Farming by Emma Redden

This piece was given second place in the 2007 Farming prompt contest, an annual event. Students, teachers and farmers made the final choices.

Freisen Daughters
Emma Redden
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 9

The hills of Ireland are like no other. Emerald colored pastures of grass coat the rolling hills. From afar they look like patchwork quilts covering the countryside. Lush green grass signifies the fabric, sheep acting as polka dots on the green linen. Stonewalls as old as the country its self are the stitching between the polka dot squares. The safety and warmth of the country sides’ collective blanket balances out the bitterness farm life can bestow upon one. After long days of harsh work, the Irish hills are a reminder of the acrimony and beauty our world can simultaneously maintain.

The day of these farmers is the like the day of no other. He wakes up before the sun is even thinking about entering our atmosphere. China’s sun has not even left the sky when he starts his day. The man gets out of his bed, accustomed to the shocked of the cold morning air. For an amateur, the chill would be dreadful. This man is a veteran. It would take a lot more than cold mornings to rattle him. After decades of pre-dawn awakenings it becomes second nature.

Stepping out of wool covers he gingerly steps into clothes. The outfit he puts on this particular morning clones the outfits he has worn everyday for the past five decades of his life. He legitimately finds no point in varying his outfits. Cows do not care what color flannel he wears. Stepping into his clothes has become significantly harder these past ten years. Standing he resembles a doll, sewn up the side and pulled too tightly. He stands, his side buckled. Dressed he looks exactly as one would picture a worn Irish farmer. He wears overalls, a red and green flannel shirt and large, ripping rain boots. His uncombed gray hair falls over his right eye. His face is scruffy, unshaven. The lines on his skin are deep. His skin is dark and spotted, stained. Sun, dirt and natural elements have taken their toll. The whiskers on his beaten face look like a 14 year old boy who needs to start shaving. The only difference is that this mans whiskers are white, not black or red as they might have been 55 years ago.

He walks down the cold, weathered splintery stairs, unpainted and turning the color of the roads in the rainy season. Living your day with dirt and manure covered feet can easily stain old, soft wood. The treads of the stairs are rough on his feet. The banister to his right becomes his crutch, enabling him to not tumble down the steeply sloped staircase.

Walking through the kitchen, consisting of a washboard, old claw footed sink, an iron gas stove, and few cupboards, he stumbles against the sharp corner of the counter. Breathing hard he is frustrated that the electricity has gone out once again. Between powerful rains and fragile power lines it happens too often. Rightfully or not, his farm is far from the top on the priority list of power to restore.

Walking out the door with a flashlight in hand and a cup of potent coffee in his system he heads toward the barn. The light on the barn thankfully is battery powered and between that and a flash light there is enough light to illuminate some sort of path to the barn door. Awaiting him are ten eager cows, ready to be relieved of their motherly burden. Milking cows every single day a year for 58 years doesn’t permit for much time away from home. Traveling away from neighboring towns proves difficult, never mind other countries, continents, cultures, languages. Some may say he lives the definition of a sheltered life. He would say he knows more about our physical and biological world than any other jet setter.

Powerful and wrinkled, ageless and ancient, his hands effortlessly push aside the barn door. One would not know looking at them that they hurt tremendously. They have for the past twenty years. Physical labor is a lifestyle for some, having severe disadvantages. This man lives his life in constant pain, starting the time he becomes conscious every morning. Pain can also become a lifestyle, causing this man to always hurt in some form or another. He will tell you that makes him more alive than most. How can he know he is alive if he feels no pain?

Entering the barn is a ritual that has become as regular as falling asleep when the day is done. Yet for an unaccustomed nose the smell would be suffocating. The comforting smell filling his sinuses is a combination of dung, mold, sour milk and small deaths.

He trudges through the barn and opens the far door to a scenery of black and white. Stepping down into their pen, he is again startled by the bite in this hip. His Freisen daughters stand languidly and barely erect, making small movements as if startled by dreams. Their eyes are open enough for him to catch a glimpse of the reflection of his flashlight in their doughy eyes. Before rousing them from their peaceful ten hour hibernation, he stands watching. He realizes the love between him and these animals is what drives him to begin his 20, 915th day as a farmer…