Farmed Out Read Free Page A

together.”
    â€œYeah, maybe,” Anna said, not looking in my direction. “If I have time.” She turned on her heel and clumped up the stairs in her muddy work boots.
    Adults saying, “Hey kids, why don’t you two play,” is exactly what will prevent teenage girls from getting to know each other. I didn’t blame Anna for leaving.
    Next on the farm tour was the pigpen. It was the width of two cars, with solid wood walls all around it. My mom and I peered over the wall at the big mama pig laying on her side with her piglets jostling to get some milk.
    â€œLook at that poor runt,” my mom said. “The other piglets are squishing him.”
    â€œSuch is the life of a runt,” Ruth said. “Often they don’t survive.”
    My mom looked like she might cry. She’d probably try to sneak the runt home with us as a pet.
    Ruth and Klaus showed us the vegetable garden, the garlic field, the machine shed and the barn. A clear, slow-moving river ran along one side of the farm, near the road, and a tree-covered mountain rose up behind the farmhouse.
    My mom asked inane questions the entire tour.
    â€œDo pigs really eat slops? Is it hard to milk a cow? Do you use a horse and plow?”
    The Friesens took turns patiently responding to my mom’s questions. Yes, Klaus said, the pigs liked apple peels and table scraps. No, Ruth replied, it just takes a little practice to get the milk out. No, Klaus said, he used his tractors to till the fields.
    In the afternoon heat, the farm smell was everything I’d expected, and more.
    It was a combination of various types of animal poop, hay, dirt and something else even more powerful.
    â€œWhat’s that smell?” my mom asked, plugging her nose and squeezing her eyes shut.
    Ruth chuckled. She pointed past the vegetable garden. “The goats.”
    â€œThat’s your first job,” Klaus said.

Chapter Four
    We were outside the goat shed, standing in three inches of stinky mud. About twenty goats surrounded us, bleating and chewing. I had never seen a goat in real life before. They had creepy eyes with long narrow pupils.
    â€œWhat are all their names?” my mom asked. My mother named everything, from her hair dryer (Barbara) to her car (Dave, of course). Her favorite high heels were named Mary and Rhoda.
    â€œThey don’t have names,” Ruth said.
    â€œWe don’t like to get too attached,” Klaus said. “They are our business, not pets.”
    Klaus handed each of us a shovel.
    â€œFirst you will muck out the shed.”
    What kind of torture chamber was this place? Mucking out a goat shed?
    â€œYou do it like so,” he said, skimming his shovel over the floor to scoop up hard round goat poops. “Then, you dump it over the side for composting later.” He turned the shovel over and tapped it on the open side of the shed. The little poops plopped into a pile.
    I looked down at my beloved Andy Warhol T-shirt. It already had a streak of mud on it.
    Then I felt a tug on my skirt. A brown and white goat had a mouthful of black ruffles.
    â€œAck, no!” I exclaimed, trying to pry the skirt out of its mouth. I got it out, but a big chunk had ripped off. The goat scampered away, spraying muck all over my legs.
    â€œI told you not to bring those clothes,” my mom said, in that way mothers are so good at.
    â€œYou can borrow something of Anna’s, if you don’t have anything suitable,” Ruth said.
    I didn’t want to wear farm-girl clothes, but I didn’t want mine to get all ripped and stained either.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Thanks.”
    Five minutes later I was decked out in one of Anna’s T-shirts and light blue jeans. I felt like such a dork.
    When I returned to the goat shed, my mom was shoveling poop and singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” to herself. She changed the words to “Young Lynn Turner Had a Farm.”
    I decided to