Farmed Out Read Free Page B

take out my anger by shoveling. I dreamed of being back in the city, sitting in my favorite café with my sketchbook.
    â€œIsn’t this fun, Maddie?” my mom said. “Hard work builds character.”
    I didn’t respond. I shoveled harder, trying to drown out whatever other clichés were coming out of her mouth.
    A few minutes later my mom leaned her shovel against the shed wall. She raised her arms and did a big stretch. “Well, this has been fun. I wonder what we get to do next.”
    I straightened up. “What are you talking about? We’re supposed to clean the whole shed.”
    â€œOh. Right,” my mom said, looking disappointed.
    If my mom was going to not like the farm work, then I was going to love it.
    I continued to muck out the shed, whistling as I worked.
    My mom said something, but I pretended not to hear her over the sound of my vigorous scooping.
    I was getting into a rhythm. Scoop poop, poop scoop , I repeated in my head.
    I wasn’t sure how much time had gone by, but when I looked up again, my mom was gone.
    â€œMom?” I called. I poked my head around the side of the shed.
    There she was, with a small herd of goats nibbling at her sleeves and nuzzling her knees. She stroked a brown goat’s floppy ears. She was holding something in her right hand. Two of the goats had words written on them.
    â€œMom, what are you doing?”
    She looked up, her hand poised over the left butt cheek of a white goat. I realized the thing in her hand was a muddy stick.
    â€œOh hi, Madison,” she said, as though using dirt to scribble on farm animals was normal. “Come see. I’m naming the goats.”
    The white goat scurried away. It had Glenda printed in big muddy letters on its flank. The butt of another goat victim said Gigi .
    â€œMom, have you gone completely nuts?” I said finally, tossing down my shovel. The goats scattered.
    â€œNot at all,” she replied, her chin held high. “I’m writing their names on the goats so that the Friesens can remember who they are.”
    â€œWell, stop it right now!” I yelled.
    Ruth and Klaus approached, carrying armfuls of hay. I covered my face with my hands in pure embarrassment. Oh no.
    â€œGood gracious!” Ruth exclaimed when she saw the goats.
    â€œMeet Glenda and Gigi,” my mom said. “And there’s Grace, Geena, Giselle and Ginger, but I haven’t gotten to them yet. I thought I would start a tradition of naming your farm animals,” she added proudly.
    I sucked in a breath, waiting to see what the Friesens would say. Klaus slowly took his pipe out of his breast pocket, lit it and took a puff.
    â€œGigi and Glenda are heading to the slaughterhouse tomorrow,” he said. “We supply restaurants with goat meat.”
    My mom’s eyes went pink and teary. “Gigi and Glenda?” she said, her voice weak. “That’s what these goats are destined for? Certain death ?”
    I understood why the Friesens didn’t name their animals.
    â€œWhy don’t you take a break and come in for some iced tea,” Ruth said.
    â€œOkay,” my mom said. She dropped the muddy stick.
    â€œI’m going to go for a walk,” I said. “But I’ll come in soon.”
    I wanted to wander around the farm and get inspired for the art contest. I thought it was doubtful I’d find something to draw, but I might as well stay away from my mother for a while.
    I walked past the tractors and the vegetable garden. It amazed me how they got those long lines of vegetables so perfectly straight. Past the garden was the barn. The door was wide open in the late afternoon sun. It was one of those classic red barns with white trim, like what you see in children’s books.
    Anna sat inside on a wooden stool, oiling some leather straps. Behind her was an enormously pregnant brown cow. Her sides stuck out so much that she barely fit in her