No Chains Shall Bind Me (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Seven) by Randall Farmer Page A
Authors: Randall Farmer
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more crops.”
And sleep where? Gail censored her rejoinder. The Perfesser did have entertainment value. For which she rejoiced. “Most of us have never lived on a farm before,” Gail said. The Schubers owned a fifty plus acre spread outside of Flint, just south of Swartz Creek. Sixty-two and twenty-two one-hundredths acres, the Perfesser would say. Save for their kitchen garden and their eight acres of pick-it-yourself mostly sweet corn for their roadside stand, they rented out their acreage to the Johnsons next door, for pasturage. “Early on we asked for a show of hands for anyone who ’d ever driven a tractor, and save for the Ebeners, got nobody. We did get three hands for people who had fixed a tractor before, though.”
“Hmm,” the Perfesser said, eyeing the householders around Lucile. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket, elbows akimbo. “I understand the problem. Too many people, not enough land. Can’t be self-sufficient enough to even feed the babies.” The infertility problem hadn’t stuck in his mind. No surprise there.
The Perfesser kicked at the ground. “Marginal land at best, too.” His comment echoed the Ebeners’ comments on the subject. But, as the Ebeners’ said, marginal land is priced accordingly. Betha’s stepparents had picked up this land in foreclosure during the Great Depression and gave it to Betha and her husband as a wedding present. The place served them as a decent second income source, nothing more.
The Perfessor bent over to whisper in Gail ’s ear. “We can take in a few of these people during the winter, if you can’t find another place,” he said.
“Thanks. Uh, though, I ’m not sure we can make that work. I need to be near my people to keep the juice moving,” Gail said. Milan and the Ebeners’ farm was almost a ninety minute drive away from Swartz Creek and the Schuber’s place in summer. Winter? Gail didn’t want to think about it.
“That ’s too bad,” he said. Gail detected an intelligent sigh of relief. She wouldn’t want this crew in her house, either. “Anyone for a game of lawn-darts?” he bellowed out.
Metonomy took her head off Gail ’s foot, stood and barked. The dog recognized the word ‘lawn-darts’, and if Gail recalled correctly, loved to fetch the damned things. Occasionally, too soon. She wasn’t sure how the dog had survived its many lawn dart wounds over the years, or why the crazy pooch still loved the game. Metonomy, of course, was the quintessential Schuber.
Gail looked up to find Lucille leading an entourage of the household women Gail’s way. Everyone liked Lucille, at least for the first half hour. Sometimes for a full hour. After an hour, you couldn’t miss the prickles among the kindnesses. “There you are! There you are! Oh, come give me a hug!” Lucille did as she asked Gail. “Whoo! You do have the strangest odor to you, you know. Well, I guess that can’t be helped. So, let’s go see about making baby clothes!” Lucille grabbed Gail’s arm to lead her off, with the other women. “All these women, we’re going to need baby clothes, especially given this free love commune you’ve got going here.”
Given the soreness of the subject of Transform infertility, and the everyone-must-love-Lucille vibes, Gail predicted not a single one of her people would have the nerve to remind Lucille of the Transforms ’ infertility problems. Gail tried to not worry too much; given Lucille’s general level of disorganization and her flightiness, the lack of material for baby clothes would likely send her off in some other random I-must-be-helpful direction. Enough of these and she might actually find something useful to do to help the household. Gail wouldn’t hold her breath, though.
Lucille did provide dinner, though Gail had no idea what they were going to do with the five gallon tub of runny
And sleep where? Gail censored her rejoinder. The Perfesser did have entertainment value. For which she rejoiced. “Most of us have never lived on a farm before,” Gail said. The Schubers owned a fifty plus acre spread outside of Flint, just south of Swartz Creek. Sixty-two and twenty-two one-hundredths acres, the Perfesser would say. Save for their kitchen garden and their eight acres of pick-it-yourself mostly sweet corn for their roadside stand, they rented out their acreage to the Johnsons next door, for pasturage. “Early on we asked for a show of hands for anyone who ’d ever driven a tractor, and save for the Ebeners, got nobody. We did get three hands for people who had fixed a tractor before, though.”
“Hmm,” the Perfesser said, eyeing the householders around Lucile. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket, elbows akimbo. “I understand the problem. Too many people, not enough land. Can’t be self-sufficient enough to even feed the babies.” The infertility problem hadn’t stuck in his mind. No surprise there.
The Perfesser kicked at the ground. “Marginal land at best, too.” His comment echoed the Ebeners’ comments on the subject. But, as the Ebeners’ said, marginal land is priced accordingly. Betha’s stepparents had picked up this land in foreclosure during the Great Depression and gave it to Betha and her husband as a wedding present. The place served them as a decent second income source, nothing more.
The Perfessor bent over to whisper in Gail ’s ear. “We can take in a few of these people during the winter, if you can’t find another place,” he said.
“Thanks. Uh, though, I ’m not sure we can make that work. I need to be near my people to keep the juice moving,” Gail said. Milan and the Ebeners’ farm was almost a ninety minute drive away from Swartz Creek and the Schuber’s place in summer. Winter? Gail didn’t want to think about it.
“That ’s too bad,” he said. Gail detected an intelligent sigh of relief. She wouldn’t want this crew in her house, either. “Anyone for a game of lawn-darts?” he bellowed out.
Metonomy took her head off Gail ’s foot, stood and barked. The dog recognized the word ‘lawn-darts’, and if Gail recalled correctly, loved to fetch the damned things. Occasionally, too soon. She wasn’t sure how the dog had survived its many lawn dart wounds over the years, or why the crazy pooch still loved the game. Metonomy, of course, was the quintessential Schuber.
Gail looked up to find Lucille leading an entourage of the household women Gail’s way. Everyone liked Lucille, at least for the first half hour. Sometimes for a full hour. After an hour, you couldn’t miss the prickles among the kindnesses. “There you are! There you are! Oh, come give me a hug!” Lucille did as she asked Gail. “Whoo! You do have the strangest odor to you, you know. Well, I guess that can’t be helped. So, let’s go see about making baby clothes!” Lucille grabbed Gail’s arm to lead her off, with the other women. “All these women, we’re going to need baby clothes, especially given this free love commune you’ve got going here.”
Given the soreness of the subject of Transform infertility, and the everyone-must-love-Lucille vibes, Gail predicted not a single one of her people would have the nerve to remind Lucille of the Transforms ’ infertility problems. Gail tried to not worry too much; given Lucille’s general level of disorganization and her flightiness, the lack of material for baby clothes would likely send her off in some other random I-must-be-helpful direction. Enough of these and she might actually find something useful to do to help the household. Gail wouldn’t hold her breath, though.
Lucille did provide dinner, though Gail had no idea what they were going to do with the five gallon tub of runny
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