THE HIRED HAND
A scent of new mown timothy hay spirals me down to my 15th year.
While war raged overseas I was a hired hand volunteer
milking 40 Holstein cows for a buck a day
dodging flecks of cow manure as Bessie’s plops
filled the trough I would soon be shoveling out.
Drove a rusty red chevy pick-up truck
filled with clanking 80 gallon cans of milk,
hauling them on to a moving conveyer belt
at the I.G.A. coop creamery 5 miles away.
Embraced by the farmer, his wife and her spinster sister
they fed me like a hungry bear out of hibernation
with apple-pan-dowdy for desert at every meal.
Mowing and baling hay in the blazing sun, moving
up and down rows with monotonous military precision
my only reward at the end of the day was
shooting varmints from the front porch as the
sultry sun went down and the new moon winked hello.
I soon dropped my plan to become a vet after delivering blood
soaked glaucous covered calves, castrating squealing pigs
and artificially inseminating howling Holsteins in heat.
Surging with youthful vitality I could feel the bucolic fecundity
of the earth beneath me and had the strangest vague urge to
penetrate somebody or something somehow, until the spinster,
who was twice my age was drawn to my licentious aura.
Like the coastguard answering a Mayday signal
she began surprise visits in the middle of the night.
Now she was the volunteer offering to teach me anything
I wanted to know, since all I knew about sex was fantasies
about what might go on between Rita Hayworth’s dancing legs.
To satisfy my curiosity she invited me to have a look.
Diving under the covers with my zippo lighter I caught a glimpse
of what looked like an involuted daffodil as fragile and wondrous
as a fluttering Hooded Oriole in flight.
As ripe Braeburns tumbled from the orchard I left knowing
I had arrived as innocent as a wobbly new born colt struggling to stand,
but was going home feeling more like a stallion rearing on his hind legs
crying huzzah to the baby blue sky above.
Milton P. Ehrlich