This whole enormous deal wouldnt have happened, none of it, if Dad hadnt
messed up his hip moving the manure spreader. Some people laugh at that, like
Brian did. The first time I said Manure Spreader he bent in half, he was
laughing so hard. Which would have been hilariously funny except that it wasnt.
I tried to explain how important a manure spreader is, but it only made him
laugh harder, in this really obnoxious way he has sometimes, and besides, youre
probably laughing now too. So what. I know where your milk comes from, and your
Ill always remember the day it all started because Joe Namath was so sick. Dad names all his cows after football players. Its pretty funny, actually, going to the 4-H fair, where they list the cows by farm and name. Right there next to Happy Valley Buttercup is Schwenk Walter Payton, because none of my grandpas or great-grandpas could ever come with up a name for our place better than boring old Schwenk Farm.
Joe Namath was the only one left from the year Dad named the cows after Jets players, which I guess is kind of fitting in a way, seeing how important the real Joe Namath was and all. Our Joe was eleven years old, which is ancient for a cow, but she was such a good milker and calver we couldnt help but keep her. These past few weeks, though, shed really started failing, and on this morning she wasnt even at the gate with the other cows waiting for me, she was still lying down in the pasture, and I had to help her to stand up and everything, which is pretty hard because she weighs about a ton, and she was really limping going down to the barn, and her eyes were looking all tired.
I milked her first so she could lie down again, which she did right away. Then when milking was over I left her right where she was in the barn, and she didnt even look like she minded. Smut couldnt figure out what I was doing and she wouldnt come with me to take the cows back to pastureshe just stood there in the barn, chewing on her slimy old football and waiting for me to figure out Id forgotten one of them. Finally she came, just so she could race me back home like she always does, and block me the way Win taught her. Smut was his dog, but now that hes not talking to Dad anymore, or to me, or ever coming home again it seems like, I guess now shes mine.
When I went in for breakfast Curtis was reading the sports section and eating something that looked kind of square and flat and black. Like roofing shingles. Curtis will eat anything because hes growing so much. Once he complained about burnt scrambled eggs, but other than that he just shovels it in. Which makes me look like Im being all picky about stuff that, trust me, is pretty gross.
Dad handed me a plate and shuffled back to the stove with his walker. When things got really bad last winter with his hip and Mom working two jobs and me doing all the farm work because you cant milk thirty-two cows with a walker, Dad decided to chip in by taking over the kitchen. But he never said, Im going to start cooking or Im not too good at this, how could I do it better? or anything like that. He just started putting food in front of us and then yelling at us if we said anything, no matter how bad it looked. Like now.
Its French toast, Dad said like it was totally obvious. He hadnt shaved in a while, I noticed, and his forehead was white the way itll always be from all those years of wearing a feed cap while his chin and nose and neck were getting so tan.
I forced down a bite. It tasted kind of weird and familiar. Whats in here?
Excerpted from Dairy Queen, © 2006 Catherine Murdoch. Reproduced by kind permission of the publisher, Houghton Mifflin. All rights reserved.
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