Farming comes with its share of bullsh*t. Just another Sh*tty story to read on the pot. Enjoy these brief escapes, both to the squat shop, stank bank, or throne? Check out A Relief of Doodie, available on Amazon.
Lizzie adjusted her brand-new cowboy boots for the fifteenth time since climbing into Pawpaw’s rusted Nissan pickup. They were cherry red with white stitching that formed little stars all the way up to where they hugged her ten-year-old calves. She tapped the heels together in rhythm to the country twang crackling through the truck’s ancient radio.
“Will you quit it with the boots already?” her brother Ricky groaned from beside her. At thirteen, he considered himself way too mature for such childish obsessions. “They’re just stupid boots.”
“They’re not stupid,” Lizzie replied, sticking out her tongue. “They’re genuine leather with reinforced toe caps. Pawpaw says they’ll take care of me if take care of them.”
Pawpaw looked down at her with a clear happy light.
“Genuine leather,” Ricky mocked, wiggling his bare toes beneath the dash. “Big whoop.”
Pawpaw chuckled from the driver’s seat, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a napkin as he steered them deeper into his hundred-acre farm. “Lizzie-girl’s just excited,” he said. Then giving her thigh a good squeeze, said, ”She’s a good egg.”
Lizzie cackled until she got Pawpaw’s hand free then shot Ricky a triumphant look. “And they keep my feet clean, unlike some people’s.”
Ricky rolled his eyes. “Shoes are overrated. Tell me one good reason why I should stuff my feet into foot prisons on a day like today?”
Pawpaw pulled the truck to a stop at the edge of the fishing pond. “Alright you two,” he said, leaving the seat and walking to the back of the pickup. “Hop back here. We’re going off-road to get to them blackberry brambles.” He dropped the tailgate.
The children were out of the truck in a flash and gleefully settling onto the tailgate, their legs dangling just above the tall grass. Pawpaw eased the truck forward again. Cows lazily lifted their heads to watch the familiar Nissan pass through their pasture.
“I’ll tell you why boots are better,” Lizzie said, picking up their argument. “They protect you. Like that time Joey Miller stepped on a rusty nail at the barn raising and had to get tetanus shots.”
“Freakin’ shots,” Ricky muttered, careful to keep his voice low enough that Pawpaw wouldn’t hear his cursing. “Still better than your diaper disaster.”
Lizzie’s face flushed crimson. “Shut up.”
“What?” Ricky grinned wickedly. “You mean you don’t remember your first pair of cowboy boots?”
“I was three,” she hissed.
“Lizzie got her first pair of boots when she was just a little squirt,” Ricky announced to the disinterested cows. “Pink ones with little unicorns on ’em. She loved those damn things so much, she wouldn’t take ’em off, even for bath time.”
“Ricky you watch your language, now,” Pawpaw called over his shoulder, somehow possessing superhuman hearing when it came to curse words.
“Sorry,” Ricky called back before lowering his voice again. “So there we were at Aunt Martha’s Fourth of July barbecue, and little Lizzie had eaten about half a watermelon by herself.”
“Ricky, I swear to God — “
“And what happens when little kids eat too much watermelon?” Ricky continued, undeterred. “That’s right, they get the runs. Only problem was, Lizzie was still in pull-ups.”
Lizzie groaned and covered her face.
“So there she is, running around in her little Sunday dress and those ridiculous unicorn boots when suddenly — WHOOSH!” Ricky’s hands flew outward in an explosive gesture. “The dam breaks. The pull-up is overwhelmed and down into those boots comes what can only be described as a chocolate waterfall.”
“You’re disgusting,” Lizzie mumbled through her fingers.
“Mom’s freaking out, Dad’s trying not to laugh, and Lizzie’s standing there in the middle of the yard with brown stuff bubbling out the tops of her precious boots, crying like someone stole her puppy.”
Lizzie kicked at him with her new boot, but he easily dodged.
“Those were my favorite boots!” she protested.
“They were just stupid boots,” Ricky said with a shrug. “Dad just hosed ’em out and they were fine.”
“They were never the same,” Lizzie said solemnly. “The unicorns looked sad after that.”
The truck bumped over a particularly uneven stretch, causing both children to grip the sides of the tailgate.
“Here we are!” Pawpaw called, pulling to a stop beside a massive tangle of blackberry bushes. He cut the engine and came around. “Best berry patch in the county right here.”
He handed each of them a plastic bucket. “Remember, only pick the ones that are black all the way around. If they’ve got any red on ’em, they ain’t ready yet.”
The next hour passed in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional competitive declaration of who had picked more berries. The sun beat down mercilessly, and Ricky’s feet grew dustier by the minute as he stomped through the dirt to reach the fattest berries.
“Bet you wish you had boots now,” Lizzie taunted as a briar scratched the top of his foot.
“Son of a — “ Ricky caught himself before finishing the exclamation, glancing nervously at Pawpaw who was focused on his own picking. “Nah, this just makes me tougher.” He leaned closer to Lizzie and whispered, “Least I never had shit boots.”
Lizzie just looked over at Pawpaw who smiled at her and winked, then kept on with his pickin’.
Finally, with buckets full to the brim with plump blackberries, they piled back into the truck for the return journey. Purple juice stained their fingers and lips, and Lizzie had several smudges across her cheeks where she’d wiped away sweat.
“Who’s ready for your grandma’s blackberry cobbler?” Pawpaw asked as they settled back onto the tailgate.
“Me!” they chorused.
The truck rumbled to life and began picking its way back through the pasture. Pawpaw took a different route home, circling around a small hill that provided a shortcut back to the farmhouse.
“Faster, Pawpaw!” Ricky called over his shoulder. The loping shallow hills and grassland passing by making him feel free and fine. Lizzie smiled beside him.
As they crested the hill, Lizzie and Ricky’s dangling feet suddenly dropped with the terrain. For one brief, startling moment, their feet dragged through the tall grass before Pawpaw slowed down.
“Sorry ‘bout that, kids!” he called back. “Forgot about that dip!”
Ricky’s face contorted with disgust. “Oh my God,” he groaned, lifting one foot to examine it. “Oh my freaking God.”
Lizzie peered over and immediately burst into peals of laughter. Both of Ricky’s bare feet were completely covered in fresh, green-brown cow manure.
“It’s not funny!” he hissed, trying to wipe his feet on the grass, which only made things worse.
“It’s a little funny,” Lizzie gasped between fits of giggles.
Ricky’s nostrils flared as the smell hit him. “This is so gross. I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Look on the bright side,” Lizzie managed to say, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “At least your feet aren’t in ‘foot prisons’ right now.”
She tapped her clean, protected boots together gleefully.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Ricky grumbled.
When they pulled up to the farmhouse, Pawpaw came around to help them down and immediately spotted the issue.
“Hoo-wee, boy,” he chuckled, shaking his head at Ricky’s fouled feet. “You stepped right in a fresh cow patty, didn’t ya?”
“It’s not fair,” Ricky moaned. “How come Lizzie didn’t get any on her?”
Pawpaw gestured to her boots with a knowing smile. “That’s the thing about good boots, son. You never appreciate ’em until they’re takin’ the shit for ya.”
Lizzie’s eyes widened at the crude language from her grandfather, and then she dissolved into giggles again.
Ricky stood there, cow manure squelching between his toes, and despite his best efforts, a reluctant smile crept across his face.
“Yeah, well,” he admitted, “maybe boots aren’t completely stupid.”
“Garden hose is ‘round the side of the house,” Pawpaw instructed, taking their buckets of berries. “Don’t harass the kittens, either.”
As Ricky trudged toward the hose, Lizzie fell into step beside him.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I bet Pawpaw’s got an old pair of boots that might fit you in the mudroom.”
“Maybe,” Ricky conceded. “But they better not have unicorns on them.”
“No promises,” Lizzie grinned, bumping her shoulder against his arm.
As they rounded the corner of the farmhouse, they could hear Pawpaw through the screen door, already regaling Grandma with the tale of Ricky’s misfortune.
“You should’ve seen it, Mildred! The boy’s a good egg. Learned a lesson: Sometimes in life, you either deal with the boots… or deal with the bullshit!”
Their grandmother’s scandalized comment of, “Eddie!” was followed by hearty laughter that drifted out across the yard, mingling with the sweet scent of blackberries and the promise of cobbler.
THE END
~
This story is not included in A RELIEF OF DOODIE, it is extra content for subscribers.
Jay Horne is the author of the science fiction fantasy realm of Rootworld where magic came before science. His latest works explore the discovery of magic on the Earth when the first witch is born and turns water into wine. Now, both realms are trying to educate and acclimate their students into new subjects.
Jay is the father of four and works as a cardiac monitor tech while he writes. He has a newsletter at substack called Stories that Slap. The only thing he loves more than writing is fooling his children.
