BY PAMELA HERRON
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child! Away, away!
King Lear, Act 1, scene
William Shakespeare
Whose daughter art thou? Tell me, I pray thee: is there room in thy father’s house for us to lodge in? Genesis 24:23
My father wanted sons. Farming tradition demands strong backs and skilled hands to work the land. All across the Eastern United States, family farms pass down through the generations. Some contain small family cemeteries where names reveal a patriarchal line: father, wives – often more than one due to death during childbirth, first-born son and his wife or wives, babies dead at birth or in infancy, spinster daughters who never married. Daughters did not belong to the land. They married and worked the land of their husbands. The sole power of women derived from their ability to produce sons.
My father wanted sons. He delighted in his curly haired first-born daughter of sunshine and laughter, but with the second child, he was certain to get his coveted male child. He didn’t. He got me instead. He never quite forgave me for not being a boy. He never quite forgave my mother for producing two girl children, especially the second. Somehow that was her fault. You would think she could get it right the second time. With my new-found junior high knowledge of biology, I explained that males determined the sex of offspring by whether the x or the y sperm fertilized the egg. He argued and raged. The battle ended with me asking why on earth he sent us to school if he didn’t want us to learn? Being responsible for the sexual determination of his two female children was more than he could stand, whether it was true or not. We never discussed it again.
Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and a house divided against a house falleth. St. Luke 11:17
The law favored the male line for generations. In Biblical times, a man’s worth was measured by his land, his livestock and his sons. Daughters were of little account except, perhaps, as pawns for power and additional land. That tradition continued throughout Europe and Asia until the last century. Henry H. Halley, in Halley’s Bible Handbook, says the early chapters of the Bible were written about 1600 to 1400 B.C.E. These writings enforcing male domination, ruled Judeo-Christian thinking and more for over three thousand years. The ancient Torah, or Law, determined birthright which was only the venue of the eldest male child. Twice Sunday sermons and Wednesday evening at the Baptist church steeped this same patriarchal tradition in our household.
As far as civil, non-religious law, this same code favoring male issue prevailed. Early Germanic law was primarily of oral tradition and custom but with the advent of literacy and contact with Rome, these laws were written by the seventh century. According to Salic Law, “no portion of the inheritance shall come to a woman: but the whole inheritance of the land shall come to the male sex.” This law governed everyone from the crowned heads of Europe to the smallest free landholder. Women did not inherit.
To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1
A farm is a living breathing place with cycles like a woman. Times of fertility. Times of rest and rejuvenation. Every year a farm travels through a circle of life; a spring of rebirth, fecund summer, the fulfillment of harvest and the still quietness of a long winter. The winter is a little death that holds the seeds for new life in spring again. I knew every part of our eighty-seven acres. I walked the fence lines checking for breaks, fetched water, hauled firewood, baled and brought in hay for the winter feedings, planted, harvested, knowing my place on the farm; always aware of the past and planning for the future.
I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kinds of fruits; I made me pools of water to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees. Ecclesiastes 2:5-6
When I stood in front of the farmhouse and looked across, the patchwork of our neighbors’ farms spread before me. Deep verdant woods stretched to the next county over soft rolling, ancient hills. Facing the farmhouse, all in my view was ours. Our land as far as my eyes could see. Our farm encompassed cleared fields fenced with barbed wire and electric lines to contain the cattle, an orchard that pre-dated our ownership, our garden, the tobacco allotment, grazing cattle, two ponds, up and up until the fringe of woodland marked the edge of a geological fold.
Reaching up the gentle slope to the crest of the Peay Ridge Escarpment, our farm crested that geomorph, a ridge formed of venerable fault lines and folds sheltering limestone deposits and a series of underground caves across Kentucky. The remainder of the eighty-seven acres fell away, descending the steep rocky slope threaded by creek beds dry in summer, but rushing and cold with the spring rains and snow melt that flow down the scarp like cascading hair.
Hear ye children, the instruction of a father, and attend to know understanding. Proverbs 4:1
My father taught me to love the farm. As a small child I lived my life outdoors. I excavated my sandbox outside the living room window and spent days from sunrise to sunset in my favorite nook, a grove of locust trees in the corner of the yard. They filtered the first weak rays of the sun with opening leaf buds and sheltered me through the hot, humid summer when the leaves were so thick no one could find me if I didn’t want to be seen. Behind the pendulous pink blossoms, bees buzzed thirsty for pollen and nectar. I remember taking one of the luscious flowers apart and tasting its bitter yellow heart trying to discover what attracted the vast hordes of bees every summer. I could not discover the sweetness coveted by the bees.
I lived barefoot or, as a concession, in sandals. My father served his time in the U.S. Navy during the Second World War in the Philippines and the South Pacific islands and he used to mock my bare feet comparing them to the natives of New Guinea who spread their toes wide to grip and climb the coconut trees. My mother quickly learned not to waste money on tight patent leather shoes for me. They lasted for an Easter Sunday morning snapshot along with the pastel hat and white gloves, never to be worn again.
Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls. Jeremiah 6:16
My father taught me how to watch the weather, how to know when hay was seasoned and ready to rake and bail, how to drive a tractor, although sadly, my legs were never long enough to apply the brake. My father would set the speed on the old green John Deere with the acceleration stick on the column. I sat up high on the seat slowly driving the tractor around and around the field in ever smaller circles. He rode the wagon or stood up beside me on the running board, jumping off to load the rectangular hay bales. The two of us could load a field of hay and get the wagon in the barn before sunset and the evening rain. He would stack the last bail, climb up beside me, and knock the accelerator to a higher speed. We would go chugging along, black puffs coming out of the smokestack, much faster than I could ever drive on my own. There was a thrill going so fast in the old tractor. Even standing on the brake with both feet pushing with all my weight I couldn’t stop the tractor. My father’s foot was nearby ready to pump and push the brake to the bottom.
And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and the cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after its kind: and God saw that it was good. Genesis 2:25
My father taught me everything about the farm. Daily I monitored the cattle, their health and well-being. Every afternoon before the sun set, I walked the fields counting. There was the bull, the herd of cows and their young calves. An accurate count was necessary during calving. I watched their pregnancies and saw the calves drop low in their bellies when near their time. If one was missing or in distress, I hightailed it back to the house to let my father know. Most births happened without problem, but it was money lost to risk a good breeder. Our reliable, dutiful cows dropped wonderfully healthy calves faithfully every spring; calves we could count on to bring a good price at market. The value of Black Angus cows is weighed by their production of calves. A female prone to difficult births or underweight sickly young was destined for the stock market.
The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. Isaiah 11:6
Black Angus cattle are the elite of the beef market, with purebred Black Angus a cut above those of questionable linage. I was small when my father took the first steps to convert our cattle to a purebred herd. He began with the purchase of two cows. The following spring, we kept their calves. We bred those and eventually looked for a purebred Angus bull, a burdensome expense for the farm. I kept accurate records of every cow, every calf, sending their birth names to the American Angus Association. We tattooed their ears to identify them. You have to be a darn good cattle person to be able to tell one Black Angus cow from another.
For years the cows wore light chains with a metal number tag around their necks. In the soft afternoon, the chains gently chimed as they lowered their heads to graze. We began tattooing after one summer day when I finished my count and came up one short, a heifer. Long past calving season, there was no reason for one to be apart. Cattle are sociable animals. They graze together and move over the fields, following the shade as the sun travels across the sky.
I found her eventually. One of the half-grown daughters of one of the best breeders. She would have been bred that fall with a calf to come in the spring. Now my footsteps dragged home, hating to tell my father to call the “dead-wagon” to come get her body. Her chain tangled around the branch of a dead tree branch in the field. I knew that my father knew that it was his fault. The branch should have been dragged away or cut up. He should have known the risk of one of them hanging themselves.
We bought a tattooing stamper. I entered the numbers, the dye from the punches staining my fingers as I created a number for each animal. They had to be herded into the loading chute. Cows do not stand quietly still and let their ears be pierced with a set of nail-like needles. My father threw away all of the chains. We never used them again. To this day, I will not leave a collar on a dog in the house or yard. The sound of the buzzing green flies with the memory of her stiffening body still remain.
My soul is among lions; and I lie even among them that are set on fire, even the sons of men, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a sharp sword. Psalms 57:4
In raising me, my father raised a two-edged sword. He brought me up to be self-sufficient, to think for myself, to be fiercely independent. But he expected to turn that around and see a docile, obedient, subservient girl when his mood changed. Children should be seen and not heard, except when he needed me. His pride glowed when I was innovative and thought of a clever way out of a problem; he roared at me when I didn’t drop everything and do his bidding immediately, especially with an irrational request. Peace in our home was doomed.
My sister loved girl things of pretty clothes and curled hair. As children we pored over the Sears catalogue deciding which dresses we wanted on each page. As the oldest she chose first. From the time we were small children, she couldn’t wait to get off the farm. “When I’m grown, I’ll have a house in town and everything in it will be brand new.” She helped on the farm. We had to. But I was the one trudging after my father carrying the nail bag and tools for repairs. I begged to be allowed to climb up and ride beside him on the tractor. As a young child I had limited interaction with other children because of the isolation of the farm. Childhood friends would meet at Sunday services and as a rare treat, parents granted permission for one child to visit the other’s home until evening church. During the weekdays, the animals and the farm were my playthings. I would rather have been outdoors under the trees than anywhere else.
For I was my father’s son, tender and only beloved in the sight of my mother. Proverbs 4:3
Carol Heilbrun in Reinventing Womanhood stresses the significance of a study by Margaret Hennig. In studying women with a successful career who did not follow the pattern of marrying, having children and expecting their husbands to support them, she found that in an all-girl family, one girl will be “chosen by her father to as ‘son,’ since no boy was present to fill that role.” That was me. I went to the barber shop with my father. Mrs. Jones cut my father’s hair, then mine. I wore a care-free pixie cut for years. It wasn’t until after I grew my hair long in the fourth grade that I ever went to a salon for a cut and style. I tagged along to the feed store, the hardware store and other typical male purviews. I was never bored and settled quite comfortably in the male company. I did not seek or expect attention. I always had a book with me if the conversation was dull. My adventurous mind kept company with Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden and others.
If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask for a fish, will he for a fish give him a serpent? St. Luke 11:11
My father’s grandfather, my great grandfather, was known as the meanest man in the county. He rode a cantankerous mule around the county with his shotgun loaded and ready across his lap. The story goes that he would as soon shoot you as look at you. A hard man that few people crossed. His reputation grew for miles around.
His son, my grandfather, raised a brood of children and cared for none of them. Four daughters and one son were not enough. Doctors told my grandfather that his wife could not, should not bear any more children. Shortly after my father’s birth, his baby sister came along; the final one, at last, of seven living children. My grandmother spent the rest of her days confined in the state mental hospital, never to walk the fields again. I saw her for the first time laid out in the casket at her funeral.
My great grandfather and my grandfather amassed a considerable amount of land in south-central Kentucky. As each of his elder daughters and his oldest son came of age, my grandfather deeded them a farm to get them started in life. All of them except my father. My father, named after his father, was the only child who did not receive property. His father never told him why, but it rankled for the rest of his life. Why them and not him? He worked hard on the farm. He did his part, but he was the one left out. As an adult, he rented property for years. The summer before I turned three, he finally bought our farm using his veterans’ benefits to secure the mortgage.
What mean ye, that ye use this proverb concerning the land of Israel, saying, the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge? Ezekiel 18:2
My mother’s final years were marked by my son’s birthdays and recurring diagnoses of cancer. The first diagnosis came with my pregnancy and the last when my son was about to turn four. With the diagnosis of terminal metastasized breast cancer, doctors gave her two choices; go into a nursing home or go somewhere she could have access to twenty-four-hour in-home care for the rest of her days. My father continued an active social life even with the danger of her blacking out. She fell in the bathroom multiple times. She nearly tumbled down the stairs outside the back door. She could not be left alone because of the drastic drops in blood pressure. My husband and I discussed it. My sister and I discussed it. We offered her the option of coming to live with us in Georgia where my husband was currently stationed. She cried. She didn’t want to be a burden, but she glowed through her tears. Yes, she wanted to come with us. My sister and I knew it would be a battle with my father. This was our mother, but it was his wife.
We enlisted the assistance of hospital staff. My mother could no longer sit upright or travel on a commercial flight. My sister got the contact information and whipped out her credit card to pay for an air ambulance. My husband drove back to Georgia alone to set up our spare storeroom as a hospital room. My sister dealt with my father. My son and I packed a few belongings and prepared to fly to Georgia in a tiny plane with my mother strapped to a gurney. The air ambulance staff warned that she might not survive the flight, but she did. We never slept in the farmhouse again. We left not knowing it would be for the last time for all of us.
My father never forgave me for taking my mother to live with us.
But thou shalt die in peace. Jeremiah 34:5
For years before, my mother tried to convince my father to deed one of the farms to my son, their only grandson. My sister and I both agreed since it was quite clear there would be no other grandchildren. My father refused. Before the air ambulance came, my mother insisted an attorney be brought to her hospital room for her to make her will. She left her half of both farms and all her belongings to my son. Her will was never filed for probate. Weeks before her death, the attorney called me in Georgia to tell me that Kentucky community property laws prohibited willing possessions and real estate away from a surviving spouse. I did not tell her. She died thinking that she had done one good thing, tying up her half of the property so that it would come to her grandson.
O ye women, and let your ear receive the word of his mouth, and teach your daughters wailing, and every one her neighbor lamentations. For death is come up into our windows, and is entered into our palaces, to cut off the children from without, and the young men from the streets. Jeremiah 9:20-21
My father married again within weeks of her funeral. Months later he finally put up a tombstone at the gravesite: my mother’s birth and death on the left, his birth with a blank for the death on the right and, in the center, the name of his new wife whose name was already engraved on the tombstone of her previous husband. There her name lies between my parents for all time. On the occasions that my father’s youngest sister visits the cemetery, she smears the center name with mud which remains until the next rain.
Three years later my father died one week to the day after my son’s father left us deciding he wanted his freedom. My father left everything to his new wife who was older than him. My sister flew back to Kentucky for the funeral, but I did not. He disinherited his only two children and his only grandchild. My sister and I have talked it over for so many years trying to understand, trying to find a way to accept such bitterness from a man we had loved.
That our sons may be as plants grown up in their youth; that our daughters may be as cornerstones, polished after the similitude of a palace. Psalms 144:12
What legacy have I left my son? As a toddler he wandered the farm with me. He dined in our yard in southern Georgia, knowing which herbs were safe, eating figs, plums, and tomatoes he picked himself. As an infant he played on his blanket watched by my beloved collie while I dug the earth planting vegetables, pruning fruit trees, spreading compost.
In San Diego, California, I became extremely ill while his father was at sea with the U.S. Navy. His father left us during my illness, which heralded some lean hard times with no settled place to live. I eventually bought a house in El Paso two and a half years later, but by that time, my son’s connection with the land was broken. He helps with the garden if asked; his health a clear endorsement for the value of organic and sustainable foods. But where is his love for the land, his sense of wonder at growing things?
And their houses shall be turned unto others, with their fields and wives together. Jeremiah 6:12
I still dream of having a small farm, not to make money but for the pleasure of growing and harvesting my own food. That ultimately is what farming is all about. Maybe someday my son, or my son’s children will want that too. Maybe they’ll research and study all they need to know; all the knowledge that used to be passed down from parents to children as a matter of course, our day to day life an unintentional legacy. My dream of my own land is reduced to a historic home in the heart of a city, sitting on an eight thousand square foot lot with a tiny garden in the backyard.
Perhaps someday my son will look at a piece of land and see its worth, see the possibilities of such a life. Perhaps it will be a child or grandchild of his. He carries my maiden name, my birth name, my father’s surname, but the line is broken. The loss of our farm changed everything for me. As a child, I wanted the farm. I dreamed of living there someday. We always thought the farm would one day be my son’s. It belongs to others now, lost forever. It would have been wrong to raise him to think that he belonged on the land. My son and I wandered for a while, wondering where to settle. City dwelling makes the most sense now. But still.
The Lord bless thee, and keep thee: The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee and give thee peace. Numbers 6:24-26
Over the years, my mother visited my dreams several times. In the dream, she is silent. It seems to be part of a bargain she has brokered. We sit or walk beside one another. We look into each other’s eyes. We can even touch; her hand in my mind once again, a gossamer gift. I can talk to her, but she cannot speak except with her eyes. It doesn’t matter. All the words we needed we spoke long ago. I wake without a feeling of loss, rather the calm of a quiet and comforting memory.
Last night, for the first time, I dreamed we were all together again; my father, my mother, my sister and myself. My sister and I were now, our contemporary selves; my father and mother were then, years before the cancer, the illness and his bitterness prevailed. None of us spoke. We walked together.
I wish I could talk to my father. Inside me an aching need wants to know a reason. Most of all I want to tell him that I still loved him. My father and my mother still walk inside my skin. They see the flames of the southwest sunset through my eyes. Their hands touch my harsh desert soil through my goatskin gloves. They live and breathe within me still.
If I could do it all over again, I would be a farmer. Not a farmer’s wife. I would have my bit of land with a glorious orchard, the scent of herbs as I walked the paths, my garden, perhaps a cow, or even a nanny goat for milk. I would have a flock of small chickens and some sunflowers. I would live with the cycles of the seasons with earth under my nails. I would bite into vegetables and fruits warm from the sun.
At the local farmers’ market, we buy rainbow eggs; a carton of tiny eggs, cream, brown, almost blue from their varied flock. On Sunday morning my fingers brush the ivory shells. I think of all we carry with us from the past and I dream of what might have been.
I will both lay me down in peace and sleep. Psalm 4:8
Pamela Herron, California writer and poet, has poetry and flash fiction in various publications. Her nature-based poetry collection, En L'air, debuted in 2013. Recent books include Exploring Ancient China and contributing to Confucianism Revisited (SUNY Press). She researches and teaches Daoism/Confucianism. Current projects include new collection of nature poems and a young adult novel.