by W. Arthur
For a long time, both before and after the wedding, I would look at my new son-in-law and wonder what my daughter was thinking. Sara was raised on this farm and grew into a tough and self-reliant young woman. On the other hand, Mike Abernathy grew up in the city. The hardest job he had ever had was mowing his parents' small lawn.
Perhaps, looking back, it was my fault, in a way. I encouraged Sara to go to college, thinking she would meet some nice agriculture student and return to the farm, married and ready to take control of our more than two-hundred acres. Lord knows, I was certainly struggling to stay afloat, even with the hands I had hired.
But if she did meet that agriculture student, she never told me about him. Rather, she met Mike, a business student who had never even seen a farm except from the freeway. He also had a city-boy attitude, by which I mean, he seemed to look down his nose at those of us who work with our hands and get dirty.
To make matters worse, Sara didn't major in education, as I'd hoped she would. Rather, she developed an interest in what she called the dramatic arts, and thus wasted her time - and scholarship - on learning a profession that has very limited value here in the country.
After she and Mike graduated - her with a BFA, he with an MBA - he took a job with a startup and she made a few dollars directing amateur theater productions. A year later, they married - against my unexpressed wishes - and settled into a large house in the city. In my view, they were greatly overextended financially, but what did I know? I'm only a high school graduate; Mike is the one with the fancy degrees.
Anyway, my son-in-law was totally convinced that the startup would soon evolve into, what he called, a Fortune 500 dynamo. And, I must admit, he worked hard to help make that happen, often putting in seventy to eighty hours a week. Of course, I didn't think too much of those hours, as that is pretty much the working life of a farmer.
Unfortunately, like so many of these startups, ultimately it failed, despite its initial success. At first, Mike worked even harder to save it - and his own financial future. However, within six months, he and my daughter were, like the startup, totally bankrupt. In the end, they lost everything, including their house and one of their cars. And this with Sara three months pregnant.
Now, where does an adult child go when she has lost everything and must start over? To her mother, of course. I had no money to give them. But I do have a large farmhouse, and I could always use help on the farm - never enough hands to get all the work done.
I don't think Mike was too keen on the idea of becoming a farmer. But he couldn't find a suitable job and his own parents had recently sold everything they owned and retired to Cabo San Lucas; thus, they were in no position to help the young couple.
So, with his wife pregnant and them perhaps a week away from living in their car, they accepted my offer of room and board in exchange for help with the farm. A few days later, they moved in; my city-boy son-in-law was now living in the country and would need to adapt quickly to farm life, as this was early April, the beginning of planting season.
I made it clear from the beginning that I understood he was starting fresh and had a lot to learn. But I also made it clear that I fully expected him to work hard and learn the necessary skills, that I wouldn't tolerate any laziness, complaints, or backtalk.
Although we didn't exactly discuss it in detail, I now thought of Mike as I would have a son - a son who might very well require strict guidance and occasional discipline. That's the way my brothers and I were raised and, even though my brothers traded farm life for the military as soon as they were able, I can say the adherence to discipline didn't do any of us any harm. All three of us had visited the old woodshed behind the house more than once and come out better persons for the experience - although we might not have thought so at the time. That's what I had in mind for Mike, should he falter in my expectations. After all, I take great store in the old proverb, "He who sleeps in harvest is a son who causes shame."
I will say that the first couple of weeks, Mike surprised me with his energy and his capacity for adapting to his new life. He quickly learned the basic operation of the various machines, including the plow and didn't complain about the hours or the working conditions.
Sara also seemed to relax back into her old life, and I was impressed seeing the two of them working side by side as we prepared to plant and take care of the cows during calving season. Mike even took an interest in the business side of farming, and I learned a few things myself. I began to appreciate his presence more and more.
However, I should have known it wouldn't last. By early May, Sara was struggling with her pregnancy and couldn't work as much, leaving Mike to pick up the slack. I guess this was more than he bargained for, and on a cool, rainy Friday afternoon, I found him sitting in the barn, playing on his phone. It was obvious at a glance that he hadn't completed - or even started - any of the chores he was supposed to do.
I confronted him. "Mike, why haven't you put out the straw or cleaned the plow blades?" I asked, trying to sound unperturbed.
He gave me a look that would melt ice. "I didn't fucking feel like it," he said. "I'm taking the day off."
As a Christian woman, I don't appreciate that kind of harsh language, nor will I ever tolerate it spoken around me - or at me. I continued to glare down at my son-in-law. "Oh, no you're not," I said. "There's too much work to do. And I don't appreciate that word you just used."
He huffed. "I don't give a fuck," he said. "I'm in the middle of something here, so leave me alone."
Okay, I thought, it's time for a little of that discipline that is embedded in the rhythm of farm life. I took a deep breath to calm myself and kicked at his feet to get his attention. "Mike, you've done pretty well around here," I said once he glanced up at me. "But there is a lesson you have yet to learn."
"What do you mean?"
"Slacking off and cursing have consequences - both for the farm and the person doing it."
He gave me another harsh look. "I don't get it."
"Then, it's about time you did," I said. I reached down and grabbed his phone from his fingers.
"Hey...What the fuck?"
"Get on your feet and follow me," I ordered, putting his phone in the pocket of my overalls.
He made a clumsy grab for the pocket. I blocked him. "Give me back my phone."
"Your phone is safe with me," I said. "And you'll get it back afterward." I figured that if he was going to act like a kid, I would treat him like one.
His eyes widened. "After what?"
Now, I hadn't spanked anyone since Sara went off to college, and even then, it wasn't a chore I particularly enjoyed. But, like everything else on the farm, it was a chore that sometimes needed to be done, and it was my responsibility to do it, whether I enjoyed it or not. "Mike, you need a trip to the woodshed in order to, as my father used to put it, adjust your attitude. We both have a lot of work to do, so let's not waste any more time. Get moving."
At this point, I could see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes. I doubt that his own parents ever did much disciplining, if any. It was clear he didn't know how to react. He leaned back against the planks of the stall. "Uh... I'm not sure what you mean, Wilda," he said. "But...I'm sorry. If you give me my phone back, I'll get back to work. I was only kidding anyway."
After having lived with me for several weeks, I'm not at all sure why he thought that lame apology would work, or if he really thought it would. It didn't. I have my soft side, of course. But when it comes to administering much-needed punishment and discipline, I'm hard as granite. My son-in-law needed punishment - for his own good and for the good of the farm upon which he was now dependent.
"Mike, I'm not going to argue with you," I said. "We're going to the woodshed where I'm going to whip you with a leather strap. The longer you hesitate, the worse it's going to be."
His fingers twitched; his bony legs shook. There was no doubt he understood what I intended - although I'm not sure he could make himself believe it. He moved his legs and managed to get to his feet. He was of medium height, but I am rather tall, especially in my work boots. We were now eye to eye.
I couldn't tell if he was planning to make a break for it or not, but I wasn't taking any chances. Before he could do anything, I grabbed his ear and gripped it hard. He winced. "Hey... let go," he shouted.
At that moment, I knew I had the upper hand. Even though he was younger by at least eighteen years, I was stronger - thanks to all the hard work I had done. I was also more experienced, having had to do this both on a daughter and my no-good lout of a husband from time to time. I took a step back, pulling him with me. We were going to the woodshed. "I have no more time to waste on you," I said. "You can either go to the woodshed and take your punishment like a man, or I can pull your ear off. Which will it be?"
I could see that he knew he was defeated. His flagging strength was no match for my motherly determination. "Okay, okay," he said. "I'll go."
I wasn't totally convinced. "Mike, if you try to run or make a fuss, I'll make you sorry you were ever born."
His eyes widened again. I have no doubt he believed that threat. He lowered his head in apparent submission. "I... won't run."
I released his ear and moved behind him as we exited the barn.
The woodshed is located just to the back of the house. At one time, it probably really was used to store wood for the fireplace. However, that was several generations ago. Mostly, it sits empty with a three-legged stool in the middle and a well-used leather strap hanging from a nail. At one time or another, every member of my family had been punished in that woodshed. I was no exception. Neither was Sara. Now it was Mike's turn.
He walked slowly, like a man condemned, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. Yes, I was right behind him and I wasn't going to let him get away - at least, not if I could help it. When we reached the woodshed, he stopped as if waiting for me to make the next move. I sidestepped him and pushed open the old wooden door.
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