Blue Shadows Farm: A Novel

57. Jim Lockwell—August 1946

August 1946 Emma soon discovered that operating the farm by herself was more than she could handle, even at age twenty. She fell into bed each night exhausted, only to rise again at five the next morning to do it all over again. With a milking machine, milking cows was certainly easier than doing it by hand, but milking twenty cows was still exhausting work. And that wasn’t the half of it. She had to fetch them from the pasture each morning at five-thirty, sometimes walking more than half a mile one way through the mists and dewy grasses to do it, and she had to tend to the calves, take care of the chickens, and keep the pasture fences in good order. When she had some extra time, which was almost never, she weeded the garden and tried to keep the flowers around the house looking presentable. The last thing she wanted was to have the neighbors talking about how Blue Shadows Farm had gone downhill since Faith died and Emma took over its operation. September was but a few weeks away, and Emma would have to figure out how she would cut corn and fill the silo. She knew the cows needed the feed during the long winter when they would remain in 334 57 Jim Lockwell 335 Jim Lockwell—August 1946 the barn. Thankfully, they had completed threshing grain before her mother’s death. One cloudy morning in early September, when she was a little sleepier than usual and had just gotten the morning milk into the cooling tank, Lloyd Gunderson, the milk hauler, arrived. “Lookin’ a little frazzled this morning,” Lloyd said. “Overslept,” Emma confessed. “Lot of work for a young lady,” Lloyd said. He was a big man and wore a canvas apron to keep his clothes dry from the dripping-wet ten-gallon milk cans he pulled from the cooling tank, carried to his truck, and hoisted inside. “I gotta do it,” Emma said. “I gotta keep going.” She brushed back a piece of damp hair that had fallen over her face. “Promised my ma I’d take good care of Blue Shadows Farm, no matter what.” “Ever think of hirin’ somebody to help you?” “Tell you the truth, I’ve been too tired to think since Ma died,” Emma replied. “I know a guy in Link Lake who could use a job. Nice guy, but kind of bunged up from the war. Lost an eye and was shot in the leg. Limps a little because of it. Name is Jim Lockwell.” “I don’t think I can afford a hired man,” Emma said. She remembered the days when her folks had both a hired man and a maid. “He’ll work cheap. Want me to talk to him? I know him pretty well.” “Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to the guy,” Emma said. Every muscle in her young body ached. A couple days later, about midmorning, an old black Model A Ford car pulled into the Starkweather yard and stopped by the house. A slightly built man with a definite limp stepped from the car and started slowly toward the kitchen door. “I’m out here in the garden,” Emma said, waving her arm. The man, who wore bib overalls and a gray felt hat, heard her and ambled on toward the garden. Emma stood up, brushed the dirt from her hands, and wiped them on her apron. “I’m Jim . . . Lockwell,” the man said. “Heard . . . you . . . were lookin’ . . . for a hired man.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if he had to think of each word before speaking it. “I might be,” Emma said. “Let’s go sit on the porch in the shade.” Emma led the way to the two chairs on the kitchen porch. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” “That . . . would be . . . nice,” Lockwell said. He had removed his sweat-stained hat, revealing short brown hair. Emma disappeared into the kitchen and soon returned with two cups of steaming coffee. Like her mother, she always had a pot of coffee simmering on the back of the stove. “Heard you were hurt in the war?” Emma inquired quietly. “Yeah . . . them Nazis . . . got me . . . good. Lost . . . an eye. Got me . . . in the . . . leg, too.” Jim stopped to touch his injured left leg. “Besides . . . now . . . I don’t talk . . . real good . . . either,” Jim said...