On the farm
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Fiction
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Moral rights
S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Authors Note:
While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. The following is based on events from my life.
Stettler, Alberta
Our family stayed at the farm so often that I can't remember all the times we lived there or when we left. It was one other constant in my life that wasn't always constant. Another one of my earliest memories is of kindergarten. I was five. There, I napped, licked the side of the swing for no apparent reason and kicked a little boy in his private parts with my cowboy boots. I often reflect on why I might have done this. My cousin tells me I also pushed her face into an old pile of cow dung around the same time. I didn't remember it, but I was horrified when she told me. The conversation went a little something like this.
"Hey, do you remember when we were on the farm?"
I scratch the memories I have, each a flickering image. Maybe she's talking about when I caught a small rodent in our yard. The memory of my shoving a dirty hand down the vermin's hole as the little beggar tried to escape and grabbed him by his tiny tail popped into my brain like a shiny penny. To this day, I still don't know what it was, only that when I proudly presented it to my grandfather, he took it from me and proceeded to drop kick (yes, he kicked this pitiful thing) right into the air toward the forest. As hard as I looked, I couldn't find it, and in some ways, I was relieved because even though it had taken a licking, it had managed to crawl away and survive.
She wasn't there with me then, so I scrapped that thought. Maybe it happened when she and another cousin were visiting. Lorne and I were roughhousing in the trailer in defiance of the rule that there would be none. For a good reason, too, seeing how the door I was pushed up against swung open. I felt out the back door, pitched forward and cracked my head on two of the three metal stairs that led out to the area where my grandmother used to toss the contents of the ten-gallon pail we used to use as a makeshift toilet. I can still recall the stench.
I puked that night, but I wasn't sure whether it was on account of smelling like a makeshift outhouse or the fact I had a concussion no one took me to the hospital for. Given I've had two other concussions in my lifetime, and the symptoms were similar, I'm calling 50/50 on that one. Still, that memory didn't seem like the right one, so I kept on going.
I roamed alone over the farmland daily. It's something that evokes in me a glorious sense of autonomy. I swung from an old tire hung on the beam of a 20-foot roof. I'd skirt the old pond that dried up a little more each year to search for the crocuses that popped through the snow. I'd taken the old snowmobile out to one of the one hundred acres my family owned and managed to get the old diesel beast stuck in a foot or two of snow. You'd think I'd have been terrified at eight to wander like this. Yet, having lived there for what I perceived was my entire life, it was more like, "I'm going to catch heck for leaving the machine way out here."
My grandparents' dogs, Chico and Pooper, were always with me. Chico bounded through the snow like the Husky he was, his fuzzy tail bouncing. Poopsy stayed close. If she weren't at your leg, she was underfoot. I'd accidentally fallen over and stepped on her; she was called my shadow. I remember getting upset and kicking at her to get her out from under my feet and connecting with her side. I remembered her yelp, and though she's long gone, I'd still take it back if I could. It wasn't until she wouldn't come to me that I realized the gravity of my actions. I was fed up with walking and falling because she was snaking her body through my feet. It was a harsh lesson to learn. I frowned at this memory, which she took to mean something else.
"You don't remember, do you?"
"No, I don't think so. What were we doing before that?"
"It was hot that day. We were using those two bathtubs Granddad had set up as troughs for the horses."
"Oh, I remember that. The water was so cold, and it was great fun. We were in our swimsuits, having a wonderful time splashing around with no one to complain that we were making a mess." I laughed.
A vision of my holding her aloft seemed far-fetched until another memory flickered from the recess of my mind. I'd only put her in the old cow poop because there wasn't a new one. "Ha, I remember it. Sheesh. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have held your head over that dried cow patty and threatened to drop you into it."
"You did drop me and smushed my face right into it."
"I'm sorry, I didn't remember. Regardless, I'm sorry. That said, you should probably know I was looking for one that was still steaming." I laughed, thanking my lucky stars the horses hadn't laid anything fresh that day. We might not have been on speaking terms after that forever, and for a good reason.
"I deserved it. I was bothering the piss out of you, pushing every button, trying to get you to react all day like I did every single time you and I got together." She laughs, looking a bit sheepish. "I'm actually surprised you didn't do it sooner."
"Well, still." I shrug it off, feeling proud that the old me had stood up for myself at least once.
We laughed and shared a few more memories before we parted ways again. The experience had done two vital things, though; it had helped me mention the regret I felt with Poopsy and showed me something of myself. I've always fought back when pushed for a significant amount of time. It just took me a while to get indignant and take definitive action.