The Number One Rule of The Home

The red splotches kept spreading. What was happening to her skin? It was spreading everywhere that the sun touched. This stinging and burning was slowing her down. She would have to take care of these hives before the work continued. The work must continue or Poppa would beat her.

Again.

The prairie grasses swayed above her gently in the summer breeze. The supper bell would ring any minute, and the cows needed to come in from the field before I ate. Momma did not tolerate laziness or tardiness from her children, especially not her youngest daughter. First the cows, then the chickens, and finally, my supper.

Slowly, Charlotte got up from her resting place behind the knoll, the one place she could lie down and stay hidden from Momma. She hurried over to bring in the cows, but her brother was leading them in, a smug look on his face. “I see you were napping again, Charlotte. When I tell Momma, you’ll get another whoopin’ for sure! You didn’t even brush the prairie grass out of your dress this time.”

I wanted to punch the gleeful sneer off his face, but that would only make it worse. “Freddie, you tell Momma that I was napping and I’ll tell her you wet the bed again. I already cleaned it up, in case you were wondering.” That snapped the glee off his face. I knew he would make me pay for knowing his secret, and it would happen when I least could afford it. The ding of the supper bell sounded. We ran.

The children separated and went into eat supper, each cleaning off after their morning chores. Momma’s a stickler for cleanliness in her home. Supper was a rowdy affair since all the farmhands came in for food as part of their daily pay. Momma expected cleanliness; Poppa expected respect. Rowdiness was acceptable as long as it fit within those parameters. If it didn’t, that farmhand didn’t return the next day. I only remember it happening once. Poppa’s expectations were the law on our farm.

Once all the men finished their supper, the womenfolk ate and cleaned. I helped, as usual. Afternoon chores-a repeat of morning chores-and then freedom! I could entertain myself as long as I was not underfoot and made it back in time to milk the cows in the evening. I grabbed some dried fruit and hard biscuits and ran for the river.

Minnesota in 1860 was a wild place. The prairie grasses gave way to the rushing river, and in the distance, I can see the mountains of the Dakota Territory. I loved the freedom of running in the grasses and swimming in the river.

No longer bound to the farm, and Momma’s demands, I am free to be whatever I can imagine.

Today, I’m the Artful Dodger, stealing leaves from the ‘business men’ oak trees surrounding me as they crowd onto the train. I must gather enough leaves to earn my lodging for tonight, or Fagin may kick me out.

Ms. Esther had told us the story of Oliver Twist before school let out for the summer work season, and I played a new character every day. The only break I took from Oliver Twist was to play the fairy tales that Momma sometimes told us at bedtime from the old country. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll go swimming and be the Little Mermaid. I can always find a frog or a newt to be my friend.

The croak of the bullfrogs alerts me that the sun is going down and I need to head back home to milk the cows. Reluctantly, I turn towards the farm and start jogging. This is the part of the day I dread the most: the end of my stories and saying goodbye to my friends. I know they will wait for me tomorrow, but getting through the evening without my brothers or Poppa beating me is always a test. So much easier to be among friends at the river.

Cresting the last hill before our farm, I hear the milk cows lowing impatiently, desperate for their evening milking. Pushing a little more speed out of my tired legs, I reach the outer fence, but I can’t continue. A sudden, insurmountable fatigue hits me and I slump to the ground. The stinging rash I noticed early has spread everywhere I can see. Now it itches and hurts. My head hurts, I can’t stop shaking, and I simply feel awful-everything hurts.

What will I do? I can’t milk the cows if I can’t walk to the barn.

If I can’t milk the cows, the lowing will alert Poppa.

Poppa will beat me.

Again.

Covertly, Freddie tries to sneak up on me. Wishing instead I could move fast enough to avoid him, I speak first. “Hi, Freddie. How has your day gone? As you can see, mine could have been better.”

“The cows need milkin’. Poppa will hear their mooin’ and be here soon. Charlotte, my bed isn’t wet this time to save you from the thrashin’ you’ll get when he sees the cows’ udders are burstin’.” He walks off toward the outer fields where Poppa is still working the plows. I want to yell after him to stop; there isn’t any point. Once Poppa finds out that he needs to milk the cows after plowing the fields, I will get beaten.

Again.

Even though I can’t make my legs obey the command to move.

“Charlotte, where are you? Those cows won’t milk themselves, and your Poppa won’t be happy to do it after a day plowing the fields!” Momma walks into my field of vision and stops short when she sees me lying on the ground. The concern is there, hiding behind her icy blue eyes, but she simply says, “let’s get you inside so you can stir the stew and set the table.”

Momma carries me inside and then heads to the barn. The cows’ frantic mooing changes to a satisfied lowing as they each settle in for the night. After getting out of the sun for a few minutes, I set the table, thankfully breaking nothing, and get the stew prepared for Momma. She gets back to the house mere minutes before Poppa, Freddie and the older boys.

Poppa’s scarlet face showed Freddie had spun his tale. The glee oozing out of my brothers’ faces show they are in the ‘punish Charlotte’ gang as well. I sit down in my usual seat, trying to be inconspicuous while I wait for the cows’ silence to sink in-they have been milked.

Momma breaks the tense silence. “Boys, wash up for dinner. The stew is getting cold while you gape at your sister. Poppa, have a seat and dish out our servings please. After they wash, you can say grace.”

Everyone jumps to obey. The cows have been forgotten in the rush to follow the number one rule of the home: respect Momma.

Freddie’s payback backfired, for now.