Th’ Good Ol’ Days

(as told to the narrator/translator)

13-14 September 1996

Introduction:

Life on the farm traditionally moves at a slower pace than every other institution in the new and rapidly changing world. It is, perhaps, the last refuge of the simpler, more familiar times, before the advent of the horseless carriage, tall smokestacks, and television – times which are now referred to by many people as "th’ good ol’ days." Here, however, is an eyewitness account from that period which completely shatters the common oversimplification. It details a terrible and horrifying incident which occurred during this more bucolic era, and by no means was it an isolated happening. The reader shall be left to itself to judge whether or not these times really were "th’ good ol’ days."

The story begins:

Morning had just broken over the farm, and I was standing in a corner of the barn, idly chewing at a piece of straw. My slumber had just now been interrupted by the distant sound of the farmhouse door being opened, and minutes later, the shape of a man passed by the wide-open barn door. It was still a bit dark, but I could distinctly make out the form of Farmer Perkins. He did not appear even to notice me, but kept walking out towards the fields. At this moment, all was yet quite peaceful, but a few minutes later, shockwaves from the incident alluded to unexpectedly struck, obliterating the tranquil and easy-going mood which had prevailed over the place for as long as anybody could recollect.

It began with a voice; it was soft, but from the tone, I could tell it was a distant shout. As the voice got closer, I could make out Farmer Perkins shouting repeatedly, "He’s gone! He’s gone!" Moments later, following his voice, was Farmer Perkins, who was runnin’ quicker’n a jackrabbit toward the farmhouse as he kept up his frantic chorus of "He’s gone!"

From the kitchen, where she was already busy baking apple pies, Mrs. Perkins heard her husband’s clamoring, and met him on the back steps. In all the excitement, she hadn’t even a chance to set down her rolling pin. "Oh no!" she wailed, "are you positive?" Her face was full of upset and despair.

"He’s gone!" repeated Farmer Perkins in the same distressed voice for the seventeenth consecutive time since he had become aware of the fact.

"Snap out of it!" cried his distraught wife as she jabbed him in the stomach with her rolling pin. This tactic brought Farmer Perkins back into a useful state, and after he regained his breath, he told his wife how the corn around his station had been crushed and showed her the shirt and overalls which were all that was left of him. "I knew we should never have left him all alone guarding the fields last night! I can’t believe I let you talk me into it! Now he’s gone, gone forever!"

Mrs. Perkins began to shake and sob uncontrollably, while Farmer Perkins did his best to console her, murmuring in her ear, "He’ll be all right, don’t you worry now, we’ll find him. I’ll go to town and fetch Sheriff Tate after breakfast."

"Go now!" his weeping wife screamed, raising the rolling pin with unmistakable authority. Farmer Perkins moved quicker’n a jackrabbit to the stable, mounted his horse Whitey, and lit out for town just as fast as Whitey could gallop. The farmer saved time by telling the sheriff what had happened on the ride back, and they returned a little ways before noon.

Farmer Perkins’ wife was calmer, but still standing at the same spot on the back steps as if she hadn’t stirred from it. However, Farmer Perkins noticed with relief that she no longer had the rolling pin in her possession. On seeing the sheriff, Mrs. Perkins lost her composure, and through her tears, managed to enunciate, "Please find him, Sheriff Tate."

"I’ll do my best, ma’am," said the sheriff, who seemed a little bit confused by the Perkins’ emotionality, and, frankly, was a bit peeved that his and his deputies’ poker game had been interrupted.

So the sheriff allowed Farmer Perkins to lead him out to the cornfield where the victim had last been seen. Farmer Perkins pointed out to the sheriff where he had picked up the clothes as the sheriff silently measured up the evidence.

"It appears that someone or something came and took him," said Farmer Perkins profoundly.

"No, really?" growled the ill-humored sheriff, unable to restrain his sarcasm.

"Really," said Farmer Perkins confidently.

"Oh," replied Sheriff Tate, and so they remained at the scene of the incident for several minutes, with the sheriff examining the minutest of details as the farmer waited as patiently as he could, making a great effort to keep himself from aimlessly babbling. Just when he felt that he couldn’t stand another moment’s delay, the sheriff spoke, as if sensing his unease. "Whoever took him must have crushed all this corn and left these tracks," said the sheriff, pointing to the tracks which were in the general direction of the barn.

"That’s what I was thinking all along," said Farmer Perkins, but the sheriff knew he was lying. After a brief pause, the farmer suggested, "Maybe we should follow them."

"No, let’s go the other way," replied the sheriff derisively. Farmer Perkins started out in the opposite direction, and so the sheriff had to call him back.

"I wish you’d make up your mind," said the farmer sullenly, as they began to track the footsteps. But the sheriff, now stopped just outside the barn door, wasn’t listening, and motioned wildly for the farmer to shut up. He was focused on the tracks, which led directly to my feet.

"By any chance," whispered the sheriff, "did you leave your barn door open last night?"

"What?!" exclaimed Farmer Perkins, who was quite taken aback. "I don’t see what that has to do with anything, but no, I am quite sure that I was zipped up last night, for well… I hope you aren’t insinuating that… er, well, I’ll have you run out of town if—"

"No, no, no!" interrupted the poor, exasperated sheriff, "What I meant is this barn’s door!" he said, pointing to the large wooden structure they were standing beside.

"Oh," said Farmer Perkins foolishly, "in that case, I , er, guess I did forget to close it up last night, yes, I guess that's right."

"Well then," Sheriff Tate pronounced to the farmer, "I think we have our culprit." As he said these words, the sheriff looked directly at me, and he spoke the words as if I weren’t even there.

This day was the only time I’d ever wished I’d had more intelligence. Had I, I should have run when the farmer had gone to town, or even before that during the night. Yet here I was, at the present moment, lazily standing in a corner of the barn, still chewing that same piece of straw. Hearing the sheriff speaking at me, I lifted my head for a moment, gave him a casual, fearless glance, and then looked back down.

"Listen," said the farmer, who was obviously offended, "you’d better be damned sure about this before you start throwing accusations!"

"I am damned sure," responded the sheriff in such an authoritative voice that the farmer took a step backward in fear.

"But where is he? You don’t think she could’ve…" Farmer Perkins was unable to finish the terrible thought.

"Yes, for the last time," replied Sheriff Tate, who was about a kitten's whisker from caressing Farmer Perkins thick skull with his fist. "Look, there on the ground! Isn’t that the hat he was wearing, just as you described to me on the way over here?"

"Well, if that don’t beat it all," cried the farmer, as Sheriff Tate walked back to the farmhouse. Mrs. Perkins was still standing on the back steps as the sheriff went to his horse. He shared his findings with Mrs. Perkins as the apple pies cooled on the windowsill. Upon concluding the story, the sheriff mounted his horse.

"Aren’t you going to do anything about it?!" screamed the woman. "I can’t believe you’re just going to let her get away with it like this!"

"Ma’am," replied the sheriff, "the law has no jurisdiction in such matters. I’m sorry I couldn’t help." And he turned to ride away.

"The decent people of this land won’t let such things happen, no siree! We’ll just have to take the law into our own hands!"

"Do whatever you have to do," answered the sheriff over his shoulder, and as Mrs. Perkins went in to fetch her rolling pin, Sheriff Tate snatched one of the pies from the sill and rode away quicker’n a jackrabbit.

But Mrs. Perkins didn’t even notice the sheriff, so singular was her purpose. Having procured her rolling pin, she hurried down to the barn, where she found Farmer Perkins muttering to himself, "If that don’t beat it all!" With a well-placed thrust to the ribs, Farmer Perkins was returned to reality.

Then Mrs. Perkins spied me, for I was still standing in that same corner of the barn, dumb as ever. "There she is!" Mrs. Perkins shouted to her husband, who wasn’t deaf and was standing right beside her, "Let’s get her!" And then to me, "You’ll pay for this, you mangy varmint!" They made a run at me, and suddenly Farmer Perkins had a pitchfork. Finally, my scarce supply of intelligence directed me to flee. I spat out that bland piece of straw and bolted around them and out the barn door, quicker’n a jackrabbit.

"Come back here, you! Come pay for your crime!" screamed Mrs. Perkins. And so stupid as I am, perhaps I might even have obeyed, except I couldn’t understand the language. The Perkins began chasing me through the fields, but they, in their middle age, could not keep up, and, upon reaching the edge of the woods, gave up. As I took one final look back, I heard Farmer Perkins yell, "You won’t get away with eating MY scarecrow you damned cow!" Whatever he said didn’t sound very friendly, so I kept running.

THE END!