Farmed Out (2 page)

As I carefully placed my art supplies inside the bag, I felt a new flush of frustration. What was the point? I would never, ever find anything to draw on a boring old farm.

My mom walked by my bedroom door. “How's it going, Madison?” She had consulted her tarot cards and decided to forgive me for our fight the day before.

I was still nowhere near forgiving
her
.

“If you mean how's it going with missing out on the chance of a lifetime, then just
fine
.”

My mom started rifling through the stuff I had packed. Mothers can be so nosy.

“Maddie, these aren't exactly work clothes.” She held up my yellow crinoline and striped leggings. “We're going to be getting dirty. You don't want to ruin these.”

I threw my pink
What Would Joan
Jett Do?
T-shirt in the bag. I knew what that 1970s rocker chick would do. She would
not
spend a week shoveling cow poop.

I tossed my cell phone charger on top of the T-shirt. Mom laughed.

“You might as well leave that at home,” she said. “No cell phone reception at Quiet River Farm.”

No cell phone? This was going to be the worst week
ever
.

Chapter Two

“Hurry up, sunshine. Chop chop!”

My mom always says “chop chop” to get me to hurry. This makes me want to throw something heavy at her. My Betty Boop alarm clock said
5:45
am
. Was she kidding? After she told me to chop chop a dozen more times, I hauled myself out of bed.

I stumbled through the beaded curtain into the kitchen. Our apartment's decor is a lot like my mom—an odd mix of office slave and goddess worshipper. In other words, tacky, tacky, tacky.

My mom sat at the table, packing apples and bottles of water into a cooler. She stood up as soon as I walked in.

“What do you think?” She did a little twirl. She was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, denim overalls that were three sizes too big, a straw hat and black rubber boots. It looked like a Halloween farmer costume.

“Where's the piece of hay to stick between your teeth?” I said.

“Right here.” She stuck a long piece of grass between her teeth. “I got it from the park yesterday.”

“That probably has dog pee all over it,” I groaned and yanked the fridge door open.

Inside was half a tomato, a nearly empty jar of mustard and a carton of blueberry yogurt. Sometimes my mom gets so into living spiritually that she forgets to buy groceries.

“Just think,” my mom said, the grass still sticking out of her mouth. “In less than seven hours we'll be petting goats!”

My mom blabbed in a nonstop monologue the whole car ride. She was trying to make up for my lack of interest by being enthusiastic for both of us.

I crossed my arms and looked out the window the whole time. She still didn't understand how angry I was.

“I really want to learn more about organic cooking. Ooh, I wonder if we'll get to milk a goat. That would be fun.

Maybe we'll feed the chickens and pigs!”

After about five torturous hours, our ancient 1984 Dodge Colt started overheating. I couldn't believe it had gotten us that far.

“Dave needs a rest,” Mom said as we pulled off the highway. She calls her car Dave, after an old boyfriend. “Perfect! I've heard they have the best veggie burgers at The Hut here.”

Vegetarianism was my mom's latest thing. She had even stuck a bumper sticker on the car that said,
Animals are
my friends. I don't eat my friends
.

We pulled into the parking lot of the A-frame burger joint. I sat at a picnic table outside while my mom ordered.

“Here's your poor dead cow,” my mom said, plopping burgers and fries on the picnic table. Just because my mom was a vegetarian didn't mean I had to be.

“This whole thing is like a lame sitcom,” I said, sipping my chocolate milkshake. “City girl goes to the country. City girl hates the country. It's a tired old storyline. Couldn't we do something more original?”

My mom poured disgusting amounts of vinegar over her fries. “Sometimes the city girl ends up
loving
the country.”

I snorted.
That
was doubtful. I decided to focus on my burger. It was a tasty chunk of dead cow.

After pouring three pop bottles' worth of water into Dave's radiator, we chugged into the countryside. Everything was lush and green. It brought to mind a word we learned in English class—
verdant
. It described this place perfectly.

We drove past fields with rows and rows of green vegetables. In one of the fields, an oversized lawn sprinkler was spraying a thick brown liquid. Just as I was wondering what it was, the smell hit me.

“Aaaagh!” my mom and I screamed in unison, plugging our noses. We rolled up our windows. It didn't help. Wow, I thought. That was a giant poo sprinkler.

Eventually we turned down a winding dirt road. My mom's rattly old car clanged over railway tracks.

“Here we are,” my mom sang.

The handmade wooden sign at the end of the driveway said
Quiet River
Farm.
What a perfect name for a place that looked like a total snooze fest.

Our hosts were on their front porch in matching rocking chairs. They stood up as Dave coasted to a stop, crashing into a big pot of orange flowers. Chickens squawked and scattered, feathers flying.

“Oh no, I freaked the animals!” my mom said.

Dave jerked and backfired. I sank down in my seat, my cheeks burning. Not only was my mother ruining my life, she was also going to totally embarrass me in the process.

Mom flung the car door open and leaped out.

“I'm sorry about your flowers,” my mom said, running up to the farmers. Her voice was shaky. “I'm Lynn Turner, and this is my daughter, Maddie.” She hugged them. My mom gets touchy-feely when she's nervous.

“Welcome here,” the man farmer said, taking a couple of steps back. He had a German accent, or maybe it was Dutch. I wasn't up on my European accents. “I'm Klaus Friesen, and this is my wife, Ruth.”

A big yellow dog poked my leg with his black nose. It tickled.

“And this is Harold the dog,” Ruth said.

The Friesens gave my mom and me a long look up and down, starting with the blue streaks in my hair. My mom, of course, still wore her farmer costume. I was wearing fishnet tights, a black ruffled skirt and my Andy Warhol soup can T-shirt.

“Good to see you have your work boots on,” Klaus said, pointing to my Doc Martens. If he thought I was going to work in my prized boots, he was crazy.

The Friesens looked like they were in their early fifties. I had expected hippie types, but hippies they definitely were not. Klaus was tall, and was wearing overalls and a Buckerfield's Feed &Grain trucker cap. He had the biggest hands I have ever seen. Ruth's hair was half brown, half gray, and pulled back in a loose bun. She wore a long jean skirt and an old-fashioned blouse with little blue flowers all over it. They looked like they were out of an old painting.

“We feel so blessed to be here in your amazing space,” my mom blathered on. I half-expected her to put her hands in the prayer position, bow and say “namaste.”

The Friesens stared blankly at my mom. Klaus took off his cap and scratched his head.

At that moment I knew which painting they reminded me of. It's a famous one of a skinny older man and woman, standing in front of a barn. It's a creepy painting.
American Gothic
, it's called.

“Yeesh,” I muttered under my breath, shuddering.

“What was that, Maddie?” my mom asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

Chapter Three

“Anna will be excited to meet you,” Ruth said, passing me a jar of homemade plum jam.

We were having a “bite” in the farmhouse kitchen. The Friesens' idea of a bite was an all-you-can-eat deluxe spread. I'd never seen anything like it. Their huge table was covered in pitchers of milk and juice, loaves of bread and buns, jars of jam and honey, a bowl of hard-boiled eggs, and plates of cheese, meat, tomatoes and pickles. I had loaded up my plate and was about to dig into a bun filled with Swiss cheese and ham.

“Anna?” my mom and I said in unison.

“Our daughter,” Ruth said. “She's about your age, Maddie. Fifteen.”

“She's at a meeting right now,” Klaus said. “The summer fair is coming up.”

Fifteen. The same age as me. Thoughts flew around in my mind. What did Anna look like? Would we get along?

“That's great that Maddie will have someone her own age here,” my mom said, cracking open a hard-boiled egg. Usually on our adventures there were never any other kids around, just adults. Ha, I thought. Not this time, Mom.

Klaus offered my mom a plate of sausages.

“Oh, no thank you,” said my mom. “I'm a vegetarian.”

Ruth and Klaus exchanged looks. I thought I saw Klaus roll his eyes. I took the plate from Klaus and helped myself to four sausages. They looked delicious.

It didn't take my mom long to launch into dumb-question mode.

“Why did you become farmers? When do you harvest your wheat? How many chickens do you have?”

Klaus said something about being a fifth-generation farmer. I tuned out the rest. Farming wasn't the most exciting topic.

While my mom grilled the farmers, I looked around. The house looked about a hundred years old. The walls were white, with plain yellow curtains on the windows. The only picture on the wall was an old black-and-white family photo where no one was smiling. I couldn't see a
TV
or computer anywhere.

“Do you wake up every day and notice the smell of manure, or do you become immune to it after a while?” Mom asked.

I sank down in my chair. Ruth and Klaus smiled. My mom kept yakking.

After we ate, the Friesens showed us to our room. A four-poster iron bed stood in the center of the room, covered in a colorful quilt. Great. Sharing a bed with my mother made a bad situation even worse.

“Oooh!” my mom exclaimed, clapping her hands as she looked around the room. “Very
Little House on the
Prairie
. And look, Maddie, we get to share a bed. It'll be like a sleepover!”

Shut up, Mom, I thought for the hundredth time that day. I wasn't sure I could handle a whole week of constant embarrassment. Hopefully I could find somewhere to hide out and draw for the
Canvas
art contest.

After showing us our room, Ruth and Klaus led us out to the front yard to give us the “grand tour.” Just then, a teenage girl turned into the driveway on a red bike.

“Here's our girl,” Klaus said. The girl skidded neatly to a stop, a small cloud of dust billowing from beneath her back tire. “Anna, these are our volunteers for the next week, Lynn and Maddie Turner.”

“Hey,” Anna said with a small smile. She had braces and wore her red hair in a long braid.

“How was the 4-H meeting?” Ruth asked.

Anna shrugged. “Pretty good.”

“I just checked Frida,” Klaus said. “I'm certain that she will calve in the next few days.”

Anna nodded and turned to us. “I've got a cow that's about to pop.”

I wondered how many other farm volunteers Anna had had to greet so far that summer. She didn't seem too excited by us.

“You and Maddie are the same age, dear,” Klaus said. “Maybe you two would like to spend some time together.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Anna said, not looking in my direction. “If I have time.” She turned on her heel and clumped up the stairs in her muddy work boots.

Adults saying, “Hey kids, why don't you two play,” is exactly what will prevent teenage girls from getting to know each other. I didn't blame Anna for leaving.

Next on the farm tour was the pigpen. It was the width of two cars, with solid wood walls all around it. My mom and I peered over the wall at the big mama pig laying on her side with her piglets jostling to get some milk.

“Look at that poor runt,” my mom said. “The other piglets are squishing him.”

“Such is the life of a runt,” Ruth said. “Often they don't survive.”

My mom looked like she might cry. She'd probably try to sneak the runt home with us as a pet.

Ruth and Klaus showed us the vegetable garden, the garlic field, the machine shed and the barn. A clear, slow-moving river ran along one side of the farm, near the road, and a tree-covered mountain rose up behind the farmhouse.

My mom asked inane questions the entire tour.

“Do pigs really eat slops? Is it hard to milk a cow? Do you use a horse and plow?”

The Friesens took turns patiently responding to my mom's questions. Yes, Klaus said, the pigs liked apple peels and table scraps. No, Ruth replied, it just takes a little practice to get the milk out. No, Klaus said, he used his tractors to till the fields.

In the afternoon heat, the farm smell was everything I'd expected, and more.

It was a combination of various types of animal poop, hay, dirt and something else even more powerful.

“What's that smell?” my mom asked, plugging her nose and squeezing her eyes shut.

Ruth chuckled. She pointed past the vegetable garden. “The goats.”

“That's your first job,” Klaus said.

Chapter Four

We were outside the goat shed, standing in three inches of stinky mud. About twenty goats surrounded us, bleating and chewing. I had never seen a goat in real life before. They had creepy eyes with long narrow pupils.

“What are all their names?” my mom asked. My mother named everything, from her hair dryer (Barbara) to her car (Dave, of course). Her favorite high heels were named Mary and Rhoda.

“They don't have names,” Ruth said.

“We don't like to get too attached,” Klaus said. “They are our business, not pets.”

Klaus handed each of us a shovel.

“First you will muck out the shed.”