The Farm Stories Part One Bobby's Feet

    My father was a man by the time he was sixteen.  By the time I came along, he was already one child deep and trying to half-way figure out what to do next.  Parenting is hard, that is why I choose not to partake.  At the age of twenty two, he landed a job some would dream about.  I know if I had the capabilities and confidence my old man had, it might be something that I would be willing to seek today, but the men of today are not the men of yesterday. 

    He was granted the position as ‘live-in caretaker’ of the Texarkana College farm.  There were three hundred and sixty-five acres of various things including a three bedroom house and a school room of the same sized next door.  There was a sheep barn that housed anywhere from thirty to fifty head of sheep.  There was an orchard that spawned pears and apples almost all year long.  Three humongous pastures for grazing cattle and haying, with at least two hundred head of cattle at any given moment, dominated the majority of the land.  Set way away from the main house was a hog barn.  I don’t honestly recall ever hauling any pigs to market, but they were always there needing to be feed and cleaned.

    Their cells ran side by side at a downward angle where we could just come in with a garden hose and spray away all the new shit and piss and it would run beautifully down this little trench and into a pond a hundred or so yards away.  That pond was filled with nothing but hog waste and maggots.  It was a horrible stench but one you got used to rather quickly.

    My dad woke all four of us kids up bright and early one morning.  He was expecting a load of feed from the mill in town he did all his business with.  We were all instructed to put on long pants and shoes.  This seemed like a relatively easy task one did not normally have to instruct another to do, but my father was keener towards childlike behavior than anyone of us could have guessed.

    Bobby, not the brightest of the bunch, decided to ignore the latter of the rules thinking it would be less harmful than being late.  We all hopped in the blue Chevy and no one thought twice to look at Bobby’s feet.  It seemed he was comfortable and we were none the wiser.

    We drove down the old blacktop road until we reached the gate to the hog barn.  I, being the closest to the door, which was always the rule, got out and opened the gate.  I did as I always did and opened the gate, let the truck pass through and then lock the gate as I had found it before re-entering the truck.  We made it to the barn and all piled out.

    Us kids hopped into the back of the truck and began to play games that let our imagination run.  We had been good at that.  With so much land and opportunity to get outside, we were always coming up with stuff to do, even if it seemed like work sometimes.  Bobby bragged about being able to climb to the top of the feed silo.  We all doubted him and then of course he didn’t try.  After a few minutes of games and calling each other out, there was a large honk, the kind you only get from air horns on big rigs.

My dad made his way up, from whatever he was doing, and told us all to get down.  He told us to go stand by the fence and he would be back in just a minute.  Obediently, we all gathered around the nearest fence and wrapped our hands tightly around the bars behind us.  This was conditioning.  When he said do something we all became alert and did exactly what was asked of us.

                We stood there in a row along the fence as the blue Chevy was followed in by a much larger eighteen wheeled truck carrying a massive segmented barrel.  The truck driver moved in like a pro, pushing that hulk of a machine right next to where he needed it.  My dad parked the old truck yards out of the way and let the man do his job.

    Within minutes, the driver of the semi was out and assembling this large chute directed towards the top of our silo.  He then climbed the narrow ladder welded to the side of the silo and unhinged the large cap.  His feet touched the ground without the slightest stammering.  He then stood outside of his truck, pulling levers, and fed the beast that was our silo.

    We all watched in amazement, not sure of what was going on.  The games had ceased and we were left in wonder. 

    Once everything was filled, cap on and the chute retrieved, a small transaction of paperwork happened between the truck driver and my father.

    The truck made its way back out as my dad approached us all along the fence.  The paperwork he had in his hand quickly went to his back pocket and he presented us with nothing more than a smile and a question, “Ya’ll ready?”

    Half of us, including myself, jumped to attention.  The other half was left mumbling lazy curses.  After a few huffs from the other crowd it was decided by Him that we must all partake in the next job.  This was the cleaning of the cells we all anticipated.  We knew what was about to come and we all hated it.  But this was a part of the life that we, us children, somewhat agreed to without knowing the full terms.  It wasn’t all sunny Sundays in the meadows. 

    I had gathered from previous experiences that manning the hose was by far the easiest and the most fun job there was.  Although I had to put in more time than everyone else, I didn’t find myself with a shovel in my hands scraping up the drier, harder shit.

     I watched as the stream of water from my hose began to unhinge the cakes from the concrete.  There was little to no effort.  I watched it all go exactly where it was meant to go.  All of the feces and urine that was caught by my water, made a safe trek to the carved out, downward tunnel meant for such foul things.  I watched and sprayed.  I watched as I splashed the other kids with water or loose hog shit.  It was all in fun and games.  Soon my job was over and everyone was standing to the side.  I blasted a few more squirts from my hose directly into the mouth of the drainage ditch.  It was almost sickening watching that greenish brown soup run like a river towards it destination.

     I did a lousy job wrapping up the hose and merely tossed it to the side.  I joined the rest of the kids on the left side of the ditch and waited for dad.  He was making some last minute calculations in his head about the price of food and the cost of keeping pigs, I was sure.  It was here we all noticed that Bobby wasn’t wearing any shoes.  A few remarks were made to him but nothing seemed to phase.  A few moments later, dad hopped out of the truck and approached us all.

    “Ya’ll wanna take a little walk?” he asked.  I was sure that all of us kids, excluding Bobby, were thinking the exact same thing but none of us spoke up.  Bobby hadn’t been wearing any shoes at all that day.  What kind of repercussions could that bring?

    We all agreed to dad’s little walking tour and I felt it was important that I fall behind for some reason.  Nothing was made of it at first until I truly got a glimpse of what Bobby was facing.

     Regardless for the need or want for shoes, he chose the exact wrong places to walk.  Somehow, in his brain, he thought it was a better idea to walk straight down the concrete drainage ditch.  This was a ditch that no matter how hard you sprayed with pressurized water, the maggots still reign supreme.

    With each footstep of his I could see a trail of blood.  This was scary for me.  I was trying my damndest to let Bobby figure out what he was doing wrong but I was torn by the need to send the message ahead.  After a few more steps I realized I could not take it anymore.  I shouted for my dad in the front of the line and he immediately craned his head in my direction.

    “I think we gotta problem with Bobby”, I sort of spit out.

    “What do you mean?”  Both he and Bobby froze immediately.  Bobby began to step out of the trench and make his way to the fence.  I could see my dad rushing towards us.  “What the fuck is the problem?” he yelled.

    “I think you need to take a look at Bobby’s feet.  Something just ain’t right.”

      Bobby was cowered along the fence too scared to look at his on feet.  Dad stumbled over to where Bobby was and Bobby began to cry.  He fucked up and he knew it.

    “Let me see your feet boy!” my dad said in a hateful tone.  Bobby slowly picked up one foot and showed it to my father.  It looked as if there was no skin left, just the bloody silhouette of Bobby’s foot.  The first few layers of skin had been eaten away by the flesh hungry maggots he walked through.  It is a sight that will never leave my mind.

    In a semi-panic, my dad snatched the boy up and ran towards the truck.  Just like the obediently children we were, we followed suit.  We were in the back with Bobby in the front and dad driving.  We quickly made it to the house.  My dad grabbed Bobby, the same as before, and rushed him inside.  Luckily his wife, Bobby’s mom, was studying to become a nurse.  There were always a lot of gauze and bandages around.

    He sat Bobby at the dining room table and made a mad dash for all the things he would need.  We kids gathered around the table to witness the horrific sight.  He had both feet in the air and there was a steady stream of blood flowing from each one.  My young mind immediately went to all those similar images in all those cheap horror movies.  When my dad returned we all scattered.  A few words where said in the other room between him and Bobby but I will never forget the look of those feet.

    It took a while but Bobby’s sobs eventually turned to cries then whimpers.  I felt it was relatively safe to re-enter the dining room.  I crept around the corner from the hall and I could see immediately.  Everything that was red was now that soft baby pink.  The pink you can only get from fresh, new skin.  I walked around to my dad’s side and looked even closer.  The tears where still rolling down Bobby’s cheeks as I was sure it was not only painful but embarrassing as well.

    Once all the blood was washed away, the horror was gone.  I studied his feet for a few seconds while he sniffled and my dad opened numerous packages of gauze.  What originally looked like a scene out of some sadistic slasher flick amounted to nothing more than a severe foot scrub.  The maggots had mainly just eaten all the dead, callused flesh that was already there.  Although I am sure they went a little deeper than even the most extremely obscure Asian foot cleansing ritual, it felt as if I was looking at nothing more than a couple well-manicured feet.  Although I was sure that they would be tender and Bobby was going to have a tough time walking for the next few days, I kind of laughed at the idea of catching him down there again; pants rolled up to his knees, leaned back against his own arms, staring up blankly, softly soaking his feet in pig shit just for that super soft feel.  After all this was Bobby.