Page 71 of Homestead

It doesn’t help that I’m absolutely terrified of messing it up and poisoning both of us with botulism. I end up ruining three batches of tomatoes before I manage to get three jars canned effectively. I do better with the asparagus, but I’m sweating, messy, and dead on my feet when I finally have to admit I’m done for the day.

I feel sick over the amount of tomatoes I wasted until I realize I can make a big pot of vegetable stew for dinner to use them up. That doesn’t sound particularly appetizing to me at the moment, but it will be better than throwing them all away.

Jimmy comes in briefly for a sandwich for lunch but doesn’t linger, which is just as well because the kitchen is an absolute mess. After I’ve cleaned and put away all the canning equipment, I fall down onto the couch to catch my breath and revive my energy.

It’s not laundry day or baking day or even cleaning the outhouse day, so I don’t have another major chore that needs to be done. I mentally estimate how much time it will take me to clean and chop the other vegetables for the stew and decide I have at least a couple of hours to rest. I don’t know why I’m so exhausted. Yes, the canning was a major task, but it shouldn’t have wiped me out so completely.

With that decided, I summon the strength to heft myself off the couch and go out back to toss the chickens some feed and check on the Boss. She’s definitely back to her full, supervisory form today, so that makes me happy.

I wander over to say hello to the pigs as well. They come snorting over enthusiastically for greetings and a little snack.

My animal duties complete, I’m looking forward to a short snooze on the couch, but first I check around the corner to see how Jimmy is doing in the garden.

He’s standing on the far side. Actually not really standing. Bending over strangely. Stiffly. He’s not working in the dirt. He’s holding his back with both hands.

Something is wrong. I know it immediately.

“Jimmy?” I run over, carefully avoiding the new planting as I go. “Are you okay?”

He’s trying to straighten up when I reach him. His features are twisted in obvious pain. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not! What on earth happened?”

“Nothing. Just overdid it on my back. I’ll be fine.” He’s still cringing as he attempts to straighten his spine. “Damn it.”

Slammed with a wave of utter helplessness, I sway on my feet, torn between reaching out to support him and keeping my distance to not make anything worse. “What do you need?”

“I just need a minute. It’ll stretch out soon and I’ll be fine.”

“If you keep working, it’s just going to get worse.”

“Don’t matter.” He eyes the unplanted rows of the garden. “Got to get the rest of this in this week.”

“Okay, but you have one more whole day. You don’t have to do it today.”

“I gotta?—”

“Jimmy!” My voice is sharp. Much sharper than normal.

He blinks in obvious surprise, gaping at me.

“You’ve got to rest your back or you’re not going to be able to even get up. Then where will we be? You won’t be able to do anything around here, and you won’t be able to help anyone else. Don’t be stupid and stubborn about it.”

He takes a few raspy breaths, and I can see the conflict on his face as he internally debates his choices.

The problem is he has almost no choices. Both of us know it.

“Damn it,” he mutters again, staring at the ground, still bent over at a weird angle.

“I know. It’s terrible. But what else can you do? So let’s go in and you can maybe lie down for a little while. Do you think that will help?”

“Probably.” His mumble is decidedly reluctant, but he doesn’t resist when I gently turn him toward the house and help him limp his painful way inside.

I’ve got to take a washcloth and clean the dirt off his hands, arms, and face because he can’t get in the position to do it himself. I kneel down to pull off his shoes and socks, and it takes a huge effort to take off his sweaty clothes without jarring him in a way that hurts like hell.

I’m panting almost as much as he is when I’ve finally got him down to his boxers. He’s still not what anyone would consider clean, and he smells pretty ripe. But there’s no way he’s capable of further bathing at the moment.

“The bed will be better than the couch, right?” I ask quietly.

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