Farmerettes by Gisela Sherman

“Hello” startled her.
    Johnny walked up the porch steps. Something about the way his smile reached his brown eyes made Jean’s heart lurch. “You heard we had lemonade. I’ll get you some.”
    When he had settled in the chair beside her with his drink, he said, “I missed you at the baseball game today.”
    â€œNo time. The berries are a nightmare. The faster we pick, the quicker they ripen.” She grinned. “But we got them all—until tomorrow. I hear you won the game.”
    â€œSix–four. I hear you had some drama here today.”
    â€œA training pilot from Mount Hope tried to impress us and ended up crash-landing. I expect he’s in a mess of trouble. Did you get your hay cut?”
    â€œYup. Tomorrow we plant the late corn crop.”
    They sat sipping lemonade, watching stars appear in the darkening sky. Jean was aware of the girls down by their dorm, craning their necks to see Johnny. She turned away slightly. She preferred having him to herself.
    â€œOne of the Beldings’ dogs twisted his front leg in barbed wire yesterday.”
    â€œOuch. What did you do?”
    â€œFed him a handful of aspirin, then untangled it fast.”
    They fell into comfortable silence as the peepers in the pond began a backup chorus to the song of the crickets in the bushes. Too soon, Johnny left and Jean headed for the chicken coop. Would there ever come a day when they didn’t have to part in the evenings?
    Thursday, June 24, 1943
    Isabel
    Isabel struggled to carry a heavy pail of water across the kitchen to the stove.
    â€œTry getting that here before July!” Cookie said.
    Isabel stopped and regarded the cook, a tall, muscular woman who looked more like she belonged in a munitions factory than a kitchen. “Every time I take a step, it sloshes over the rim. I have to wait until it settles again.”
    â€œYou can mop up after you finally fill that kettle.”
    I don’t know why she’s called Cookie, thought Isabel. It should be Sourdough. She set the pail down twice more to give her aching arms a break. She was exhausted. Whoever heard of getting up at five o’clock to make breakfast? And this was the fourth morning in a row.
    â€œNext time fill it halfway and take two trips,” Cookie grumbled. “Why have they sent me a princess?” She grabbed the pail handle with one muscled arm and swung it onto the stovetop without spilling a drop.
    She could have told me that sooner, Isabel thought as she found the mop and squeezed her trail of puddles into another pail. She stepped outside to toss the water into the yard and saw Jean staggering to the barn with a pail of feed. They nodded at each other in understanding.
    â€œFetch some apples from the storage shed, and don’t drop any this time,” Cookie demanded. “We’ll serve Salmon Surprise and Apple Brown Betty tonight.”
    The surprise will be if the salmon is edible, thought Isabel, as she hurried across the barnyard. As always, she was careful to avoid Cracker. He perched on his fence-post throne, glaring at her with beady eyes, deciding whether to attack or merely intimidate.
    The storage shed was cool and gloomy. The smell of earth and ripe things was strong. Spiders and bugs scurried into cracks in the wooden walls and floor.
    She looked around for the apple bin. She felt greasy, hot, and exhausted. Her hands were nicked in several places where she had cut herself peeling turnips, carrots, endless potatoes. Her thumb blistered where she had scalded herself over the teakettle. Baking at home was never this difficult. But at home she hadn’t cooked for seventy people.
    It occurred to her how much preparation and cleanup her mother must have done around her. Odd—she never noticed it at the time. Totally discouraged, she sat on a wooden keg and lowered her head to her hands. She couldn’t handle farmwork; she couldn’t stand the sun. No