Sister Alone
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It's when they come the second time
to serve the papers, I knew then
they was after somethin' else.
Sure, dead cow's a nuisance--
I woulda buried it sooner or later,
but sooner is a deep, sweaty hole,
hand-dug, and sister, when you farm
alone, sooner most always is later.
Made the local headlines, I did;
heard them cluckin' down at Weaver's
store, shakin' their heads: "She
can't do nothin' right, old Evelyn.
You heard about the cow she left
lyin' stinkin' up the neighborhood?
Lord, you gotta bury cows in this
weather; they sure as hell ain't
gonna turn to perfume!”
The first time weren't so pretty
neither--had to do with iceboxes,
old, discarded frigidaires--don't
ask me why I collect that stuff.
It just piles up! Had twelve,
maybe thirteen a those things;
but there's a law, sister, a law
that says you gotta take the latches
off so no kid crawls inside
some great insulated womb and
has hisself a coffin. Even though
their kids wouldn't dare to prowl
through all this junk, they come
with papers sayin' I was wrong
for havin' all those closed
white wombs a-settin' there.
But you know they was after
somethin' else--can't stand
the thought of woman alone
doin' men's work--have to prove
somehow she ain't fit to do it.
Like the time it rained so hard,
hurricane they say, my fences
come down and them cows took off
somewhere the other side of hell's
half acre. Drove around for hours,
I did, till I found them, herded
them home with my old Corvair, but
that one's busted now--just a-settin'
there with the other two, all full
of stuff--I drive a Plymouth now.
But like I say, there I was out in
that rain beatin' down like bullets
on my back, tryin' to fix them fence
posts, but sister, you just try to
set a post in mud a-sloshin' so bad
there ain't nothin' gonna stand up
in it. Threatened me that time,
they did, came in the rain and said,
hey sister, if you don't get them
fences fixed, we're gonna serve you
papers, causin' a nuisance in the
neighborhood. Knowed they was after
somethin' else that time too.
Weren't no neighborhood when we
came here. I was born here.
This farm's my daddy's place--
might proud he had his own place--
no debts, free and clear. When
he died, he said, "Evelyn, I'm
leavin' you the farm. Take good
care a things like you always done."
I'm tryin' to do like he said
but it ain't easy, woman farming
alone. I ain't so young anymore,
skin all crinkled like them old
leather boots. Still I feel strong.
Wish they'd quit comin' after me
with them papers. Payin' fines
ain't my idea a makin' a go
a things. Daddy wouldn't like
that none. They keep threatenin'
to take away my farm. Hell,
they don't want the land;
they's after somethin' else.
It's me they want--old Evelyn
and her junk, madwoman out there
wrestlin' fenceposts in the storm.
Some does lean a bit. Every now
and then a calf gets through.
But them fences is standin,'
sister. Them fences is standin'
free and strong.
to serve the papers, I knew then
they was after somethin' else.
Sure, dead cow's a nuisance--
I woulda buried it sooner or later,
but sooner is a deep, sweaty hole,
hand-dug, and sister, when you farm
alone, sooner most always is later.
Made the local headlines, I did;
heard them cluckin' down at Weaver's
store, shakin' their heads: "She
can't do nothin' right, old Evelyn.
You heard about the cow she left
lyin' stinkin' up the neighborhood?
Lord, you gotta bury cows in this
weather; they sure as hell ain't
gonna turn to perfume!”
The first time weren't so pretty
neither--had to do with iceboxes,
old, discarded frigidaires--don't
ask me why I collect that stuff.
It just piles up! Had twelve,
maybe thirteen a those things;
but there's a law, sister, a law
that says you gotta take the latches
off so no kid crawls inside
some great insulated womb and
has hisself a coffin. Even though
their kids wouldn't dare to prowl
through all this junk, they come
with papers sayin' I was wrong
for havin' all those closed
white wombs a-settin' there.
But you know they was after
somethin' else--can't stand
the thought of woman alone
doin' men's work--have to prove
somehow she ain't fit to do it.
Like the time it rained so hard,
hurricane they say, my fences
come down and them cows took off
somewhere the other side of hell's
half acre. Drove around for hours,
I did, till I found them, herded
them home with my old Corvair, but
that one's busted now--just a-settin'
there with the other two, all full
of stuff--I drive a Plymouth now.
But like I say, there I was out in
that rain beatin' down like bullets
on my back, tryin' to fix them fence
posts, but sister, you just try to
set a post in mud a-sloshin' so bad
there ain't nothin' gonna stand up
in it. Threatened me that time,
they did, came in the rain and said,
hey sister, if you don't get them
fences fixed, we're gonna serve you
papers, causin' a nuisance in the
neighborhood. Knowed they was after
somethin' else that time too.
Weren't no neighborhood when we
came here. I was born here.
This farm's my daddy's place--
might proud he had his own place--
no debts, free and clear. When
he died, he said, "Evelyn, I'm
leavin' you the farm. Take good
care a things like you always done."
I'm tryin' to do like he said
but it ain't easy, woman farming
alone. I ain't so young anymore,
skin all crinkled like them old
leather boots. Still I feel strong.
Wish they'd quit comin' after me
with them papers. Payin' fines
ain't my idea a makin' a go
a things. Daddy wouldn't like
that none. They keep threatenin'
to take away my farm. Hell,
they don't want the land;
they's after somethin' else.
It's me they want--old Evelyn
and her junk, madwoman out there
wrestlin' fenceposts in the storm.
Some does lean a bit. Every now
and then a calf gets through.
But them fences is standin,'
sister. Them fences is standin'
free and strong.
Janet M. Powers, Professor Emerita at Gettysburg College, taught for 49 years in the fields of South Asian literature and civilization, women’s studies and peace studies. She has published poetry in many small journals, including Earth’s Daughters, The Memory Box and The Little Red Tree Anthology. This old lady still writes poetry and stands on street corners with signs -- trying to change this sorry world of ours.
