Farmed Out
Christy Goerzen
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2011 Christy Goerzen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Goerzen, Christy, 1975-
Farmed out [electronic resource] / Christy Goerzen.
(Orca currents)
Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-912-4
I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)
PS8613.O38F37 2011A JC813’.6 C2011-903350-X
First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011929396
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Maddie, an artist with big-city dreams, is forced to volunteer on an organic farm.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by iStockphoto.com
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468
Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA
V8R 6S4 98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
14 13 12 11 • 4 3 2 1
For Tara, with buckets of love
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
“Okay, Maddie, let’s talk adventure.”
I groaned across the kitchen table at my mother. I thought we could avoid the “adventure” topic that summer. Silly me.
For the past few years my mom has made me go on summer “adventures.” Whoever taught her the definition of that word obviously didn’t understand English very well.
Last July is a prime example. She dragged me to a Wild Woman Weekend on Saltspring Island. It was at this hippie lady’s house. I think her name was Star Mountain Skyhawk. She had stringy gray hair down to her butt, and stringy gray armpit hair to match. Gross. The basic gist of the weekend was that we paint on our faces with mud and scream into a hole in the ground. Then we all sat in a circle and talked about our womanly feelings. It was me, my mom and a bunch of middle-aged women, like always.
Our summer adventures are my mother’s big chance to express what she calls her “true self.” My mom is a bookkeeper, which is like an accountant that doesn’t make much money. She wears beige pantyhose and high heels every day. Outside of work, she’s totally New Age. She even has a side business as a tarot card reader. A corner of our living room is draped with velvet scarves and crystals for her clients. Most of them are desperate single women looking for true love.
But I hoped that this summer adventure would be different. Maybe this year we’d go to New York City and visit art galleries. Art is my thing, and New York is the place to see lots of it. But that was a crazy idea. A silly fantasy. My mother would never in a million years have an idea as cool as going to New York City.
I had my own plans for getting to the Big Apple anyway. My favorite art magazine, Canvas, was running a youth art contest. And the prize was…drum roll, please: a one-week, all-expenses-paid trip to New York City. This included passes to all the art galleries in town. And the winning piece would appear on the cover of the magazine. In other words, a huge deal.
It was the chance of a lifetime. The entry deadline was in eight days. I hadn’t started drawing, but I do my best work at the last minute. I planned to hang out downtown at the art gallery for inspiration.
“Um…adventure?” I asked, my fingers and toes crossed under the table.
With a flourish, my mom held up a green booklet.
I squinted to read the cover.
My mom set down her coffee mug and stood up as though she was about to give an Oscar acceptance speech.
“We are going to experience the rewards of organic farming.”
Visions of me sketching in a Manhattan café vanished instantly.
Wishful thinking, Maddie. My mom couldn’t afford to take us anywhere exciting.
Mom had a huge grin on her face as she sat back down. She always gets worked up about our mother-daughter trips.
“Organic farming?”
Mom slid the booklet across the table saying, “We’ll be VOF-ers! That’s what the volunteers are called.”
VOFO, the cover read. Volunteer Organic Farm Opportunities. A bunch of the pages were dog-eared.
I flipped through the booklet. Paragraphs about farms all over the province were circled in yellow high-lighter. There were farms on Vancouver Island, in Powell River, the Okanagan and Nelson.
“Go to the Central Okanagan section,” she said, “and read about the farm in Mara.”
I started to read the description to myself.
“Read it out loud,” she said, her eyes shiny.
I sighed. All I wanted to do was eat a bowl of junky cereal and watch TV.
“Quiet River Farm,” I read. “Proprietors: Klaus and Ruth Friesen. Come join us on our fifty-acre patch of paradise. We have a dairy cow, goats, pigs, chickens and a garlic garden. Work varies from animal care to weeding. If you love country living and good food, please come stay with us. ”
“Doesn’t it sound perfect?” My mom clapped her hands together. “I’ve always wanted to learn about living off the land.”
“Since when?”
I flipped through the rest of the book. Come build a sweat lodge with us, said a farmer from Nelson. You’ll enjoy our organic fertilizer operation, said a guy named John van Horne in Kaslo. There were cheesemakers, herb farmers and even sheepherders.
“We only have to work for four hours a day,” my mom said. She took a gulp from her coffee mug. “We’ll learn so much, us urban gals.”
Having to work “only” four hours a day didn’t make this trip sound better. I crossed my arms and gave her the classic Maddie Turner stare.
“Mom, these people are complete nutbars.”
My mom stopped smiling. She raked her fingers through her long blond hair. It’s not her natural color. She bleaches it.
“Maddie,” my mom continued, her voice raspy. It gets like that when she’s annoyed. “You’ve never felt earth between your fingers. You’ve never known what it’s like to till the soil with your own two hands.”
“Don’t they have machines for that?” I said.
“You were born and raised in the city. Your high school is in downtown Vancouver. We live in a tenth-floor apartment.” Mom plucked a couple of mint leaves from the clay pot on the table and held them up. “This is the closest we get to nature. Every fifteen-year-old girl should get in touch with the earth.”
“No,” I said, slapping my hand on the table. “Fifteen-year-old girls should spend the summer sleeping in and hanging out wit
h their friends as far away from manure as possible.”
“Come on, Maddie, it’ll be good for both of us to get out of the city for a week.”
“A week!”
“We leave Saturday morning.”
“Saturday morning!” I spluttered. “In, like, two days? But what about the Canvas art contest? The deadline is eight days away!”
Another thing about our adventures is that my mom never gives me any notice—or asks my opinion. She says she likes to “maintain the element of surprise.”
“You could do it before we leave.”
“I can’t! I’m babysitting all day tomorrow!” I could feel my face tense with frustration.
“Well, honey, maybe you’ll find inspiration on the farm. A lot of great artists lived in the country. Bring your art stuff along with you.”
“I can’t get inspiration on a stupid farm! I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!” My eyes were hot with tears. My mom was going to ruin everything.
“Madison, calm down. Deep breath.” My mom put her index fingers and thumbs together, yoga-style, and inhaled loudly through her nose. “It’ll all work out.”
I crossed my arms and kicked the table leg with my toe.
“Honey, this will be fun,” my mom said, her hands still in the yoga position.
“Can I go stay with Dad?” I said, interrupting her. I said that just to make her mad. My mom looked like she might cry.
“No you may not. This is our mother-daughter trip.” She stomped into the living room and turned on the TV.
“You’re mad?” I called after her.
“I’m the one watching all my hopes and dreams crumble!”
Like all of our mother-daughter adventures, I didn’t have a choice. I was going to Quiet River Farm whether I liked it or not.
By Friday night I still hadn’t packed. I sat on my bed and looked at myself in my dresser mirror. I had just cropped my blond hair short and added bright blue streaks. I wondered what the farmers would think of my hair.
I yanked open my dresser drawer and started throwing all my most fabulous clothes into a duffel bag. You can take the girl out of the city, I thought, but you can’t take the city out of the girl. I wasn’t planning to pack the ratty old T-shirts and jeans my mom wanted me to wear.
I plucked my sketchbook off my desk and sat on my bed, flipping through it. My latest series, Downtown Soles, had turned out pretty well. I had drawn feet in cool shoes at different city locations like the art gallery and the skate park.
As I carefully placed my art supplies inside the bag, I felt a new flush of frustration. What was the point? I would never, ever find anything to draw on a boring old farm.
My mom walked by my bedroom door. “How’s it going, Madison?” She had consulted her tarot cards and decided to forgive me for our fight the day before.
I was still nowhere near forgiving her.
“If you mean how’s it going with missing out on the chance of a lifetime, then just fine.”
My mom started rifling through the stuff I had packed. Mothers can be so nosy.
“Maddie, these aren’t exactly work clothes.” She held up my yellow crinoline and striped leggings. “We’re going to be getting dirty. You don’t want to ruin these.”
I threw my pink What Would Joan Jett Do? T-shirt in the bag. I knew what that 1970s rocker chick would do. She would not spend a week shoveling cow poop.
I tossed my cell phone charger on top of the T-shirt. Mom laughed.
“You might as well leave that at home,” she said. “No cell phone reception at Quiet River Farm.”
No cell phone? This was going to be the worst week ever.
Chapter Two
“Hurry up, sunshine. Chop chop!”
My mom always says “chop chop” to get me to hurry. This makes me want to throw something heavy at her. My Betty Boop alarm clock said 5:45 am. Was she kidding? After she told me to chop chop a dozen more times, I hauled myself out of bed.
I stumbled through the beaded curtain into the kitchen. Our apartment’s decor is a lot like my mom—an odd mix of office slave and goddess worshipper. In other words, tacky, tacky, tacky.
My mom sat at the table, packing apples and bottles of water into a cooler. She stood up as soon as I walked in.
“What do you think?” She did a little twirl. She was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, denim overalls that were three sizes too big, a straw hat and black rubber boots. It looked like a Halloween farmer costume.
“Where’s the piece of hay to stick between your teeth?” I said.
“Right here.” She stuck a long piece of grass between her teeth. “I got it from the park yesterday.”
“That probably has dog pee all over it,” I groaned and yanked the fridge door open.
Inside was half a tomato, a nearly empty jar of mustard and a carton of blueberry yogurt. Sometimes my mom gets so into living spiritually that she forgets to buy groceries.
“Just think,” my mom said, the grass still sticking out of her mouth. “In less than seven hours we’ll be petting goats!”
My mom blabbed in a nonstop monologue the whole car ride. She was trying to make up for my lack of interest by being enthusiastic for both of us.
I crossed my arms and looked out the window the whole time. She still didn’t understand how angry I was.
“I really want to learn more about organic cooking. Ooh, I wonder if we’ll get to milk a goat. That would be fun.
Maybe we’ll feed the chickens and pigs!”
After about five torturous hours, our ancient 1984 Dodge Colt started overheating. I couldn’t believe it had gotten us that far.
“Dave needs a rest,” Mom said as we pulled off the highway. She calls her car Dave, after an old boyfriend. “Perfect! I’ve heard they have the best veggie burgers at The Hut here.”
Vegetarianism was my mom’s latest thing. She had even stuck a bumper sticker on the car that said, Animals are my friends. I don’t eat my friends.
We pulled into the parking lot of the A-frame burger joint. I sat at a picnic table outside while my mom ordered.
“Here’s your poor dead cow,” my mom said, plopping burgers and fries on the picnic table. Just because my mom was a vegetarian didn’t mean I had to be.
“This whole thing is like a lame sitcom,” I said, sipping my chocolate milkshake. “City girl goes to the country. City girl hates the country. It’s a tired old storyline. Couldn’t we do something more original?”
My mom poured disgusting amounts of vinegar over her fries. “Sometimes the city girl ends up loving the country.”
I snorted. That was doubtful. I decided to focus on my burger. It was a tasty chunk of dead cow.
After pouring three pop bottles’ worth of water into Dave’s radiator, we chugged into the countryside. Everything was lush and green. It brought to mind a word we learned in English class— verdant. It described this place perfectly.
We drove past fields with rows and rows of green vegetables. In one of the fields, an oversized lawn sprinkler was spraying a thick brown liquid. Just as I was wondering what it was, the smell hit me.
“Aaaagh!” my mom and I screamed in unison, plugging our noses. We rolled up our windows. It didn’t help. Wow, I thought. That was a giant poo sprinkler.
Eventually we turned down a winding dirt road. My mom’s rattly old car clanged over railway tracks.
“Here we are,” my mom sang.
The handmade wooden sign at the end of the driveway said Quiet River Farm. What a perfect name for a place that looked like a total snooze fest.
Our hosts were on their front porch in matching rocking chairs. They stood up as Dave coasted to a stop, crashing into a big pot of orange flowers. Chickens squawked and scattered, feathers flying.
“Oh no, I freaked the animals!” my mom said.
Dave jerked and backfired. I sank down in my seat, my cheeks burning. Not only was my mother ruining my life, she was also going to totally e
mbarrass me in the process.
Mom flung the car door open and leaped out.
“I’m sorry about your flowers,” my mom said, running up to the farmers. Her voice was shaky. “I’m Lynn Turner, and this is my daughter, Maddie.” She hugged them. My mom gets touchy-feely when she’s nervous.
“Welcome here,” the man farmer said, taking a couple of steps back. He had a German accent, or maybe it was Dutch. I wasn’t up on my European accents. “I’m Klaus Friesen, and this is my wife, Ruth.”
A big yellow dog poked my leg with his black nose. It tickled.
“And this is Harold the dog,” Ruth said.
The Friesens gave my mom and me a long look up and down, starting with the blue streaks in my hair. My mom, of course, still wore her farmer costume. I was wearing fishnet tights, a black ruffled skirt and my Andy Warhol soup can T-shirt.
“Good to see you have your work boots on,” Klaus said, pointing to my Doc Martens. If he thought I was going to work in my prized boots, he was crazy.
The Friesens looked like they were in their early fifties. I had expected hippie types, but hippies they definitely were not. Klaus was tall, and was wearing overalls and a Buckerfield’s Feed &Grain trucker cap. He had the biggest hands I have ever seen. Ruth’s hair was half brown, half gray, and pulled back in a loose bun. She wore a long jean skirt and an old-fashioned blouse with little blue flowers all over it. They looked like they were out of an old painting.
“We feel so blessed to be here in your amazing space,” my mom blathered on. I half-expected her to put her hands in the prayer position, bow and say “namaste.”
The Friesens stared blankly at my mom. Klaus took off his cap and scratched his head.
At that moment I knew which painting they reminded me of. It’s a famous one of a skinny older man and woman, standing in front of a barn. It’s a creepy painting. American Gothic, it’s called.
“Yeesh,” I muttered under my breath, shuddering.
“What was that, Maddie?” my mom asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
Chapter Three
Farmed Out Page 1
