Feed Corn and Coveralls

Feed Corn and Coveralls

" Tyler ," I heard Mama say. "You watch this. Look good, hear? This is the only time you'll see this." She dipped a long black wick a bucket of into cow fat. "Here's how you make candles. Firs' you got ta git the fat to gather on that wick. When yer done, just turn it over," With a flick of the wrist a large doughy white ball is in her hand. She slaps it into a beaten tin. "and put ‘er in the tin to dry." Mama turns to me. "Were you watchin'?" I nod. My hands are deep in my pocket, fingering the dollar bill I have in there. "Git on in, then. Near to six o' clock."  She hobbles over the threshold, carrying the new candles. Her stockings are pulled around her ankles, and her dress is soaked through the front with sweat. My feet feel gritty from the red dust in the yard. I watch her, so burdened, thick from child birth and barely feminine. Something about Mama right then makes me sad. Heavy.  "You comin', ain't ya?" She must've known I'd been looking at her. "Yes'm," Shaking out of my trance, my feet take me up the stairs where Mama waits next to the door. She follows me to the parlor, not even bothering to lock the door behind us.

Shortly before dinner my Daddy and brothers come in. Peter, Dennis, and Nate all wear scowls and Daddy's cheeks are flushed bright red. "Git on up there and wash up for dinner, quick about it!" From the dining room I see their little parade move up the stairs. " Tyler !" I turn around towards the kitchen where Mama stands I front of the oven. "Git outta men folk's business. Here, put these biscuits on the table." She thrusts a pan of dusty flour biscuits into my arms. The heat from the pan reaches down to my skin and burns. I put them down next to a platter of corn. "You know yer Daddy works hard out there. He don't need you pokin' ‘round when he gits in." My head moves up and down, but all I'm thinking about  is how to use my dollar tomorrow.

When the boys come down dinner starts. There's not really much talking, only chewing. Mama takes quick bites, picking up her biscuits and putting them down, chewing on her right because her lefts rotted out. Peter uses knife and fork while Dennis calls him ‘pansy' and ‘priss' between mouthfuls of the dandelion greens Mama put out last. Nate stares into space with his mouth half open, showing us all his dinner. I'm like Daddy; we both eat steady, heads down and opening mouths only for the next bite. This is how our meals go, quick and silent meals for quick and silent people. We use basics to survive, wheat, corn, and what little vegetable we can find. It's barely tasteful, but it sustains us. Meat is special, only for holidays. I swing my legs under the table and swallow my last bit of corn.






Next day I go to out to town. I walk alone, taking the time to savor the ground and the sky and the wind. There's no one here to work me, no one here to scold. So I go slow.

Run down houses line the road every now and then. Some of them look empty but in others little dirty kids scamper across the yards. Men and older boys line the fields, working hard for their family's bread. Nate and Dennis are probably out there this instant. I know that Peter will be dragging his heels. My middle brother just doesn't fit. He was built fragile, for schooling, but Mama and Daddy couldn't send him past eighth grade. I sigh. I don't want this to be me. I want to go out into the lights and shine to live my life with artists in smoky bars and cabarets. I want to live for myself, not run after a husband and children while my belly gets bigger and bigger. This land can steal your youth, your passion, your fire. Peter has put away his books and is slowly losing himself to the sun, the earth. The sudden realization startles me, then soothes. I've felt this for a long time. As if I were another person stuck in this dusty farm girl's body.

Before long a large building rises on the horizon. The general store. It's the oldest building in town, built during the days of covered wagons and Dutch ovens. The family that used to own it came in rich from the east, all fancy with those hard, clipped Anglo voices and city ideas. Liberal people. But when the land got dry, and the freckled, uneducated people with stringy brown hair and patched clothes came up they got out quick. Now the store is owned by the widow Hopkins. A sharp fierce old harpy with rheumy eyes and a tight bun close to her head. As I get closer I see the new cinema. On Sundays after church at New Revival the tired folks go to town for an afternoon in front of the silver screen. Those moments are magic. We see romance and tragedy, cartoons or comedy, maybe even a musical. Every Sunday, these poor family's get to feel the joy of the carefree actors and actresses that glide across the movie screens. I like them all fine, and sometimes at night I can close my eyes and see myself living my life like I see those lucky people do in the movies.

"How much is this?" In the store, the farmer's supply shop, I'm looking at a bag of peppermints. They're in a variety pack, with strawberry, orange, and even grape flavors. "Fifteen cents." The man behind the counter is squinting at me like I'm some kind of thief. See, the shop owner doesn't get that that makes my hand itch to just stick the bag in the pocket and leave without paying him. I walk down another aisle. There's hog feed in burlap bags next to already canned vegetables. I can imagine mother's using those feed sacks to make dresses for their girls. The mother will try her hardest to hide the picture of the pig on the front, but sometimes she'll miss, and her girl will get teased for wearing feed sack clothes.

I fiddle around with a plow sitting between gasoline and shovels. My daddy came in here last week to look at the tractors, but came home shaking his head, thinking about the price, I guess. "Are you done yet? I got paying customers in here." The owner's leaning over his counter, glaring at me now. "I'm almost done." It's still mid-morning so I'm still near about the only person in the whole store, except for a few old men or women strewn across the place. I make my way up to the counter. Dawdling. "I'll take these. And, and. . ." Behind the man there's a frosted icebox, full of Cokes in their green bottles. They're all so cold each glass is covered in a thin layer of ice. Handing him the peppermints, I nod towards the freezer. "One of those. A coke." He looks into my face for the first time since I've been here. His eyes harden as I hand him my dollar and he counts out my change. I take my bag with the money inside and leave the store, feeling him burn holes in my back.

Since I cut school to be here today I got about three more hours to fool around. All my friends are sitting in the church basement, trying to learn a few things before they go out to the fields full time. Some of the boys are tense in the old school room, waiting until they get fourteen and can go help their daddies. A few of them, like my brother Peter, never wanted that day to come. But still it seems like no boy ever makes it past the eighth grade. I've got a couple of years left, me being a girl and all. I don't think I'll ever make it to high school, though. Mama's been pushing me to learn about cooking, cleaning, and the like. And besides, if you do go to high school you've got to take a bus out to the next town and then you got to buy all those book to learn out of. Daddy says it all costs too much, and even if he did have the money he wouldn't be wasting it on a daughter because I'll just get married anyway. It's not like I'll ever use it, he says.

It's close to twelve or one, and the sun is already high in the sky. A little past town a couple jack rabbits look for food and big birds fly from roof to roof. Me, I'm pouring sweat walking up and down main street with candies to suck on and a coke to keep me cool.