Lemons
By: Marva Dasef
“I’m going to Mr. Fredricks’ place, Mom,” Karen yelled as she bolted for the door. She didn’t want to hear the answer if her mom decided to say no. She liked Karen to wear frilly dresses and mary jane shoes. Karen preferred her blue jeans. Besides, she couldn’t wear a dress pitching hay to earn rides on the horses at the Fredricks’ farm.
She sped out the door and was soon heading across an open field. At least they lived close to the country, if not exactly in it. Hop over a couple of fences, cross the railroad tracks, then a short walk down the gravel lane. She wished her mom could understand she didn’t want ballet lessons and school dances. Lately, it seemed like her mom was giving up on making her a girly girl. At least she hadn’t objected when Karen talked Mr. Fredricks into hiring her.
Karen slid off the wood fence rail and heard the rip of her jeans. Twisting around to get a look at her rear end, she circled like a dog about to lie down. Luckily, it was just the pocket so she pulled it until the entire flap came off.
“Darn, darn, darn,” Karen said. Another pair of jeans ripped. Mom would kill her. “Oh, well. You get lemons, you make lemonade,” Karen muttered. She wasn’t sure how she’d do that, but she decided not to worry about it.
Karen jounced down the slope below the fence. She had places to go, so no more time to waste worrying about Mom and her pursed lips and her tsk-tsk clicking tongue.
Karen crossed the railroad tracks. Trains didn’t use this spur, except a few hand-pumped trolleys. She stopped for a moment to examine a dead snake, hoping it was a snake skin. That’d be too cool. But it was just a squashed garter snake, fat at both ends and flat in the middle. Pretty neat, but too messy to pick up and take home. Besides, Mom would kill her.
She walked up the dusty road leading to the farm and could already see the horses in the paddock: big old working horses, Shires with their feathery fetlocks. Mr. Fredricks let her ride them as pay for her work. She could imagine racing on a pure white Arabian, even when thudding around on old Nat or Nan. More than anything, she wished she had a horse of her own.
As she drew nearer, she broke into a trot, eager to do the chores that bought her riding time on the broad backs of the massive Shires. Karen skipped into the barn, grabbed the pitchfork, and climbed up to the loft. She started pitching the hay down into the mangers. The cows lowed at the sight of her; they knew she was there to feed them.
Finishing, she grabbed a length of baling twine and stuffed it into her waistband. She ran out to the paddock where Nat and Nan stood placidly flicking flies. Nat was already standing by the fence. Karen pulled a lump of sugar from her front pocket. Nat lapped it off her hand and snorted. Karen climbed up and swung her leg across. He was what Mr. Fredricks called “a good, honest horse.” Gentle and easy-going, even the town kids could ride Nat.
She wrapped the twine around Nat’s neck close to his withers. That’s all she needed to tell him where to go. Karen got him moving and grinned as they jogged across the paddock to the gate. Reaching out with one hand, keeping the other wrapped in Nat’s mane, she flipped the gate bar up and maneuvered Nat out the gate. He knew the routine and stopped just outside so she could swing it shut.
Guiding Nat down the dusty lane, Karen was as happy as a girl could be. Blue sky, big horse, an open road—she could go on forever.
Nat slid a little as he picked his way down the slope to the railroad tracks. The brush had been cleared along the tracks for miles, making it a great place to ride. After they had ambled along a couple hundred yards, Nat threw his heavy body to the side without warning, flipping Karen off onto the gravel by the tracks. The wind knocked out of her, it took a minute to catch her breath. She lay flat on her back looking up at Nat’s long head. His nostrils puffed hard as he caught his breath, too. She felt his hot breath on her face. Reaching up, Karen stroked his nose. “That’s okay, Nat. I’m fine.”
Karen turned her head to the right. She yipped and sat up fast. When she saw the mashed snake, she laughed at herself. “So that’s what spooked you, Nat.”
She grabbed Nat’s mane and pulled herself to her feet. “Rats. Shoulda picked up that snake before,” she grumbled as she brushed the dirt off her rear end. The place on her jeans where the pocket had come off was now torn out completely.
Karen grabbed the twine still hanging from Nat’s neck and walked him away from the tracks. “Lemons don’t always make lemonade,” she muttered as she limped back to the farm with the big horse following close behind. “Mom’s gonna kill me.”
When she climbed to the top of the slope, she saw the blue car in Mr. Fredricks’ barnyard. “Uh, oh, Nat. That’s Mom.” She heaved a sigh and continued toward her impending doom. What did she do? Mom couldn’t know about her ripped jeans yet. She thought furiously. She’d made her bed, put her dirty clothes in the hamper, and finished loading the dishwasher.
Karen put off facing her mother by leading Nat into the corral and taking her time re-latching the gate. Then, a cold shiver ran up her spine. Maybe somebody was hurt. But she and her mom lived alone, and didn’t have any relatives in town. She continued the long walk to face her mom, alternating between fear of being punished for something she hadn’t even done, or even worse news. Maybe something happened to Grandma? Karen shoved that thought away.
Her mom stood talking to Mr. Fredricks. Both looked at Karen wearing big grins. That wasn’t like her mom at all. Good news? But why would she come to the farm to tell her?
“Hello, sweetheart. I’ve got something to show you.” Her mom stepped aside, and Karen got a clear view into the barn. Her eyes widened. She looked at her mother, who nodded and said, “He’s all yours. Grandma pitched in, and Mr. Fredricks said you could keep him here.”
Speechless, Karen grabbed her mother and hugged her as tight as she could. Her mother whooshed out her breath. “Go meet him, honey.”
Karen let go and walked slowly toward the little bay gelding tied just inside the barn door. She pulled out the last sugar lump and held it in her flat palm. She felt another chill go up her spine as the warm breath and soft whiskers touched her hand.
Maybe she’d name him Lemonade.
~The End~
Illustration Copyright © 2009 Candace J. Hardy
Copyright © 2009 by Marva Dasef