Growing Season Page 12

  How wonderful of Mabel to come over and help harvest these for Horace. Melinda didn’t want his hard work to go to waste. She snapped a large strawberry off its stem and took a bite. She was surprised at how sweet it was and ripe all the way through, not like the strawberries in the grocery store that were larger but sometimes lacking in flavor.

  “Tastes like summer,” she told Hobo, who was sniffing around the water hydrant on the south edge of the patch. There was a snaking pile of green hoses in the garage. She had to get them hooked up and ready. And there were bird feeders in the oak tree by the driveway, their visitors visible from the double window by the kitchen table. She’d need to check for birdseed or stock up at the store.

  There was so much to do, so much life at the farm. And more critters that she hadn’t met yet. Melinda shuddered as she eyed the barn door that opened into the yard, remembering the thumping and scratching noises that had come from the grain room that morning.

  Then she pulled herself up short. Like George said, she had taken on quite a lot, probably more than she could have ever imagined. But she was in charge of this place now. Her job was to live here and look after everything, and everyone, for Horace and Kevin. It would be a long summer if she felt a wave of dread every time she opened the barn door.

  Her pulse pounding, she marched up to the back porch, through the kitchen and down into the basement, tugging the light chain with a quick flick of her wrist. A tired broom rested in the corner of the coal room, its worn straws spread out like a hoop skirt. But it would do. She didn’t see any rat poison and she was secretly relieved. She didn’t want to harm anything, just show them who’s boss and send them packing.

  Hobo met her at the back porch steps, sensing that something exciting was about to happen. “Let’s do this, Hobo.” He ran ahead and was waiting when she reached the barn door and slid the latch open.

  As nervous as she was, she knew this was like a scene out of a bad horror movie, the clueless woman armed with only a broom as she stepped into the shadows to face an unseen foe. She had never been squeamish about disposing of a mouse caught in a trap. But these rats would be bigger, more cunning. Maybe the broom wasn’t going to be enough. She tugged a length of lumber out from behind the grain barrels, the scraping noise bringing one of the ewes to the open pasture door to check if supper was being served early. Then more of the sheep came across the grass, snuffling and poking their noses around the door frame, like they didn’t want to miss what might happen next.

  “I’m here to take care of you,” Melinda called over to the sheep. Hobo was at attention, staring at the crack in the grain room door, his ears alert. “All of you. Don’t you worry, Horace is gone but I’m here.”

  And I feel ridiculous stomping through the barn with a broom in one hand and a scrap of wood in the other. At least if this ended badly, Hobo and the sheep couldn’t spread news of her failure across the township.

  Nobody would know. Unless she needed to call for an ambulance. Melinda rolled her eyes. She’d left her phone on the picnic table.

  She paused in the aisle, listening. There was a scratching sound in the grain room, then a crunching noise. At least that morning, the critters had been on their way out. Whatever was in there now seemed content enough to stay put. She moved closer, deliberately making her footfalls louder as she approached the door.

  “I’m coming in!” she yelled, feeling foolish and frightened. She clenched both the broom and the board in her left hand and put her right palm, fingers shaking, on the ragged wood door.

  Then, a scurrying noise. They were running across the room, away. She took a deep breath and shoved the door in, just in time to see a gray tail disappear through a broken board in the left wall above a shelf filled with metal toolboxes. Two grimy square windows let in only a bit of the late-afternoon sun. When her eyes adjusted she saw the room’s corners were stacked with rusting farm implements. The dented tool boxes on the shelf looked like they’d been opened fairly recently, as they weren’t as dusty as the junk in the corners.

  Hobo stepped forward to inspect a colorful sack, slashed open from top to bottom, resting in the middle of the floor. He nipped a few bites of its contents and sauntered out of the room. Melinda peered at the label on the side of the bag.

  “Cat food? Horace seems to like animals, but I can’t believe he’d leave food out for the rats.”

  The rip in the bag was pushed wide and a depression in the kibble showed it was being eaten, and obviously not all by Hobo. The gray tail she’d seen in just one blink, she now recalled, had been sort of fuzzy, not hairless the way a rat’s would be.

  There was a white sheet of paper on top of one of the tool boxes. She held it up by the window.

  Melinda, two cats came here last month. Don’t know where from. They don’t seem to want names, but one is gray and white and the other orange. Hadn’t told Kevin they were here, wasn’t sure they would stay. They drink out of the sheep waterer. I put food out 2x a day in here, and they come when I leave. Left the bag out so they’d get fed until you found them. Horace

  “Two cats, gray and orange.” Melinda saw claw marks in the weathered wall boards near the ceiling, then another hole. “They come up and down from there, go into the haymow. Or through the back wall into the lambing stalls.”

  Hobo padded back in and gave her a puzzled look, as if he wondered when she would get on with chores.

  “Keeping secrets, huh?” She rubbed his head. “Here I thought you were home alone with the sheep and chickens all day, but you’ve got two friends.” She set the broom and scrap of lumber in a corner. “Guess this broom’s just going to be used for sweeping, at least for now. Let’s go see if we can find them.”

  With Hobo leading the way, they passed through the opening in the wall that divided the barn into north and south sections. The far end had more of the same paned windows that faced east and west, the south sunlight casting a warm glow on the rows of stalls. She was glad Horace and Wilbur had built stairs to the haymow years ago, as she couldn’t imagine using the crude wall ladder covered with cobwebs in the north part of the barn. The thought of having to swing herself from the ladder to the haymow floor through the adjacent trap door made her dizzy.

  Hobo was eager to lead they way the stairs, then hurried off to sniff the haymow’s corners and angles. The faded-summer smell of hay greeted Melinda as she mounted the steps, the brightness of the south end of the barn replaced by this shadowy cavern above. More of the four-paned windows were visible high up on the north and south walls of the haymow, and beams of late-afternoon sun made puddles of light on the floor. While most of the loft was vacant, there were stacks of rectangular hay bales on the north side of the barn, near the trap door. One corner on the south end held a similar fort of straw, its bright yellow bales glowing in the diffused light. Either pile would be the perfect hiding place for cats.

  The thick floor boards were sturdy, probably twelve inches wide, but she had to watch her step. In a few places the boards were cracked or rotten. Here and there were holes just big enough for her foot to slip inside. “Or for a cat to squeeze through,” she said to Hobo, who had circled back to help with the search.

  “Here, kitty,” she called, walking from one end of the loft to the other, but was met with only silence. They could be tucked behind the bales of straw and hay. Or, in the time it took her to find her way into the haymow, the cats could have scooted back through the lambing stalls and slipped out the open pasture door.

  They don’t seem to want names, Horace’s note had said. All she’d seen was one gray tail. That cat had made a break for it the minute it heard her approaching the grain room. It didn’t act like it wanted human companionship.

  This was one more challenge to add to her list, but Melinda thought she might be up for it.

  “Kitties, I will see you later,” she cooed to the apparently empty haymow, as Hobo had already padded back down the stairs. “You’ll come around. You’ll see.”

  C
HAPTER 11

  Her first weekend at the farm was going to be full of work. And sticky with strawberry juice. After attending church with her parents in Swanton, Melinda pulled herself away from a relaxing Sunday dinner and headed home to start crossing items off the to-do list given to her by Mabel. She had no idea how to can strawberries, but saw it was going to be quite the assembly line based on Mabel’s instructions.

  First, she had to clean up three dozen jars, mostly pints but a few quarts. Then there were the metal rings to be scrubbed and rinsed, and quickly rubbed dry so they wouldn’t rust. The new lids and the old graniteware canner also had to be washed.

  Horace’s canning room in the basement was impressive in its size and inventory. There must have been two hundred empty jars crowded on its shelves, along with a few dozen that still held produce from the previous year. The graniteware canner was gathering dust on a spacious metal table whose top was a faded red and pockmarked from decades of use. Next to it was a gas stove that was probably from the 1950s. She approached the pale green monster cautiously, wiping down its top and front with the same soap and bleach solution she used on the table. The plan was to use the old range to boil and sterilize the empty jars, then transfer them upstairs to be loaded with berries and processed on the kitchen stove, which was modern by comparison. Melinda didn’t want to go anywhere near the gas range with a lit match, and decided to let Mabel handle the beast in the basement.

  Sunday evening, with Hobo tagging along, she dragged what seemed like every available pot and pan out to the strawberry patch and started picking. She kept at it until it grew so dark she couldn’t see to pitch the berries into the pans and was going on touch, her hands covered in juice and the sweet aroma clinging to her hair and clothes. The back porch floor was lined with buckets of berries by the time Melinda, tired but satisfied with her efforts, trudged upstairs to take a shower and collapse into bed.

  Monday morning found her sore and slumped in Horace’s favorite chair at the kitchen table, staring out at what was yet another fine June day. She’d confidently promised to make lunch for Mabel and Angie but now, as she absentmindedly scratched the mosquito welts on the backs of her hands, she had no idea where to start.

  Mabel was bringing one of her famous coconut cakes for dessert, so that was covered. There was some leftover chicken in the refrigerator for sandwiches, and some random vegetables still fresh enough for a pasta salad. She wished she could gather what she needed from Horace’s garden, but it was too early in the season for all but a few varieties of lettuce.

  She had always loved to entertain and was known among her city friends for her comfort-food dinners as well as her impromptu cocktail parties. But her simple menu would have to do for today, as would the sorry state of the farmhouse. She had scrubbed the kitchen counters, stove and table already that morning, and washed up two large kettles and the few remaining serving bowls that could be used to process the strawberries.

  But she sighed as she glanced into the dining room. While Kevin’s cleaning crew had made the old house sparkle as much as they could, there was no doubt that the wallpaper was faded and the windows could use some new curtains. Melinda hadn’t had time to dust since she’d moved in just a week ago, and some of her totes were still stacked here and there. Not exactly how she’d like to have the house for her first official guests.

  “It’s not like Mabel hasn’t been here before. And Angie is surely wise to the realities of farm living,” she reminded herself as she pawed around in the silverware drawer for the largest stirring spoons she could find. She chopped the veggies and shredded the chicken. There was barbecue sauce, plenty of bread and, of course, strawberries. Although she’d probably be tired of looking at them, much less eating them, by the end of the afternoon.

  The pasta salad was nearly ready when she heard two short barks from Hobo and a knock at the back door. There was an ancient doorbell on the front porch wall, but it had become obvious that her dad was right. No visitor was going to enter through the front of the house.

  “We’re here and ready to work,” Mabel called as she burst into the kitchen, balancing her purse strap on her forearm as she carried a cake safe with both hands. Melinda had almost expected her neighbor to be in shades of pink to fit the day’s theme, but Mabel was in a faded navy tee shirt and worn jeans with sneakers.

  A younger woman with copper curls smiled and waved from behind Mabel. She was carrying two canvas bags that looked to have more mixing bowls in them. Melinda was pleasantly surprised to see that Angie was probably in her late twenties. She recalled Ed saying he was glad to have more young people in the neighborhood.

  “I’ll take that cake,” she reached for the round aluminum container in Mabel’s arms and set it in the last vacant spot on the counter. “I’m so glad you both could help me out today. You must be Angie.” The younger woman quickly set her bags on a chair and shook Melinda’s hand with a firm grip that said she was as no-nonsense as Mabel. Melinda liked her already.

  “That’s me. Nathan, who’s been mowing the lawn here, that’s my husband. I was so excited when Mabel said she was coming to help you can strawberries and asked me along,” Angie’s hazel eyes sparkled. “Our patch is newer, only two years old, and we won’t get a whole lot of berries yet. And I wanted to meet you. The whole neighborhood’s talking about how you moved down from the city to help Horace out, and to work at the hardware store.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Melinda laughed and rolled her eyes.

  Mabel let out a chortle and started to take the mixing bowls from Angie’s bags. “You got that right. News travels fast when there’s not much news to start with. Anyway, I’d promised Horace I’d get over here and help you with the berries. He and Wilbur have spent years tending that patch, and there’s nothing better than home-canned strawberries in the dead of winter.”

  Angie went back out to the car. “She’s getting the extra jars we brought,” Mabel eyed the heaping pans of berries that were now set around the kitchen. “Looks like we may need them. You’ve must have been up half the night picking all these. Thank you for getting that part done. It’s going to get hot today, and these old bones aren’t so good at crawling around in a strawberry patch.”

  “I was sort of surprised when you first said that we were going to can the strawberries.” Melinda got out small paring knives for stemming berries and set the pasta salad in the refrigerator. “My mom and I used to get them from Grandma and Grandpa Foster’s farm every June, but we froze them instead.”

  “Frozen berries are certainly good, and I’m partial to them myself.” Mabel started to line up bowls on the kitchen table. “These take more sugar and a little cooking time, and then there’s the canning, but Horace loves them this way. It’s the way his mother always did them,” she said with a smile, “and who are we to tell an old man he has to change?”

  Angie appeared in the kitchen door’s window, her arms full with a heavy box of jars. “I also brought extra sugar, so we don’t run out,” she nodded over at one of the canvas bags. “And the lemon juice.”

  “Lemon juice?” Melinda wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t that make them too sour?”

  “Not if you use the right amount of sugar,” Angie set the bottle of lemon juice next to the stove. “It adds extra acid, makes sure the strawberries don’t spoil.”

  Mabel patted Angie on the arm. “My mother never used lemon juice in her canned berries, and we all survived. But there’s always something new to learn.”

  “Nathan and I are trying to grow and can as much of our food as possible,” Angie told Melinda. “Come August, it’ll be nearly an all-day project for weeks, seems like, to get it all done. We farm full time,” she said, as if to answer the question Melinda was about to ask. “We have two little girls, Emma and Allison. Nathan and I met at Iowa State, even though I grew up only about twenty miles from here. Isn’t that funny? Anyway, we milk cows and do some field crops, too, mostly corn. So, how are you getting by, Melinda? This mu
st be a big change for you.”

  “For sure. But I’m looking at this like it’s my summer vacation. It’s great to be back closer to my parents, who live over in Swanton. And I’m getting plenty of exercise working at the store and looking after the animals and the garden here.”

  “We’ll make a farm girl of her yet,” Mabel surveyed the kitchen and walked over to the clean jars lined up on the counter. “If you’ve got any cooking pots left over, I’ll get these jars boiling in the basement so they’re ready to go.”

  “You’ve got a separate canning stove.” Angie was impressed. “That will be handy come August.”

  “Well, Horace has one, but I haven’t attempted to light it. Mabel says she not afraid of the thing, so I guess I’m going to let her do the honors.”

  “No worries, ladies, I have one at home that’s similar “Now, if you’ve got some matches …”

  Melinda reached into the cabinet above the wall-mounted phone and handed the scruffy cardboard box to Mabel. The younger women huddled at the top of the basement stairs as they heard Mabel cross the pitted concrete floor into the back room.

  “Think we’re too close in case that stove blows up?” Angie cringed. “I’ve got a gas one at home, but mine’s only three years old, stainless steel.”

  “I’m not sure anywhere is safe,” Melinda muttered, wishing she’d insisted they only use the kitchen stove. “If it explodes, this house will shoot sky high and come back down as nothing but tinder. But in that case, I might as well go, too, rather than have to explain to Kevin why I let a woman in her seventies light a stove that’s almost as old as she is. Let’s back up, at least.”