Read Online The Off Season by Catherine Gilbert Murdock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Gilbert Murdock
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two more kids to put through college. We've got health care, retirementâmy pension won't cover that."
"You think we should sell?" Dad asked, and the heartbreak in his voiceâit was four generations of farmers he was speaking for when he said those words.
"I don't know. But these numbers don't add up. What are we going to do?"
"Let me make some coffee," Dad said in the same tired voice, pushing back his chair.
I used that scraping sound to head back upstairs. I felt ... I felt like that time Mom explained where babies come from. For years I knew where babies come from because of course I live on a farm, and every couple weeks the vet comes and puts on a long rubber glove that goes all the way to his armpit, and sticks his arm in a cow's rear, a cow who's ready to be bred, and puts a baby seed inside herâthat's what Dad called it when I asked, baby seed. Because of course bringing a bull in whenever you want to get a cow pregnant is really expensive and time-consuming, not to mention getting the both of them, you know, in the mood. So the vet almost always does it instead, which I guess isn't so romantic for the cow, but I wasn't giving that too much thought when I was nine. And so of course it made perfect sense to me that whenever Mom wanted a baby that the vet would come and put a baby seed inside her as well. Only when I explained this at dinner one night Dad started laughing so hard he had to leave the table, and Mom almost had a hernia trying not to laugh as well, and Bill, who I think was born knowing where babies really come from, made all sorts of fun of me even though Win smacked him, and for years after that whenever the vet came by, Dad would shout for Mom that Doc Hansen was here, their own little joke at my expense. Anyway, after that dinner back when I was nine Mom explained to me where babies really came from, human babies, and that process was
so
much more disturbing than what the vet does, plus combined with all my humiliation at making such a fool of myself in front of everyone, that for years after I couldn't even think about it without feeling sick.
That's the same way I felt now, which makes a little sense when you think about it because both times I was being let in on something that was ten times worse than what I'd thought. No wonder the farm was getting smaller all the time and we were selling heifers we could be keeping to milk, and not buying any new machinery, and never going to Win and Bill's games, and repairing the milk house with blowtorches and duct tape. It's not that the farm wasn't making moneyâit was
losing
it. And if Mom didn't work full-timeâup to now I'd always thought it was sort of a side job for her, something she did for fun even though she has a ton of things to do at homeâwell, we'd be more than broke. We'd be gone, and all our beautiful cropland would be turned into houses just like had almost happened already, and all our wonderful cows would go who knows where and probably end up as fast food hamburgers.
All my life Dad had said Win would inherit the farm one day. That's what their huge fight had been about last Christmas, when Win had made a crack about how Dad couldn't break even. Did Win know about the farm losing money? Did Bill? Because Bill had backed Win up in the middle of that fight, which is why neither of them talked to us for months. While little old responsible D.J. stuck aroundâwhich I had to do anyway seeing as I didn't have a big athletic scholarship to escape withâand kept on working, wondering why Dad never fixed anything or spent any money, and why Mom's Caravan was ten years old and Dad's pickup way older. It was just like the babies thing, my two older brothers in on a family secret while the dumb little sister was kept in the dark.
I'd never thought, not once, that maybe Dad's not spending money wasn't voluntary. That it was the only choice he had. And I have to tell you, as tough as farming is, the idea of
"You think we should sell?" Dad asked, and the heartbreak in his voiceâit was four generations of farmers he was speaking for when he said those words.
"I don't know. But these numbers don't add up. What are we going to do?"
"Let me make some coffee," Dad said in the same tired voice, pushing back his chair.
I used that scraping sound to head back upstairs. I felt ... I felt like that time Mom explained where babies come from. For years I knew where babies come from because of course I live on a farm, and every couple weeks the vet comes and puts on a long rubber glove that goes all the way to his armpit, and sticks his arm in a cow's rear, a cow who's ready to be bred, and puts a baby seed inside herâthat's what Dad called it when I asked, baby seed. Because of course bringing a bull in whenever you want to get a cow pregnant is really expensive and time-consuming, not to mention getting the both of them, you know, in the mood. So the vet almost always does it instead, which I guess isn't so romantic for the cow, but I wasn't giving that too much thought when I was nine. And so of course it made perfect sense to me that whenever Mom wanted a baby that the vet would come and put a baby seed inside her as well. Only when I explained this at dinner one night Dad started laughing so hard he had to leave the table, and Mom almost had a hernia trying not to laugh as well, and Bill, who I think was born knowing where babies really come from, made all sorts of fun of me even though Win smacked him, and for years after that whenever the vet came by, Dad would shout for Mom that Doc Hansen was here, their own little joke at my expense. Anyway, after that dinner back when I was nine Mom explained to me where babies really came from, human babies, and that process was
so
much more disturbing than what the vet does, plus combined with all my humiliation at making such a fool of myself in front of everyone, that for years after I couldn't even think about it without feeling sick.
That's the same way I felt now, which makes a little sense when you think about it because both times I was being let in on something that was ten times worse than what I'd thought. No wonder the farm was getting smaller all the time and we were selling heifers we could be keeping to milk, and not buying any new machinery, and never going to Win and Bill's games, and repairing the milk house with blowtorches and duct tape. It's not that the farm wasn't making moneyâit was
losing
it. And if Mom didn't work full-timeâup to now I'd always thought it was sort of a side job for her, something she did for fun even though she has a ton of things to do at homeâwell, we'd be more than broke. We'd be gone, and all our beautiful cropland would be turned into houses just like had almost happened already, and all our wonderful cows would go who knows where and probably end up as fast food hamburgers.
All my life Dad had said Win would inherit the farm one day. That's what their huge fight had been about last Christmas, when Win had made a crack about how Dad couldn't break even. Did Win know about the farm losing money? Did Bill? Because Bill had backed Win up in the middle of that fight, which is why neither of them talked to us for months. While little old responsible D.J. stuck aroundâwhich I had to do anyway seeing as I didn't have a big athletic scholarship to escape withâand kept on working, wondering why Dad never fixed anything or spent any money, and why Mom's Caravan was ten years old and Dad's pickup way older. It was just like the babies thing, my two older brothers in on a family secret while the dumb little sister was kept in the dark.
I'd never thought, not once, that maybe Dad's not spending money wasn't voluntary. That it was the only choice he had. And I have to tell you, as tough as farming is, the idea of
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