HOW IT'S DONE ~

Manny

The last time I saw Manny

To talk to she was

Holding two butcher

Knives in her hand

Instructing her sister-in-law

How to dress out chickens

That her brother-in-law Everett

Was slaughtering outside the barn

In the rain, with all

His young nephews watching —

The youngest shivered up

Against a barn door

With his eyes squeezed shut,

And even I knew Everett didn’t

Like this job — it was all over

His face — and somehow the fresh

Whet axe felt clumsy in his hands

But not Manny — inside the barn she tossed

A scrap of plywood over a barrel

And proceeded to hold shop with

Her knives — the kids eying

The sop of guts scraped

Into a bucket — and later

They watched the dogs whine down

By the brook where this stew

Would be dumped out for them

So eight years later, this evening,

Manny drove up to our place and

Lifted herself out of the car

Telling us she was the new Avon lady —

We didn’t know what to do

With that, but two hours later

Susan had bought sixteen dollars

Worth of Christmas gifts while Manny

Had told us about her past year of

A broken foot, visits to the chiropractor,

Times out here with social workers

Bringing complaints that she was again

Beating the kids — she said she

Didn’t understand, and it hurt her

Because no one loved those kids

More than her — and sometimes she

Would leave here and go back to

New Hampshire where she was born

Only to find out it had

Changed for the worse —

Just like this place she was always

Turning to drive back home to

How It's Done

Of all the things

Out in the field

Around the farm

Lee Strong might

Have taught me it

Wasn’t how he used

A scythe or midstep

Lifted its blade

To comb his stone

Regaining speed —

Though I watched all of

That — and how he

Stood in the middle

Of his work looking

At barely nothing

For a very long

Time, a match tipped

In to re-light his

Pipe — but how

Loosening a belly

Belt he privately

Let his pants drop

Those cooling

Seconds above

His knees

Farmer

There were the weeks when

We hadn’t seen Everett on

The road in his truck or

In the hayfield he tended

For another landowner spreading

Lime and fertilizer, his

Mother waving to us from

Her trailer steps and we wouldn’t

Bother her but went to Everett’s

House back off in the woods

Knocking a few times in the

Mid afternoon. He came to the

Door unrecognized — no cap,

A white undershirt out over

Green work trousers, mouth parting

New whiskers saying come inside.

July and curtains closed.

We sat at a table in the middle

Of one big room,

Darkness piled against

The walls, his wife at work in

Town and the kids off somewhere.

Clearing newspapers from the table

I then saw his hand and three

Fingers chopped off at the large

Knuckle, skin rounded over

For stubs. Everett held up the

Hand and said he’d been out of

Work since the accident haying.

Poured himself more coffee from

A thermos, face pale as smoke.

Shaking his head at how he wanted

To grab back the fingers in the

Baler, but the fingers were gone.

Fifteen years later I heard about

His heart attack, how he sat

Healing beside a window in his
New house near the road drinking

Coffee and reading newspapers with

Eye glasses he never wanted anyone

To see, waving to all the neighbors

Driving by with that damaged

Hand that went back to work.

So Long

They had the big

Auction this morning

Up at Bud’s farm. We

Saw road signs announcing

The event a week earlier and

Wondered where it was,

Coming to the news Bud

Had died last winter in his

Farmhouse,  left alone those 

30 years after his wife

Took her life. That was a

Long time ago — Bud hayed

His mowing 80 times since

Then — had six different dogs

All named Duke, never painted

The barn and didn’t mean to

Change his living even with

The county road dividing his

House from the farm, and every

Year the cars passed faster,

The town got closer and Bud

Crossed the road not looking

Either way, the place was his.

Today old Ford out-of-state

Farm trucks with trailers

Were seen in the village

Riding up the hill to Bud’s

Where his machinery and tools

Have been tagged and specialized.

The house will be sold next.

Wife, dogs, barn cats, swallows,

Straw rats, a few dusty chickens

All dead and not for sale, and

Bud made sure no one got Bud.

_________________

Bob Arnold

O N C E     I N     V E R M O N T

Gnomon