I had passed Faler Feed on the way home from The Big City and picked up 300 lbs of grain. It rested in the back of Denty, waiting. Since I quit carrying heavy stuff in October, the grain has had to wait for Huz. Often asssisted by Middlest, and once shoved out of the back of Denty onto the barn hill by Youngest. But, moved by someone else- not me. Well, I feel like I have perhaps overstayed my welcome on that one. So, I decided I would move grain too, without picking it up, without holding it, without it being on my shoulders and potentially affecting my neck. So, zipping my Carhartt against the 22* darkness, ( but loving it outside because NO WIND!) out to Denty I go. Off the top of the stack, the first sack of feed, carried by me, goes to the barn. And there I am, a younger version of Esther.
See, Esther in her 80's was a formidable gal. She lived down the road, about 2 1/2 miles on the corner, in a little white farmhouse surrounded by little and big farm buildings, a tumble down silo and a huge maple in the back yard. She had a garden. Not just any garden, but an immaculate and varied garden, right on the road- causing drive-by-envy. Her rhubarb was ancient and hardy. Her corn towered and her beans, peas and tomatoes were prolific. She push-mowed the field edges and would stand out in a downpour clearing drainage pipes so fields wouldn't flood. When driving past Esther's I would always slow, look for her and toot the horn, wave. Sometimes I would stop in for a chat, for she was never too busy for company. Often, I was not the first to think of that, and passed by, as she was already entertaining. She came up to about my chest, with short cropped white hair, wonderful wrinkles, sparking blue eyes and a little half smile that would break into the real deal at the least provocation. She always looked up at you above her glasses, not just because or her height, but because she was a bit bent in the shoulders. Her legs bowed out precariously and her gait was darn swift if not straight. She was most often found with her hoe in the spring summer and fall, and her cardinal red International Tractor coat in the winter.
Stories of Esther are like Grimm's Fairy Tales. My favorite is of the time a neighbor passed her and her husband moving in the hay. The family plow horse was out of commish, and there sat her husband, up on the buckboard of the wagon, smoking a cigar, while Esther herself pulled the wagon. Crooked even then, ( she was trampled by a team of horses and a full manure spreader in her early adulthood), she always got the job done. Paint the barn roof? Yep. Climb to the top of the windmill to fix the TV antenna and improve reception for the Buckeye Game? Yep. Decide you want to ride motorcycles at age 75? Well, just stop the next motor club that passes through and join. They would roar up, put Esther on the back of a Harley, and zoom off.
She kept chickens, much more practical about them and less sentimental than I. We once had a rooster, nasty little bit of work, named Reveille. I spent all early spring catching the bugger up and stuffing him in my overalls, as this was the punishment for attacking humans. He would sit in there for hours, horrified to be held, and periodically popping out and crowing. Scared a few unsuspecting folks. Well, months after showing his pretty self at the County Fair, he had gotten so mean the kids wouldn't leave the house. So, I caught him up, put the kids in the car, and we took him to Esther. Despite their fear of Reveille, there were tears from Eldest that his fate was sealed. Esther promised not to dispatch him until we were gone. She then showed us her method of quick-killing birds, good information for farm kids. She then plied them with cookies. Feeling much better we went home to our attack-chicken-free farm. Several weeks later, another neighbor called me and declared she had seen Reveille dashing across the road in front of Esther's. Curious, I stopped to chat with her, and found that she liked his crow so well, she had not put him in the freezer. His crow went like this "ER-ER ER-ER ERRRRR-ARGHH)-She said they had a deal, and he knew that if he took after her, he was a dead-bird. Months later, as the sun set and we chatted in the middle of the road, she told me some friends had taken him "south". These folks were so impressed with his protective abilities, they wanted to know if we had any others that mean. Oh, Lordy. I hope he wasn't fighting.
I know I have a long way to go before I achieve Estherness, but each day gets me closer to resemblance.
RIP Ester. We miss you.
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