The Barnyard

Like buzzards perched on a roost, or more aptly, like chickens arranged by pecking order, three young children sat on the broad limbs of a mimosa tree in their grandmother’s backyard. They ranged in age from the eldest of 7 to the youngest of 5, and the youngest by virtue of his age and his vulnerability to random beatings by the two older children, resided on the lowest limb.  The highest limb of course went to the oldest child, one of the boy’s cousins, and being as he lived in a distant town and was infrequently around, his limb was usurped by the middle child during his absence.  But when he occasioned to be there, he reigned supreme.

    The boy was a bit in awe of his older cousin, who was one of the few people other than adults, that could get their way with the middle child, she, being the younger child’s older sister.  Thus in awe, he complied with commands issued by the older one, often these commands resulted in pain, but not sufficient to risk the pain refusing could bring.

     Once on a trip with their grandmother to an aunt’s house, he’d been compelled to lift setting hens so the older child could pluck the eggs from the nest.  This resulted in his being pecked by angry chickens as their nests were robbed.  They quickly hid the eggs in the back seat of their grandmother’s car, and “sat” them all the way home.  Their grandiose plans of becoming poultry barons were however interrupted by the timely call from the great aunt.

    It was the older boy who introduced the boy to a small yet violently hot pepper that grew at random around the yard. Telling him that they were little cherries and better than candy. He’d ran to his grandmother for help with the fire and been given butter to salve the pain, though to his thinking it did little. However; in later years, the younger boy introduced his smaller brother to the same peppers. Finally years later, the boy’s father sprayed around the trees and killed off all of the plants, thus ending a reign of terror, and the boy was compelled to find other forms of entertainment.

It was the boy’s older cousin who came up with the idea of climbing into the pigeon house which sat on stilts in the grandparent’s backyard, the trio spent several days devising a way to get up into it, as it sat some 8 or 9 feet off the ground.  After much effort and many scrapes and cuts from the rough timbers of the poles on which it sat, and several falls, entry was finally made.  Their triumph was heralded by a mass exodus of startled pigeons, a fact which did not go unnoticed by the adults either.  The boy’s grandfather and uncle brought them down via a ladder and delivered them into the waiting hands of their respective mothers, who’d had foresight to arm themselves with switches.  Perhaps the only thing that saved them from a prolonged switching was the alarmed voice of the grandmother who noted not only were they covered with bird droppings, but lice from the pigeons as well, and they were trotted off to baths.

   On the farm were several buildings, cribs for corn storage, a combined hay loft and grain bin, a smoke-house for curing meat, equipments buildings filled with ancient rusting leftovers from long discarded equipment, a shed which housed the tractor and implements, a hog barn and a low chicken house, all of which were off limits and thus fascinating.  One could climb on the baled hay, finding rats nest, slid down the mountain of corn stored unshelled, or shell corn with the antique shelling machine in the crib, or plunder through the piles of old equipment wondering at its use. 

    The corn sheller was a particular attraction, equipped with a large handle to spin it, and a huge flywheel on the opposite side which kept it in motion, corn was fed in from the top and wheels with triangular teeth removed the corn from the cob, dropping the shelled corn out the bottom and spitting the cobs out the front. It also, as the boy had learned, could remove the hide from fingers in a hurry, especially if one was fool enough to attempt to remove a cob before the machine spit it out. And he’d also learned not to attempt to stop the flywheel by hand either.  It was only after his father allowed him to start shelling corn for the hogs that the boy lost his fascination for the machine, his fun having suddenly become a job.

    On the south side of the hay loft, a long trough ran the full length of the building, its boards worn smooth from years of polishing cow’s tongues. Corn or ground feed was poured out along its length for the cows, who shoved and fought as they ate. Feed and kernels of corn which fell from their mouths, or through the cracks between the boards provided fodder for rats living under the building, and when the population of rats grew to be considered excessive by the boy’s grandfather, he would put out poison to kill them. On these occasions, the boy was forbidden from the barnyard, and watched like a hawk by both his parents and grandparents, all of which served increase his desire to go into the barnyard.

    He’d once snuck out his bedroom window and managed to avoid detection, made his way across the yard and out into the barnyard. He crept around the corner of the corn crib, and climbed to the hay loft. From his vantage point, he could see the trough and beyond. Every where he looked, there were large rats, some dead, some in contortions of agony, but none lasting very long, as they soon died.  Even as he watched, more and more rats scrambled and staggered out into the open, to join the multitude laying about.  Off to the side of the building, he noticed his grandfather leaning on a pitchfork and watching.  Behind the old man, a pile of limbs and boards had been gathered, as if for a fire, but yet unlit.

   As the activity of the rats slowed, the old man turned and started the pile burning, then pulled on his gloves and began forking dead rats onto the fire. As the flames began to scorch the rats, the smell drifted over the boy, and he was forced to leave his hiding place.

He leapt down from the loft, and his grandfather saw him. With a quick leap, faster than he’d ever seen his grandfather move, he was swept off his feet and rushed out of the barnyard.  His grandfather had never been known to move swiftly, nor to be rough in his treatment of the boy, even swatted him on his behind as he carried him towards the house.

    “BOY, I ought ta tan yo hide ! I done tole you not to come out hyar.”

His grandfather, never setting him down, nor breaking stride, in what the boy considered a traitorous move, delivered him into the custody of his surprised mother, who thought him napping in his room.

   “JUDY,  see to dis boy. He ain’t got in dat poison, but you see to him HEAR?”

Much later, after a hard scrubbing in the bath, a prolonged session with a fly swatter on his rear end, a lecture on minding what he was told, he was exiled to his room, the window having been nailed shut, and told to wait on his father to get home.  While he had no idea why everyone was so upset, he knew by the actions of his grandfather if nothing else, he’d committed a major offense.  The betrayal of trust from his grandfather, who was usually his ally and staunchest defender, was proof.  Further attesting to the gravity of his situation was his mothers parting words.  Any time he was told to wait on his father’s return from work, it had never boded well.  He sat alone in his room, even forbidden to play with his toys and waited.  Finally he fell asleep on his bed, to bored and too perplexed to stay awake.

   He awoke to the sight of his father standing in his bedroom doorway; in the background he could hear his mother’s voice, detailing his misdeeds.  Seeing his father’s stern expression, coupled with the strap he held, the boy began sobbing, knowing what lay in store.  His father stepped into the room, behind him, the gleeful face of the boy’s older sister could be seen, and then the door was closed. Trust her to keep her ear to the door to hear every sob and plea for mercy, to be material for mockery at a later date, when she would mimic the entire spanking in great detail.

As expected, there came a lecture on obeying, followed by a fierce whipping which seemed longer and harder than any previous whippings, and left the boy breathless and unable to stand, yet in such pain he couldn’t be still.  Only the cold tile floor gave any relief to his legs and buttocks, and he lay on the floor until he fell asleep, still crying, sometime during the night, his mother or perhaps father, came and finding him on the floor, put him in his bed. 

    He awoke the next morning to the familiar voice of his grandfather, who as usual was sitting beside his bed.  But unlike previous mornings, their greeting was a bit strained and awkward, the incidents of the day before still fresh in their minds.

“Boy, I’m sorry you done got a whupping, I wish’t I could’a took it fo you… but you is got to learn to mind what you is told,”

Even as he spoke, he reached over and pulled the boy from his bed and into his lap, where he rocked him for a while. The boy snuggled against his grandfather, and felt safe once again, the pieces of his world once more secure. Years later, as an adult, he learned that his grandfather used cyanide to kill the rats, and had been terrified the boy had been exposed to it, as had been his parents.