The Best Boy Ever Made Read online

  “They're looking pretty heavy,” he said in greeting. “Should drop any day now.”

  “That's wonderful,” I said shivering. I had stormed out without my coat, it was getting towards dusk and the temperature was dropping.

  “Out for a stroll?” he inquired.

  “Yeah,” I replied not wanting to go into the fight.

  “Hey,” Sam favored me with a sly smile as she made her appearance from out of the barn. “Did Dad tell you?”

  “Says they're getting heavy.” I nodded.

  “We bet they'll kid this weekend. That would be best.”

  It would be, too, not because of track or school, but because we could stay with the kids longer, make sure they were all healthy and getting a good start on life before they were left to their own devices. Sam thought that way, one of the reasons I always wanted her close to help with my animals.

  “That would be awesome,” I said.

  “Did I ever tell you,” Mr. Oleson paused and gave a conflicted glance at Sam, “two the story of the three legged goat?”

  Sam and I both held our tongues. Of course we had heard the story of the three legged goat, but it was important to let old people tell their stories. It makes them feel special.

  “Joe Grossan's son was marrying that Mexican girl,” he launched into the story.

  Girl? Philip Grossan was like thirty, his wife Maria was twenty eight. This all happened about ten years ago. Anyway...

  “So he decided they needed to do a traditional goat roast. Nearest person that raised goats in those days was a couple of counties over. So they give this old guy a call and he says-”

  “I got one goat I could sell ya, but he's only got three legs...” Sam put in, smiling.

  “Yup,” her dad agreed. “So Marty Jacobs, Eric Handler and Terry McInnis go to get this goat in Marty's pick up. Joe figures three young guys ought to be able to handle a three legged goat.”

  Sam could handle a regular four legged goat by herself. With those three, well, let's just say the goat still has a significant advantage in brain power. I tuned the story out. Not that it isn't a really funny story, but it's long and I've heard it a dozen times or so already.

  The short version is this, the guys slowed down to gawk at something and the goat jumped out of the pickup truck. The three men chased the goat into Roger Corman's cornfield and spent the rest of the afternoon chasing the animal. They fell in the creek and ended up arriving at the goat roast three hours late, muddy and bedraggled and with no goat. Mr. Oleson's version is considerably more involved, including a rather comical portrayal of how Marty hitches his pants up before trying to jump on the goat's back, and Terry's waddling run. If you know the guys, it's a stitch to see.

  Just as the story was winding down I spied a clump of dandelions growing along the south side of the barn. They were big ones, with leaves maybe six, seven inches across. “Sam, you got a knife on you?” I asked. I was merely being polite. I knew she did. She always carried her multi-tool with pliers, screwdriver and a fold out knife on it. She opened it and handed it over.

  To Mr. Oleson I said, “Great-Grandma Becca and I used to gather spring greens every year. She loved them and loved showing me how to gather and cook them up.” Probably in large part because no one else in the family could be bothered with simple traditions like eating spring greens. Great Grandma Becca is ninety eight years old and always attributed her good health to eating wild plants.

  “How is she doing?” Mr. Oleson asked.

  Over the winter she'd fallen and broke her hip. She was now living in a nursing home in town. It was hard seeing such a strong independent country woman brought down like that, but she took it well. She was strong on the inside, her heart was great. She missed the country, of course, but she was holding her own in the nursing home. “She's doing really good, for her age and condition,” I told him. “We are going to see her tomorrow.” We went every Saturday, like we went to church every Sunday. “A big mess of dandelions would cheer her right up.” As I said this I dug Sam's knife blade just under the dirt, cutting them off at the crown.

  “Your Great-Grandma is one heck of a woman,” Mr. Oleson said. He was always kind and said stuff like that. I liked Mr. Oleson a whole lot. “She used to live just a couple of miles down the road when I was young. I remember seeing her out hiking around gathering some herb or another. Do you know what she once told me about dandelions?”

  That perked my ears right up. I did not know. “What?”

  “You know eating too many will make you pee more?”

  “They are a mild diuretic.” I had read that in an herb book somewhere.

  “Yup, so the Germans used to call them Pissenlit; piss the bed.”

  I roared. Now, that was funny. I looked up and saw Sam smiling, too.

  “You know what else she always said?” He was looking at Sam this time. “Nothing goes with a mess of greens like a side of bacon.”

  Sam nodded. “We just butchered one of the Saddlebacks.” The Oleson's were into heritage breeds, rare breeds that most commercial farmers didn't raise these days. They had their Dexter cows, their Angora sheep and their Saddleback hogs. “Should I send some of bacon along?”

  “Tell Great-Grandma Becca it is with our compliments,” Mr. Oleson said to me. Sam disappeared into the farm house at an easy lope.

  By the time I had gathered a fairly good sized pile of greens she was back. She had a brick sized clump of bacon wrapped in a reusable plastic bag. She also had an empty bag for my greens and a pink spring coat. I shrugged into the coat while she put my bundle of greens into the bag. I own about a dozen pink coats. I am constantly forgetting them. At any given time about a third are in my closet at home, a third are at Sam's and the remaining third are divided between my locker at school and the laundry.

  #

  I arrived home just as dusk was setting into full dark. As soon as I entered the house I could smell the rich aroma of dinner. Going into the kitchen I spied a family sized Stouffer's lasagna box on top of the trash, Mom the gourmet.

  I held up the brick of bacon. “Sam and Mr. Oleson sent us some fresh Saddleback bacon for when we go see Great-grandma Becca tomorrow. She'll love it.”

  Mom didn't say anything, just kept shelling pees into a bowl. Good, so we would at least have one thing tonight that didn't come out of a box. I placed the bacon in the fridge. Then I pulled a colander down from over the island and threw it in the sink. I wanted to wash the 'pissenlit' well before putting it in the fridge.

  “You and your weeds,” Mom commented as she put the bowl in the microwave.

  “Grandma Becca loves them,” I said staunchly.

  “That she does,” Mom conceded. “Mary called while you were out. She was wondering if you were planning on track this spring?”

  “Of course,” I replied. “We will start training with the team as soon as kidding is done.”

  Mom humpfed but didn't comment. She didn't need to.

  “What?” I said exasperated. I knew what. It was the “we” that drove Mom nuts.

  “It's just,” Mom was uncomfortable, not liking to say things out loud. I was just supposed to get the hint. On most issues I did, but not this one. “You know you could make your own decision, sometime. You don't always have to do what Sam's doing.”

  “I did make my own decision,” I said. “I decided last fall to do this 4-H project with my best friend, Sam. I knew going in there would be sacrifices. Like needing to be available during the kidding process, even if it meant missing the first week of track.”

  “I thought Mary was your best friend,” Mom said.

  She knew better but she had to say it, anyway. I don't know why there's been a distance between me and Sam this year but I know why there's been one with Mary. It has nothing to do with us, we're cool. It's Mom. She's always pushing me to do stuff with Mary because she doesn't like Sam. Sam's too much of a tomboy for my princess mother's taste.

/>   Mom would rather see me cheerleading with Mary and Brit than running cross country with Sam. She'd rather see me learning side saddle and riding English with Mary than raising goats with Sam.

  I really like Mary and I'll admit that sometimes I want to hang out with someone who likes having their nails done, or doing their hair, or whatever. It's nothing against Sam. It's just, you know, some of us want to act like girls once in awhile.

  And it's nothing against Mary, but when Mom is always pushing me to choose Mary over Sam it makes me rebel. I should have called Mary back right then and told her I had talked to coach Terrance already and it was cool. But instead I finished with the greens and stormed upstairs to my room.

  Chapter Two

  “Grandma!” I heard Dad's voice greet Great-Grandma Becca as he entered the room. Mom was right behind him and she went to Becca's bedside to give her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. I was third in the room, Britney lagged behind and my little brother, Forrest, was probably still in the front lobby gawking at the pet birds they kept there.

  I was carrying a heavy crock wrapped in a checkered towel. “Laura Ingalls Wilder” Brit had called me on the way over, but I didn't care. Becca would be happy and that made me happy. I set the crock on her bedside table and gave my absolutely most favorite grandmother a huge hug.

  “Becca,” I called her. Great Grandmother Rebecca Mueller was a huge mouthful and besides we had a very special relationship.

  “Ally,” she crowed, pulling me into a hug. Her arms, thin and frail looking were still rock steady and strong. Her face was lined with wrinkles, her lips dry and withered but tender as she kissed my cheek. “How good to see you again. And what have you brought now?”Her eyes twinkled merrily.

  I pulled the checkered towel open with a flourish and opened the lid of the crock an inch or two to let the aroma out.

  “Dandelion spoon bread,” I declared at the thick cheese covered mass. “Just like you used to make me when I was young.”

  “And I'm the youngster now, I suppose.” Becca liked to refer to her current infirmity as her second childhood. She would look around at the other residents of the nursing, in much worse shape than she was, and say, “I suppose I will be wearing diapers like a baby again soon” and then sigh.

  “And...” I went on, not wanting to dwell on her age or condition. I pulled the covering off the plate nestled alongside the crock, “bacon. Fresh from an old fashioned Saddleback hog, compliments of Mr. Oleson and Sam.”

  “Ooh!” she exclaimed reaching for a piece of bacon. Mom scowled. The doctors wanted Becca on a heart healthy diet. Usually I would agree but she's like ninety eight and her diet hasn't killed her, yet. What's the harm?

  “Mr. Oleson?” she quipped as she bit off a tiny bit of bacon, “you mean little Harry.” Both Brit and I stifled a chuckled. Mr. Harold Oleson could only be “little Harry” to someone Becca's age. “I remember the first time I laid eyes on that boy. Your great aunt, Tilda, taught school back in those days. She told me stories about little Harry. He was a right problem, always out of his seat and into things. 'I don't think he'll amount to a hill of beans' she told me.”

  Mr. Oleson not amount to a hill of beans? He was one of the most successful ranchers in the area.

  “He must have been about six or seven. He came with his father to pick out a couple of farm cats. I knew little Harry by reputation but when I saw him looking at the kittens, he was so tender and so intense, I knew he had a real connection with animals. I knew he'd make a great farmer some day.”

  “And he has,” my dad conceded. It was high praise coming from the man who was Mr. Oleson's only competition for most successful rancher in the area.

  “Sam's got the same connection with animals, just like her dad,” I told Becca, taking her hand.

  “Don't I know it, child,” she replied, giving my hand a squeeze. “Many a time you two came by with some injured farm cat, or bird or what not. How's she doing?”

  “Great,” I said. Sam's been kind of down this winter, but I didn't want to bother Becca with that. She's got a lot more to worry about, like getting her strength back so she can get home again. “We're raising dairy goats for 4-H.”

  “So you've told me. Have they dropped yet?”

  Dad dropped into one of the chairs. He snatched Becca's remote and turned on the TV. The sound was muted. The TV probably hadn't been used since our last visit. Dad found a basketball game and settled back, sound still off. Mom sat on the chair next to him and was looking at her iPhone while Britney stuck an earbud from her iPod into her ear. Forrest made a short appearance to say hi to Becca, tell us something about one of the finches in the aviary in the lounge and then disappeared back down the hall. It was okay, all of it. I held Becca's hand and talked and talked.

  #

  I was letting Audrey, my mare, take a few easy cool down laps around the corral when I spied Sam coming down the road at her usual easy lope. I paused and watched her approach. She was wearing her chore clothes, jeans and T-shirts, so this wasn't a run. Her face was inscrutable but I had an inkling what might be bringing her.

  I turned Audrey in a wide circle as Sam turned down our drive so that we came to the corral gate about the same time Sam did.

  “First one dropped just now. Other's look to be close,” Sam said without preamble.

  I smiled. It was starting. “Get the gate,” I ordered.

  Sam swung the gate open and Audrey trotted out in the yard. I held my arm out for Sam. After a moment's hesitation she took it and swung herself up behind me.

  “We haven't ridden together in awhile,” she commented. She was right, we hadn't. Sam wasn't the horseback rider I was but we used to ride over the fields all around here.

  “You remember what it's like?”

  Her arms wrapped around my stomach, her hands squeezing my abs. I smiled. She remembered all right. “Yah!” I gave Audrey a gentle nudge.

  We took off across the road and then into the field on the other side. I nudged Audrey towards Sam's farm, but she had already guessed both my destination and my mood. She tore across the pasture at a fast easy gallop.

  Did I mention that I do barrel riding? Audrey and I like to go fast. We make a great team. Mr. Oleson keeps his pastures clean and this one was no exception. It was almost as smooth as an arena and Audrey could go fast safely.

  “Fence,” Sam said in my ear.

  “I know,” I shouted back. Sam's hands tightened on my middle. It felt nice, like old times. It had always been like this. Sam wasn't the daredevil I was. It was always fun to tease her.

  The fence was a low one, enough to keep in slow moving cows, maybe, but little more than a toy to Audrey. We took it in one steady leap. Audrey, the best horse a girl could ever want, landed and dropped into a cantor. We were strutting across the Oleson's front yard, heading towards the big red barn.

  “That was fun.” I chuckled.

  “Like old times,” Sam said, reading my mind.

  Mr. Oleson was standing in the doorway wiping his hands on a handkerchief and watching us, a smile on his face. “That's quite a horse you got there,” he said.

  “Yep,” I replied as Sam swung herself down and off. I followed suit, leading Audrey towards the hitching post outside the barn. It was really just for show, but why not make use of it?

  “I've got go lay some hay for the cows out in the back forty,” Mr. Oleson said, looking towards his pickup truck.

  “You need help?” Sam offered.

  “Naw,” he replied, “you... two stay with your goats.” There it was again, that awkward pause. Like he had started to say one thing and then stopped. He had been doing that a lot lately. What gives?

  “Come on, I'll show you our first kid,” Sam said, driving all other thoughts out of my mind as I followed her into the barn.

  #

  “Dang it” I shouted as I was sprayed with milk, goat's milk. I don't cuss, or I try not to, but this was getting t
o me. It was the third time she'd managed to kick the bucket and I was despairing of ever getting this particular goat milked. “Ugh!” I went on, standing up and backing away from the stanchion. “I am a mess.”

  “Let me give it a try,” Sam said, picking up the bucket. I took one of the towels off our processing station and began to wipe the milk off the front of my shirt.

  Sam approached the goat and made some warm calming noises. The goat snorted, showing what it thought of Sam's reassurances.

  It wouldn't always be like this, we had been assured. Once the goats got used to the milking they would actually enjoy it. Not that that helped much right now.

  We had let the kids suckle for two weeks. We didn't need to wait so long, but we felt it would be better for the kids if we did. Besides for our project we didn't need to harvest every drop.

  This morning we had separated the kids from their mother. Now, almost twelve hours later the goats had swollen udders and were ready for milking. Or their udders were ready, anyway. The goats were of a different mindset.

  They were being skittish and nervous. What was worse, Sam was being almost as nervous and skittish. The last two weeks things had been more like old times than ever. Just as I was getting used to it again, she was acting all weird.

  The goat was taking a couple of preliminary swats with her leg, testing its ability to kick either Sam or the bucket again. Sam laid her forehead directly into the goat's belly, forcing her against the wall. Holding her immobile, she began to milk the goat. Score one for Sam.

  “Umm,” Sam said with her head down and buried in goat belly. “There is something I need to tell you.”

  What was so important that she felt she needed to talk about it while her face was pressed into a goat? Or maybe it was something best talked about when we couldn't see each others' faces? I turned over a five gallon bucket and sat down.