Village Squire, 1978-08, Page 14The day
of the sale
A short story by Cecilia Pieterse Kennedy
"Dollar, dollar, am I bid a dollar?"
Voice singing into the fall breeze, the auctioneer, John Bell
from Matilda Township holds a wooden six quart fruit basket in
the air. It holds my second best tea pot, four mason jars and a
baby bottle last used when Daniel's youngest came to visit. A
fine day for an auction this, sun bright and warm but the breeze
cool. Soon be time to see about getting the food out. No fun this
anyway, watching them poke over my things, John Bell making
snide remarks about my things to raise a laugh. The porcelain
bed pan made them roar, that was used for Auntie Jane's long
illness. Have to admit that was funny.
There's a good crowd here. Most of the township, it almost
seems. All those biddys from the Women's Institute that I
wouldn't join. Mrs. McAlister got my crystal, spiteful thing.
Joan says I need to sell these things, they won't fit in the
apartment she found for me over in McGee, but still last night I
put a few things aside and Alice on the next farm put them in her
attic for me. They'll be safe there. Old women get attached to
their things, but my daughter Joan won't understand that for
another thirty years.
I think I'll stay out awhile longer, do it now and I won't have to
when they come to sell the animals. 1 think I'll mind that even
more than watching my furniture go.
Daniel's over there, lounging against the fence with the men
who hang around the hotel in town. This is a big treat for him,
come up from Kingston, the excuse being that the old woman
needs comforting while her home is sold, the real reason being
the pleasure of bragging to the old hotel regulars about the great
adventures and big deals he's swinging down in Kingston.
Daniel is a big man, bigger than his father was. Thick neck and
heavy farmer's hands, he shouldn't be in those city clothes,
creased trousers and flashy sport shirt. Already his face is
getting pink, he's not used to the sun. I notice he has nothing to
do with Tom Everett or Harry Van Pol or any of the real farmers
who are here to buy stock and machinery. Daniel sticks to the
people who are empty and will make him feel full. Damn that
boy, if he'd wanted his father's gift, the farm would have been
his and there never would have been an auction sale today.
Cyril said, 'If the boy don't want it he don't. No use forcing
him. Think about the others.'
PG. 12. VILLAGE SQUIRE/ AUGUST 1978.
Cyril was too kind. I get mad on his behalf. He died last fall.
Since then his farm has gone to seed. I tried but a woman my age
can't keep up with two hundred acres and a herd of dairy cattle. I
wanted to sleep for hours after every morning milking. When I
was most reproachful I thought. 'Cyril mightn't have died. 1
mightn't have gotten so worn out if his son had stayed with him
instead of chasing silver cadillacs.
I know it's an old song. farmer's boy going for the city, but it's
not the same anymore. Lots of young men stay these days and
make out very well on the farm. There Bill Parnell and his boy
Leo looking at the seed drill, they've done marvels on the old
place. There could be silver cadillacs here too. but people have
more taste.
John Bell is reaching the end of the furniture. The sun is
reaching mid-day height. The women and children are retiring to
the shade beside their cars for a picnic lunch. It's time to bring
out my contribution, a tub of lemonade, coffee by the gallon
heavy sandwiches for the auctioneer and his men. Alice will help
me pass them out, make sure nothing runs out.
I move to the house, to the cool old kitchen that's been mine
for thirty years. I don't think about having to leave it as soon as
the farm is sold. I listen to the snatches of conversation of the
people on the lawn as I walk by. smiling at my friends and
enemies.
"Did you see that pile of linen there Charmaine? Must've had a
twenty year supply. Or maybe they never used it."
"Cyril McWhinnie's turning in his grave, I guess. Though he
was a quiet one, never could tell what he was thinking."
"Yes, shame all the children have gone."
"Good ridance to that oldest boy."
Cyril said, 'Don't listen to them. You take it all too serious.'
In the kitchen my oldest daughter Joan is leaning on the
kitchen counter laughing, and suddenly in the cool clammy air 1
am hot with hate. She has done this. Manoeuvred me into a
corner in a weak and weary moment, convinced me to give up
everything I love for a side street in McGee. Joan is a mother
now, it makes her think she must run the world as she does her
house, no flaws, no oddities. She was ashamed that her old
mother was out here alone, trying to run a farm by herself. She
had to do the right thing.