It\u2019s the screams that wake me. Once I\u2019m awake, it\u2019s sort of routine. Next there\u2019s mother\u2019s voice shushing him. Then the moans, shifting to sobs that dwindle to gasps, and finally, silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s not every night. Some nights it\u2019s different moans and the rhythmic rocking of bed springs which signals they\u2019re going at it. Once, on a moonlit night, I saw Mom holding Dad\u2019s head against her neck as he panted his need for her into the cool night air. Everyone thinks my war hero father is the master of the universe, but I know better. Mom is. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
No matter what terrors assail him in the night, mornings bring my father\u2019s usual optimistic industry. With a thumb hooked into his belt and his twenty-two resting on his forearm, he strides out across our VA-bought land to check our cattle. In his mind, he\u2019s the Virginian<\/em>, Own Wister\u2019s cowboy hero, fresh from the Civil War, eager to make his mark. In reality, war is the only thing my father shares with Wister\u2019s hero, that and his stubborn determination. Our paltry one hundred sixty acres will never be expanded to the vast Wister-style spread Dad envisions and even at the ripe old age of nine, I have doubts about our thirty-two mangy cows and adolescent bull ever being the foundation of a cattle kingdom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But such is the power of his dream, my mother and I are captured by it. Saturdays are livestock sale days. The excitement we feel is electric. Mother dresses in her best Bryn Mawr dress adorned with the heavy turquoise broach Dad bought her before he went to fight the Arabs for their oil in Iraq. Dad and I preen in front of the mirror in crisply starched khakis and trim fitting cowboy shirts. Our well-brushed Resistol cowboy hats are removed from the top shelf of Mother\u2019s closet where we keep them safe from the ever-present mice. Uncle Eben, who lives back East, ordered them for our Christmas last year. The attendant delirium over the arrival of those hats, I am convinced, will never be reached again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mom is Uncle Eben\u2019s favorite sister, so he indulges her support of Dad\u2019s dream of ranching. He believes Mom will eventually see sense and abandon what he calls an antediluvian pipedream<\/em>. Cowboy fantasies are pretty contagious though. He comes to visit once a year and fits himself out in the most outrageous Cowboy paraphernalia you could hope to find. Trips into town become a red-faced nightmare for Dad and me. But, I guess the hats are worth it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the auction house, Dad scouts out the brood cows. The best are out of our price range. We eye the most promising of the poorly specimens noting their numbers. There\u2019s not much competition for cows destined for the pleasures of the local canine population. We buy four. Loading the trailer, Dad sheds his original dubious assessment of his purchase.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSon, with a little feed these sweethearts will drop some pretty calves,\u201d he says, eyes shining. \u201cIt only takes one healthy calf to make our money back. After that, it\u2019s all profit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dubious, I calculate the price we\u2019d need to recoup our money. \u201cYou think we could get a calf that good?\u201d I ask. Instantly regretting my doubts, I exclaim, \u201cwe can feed them that special feed with molasses. That\u2019ll fatten them up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t forget, son, we have four. Better odds,\u201d Dad says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That cinches it. I like good odds. I\u2019m learning about odds in math. The better the odds, the less the risk. Risk, I don\u2019t like at all. I\u2019m a sure thing<\/em> boy, double checking every problem before I turn in my homework and preparing for every test as though it\u2019s the entrance exam for Princeton, where my Uncle Eben teaches. Still \u2026 those cows look promising, now that I look closer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We enter the cows into Dad\u2019s herd ledger with high hopes. Mom and I choose names. Daisy, Rose, and Petal are typical of her choices. Old Crumple Horn, Three tits, and Stumbles for a half blind Holstein are more in my line of nomenclature.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Worn out cows don\u2019t have fight. When it\u2019s time to calve, they lay on their sides, eyes bulging with the strain on their thin old bodies, content to suffer and die. It\u2019s as if they know in their dull, bovine minds the time for producing spring calves is long past. The only thing animated in these sad dramas is Dad and me. Cowboy dreams die hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Uncle Eben\u2019s faith in Mom isn\u2019t misplaced. After too many stillborn calves and dying cows, she goes back to work. Before she was a rancher\u2019s wife, Mom was a forensic accountant. But this is ranch country. Our town only has one bank, one grocery store, three bars and six churches. Not much call for forensic accountants, unless you consider the churches, but Mom won\u2019t. The worst fraud she ever found was with a church. And getting a conviction is nigh on impossible. But there\u2019s still a lot of folks looking for my mother\u2019s kind of help. She can keep books so the government don\u2019t get a penny or at least not many pennies, and it\u2019s all on the up-and-up. In no time, she\u2019s working all day long and sometimes late into the night to keep up with what she calls, client demand. Dad calls it ornery cheapskates looking for way more than they deserve. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Dad and I work through spring, summer, and into fall without going to the livestock auction. Mending fences and mowing hay keeps us busy. In all that time there are only three live births, and one leaves the mother dead. Dad and I bottle feed that boney little orphan and keep it in the yard. When we finally decide to take another run at the livestock auction, it\u2019s late fall, and Dad has a bit more jingle in his pocket. He\u2019s taken out a loan on a third of this year\u2019s hay. I worry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sale day, Mom sits at the breakfast table. \u201cYou know,\u201d she says all casual like, \u201cI have put a bit by. Most is going into the boy\u2019s college fund, but I have enough to add a bit to your stash.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dad looks up from his apple pie and really peers at Mom. \u201cYou sure?\u201d he says. Mom\u2019s money, unlike them in the bedroom, never frolics with Dad\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wouldn\u2019t offer otherwise,\u201d she says and goes to get her big ledger-sized checkbook. While she\u2019s gone, we wolf down our pie and bolt to the truck. Dad\u2019s grinning like a Cheshire cat the whole way to town.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t you want Mom\u2019s money?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughs and shakes his head, No<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s she going to think? The way we ran off?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t you worry about what your Mother thinks,\u201d he says. \u201cI know what she thinks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We jolt and jog down the pot-hole pocked road for a bit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dad looks at me with that speculative look he has when he\u2019s trying to decide if I\u2019m old enough to be let in on some big secret. I already know about sex and other such things and find it aggravating that he hesitates to tell me anything. After all, I\u2019m nine and can buck hay better than Cody Lunsford, and he\u2019s twelve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSon,\u201d he says with the serious tone he uses when he\u2019s going to tell me something big.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat do you think I want from your Mother?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That\u2019s an awkward question cause I know. He wants what he gets, pretty often as far as I can tell from the bed springs. And when he doesn\u2019t get that, he gets her sweet shushes<\/em> when his war terrors plague him. He also wants her apple pies and Boston baked beans, but they\u2019re pretty far down on his list of wants. After thinking for a while, I decide I\u2019d best wait him out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When he realizes I\u2019m not talking, he continues. \u201cThe last thing I want from your Mother is her money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat a man wants from his wife,\u201d he says, \u201cis her belief in him. With your Mother, that means this ranch. I need her to believe I can cowboy this ranch and make it pay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cReally?\u201d I say. \u201cDad, you were raised in New York.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looks at me and bursts into laughter. \u201cBut I want the American Dream, son, the American Dream.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I look back across the parched, blowing fields toward our scraggly property, the dust boiling out behind us. Personally, I think he should have taken the money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s the screams that wake me. Once I\u2019m awake, it\u2019s sort of routine. Next there\u2019s mother\u2019s voice shushing him. Then the moans, shifting to sobs that dwindle to gasps, and finally, silence. It\u2019s not every night. Some nights it\u2019s different moans and the rhythmic rocking of bed springs which signals they\u2019re going at it. Once, … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1037,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1016","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/07\/max-sulik-uFPkhZpjLFQ-unsplash.jpg?fit=640%2C575&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1016","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1016"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1016\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1017,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1016\/revisions\/1017"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1037"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1016"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1016"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1016"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Evelyn Fletcher Symes comes from a long line of story tellers and has all the attributes of tall tale tellers: exaggeration, understatement, and an uncanny ability to fabricate astonishingly believable lies.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"