Page 5 of Butter You Up
After I’m done, I step out to wander the grounds.
Someone’s out in the fields already, a man bending over and inspecting rows of crops. I know the farm is growing strawberries, which is why I’m here. Strawberry season kicks off this weekend, and I’ll be pitching in by…doing something. I’m not sure what yet. Ethel just said that in exchange for parking on her property, I can help with the customers on Saturday and Sunday.
I do, however, need to find actual paying work, so that’s on my to-do list.
Heading back up the driveway, it’s a few minutes before I come around the bend in the road and see the big house. Through open windows, I catch the lingering smell of bacon and coffee, though it’s quiet inside, and I’m guessing breakfast is over.
I continue around the house, and now that it’s daylight, I can see the smaller structure clearly.
Ethel was right when she said they spoil Baabara. That’s not a shed or a barn. In fact, it’s a sheep palace.
There’s an open archway serving as a doorway, and the tenant stands there staring at me while aggressively chewing hay. Paned glass windows flank either side, and in the left corner, there’s a turret, also with paned glass, that extends past the shed’s gabled roof and up into an octagonal structure. I’ve never seen anything like this.
“Good morning,” Ethel’s voice calls from the house. When I glance over, she’s trying to push the screen door open while also holding something that seems to be pretty heavy.
“Here, I can help.” I dart across the lawn to open the door for her. Upon closer inspection, she’s carrying a cardboard box of jars filled with what looks like red jam.
Once we’re both outside, Ethel smiles at me, open and friendly. In the daylight I can see better, and I would guess she’s in her seventies. Her gray hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, and she’s dressed in sensible farm attire: jeans and a cotton button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She smells like dirt and green already, and I wonder if she’s been out in the field too. “How was your first night at Bedd Fellows?”
“Wonderful, thank you.”
“Well, I hate to get right to shop talk, but you should get going. My grandson’s farm stand opens at nine, and the sooner you get over there to interview, the better. And you can take these with you.”
She passes me the flat of jars, and I take them with an oomph. It’s heavier than I thought. Granny’s got some biceps. I hold it while she closes the flaps on the top. It’s a tight fit.
“Remind me, what’s the job again?” All I know is that her grandson is hiring, and it’s nearby, which meets my two most important criteria. I may be helping at Bedd Fellows on the weekends in exchange for keeping my van here, but I need an actual paying job during the week.
“Alex is looking for someone to run the farm shop during the week. Granted, he didn’t tell me himself; I had to hear it through the grapevine.” She clicks her tongue. “That boy never was much of a talker. But the Wallace kid wasn’t working out too well. You know how small towns are; when kids have too much time on their hands and not enough structure, they get into trouble. But Frank Wallace only lasted three months.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Three months! It’s not a hard job, dear. Udderly Creamy’s milk and eggs sell themselves. You have to learn some of that new-fangled technology, but a smart girl like you will pick it up in no time.”
“I’ve worked retail before too,” I add. “I bet I’ve already used the POS.”
Ethel gives me a sharp look. “Honey, I know what that stands for, and even if we deal with manure all day, I don’t like that kind of language.”
“Oh, no,” I rush to add. “It stands for Point-of-Sale system. Not piece of…well, you know.”
Ethel blinks at me for a minute and then throws back her head, laughing. “See, you’ll be perfect for the job. And I’m sure you can handle my grandson, too. He’s a little rough around the edges, being quiet and all. He seems to like animals better than people. But he is a good egg. And he sells good eggs.” Ethel cackles at her own joke.
He likes animals better than people. I, on the other hand, love pets, but love people more. We used to have a dog named Bozo, but when I was in high school, Dad’s mental health declined. He was struggling, and although he tried to at leastlooklike he had his shit together for me, his inability to take care of the dog gave him away.
Looking back, it was the moment I became an Adult—capital A, Adult. Sixteen years old and deciding to rehome Bozo because my dad couldn’t leave the trailer for his own health, never mind a dog’s.
When I started my trip with Vaniel, I considered getting a dog, but it would live a lot longer than my road trip, and I wasn’t sure what life was going to be like when I got back home. I’d already failed to take care of my dad and a dog once; it wasn’t right to commit to an animal I couldn’t keep.
Farm animals, though, I have no experience with, and my encounters with wild animals have been at a safe distance (with the exception of a copperhead snake that got into Vaniel in Texas. My scream was epic.)
I push the little niggling doubts away. If the job description includes too many animal responsibilities, or the boss is a rotten egg instead of a good one, I’ll find something else.
* * *
It’s a seven-point-two-mile bike ride to Udderly Creamy, which is a big plus for me. I have a bike that I mount on the back of Vaniel to use for quick trips, so I don’t have to pick up my home any time I need to run errands. It’s pleasant out today, and the weather’s good, so it’s enjoyable, even if I end up sweaty.
It’s a farm. Surely, no one will care.
The dairy farm sprawls out over a hillside, pastures lined with wooden fences rolling out in front of me. I’ve stopped at the driveway, which leads to the barn and facilities up on the hilltop, but right in front of me, at the corner of the main road and the driveway, is the farm shop.
I almost prop my bike up on the fence but then decide that while the cows are way on the other side of the field right now, they won’t stay there, so I change my mind and prop it up against the farm shop.
