Ma's Handy Work

Pa used to spend the mornings out in the field, hiding his flask under his thick mustache, and his evenings reaping the consequences as he’d stumble about, crushing the budding sprouts.

We’d watch from our porch next door as Ma would haul seed and chickens in and out of the coop. She’d hoe and dig up the weeds in their field and drive their meager crops in Pa’s beat-up tractor to the farmer’s market each Sunday.

When Pa was too inebriated, me and my boys would offer a hand, but each time we were swiftly shooed off her property and told to come back later for sweet tea.

Think she didn’t want our help since we’re only kin by proximity, neighbors at best. But since Ma and Pa hadn't any kids of their own, we thought it nice to play the part of dutiful children.

We were driving by in the Chevy one evening, when we saw her lugging Pa off toward the fields. She had one of her nice quilts draped over him. We could make out all the dips and valleys of his person pushing against the fabric. His beer belly was like a pillow on a crumbled mattress.

We slowed and cranked the window down. She didn’t notice until we hollered, “Hey Ma! You need a hand with that?”

A corpse loses all the human that was once inside. The same way a cow becomes steak. Ain’t got any rights left, ain’t got any spirit, either.

She turned but didn’t say a word. She gave a quick wave, then took up her shovel and weighed it in her calloused hands. We went on our way, leaving her to deal with the heap. Ma had always been vocal about not sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.

It was still early in the day, and we had plenty of our own work to get done. Besides, funerals always seemed to me too sentimental. A life of slaughtering hens and cows has shifted my view on goodbyes, so I was happy to turn a blind eye to the undocumented burial. Out in the country, we like things done real easy, real quick.

Ma was born and raised out here. Built like an ox, but with twice as much sense as any of those townies who claim to be lawyers or bankers. I owed a great deal to her for helping me put some of that sense into my children.

Once, she took it upon herself to scold one of my boys for looking over the fence at her old horse. The creature was hobbling, something caught under its hoof. After my boy got teary, she took care of the horse, put on a new shoe, and soothed the creature with an apple. My boy hid behind a tree on our lot, watching and wiping his wet face, a little smile teasing on his lips.

It troubles us, the way that boy cares about life. It ain’t a healthy mindset to have on a farm.

When we got home, only my boy turned to watch as Ma found a soft spot in the soil and got to work. I let him stand out in the driveway for a halfhour or so, until his eyes got watery again. I had to bring him inside to help his mother with the cooking to get his mind off things.

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Around suppertime, I went out to check on her. She was waist-deep in a hole, throwing heaps of soil out and over her large shoulders. I got out of the Chevy and walked across her yard until I was beside her in the field.

“You sure you aren’t needing any help, Ma?” I called. “I’ve got a pair of fresh hands.”

Caught up in her work, she didn’t bother to turn this time. But I could make out a muffled grunt of disapproval. I left her to it, but something in me couldn’t turn on back to the truck.

I watched her until the hole covered her shoulders. She had on her normal clothes, thick Levi’s, and a nice yellow blouse with puffed sleeves. Under those girlish sleeves, from over three decades of pulling Pa’s weight on the farm, her toned arms pulsed and stretched the lace. Her brow wasn’t furrowed; she looked as calm as if she were digging up roots. After one last hefty toss of soil, she crawled up and swung her arms around, stretching her shoulders. She walked around the wagon, made a quick cross against her breast, then heaved it up, dropping Pa in the hole.

It was done real easy, real quick.

Pa. A pure animal, and a mostly harmless brute. Some called him a man, others just called him a drunk. Ma called him Pa. He was one of many deaths on the farm that year.

She turned, gave me a real wave, and finally spoke, “How about some tea? I’ll put the kettle on.”