Once In Vermont
By
the clamor and sounds
One
could imagine there was
A
mob of trucks and other
Vehicles
pulled into the
Farmyard,
but it wasn’t at all
That
way when I got there.
This
was a long time ago.
To
the life of an old timer
Or
the valley and river itself
Running
through, it was only
As
old as yesterday.
But
I was young and so was
The
teenage boy, and his father
Clayton
was living down
There
alone with the boy after
His
wife moved out and only
A
few years more before
Clayton
was also gone with
A
new wife and the boy would
Be
old enough to marry — and
Come
to think of it — I would
Around
then be married, too.
It
was a Saturday morning,
Clear
sky open autumn day,
Trees
shaken of leaves
Except
for the oaks on
Owls
Head Mountain
Which
always held its leaves
Into
deer hunting season.
I
was a friend with Clayton and
His
son, or at least they were
My
friends since I was a newcomer
To
the valley and didn’t at all
Mind
helping out with their farm
Chores…walking
right off the road
If
they were haying, spending an
Afternoon
stacking clumsy bales onto
A
flat wagon and later throwing its
Load
up into the barn loft hatch.
Everything
built from scrap, cut
Trees
for timber, salvaged shingles
And
boards saved from carpentry
Jobs
to finish their own house —
Pay
was enough to eat,
Buy
gas, keep things running.
It
was the double shotgun blast
That
made me curious to visit.
Both
shots brilliant and decided
At
ten in the morning — no way to hide it —
No
one down here really to hear it.
I
walked the gravel driveway between
Upper
mowings before it dipped
Into
the farm door yard and for all
Gun
play and engine commotion
It
took a moment to find where
It
was coming from. Off
To
one corner of the field, in
Shade
of the pole barn and a few
Dead
hardwood trees I caught sight
Of
father and son bending down
In
swift work to the far side of
A
small tractor. And then one
More
shotgun blast. Surrounding
All
meaning of sound, making me
A
little edgy if it wasn’t too late
To
back step away and forget what it
Was
I had no idea . . .
And
that’s what took me further.
The
boy saw me first, glancing
To
his father who casually
Raised
his head and nodded up
Hello.
By then I was to the
Tractor…saw
the luster of
Blood
on their leg trousers and
Boots,
rifle leaned against
The
pitted tire, chain saw
Streaked
in blood and sticky dirt,
The
six and maybe I counted seven
Legs
of cows, innards in a pile,
The
unforgettable sensation of being
Bathed
in the living, and surprised
At
not suffocating in this unexpected
Horror
— I mean the river is
Startling
beautiful 50 feet away,
Yet
there is a glory all its own
Right
here — making food. It’s uncouth,
Rotten,
the rifle much too big for
The
business, but there is
No
mistake of the shot.
I
would stay long enough for one last
Leg
sawn off the trunk body
Later
carved open and emptied —
Two
cow heads rolled off into
Tall
grass like the burled
Elm
stumps that won’t split, but those
Heads
have faces looking worse dumbfounded.
The
pack of mother dog and puppies
Roost
in them for days.
It’s
just food for winter and
What
happens. Next weekend
Clayton
and his son might tear down
The
tractor or rig the plow
On
the jeep made ready
For
first snow. Finally haul
Down
firewood from the hills.
I
came by for a short visit
And
got one. Knew the job
Was
done when Clayton took
Out
his pipe and re-lit the
Bowl,
breathing peacefully
Over his work.
_____________________
B O B A R N O L D
Once In Vermont
Gnomon
photo ~ Susan Arnold 2016
