Life on the Farm
Written By: Justin CaseEdited By: Ed
©JCPCo2001 all rights reserved.
Disclaimer: This material contains sexually graphic language. You must know the Laws pertaining to viewing this subject matter, and be willing to accept responsibility for all legal ramifications by doing so. This story is about the diversities of young love and life. It primarily deals with the exchange of love between two males. If you find this material offensive, or it is illegal for you to read, leave now. This tale is fiction; any similarity to actual people, places, and events is purely coincidental. The author, his editor, and the publisher accept no responsibility for the actions of the reader.
SoapBox®: Here we go again, another first from Justin Case. Can you stand it? I barely can. Hope you all like it, and let me know if you do, the addy is Justin69SK@aol.com and if you get the hankering check out my website located at http://Justinscorner.homestead.com Thanks. I hope to talk to you all soon!
He woke with a start, `Shit, not again,' he thought to himself, as he threw his slender legs off the bed. The cold linoleum floor greeted the balls of his feet, as he searched the room in the early morning darkness. He rubbed at his brown eyes with a balled up fist, as he tried to adjust his sights. The dull thumping of the milk machine reverberated off his bedroom walls, the glass in the window rattled with every pump. It was that familiar perpetual clanking, followed by the sound of wheezing air that woke him. He didn't have time to think, he was late again.
In a rumpled ball on the floor at the end of his twin bed, he found his clothes, right where he had left them the night before. He pulled his blue denim overalls up quickly, then instinctively he turned his left wrist and checked his brand new, luminescent, self-winding, water-resistant Timex; it was already 4:30 am. He knew he'd be in trouble when he got to the barn. He nervously fumbled with the shoulder straps; his flannel shirtsleeve was stuck as he tried to poke his right arm through the large opening between the strap and jump-suit-like trousers.
"Milking starts at 4:15 sharp, these ladies can't wait, you know," would come the stern warning from his Uncle Matt. Oh, he knew, he'd heard it before, many times. He also knew that as soon as Uncle Matt said his piece, it would be forgotten until the next time Jim was late.
Jim had lived and worked on his uncle's farm in Massena, New York, for the last three years. He lost his parents in a tragic auto accident when he was only thirteen. Jim had been an only child, and originally lived in Springfield, Massachusetts, until that fateful April day in 1971. The day that had cut a piece into his brain, April 11, his parents died in a fiery car crash. His parents were killed instantly, he had been told, as if that made it better, it didn't, they were still gone. His mother's sister took him in, Aunt Carol. He had never seen a cow in real life, until he moved to the farm.
Jim swiftly took the six strides through the kitchen, and barreled through the back door, he heard the slamming of the wooden screen as it closed behind him. `Shit, I hope I didn't wake her,' he thought. Carol hated to wake early; she wouldn't be up for another hour, just in time to cook breakfast for the three men in the barn. He darted through the wet overgrown grass towards the barn, he could hear the cows mooing, and the pungent odor of manure hung in the damp morning air.
He opened the door to the milk house. The two thousand, five hundred gallon stainless steel tank glistened under the overhead lights. The milk house was the smaller wing on the east side of the massive one hundred and forty-foot long, forty foot wide structure. The huge white barn that housed the ninety-something Holsteins, and half a dozen or so Jerseys, twice a day every day, except for in the winter when they took up permanent residence inside. Jim bent over and lifted his right leg to put his foot into his rubber barn boots, then shoved his left foot into the other boot. He scuffled into the barn and charged for the grain room.
"Hey, Jim!" Randy, Jim's friend and other farmhand, shouted from the other end of the barn, a certain excitement could be heard in his greeting.
"These ladies can't wait, you know," Matt called down to him, just like he knew he would.
Matt was always serious, he was a well-respected businessman, often other farmers would come to him for advice. Matt was twenty-seven and already the President of the St. Lawrence County Dairy Farmers Association. He stood five foot seven, with short light brown hair that topped off his head. He had a very high forehead, as his hairline was receding. His eyes were soft blue, and seemed to draw people in. He had a large nose, and a squared chin. He never grew a beard or mustache, as so many other farmers did during the long cold winters in upstate New York. He would say, "Why should I cultivate on my face what grows wild on my ass?" Matt always moved with a purposeful stride, he always seemed to be in the midst of the most important task. Often, he would be deep in thought, and staring off into space, almost as if he truly carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Centered over each stall was a male coupling that hung down from the overhead 2" stainless steel milk lines that had just been added. The first man, Randy, would go ahead, he made sure the cows were standing, then he washed their teats, while the second man, Matt, would come through and hook up the milker to the coupling overhead and fix the four suction ends to the udders. The new method with the pipeline certainly was faster than the old dumping station they had been using. The strange looking contraption reminded Jim of an octopus of sorts, there were four large rubber suction tubes mounted on small hoses and connected with a stainless steel collar that housed a larger hose that mounted to the male connectors on the milking line.
Jim was the number three man, he was supposed to help bring the cows in with Randy, while Matt waited in the barn and directed the herded hoofed animals to their appropriate stalls. Two cows to every stall, and every cow had her place. After Matt had directed the animals into their places, Randy and Jim would hook the collars each cow wore around their necks to the front pipe of the stall. Then Jim would go to the grain house and give every cow a half scoop of grain, with a scoop of silage. Every morning at four, Randy and Jim would go to the pasture and start yelling, "Come, Boss, come, Boss," and again every afternoon at about three.
Randy had been working at the farm since he was twelve, about a year before Jim had started. As the two boys herded the thousand-plus pound animals into the barn, they all would shout, "Get in your place, get in your place." Each cow had a tag pierced onto her left ear; on the red plastic tags were numbers, every cow had its own number and was known by the number. After the milking was done, Matt's father would come and run the manure gutter conveyor into the spreader and spread the natural fertilizer in the appropriate cornfield. While Matt, Randy, and Jim would join Carol for breakfast.
Randy was a strapping boy, and two months older than Jim was. He stood five foot six; while he was stocky; he had a well-defined body. His thick, wavy, black hair was kept closely cropped. His rounded face was accented with his charcoal eyes over his slightly pugged nose. His complexion was fair, and his skin was blemish free. He certainly could fill out the sleeveless shirts he often wore while haying in the early summer. His smooth upper arms were thick, and there was some definition to his biceps, the small patches of black hair would peek out from his armpits, as he hooked the sixty-pound bales up on to the trailer.
Jim and Randy had become close friends the very first few days Jim had been there. Randy wasn't really an
Matt had felt the same way to a degree about Jim, he felt Jim was too city-boyish, and needed to take the soft edge off the boy. The first fall Jim was there, Matt took the two boys deer hunting on the northern hundred. It was the first time Jim had seen a deer, let alone witnessed the killing of such a fine animal. The three men had gotten up early one November morning, the cows had already been moved into the barn for the winter, they did the milking first of course, then trudged into the woods, shotguns and rifles in hand. Matt had taken them out the afternoon before, to check for tracks and find the runs the deer were using. They picked a spot on a bluff, which looked over the trail down to the river. Matt explained that it was rutting season, and the deer would go to the river for a morning drink before they lay down for the day. It wasn't fifteen minutes when a six point, two spike buck crossed their line of vision, slowly and gracefully walking towards the river. CRACK went the shot from Matt's Winchester model 94, dropping the deer. It all happened so fast.
Randy showed Jim how to gut the animal, and told him to leave the waste on the trail for the other animals. Jim was amazed at the ease the other men took the slaughter, but realized it was a way of life. The following week Carol made venison stew, with homemade bread.
Yes, the last three years had certainly changed Jim's perspective on life. He had had many first experiences, and was better for them all, he thought. He missed his parents from time to time, but never let those feelings show, just like other feelings he had been having, that he stuffed deep down inside. Although he usually told Randy everything he was thinking, there were two subjects he never discussed - his parents, and the feelings he had for Steve. Randy only had one thing he never discussed with Jim, and those were the feelings he had for Jim.
Matt's father opened the back doors to the barn and backed the tractor and spreader to the conveyor. Randy had just finished washing number 5, the last of the cows to be milked. Matt was pulling the milker from number 29, 5's stall mate. When Jim had finished feeding the cows, his next task was on the ladies' other end, he would have to shovel the overspray of shit into the manure gutter and spread lime on the concrete floor of the main aisle, he was the number three man.
"You boys better get moving, Carol has breakfast ready and we're a few minutes behind. You don't want to be late to school," Matt yelled over the sounds of the machines.
Jim felt the sting of guilt; he was the reason they were running late. "Come on, Randy, I'll race you to the kitchen," he called over his shoulder as he trotted towards the milk house.
"I'm as hungry as a horse," Randy shouted as he followed Jim.
The two boys took the rubber boots off and raced across the lawn towards the house. The sun had just begun to break over the horizon; it was six thirty already. Just as Jim reached for the door handle, his right foot slipped on the dew-soaked grass, he fell hard.
Randy was there in a flash, offering his hand to help his friend up. The two boys' eyes met, and locked on each other, and a silence seemed to fall upon them. Randy pulled Jim's hand and brought him to his feet.
"You OK?" he asked, his voice sounded like a parent asking a young child who had just fallen, his jet black eyes were full of concern.
Jim looked at him quizzically, "Yeah, thanks."
The scintillating aromas of freshly cooked bacon and percolated coffee filled the small kitchen as they burst through the door. Centered in the room was a large pine country-style table, with benches on either side and two captain-like chairs at the ends. In the middle of the table, under the light that hung from the ceiling, was a platter of french toast. On one end of the table were two plates of fruits, melons that had been frozen and thawed, and on the other end of the table was a platter of bacon, and next to it a large mixing bowl full of scrambled eggs.
"I hope you boys are hungry. I got some cinnamon buns in the oven; they'll be out in a minute. Go wash up, you're running behind," Carol instructed them; her back was to them as she tended the stove.
"Yeah, Jim slept in again," Randy teased.
"Jimmy," Carol continued the banter. They all knew how self-conscious he felt about sleeping late.
Jim's face turned beet red, he said nothing, and walked towards the hallway to the bathroom, Randy smiled at Carol and followed his schoolmate. Randy couldn't seem to take his eyes off that taut butt on his best friend, and felt guilty.
Randy really had been worrying lately as the two boys changed from their barn clothes into school clothes, they had been doing this every morning for almost three years, but lately Randy couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Jim's smooth body. Often he would catch himself trying to imagine what Jim's hard dick looked like, and his own cock would start to swell in his jockey underwear right there in the same room. It wasn't like they hadn't seen each other naked, because they had. No, the feelings Randy was having were not what he had been taught; they just seemed to be. No matter how hard he tried to stop them, they kept flooding his mind.
"I'm sorry, Randy, for being late again." Jim's voice was soft and reflected his embarrassment.
"Come on, it's OK. If we miss the bus, Carol will drive us. Don't sweat it."
"I just can't seem to wake up some mornings, it's like I sleep too soundly," Jim explained.
"It's all the hard work we do, and the fresh air. My mother wakes me up, so I'm never late."
The innocent words pelted Jim's mind. He didn't have a mother, and his aunt didn't like to get up early. Matt, well, Matt felt Jim was a man and responsible for himself, even though Matt was up, he never woke Jim. He felt his eyes begin to water and turned away from Randy.
"Hey, you thought about the fall dance?" Randy changed the subject.
"Not really, why?"
"You going?" Randy pushed.
"Probably, unless Tom gets us some beer and we have our own party at the fort," Jim prattled off his thoughts on the subject for the first time.
Randy began fantasizing, and wondered who Jim meant would be going to this party. He hoped it would be just a few, like Tom, Joey, maybe Sherry, and Monica. He'd rather it be just Jim and he, but knew that would never happen.
The fort was an old logger's cabin out in the midst of the northern hundred. It had been long abandoned by the loggers as Matt now owned the forest, it was part of the nearly thousand acres that made up the Lapointe Dairy Farm. The same place they went hunting every fall. The cabin was made of rough cut boards and had plastic windows. Matt had put an old Ben Franklin wood burner in it years ago, and it still worked. There was no running water, but that was what the river and buckets were for. The cabin had some rustic furniture that Randy and Jim had made in wood shop, a few chairs and a table, as well as some hand-me-down chairs, and a couple of cots, from the original farm house. Matt had built a new home for him and Carol, shortly after they bought the farm, the original house was built in the early 1800's and practically falling down. The teenagers had claimed ownership to the cabin, and affectionately called it their fort.
"Wow, that sounds like a plan. Who'd ya have in mind coming to the party?" Randy felt his friend out.
"I don't know, the usual gang, Joey, you, maybe Monica and Sherry."
"What about Tom?" Randy sounded surprised Jim didn't mention his name.
"I hate Tom, and I hate the way he treats little Joey. I thought about asking Steve, too."
"Steve? You mean Jock Steve?"
"Yeah, I don't know why, but I kind of want to get to know him better," Jim said, but knew deep down inside why he wanted to get to know Steve better.
"Boys, you better get a move on, it's quarter to seven. I'm gonna have to drive you to school." Carol's voice cut through the air and the two teens' thoughts.
Matty had come in, cleaned up at the kitchen sink and was already sitting at the head of the table. The sound of the Allis Chalmers tractor could be heard roaring in the yard, as Matt's father headed for the front five-acre cornfield. Jim and Randy rounded the corner into the kitchen from the hallway and took their respective places at the table, one on each bench, directly across from each another, at Matt's side. Carol spun around from the oven, bun pan in hand, and carefully placed it in front of her husband, and then she filled his plate before taking her seat at the other end of the table.
"Wow, Honey, you outdid yourself this morning. What's the occasion?" Matt lovingly said to his wife.
"There is no occasion. I don't need a reason to take care of my men, my mother raised me right." Carol smiled at him, and winked at the two boys. "Now that you mention it, I would like to go into town today, Jenny is having a sale and I was thinking of getting a new dress."
"Oh, bribery, I get it. What time did you have in mind? I have to repair some fence out in the west pasture today," Matty looked up from his breakfast plate just long enough to say.
"Well, I have to take the boys to school, then clean the machine, I guess around eleven would be good, I'll let you buy me lunch at Guy's."
Carol was a robust, short woman. She stood about five feet four, and weighed about one hundred and sixty pounds. Carol had straight, fine, strawberry blonde hair that she kept short, just above her shoulders. She wore light brown-framed glasses, which had large lenses, and accented her light complexion. Her face was round; her cheeks were like that of a large chipmunk. She had hazel eyes, that were soft to look at, and over her small turned up nose. Like everyone else that lived on the farm, she too had chores to do.
Carol's job in the barn was to wash all the milking equipment. Every morning after she had cleaned up the breakfast mess, she headed for the milking house where she washed and sanitized all the equipment the men had used to milk the ladies. She also took the bacteria counts on the milk in the tank, to make sure the milk was clear of germs. Her job was one of the most important, if the counts were high the milk would have to be dumped. Then all the equipment, including the tank, would have to be completely cleaned and sanitized. The loss of a tank of milk was one of the worst things that could happen on the small dairy farm. Her job had been made a little easier since the new lines had been installed, she didn't have as much to wash, but it was still a hard job.
The boys headed out the door to the van and stood by its side, waiting for Carol. The kitchen looked like an army had invaded, just like it did every day when breakfast was finished. Matt walked towards the machine shop; it was directly across the three-hundred-foot long driveway from the house, both the machine shop and home stood in front of the barn. Carol just rinsed all the plates and left them in the sink, she knew they'd still be there when she got back from the school. Then she walked to the van; she got in the passenger side so Jim could practice his driving.
"You drive, Jim, you need the road time, you have your driving test this Friday," Carol called to him.
Another pang of guilt crossed Jim's mind; he had failed the driving test the first time he took it on his birthday a few weeks earlier. He screwed up on the parallel parking. A license was a must on the farm, so he could run for parts and equipment. Plattsburg was one of the nearest places they could get parts for the tractors, and that was about a forty-five minute drive one way. One trip could take half a day, and Matt never had that kind of time, so Carol would be strapped with the driving, and her back had bothered her since an accident years before, long drives were difficult for her. Jim hoped to take the task over and knew his aunt would appreciate it.
Jim started the van and headed down the gravel drive, they took a left and headed up to Route 56. They passed the drive-in, where Matt's brother ran the mercury projector, and they could go for free. It was where he and Randy watched `Night of the Living Dead', the first summer Jim had come to Massena. It had been shown in the theaters three years earlier, but neither boy had seen it until that summer night in July 1971. It was one of their all time favorite picture shows.
They pulled into the Central High School parking lot a few minutes later. Jim maneuvered the van to the drop off area, near the main entrance. Randy was quick to point out Monica, and Tom. Jim didn't say anything, he saw Steve crossing the lot from the student parking. This Wednesday was beginning to shape up, he thought to himself. He timed his exit from the van so he'd bump into Steve.
"Hey, Steve," Jim called out.
"Jimbo, what's up, man?" Steve diverted his path from the front entrance towards Jim and the van.
Randy waited for the two to catch up to him and the three headed for Monica and Tom. They still had a few minutes to talk before they had to be in homeroom. Carol tooted the horn as she drove away; they all turned and waved. The sky was clear, and the early morning sun was beaming down on them. It had already started to get chilly in the nights as the temperatures began to dip into the forties. Winters were long and hard in the St. Lawrence River valley; it often snowed as early as mid October. The snow usually didn't start sticking until November though.
"Hey, Tom, hey, Monica. What's happening?" Randy asked as they approached.
"I got a new car, a `69 Goat, it's mint," Tom the constant bragger boasted. "It's got a Hurst shifter, dually with cherry bombs, and four barrel carb, all mounted on the stock '70, 455 cubic inch custom installed motor, talk about power, man, she rips. I can catch rubber in all four gears." He pointed towards a bright red Pontiac with a jacked up ass end and wide tires, parked in the first spot of the senior lot.
The five kids just stared at it for a moment. As much as Jim didn't like Tom, he was smart enough to know Tom was the only one old enough to buy booze in the small group, so he always was cordial with him. They all liked to party on Friday nights out in the fort.
"Hey, Steve, what you doing this Friday? Wanna party with us, out to my place? Tom, you gonna buy for us?" Jim was quick to ask while the moment seemed right.
"Yeah, what we partying for?" Tom didn't take his eyes off his new machine.
"I'm getting my license."
Just about any reason was good enough to spend Fridays drinking in the fort and heading to Arby's for a late night snack. They had been doing it almost every Friday since the beginning of the past summer. There wasn't much else to do, and they had seen most of the movies that played at the drive-in.
"I need a ride," Steve finally piped up.
"I'll pick you up, or you could take the bus home with me," Jim quickly volunteered, before Tom could.
"Yeah, you can help us with the milking," Randy finished the invite, just as the first bell rang.
"I'll bring Sherry and Monica, Sherry has some good smoke, she picked up a lid yesterday," Tom reported, as the group headed into the school.
Jim was feeling some excitement; he had longed to get to know Steve better. He had noticed while they were talking that Steve couldn't seem to take his eyes off him. He wondered if it were possible that Steve had the same kinds of feelings he had. He was too afraid to talk about the feelings though; he spent the rest of the day dreaming of ways to approach the subject, in between his class work. He figured at the least they could become good friends, just being near Steve was good enough for Jim.
Randy had begun to feel jealous, he didn't have many friends, Jim was like his best friend. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea of Jim's sudden outreach to Steve, but he couldn't exactly tell anyone. He spent the rest of the day withdrawn and sullen. He felt like he had nowhere to turn, he felt so alone and full of shame.
Well, my good friends I hope you like this, I have really worked hard on it for you. Let me know, please, I love getting your e-mails. I'd like to take this time, to thank my very good friends and supporters, Geoff, Julio, Willy and Rob, they helped me get through what I needed to, and made this story possible. Thanks guys!
Oh, and to Sarah, whom I dedicate this story to. Thanks Sarah Bera, you give me purpose, and guide me to the place in my heart, that keeps me grounded.I appreciate all the help you have personally devoted to my work, and your tireless efforts; even in the wake of your not wanting to.
My thanks to Ed, as always, for his fine editing abilities.
but not forever,