Here's a snippet from my YA novel, THE KEY RACE.  I'm entering it in a contest. http://tinyurl.com/pcmopmq.  Wish me luck.

    Race day dawned bright and cool.  Perfect weather for sliding a four-wheeler through tight turns and tripling jumps Mark thought as he unloaded his quad from the trailer.  When it was safely on the ground,  he pulled on his racing gear and went to register. 

    The official at the table handed him a packet of papers.  “Since you’re only sixteen, a parent will have to sign, giving you permission to race,” she said.

    Usually Mr. Dan came with him and acted as his guardian, but today his dad had insisted on coming.  Mark walked back over to the truck.  When he opened the door he saw that the floorboard was already littered with beer cans. 

     “Dad, you know you can get me disqualified if they catch you drinking,” Mark said.

     “Don’t worry son.  No one will know.  See, I brought a soda can, and I’m going to empty my beer into that.  Everyone will think I’m drinking Pepsi.”  He smiled crookedly and said, “I came here to watch my son win, so go get ‘em.”  Then he lifted the can to his mouth and drained it.  “Hey, pour me another beer into this can.  I guess I should have brought my glasses. I keep missing the hole.”

     “You keep missing because you’re too drunk to see,” Mark mumbled, but he poured the beer for his dad and dropped the can into the floorboard.  “I’ll see you after my race,” he said louder.  “I parked you here so you can see the track.  You won’t even have to get out.”

     Mark walked over to the pit area and pulled on his helmet and goggles.  Then he sat on his quad, waiting for his first race.  He turned when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

     Derek was standing just behind him.  “Hey, Drunk’s Son.  Remember our bet.  You win, you get the key back,” said Derek.  “You lose, you do whatever I ask.”

     Mark cringed at Derek’s nickname for him. His last name was Anderson, but Derek had been calling him Drunk’s Son since the day he lost his first motocross race to Mark in the seventh grade. The name stung because of the truth behind it, but he had learned to ignore the taunts.

     “I haven’t forgotten,” he said tightly.  “You’ll be handing me a key at the end of this race.”

     The announcer called for the riders to move to the pre-staging area.  Derek walked over to his quad.  “Prepare to become my slave,” he called over to Mark, gunning his engine before he drove over to his starting gate.  

FARM CYCLE

THE EDUCATION OF A CITY GIRL

Last night,

children played on

hot sidewalks under the white glow of

lamp- lined streets and

the skyline was brighter than

the moon while

the hum of traffic pointed everything to

buildings full of fluorescent light.

Tonight,

lambs linger along

creek banks under the waxing

moon and

the sky is darker than the bottom

of the pond while

the hum of front-porch talk

pauses to consider a lawn

full of flickering fireflies.

SUMMER’S END

Hay, in brown swaths

outlines the meadows

as we

mow and ted and rake and bale.

Swallows dip and dive

snatching lunch as it

rises from a dusty field.

THE BREEDING SEASON

The ram is on duty.

He follows each ewe

stretching his lips into a tight smile

to taste her ripeness

HEAT
Mornings are dew dazzled

and in the woods, we crunch

through carpets of leaves.

You say, “Firewood heats you three times.

Once in the cutting,

once in the unloading

and once in the stove.”

Branches scrape and creak

against the sky while one weathered tree

stands limbless and quiet.

You make the first cut and the wailing saw

spits chips.

Then I hear the soft crack

of splinters parting

and the tree comes crashing

down.

MIDNIGHT IN THE BARN

Steam rises.

Animals exhale-

a quiet breathing.

Sheep bleat,

cows moan, and

hay shuffles

as kine and swine

turn

shift

stretch

and recline

 in

summer’s leftover

pleasure

LAMB LaMAZE

A ewe pants and pushes

pants and

pushes

straightens legs

arches neck

push  push

bleat

one small foot

slips out

then slides back

inside

push

push

two feet and

the tip of a white nose

play hide and

seek

push

push

pause

suddenly

shoulders,

a long body,

back legs

at last a

lamb drops to the hay

and mama turns to lick it to

life.

MIDWIFE

She cannot have her lamb.

it is stuck

somewhere between

cervix and vulva,

a tunnel too narrow

for a lamb with one leg

curled back.

I reach in

and my cold hand is suddenly warm.

I hook the front leg with one finger

behind the knee

and pull,

and like a tender sprout uncurling to the sun

the leg straightens

and the lamb is free

to slide onto the hay.

TOO MANY

The old ewe,

is thin under

her wool.

Twenty-five lambs in

twelve years

pulling rich milk from

her swollen teats

have stolen her roundness.

Now, three more

steam on the

frozen ground

where she has dropped them.

The ewe knickers, and nibbles until

they rise, on wobbly legs.

Three lambs search for milk

but the ewe rejects one

pushing it away

each time it approaches

until it gives up

and drops to the ground

exhausted.

Then she turns and takes her twins

to the barn.

BOTTLE LAMBS

These lambs, pushed away by overwhelmed ewes,

or abandoned by ignorant ones,

are always hungry.

They want

to nuzzle skin

while they drink.

They want noses tucked into warm wool

while they tug and pull.

They want ewe bleats, snorts, and stomach rumbles

as they suck.

Instead they get

a green bottle

full of fake milk

to suck from a bright red

rubber nipple.

TIRED

There are six lambs in the barn

six lambs without mamas

six lambs that jump up expectantly

each time I enter.

And I am tired of mixing milk.

And I am tired of sticky hands and

the sour smell of my coat

where the lambs have sucked it.

And I am tired of pulling boots on and off.

But mostly I am tired of feeling sad about

lambs that lost their mamas

Tell me again why I love to live on a farm.

ALMOST GONE

When I find the lamb out in the field

it is almost gone.

I stick one finger in its mouth.

Ice cold is not a good sign.

I cannot leave it here,

so I wrap it in a feedsack.

This little girl lamb,

with spotted ears,

doesn’t open her eyes,

doesn’t bleat,

doesn’t kick,

is as lifeless as a loaf of bread

as I carry her to the house

where I fill a sink with warm water

and baptize her until

she struggles and her mouth

is warm.

Too weak to suck a bottle, she will have to be tube fed.

I have three choices.

 I will tube her wrong and she will die. 

I won’t tube her and she will die.

I will tube her correctly and she will live.

I feed the tube down her throat,

maybe it’s in her lungs

maybe it’s in her stomach.

Every trick I know for doing it right works,

sometimes.

Then I pour warm milk into the syringe

and pray.

She doesn’t die.

Life comes in slowly.

A moan,

a lifting of her head,

a shake of her ears.

Two hours later

I tube her again.

Then go to bed.

Morning will tell.

As the first light

brightens the sky

I hear her bleat

and go downstairs.

She is standing on shaky legs

and pissing all over my floor.

And I laugh.

MAKING LOVE IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE CHEVY

The sun licks the last

drops of frost

from the front windshield

as I bend

over

to retrieve a loose bolt

from the floorboard and

find myself caught

by the strong arm

of the gearshift.

I twist around

legs flung wide

like a bawdy girl,

and we

laugh ourselves breathless

as you

rescue

me from

the truck’s

steely embrace

SPRING

After a winter of snow

and cold,

after digging endless pathways,

after thousands of bottles of milk

after ashes inside and cats inside and mud inside,

there is some green

outside

and the peepers are singing songs

about spring.

KING OF THE HILL

The lambs

leap and kick

they buck and duck,

Who is strongest?

Who is fastest?

Who can leap the highest?

One lamb stands alone

hunched against the small breeze.

Abandoned at birth, it is always hungry

for milk and attention.

COYOTE

The lambs play

unaware

while their wooly mamas

crop grass

      three quick steps

a snatch,

a muffled bleat,

and a lamb

leaves the flock

throat-first

while its mama

wanders away

in search of

a

blade

of

grass.

LAMB CROP

The sun is shining

on fields full of lambs

and the lamb check this year will be good

if the lambs survive

the coyotes

the bears

the dogs

and the worms .

The sun is shining on fields full of lambs

and the lamb check this year will be good

unless

the lambs survive

all of that

and die anyway.

Anyone who raises sheep knows

a lamb is born looking

for a way to die.

NOTHING TO DO

We sit on the tailgate

in the sun.

There is nothing to do today.

No lambs to feed.

No hay to scatter.

No buckets to fill and carry.

There is nothing to do today.

So we sit in the sun

and watch the lambs leap and the sheep eat

and the grass grow

which reminds us

there will be something to do

tomorrow.

IN THE STORE

Chops and roasts

rosy red in the case

don’t tell.

They don’t tell about

the night we spent lying in shit

as we pulled the lamb.

They don’t tell about the lamb that lived

one day and then died in my arms.

They don’t tell that lambs love to dance under a warm spring sun.

or about four lambs curled together against the cold.

Meat wrapped in cellophane

lies about the getting.

Leads to forgetting

that one life is always

the gift of

another life

followed by death,

followed by life.

On the farm

on our table

we remember and are humbled

by the truth.

The Orphan Shed

     There’s another orphan calf out in the shed.  Last night, Joe came in after feeding the cows and announced that he had an extra grey calf and couldn't figure out which cow it belonged to.  Only one cow had recently calved, but that was several days ago and now she was keeping vigilant watch over a little black baby.  While Joe spooled hay off the back of the tractor, this little grey calf ran up and down the line of cows as they followed him, bawling for a meal, but no mama claimed him.

     We fixed up a bottle of milk, and Joe took it out.  The calf sucked down the whole half gallon.  Apparently the mama cow with the black calf gave birth to twins, let them both nurse for a couple of days, and then decided two was too many so she abandoned one.  This can happen.  It makes me sad to think of a mama choosing one offspring over another, but I guess in the wild it makes sense for survival of the species.

     This morning we wake to temperatures in the low teens and blowing snow.  We both think immediately of the hungry grey calf.  “Maybe we better go out and see if he’s been claimed,” Joe says pulling on his coveralls.  “If he hasn't, then you’ll need to ride along with me.  We’ll catch him and bring him in.”

     It’s the kind of day that makes me wish I didn't have to go out.  The wind bites my nose and the sleet stings my cheeks as I pull the gate open for Joe.  There is no sign of our cows so we drive the quarter mile length of the field peering through the snowy air.  It will be hard to spot a grey calf in this weather.  Finally we see the herd of cows huddled on the lee side of a rock pile next to the river.  Icicles dangle from their sides and their black backs are completely frosted in white.  Hopefully the calf is in among them. 

     We both hop out of the truck and ease around the cows.  No sign of the calf.  Finally Joe spots him curled on top of a rock pile.  He is a big ball of grey fur and white snow and he blends in with the rocks.  He doesn't run very far before turning and letting Joe catch him.  He must remember the milk.

     We pull him into the truck and I ride back down the field with the calf shivering at my feet.  We turn off the heater because that coat of ice actually protects him from heat loss. If we melt it, he will be wet and chilled.  I stick my fingers in his mouth.  It’s warm, which is a great sign.

     When we get to the shed the other orphan calf butts me as we lead the little grey calf in.  He has had his morning grain, but because he was only recently weaned he believes that if he butts me hard enough milk will appear.  Luke, our dog who loves all living things, wiggles through the door and begins licking the new calf.  The calves and dog bow and jump a little in pretend play and I’m glad to see it.  There's a lot of life in this new calf.  Joe returns and offers the newest orphan a full bottle.  I offer my fingers to the black calf so he’ll stop nosing in for a share and he sucks contentedly on them long enough for the grey calf to finish the bottle. Then we leave the two calves to get acquainted.  I think our black orphan is happy to finally have a companion. 

     Raising bottle calves is difficult for me.  These are bulls, soon to become steers.  I have learned to resist their big black eyes and long eyelashes.  For one thing, they will soon be big enough to do some real damage to me if they continue to butt me for milk.  And, one day they will be sold for slaughter.  That’s the hard truth of this job.  They will have great, happy lives, but they are not pets.  When they are young and cute, sometimes that’s hard to remember.

Location, Location, Location

     The first sign of approaching spring peeked through my living room window this morning, even though there are still seventeen inches of snow in my front yard.  It wasn’t a robin, and I haven’t heard the peepers yet because they both have sense enough to wait until the weather is actually warm enough to promise spring.  But the sun doesn’t wait for the weather to change.  It courses across the sky, slowly slipping south for the winter and then rising from that low horizon as the seasons change. Today, for the first time since fall, the sun painted a faint yellow stripe on my living room wall. The northern hemisphere of the earth is once again tipping towards the sun.

     My house was built in about 1895.  We’re pretty certain of that date because we found a penciled inscription on one of the two by fours in the ceiling when we remodeled.  This house was built in a time when central heating and good insulation didn’t exist.  I think my pioneer builders planned for the sun’s position in the sky during each season.  When we remodeled, we didn’t move any windows or doors.   During our first year of living here, we noticed that, in the winter, the back side of the house gets full sun almost all day long.  That side has lots of windows, so even in the coldest weather I am cheered  by the yellow light streaming in.  In the summer, none of the windows receives full light except in the early morning and late afternoons.  And in fall and spring the light is neutral.  This beautiful arrangement means that the house is warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer. 

     But, that’s not the only indication that the builders were in tune with nature.  Our house is tucked into a small hollow which shelters it from the worst of the winds, but we are just high enough that we have a spectacular view.  There’s also a spring less than thirty yards from the back door and a patch of rich soil for a garden within watering distance. 

     This morning, I was grateful for pioneer ingenuity.   That first stripe of sun painting a gold line on my living room wall was such a blessing.  Spring can’t be far behind.

The Breakfast Merry-Go-Round

     Feeding the animals their morning breakfast should not be rocket science, but this morning it is.  I take the calf bottle out to the shed and hang it in the holder and then turn to the ewe, who has followed me in.  She wants her grain, but what she really wants is the calf’s grain, which I haven’t put out yet.  I persuade her to leave him and follow me back outside where I dump her grain in a pan.  The chickens come running.  I don’t want them eating her grain because it’s rather expensive, so I dip some cornmeal out and call, “Chick, chick, chick.”  The ewe comes running.  I chase her back to her dish which is full of red hens.  I chase them out and herd them over to the cornmeal, which I’ve poured in two straight lines along the ground.  The chickens settle in and I turn to the dogs.  A little kibble in the morning helps keep them warm.  When I pour Luke’s in his pan, the ewe hears the rattle and comes running.  I have inadvertently locked Luke in the shed with the calf, so I shoo the ewe back to her grain and hurry inside to free Luke so he can eat his breakfast before the ewe does. 

     When I go back out, the ewe is licking up the last of the dog food and the chickens are pecking up what she has dribbled on the ground.  I hurry over and pour Rex his breakfast and step down to the creek to dip out some water for him.  While I am down over the edge of the bank I hear him bark.  Climbing back up, I see Luke eating Rex’s food.  I chase him back to his empty bowl with a promise of more food if he’ll just be patient.  He wags and follows me back to the shed where the calf has finished his bottle.  I dip out some grain for him.  As I’m pouring it in his trough, I hear the door behind me rattle.  The ewe pushes through and I grab her by her neck wool and drag her back out the door.  The calf follows and I chase him around the shed twice before I manage to get him back inside.  The ewe has taken advantage of my distraction and slipped in to finish his grain. I pour him some more, muscle her back out, and cross back through the shed to grab a flake of hay for her.  When I go back outside, she is just finishing the chickens’ cornmeal.  Meanwhile, they have scuttled over and are eating out of the horse trough, where I had dumped some grain earlier.

     Luke has watched all of this with interest as he waits for me to refill his bowl.  I drop a little food in it for him, but the ewe runs up and pushes him out of the way.  I give up and head back to the house.  Luke runs behind me and slips in the door.  I had placed a pan of leftover gravy in the kitchen for the cats and apparently he could smell it from over at the shed.  He scatters the cats and they hiss and complain, so I shoo them outside. They have a bowl of dried food on the porch and they’ll just have to be satisfied with that.  Except it’s empty.  There’s a blue jay perched on the edge of it laughing at me as he swallows the last bite.  

The blue sofa has arrived.

Too Brown or Not Too Brown?

     Check out any country decorating magazine and you will find houses with white sofas.  Really?!  White?! Have these decorators ever even been near a farm?  I can’t believe that anyone in any of those farm decorating magazines ever actually sits on the sofas and chairs that look so pretty against the robin’s egg blue walls.

     One of the hardest things for me to get used to as a farm wife was the enormous amount of dirt that finds its way inside my house.  It sneaks in on boots and pant legs and dirty hands and calf bottles.  So we built a mud porch and I believed it would capture all the dirt, just like the butter yellow one on page 23 of Good Housekeeping Magazine with the neat cubbies and tidy boot trays.  I forgot to factor in hay twine and 50 pound bags of calf milk replacer and a box full of stove wood and egg buckets and stacks of egg cartons.  I forgot that all of the boots it takes to keep a farm running won’t fit on a nifty little tray.  They barely fit on the large bookcase I placed there for them;  tumbling off to lie at odd angles on the floor.  I forgot to factor in barn coats and good coats and rain coats and coveralls.  I didn’t plan for a space to hold ear tags and syringes and stray boxes of nails and fence staples.  In fact, I would challenge any decorator to organize my ten by twelve foot mud porch in a way that would stay neat and tidy.

     Then there are my floors.  A friend and I once had a conversation about choosing floors for a farmhouse.  I was admiring her multi-colored brick design linoleum.  “Oh, it’s so ancient,” she said.  “But, I keep it because it doesn’t show dirt.”  You would never see those words in a country magazine, but it’s been my decorating philosophy for the last twenty odd years.  If it doesn’t show dirt, it stays.  I’ve had brown sofas, brown chairs, brown floors, brown trim.  There are lots of beautiful shades of brown: chocolate and ochre and clay and sienna and cedar and burnt umber.  I’ve learned to love brown because it allows me to love my family in all their farm dirt glory.  The men in my family don’t have time to unlace their boots every time they need to step in for a moment.  If I love them, I cannot ask them to go change into clean clothes before they drape their bone tired bodies on my couch.  It would be senseless to challenge them to bring in wood for the stove without dripping bits of it all over the floor.  When a calf needs to be warmed by the stove, it would be heartless to say, “Leave that mess outside!”

     Love decorates for comfort.  It finds ways to exist with the realities of the life it has chosen.  So, when my husband offered to buy me a new couch for my birthday, I began shopping on-line looking at all the shades of brown available.  Once I had an idea of what I thought would work, I took him along to help me pick it out. Joe dutifully sat on every sofa, in every show room, until we had both found one we could live with.  It was white.  Then he said, “How about we look at fabric samples and choose one we like.”  I strolled over to the sample counter, confident that I knew just the shade of brown that would work.  While I leafed through the floppy fabric books, he grabbed one and handed it to me. “How about this?” he said.  The sample was blue.  Like the top of the bowl of sky on a summer day.  A clarion, clear blue.  It might show dirt.  I stared at it longingly before answering, and good sense won over.  After all, we are middle aged and it’s high time we took some risks.  My blue sofa will be here tomorrow.