CHAPTER 4

MEETING THE FAMILY

          After breakfast that first morning, we followed Fitch out the front door. As we hit the porch, the morning sun’s beams blinded us through the tall branches of the oak tree in front of the house. We squinted to avoid the burning sensation of the direct sunlight. The sun in the country seemingly burns brighter than it does in the suburbs. It felt like it was taunting me those first days.

          A reader by nature is mostly an indoor kid. It’s easy to avoid the effects of the outside world within the comfort of a house. I was finding my introduction to the farm sun a challenge of awakening to outside forces beyond the control of what a settled suburban life could be.

          Fitch somewhat waddled down the front steps and whistled through his two front teeth. Immediately we heard a knock under the porch and out came Rascal. The knock was the old dog hitting his head on the steps from under the porch where he slept.

          He came right up to Fitch, who reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a handful of bacon, and fed it to the dog.

          Darby watched him suspiciously. Fitch smiled at her.

           I couldn't have imagined Rascal to look any worse than he had the night before but in the morning light, his coat was grayer, a shamble of colors, and matted like it was caked with dirt and grim a dog like he would find on a farm. His mouth was a dripping liquid fountain with a chin coated in slobber. I wondered if it was ever dry.

            Darby asked, “It would seem this dog needs a bath.” She pitched her nose for the full effect of her disdain for the dog’s smell and appearance.

           Fitch was quick, “No need. He's already been baptized.”

            I chuckled to myself.

            Darby wasn't as amused.  “Maybe so or not, it still seems like he could use it to at least make him feel more comfortable. More presentable.”

            “Trust me, he's pretty comfortable. He lies in the dirt most days, even flopping around in it – always dirty. The way he smells is the way he's supposed to smell. He's a dog, not a human, so he smells like a dog should. Of course, feel free to bathe him yourself. Proceed at your own risk. There's a good reason he's an outside door and old Dutch is inside. Your grandma knows very well why.

             Come on, you two, follow me,” he said as he pulled out a folded baseball cap from his back pocket to put on.

           “Sun’s awfully bright this morning, you two oughta think about getting a cap.”

            He walked to the left of the house on the dirt road leading away from the front drive. His pace was quick. We had to skip along every third step to keep up. He pointed to a two-story square building that sat closest to the house.

“That there is the dry pantry. The building was an original fire lookout tower for the valley. Your grandmother uses it to store dry goods and food. For canning and dehydrating and whatnot. You both like jerky? I hope. Your grandma makes great jerky. And the best dried fruits and jellies. Let’s just say she is the best at everything she makes in that kitchen.” Fitch paused to pick something out of his teeth. Darby looked at me with complete disgust. I couldn't help but be amused.

“Oh, it’s also where the washing machine is. And freezer for food. Your grandpa and I had to run the electricity to that building. It had none when we first got here.

            “What’s upstairs?” I asked.

            “Awe, nothing really, just some old junk. Stuff from your grandparents’ old house. You know the place they lived in before they came here.”

            The three of us continued walking along the small dirt road until we came to a fenced-in yard with a wooden building attached. In the fenced yard were a dozen chickens. Fitch said it was a good baker's dozen of thirteen, an extra one for frying.

            “You're kidding, I assume,” Darby asked.

            “Actually no. This is a farm. Fried chicken does originate on legs and an egg before that.”

            I knew what Darby was thinking. Fitch's bluntness and manners were rude. I couldn't help but be amused by his crassness. I mean Gramma Louise and Grandpa Lewis were as human as the rest of us. They picked things out of their teeth with toothpicks, they belched and even picked the underwear out of their butt if necessary. These things weren't rude but often followed the guise of indecent if done so publicly. Yet, who were they or anyone else kidding? These things happened out of necessity and why was necessarily rude?

            The chickens scratched the ground and peeked around the enclosed yard.

            “That there is Betsy and Tillie and Tasha and Francis and Ruby.” Fitch pointed to the other side. “There's Lizzy, Vivie, Dallas, Hennie, and Ethel. The little one there in the back is Little Red. We call her Little Red cause she looks so much like Ol’ Red. Old Gertie is likely still in the coop. She likes to sleep in.”

            Fitch winked at me figuring I liked to sleep in.

            “Where’s Ol’ Red?” I asked

            “Well, she made a good supper for us in the spring.”

             Darby asked, “You ate a chicken you had named Ol’ Red. Isn't that quite personal? Or childish to name your food?”

             Fitch, “No stranger than naming a stuffed animal or doll you'll eventually give up or throw away. Around here things like that are very black and white. Something I am sure you will learn this summer.”

            It seemed to me he had purposely thrown this out there. As a fact of life. Fitch was clearly not one for dancing around issues. It was easy for me to become taken with the strange man. He seemed to have a purpose. A sense of truth that many adults didn't have orphaned children especially.

           A constant refrain I’d heard before was “We'll tell them just enough to help them understand the basics of the situation. They can only handle so much, you know.” 

          Hearing adults say things like that burned me up. They made decisions about what truth was acceptable for us to hear and what wasn't “right.”

          This is a fact of life that every kid hates. Decisions about what in life is acceptable and what isn't. Decisions were made without truly knowing what I knew or understood. You never truly understand a person unless you’ve walked in their skin or so Atticus told his daughter Scout. How could anyone know me and what I could handle if they couldn't do just that?

            Fitch changed the subject “Oh, and that big full of himself rooster back there is Rudy.  And over in that corner being fat and lazy is Gratie.”

            “A turkey,” I asked.

            “That’s right. We call him Gratie cause he’s grateful to be alive. He’s lived some eleven thanksgivings. He’s an old bird.”

            Darby then asked, “But when he dies, you’re going to eat him, aren't you/”

            “Nah, a bird that old would be no good; too tough and lean. Like eating the bark of a tree, I suppose.” Fitch stopped and laughed at what he figures is a joke.        

            “What about the rooster?” Darby asked. “Is he up to the table?”

            “Not unless another rooster hatches. I'm sure you understand, you can't have chicks without the hen and rooster, right?”

            Darby challenged, “Yes, we're aware. Although, even without a mother and father ourselves we are alive.”

            It was clear she didn’t like Fitch. Darby only threw in the death of our parents to interrupt a conversation with someone she didn't like.

            Fitch was quick though, “And thank God you are here. Your grandparents are without a child themselves. Makes a perfect match, I think.”

            Fitch then turned and started for the barn. “Come on, you still have to meet the rest of the family.”

            As Darby stewed,  I was quick to keep up with Fitch. He walked at a quick pace. Darby trailed behind.

            The barn was small by any standards of a barn. It was more like a large woodshed. Inside was a workbench on one side and bags of grain, straw, and dog food stacked on the other. Straight toward the back were two stalls. The smell toward the back of the barn was quite ripe. As we approached the back two stalls the flies multiplied. You never get the true sense of the smell of a farm until you're at one. Books and movies can make it seem so colorful and clean. Zuckerman's farm always reads so clean. Of course, when you consider Wilbur and Templeton resided there it should tip anyone off that a barn on a farm is anything but clean.

            The stalls in the barn were small; each had a doorway leading out to the back and a small, fenced pen outside. A bleating sound greeted us.

            “Seems someone hears us coming,” Fitch announced.

            We approached the fenced stall and stepped up on the bottom rail to look over. As we did, meeting face to face was a mostly black pygmy goat with a patch of white over one eye. He was wearing a collar and a bell like that of Duchess. As Darby stepped up, the goat licked her face.

            “Go figure. He kisses you right upon meeting you. Kids, this here is Romeo. The name fits him don’t you think?” Fitch said. “I think he’s gotta girlfriend somewhere up the road. We keep him penned in at night. Otherwise, he wanders up the road. And, last time, Mrs. Shallowborne’s flower garden paid the price. He ate ‘em all. I figured he was trying to pick them up for his girlfriend and got carried away. Anyway, a goat is useful around a farm like this.”

            Darby quickly quipped, “You eat goat too?”

            “Nah, not anymore. It doesn’t sit with me right at night.” Fitch smiled.

             I laughed.

            “No, a goat is useful to a farm like this to keep the wild grasses cut low. Helps prevent brush fires.”

            While they were looking at Romeo and petting him, Romeo’s neighbor pressed his snout through the railing. I felt a cold, wet, sticky nose touching my ankle. It startled me.

            “That’s Oyster,” Fitch announced.

            “Oyster? Isn’t that a pig?” Darby asked.

            “Yep, a pig who loves Oysters. Your Grandpa and I fetched him down south and brought Oyster back over the Golden Gate Bridge. While in San Francisco we stopped off at Fisherman’s Wharf for something to eat. Turns out, this pig loves oysters on the half shell. He gobbled up nearly two pounds of oysters. I bet he’s got pearls the size of golf balls growing inside him.” Fitch pauses. “You both know pearls grow inside oysters, don’t ya?”

            “Of course,” Darby answered. “We know that.”

            Oyster’s odor was fierce. It was clear the flies had found their paradise in his pen.

           “He, too, could use a bath,” Darby said.

            “I know it, but your grandma told me there was no way I was putting that pig in her bathtub again.”

            I nearly fell off the rail I was standing on. I was laughing so hard. I had quickly become Fitch's greatest fan. 

            Darby was growing more and more unsure of him. She noticed I was certainly having no trouble at all accepting the outlandish stories Fitch told. A pig who ate oysters and a goat with a girlfriend. It was all too novel for her to believe. Logic was her muse.

            “We better get back to the house. I am sure your grandpa left me with a list of chores to get done today.” We walked back to the house. Fitch pointed out a small white building on our left side as the well house, where the well for the water was. Between the well house and the farmhouse, there appeared to be only thick trees and brush. As we approached the house, the dirt road began to turn down the hill to the front gate, Darby noticed a small building that sat along the drive just off the thick brush.

            “Mr. Fitch, is that where you live? That little house down there?” she asked. The building looked deserted. The windows were all boarded up. The door on the front locked up. It looked like no one had entered the building in quite some time.

            “No. That is your grandfather’s cabin where he stores many important papers, journals, and other things from his teaching and research days.”

            I asked, “Can we go see it?”

            “No!” Fitch said quickly. “Your grandfather will not want you in there. Besides he has it locked up, so no one gets in – only him.”

            “Have you ever seen inside?” I asked.

            “Well, it is his private place. He does not want anyone to intrude.”

            Darby was curious, “Does he go in there?”

            “Sometimes at night. I think when he can’t sleep.”

            “Then how do you know what’s inside?” Darby questioned.

            “I have seen him take boxes of his research journals and things he has written there. I had brought them down from the dry pantry when we moved in here and he immediately took them and put them in the cabin. He even asked if I had looked inside any of the boxes. I told him no. I hadn’t. I just figured they were old books from his work. I thought nothing more about it. And nothing more was said about it. It was really none of my business.”

            “Mr. Fitch, what exactly did our grandfather teach at the university?” Darby asked

            “You don’t know?” he was stalling.

            I said, “We know from our dad he taught the cultures and history of different peoples. Like Native Americans and ancient civilizations.” Without hesitation I continued, “We’ve also heard he studied giants and vampires and other crazy things like that.”

            Fitch laughed, “Who told you that?”

            “Well, no one exactly. But we’ve heard our Gramma Louise and Aunt Jane talking about the crazy things he did” I said.

            Fitch did not immediately respond. Darby picked up on it, and asked, “What about his work would be so personal and private that he would have to lock up?”

“That I think is a question for you to get answered by your grandfather. Why don’t you ask him about it when he gets back?”

            My heart fell. Here was this man who was a straight shooter. Yet this question he chose to dodge.

CONTINUES IN NEXT EPISODE