“I just came to say hi.” I paused. No response. “Okay, bye.” I slouched out of the barn.

My mom was a weirdo, I was wearing a 4-H Cow Club T-shirt, and the one person my age in this boring place hated me. At least the food was good. But I still wondered what I had done to deserve this.

Chapter Five

The next morning a rooster woke me up. Seriously. Just like in cartoons. It even made a
cock-a-doodle-doo
sound.

“Make it stop,” my mom groaned and turned over, pulling her pillow around her ears.

There was a sharp knock on our door. “Bacon's on!” Klaus bellowed.

Remembering the spread the day before, I rolled myself out of bed.

I couldn't wait to see what breakfast would be.

“Mom? You coming?” No answer. She didn't eat bacon anyway. I prodded her a few times, but she kept saying, “Five more minutes, five more minutes!” Let sleeping mothers lie, I thought.

The smells of fresh coffee and bread rushed into my nose as soon as I entered the kitchen.

“Good morning!” Ruth and Klaus said.

The table was laden with food— canned peaches, bread, butter, cheese, eggs, jam and orange juice. Had I died and gone to Breakfast Heaven? This sure beat the stale cereal and almost-expired milk I usually ate.

I looked at the clock above the sink. Six o'clock. Farmers sure did get up early.

“Is your mother coming?” Klaus asked.

“Yeah, I think she'll wake up soon.”

The three of us sat down and started filling our plates. Half an hour passed with no sign of my mom. I didn't mind so much. It was nice and quiet without her.

“Is Anna here?” I asked.

“She's been in the barn since five,” Ruth said. Anna was starting to make me feel like a lazy kid.

After breakfast I walked along the edge of the garlic field, thinking about the
Canvas
art contest. I had my sketchbook and pencils with me in case I got inspired. Time was running out.

It was misty and fresh and perfectly farmlike. Everything was completely still. The only sound was that rooster, still crowing somewhere in the distance.

I plunked myself down on a patch of yellowed grass and opened my sketchbook. I had taped the ad for the art contest to the inside cover. I read it for the hundredth time.

The First Annual “Face of
Youth” Art Contest—for artists
ages 13–17. Think you've got
what it takes? This year's theme
is Portraits. Send us your best
drawing, painting or mixed media
piece of an interesting face, and
you could win an all-expenses-paid
trip to New York City. First
prize includes an all-access pass to
the city's art galleries. The winner
will be featured on the cover of
Canvas Magazine
. Entries must be
postmarked by July 25.

I got a rush of adrenaline. July 25 was now only five days away. I had to think of the most fabulous drawing ever. And fast.

Harold the dog ran up and poked his wet nose into my armpit. I giggled. He lay down and wiggled around on his back for a belly rub.

“Oh yes, Harold, what a good boy!” I said, rubbing his stomach. I'm more of a cat person, but Harold seemed sweet. He soon settled into a regal pose beside me, surveying the farm. I decided that Harold was as good a subject as any, and picked up my pencil.

After a few minutes I felt someone watching me. Anna was leaning against the barn, looking at me with her chin lifted.

I turned back to my sketchbook. I heard Anna's footsteps as she clumped over to me.

“What're you doing?” she asked, standing over me.

“Drawing Harold,” I said.

She peered at the drawing. So far I had sketched his floppy ears and the top of his head.

“Looks pretty good.” She sat down and started petting Harold. “Harold's an excellent judge of character. He only likes good people.”

I wasn't sure what to do. Keep sketching, or stop? I continued to sketch.

“So you're from Vancouver?” Anna said after a while.

“Um-hmm,” I answered. By then I had drawn most of Harold's face.

Silence. When I was working on Harold's collar, Anna spoke again.

“We don't get a lot of volunteers from Vancouver,” she said. “Mostly we get hippie types from Nelson looking for an ‘experience.'” She made air quotes with her fingers when she said “experience.”

“That's what my mom is here for,” I said. “Except she calls it an ‘adventure.'” I made air quotes.

Anna laughed. Her laugh was hard, like it was coming out of a forty-year-old woman who smokes a lot.

“I can't stand hippies,” Anna said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, my mom is really into the DDP factor when it comes to our adventures,” I said.

“DDP?” Anna asked.

“Drums, dreadlocks and patchouli.”

Anna's eyes widened. “DDP! That totally describes the volunteers.”

“One time my mom took me to a drum circle at the beach,” I said, “and some guy wouldn't let us sit on this log because the spirit of Jimi Hendrix was already sitting on it.”

Anna laughed again even harder. “Was he like, ‘Dude, that's Jimi's log'?” She had the slow, drawling voice of a hippie down perfectly.

Pretty soon we were both rolling around on the grass, killing ourselves laughing over hippie jokes.

“My dad told me that your mom named the goats,” Anna said. “He had a heck of a time scrubbing that dirt off.”

“Yeah, can you believe it?” I said. “I'm worried about what else she might do.”

“Do you want to go swimming in the river?” Anna asked.

“I'd love to.” I didn't bring my vintage polka-dot bikini for nothing.

Chapter Six

The river water was clear and cool, and it tugged us along with gentle insistence.

“Wow,” I said, dragging my toes along the silky sand of the riverbed. “I've never swum in anything but a chlorine-filled pool.”

Anna stuck out her tongue. “Ew, those are full of little-kid pee.” She ducked her head under the water and did a front somersault.

As Anna and I splashed around, I looked out at the farm. The goats were eating their breakfast of cornhusks. The chickens were pecking at their grain. Frida the cow was hanging out beside the barn, basking in the morning sun.

And there was my mother in a bright pink unitard.

“Oh no,” I groaned. Not again.

“Maddie?” Anna said.

Not taking my eyes off my mom, who was standing beside the pigpen, I said, “Look over there.”

My mom started waving her arms around in big circles, leaning over the pigpen fence. I could hear her chanting “Om.” I wondered what the mother pig and her newborn piglets were thinking.

My mom leaned over farther, her arms making wild circles in front of her.

“What is she doing?” Anna asked.

All of a sudden my mom's flip-flop-clad feet flew up in the air. And then everything was still.

I can't remember what I said, but it made Anna gasp. We swam to shore and raced toward the pigpen.

Through the wooden boards, I saw my mother laying in several inches of mud. Six hungry piglets were shoving their snouts into her side. They pulled at her unitard, their tiny mouths full of bright pink spandex.

“Ow! Ow!” my mom yelped. Squirming around in the mud, she tried to sit up, but the piglets had her pinned. “Girls! Help me!”

A piglet ran over her forehead, leaving mud streaks down the side of her face.

I was about to jump in and help my mom when I noticed the mama pig on the other side of the pigpen. She was behind a small wooden gate, squealing like crazy and stamping her hooves. She sounded like a dentist's drill on turbo speed. The mama pig was butting her head against the flimsy gate, trying to get to her piglets.