He picked up the wagon pieces, which were now all junk, and headed back to the barn. He was sad and kept his head down. When a farm kid broke something like a toy, it wasn’t replaced. It was history.
Dana spotted Tim walking down the lane and met him as he entered the toolshed. She saw the destroyed wagon in his arms. “What happened to our wagon?”
“Dad ran over it with the truck.”
Dana scowled at her brother, upset at seeing one of their few nice playthings ruined. “Were you sitting in it?”
“No.”
“Too bad,” she said, flashing a devilish grin before leaving.
* * *
With great disappointment, Tim dropped the wagon pieces on a pile of other hunks of metal junk stacked in the back of the toolshed.
Tim then made his way to the barn, still dragging the piece of rope he had tied to the wagon. Stopping in the middle of the open section of the barn, he looked straight up at the main beam, which supported the barn’s roof. The beam was a good 20 feet above Tim’s head and right over the barn’s concrete floor. So what was the first thought that came to him? What a great place to put up a rope swing!
Tim headed back to the toolshed and dragged out the longest rope he could find. He then returned to the barn and thought out his next move.
The hay harvest had just taken place on the farm, so fresh hay bales were stacked high inside the barn, just within a few feet of the lower rafter beams, which also held up the roof. Tim decided he could climb up the hay bales to the lower rafter beams, and then climb up to the main beam and tie on the rope.
After shifting the hay bales around to make his climbing a little bit easier, Tim made his way up to the very top bale, high above the barn’s concrete floor. He then reached for the place where the lowest rafter joined one of the vertical support posts. Dana walked in right when Tim climbed up onto the support post.
“What’re you doing way up there?” she asked.
“Putting up a rope swing.”
“I’m telling Mom!”
“No! Wait! I’ll let you have the first ride when I’m done.”
Dana stared at Tim. He held his breath, worried she would bolt out of the barn and tell on him.
“Hurry up,” she said. Tim wasn’t sure Dana agreed because she wanted to swing or because she wanted to see if he would fall and splatter himself all over the floor.
Tim continued climbing the vertical beam until he reached the main beam. Then he had to make a decision—how would he get the rope out far enough on the main beam to keep him and his sister from banging against the wall when they swung on it? There was only one option, and Tim knew what he had to do. He would have to crawl to the center of the main beam, 20 feet up in the air, with no safety net below.
Tim slowly crawled out onto the eight-inch by eight-inch beam, dragging just one end of the rope with him—the rope was too long and too heavy to carry the whole thing. When he was about five feet out on the beam, he looked below. Boy, that’s a long way down! Dana looks like an ant. He wasn’t afraid, but he was sure nervous.
When Tim decided he was far enough out, he carefully wrapped the end of the rope around the wood beam a couple of times before tying it off.
When he was done, he began to make his way back to the lower rafter. But trying to move backward along the beam was way harder than moving forward. Tim wasn’t sure he was going to make it.
“What’s taking so long?” Dana asked.
Tim looked down at her. She was sitting on the top step to the milking parlor, watching him intently, showing no concern for the danger he was in. “You wanna come up here and try it?” he asked his little sister.
“I’m not stupid—like you!”
“Shut up, Dee-Dee.”
“Poop Slinger!”
When Tim finally made it back to the safety of the hay bales, he grabbed the other end of the rope, which was coiled on bales, and tossed it down. The rope swung out and into position, and the end barely touched the floor. Perfect! Tim thought. It’s long enough to tie a knot to sit on!
Excited that his idea just might work, Tim hurried off the hay bales. Dana had already grabbed the rope and was swinging back and forth, but just a few feet.
“Here, let me help you.” Tim grabbed the end of the rope and pulled it back with his sister hanging onto it. He let it go and she swung out almost to the barn door. “Awesome!” he said.
Tim stopped her and tied a big knot in the end of the rope so they could take turns sitting on it. They spent the rest of the day and part of the evening happily swinging back and forth, in circles, even swinging together at the same time. They stayed so late that Mom and Dad went to the barn looking for them. Just as their parents walked in, Tim and Dana swung too wide and slammed into the side of the barn.
“Are you crazy?” Mom asked.
Dana and Tim jumped off the rope in a heartbeat, waiting for their dad to blow up. But he didn’t. His eyes, as well as Mom’s, followed the rope from the bottom up to where it was attached in the shadows of the main beam and rafters.
The kids’ mom looked at their dad and said, “You could’ve killed yourself putting that up there for the kids! What were you thinking?”
Mr. Slinger stared at his wife, his mouth agape. He then turned his attention to Tim, who was standing as stiff as a statue, amazed at this turn of events. Tim was trying to decide if his mom would figure out who really put the rope up there or if Dana was going to tell on him—again.
But Devil Dana surprised him. “It’s really fun, Dad! Thanks!” Dana said.
Mr. Slinger was speechless. It was the first and only time in his life Tim could remember his dad having nothing to say.
“You better take it down. It’s too dangerous swinging in here,” Mrs. Slinger said to her husband.
He looked up at the highest point in the rafters where the rope was connected to the main beam. “I’ll kill myself if I try to take it down,” he said.
His wife reached out, grabbed the rope and tugged on it.
“It’s safe,” Tim said.
“Nothing on this farm is safe with you two around,” Mom said.
“Is it safer to live in town?” Dana asked.
“I don’t know, but at least it will be a lot easier to keep an eye on you two,” Mom said.
Their parents walked out, leaving Tim and Dana standing silently next to the rope.
“What did Mom say?” Tim asked Dana.
“Something like ‘It’ll be a lot easier to keep an eye on us,’ I think,” Dana said.
“Why did she say ‘will be’?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know. But it’s time for supper,” Dana said, walking out of the barn.
Tim stayed in the barn for a few more minutes, standing next to the rope swing. A cow’s moo echoed through the barn and a pigeon flew into the rafters to roost for the night. It was as if time were standing still. But something told him it was not.
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Chapter 8
Over the next few weeks, Tim’s foot healed and was as good as new, although he still faked a limp as long as possible to keep from doing his chores.
Tim was still concerned and confused about what his mom had said in the barn the night of the rope-swing adventure, the comment about possibly moving into town. For this reason, he began listening much more closely to every word his parents said to one another. And while there was no more talk between his parents about a life-changing event in their family’s future, there was talk about safety—or the lack of it—in Tim’s daily activities.
One day, when his parents were discussing their son’s many mishaps, Tim heard his dad say there were plenty of equally dangerous activities for city kids. He didn’t mention what they were, but the next thing he said was that playing in organized sports would be good for Tim. This last comment caught Tim’s attention, because organized sports were something city kids did, not farm kids.
For all the athleticism required in working o
n a dairy farm, it wasn’t a very good place for practicing traditional sports, like baseball or soccer. However, there were sporting events special to farm life that filled the same competitive urges enjoyed by many city kids.
When most people think of farm sports, they think of rodeo events like calf roping or bull riding. If they do, they will be wrong. Rodeo events fall into the ranching category. Anyone who has ever watched a Western knows that a farm and a ranch are as different as a swamp and a desert. Farm sports are way different from rodeo sports, especially the ones Tim invented.
About a week after the rope swing was put up, Tim’s dad walked into the house at lunchtime and found his son sitting at the table, eating. “Come outside with me. I’ve got a surprise for you,” Dad said.
Tim finished his sandwich then followed his dad outside and down to the edge of their huge vegetable garden. There were two metal rods sticking up from the soft garden dirt, spaced 40 feet apart, with a short wooden wall set up behind each of the rods.
“What’re those for?” Tim asked.
“They’re horseshoe pits. I’m going to teach you to play horseshoes so you can compete with the other kids at the fair,” Dad said.
“Okay,” Tim said. He watched his dad pick up three rusty metal horseshoes. He held two of the heavy horseshoes in one hand and one in the other—this was the one he would throw first.
“The rules are simple,” Dad said as he held up the lone horseshoe between his thumb and two of his fingers. “We each throw three horseshoes at the metal rod over there. If the open end of the shoe lands around the rod, that’s called a ‘ringer.’ It gets you three points. If the shoe lands so part of it’s touching the rod, that’s called a ‘leaner.’ You get two points for that. If the shoe is within one shoe-width of the rod, you only get one point. I don’t know what that’s called. First one to 11 points wins.”
Sounded like an easy game to Tim. He picked up a horseshoe from a pile on the ground and looked it over. “This thing’s a lot heavier than a cow chip,” he said.
“Yeah, well you only have to toss it 40 feet. We’ll take a few practice throws before playing a game. Watch me,” Dad said.
Tim watched his dad throw three shoes at the metal rod. None of his throws were ringers, but one horseshoe was a leaner, touching the rod and one was very close to it.
“That totals three points. Close only counts in atom bombs, hand grenades and horseshoes,” Dad said, walking down to pick up the ones he had thrown.
“That’s stupid,” Tim said, teasing his dad.
“You try now.”
Tim stood next to one metal rod and focused his attention on the other metal rod. He wasn’t sure what 40 feet was supposed to look like, but was pretty certain the other rod was a lot farther away.
The horseshoe felt heavy in Tim’s hand and he worried that he would never be able to throw it hard enough to make it to the other side. Not wanting to let his dad down, Tim raised his hand, holding the horseshoe as far up behind him as he could, and then threw it with all his strength. To his amazement, the horseshoe went high into the air, twisting and turning as it sailed over the distant metal rod, across the driveway and through the back window of his dad’s pickup.
Crash!
Tim stood silently, waiting for the punishment he knew would be coming. But Mr. Slinger didn’t say a word. He calmly pulled the rods out of the ground, picked up the horseshoes and carried everything into the barn, where they stayed for good.
* * *
Tim knew his dad was disappointed, but he didn’t feel too badly about failing at horseshoes. There were other athletic activities on the farm he was very good at. The “dinner run” (also known as the “time-to-eat run”) from the back 40 tested his endurance and speed and the “survival sprint” came in handy after throwing a cow chip at Dana. Then there was the obstacle course used to escape angry parents who caught him doing something stupid. Tim was always running away from, or after, something. Mom called him “the dusty blur” because most of their farmland had knee-deep mud or dust and farm kids always ended up covered in it, especially Tim. In other words, it was a kid’s heaven!
Tim also had special skills when it came to a sport few urban dwellers had ever heard of—“cow skiing.” No, he didn’t put a cow on skis. Nor did it involve a cow sliding in any fashion or a cow even being harmed. Cow skiing is similar to water skiing. In this sport, the cow is the speedboat, her tail the tow rope, Tim’s shoes the skis and the knee-deep dust (or mud), the water.
The technique goes like this:
1. Drop a handful of hay in the barnyard so a cow will stand still for a minute to eat it.
2. Slowly walk up behind the cow and reach out for her tail without touching it.
3. Once you’re close, quickly grab that tail with both hands and scream, “Yee haw!”
4. Hang on for dear life as the cow bolts across the barnyard, mooing and bellowing in protest.
The first time Tim tried cow skiing was exciting. Thinking back, he remembered that day—the thrill, the speed, the dirt in the face, the danger, the rock pile straight ahead of him! Realizing he was in danger, Tim let go of the cow’s tail at the very last instant and tumbled against a big stone in that pile. The cow paid no attention to Tim and trotted back to eat the rest of her special treat.
Most adults didn’t like cow skiing very much. Tim’s father hated it, worried his son would get badly hurt, and told him so. Yeah, right. Like making a 10-year-old drive a 200-horsepower farm tractor wasn’t just as dangerous? Tim thought.
One day, Mr. Slinger spotted Tim cow skiing and chased after him. Tim saw him coming, let go of the cow’s tail and headed for his obstacle course, which included a small briar patch. Tim quickly crawled under the bushes, with his dad not far behind.
Tim knew his dad wouldn’t come though the briars after him, so it was the perfect escape route. When Tim made it safely through the patch to the other side, he looked back at his dad, who was now angrily shaking his finger at Tim. “If I ever see you doing that again, I’m gonna whoop you good!”
Tim loved cow skiing—it was his new favorite thing to do on the farm and no one was going to stop him. But before he tried it again, he had to make sure there was no way his dad could catch him.
The next day, Tim went inside the barn to see what his dad was up to—he was talking to Tim’s mom. “I need to finish spraying the cornfield today,” he said to her.
Now’s my chance! Tim thought. He followed his dad out of the barn and watched him climb onto the tractor and drive away, around the silo. But farm dads aren’t like city dads—they don’t go to work in the morning and come home in the evening. Farm dads can pop up anywhere, anytime, on any day.
Thinking his dad was in the cornfield working, Tim slipped into the barnyard, found an innocent, hungry cow, went through his four-step cow-skiing setup, and then took off flying. He had no idea his dad had stopped the tractor behind the silo.
Mr. Slinger’s timing was perfect. He walked around the silo just as Tim went skiing past. He grabbed Tim by the shirt collar with one hand—nearly strangling him—tossed him over his shoulder and headed for the barn for that promised punishment.
From that day on, Tim decided his dad was right. Cow skiing was too dangerous!
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Chapter 9
Tim’s butt was sore for a week. And Tim wasn’t happy.
Tim was upset because his dad told him that he got in trouble because, once again, Tim was putting himself at risk by doing something unsafe. The funny thing was that a few days later, Tim’s father did something that put the entire Slinger family in danger, something which, to Tim, was even worse than cow skiing.
Farmers rarely throw anything away because someday, there might be a use for it. Later, that item could become a used part that would save paying for a repair or buying something new. Plus, back then, there was no place to throw away farm junk if you wanted to.
The Slinger’s 50-year-old bar
n had secret treasures hiding everywhere. There were old broken tools piled in the corner, tractor parts hanging on the walls and boxes jammed high on beams that supported the second-level flooring. There were also ropes, tarps and many other things in the barn that Tim couldn’t identify. He never found a human body, though it wouldn’t have surprised Tim if he had.
Dad was digging through all the junk in the lower level of the barn, looking for something to fix or replace the broken manure-spreader blade. Tim wasn’t being very helpful, because having a broken manure spreader meant he didn’t have to shovel a mountain of poop into the machine every day. That was fine with him!
“Pull that tarp down back there,” Dad said to Tim, pointing to a dark corner of the barn.
“Yeah, sure,” Tim said. He walked to the tattered piece of canvas and saw that one end of the tarp was hanging down from the beams holding up the second floor. He stared up at it for a moment, wondering why anyone would put manure-spreader parts under a tarp. What harm would it cause for a poop spreader to get dirty?
As Tim pulled the tarp down from the rafters, dust, dirt, mouse poop, bird droppings and rusty nails fell to the floor. With the tarp now on the ground, a wooden box, with large red letters painted on it warning about the contents, sat exposed.
“Oh, it’s just another dynamite box,” Tim said.
Finding a dynamite box in the rafters might seem a bit alarming to city folk, but old, discarded dynamite boxes were pretty common on farms. Because the boxes were strong, they were ideal for storing old bolts, screws, tools and other heavy things. Tim’s dad had several of them he used as storage bins in the toolshed. And Tim’s uncle had one full of marbles—his collection of cat’s-eye boulders was awesome!
The Cow-Pie Chronicles Page 4
