Good Bones

Good Bones

Whenever I can I drive up to my folks old place. Try to fix er up a bit. Place has seen better days. More than a splash of paint there, fence board here. It's a lot of work. Barn came right down in a storm three-four summers back. Too late. But the house is still standing. Good bones. Don't always know what I'm going to find up there. Gutters ripped off in the spring thaw last year. Jagged and rusty. Hanging out there like a broken bone. Creaking. Trembling. Fished the ladder out the old shed. Ripped em off the rest the way by hand. Winded. Damn near fell off the ladder. Had to go to town for new gutters. Kid at the Peavey said you can't be doing this by yourself. Too old for it. Too old to fix up my folks place. 

Hawk flew through the porch window year-two back. Still breathing when I got there with the truck, the shotgun. Didn't fight when I picked ‘im up, took ‘im outside. Didn't flinch when I pointed. Pulled. Forgot how loud that shotgun is. Dug the grave. Filled the grave. Called the Peavey. No glass in right now. Boarded the window up. Lady at the coffee shop says just sell the place. Waste of time to fix. Too old. Wife used to say the same. Kid at the coffee shop says no one would buy it. Worthless. Son used to say the same. 

Tractor still out in the field. Won't start. Hasn't in years. Rusty. Barely see it under all the grass. Pops old tractor. Used to ride on his lap round the field til mom rang the supper bell. My son used to ride on his lap every summer when we came up, til wife rang the supper bell. Tried to fix it five-ten years back. Called out the young fella from town to take a look. Said there's nothing to be done. No point. Too old. Worthless. Scrap. Looked at it again a few months back. Don't know why. Just to check. Still won't start. Five-six dead snakes twisted round the steering wheel like soiled bandages. Rock hard. Rigor. Had to pry em off with the back'a claw hammer. Burnt em in the drum. Didn't expect that much smoke.

Kitchen not bad. Cabinets falling out the studs. Hinges rusty. Frame not bad. Floor not bad. New lino maybe. Table and one'a the chairs good. Rest em old. Rotted through. Broke em down and burned em in the barrel. Frame still good though. Good bones. Still see the notches pops carved in the door frame every birthday. How tall I was every year til I left. Sometimes I put my back against it. Just to check. When I started, head came to right about the seventeen notch. Nowdays, maybe halfway between fourteen and fifteen. My bones are shrinking. Kitchen basin’s cracked. Always bring that bottled water up from town anyhow. Not safe to drink out here they say. Tried the pump few weeks back. Little trickle of black water. Checked the well. Checked the pipes. Had to run to Peavey for a bigger wrench. Wrung the pipes off. Big drowned rat plugging the valve. Threw it in the barrel like the snakes. No smoke. Took days to burn. Pump goes fine now but the water still comes out black. 

Found pops old desk in the front room. Legs rotted right through. Collapsed. Dead possum underneath. Crushed. Carried ‘im to the barrel on the shovel. Got a couple fence posts from Peavy. Cut new legs. Desk stands, just crooked now. Took a pen out the drawer. Set it on top. Rolled off to the floor. Pops old writing desk. Wrote me letters at college. Letters to me in the service. Wrote my son’s birthday cards. Wrote me out East to come home when mom died. 

Found the cellar door broken last week. Five-six dead dogs in the cellar. Strays. Got into mom's old canning. Fifty-sixty-seventy year-old canning some. Five-six strays gorged dead. Guts rock hard on corn I planted as a boy. Heavy. Could only carry the bodies up one apiece. Winded. Exhausted. Damn near fell backward down the stairs. Dug one grave. Barely. One wide, shallow grave just past the old garden. Could barely climb back out. Buried em with the shovel. Took three days all told. It's a lot of work. 

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