Songbird Season Read online

  “He’s sizing me up,” she laughed. “Or should I say, she is.”

  “I hope so.” George said cautiously. “There’s always a chance you’ve got a little rooster in the bunch. Sometimes one slips through.”

  “There better not be. I don’t need an army of chickens. Besides, I remember Grandma Foster had a rooster when I was a kid. A mean guy, with huge spurs. Whatever would I do with one?”

  “Stockpot.” George shrugged. “Or frying pan.”

  The little bell above the front door began to chime. “Whatever is going on here?” Auggie asked as he wiped his boots on the mat. “Does Miriam know?”

  “Of course she does.” Melinda rolled her eyes, but not only because Glenn and Auggie had posed the same question within the last ten minutes. Neither of them asked if this crazy idea had Frank’s approval.

  Ever since Easter, Melinda had wondered if her aunt and uncle’s relationship was as harmonious as it seemed. Frank’s outburst had made clear he held some resentment and insecurities about the family business. It was his life’s work, but Prosper Hardware’s legacy was ultimately part of Miriam’s family, not his. Melinda had noticed that many people, the coffee guys included, seemed to defer to Miriam when it came to issues surrounding the store. She assumed that started when Frank was sidelined by his heart attack. Now she wondered how long it had been going on, a subtle, unconscious habit meant to be harmless but that secretly upset Frank.

  She wasn’t about to ask him, as coming clean about the land problem hadn’t cleared the air as much as she’d hoped it would. Frank attended coffee group regularly for a few days after the surveyors’ visit, but Auggie’s continued questions and Jerry’s stony silence soon drove him away. He was a no-show again today, texting he was really busy with the City Hall project and was heading straight to his “job,” as he called it.

  “So tell me,” Auggie said as he started the coffeepot, “at what pre-dawn hour did Glenn call you to come get your kids?”

  “He waited until right after six.” Melinda put her chick down and carefully reached for the one in George’s hands. “George, would you like to give them a bit of feed and water? Their tiny dishes are in that bag.”

  “Sure, I can help. I know you have to get the store ready to open.” George’s tone was casual, but Melinda smiled at how eagerly he reached into the sack.

  “So Auggie, I’ve been wondering.” Melinda reached for the dust cloth. “Many feed stores offer chicks in the spring, right? Haven’t you ever carried them at the co-op?”

  “Nope. They’re cute, but they’re dirty. You ought to see the mess they make. You just wait.” He started to set out the folding chairs. “I stock the feed and bedding and such, but no actual birds.” His eyes narrowed at the dish George was filling with feed. “Where’d you get that pan? Doesn’t look like anything we carry at the co-op.”

  “Oh, Horace had some in storage, down in the basement,” she lied. All of her chick supplies came from a large farm store in Mason City, whose prices were cheaper. “I just had to give them a good scrub, that’s all. They look like new, don’t they?” Auggie only grunted and busied himself adding grounds to the coffeemaker.

  Melinda cringed. She should have known Auggie would find her out. He noticed everything. It was both his best, and worst, quality. When the chick feed she’d purchased at the superstore ran low, she’d better show her face at Prosper Feed Co.

  Ever since she moved back from Minneapolis, Melinda had been at war with herself when it came to where she spent her money. Online was faster; she could tap a screen and have the boxes dropped inside the farmhouse’s unlocked front porch. Her mail carrier and the other local delivery drivers were very familiar with her address. She wondered if she was becoming too reliant on online shopping, especially after the hand-written note taped to one recent delivery: The lambs are really growing! The big one runs to the fence when I come up the drive.

  As for brick-and-mortar stores, she didn’t often get to Charles City, which was twenty miles away, or make the forty-minute trip to Mason City. Swanton was less than ten miles from her farm, and she was there at least once a week to get groceries and visit her parents, but she often felt guilty popping into its stores. What if someone saw her buying something Prosper Hardware carried? In fairness, though, she frequently used her employee discount to buy necessities at the store. Or impulse purchases from its shelves, such as her yellow rain boots. She was a loyal co-op customer, too, but those were the only two retail businesses in this tiny community. There was good reason for the community’s motto, which was painted on a sign just past the co-op: “Prosper: The great little town that didn’t.”

  So many customers cooed and fussed over the chicks that Melinda wondered how many people came into Prosper Hardware that day just to glimpse the little balls of fluff. Winter had been long and rough, and everyone was eager for any reassurance spring was here to stay.

  “Oh, I bet you can’t wait to have more of your own eggs,” one woman said as she paid for her purchases, which included a dozen from the store’s refrigerated case. “There’s just something about fresh. I was as thrilled as everyone else when Frank and Miriam added that cooler some years back, it saves a run into Swanton, you know? But at this price …”

  She was whispering now, and Melinda had to lean over the counter to catch every word. “They’re a little steep, seeing as they’re trucked in and all.”

  “I know Frank and Miriam try to keep the costs down,” Melinda said understandingly. “There’s not much markup on things in that case. It’s a convenience for our customers, like you said.”

  And a great way to get people in the door, she thought but didn’t add.

  “Oh, I know.” The woman smiled and reached for her wallet. “Your family’s always done right by this town.” She glanced around, and leaned in. “But fresh is always best. And I’m willing to pay for it.”

  The amount the woman offered was a dollar more per dozen than what Horace charged his regular egg buyers. “I think that’s a fair price,” Melinda said, adding a shoulder shrug for good measure.

  “Well, I’m in the phone book. You just let me know when you’ve got eggs, from these young ones or the hens you already have. I might know some other people, too.”

  Melinda thought of her hens at home and quickly did the math. Horace probably wasn’t aware of the value people placed on organically grown food these days. The farm-to-table movement wouldn’t be on his radar, as it was all he’d ever known.

  Should she raise her prices? And would Miriam let her sell fresh eggs at the store? Only two dozen waited in the refrigerated case, despite the delivery truck’s arrival yesterday afternoon. Supply was sometimes low, and demand was always high. It made her wonder what other untapped markets Prosper Hardware might be missing out on. Maybe her expanded flock would be the start of something bigger than she ever expected.

  “But first,” she told the chicks as she adjusted their heat lamp, “you’ll need to grow up big and strong. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Melinda soon discovered fresh eggs weren’t going to be her little farm’s only source of revenue. The wall-mounted phone in the kitchen clang-clanged the next night, causing her to dash up the basement stairs in record time. That line rarely rang, and she left her next load of laundry half-started to reach it before Horace’s old answering machine clicked to life.

  “Wonder who it is?” she asked Grace and Hazel, who were sprinting across the kitchen’s linoleum, chasing their balls and toy mice. “Oh, I hope it’s not bad news.”

  It was a man from over by Dayton Center. He asked for Horace, but didn’t seemed surprised when she said Horace had moved to the nursing home. “Oh, that’s too bad. It was just a matter of time, I guess. I was always amazed by how long Wilbur made it out there at the farm.”

  “I can give you their number.” She was touched by how warmly the man spoke of Wilbur and Horace. “I’m sure both of them are back from dinner
by now, they should be in their room.”

  “I’d like that, to find out how they’re getting on. But I guess, maybe I need to talk to you? I’d like to come by this weekend and pick up my load of black gold.”

  “Black gold, did you say? I’m sorry, I’m not sure I …”

  “Sheep poop!” The man laughed heartily. “You know, the stuff that composts inside the pile in the west pasture? My garden can’t get started without it. Is the price the same as last year?”

  “Uh, sure.” Melinda looked out the kitchen windows, trying to size up the pile from across the yard. It was always growing, of course. In fact, she’d just added a dozen wheelbarrows’ worth of stinky straw to it the other day.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed the stuff was still available. I mean, with Horace gone …”

  “Oh, no, that’s fine,” she said brightly, her mind filling with dollar signs. Ed had said Horace’s sheep-manure pile was one of the best around. How many people would want a bag or two? What could she fix around the farm with that money?

  “Nope, the pile is still there.” She smiled as she watched the ewes frolic in the pasture, where the still-short grass had turned a deep green almost overnight. “Won’t be running out anytime soon. I’ve got seven little lambs now, along with the twelve ewes.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll ask my neighbor if she wants any. She’s got a big garden, too, out here on the edge of town. Maybe I can drum up another customer.”

  “I would love that, thanks! You’re the first person who’s called. So, I have to ask, is this something you scoop yourself, or does …”

  “Horace always had it ready for pickup, as the sheep get nervous around strangers, of course. And I’ll want eight buckets, just like last year.”

  Melinda dropped into a chair. “Eight buckets? What size of buckets?”

  “Oh, they’re those white ones out in the garage,” he explained. “The ones with the lids. Ten gallon, maybe? Anyway, we take the buckets home, dump them out, and bring back the empties. Horace and Wilbur tried using feed sacks way back when, but there was some spillage, no matter how tight they tied the bags. Really messy.”

  “I can see how that would be a problem.”

  “Oh, sorry, my name’s Oliver,” the man added cheerfully. “My wife and I can come by Sunday. When might you be around?”

  Melinda finalized Oliver’s order and gave him Horace’s number, then dialed it herself. She had to find out what she was up against. It was already Wednesday. Who else might call before the end of the week?

  Horace apologized for not telling her about the black gold customers, as spring was sneaking up on him this year. “Things here don’t change much day to day. Can’t believe it’s time for that again.”

  She could expect anywhere from fifteen to twenty requests for sheep manure. Some customers lived close by, but others were the sons and daughters of long-ago neighbors or the friends of far-flung Schermann relatives. His mind still sharp, Horace rattled off a list of names and connections so detailed that Melinda reached for a pen and notepad to keep it all straight.

  Ed requested six buckets the next evening when he came over to work on Horace’s old truck. “No hurry for us, though. I won’t get around to tilling the garden for a few more weeks. But there’s always someone hot-footed to get started. This nice weather will do that to folks.”

  “I guess this solves the mystery of the white buckets.” She handed Ed a quart of oil. “I thought it was odd, how there were dozens of them stacked in the back of the garage, but I just figured Horace was a pack rat, and never gave it another thought.”

  “Oh, he is, all right,” Ed laughed. “But he’s smart, too. That compost is worth a pretty penny. And by the way, he hasn’t raised his prices in at least ten years. If I were you, I’d tack on another dollar or two.”

  She’d have to come up with a pricing strategy, and soon. Maybe she would raise the cost per bucket, as Ed suggested, but offer a discount for larger orders? There was the potential for a nice little profit, but the thought of all that dirty work made her back hurt and her skin crawl. Cleaning out the barn was bad enough, but it was part of having livestock. She didn’t relish having to scoop the muck a second time. The “black gold” would come off the bottom of the pile, where the organic matter had mellowed and lost much of its odor, but it still was going to be a nasty job. She would earn every dollar the hard way.

  “Ed, I think I’ll take your advice and raise the price. But you and Mabel can have yours for free. You’re working wonders with this old truck. Do you really think it’s almost ready to run?”

  He slammed the pickup’s hood. “I’d say, it’s ready right now. How about we take it out for a little spin?” He reached into his jeans pocket and held out the keys.

  “Now? Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never driven a stick before. Do you really want me out on the gravel with this thing? Can you at least pull it out the shed?”

  He closed his hand around the key ring. “Tell you what. Let’s put the ewes in for the night, then take it into the pasture. I’d say the ground’s not too soft yet. And besides,” he chuckled, “you can’t do too much damage out there.”

  “Don’t let me run it into the barn, OK? Or the fence. My fences are bad enough as it is.”

  While the pasture was generously sized, it lacked a fence-and-gate system to break it into sections. That meant the lambs had to stay inside while they were being weaned, but the field was the perfect place to take the truck for a spin.

  The passenger door was stuck, but it finally creaked open. She had wiped down the truck’s interior as best as she could, but there was still a stale smell coming from the tweed-patterned cushions.

  The pickup roared to life, sputtering but never stalling. Ed gave it a touch of gas, and it settled into a rough-if-steady hum.

  “We’ll start on the far end of the pasture and work our way back,” he called over the noise. “Well, hold on. Here we go.”

  They bumped across the farmyard toward the main pasture entrance. Hobo, who was getting a drink from his bowl by the farmhouse’s back steps, barely looked up. Melinda got out long enough to open and close the gate, then took over the driver’s seat. Accustomed to her little hatchback, she felt like she was perched in a tree. “It’s some view from up here.”

  “You’ll like it, once you get the hang of it.” Ed clicked his seat belt. “Now, what do you know about driving a stick? Can you get it into drive?”

  It wasn’t a smooth ride, as it seemed like they hit every lump and bump hiding under the new pasture grass, but with Ed’s patient instructions she was able to make a careful pass along the far fence. One tight, halting turn, and they puttered back the way they came. She slowed the truck too soon as they neared their starting point, and the pickup slowly rolled to a stop long before they got there.

  “Well, I think a rabbit could hop along faster.” Ed laughed and slapped the leg of his jeans. “But you’ve got the hang of it. It’s smart to be cautious, until you get more comfortable. It might be a good thing there’s no minimum speed limit on the gravel, or the county highway. Stay off the interstate, and you’ll do fine.”

  “Oh, I can’t imagine taking this thing that far.” Melinda shuddered, then sat up straighter. “But you know, this is fun. How about you show me the best way to back it around?”

  Ed did, then rolled down his window as they crawled back across the pasture.

  “Just smell that fresh air. Feels good to be out on a fine evening like this one, doesn’t it? Hey, you’re getting a handle on this thing, nice turn. This time, I’ll get the gate and you can pull it into the shed.”

  “OK,” she said cautiously. “I feel like I’m driving a tank, though. I hope I can get it out of the pasture without banging into a post.”

  The truck rumbled to a stop inside the machine shed. Melinda cut the engine and pulled the key. She was grinning ear-to-ear when she hopped down from the cab.

  “Ma’am, I think you passed. I’d
recommend a few trips up and down the driveway before you get out on the road. And stick to the gravel at first, just take it around the section. That’ll let you pick up some speed and get used to the gears.”

  Melinda patted the truck on its dented front bumper. “If it warms up this weekend, I’m going to take it up by the house and turn the hose on it. And I’m going to give that cab another scrubbing. I’ve got the new plates and registration sticker, so it’s all ready to go.”

  “I can see you’re smitten,” Ed said as he started for his own truck. “Next thing you know, you’ll be giving it a name.”

  “I’ve already got that all worked out,” she told Hobo after Ed left. “It’s Lizzie, as in ‘Tin Lizzie’. Somehow I think, once I get better at driving it, you’ll love the chance to be my first passenger.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The electrical box was dusty and the corner of the basement dim, despite the ceiling blub trying to throw light over Melinda’s shoulder. The breakers’ masking-tape labels were printed with an unfamiliar scrawl that might have been Wilbur’s. After a careful search, she slid back the switch for the upstairs rooms.

  As she came through the kitchen, Melinda took a quick peek at the casserole of scalloped potatoes and ham simmering in the oven. Her parents were there for supper, but her dad wanted to complete a few around-the-house tasks first. She grabbed the flashlight waiting on the kitchen counter, and snapped it on when she reached the darkened stairwell. If only it wasn’t such a dreary evening, with a relentless rain drumming on the roof. It would be so much easier to see what they were doing.

  “Did I hit the right switch?”

  “Yep,” came Roger’s answer from above. “The ceiling lights went off when you tripped it. Come on up.”

  Diane was in the hallway, Hobo at her feet. “He’s wondering what all the fuss is about.” She gave her grand-dog a loving pet. “I told him we’d better stay out of the way and let you two experts handle it. I don’t think you have to worry about Grace and Hazel getting underfoot.” Two sets of nervous eyes peeked around the doorway to Melinda’s bedroom.