Life on the Farm, Circa 1973 WC 295

Life on the Farm

I look out the window as I wash the supper dishes.The cornstalks--ominous shadows in the moonlight--wave in the wind. Nighttime is when I wish we had curtains. Fred (my husband) says they are not necessary. I beg to differ but keep quiet. This is the thing wives do.

What is that sound?

The children (ages 7, 5, and 2) are asleep upstairs. Fred (airline pilot/gentleman farmer) will be gone for two more days. I don’t want to be living on this desolate, haunted farm. (That’s the rumor around town: It’s haunted!) Fred moved us from the suburbs to this run-down farm in ‘72. It’s located on the county line. We don’t have quick responses to emergencies; neither county wants to commit.

There’s that sound again.

It’s coming from the basement. I dry my hands and step away from the window. We have no locks on the doors. Fred says they are not needed. We have no outdoor lights, also not needed. I grab the flashlight and rush around, turning off the lights on the main floor. I barricade all the doors.

I run upstairs and fetch the loaded 357 (not that I know how to use it). I run back down and settle in on the floor of the mudroom, gun in one hand, lighted flashlight in the other.

After a bit, a massive presence looms in the doorway. I try to raise the gun but cannot move.

This faceless stranger raises his arms and says, “Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

And then he is gone, without a trace.

I cannot explain what I experienced. All I know is, the kids and I are heading back to the suburbs…soon. Fred can join us—if he wants.